peachylynnie - Tumblr blog

peachylynnie · 2 days ago

Text

The Jog | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You go for a jog, encounter some wanderers, get injured, Sylus helps make you better. You know, a typical Christmas oneshot.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, Second person POV, Sylus POV. Not part of the Sylus series, with a slightly more damaged (haha can you believe it) MC than in the series, with a relationship development that differs significantly from the Sylus series. This story contains: angst, canon typical violence, serious bodily injury, medical intervention, MC with self-destructive tendencies, grief, hurt/comfort both physical and emotional, a (hopefully more sensual than graphic) brief NSFW interlude towards the end, a happy ending.

It was supposed to be a simple job. An alert on your hunter watch. A location near where you’re jogging after work. You’re wearing insulated tights, short swords strapped to your back, an Association standard-issue pistol strapped to your hip. Not an average person’s jogging outfit, but you never know when you’ll be needed. And the weather’s probably not ideal in the average person’s opinion—a misting, gentle rain that creates halos around the streetlamps you pass on the gravel path through the long park along the riverfront on the outskirts of Linkon City. It’s dusk, now, but the rain is drowning the air, and it feels like night already. You love the wet hush, the sweeping shush of dead leaves in the winter wind, the spatter of puddles with each footfall. The poor weather means there are very few people out tonight, and you can let yourself relax in solitude. No one to worry about passing if they’re going too slow, or whether you should smile or just ignore anyone you encounter as you run past in the opposite direction—all the minute demands of being a human amongst other humans, trying to weigh kindness versus available energy, a hunter as a role model versus just a person trying to survive each day.

Just you, your footfalls, your breath. Running used to be meditative to you. One of the few times you could actually get your racing mind to be fully present, shutting out all the noise of worries constantly spinning in your brain like your motorcycle’s wheels— reviewing for exams, then training, the regulations of your job, the code of conduct for dealing with the public as a role model and a public servant. Your latest failed relationships. The embarrassing things you blurted during a meeting, or during obligatory after-work drinks with colleagues. While you ran, you could be mindful, when it was just you, your pumping heart, the joy in the strength of your legs, your even breath and healthy lungs. You could be present in your body, for once, instead of only living in your head.

Running used to be meditative for you, until it wasn’t. It has been harder to find that calm headspace, every time you lace up your shoes and just go—like so many things in your life now, there is the Before, and there is the After… After Caleb. Because before, running was a joyful indulgence in the power of your body. And it was one of the few things you shared with him, through all the years in which your lives were intertwined, and then through the years in which your lives slowly unthreaded as you grew older and life took you in different directions. You would run with him as a reckless child, exploring parks around your grandmother’s house, playgrounds for tag and cops and robbers, hunter and wanderer. Later, you would run together after school during the off-seasons of track and field or cross country. It was one of the few times you both could fully relax, your footfalls mirroring each other, each of your competitive edges often pushing you further and further, harder and faster. The joy you felt sprinting as hard as you could at the end of a long run, only to collapse in the grass with your chests heaving, laughter spilling out of you like apples falling from a tree during the season of harvest. And you took it for granted—because the one constant in your life was Caleb, your running shoes, his teasing. Even when he was away more and more on flight missions, and you were busy at the Academy and then as a new Hunter, you both would do your best to carve time for each other in your schedules, And those times always included a run. Each time, you were secure in the knowledge that there would be a next time. You thought the laughter would be never ending. If you won that final sprint, you’d taunt him, flinging friendly insults about him getting soft in his job that kept him behind the yoke of the ships he piloted. If you lost, you’d accuse him of foul play as he used his longer legs to reach the designated finish line of that weird tree further up at the corner, doesn’t it kind of look like it has a face? Okay-ready-set-go, ooh you snooze you lose, it’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention and now I got a head start!

“Better work harder if you want to keep up, pipsqueak,” he’d say, reaching over to pat your sweat soaked hair, much to your annoyance. You’d swat his hand away and demand a rematch. He’d just laugh, and say “Next time. Next time, see if you can beat me.”

“Pfft, next time I might be too busy for your ass,” you’d grumble, taking it all for granted. The one constant in the blur of fighting wanderers and mind-numbing paperwork and the compulsive need to get out there and do it all over again, day after day.

That was Before. Now, After, you’d give anything to be able to grab his big hand and hold it to your messy hair. To be able to say, yes, next time. Next time, and the time after that. Until we’re old and gray. And you will carry the memories of what little I can remember of my childhood inside you, and I will carry your own youth in me, and we’ll laugh about the things only we know, about Gran’s cooking, about late nights giggling under a blanket, flashlight in hand and the latest graphic novel issue between you, way past bedtime. About sneaking the cookies Gran had made and told the two of you that you were allowed only one a day—then desperately brushing the crumbs from each other’s mouths and cheeks when you heard her footfalls approaching on the polished but worn wooden floorboards of the only home you can remember. About how quiet she’d sometimes get, as she contemplated you with a faraway look on her face. About how she’d suddenly hug you, out of nowhere, and whisper an apology in your hair, clutching a little too tight. You were too young to recognize guilt, at the time. You never knew what she was sorry for. Not while she was alive, anyway. How cruel, that so often life requires death for answers to ancient questions to rise to the surface—a tectonic shift to crack open the earth and reveal the bones buried below.

All of these memories that you now carry inside you, alone, in this After.

You breathe in. You breathe out. It’s full dark now. The miles are stretching out behind you now. You refuse to look at your watch, and let time pass over, through you. You could have been running for only half an hour, or for two hours. It doesn’t matter. Until you’re utterly exhausted, you won’t quit. You need to sleep.

The river flashes between the trees, blurred, shadowed trunks and the glittering water streaks like headlights on a rainy highway. The more the memories come, unrequested and unwelcome, the faster your footfalls become, as if you can outrun the images, the sounds, the scents. Caleb’s clean sweat. How he tells you to use shorter strides if it ever gets to be too much. Just slow down. You don’t have to stop. Just do as much as you can, allow yourself to catch your breath. But never, ever quit. Little steps, until you reach the end. You can do it. You can do it. He shortens his stride, looking ridiculous as the big body he has grown into moves forward with little bitty strides to allow you space to breathe, to regain your strength and be able to push him at the end in your traditional sprint against each other.

But now that he is gone, there is no end. There is no finish line. In this After, it’s only day after day, and you have to keep running, keep busy, keep meeting wanderer after wanderer, keep staring at your ceiling through your sleepless nights, only to get up and do it all over again. Because he’s gone, and you’re still here. No matter how much you shorten your stride, the small steps you take, you will never be able to rest. He told you that you can't quit. You can never, ever quit. You don’t want to think about the holidays coming up, the first since you lost your family. What will you do, as the snow begins to fall, and Caleb isn’t there waiting behind your Gran’s door, the fire already crackling, the presents under the tree?

Your thoughts drift to Sylus. Sylus, who came into your life like a wrecking ball after Caleb exited like… like a bomb. Sylus, who offered to disappear from your life altogether, if you accepted his bet of surviving the encounter with some business rival. The bet you refused to agree to, and in the refusal left the door open for him to walk through. And he has—he barreled through it, slammed it so hard against the wall that it fell off its hinges. You can’t shut your door on him if you tried, now. Sending you gifts. Showing up when you least expect it—out with colleagues, at the arcade, even on a few jogs. Saying such sweet, straightforward things, all in his teasing, playful, taunting manner. He has invited you to his base, into his world, leaving his own door open for you to walk through. But even though you have come to trust that he is currently interested in you, affectionate toward you, amused by you, you still can’t bring yourself to step over the threshold, from light into dark, from the safe, the mundane, into the intoxicating excitement that his life, his touch, offers you, with each brush of his fingers across your skin, holding your hand, his nose along your cheek as he hugs you goodnight. What happens when he gets bored? What happens when he decides you’ve seen too much, that you’re expendable? What happens when he disappears from your life as suddenly as Caleb did, because of the violence of his existence or because of his low threshold for boredom? You have stopped fighting him, when he sends gifts. When he invites you out to dinner. When he wraps his big arm around you during a film in the theater. When he lays you down gently on the bed, and gives such great pleasure to your body. But you are still waiting for his door to slam shut, to cut you in half in the process.

You haven’t been able to ask Sylus what his plans are for the holidays this year. Every time the thought crosses your mind, your heart hurts at the idea of him responding that he’ll have to be out of town, that he’ll be working as usual, that he never does anything special, so why should he start this year? You’ll be fine. You’ll set up a small tree in your apartment, make a toast to your dead in the soft glow of strings of multicolored lights. Go to work the next day, as usual.

It was supposed to be a simple job. You’re running too fast now, the adrenaline coursing through you as you are chased by memories that you want to erase, memories you’re afraid to forget, when your hunter’s watch, which is measuring your distance and your pulse and your oxygen levels, suddenly trills. A shift in metaflux near your location, a possible wanderer along the river’s edge.

You gulp a big breath, and urge your legs faster, your stride longer.

There’s no one around, thankfully, because the night is dark and rainy, the air cold, only you and your lonely memories and thoughts willing to brave the poor weather. Three wanderers, panther-like, with sharp scorpion tails, immediately hostile. You have to eliminate them, even as you admire their savage beauty. You catch the first one by surprise, your sneakered feet muffled on the wet grass, grabbing it by the tail right under the vicious stinger, slicing through meat to remove the threat. It twists, bucks, but you’re already leaping on it, straddling it like a bucking horse, and you drive your short sword into the side of its skull, right at its tender temple, killing it almost instantly.

The other two turn, tails whipping, and charge at the same time. You ride the falling body of the first one you killed to the ground, use the momentum to sprint between and past them, their tails missing you by inches, but your path between them has one stinging the other, and the accidental victim lets out a scream that hurts your heart with how much pain the poison must be causing it. They can’t help their nature. But you have to live, because Caleb is dead. If you let them kill you, they will kill someone innocent, someone whose existence is worthy, and useful, and then you will have failed to make up for all of your shortcomings. You have to earn your death, in the end, and you feel like what you owe the universe for living while Caleb died, what you owe the universe for still being alive when your parents died or didn’t want you, with your limping heart, still isn’t paid. You have to live, because you don’t deserve death, yet.

The stung wanderer collapses, mouth foaming, and twitches in the wet grass, now churned and slick with mud from your tussle with the first one, with the heavy footfalls of the other two. Now it’s just the one left. A fair fight. You circle each other, the rain misting along its scales, glittering in the light reflected from the river, the haloed streetlamps on the distant path. It moves like the panther it resembles, beautiful, deadly, a low rumbling drifting through the quiet evening, its tail whipping. You wait, slightly crouched, ready to dodge when it inevitably loses patience and charges at you. You’re patient. You have nowhere else to be, no one waiting for you, no one to care whether you make it home or not in the end. You wait, swords drawn, chest heaving from your jog, from the adrenaline, your ears ringing from the tinnitus but still attuned to every shift of the magnificent creature before you that you’re going to have to slaughter.

It finally loses patience, snorting once through flaring nostrils, crouching low, powerful haunches rippling, its tail curled over its back, ready to strike at the same time that it launches itself at you.

You can survive being swiped by claws, being ripped by fangs. You will not survive the poison in its tail. You force yourself to wait until the second millisecond, until it’s already in the air, before ducking and rolling toward its form flying toward you, using the slick mud to slide under it—you skid, scramble, rise behind it as its tail strikes the wet, soft earth instead of your fragile body. You slip in the mud but manage to grab it by its tail, just as you did the first one, to grab it by the tail and slice off the poison bulb attached to the stinger. As you slice, the wanderer screams like its companion, whips its body around, and swipes its vicious claws down your side, not too deep to catch on your ribs, but deep enough to flay you open, for the blood to flow.

You’re so high on adrenaline that the pain isn’t immediate. There is only you, the still living wanderer, your life balanced on the edge of your swords, your blood splattering over the muddy ground. You twist, drive both swords into the beast’s vulnerable flank, where its leg connects to its torso. You twist them, doing as much damage as possible, slicing through major arteries, rendering its leg on this side useless. It screams again, your heart squeezes. You’re sorry. You’re so fucking sorry that even in this, you have to live when this creature, doing what its nature tells it to do, has to suffer and die under your bloody hands. The wanderer half-collapses, but still tries to bite you with its gaping jaw, its glistening fangs. You dodge backwards, just out of reach, and then shove one of your swords into its maw, up, up, through the soft palate of its mouth, directly into its brain.

It collapses against you, head still pinned on your sword. You fall backwards underneath it, landing on your ass in the squelching mud. There is only the sound of your panting breath, the softly falling rain. You curl over it, rest your cheek on top of its magnificent head, regaining your breath, honoring it and the companions you were forced to exterminate.

Passing out from the blood loss is like falling asleep, before Caleb died. A pleasant feeling of exhaustion, of having done your best to earn your rest, and then slipping under, the peace of the deep, deep black.

Sylus is exhausted. Meeting after meeting, shipment inspections, having to explode one supplier to teach other fucks a lesson for trying to pass off counterfeit protocores Sylus needs for modifying a shipping container of Hightowers. He’s finally done, after working through his ‘night’ to secure alternatives to the fake protocores so that other contracts could be fulfilled on time. Sylus always keeps his word, after all. He’s exhausted, and now it’s his version of dawn, but he’s not willing to go to sleep until he checks in with his beloved. He’s in the middle of the N109 Zone, ready to return to base, but he’s impatient and pulls up Mephisto’s app on his phone before settling the helmet on his head and getting on the road.

Mephisto is in your bedroom. Your room is empty, and the windows are shut tight. There’s just your verdant houseplants spilling out of their pots, the plushies tumbled on the floor, the city’s lights filtering through the windowpanes exposed by your open curtains.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. He has scolded you about this before—sometimes you forget that Mephisto has been programmed not to cause any damage to your place, so if you leave without letting him out the window or the door, he’s stuck. And if he’s stuck, he can’t serve his purpose, which is to keep an eye on you.

“I survived long before I had you or Mephisto to stalk me. I don’t need him to follow me everywhere I go, running down his battery so that when you actually need him, he won’t be unavailable.” You had scoffed, completely missing the point.

As far as Sylus was concerned, Mephisto’s sole purpose was to be of use to you when Sylus is unable to be there in person to be of use to you. What part of Don’t be shy when using me did you still not understand? “Have you considered that I need him to follow you everywhere you go? That I specifically upgraded his protocore so that his battery can survive a thousand trips a day between Linkon City and the N109 Zone?”

You had just patted his chest indulgently, with a strange, sad little smile on your face that he didn’t like. He opened his mouth to continue, to make sure you understood—it was important to him for you to understand this, but you had moved your hand from his chest to his throat, running your fingertips along the tender skin at his clavicle, palming the side of his neck. He couldn’t help himself—he leaned into your touch, lost his train of thought. Your other hand joined your efforts to distract him, to soothe him, to make him forget what he was just talking about, and then you were cupping his cheeks, smoothing your thumbs under his eyes. It felt so good, to be touched like this by you. For your hands to be on him, for you to be looking at him with such quiet affection. He couldn’t help himself—he leaned down and kissed you, the conversation submerged in the feeling of being treasured by you, of you touching him like he was the fragile one, like he was the precious one—submerged, but not forgotten, because you were the precious one, the one who could be hurt, who he wanted to kiss like this, softly, meeting your lips with his, over and over, gentle presses, nudging your nose with his, until you slid your hands from his cheeks into his hair, kissed him a little harder, with purpose, and he slipped his tongue between your lips like he knew you wanted, and you sucked, sucked, sucked.

He let the conversation go. Later, while you were sleeping, the silken sheets he had replaced your own crappy cotton ones with draped over your hip as you lay on your side, facing away from him, he ran his finger thoughtfully down your spine, admiring its curve in the moonlight through your bedroom window, lower, lower, until he slipped that finger between your legs and pressed back into you, where you were still soft and wet from his earlier efforts. He thought about that strange sad smile, your refusal to let him fully look out for you. He thought about how he always came to you, and you had never once taken him up on his invitation for you to come to his base. To make use of him whenever you pleased. You would accept him when he came to you, ‘ran into’ you, kissed you, but you never initiated. It was like you were still afraid to accept everything he was offering you as unconditional truth, irrevocable once offered. You shifted in your sleep, made a pleasured noise in your throat as he slipped another finger inside you, as he scooted closer behind, spooning you, filling you, as he let his mind wander back to that terrible smile of yours.

He hated that smile. A smile that isn’t a smile—a hollow mask, containing none of the joy you deserve to feel, all the time. A smile that says that you don’t believe that anyone will care if you don’t come home, now that your family is gone. A smile that says that you can’t conceive of a world in which Sylus’s entire existence revolves around you, your genuine smile, and his utility to you. That if anything were to happen to you, he’d burn down the world and fall on your sword after he had ensured that no one else survived your death.

Even though you let him in. Even though you let him touch you, you still can’t seem to understand the depth of his devotion to you. He’s been forced to live so long without you. He’s not going to endure that hell again now that he's found you.

Now, he pulls up the app that tracks your hunter watch. You’re along the river, moving faster than a walking pace, but not fast enough to be on your motorcycle. You’re… going for an evening jog? What the hell are you doing, running by yourself after a long, exhausting day in the dark? No matter how strong you are, no matter how skilled a warrior, you should take at least the most basic of precautions and let him know where you’re going if you’re going to behave in such a reckless manner. You’re just one person, against a sea of cruel humanity, against the ever present threat of wanderers.

He wants to pull you into his arms and squeeze you, to press into your skin his worry, his care, his love, to squeeze you so hard that you finally get it through your ridiculous, beautiful, anxious, clever brain that even if you don’t have a care for your own safety, your own value to everyone in your life, but most of all to him, he cares, and if you get hurt, so does he.

This won’t do at all. Sylus is exhausted after being awake for twenty-four hours, but he will always, always have time and energy to spare for you. If you want to go jogging at night so badly, he’ll fucking join you.

The winter night is cold, the gentle rain almost sleeting, billowing curtains turning the streetlamps into something soft, muted stars that Sylus’s sensitive eyes can tolerate. He enjoys the dark, the rain, the cold, as he steps out of the tank parallel to where it looks like you’ve paused to take in a view of the river. Luckily this park, though long enough to enable running enthusiasts a long, uninterrupted stretch of path to run, is narrow, so Sylus could park relatively close to where you’ve stopped and jog to you easily in a few minutes. He doesn’t need to stretch, or warm up his muscles. His body is primed, at all times, for physical action. It’s a perk of the monster within. He shuts the tank’s door and jogs to where his phone indicates you are.

Before he sees you, he can smell it. Blood. Yours. A lot of it. His heart stops beating, his mouth goes dry. On instinct, he presses Luke and Kieran’s contact in his phone. He doesn’t remember everything he says or how he says it. He gives your location, orders them to bring the bags of blood he keeps at the base, the bags with your blood type in them, just as a precaution, the bags you don’t know about, along with all of the other contingency plans has in place that you don’t know about in order to prevent his worst nightmares from coming true—of you dying before him, this time. Of him being forced to live without you, again, as he has through lifetimes already, where he never even found you. He has you now, in this life. You let him touch you, you touch him in return. This time, no matter what fate, or destiny, or any gods have to say about it, you’re both going to live. Together. He has finally found you, and he’s not going to let you fucking die on him. When he’s done with the call, he dissipates into red and black mist.

He re-materializes a few feet away from you. There you are. Two huge wanderer corpses in a muddy clearing where a vicious fight clearly took place, and you, cradling the third wanderer’s head in your lap, slumped over its impressive form. The rain falls softly over you both. Your hair is soaked through, tendrils winding down your cheek, droplets falling from the ends like dew falling from a petal. One of your lovely arms curves around the wanderer’s head, almost as if you’re hugging it, while the other is limp at your side, resting in the bloody mud, your palm relaxed and open to the falling rain.

You look dead.

You look dead, but Sylus can smell you, your life, your sluggish heart, he can hear your faint breath. You look dead, but you’re still alive.

Although you’re alive, Sylus feels like he’s going to die. He’s died before. Many times. He dies every time he receives a wound that would be fatal to anyone else. It hurts, every single time, because Sylus isn’t the type of man who dies peacefully, in his sleep, at the end of a long, placid life. Each death is violent, frightening, and deeply, deeply painful. His first death, the most painful at all, simply because he knew he was leaving you behind, leaving you alone. The most painful, and yet the least. He could tolerate the sword through his chest, knowing that you would be free from his curse, that you were already on your way to growing your own horns, your own tail, weapons against a world that could not stand against you. It hurt, but he was at peace with his decision to die for you, that first time.

Sylus knows very well what it feels like when he’s going to die. But he doesn’t remember feeling the kind of fear he feels now. A terror that he can’t scream through, because his throat won’t work. He can’t make any sound at all, as he stands frozen for a heartbeat at the entrance to the clearing, only a few feet from you, as his eyes are forced to look at your slumped form, the deep gashes along your side, partially hidden by your arm as it hangs limply, lifelessly.

You look dead.

“No.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. No. No. No. No.

He has not come this far with you, he has not started all over with you again, from absolute scratch, from your blank memory, fear and hate written all over your face, spilling out of you, so thick her could taste it over the taste of you, your scent, the scent he had been craving for lifetimes, when he found you again—he has not painfully, slowly, rebuilt your trust in him, lured you in like the feral kitten you are, leaving crumbs, treats, tricks, toys, feathers, patiently coming to you and leaving again, instead of doing what he wanted and dragging you with him to his lair, smothering you, shaking you until you remembered his face, his heart, his love. He has not gotten you to the point that you let him touch you, run his fingers along your skin, and you do the same. That you look at him, eyes soft, with affection, with laughter on your tongue, even if you still don’t quite understand the depth of his want for you, his servitude, how utterly you own him, all of him, and always have. He has not come this far with you, only for you to die before he does, from something so mundane, so pedestrian and anti-climactic as a wanderer attack—from just doing your job, and one day, you just don’t come home to him. He refuses to accept this. This is not the death you deserve. You deserve a death at sunset, entire armies turned on each other, blood like rivers across a ravaged plain, a death by Sylus’s side, as you both fight and maim and kill, the flesh of your enemies between your teeth, each of you crazed with bloodlust for your foes and lust for each other.

Or better yet. You deserve a death at sunset, in Sylus’s arms, when you’re old and gray, and you’re simply a little too tired to keep going. And Sylus will hold you in his arms, and he will press his forehead against yours, your skin paper thin and wrinkled, still perfect, still beautiful, your hair wisps of cotton around your head, and as you close your eyes for the final time, Sylus will close his, and your hearts will stop beating at the same time. A peaceful death, after a long, simple, happy life together, with flower crowns exchanged on anniversaries, your friends around the table, the wine generous, your hand in Sylus’s through all the long years that will never be long enough for him.

You’re not going to die here, under the soft, cold rain, from blood loss after a victorious battle in the dark.

All of these thoughts swirling through Sylus’s nimble mind take only a heartbeat to complete, to bring him to his resolution that he’s not going to let you die here, whether you like it or not. He kneels in the mud next to you, covers you in his leather jacket, slips your phone from your pocket and calls your doctor, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder. As the phone rings, he gently, so, so gently, slips his arms behind your back and under your knees, lifts you in his arms. Your blood is still flowing, and it seeps into the tight athletic tank he had put on in anticipation of jogging with you. He turns, running shoes squelching in the mud, and begins walking back to the tank.

“It’s never good when you’re calling me this late,” comes the crisp, even tone of your primary care physician’s voice. But Sylus can hear the slight smile in his tone, even if you fail to hear it every time.

“You’re right, it’s not good. If you want to see your patient alive again, then you need to come to this location,” Sylus bites into the phone, rattling off the closest address, explaining how to find your and Sylus’s tank.

“If this is a joke, it’s not funny,” Zayne answers after a short silence.

“This isn’t a joke. Wanderer attack, too much blood loss. I already have the right blood type being brought as we speak, but you need to get here, now, for a transfusion.”

“You need to bring them to the hospital—they need proper medical facilities and treatment if they’re to have any chance to survive,” Zayne argues, his distress starting to bleed through his even tone.

“What they need is for you to stop fucking arguing with me, and do as a I say. If you care about them at all, trust that I care more, and I’ll explain when you arrive.” Sylus doesn’t even bother to hide his own agony. He needs your doctor to stabilize you, because you need to be conscious for Sylus to save your life, but Sylus doesn’t have the expertise of a medical professional to get you to the point of surviving long enough to wake up. “Now, are you going to stop wasting time, or not?”

“You have no idea how much I care,” Zayne retorts icily, and ends the call.

Sylus takes his answer as acquiescence to what probably seems like insanity to your doctor.

Sylus walks through the rain, crosses the running path, the expanse of grass and trees, until he’s back on the quiet Linkon City street where he parked the tank. His evol opens the back passenger door and he maneuvers you inside onto the middle bench seat. He strips his now bloody shirt and ties it around your torso, tightening it, trying to stem the flow of your bright, precious blood. He grabs his athletic hoodie from where it was tied around his waist that he brought in case you got cold and hadn’t properly geared up and repeats the motion, trying to create a tourniquet as he waits for Luke and Kieran to arrive, as he waits for Zayne to arrive. He pulls you back into his lap, torso elevated, presses his palms to your wounds through the fabric, orders the SUV to crank the heating to full blast. He busies himself with phone calls, arranging for medical staff to be waiting at the base.

Finally, after what seems like multiple lifetimes—he would fucking know what that feels like—the twins come screeching to a stop in front of the tank at the same time that Zayne’s low-slung, understated but very expensive sedan pulls up behind it.

Zayne drags out a large medical bag from the passenger side of his car as the twins pile into the front seats of the tank, Kieran clutching a medical grade cooler with the blood in it. Sylus’s evol throws open the tank’s sliding back passenger door, and your austere doctor manages to fold himself inside the cramped space.

“I need more room if I’m to do this. Move,” he orders in quiet disdain.

Sylus doesn’t argue. This isn’t a dick-measuring contest, this is your life or death. As gently as possible, he slides out from under you and lays you onto the long bench seat. He teleports to the third row of seats at the back of the vehicle.

Zayne doesn’t even flinch, just flicks his eyes to Sylus’s re-materialized form, from his face to his bare chest, and then turns his attention back to his medical bag without comment. He gets to work, unwinding the makeshift bandages of Sylus’s athleticwear, cleaning your wounds. He sutures the open gashes, stemming the blood flow. After it appears that your bleeding is somewhat under control, Sylus and the twins watch in tense silence as he orders Luke to hang the bag of blood from a hook on the oh shit handle above the passenger door after he has placed an IV line in the tender skin of your inner elbow and connected the tubing.

After he’s done, and the blood is sliding from the bag into your arm, he sits back against the tank’s door, arms crossed.

“Explain why you refuse to take them to a hospital.”

Sylus can’t take his eyes off you as he answers. “While I’m sure you would do a fine job of finishing stitching them up and preventing infection, I can heal them completely. I just need them to resonate with me.”

Zayne’s voice grows sharper. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Skye.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Sylus finally tears his eyes away from you, lying there, blood drained from your beautiful face, deep bruises under your eyes, hair still soaked and matted from the rain and mud. His heart, bleeding and broken.

He looks into Zayne’s pretty hazel eyes. “That’s all I can give you.”

Zayne stares in return, looking for something that Sylus can’t give. Sylus isn’t sorry for the fact that he carries half of your soul, and that you carry half of his. That in this universe, you belong to him, and not to anyone else. But he knows what it’s like, to live lifetimes without you. To look, and never find you. He’s never been in the position of finding you, only to find you bound to another. He doesn’t know what he’d do, if such a thing were to ever happen to him. He likely would not be able to look so calmly into the eyes of the person who had your heart, as Zayne is doing now. After tonight, Zayne has Sylus’s gratitude, and also his respect.

“What I can give you is a promise that you will see our hunter again, healthy and whole, because you helped tonight without asking too many questions.”

Zayne snorts softly through his nostrils. “You didn’t leave me much choice, did you?”

Sylus shrugs. “Even so. You could have stood on ceremony, insisted on going by the book, and likely killed your childhood friend.”

“No, your insistence on doing something incredibly reckless and demanding that I come to you, instead of bringing them to me at the hospital, would have killed them.”

Sylus lifts an eyebrow, enjoying the subtle spark underneath your doctor’s icy exterior. He has a backbone, and Sylus likes that. “Oh, I still would have brought them to the hospital. You just would have had to explain to your board how your heroic hunter patient disappeared on your watch after the blood transfusion without anyone seeing them leave. Because I can guarantee you that the first thing kitten would demand after waking up would be to get the fuck out of there.”

Zayne’s lips part slightly, apparently the good doctor’s version of gaping in surprise. “Kitten?” he asks, bewildered, until he sighs, looks incredibly tired for a moment, and then says, “Never mind. I would rather not know.”

He pulls a prescription pad out of his white lab coat and scribbles on it with a pen. A pen that has a cute little seal on the cap. Sylus has the strangest feeling that he knows where your fucking doctor got such a pen. He makes a mental note to remedy this injustice when you wake up later and are feeling better. “These are the antibiotics they’ll need for the next week, even if you’re convinced that your evol can fully heal them through the resonance. I’m assuming that wherever you’re taking them will have medical expertise on staff?” he asks, ripping the prescription off the pad in one decisive stroke and holding it out between his index and middle finger to Sylus.

Sylus takes the paper, letting his fingers brush against your doctor’s, just to vex him. He does not disappoint as he scowls and jerks his hand back, shoving it into his pocket of his labcoat. “If anything happens…” Zayne’s voice trails off as he returns his gaze to your still form. “Call me. I’ll come, no matter the time, no matter the place.”

Sylus can hear the plea in his words formulated as an order. He is glad you have people in your life who care for you. He makes a note to arrange more opportunities for you to play with your doctor, so you will come to realize that Zayne cares for you as well, as more than just your primary care physician. Another person in the threads of your life, woven together to form the safety net you don’t even realize you have, even without Sylus. Not that you ever have to worry about being without Sylus, ever again. But Sylus has read that it’s apparently healthy for people to have more than one anchor, more than one source of comfort. Friends. People who love you and who take joy in your presence in their life. He wants to give you that. He wants to give you everything. You belong to him, but he can’t begrudge others for wanting to bask in your light—he’ll allow it, as a side effect of you having a healthy, rich, full life. And it doesn’t hurt that it looks like the doctor will be hilarious to torment.

“Deal,” Sylus says. Zayne breathes again, a sharp exhale through his nose, and then extricates himself, along with his medical bag, from the tank, shutting the door decisively behind him.

“Whoa, boss is learning how to play well with others,” Luke says, probably wide-eyed underneath his mask.

“The hunter truly is a miracle worker,” Kieran agrees, sounding pleased.

“Enough. Kieran, drive us back to base. Luke, follow us in the other vehicle.”

They nod, understanding that now is not the time for silly banter, that underneath their boss’s calm exterior is a very worried, frightened man.

As Luke clambers out of the tank and Kieran settles himself into the driver’s seat, Sylus makes his way from the backseat to where you’re lying and lifts you gingerly, settles himself onto the seat, and gently lays your shoulders and head back onto his lap. His eyes do not leave your face, his hands do not leave your hair for the entire duration back home. On the way, he soothes himself with memories of your face, blooming with color, health, your eyes bright, the teasing curve of your lips after saying something mean to him. He soothes himself with plans upon plans about how to finally convince you that you have someone waiting for you now, someone who will not recover if you don’t come home. That you’ve always had people waiting for you, worrying for you, loving you, even without Caleb and your grandmother in your life.

Before Sylus came into your life, waking up was always something you did reluctantly, a slow drag from the peaceful dark to the painful light, something to fear, something to resist, heart pounding with the shrill noise of your alarm in your ears, jerking from a calm numbed sea into the chaotic storm of emotions, of wakefulness, of being back in your body where everything hurt.

Now, something inside you whispers that it’s safe, even as you know the pain is coming. That beyond the pain, the first gasp of breath as your face breaches the tranquilizing ocean of unconsciousness, waiting on the other side is a pair of warm ruby eyes, big hands, soft despite their callouses, a heartbeat that should be a little too fast to be calming, yet soothes you all the same. That waking up has a purpose, beyond your penance, your self-imposed sentence of surviving despite everything, in order to earn your rest when something finally, mercifully kills you. Now, there’s something to wake up for besides guilt, even though you fear it will be snatched away without warning.

You open your eyes slowly. Your body feels heavy, but for once you’re not in pain, as if from the neck down you’re still in the ocean of sleep. You blink, eyes focusing on the ornate crown molding of Sylus’s dark bedroom ceiling. You haven’t been in this room since you searched his beautiful body for the brooch, right before the auction. But you’d recognize his ceiling anywhere. You turn your head on the soft, silk-covered pillow, and just as you knew you would, you’re met with the warm glow of Sylus’s eyes. You wonder how you got here. You’ve never before taken him up on his countless invitations to visit him at his home.

He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches over and palms your cheek, fingertips sliding over your ear, thumb stroking under your eye.

“Hi,” you say, smiling at him. Because you always smile at him, no matter how you’re feeling. You smile at him when you’re happy, when he has said something hilarious, or sweet. You smile at him when he surprises you, when he teases you, no matter how hard you try to keep a straight face, to scowl at him in mock anger for his mischievousness, his intentionally trying to get a rise out of you. You smile at him when your heart is hurting, because no matter how in pain you might be from grief, from worry, from missing him when he’s right there, you care for him so much already, and you can’t help but smile when he turns to look at you.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” he says, dark silver eyebrows drawing together. “I hate that smile.”

You stare at him, feeling the joy of seeing him drain from you like he’s just shoved a knife in your stomach. He hasn’t said something so cruel to you since your first few days of knowing each other.

You swallow.

It has finally happened. He’s finally sick of you. Whatever pedestal he has had you on this whole time has finally toppled.

“Okay,” you whisper, giving him what he wants. Because what else can you do? You stop smiling. You turn your head away from him again, from his beautiful, wine-glow eyes, his soft silver hair falling over his forehead, and stare at his ceiling. You’re thankful for the strange numbness in your body. It makes it easier to breathe. To tolerate the pain washing through you. You gather your resolve. All you have to do is roll over, sit up. Put both feet on the floor. Get dressed, in your own clothes. You hope you didn’t arrive in any of the clothes he has bought for you over the past few months since he started playing the game of keeping you. The game he apparently never had any intention of finishing.

You try to do what you just imagined, but your body doesn’t listen. You just lie there, like the useless sack of shit you often feel like.

“Fuck,” he says, strangely. He must really, really want you gone.

You laugh a little breathlessly, because what else can you do? “Sorry, I’ll leave as soon as I can. I must have had too much to drink.” Because what else could explain this paralysis? Why else can’t you remember how you got here in his bed again? The last thing you remember is lacing up your running shoes for a run after work.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, tone dark. Which doesn’t make any sense at all.

Oh.

He’s not only bored with you, but he’s finally decided to kill you. You had wondered, at the beginning, what it would take for him to finally get bored. What he would do, when he was ready to cut his losses. If he would feel compelled to get rid of the now useless witness to so many of his secrets. But you had trusted him enough to keep accepting him when he came to you, when he told you how much he cared for you. When he had told you he wanted you, and that wouldn’t change. You must have let yourself believe him, based on how deeply hurt you feel now. This shouldn’t be a surprise to you, after all. This is why you never took him up on his invitation to come deeper into his world.

You always have been so fucking gullible.

You suppose that you deserve what’s coming, the fool that you are.

It’s a relief, really. Maybe now you can see Caleb again. See Gran again. Maybe if your parents are dead, you’ll finally get to meet them.

Or, if the universe is actually kind, maybe dead is just dead, and at least you won’t have to hurt anymore.

Part of you thinks that you’re a fucking coward for taking the easy way out. For giving up without a struggle. You thought you could survive anything. That you needed to survive everything, to finally earn your death. But losing Sylus’s affection must have been the last straw for you, because you’re so fucking tired. You could fight an endless amount of wanderers, and still keep dragging yourself back out to do it all over again. But after having Sylus, and then losing him… turns out, that’s the one thing you can’t survive.

“I know it doesn’t mean shit, but I want you to know that I love you. It felt really good, being your toy for a while,” you say.

“Toy?” Sylus asks, voice strained.

You wonder how he’ll do it. “Just, if you ever cared about me at all, make it quick.” You close your eyes. It’s so strange. You could fall asleep again. You’re so, so tired. You suppose, in a way, you’re lucky. Not everyone gets to die by the hand of someone they love. Who they’d die for anyway. It’s better than bleeding out alone after fucking up against a wanderer.

You feel his fingers on your neck. How poetic. How we met is how we’ll end. Sylus has always been strangely poetic.

“Will you resonate with me?” he asks through the waves that you’re letting yourself sink back into.

Why is he bothering to ask? He could just try to force it, like the first time. It would probably work, since he succeeded in making you love him. You wonder why he wants it now. You’ve only ever resonated during fights. Gun battles. Being caught by surprise by wanderers between Linkon City and the N109 Zone. He’s never asked you for it, outside of the context of violence. But then again, maybe putting you down is just another quick little conflict. If his evol is strengthened with yours, so much the easier to snap your neck. He’s such a big man though. He could do it so easily, even without his evol. Does it really matter why he wants to resonate with you now though? You would give him anything, for any reason, the fool that you are.

“One for the road, huh?” you ask.

His fingers tighten on your neck. He wants to strangle you so badly, it’s almost funny.

You lift your hand, and it feels like a 16 kilo kettlebell. You sigh as you rest it over the back of his hand, resting at your throat.

“You can have whatever you want, Sylus Qin.”

“And so can you, my beloved,” he says, and he sounds so sincere that you’re reminded why you believed his lies in the first place. Anyone, not just your idiotic, desperate, lonely, gullible self would have believed the sweet words coming from his beautiful mouth. Cold comfort, but comfort all the same.

He lifts your hand, turns it, threads his fingers through yours. You summon the very last bit of energy you have, all of the love you carry for him, and let your evol flow through you and into him.

It’s the weightlessness of sleep, of falling, of flying. Floating in a vast ocean of stars, the night sky as it actually is without light pollution, so bright that the word ‘night’ loses all meaning. As your gold waves flow into him, his scarlet and ink tendrils flow into you. Power, strength, the exhilaration of wild, unchecked energy, possibility, coiled to explode into action at the slightest twitch of your fingers or his.

The boundaries between you, between him, your minds, your bodies, thin, dissolve. The resonance has never been like this, before. Every time before, you could sense where he was on the battlefield, anticipate his movements. You could work in sync, powering his punches, increasing the speed at which he gathers energy, charging the storm that would unleash and ravage the hostiles arrayed against you. But you were still you. He was still him. Now, his heart beats in your chest. When he swallows painfully, you feel it in your throat. You are big, strong, powerful, and exhausted.

With your eyes closed, you see him. With his mouth closed, he speaks.

When you smile like that, you look so sad, I can’t bear it, he says. His arms gently curl around you, pull you into his chest. Relief floods through you, holding the person you cherish most in the universe in your arms again. And unlike the past two days, they’re awake.

Your mind is overwhelmed, the disparity between what you thought he was feeling just moments ago and feeling his actual emotions now large enough to make you feel insane. You breathe through the disorientation, focus on the words that just flowed through your mind.

Smile like what?

He doesn’t answer immediately. You just see yourself, like looking in a mirror, but from a greater height. You see your upturned face, your lips curved in the idea of a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Like a sketch by a skilled artist with their eyes closed. It’s a smile, but it’s wrong. Sylus, the intuitive creature that he is, can sense the disparity, the disconnect, between your smile and your heart. But he doesn’t understand that underneath the sadness, you are actually happy to be looking at his face, to be the object of his focus, to be able to hold him and laugh with him. That even if your heart is hurting, his mere presence can still bring a smile to your face. He said he hated your smile not because he is finally bored with you, but because the heartbreak in your smile broke his own heart.

He finally answers you with words. Like you did when you woke up. You smiled even though I know you’re exhausted. When your body has been through hell. You smiled even after almost dying two days ago.

You open your eyes, turn your head on the silk pillow to look at him. I almost died?

Sylus scoots even closer, and you realize that he’s holding his body away from your torso, even as he rests his head on the same pillow as you, runs his nose along your cheek. I found you bleeding out after killing three wanderers by yourself. You had already run eight miles before your hunter watch alerted you to their presence.

You stare at him. Notice the deep, dark circles under his eyes for the first time. The exhaustion drawing his mouth tight. Through the resonance, impressions of sour terror, heart-palpitation-inducing anxiety, clenched-teeth determination, refusal to sleep blur together. Sylus hasn’t slept since he found you. He has been lying here by your side, watching your face as you slept, for the past two days. You get the impression that he was already exhausted before he even found you.

But why?

How do you expect me to sleep, when I’m not sure if my beloved is ever going to open their eyes again?

You’re reeling. You just thought he was done with you, that he was about to end you. Your beloved?

You feel a pulse of disbelief, incomprehension, dawning understanding, and heartbreak, as all of the tangled feelings you just went through flow through the resonance from you to him. He had no idea that you have been fearing the end like this, somewhere deep inside yourself, all along. This fear, based on how you began. Based on all that you know about him, the way he lives his life, conducts his business. How easily bored he becomes playing simple games, listening to other people talk. Fear based on your own view of yourself, what you perceive as the value you have to offer other people in your life. He knew you were reluctant to come to him, yes, but he thought such reluctance was rooted in him being a criminal and you a deepspace hunter, that you didn’t quite understand how much he cares for you, and that in time, he’d be able to prove to you just how much he cares through his actions alone. Through his consistency in showing you his love.

His hatred of your sad smile compounds, grows, as he realizes the depth of the hole inside you.

Now that he can see everything, you’re so scared. You don’t want him to see, to finally realize how disposable you are, even to yourself. Your parents, Caleb and your gran leaving you behind, the association once your heart finally gives out. How you’re only surviving until you receive a sign from the universe that you’ve finally earned the peace that you believe only death can offer you.

But instead of withdrawing, instead of dawning disgust in his heart, your heart, you feel determination rise in you, in him. A firm rejection of everything he just felt from you. An efficient, resounding no. If you don’t fucking believe it yet, he’ll just work harder until you do. He’s been too cautious. He’s been so busy trying to give you time, trying to lure you in like a scared kitten, that he has inadvertently let you believe that you’re ultimately disposable to him, when you’re the one thing he can’t bear to live without. No. No. No.

But why? You can’t help but feel, ask. Why you? When the world is so vast, full of people who are so much more interesting, competent, true equals to the man now running his fingers so gently along your cheek, staring into your eyes, sending wave upon wave of wordless, overpowering love through you.

Along with the warmth, the affection, the gentle amusement, the lust, the endless fascination that Sylus is sending along through your connection to him, you start seeing visions of your own laughing face, your lips curved in a scowl or a mischievous smirk, the few times he’s managed to instigate a big belly laugh out of you, squeals of delight at the claw machine, your competitive smugness following a motorcycle race that ended in a tie, and afterwards your lips bathed in moonlight as the both of you lay in a field of flowers, staring up at the night stars on the side of the road. Your mouth, as a metaphor for every reason he loves you so much. Your thoughtful frowns, betraying your clever mind, your bloodthirsty snarls, revealing your righteous fury when engaging in battle, your grin, telegraphing your dark sense of humor, your ability to laugh in the face of the horrors of humanity, existence, the constant plague of hostile wanderers. Your mouth, slightly open, panting, little noises of pleasure escaping your lips as Sylus makes you feel good with his body, as you make him feel like a king with every satisfied whimper out of your mouth.

You had no idea. All this time, you had no idea the depth of his feelings for you. When he is away on business, how his thoughts return to you, over and over again. When he is here at his home, how he intricately plans the ‘happenstance’ encounters with you. His joining you on jogs, because he’s so afraid something may happen to you when you’re exhausted and alone.

Do you understand yet? He’s pressing his forehead to yours, still being careful of your torso, breathing you in.

You feel his heart, and he feels yours, and you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, as the connection loops through you, a closed circuit, infinity entwined. You understand that when you’re in pain, so is he. That by doubting his sincerity, his love for you, your own self worth, you’re hurting him too.

I’m sorry, is all you can think. You didn’t know, before. You may never have believed him, if he hadn’t opened himself to you like this, through your resonance.

He silently rejects your apology. Relief unfurls through you, as he realizes that you’re finally understanding. That now you and he can finally begin.

But now you’re curious about what led you to being here, resonating with him, in his bed.

If I was hurt so badly, why don’t I feel any pain?

There is the feeling of a sigh, of tension released. Like he’s finally breathing after being underwater the entire time you were unconscious, and then worried that he was done with you. The painkillers that I’ve had the doctor pumping into you via the IV since I got you back to base. They’re pretty strong.

You smile. Thank you.

His face grows serious, his red eyes troubled again. Don’t thank me yet. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, so that you could resonate with me. I need to heal you.

Heal me? You look down at yourself. The bandages wrapped tightly around your torso, the IV in your arm. Don’t I just need time to heal? You can dump me at Akso and Zayne can—

No. Sylus is scowling, full lips turned down like he smells something unpleasant. I can heal you better than your accomplished doctor. Under his thoughts snakes a winding thread of possessiveness, of pride that he can’t quite contain, even under these circumstances.

You’re bizarrely pleased with his jealousy, unfounded as it is. He’s the only person you’ve been able to see, from the moment you looked up into his disdainful face for the first time. Then why shouldn’t I thank you for it, if you can do that?

He brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles. It’s going to hurt, my love.

You snort softly. I’m used to pain. You turn your head, feel brave enough to kiss his knuckles.

He licks his lips, briefly, uncharacteristically nervous. Not like this.

And when you’re done?

You’ll never forget the pain, but you’ll be fully healed. As if you were never injured at all.

You watch his face thoughtfully, thinking about all the times he has been injured since you’ve known him. And all the times the wounds have closed up right before your eyes. His stone-cold face, as blood turns to ash, as flesh is re-knit.

Is there any way you can heal me now, without feeling the pain yourself?

He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe you’ve just asked that. Still only worried about me, when you’re the one who almost died. He's incredulous.

I don’t like it when you’re in pain. You’d suffer a million injuries, to spare him one.

The feeling that fills you is his heart, mirroring yours. He takes the injuries every time, to spare you getting hurt.

When you hurt, I hurt. As I heal you, we’ll hurt together. When it’s over, we’ll be relieved, together. That’s what I’ve been offering, all along. Will you say yes?

You search his eyes, and you want to drink them like the sun-filtered wine they resemble.

Only if you promise me that you will stop taking hits meant for me. That if I’m not fast enough to get out of the way, we’ll heal together, but you won’t hurt twice because of me.

He laughs, low, breathless. He can’t believe you’re trying to bargain on his behalf in the state you’re in. I can’t promise that. Especially after the past few days. I can heal. You almost died. You don’t understand that terror.

But a part of you, deep inside you, does understand that terror. You don’t know how, but the thought of losing him makes you want to rip off your own skin, tear out your own lungs, set the world on fire. You scowl at him. He just leans down, licks your lower lip. I like it when you look at me so meanly. You deserve to be a little meaner, sweetheart.

Not towards you.

Especially towards me. I can take it. If it’s from you, I can take anything.

But that won’t do, not at all, not for you, not for what you want to give him, especially now that you know how much he cares for you in return. Sylus.

Yes, beloved?

That’s not the kind of love I want to give you.

I don’t know any other kind, darling.

Then I’ll allow you to heal me, if you allow me to teach you that love isn’t something you should have to endure. It shouldn’t hurt more than it heals.

There you are. His smile is soft, dark, welcoming like night after a long day. My sweet, master negotiator. That’s a deal I can accept.

Then heal me. Quickly.

My demanding kitten, he thinks, his affection, admiration, gentle amusement warming your exhausted heart.

He gives you what you ask for, As I will always try to do, as he clutches your cheeks in his big palms, rests his forehead against yours. The pleasant numbness is slowly burned away by an inexorable, excruciating heat along your ribs. It is like having your flesh threaded, jerked, drawn together with a blunt needle, rough twine. You can feel your sundered cells re-merging, the scuffed bones filling in, veins, arteries tugged, braided, pulled tight. The pain is much worse than any injury you’ve ever suffered, including broken bones, a bullet through your muscles, your broken body thrown to the ground in the shockwave from the bomb that killed Caleb and your grandmother.

Through it all, Sylus grits his teeth, holds you, absorbs your pain. Your ribs, his ribs, your flesh, his flesh, fused, whole.

The physical pain fades, but not its memory.

You start to cry.

A feeling of alarm ricochets between him and you. What’s wrong?

I hate that you feel this, every time. I’ve dug bullets out of you, just for you to have to go through this. Every time. You have to be more careful, from now on. I can’t bear you hurting like this, now that I know what it’s like for you.

Now that your wounds are healed, your body whole, Sylus throws his arms around you and pulls you close, crushing you to his chest. I’ll be more careful, if you never doubt again that I feel the same for you. When you come home from a mission exhausted and bleeding, I feel the same way as you do now, imagining the times I’ve been hurt. You have a reason to come home, even with Caleb and your grandmother gone. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t go and get hurt, when I’m not there to heal you again.

You laugh through your tears, so relieved that you’re no longer in pain. That you can move freely, the numbing effects of the pain medication seemingly gone along with the physical trauma on your body. Who’s the sweet master negotiator now?

You feel your own relief absorbed, rebounding, returned to you in an echo. Relief that he really could share his own healing abilities with you through his evol and your resonance. Relief that he won’t have to call your doctor again. That you are going to be fine, now. That you finally understand how much he cares for you, now. The relief morphs into something else. Something hungrier, more demanding.

He rolls you, settling his big body over yours. His agile, calloused hands yank at the bloodstained bandages wrapped around your torso. He leans down, licks the tears at the corner of each of your eyes, salt on your tongue, on his. He kisses your temple. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips. Licks you, until you open your mouth, and he’s kissing you so hard, just shy of rough. Tasting your tongue, the slick softness of your inner cheeks, his entire being radiating a question, May I? May I? And a demand, Let me, let me. I was so frightened, holding your chilled body in my arms, your hot blood soaking through my shirt.

You send your wordless Yes, yes, of course, yes through the resonance. He lifts a hand, snaps his big fingers, a gunshot in the quiet room. The IV in your arm dissolves into scarlet and black ash, drifts into nothing. He leans down, laps at the blood trickling from where the needle was just embedded with his tongue. You taste iron as he tastes iron, and you shudder. He has succeeded in yanking your bandages from your body, and you lie underneath him, chest exposed. He moves from your inner elbow to your ribs, where you were just gravely injured, and licks long swipes across the muscles of your side, across the bone underneath. A beast, nursing a mate’s wound the best way he knows how.

His hunger, his desperation to feel your body against his body, to feel good after so much physical pain, fills you. You reach for his evol, pull it into yourself, snap your fingers, and rejoice when his soft shirt and sleep pants, his underwear, dissolve into colorful ash. He hovers naked above you, a look of surprise on his beautiful face. Perks of the resonance, you smirk. He grins, and it’s lethal to your heart—his canines sharp, his dick hard. He snaps his own fingers again, and you’re suddenly naked as well. You laugh, delighted. You grab his cock and pump it, and he groans, twisting, repositioning himself a little clumsily in the tangled bedsheets so that his cock is now hovering over your mouth and he’s trailing open mouthed kisses along your upper thigh, up to where you legs meet, before sinking his mouth over your most sensitive parts.

You gasp, bucking up into his mouth, wanting more of his tongue, his lips, his saliva dripping onto, into you. He feels your pleasure in his own body, and accidentally bucks himself against your lips. Before he can feel sorry, or regret, you tighten your hold around his big dick and open your own mouth, tonguing his soft skin, inhaling the scent of him. You stuff your mouth with him, your jaw wide open. Through the resonance, the closed circuit fires, sparks. You can’t tell where you end, where he begins, the pushing, the pulling, the taste of him, of you, the saliva dripping out of both of your mouths as you feast on each other, as you choke a little on the size of him, as he swallows, again and again, everything he is sucking from you, the wet sounds of your shared pleasure loud in the room.

When you finally come, he follows, and you swallow as best as you can. Salt, warmth, and musk. He rolls to his side, his still-hard dick leaving your lips with a wet pop, and he uses his evol to lift you—you yelp as he spins you, drops you next to him. You roll, throw your arm around him, and kiss him. He kisses you back, tongue sliding back into your mouth, and you taste yourself, and he tastes himself, through the resonance, through your messy, wet mouths combined.

Sylus. His name is a sigh, a talisman, a comfort, a treat in your mind, on your tongue.

You feel the pleasure course through him, hearing his name in your mind. He answers in kind. Beloved.

Sylus. You repeat, just to feel the spike in his enjoyment again.

He shudders a little. Never stop saying my name.

That’s an easy demand to indulge from your sweet lover, as far as you’re concerned. Okay, Sylus. You smile against his lips. He snakes an arm around you, pulls you tighter.

You enjoy each other quietly, as you each regain your breath, as you revel in the feeling of being whole, unharmed, finally understanding where the other is coming from, the depths of your mutual devotion.

I want to fuck you again, but it's already taken you longer than I expected to wake up. We’re going to be late.

You pull back a little, look at him questioningly.

I arranged a Christmas party at your place. Well, he thinks, gemstone eyes sparkling in mirth. Your boyfriend Skye arranged a Christmas party at your place. I was afraid I was going to have to cancel, and I can if you’re not up for it. But your friends will miss you.

You gape at him. My friends?

Tara, Nero, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, the twins—who are Skye’s younger cousins. Through the resonance, you receive an image of your apartment, half the small living room taken up with the biggest Christmas tree the twins could stuff in there, decorated with big gold glass ball ornaments, as well as a hilarious assortment of mismatched crow ornaments. Fairy lights strung over your windows. Pine-scented garlands hanging over the sides of your kitchen island. Big, pretty red and black wrapped presents under the tree, each with one of your friends’ names on them.

You stare into your boyfriend’s smiling, lovely eyes. But why?

Did you think I couldn’t tell how sad the idea of the first Christmas without your family was making you? He tsks, a low disgruntled sound in his throat. I’m insulted.

You hug his big body tighter against your own. You did all that for me?

This is nothing, compared to everything I am willing to do for you, darling.

You bury your head in his big, pillowy chest. Breathe in the scent of him, run your hands through the soft silver hair along his skin. He shudders. Keep doing that and I’ll definitely make us late, kitten.

You laugh, filled with such warmth. You can’t believe how wrong you were, about him, about how much you mean to him. You make the decision to live for more than just the day you can die. To live, instead of just survive. This is Sylus’s Christmas gift to you. You send the thought through the connection to him, and he palms the back of your head, gently presses your face deeper into his chest.

And what do you want for Christmas, Sylus?

You don’t know what you expect to hear as a response. Something expensive, or outrageous. Your soul, which you’re pretty sure he already has at this point.

I already have your soul. Now I just want your company. And... you receive the image of a set of pens with little cute crow figurines on the caps. You look at him in confusion. I want my own pens from my sweet little hunter. It’s only fair, since I’m the one who healed you.

You have no idea what he’s talking about. He already has your soul? Now he just wants pens because he healed you? He huffs a little, feeling your confusion. Don’t overthink it. But that’s what I want.

You decide to let it go. Like Sylus, you’re willing to give him so, so much more. But if goofy, cute pens are what he wants, you’re happy to find some for him, or have them custom made if necessary. A pulse of smug satisfaction fills you through the connection, as if Sylus just won a competition that only he knows is happening.

You drift in peaceful, satisfied silence with him. You think about how you felt when you woke up, versus how you feel now. Settled. Completely reassured. Hopeful, even. You want him to know that you're grateful, for not giving up. For insisting that you resonate with him. For showing you his true feelings when he saw how much pain you were in. Thank you.

He just hugs you, radiating contentment. There is no thanks between you and me. When you’re happy, I’m happy.

Fine, no thanks to you, you tease. You listen to his heartbeat. Think about the Christmas tree, and your friends, waiting for you, arranged by Sylus and the twins. Then Merry Christmas, Sylus.

This, he accepts. The first of many, he responds.

It was supposed to be a simple job. It was supposed to be a simple jog. There was a Before, and an After—Caleb, your gran. Small steps, each one more exhausting than the last, but you couldn't quit. You couldn't ever give up, even though there wasn't a finish line in sight, without the guideposts of your family guiding you home, without anyone waiting if you ever made it back to something resembling home ever again.

But the job almost killed you. The jog ended in Sylus opening himself to you completely, healing you in more ways than one. Now, there is a Before, and an After. Not replacing, but parallel to the Before and After of your family. Before Sylus, After Sylus. The small steps suddenly don't seem so exhausting, anymore. Maybe it's not surviving till the welcome end, but trying to live while you're alive. Maybe you have to create a new home, when one is lost to you. You nuzzle into Sylus's chest, ask a question.

The answer is so sure. So matter-of-fact. So Sylus. Of course I'll shorten my stride for you, beloved. Until you feel strong enough not only to sprint, but to fly again.

#all i want for christmas is this man right here #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #fic rec

225 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 2 days ago

Text

garlic

word count: 1.4k

synopsis: in which sylus feeds you too much garlic

contains: sylus x reader (doesn't have to be mc, gender neutral), an obscene amount of garlic (slight crack fic), mentions of cooking, eating, and love of food, suggestive at the end, and cussing.

a/n: i was rewatching wgm the other day and the male star did this to the female star. couldn't help but feel inspired to write this for sylus since he would totally tease us. do NOT copy or translate my work. sylus does NOT endorse plagiarism. reblogs and comments always appreciated :)

you love sylus' cooking. even before you started dating, you always thought his cooking was immaculate—so immaculate you can't help but wonder why he even had a private chef. rich people shenanigans, you like to conclude. you also wonder if rich people put a lot of garlic in their food. because there are a shit ton of garlic slices on the linguine pasta sylus just served you.

by no means are you a picky eater. heck, you love garlic. it's a blessing to humankind. garlic bread, fried rice, pesto, you name it. so many foods have garlic in them, and you enjoy all of them. but this? this was way too much.

sylus raises a brow as he sits next to you, wondering why you haven't picked up your fork yet. "something wrong, sweetie?"

"what's with the garlic, sylus?" you turn to face him, leaning back in the leather high chair.

he looks at your plate, then back at you. "is there something wrong with the garlic?" picking up his own fork, he goes to inspect your food. you stop him by holding his wrist.

"no," you shake your head, laughing a little. "it's just... this is a LOT of garlic." you nudge your head towards the incredibly noticeable pile of garlic slices. "did the tutorial really call for this much?"

sylus chuckles, returning to his own plate. meticulously, he twirls the pasta with his fork, leaving you to admire his sturdy forearms. not only do you love sylus' cooking, but you also love WHEN he cooks. why? because this absolute godsend, silver-haired, ruby-eyed, strong-nosed, supple-lipped, and deep-voiced of a man rolls up his sleeves when he cooks. his veins protrude and his muscles flex whenever he chops some vegetables with a knife. you don't pity the buttons that hold on for dear life to keep his sleeves together whenever he maneuvers a pan. resting an elbow on the kitchen island, you set your head on your hand to admire the current view.

you're taken aback when sylus holds up his fork to your mouth. normally, you would gush at such an action. the ruthless and relentless head of onychinus, offering YOU the first bite of HIS food. oh, you would happily accept, eager to taste absolute heaven in your mouth because sylus always makes great food. but, this time, you frown, noticing the mini TOWER of garlic slices on top of the noodles wrapped around his fork.

"i didn't take you for a picky eater, sweetie." sylus teases as he tilts his head. your jaw drops, flabbergasted by such an accusation. not that there's anything wrong with being a picky eater; it's just that sylus should know you by now. he's cooked for you plenty of times before. he's seen you eat plenty of times before. he should know by now you generally enjoy most food, and it takes a lot for you to even hesitate to pick up a utensil.

"i'm not picky," you cross your arms, a slight pout forming on your lips. "there's just too much garlic."

"there's no such thing as too much garlic," sylus quips. as if to further prove his point, he lifts the fork closer to your mouth. you begrudgingly accept, not without giving him a look, of course, because only you would accept a mouthful of garlic offered by sylus himself.

it's not necessarily bad. that's the first thought you have when you close your mouth. except you immediately change your mind after you bite down. holy shit, it's just straight garlic. you grimace, immediately uncrossing your arms to cover your mouth. you can't even taste the linguine. groaning, you try not to spit out the food. no matter how bad a dish may be, you wholeheartedly believe it's rude to spit it out in front of the person who made it. furthermore, this was sylus we're talking about; you're fricking boyfriend. you scrunch your shoulders as you painfully swallow, instantly reaching over the counter for a glass of water. after you relieve your mouth of garlic hell (it didn't help at all), you face sylus, glaring at him with all your might.

"that's too much garlic!" you snap, using one hand to slap sylus' shoulder and another to cover your mouth, overwhelmed by the smell. trying to ignore sylus' snickers, you drink more water. this motherfucker dares to laugh at your agony. you swear the next time he calls you over for some parmesan garlic linguine, you're going to tell him to shove a garlic braid up his ass.

"oh come on, sweetie," sylus jests as he twirls some more noodles with his fork before offering them to you again. "it can't be that bad."

you look at him with wide eyes. there's no way he's serious right now. "why don't YOU try then?"

"gladly," sylus says smugly. he takes a bite and lets out an obnoxious "mmm!" you scoff when he goes back for a second bite, unable to believe the audacity he has.

"there's no way it tastes that good," you say as you jerk your head away, determined to stay mad at him. "you just want to flatter your cooking."

"you're missing out," sylus says nonchalantly as he takes another bite. "besides, garlic is good for your health. it can provide a lot of strength. in fact, laborers were fed garlic back then, so they could have enough stamina. "

you roll your eyes. of course, he brings health into this. not that there's nothing wrong with it. you actually admire how much sylus takes care of himself. he's quite the competent man. but you know what he's doing. he's making fun of you. your eyes can't help but twitch as you look down at your plate. good for your health, my ass. no way an entire plate (sylus has massive plates by the way) topped with heaps of garlic is good for anyone. not even five serving spoons can rid your plate of its garlic slices.

suddenly, you get an idea.

"hey, sylus," you say as you reach over the counter for the serving spoon he used earlier to serve your plate. "since you like your linguine soooo much, mind if i feed you?"

sylus doesn't look up from his plate, clearly too occupied with his own making. "sure, sweetie."

you giggle, setting the spoon against the edge of your plate before scraping only the garlic slices onto it. given how much garlic there was, it doesn't take long for you to fill the giant spoon with it—garlic and garlic only.

"don't do that."

"don't do what?" you don't stop scraping.

"that," sylus answers as he warily eyes the spoon your hand is now holding up to his face. that was, indeed, too much garlic.

"come onnnn," it's your turn to tease. "there's no such thing as too much garlic, right? besides, it's good for your health. what good is the head of onychinus if he doesn't have enough stamina?"

"i have plenty of stamina," sylus insists. "and that," he juts his chin towards the spoon, "is too much stamina."

you snort as you nudge the spoon closer, ignoring him entirely. "say ah! eat and gain lots of stamina! you need it!" you chirp as you lift your free hand and extend it underneath the spoon, hoping to catch any stray slices.

sylus' eyes flicker from the spoon to your face. he leans in, acting as if he's going to listen to you. though, not before asking, "where will i use all this stamina? will you use it with me?"

you choke, immediately retracting the spoon. "what?!" you dump all of the garlic back onto the plate, avoiding the amused look on sylus' face and also the imagery of exciting... stamina-related activities involving him. "pervert," you grumble, a rosy hue appearing on your cheeks.

"i was talking about training, sweetie," he smirks.

no fucking way. you gape at him, not believing a single word.

sylus stifles a laugh, enjoying the hilarious expression on your face. look at you, so cutely flustered over the idea of taking your relationship to the next level. yes, he was talking about whatever was going on in that head of yours. no, he wasn't talking about training. but hiding such a fact was worth it, given your embarrassed state. wanting to admire your adorable face some more, sylus grips your chin before tilting it up.

"although, i'm not against what you have in mind, sweetie."

#i can't believe i just wrote a 1.4k word fic about sylus feeding us garlic #it's clear this man has me in a chokehold #sylus x reader #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x you #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fic

116 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 4 days ago

Text

a fun tag game

tagged by a goated sylus writer @zara-renata (srry this is late)

last song: ooparts (tour 2023 "if i were an angel") by hitsujibungaku

last book: flowers for algernon by daniel keyes (highly recommend)

last movie: corpse bride by tim burton (i think it's sad the last full movie i watched was on halloween)

last show: mob psycho 100 (i can rewatch this show over and over and never get sick of it)

sweet/spicy/savoury: can't pick between sweet and savoury (i CANNOT handle spicy food and i hate that i can't)

last thing i googled: xavier from love and deepspace (for the fic i just uploaded)

current obsession: sylus from love and deepspace (this man has bewitched me body and soul, and i have so many ideas to write for him)

looking forward to: i'm meeting a friend who i've been talking to online for a year this weekend. super excited bc they're so cool and we share similar interests. she's obsessed with rafayel so i'm hoping to write for him soon

#my fingers are itching to write a sylus crack fic that's been marinating in my brain for a week now #also have a cute idea for rafayel #can't think of anyone to tag off the top of my incredibly fried brain #will do that later #love you sara mwah #this was cute and fun heheh

2 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 4 days ago

Text

wolf in sheep's clothing

word count: 2k

synopsis: in which xavier acts innocent despite his not-so-innocent touches.

contains: xavier x mc!reader (early established relationship), he kinda gaslights you (but with no bad intentions really), freaky xavier (not smut tho), suggestive themes, mentions of violence and death, and cussing.

a/n: i had to write for my second favorite lads man at some point. i read somewhere that the official chinese description for xavier is "wolf in sheep's clothing," (don't quote me on that; i could be wrong) and i wholeheartedly believe he is. do NOT copy or translate my work. xavier does NOT endorse plagiarism.

you're convinced your boyfriend is a wolf in sheep's clothing. sure, his pure cerulean eyes and tender voice might convince you otherwise (they did at first). but, with the way xavier's been touching you, you're sure of it. your boyfriend is a wolf in sheep's clothing, and you have the evidence to prove it. countless pieces of evidence, actually. but let's look at the most memorable ones, shall we?

evidence #1

"welcome home, starlight," xavier greets you with open arms and crinkled eyes. your heart can't help but swell at the sight. nothing compares to seeing your boyfriend in a cozy white sweater after opening the door following an exhaustive day of battling wanderers. you swear you were this close to losing it after dealing with lemonette's stupid limes for what seemed like hours. yet, xavier, in all his ash-gray-haired, blue-eyed, soft-spoken glory, takes your pains away with just one simple gesture of welcoming you home.

"hi, xavier." you fall into him, basking in the warmth of his tight embrace. you could honestly die a happy hunter from this. "i missed you."

xavier chuckles, pulling away so he can look at you properly. "i missed you too," he caresses your face. "i missed you so much." he crashes his lips into yours, ardently seeking your taste, your scent, your everything.

you're taken aback by xavier's sudden fervor. but, you return the favor by opening your mouth, eagerly granting his tongue entrance. it's not the first time your beloved boyfriend has initiated such a passionate kiss. after all, you two love each other very much, to the point you're willing to die for each other. a kiss like this is natural to come by; you're blissfully used to it. what you're not used to is what xavier does next.

he weaves his fingers into your hair and tugs.

"ah!" you pull away, panting with wide eyes. what the heck was that? he's never done that before. why did he do that? it felt so good.

xavier blinks at you innocently before asking, "you okay?"

"uh yeah," you stutter, trying to process what just happened. "i'm okay. are you okay?" seriously, is xavier, your puppy-like boyfriend, okay? why did he pull your hair? by no means did it hurt. it was a single, firm tug, yet it did so much, as evidenced by your shortage of breaths and clenching of thighs.

xavier smiles brightly and nods. you close your eyes, expecting him to resume the kiss, totally not hoping to feel his slender fingers pull on your hair. instead, this motherfucker he pecks your cheek and walks away, yawning. "i'm sleepy," he has the audacity to rub his eyes. "let's go to sleep, yeah?"

your jaw drops. did he seriously just suggest you go to sleep?! staring at your boyfriend, you expect an answer for his confusing behavior. xavier blinks innocently, again. "you sure you're okay, starlight?"

you frown, growing even more confused. he's not dumb. you know he's not dumb. heck, he's the association's best hunter. there's no way he doesn't know what he's doing to you. you sigh and shake your head, concluding that perhaps xavier was just caught up in the heat of the moment and was genuinely tired. after all, he battles wanderers too, even more than you. "yeah, i'm okay, xavier." you walk past him and towards your shared bedroom, trying to relieve your mind of certain thoughts. "let's sleep."

unfortunately, you don't catch the amusement in xavier's eyes when you bid him goodnight and turn off the lights.

evidence #2

"how's the food?" xavier asks, whispering into your ear.

beaming at him, you nod excitedly. "it's great. nothing like hotpot with friends on a cold night, right?"

indeed, little to nothing compared to spending time with xavier and your fellow hunters at your comfort restaurant. you and xavier were shoulder to shoulder, sitting across from tara and nero. everything was perfect. the food tasted amazing, your friends were enjoying themselves, and most importantly, xavier was right next to you, with a hand on your thigh, of course.

you don't mind in the slightest. it's assuring, actually. the warmth his touch provides adds more to this delightful atmosphere. content from both the food and the mood, you can't help but rest your head on your boyfriend's shoulder. "thanks for being here, xavier." you murmur.

xavier smiles softly, resting his cheek on your crown. "of course, starlight."

you giggle, nuzzling into him. you love it when he calls you that. "starlight." though, you can't help but feel it should be you calling him that instead. like an actual starlight, xavier shines brightly wherever he goes. from hunting hundreds of wanderers to protecting hundreds of civilians, xavier illuminates the world and you can't help but be blinded at times. not that you mind. you would gladly be blinded by him a million times over if it meant being in his presence.

"okay, that's enough, you lovebirds," tara teases.

you roll your eyes playfully, lifting your head from xavier's shoulder. as much as you would like to stay there forever, you understand the occasional nagging that comes with public displays of affection. hoping to sit up properly, you go to cross your legs. with a click of his tongue, xavier grips your thigh, hard.

yelping, you jolt in your seat. immediately, you cover your mouth, embarrassed over the borderline wanton noise you just made. you stare at xavier, mortified. what the fuck was that?

"are you okay?" tara says your name in concern. she tries to reach over the table, but xavier stops her by handing you some napkins with his free hand and adding another squeeze to your thigh. it's taking everything in you not to squeal.

"she's okay," xavier answers, smiling innocently. "she just spilled some broth, right?" he turns to you, expecting you to follow along.

"yeah," you answer shakily. "sorry, just got a little clumsy, i guess." after pretending to wipe yourself with the napkins xavier gave you, you down a glass of water, hoping to relieve the heat in your face and also in between your legs. you're not sure what is happening anymore. he's never gripped your leg before, let alone touched you so roughly. it felt so fucking good.

for the rest of the night, xavier continued to squeeze your thigh, leaving you a flustered mess. it was torture having to sit through the gathering without making any noise. every so often, when tara or nero wasn't looking, you looked at your boyfriend desperately, begging him to stop (not really) or at least provide an answer for why he was doing this. instead, he would just inch his hand higher and flash that damned innocent smile. by the time the waiter came back with the paid tab, xavier's hand was threatening access to your hip joint. you're not sure how he made his arm look like it wasn't doing anything.

after bidding tara and nero goodbye, you immediately drag xavier outside. "what was that?" you ask impatiently. the freezing air was doing absolutely nothing to cool your heated face, and you're not sure if that pissed you off more or xavier's calm expression.

xavier tilts his head to the right, feigning confusion. "what was what?"

you're want to scream so badly right now. "that!" you snap as you motion to your leg.

xavier tilts his head to the left, gathering his lips into a pout. "i just wanted to massage your leg since it seemed sore from training."

what the fuck? dumbfoundedly, you stare at xavier. there's no way those squeezes could be called a massage. but looking at his pouty face, you can't bring yourself to argue. well shit, now you just feel like a pervert.

you sigh, taking xavier's hand and heading towards the car. "thanks for the massage, xavier."

you miss the smirk growing on his face. "anything for you, starlight."

evidence #3 (happening right now, send help)

"whatcha making?" xavier cutely asks as he wraps his arms around your waist.

you were at the kitchen counter of your shared apartment, rolling some dough with your flour-covered palms. "i wanted to try making some pizza," you answer, entirely focused on the task in front of you. "i saw a tutorial on tiktok. seemed simple enough."

xavier hums, burying his face in the crook of your neck. you giggle, feeling him inhale deeply. it's the quiet and domestic moments like these that make you imagine another life where you and xavier aren't hunters. just people free from the constant dangers of hunting wanderers and protecting civilians. you sigh, reaching across the counter for the tomato sauce. at the end of the day, you and xavier are evolvers. having an innate ability means protecting those who can't protect themselves, even if it means risking your lives. but, both you and xavier can agree the look of relief on people's faces when reuniting with their loved ones is worth the risk.

the tomato sauce is within reach until you jump back into place. why? oh, because xavier's right hand is inching towards the waistband of your panties. "xavier!" you turn around immediately, facing him with widened eyes and flushed cheeks. "what are you doing?!"

you've had enough. the last couple of weeks have been a literal hell with how much your boyfriend's been teasing you, filling your head with dirty thoughts, and acting as if he doesn't know what he's doing. it's as if he's purposely avoiding following through with his actions, not giving you what you fucking want even though he's the one that's been initiating things. not to mention, his hand is still in your pants.

xavier rests his left hand on the counter, pinning you in place. your breath hitches, feeling him rest his forehead on yours. "i'm sorry," he sulks. "i just wanted to touch your belly button."

"stop lying," you say immediately. "last time i checked, my belly button is NOT at my fucking panties." you don't care if you sound harsh. you want xavier to answer for his crimes—crimes being leaving you hanging and making you question your sanity.

xavier chuckles. this motherfucker he dares to chuckle while you look at him with furrowed brows and twisted lips. "it's not funny," you scold. "you've been weird the last few weeks-"

your breath hitches as xavier dips the tips of his fingers past your waistband. holy fucking shit. what is this man doing?! "x-xavier?!"

he doesn't answer. instead, he presses short yet sensual kisses all over your face, slowly trailing down to your neck. you try to stop yourself from whimpering.

"you know," xavier mumbles. "i've been waiting for you to say something." he continues to mouth at your neck, causing you to squirm.

"s-say what?" you ask trembling. fuck, you think you just felt his tongue peak out.

"oh, i don't know," he switches to the other side of your neck. "something like 'xavier please' or 'xavier more'" and with that, he returns both of his hands to your waist, lifts you up effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, and dives straight into your lips.

"xavier! mmph!" there was flour on the counter, meaning there was flour on your pants now. "you're making mmph! a mess!"

"that's not what i want to hear, starlight," xavier shakes his head as he pulls away from you. "it's like you want me to stop."

his fingers rub slow circles into your thighs, causing you to writhe uncontrollably. so this is why he's been acting so fucking teasing the last few weeks. he wanted to do things with you—take your relationship to the next level. but you had to be the one to say it. why? you're not sure. maybe it stroked his ego or something. you don't care anymore. you're pent up from xavier's antics, and all you want right now is for him to follow through. if saying "please" and "more" is what it takes, so be it.

you grab xavier's shirt collar, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him to you. his eyes widen at your sudden rough actions. but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes, teetering on the edge between curiosity and arousal. though nothing could prepare xavier for what you do next.

"xavier," you whisper into his ear, stroking his nape with your index finger. "can you please give me more?"

xavier inhales sharply, his grip tightening around your thighs.

"i thought you'd never ask, starlight."

#this took longer than i wanted #it's fine #anything for xavier #xavier x reader #xavier x mc #xavier x you #love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #lads xavier #lnds xavier #xavier fluff #xavier smut #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fic

452 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 6 days ago

Text

The Holiday Party | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You are dragged to yet another one of your crappy boyfriend's miserable work functions only for him to abandon you to his awful colleagues, but you run into a man who helps you admit that you deserve better. You think you're having a one-night stand with a handsome stranger, but there's nothing casual about his intentions toward you.

Notes: Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV. This is not part of the Sylus series, it's just a long-ass oneshot, there is no mention of evol or magical sci-fi powers or wanderers although you are a hunter… of something? does it matter? not when sylus is here to tell you that you have shit taste in boyfriends. This story contains: a crappy boyfriend, banter, hurt/comfort, fluff??→Sylus just being intensely sweet, a breakup, sex with Sylus [sylus penetrating, giving oral] this is not sex education, do not use it as a manual for fucking strangers (no condom, no discussion of STI or birth control), sociopolitical commentary and violence, a happy ending

You really, really don’t want to be here right now.

The twinkling fairy lights are lovely, looping in extravagant curves across the ceiling, spilling down the walls covered in pine wreaths and garlands, filling the luxurious bar with a pine scent that is incongruent to such an upscale, urban setting, here in a rooftop bar of a five star hotel in the heart of the city. In the corner opposite the band stands a huge Christmas tree, crystal ornaments twinkling in the fairy lights.

Glasses clink, a live jazz band, dressed in red and green velvet and wearing jaunty Santa hats, is playing tasteful classic holiday songs on a dais in the corner of the room. Over the music the crowd murmurs, sophisticated men and women engaged in boisterous conversation, toasting to the closing of a lucrative business year, successful client networking, the landing of the biggest cases from the most outrageous scandals of the year.

They’re friendly enough, if you consider snakes wearing bowties and dripping in haute couture friendly. The mask of civility is firmly in place, as polite laughter and faux congratulations are exchanged between colleagues whom you know would slit each other’s throats to make partner first, between partners who funnel profits from the law firm to supporting political campaigns that keep the regulations loose for the white collar criminals who make up the bread and butter of the client register, while tightening the noose around the necks of the blue collar criminals the firm represents on a pro bono basis for the sake of good public relations.

You really, really don’t want to be here right now.

You sip on your champagne. You can taste that it’s expensive, sharp on your tongue—like everyone in the room, but it does nothing for you. You’d rather be at home, in your pajamas, playing a video game on the couch or watching your latest detective series hyperfixation.

Everything is very nice, very fine, if you close your eyes and ignore everyone else in the room. If you ignore the fact that your boyfriend has once again asked you to come to one of his work functions as social currency, a pretty bauble to stand quietly, smiling pleasantly, as these birds of prey discreetly gloat about the carcasses they pick over on a daily basis to pad their bank accounts and their investment portfolios.

“Have you heard? McFayden just bagged the Benzos pharmaceutical case.”

There’s a low chuckle. “So the opposing counsel couldn’t convince the jury with the sob story of the adverse side effects on the poor children with cancer?”

“You’re terrible,” another voice purrs, not sounding upset at all—some spouse of one of the people making jokes about the failure of a class action lawsuit to secure justice for the parents of hundreds of kids who died as a result of the Benzos company intentional tampering with the results of clinical studies.

You wish you didn’t know these things. You wish you could stand here, soaking in the luxury of this beautiful, exclusive bar at the city’s pinnacle, blissfully ignorant of the absolutely gleeful depravity of the lawyers and their biggest clients swirling around you. But you’re not ignorant, or naive. Your boyfriend brings home stories of his colleagues, of the arguments he makes in briefs and before judges every day, as he fights tooth and claw to achieve partner status, along with the rest of the associates in the firm. You know all of these things, so you can’t even bring yourself to grab any of the delicious looking hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter, holding more champagne flutes and small plates aloft. You have no appetite, in this hungry, churning crowd.

It didn’t used to be like this. When you first met him, your boyfriend was a sweet, starry eyed young idealist, going to law school to change the world. You were a young hunter, fresh out of the Academy, equally full of hope and plans to save the world. You fell in love with his mirrored values, his easy affection for you despite the pressure of both of your schedules. You overlooked the fact that when you would tell him about your job, his eyes would glaze over and he rarely asked follow-up questions. So what, if he was never interested in your hobbies, the things you liked to do in your precious free time? He was so tired, from school, and then from studying for the bar, and then being ground down at various non-profit organizations, fighting the overwhelming tide of corruption and injustice. He was sweet to you. He would tell you how beautiful you are, he’d make polite, efficient love to you on the days he had the energy for it. You could tuck your own problems, your own wounds and interests into your pocket, carry them with you quietly until one day he’d have the energy and interest to ask you what you’re up to, what you’re reading, how your workday was, and actually listen to the answer. There are so many worse men out there than him, after all. You had dated a lot of them before you met him—cheaters. Toxic, jealous men who you were afraid to make angry, even if you knew you could probably put them down before they actually hit you. Your current boyfriend is kind, at least. For the most part. He only occasionally says small things that chip away at your self worth. About what you’re wearing, or your weight, how much, or how little you eat. Who are you to sometimes wish that someone would look at you and really want to know your thoughts, who would look at you and not just see a beautiful face, but a skilled, competent person? A funny, clever person. Your boyfriend never seems to get your jokes, but he does make an effort to chuckle sensibly when you tell them.

It didn’t used to be this way—you, standing abandoned in this crowd of piranhas. But somewhere along the way, your boyfriend changed. He became jaded, burnt out from his constant struggle against the unfairness of a system stacked against the vulnerable, and went to work for one of the most prestigious law firms in the country, defending insurance companies and insider trading finance moguls, pharmaceutical companies and pop stars who murdered their spouses. No longer is he too tired because he was fighting the good fight. Now he comes home, exhausted from trying to undercut his colleagues in the rat race to secure his future as a permanent partner in the firm with the nice shareholder bonuses. He says it’s for you too. That his future is your future, and that once he’s established at the firm, he’ll devote half of his time to pro bono cases. That he can have his cake and eat it too. That you just need to be patient with him, let him compromise your own values by staying by his side. He has always been (mostly) sweet to you. You feel bad every time you look at him and want more from him. He’s so busy. He says he’s doing this for you, even if you don’t want it.

You wonder when you became so passive in your private life, when you’re so assertive in your professional life. You don’t need anyone at all, after all. You aren’t actually limited to only choosing between your current boyfriend or any of the other dirtbags you’ve been with in your life. You could be alone. You are wondering more and more if maybe you wouldn’t just be happier being alone. But then your boyfriend will manage to remember your favorite drink from the cafe near your place, after forgetting it the last few times he brought something for you too (hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?), and you’d be touched and you’d feel bad for thinking that you’d rather not have anyone at all than him at your side.

Not that he’s at your side right now. He’s across the room, in an intense discussion about the latest client’s case he’s just taken on. Something big, complex. He’ll likely have to make multiple business trips for the discovery process alone. He doesn’t bother to try to help you engage in discussion with his colleagues, or to involve you in his own conversations. He just asks you to hold on a minute, he’ll be right back.

You shake your head at these thoughts, the empty feeling in your chest. You’re used to this. He promised to take you to your favorite bookstore after this function, like you used to do together before he got so busy working overtime that you rarely see him outside of bed these days. It’s unfair of you to feel treated like arm candy, a warm sex doll, a body to warm the ultramodern, stark apartment the two of you now share when he does come home before eleven at night.

You take a big gulp of the champagne, smile at the awful jokes being shared in the little group you’re standing with, and then excuse yourself to get another glass. Maybe if you get drunk, this horrible feeling in your chest will go away.

You glance around discreetly, locate one of the floating waiters, are about to ask for another flute, when you suddenly feel a warm presence behind you. The hair along your bare arms stands on end, static electricity washing over your skin. You turn and find a man standing closer to you than is polite. You take in his wide chest, because it’s at eye level, he’s so tall. Defined pectorals, even under a black dress shirt and vest that look impossibly soft, slick, expensive. Under the strong scent of pine in the room, you smell something delicious. Dark, clean musk. Your mouth starts to water. You lift your eyes, savoring the pale skin exposed under the casually unbuttoned shirt, so incongruent with the clear quality and sophistication of his clothing, as if he has studied how to appear artfully dishevelled. You admire the dip of his clavicle, the strength clearly visible in his broad shoulders, his neck, until you have to hold in a gasp when you reach the beauty of his face.

Sharp jaw, wide, generous mouth. His nose. You want to die, his nose. Long, nostrils flaring as if he too can smell whatever is making your saliva glands flood your mouth, a noticeable bump along the bridge of it. He has the nose of a Roman emperor, a god carved in stone. You have a fleeting impression of soft, silver hair, premature graying in contrast to his youthful face, but when you meet his eyes, everything else fades away.

The warm glow of lava over the rim of an active volcano. Tempting, beautiful, but you know if you try to touch it, you’ll lose yourself, melt—it will be over for you before you even know it. The red of banked, burning coals. They’re familiar to you, in the way that your own reflection in the mirror is familiar on your best days. When you look in the mirror and love yourself, which is often the only time these days that you feel loved at all, despite having a boyfriend.

At the thought of your boyfriend, you sever the connection, looking away from the beautiful stranger who has simply stood there and let you look your fill without saying a word, as if you didn’t just devour him with your hungry gaze, having to swallow the extra saliva the sight of him sent flowing through your mouth.

Your boyfriend isn’t jealous like other men you’ve been with. He never acts possessive in public, doesn’t worry if other men and women look at you, admire you. But he is always worried that if he’s not there, someone will try to poach what’s his. That they’ll hit on you, and you’ll fall under their spell and cheat on him. You sometimes wonder why he would even care, considering how little he touches you these days, but out of respect for him you never act in a way that could cause him to feel insecure, whether he’s around or not. And even if you didn’t respect him, there’s no way you would throw away the peaceful, if unfulfilling stability you have with him right now, not for a man like the one in front of you, who is dripping in sex appeal, who is gorgeous and knows it, who could snap his fingers and have most of the people in this room on their knees for him. Why would he ever look at you? A pretty bauble, yes, but someone who would rather be at home, replaying Stardew Valley for the 47th time. Not someone exciting, exotic. Just a person who doesn’t dress quite right, with humble hobbies and a hard job to do, trying not to be an asshole.

You look away and try to take a step to the side, to allow this man to pass by you. You’ll remember his eyes until the day you die, you think, and he’ll never even know you existed.

But as you take a step, so does he. You find yourself still eyes-to-chest with him.

“Oh, sorry,” you murmur, and try to step to the other side. Sometimes when you’re trying to scurry out of someone’s way, you just make yourself more of a nuisance.

But as you take the step to the side, so does he. You two could almost be dancing, with how close you are, with how in sync he’s matching your movements.

You laugh, a little breathlessly, embarrassed that you’re fucking this up so badly. You’re trying to let him pass, and you keep getting in his way.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, and his voice sinks into your chest, filling the void that you realize you’ve been carrying for months now. Maybe even years. You feel it keenly now, as if in the filling, the emptiness is exaggerated. Like after being ill, when the fever and the vomiting have passed, you suddenly realize how healthy you feel, how grateful you are to be feeling well again. With his voice filling the hole inside you, you’re so grateful to remember what it is like to feel whole again.

Impossible, crazy thoughts.

You look up again, get caught in the vice of his gaze again. His uncanny red eyes are soft as they look down into yours. He has a frown line between his dark silver eyebrows, as if he spends a lot of time thinking deeply. He’s not smiling at you, but you get the delusional feeling that he’s happy to be looking at you. But his face is blank, an impassive mask, quietly observing you. Why on earth would he be happy to see you?

“Oh, sorry,” you say again, apologizing for apologizing, unintentionally defying his command.

He snorts softly through his big, beautiful nose. “Not very obedient, are we, kitten?” he asks.

You scowl at him. Okay, so he’s beautiful, but as you suspected, he’s beautiful and he knows it, and he thinks he can get away with speaking to you so disrespectfully without even having properly met, simply because he’s the most attractive man in the room no matter where he goes.

“Not for douchebags, no,” you say smoothly. But you’re actually polite, so you tack on, “Excuse me. If you stay put, I’ll step to the left, and you can continue to where you want to go.” You wait for him to acknowledge your suggestion, to avoid another accidental dance with him.

“No need to lie, sweetheart.” He flicks his gaze across the room, and you have the strange, impossible feeling that he’s looking at your boyfriend. “And I’m probably the least douchey person in this room, besides you.”

You take in his expensive clothes, the soft sweep of his beautiful hair. He’s wearing a tight black vest over his black silk shirt, perfectly tailored to reveal his huge chest, his narrow waist, the proportions of a cartoon superhero, not a real man. His long, thick legs, wrapped in tight black trousers. Monk strap shoes, their attractiveness ruined by stupid fucking chains around the heels. He looks like the wealthy, spoiled adult son of a mob boss. You wonder if he is one of the law firm’s soulless clients.

“Doubtful,” you clip out, because you learned long ago that the more you engage with egotistical pricks, the more likely you’ll end up in trouble with your boyfriend for embarrassing him. That is why you just stand around at events like this, smiling vacantly, trying to get through the evening without causing a scene and either punching someone or drenching their expensive clothing in wine.

“Oh, I like a challenge.” His eyes, already bright, sharp, light up. “Allow me the opportunity to disprove your doubt.” He ignores your clear dismissal, your request for him to pass you by. Your breath catches again. How can one man be so magnetic? Why are you so attracted to such terrible men? You think of your boyfriend, how sweet he used to be capable of being.

“I think you’ll be just fine if one person doesn’t fall for your charms,” you say, suddenly exhausted. You really, really, don’t want to be here. You turn your head, look for your boyfriend. He’s still in deep, serious conversation with colleagues. You wonder why he wanted you to come at all, when he never had any intention of spending any part of this evening with you.

“And what if I don’t care if the entire world falls for my charms, but I won’t survive the one person who resists?” he asks, drawing your attention back to him.

“Typical rich bastard problems,” you snort. “Wanting only what you can’t have.”

“There's nothing typical about me.” He laughs softly, and even his laugh is dripping with money. “And there's nothing I can't have, because I don’t give up when going after what I want. It’s not a matter of if, but when.”

You give in to the urge to roll your eyes so hard you probably look like you’re having a seizure. “I’m not even sorry for being the one who shatters your delusion. Thank you for your interest, if that’s what you’re implying, but the feeling is not mutual.” Maybe you were tempted, or impressed, before he opened his mouth, but with every word since he opened it, he reveals himself to be exactly the same as all the other assholes in this bar.

“Who says I’m implying anything?” he asks, his strange wine-bright eyes shimmering with amusement at your blunt rejection. “I prefer a straightforward approach. I’m interested. Tell me how to make it mutual.”

You can’t help but admire the audacity of this guy—he seems completely unfazed by your clear disgust. You wish you could have half his entitlement on a daily basis.

You fix him with an unimpressed look. “I doubt there’s anything you could do to make it mutual.”

“Again, with your doubt,” he tsks. “How are you so sure that you could never return my interest? You stand there, judging me without even knowing me, just as guilty of dismissing people based on their appearance as all of the shallow, hypocritical animals in this bar.”

You laugh in his face. “Oh yes, I’m just as terrible as these lying, defrauding, malicious fucks. You got me.” You turn to walk away.

“If you recognize these parasites for what they are, then why are you here?” he taunts.

His bait is successful—you turn your head and look at him again, once again struck by his beauty, the intelligence in his eyes, the soft fall of his light hair.

“The main reason you don’t have a chance tonight. I’m here with my boyfriend.”

He steps closer to you, and you have to tilt your head back to look into his entrancing eyes. “If you’re willing to settle for one of these cretins, and you think I’m of the same ilk, then why am I the exception in not being able to catch your interest? I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

You stare at him, suddenly struck by the absurdity of this conversation. With just a few words, he has held up a mirror, forcing you to look at what your life has become. Cold, empty, and hollowly attached to a man who is everything you just accused this man of being. Why are you here? Why do you continue to look the other way as your boyfriend sinks ever more deeply into his new identity of a lying, defrauding, malicious fuck?

And yet part of you can’t help but defend him, despite what he has become. Despite the fact that even from the beginning, he was (mostly) sweet but uninterested in who you really are.

“He used to be sweet,” you say, at a loss as to why you’re telling this stranger this, revealing so much to him in those few words.

“I can be sweet,” he says, lifting his hand, taking a lock of your hair between his long fingers, fiddling with it in a surprisingly endearing way. “For you.”

“I can’t imagine a man like you and ‘sweet’ in the same breath,” you smile, despite yourself.

“Your imagination is terribly limited, then. We’ll work on expanding it,” he says, as if the matter is settled. “What else does he offer you?”

You hesitate. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the gloating, disgusting conversations you have had to endure tonight, again, and you’re just finally reaching the end of your rope. Or maybe it’s this man, teasing, baiting the truth out of you with his intense focus, an incubus tempting you not with his sexuality, although he is carnally appealing to you, but with his apparently sincere interest in your answers. You don’t think your boyfriend has ever looked at, listened to you with such intense focus before. Maybe it’s the fact that this man is someone you’ll never see again. You find yourself answering. “Despite all his flaws, he never cheated—that I know of. He didn’t ever want to hit me.” Your voice trails off, as you draw a blank as what your boyfriend still has to offer you.

His dark silver brows draw together as you go quiet, as he realizes that you have nothing else to say. “That’s all? It’s not even a challenge.” He sounds disgusted.

You look away, suddenly feeling pathetic, as if his disgust is aimed at you. And in a way, it is. What does it say about you, that these meager offerings from your boyfriend have been enough to keep you by his side for so long?

“Look at me,” the stranger says, in his low, deep voice. It’s a command, but soft, like a crowbar wrapped in the velvet that the jazz musicians are wearing.

You obey him this time, your resistance pried open.

You look into his beautiful eyes again. He’s closer now, like he took another step forward while you weren’t looking. You can feel the warmth of his body. If he leaned down, he could kiss you with his soft looking lips without having to step closer.

“Why?” you ask, but you don’t even know what you’re asking. Why does he want to disprove your doubt about him? Why is he asking you questions that tear off the blinders you’ve been intentionally wearing for so long, in an effort to maintain, what? An easy, but unsatisfactory status quo? Why does he want you to look at him? Why is he still talking to you at all, when he’s so terribly handsome, so unreachable for someone like you, who can’t even get your boyfriend to stand this close to you these days, after compromising so much of yourself to keep him happy, to keep from rocking the boat, from hurting his feelings, when he has given so little in return?

“Indulge me. What man wouldn’t want a beautiful, clever, sharp-tongued woman to look at him, and only him?”

You smile, a little helplessly. For some reason, you want to cry, hearing these affirming words from a total stranger. Even though you know they're probably just a line he says to everyone who catches his briefly attention.

Still fingering the lock of your hair, he gently strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, and then lets it drop again before anyone else would notice. “Your smile is so sad,” he breathes, almost to himself. “I don’t like it.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask, a little desperate, resisting everything in you that suddenly, painfully, despite your earlier disgust with him, is whispering for you to lean forward, to chase his hand, to put it back on your face, to rub against him like a cat, to beg for more of his kind words and touch. It’s as if his touch on your cheek unlocked something in you that you didn’t even know was there. Have you been so hungry for affection, that even these sparse crumbs are enough to have you salivating for a man who is likely much worse than your current boyfriend?

He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his trousers, bends down so that he’s speaking into your ear, softly, but still over the holiday music, the susurration of the crowd. His breath is warm over your skin. “I want to see a genuine smile from you.” He turns his head, runs his nose down your temple, along your cheek, and breathes deeply. “I want you to look at me, and only me.” He lifts a hand and trails the backs of his fingers along your bare arm. “I want you to come with me, instead of staying here, drinking champagne you don’t like, surrounded by people you despise.”

You shiver. You suddenly want that too. You want to go with him so badly, despite the fact that you have already decided that if he’s here, he’s probably one of the people you despise. Despite the fact that if he’s here, he probably sprays this abhorrently expensive champagne all over fawning sycophants every weekend at the same clubs your boyfriend now has “meetings with clients” at on a regular basis, not coming home until four in the morning, stinking of alcohol and cigarettes, rubbing his nose strangely, almost compulsively before passing out. Despite the fact that you know the moment you give in, and give him what he wants—whatever it may be—is the beginning of the end of his interest in you.

“Who are you?” you ask, resisting the wild, reckless urge rising in you to simply listen to him, to follow where he leads. You lean back, give yourself space to breathe, to regain your composure.

He lifts one corner of his mouth, a sketch of a smile, and it feels like dark petals whispering along your skin. “Tell me what you would do, if you could do anything at all right now, and I’ll tell you who I am.”

You consider him, trying to figure out what his angle is. Wondering how honest you should be. Wondering how he’ll exploit your honesty if you tell him the truth. Perhaps it’s the champagne on an empty stomach. Perhaps it’s the way the gaping hole in your heart feels filled every time this stranger opens his mouth. You tell him the truth.

“I want to go somewhere warm and quiet, curl up, and watch something silly on television.”

He takes one of your hands in both of his, cradling it as he looks down at your palm thoughtfully. “That’s all? You could be a little greedier. Why not go on a midnight cruise on a luxury yacht?” He strokes his thumbs along your palm, so softly. “Why not try to earn your fortune at the casino downstairs, or party in the VIP booth of an exclusive nightclub?” His eyes flick back to yours, as if gauging your reaction, as if to see if anything he’s saying triggers desire in you. “Or we could go shopping with my black card, and you can buy anything you want.”

You sigh. You were right. You’re too boring for this bright, pretty man. You gave him your truth, and he asks why you don’t want all the things you hate, that your boyfriend is clawing his way to achieve over the burnt-out careers of his colleagues, over the broken lives of the victims he ensures continue to suffer with each lawsuit dropped, each client walking free.

You try to take a step back, but he’s still holding your hand like it’s something precious, and he follows you again. You’re suddenly so tired, you don’t even have the energy to lie to him. “Because those things sound terrible to me. I don’t want your black card, when I’d rather just know who you are. I don’t want a super yacht with an exhausted crew, when I’d rather just sit with you in a canoe. I hate casinos—people feverishly wasting money—it feels like a slap in the face to people who are working their asses off just to survive." You shake your head. "I’m tired, and I want to take these stupid fucking shoes off.” There. Maybe with that little tirade, he’ll give up on tormenting you with his mysterious, intense focus and leave you alone. Alone to sort out how to fix your life. Alone to finally gather the energy, the backbone, to leave your shitty boyfriend. To stop drifting from one unworthy man to another. To stop compromising yourself, your self worth, and your values, for companionship, cold comfort, crumbs. You don’t know if you’re ready yet. But looking into the mirror this man has held up is a start.

Instead of dropping your hand, carrying on with whatever business he was on his way to do before you created an obstacle in his path, he squeezes it gently in his, and his thumbs begin to massage the meat of your palm. “Allow me to give you what you want, then.”

You laugh, disbelieving. What is his game? “I answered your question. Now it’s your turn to tell me who you are.”

He keeps rubbing your hand, and for some reason you keep letting him. It feels so good. There’s no one else in the world, now. Just him, your hand in his, that unidentifiable delicious scent in the air, mixed with pine.

“My name is Sylus,” he says, simply.

You stare at his face, but he’s still looking down at your palm.

“It’s a beautiful name,” you say, honestly. You’ve never thought about the name Sylus. It was just a name before, like so many others. But bizarrely, because it’s his, you suddenly think it matches him. It’s beautiful, just like the rest of him. “But that doesn’t answer my question. It doesn’t tell me who you are.”

“It tells you everything. It was a gift, given by someone precious to me.” He draws you closer, pulling you nearer to the garland-filled wall, turning so his big body is blocking the rest of the room. “I can tell you that I own this hotel. I can tell you that I’m an entrepreneur, and make my living buying and selling all sorts of things.” He lowers his voice even further, meeting your eyes again. “I can tell you that I’m very good at it, and it has made me very rich.” He slowly, gently, backs you up into the pine scented wall, until you have nowhere else to go. “And I can tell you that I despise everyone in this room, because they represent the worst of humanity—for all the reasons you hate them too.” He lets go of your hands, but then runs his own up your bare arms, trailing his fingertips along the sensitive skin of your inner forearms, elbows. “But those things are only parts of me, just like your clever mind, your sad, lovely eyes, your sharp tongue calling me a douchebag, are only parts of you. They’re not the heart of you.” He pauses, ember-glow eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, back to your eyes again. “I’m Sylus, and I’d like to give you what you want tonight. Say yes.”

You feel like you’re in a dream. The thoughtfulness of his answer, all of the surprising things he just revealed about himself—hotel owner, very rich man, pale in comparison to the shared feeling of hating everyone in this room. Of his having looked at you for less than ten minutes and being able to tell more about you than you think your boyfriend could tell after years of being together. Your sadness, your biting sense of humor, your intelligence.

You wonder if one night with him is worth immediately trading years of the relationship you share with your boyfriend.

You remember just minutes ago thinking that you’d remember this man’s eyes for the rest of your life, even as he passed you by without even noting your existence.

You force yourself to look away from him. You let your head tilt, so that you can see past his big bicep to look over the crowd. The flashing white veneers of so many mouths talking, drinking, smiling, all belonging to people who don’t deserve the nourishing food in the canapés they’re biting into with their vicious teeth, the quality of the alcohol now sloshing in their stomachs. Your eyes find your boyfriend, and for the first time tonight he’s not trading strategy with his colleagues, oblivious to your existence. He’s staring at you, your body mostly hidden now by Sylus, from across the room with a funny look on his face.

You feel one of Sylus’s hands slip from your elbow, drifting down. He palms your waist, sliding around your back, low, pinky and ring finger brushing your ass, before coming to rest on your other hip. He draws you gently into him, hips flush with your stomach, his arm an anchor behind your back, his hand an anchor at your hip. You feel small, protected, warm. You stare past Sylus’s arm at your boyfriend, who is now gaping at you.

You straighten again, look back up into Sylus’s lovely face. He’s smiling now, with such warmth. You allow yourself to be honest with yourself—you want him to kiss you. You think that a night with this man will be worth the trade of all the years with your boyfriend, who you suspect is now starting to try to shoulder his way to you, with a look on his face that telegraphs that he has something to say and you’re going to fucking listen, dammit, how dare you embarrass him like this in front of all of his colleagues, the firm’s partners, cucking him like he always knew you eventually would, even though you’ve only ever been faithful to him, respectful of his insecurity, loving in the face of his benevolent neglect of you and all of your needs.

Sylus must see your yearning written all over your face. Your silent acquiescence to his request to give you what you want, just for tonight. He leans down, pauses, his warm breath the only thing separating his lips from yours. He looks into your eyes, a warm glow under his long, sweeping lashes. You nod, just a little, to his unvoiced question. Yes, please kiss me. Yes, you have my permission. Yes, please give me what I want tonight. It will be worth all the cold tomorrows. The silent treatment from your boyfriend as you pack up your things in a few boxes, because you’ve never been one to carry too much baggage—you’ve never really had a home, not really. Your blank memories, then your Gran’s house, not yours. Then student housing, then small, temporary places as you moved around for your job, as you roomed with various colleagues before moving in with your boyfriend. You let him choose the decor of the apartment, because he was so vocal about being forced to accept your own unique taste that wasn't to his. Easier to just give him what he wants. You didn’t mind, since the overpriced apartment, filled with cold furniture and his absence, never felt like home anyway, after he got the job at this awful firm and wanted to upgrade from your cozy, cramped little apartment above your favorite bakery that always smelled like fresh bread.

Sylus searches your face for a moment longer before leaning down the rest of the way. He presses his soft, full lips to yours.

Kissing Sylus feels like coming home. Like how his voice feels in your ears—the constant, aching emptiness in your chest, filled. You don’t know how this stranger can already feel so familiar. You don’t know how just the chaste press of his soft lips to yours is making your body light up like the Christmas tree in this fancy bar, in this fancy hotel, like the fairy lights draped above and around you. You feel desire rise in you, a slow, steady wave of anticipation, the wanting a pleasure in itself, even unmet and unsatisfied. He pulls you closer, his arm an inexorable force at your back, gentle yet firm. He flicks his tongue out, sweeps it across your lower lip, then little licks, asking a question, a big jungle cat lapping at the pool of your mouth, and you open for him. He sinks his tongue in. He’s making soft little noises of pleasure, a low vibration in his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your boyfriend has reached you, has the audacity to stand just off to Sylus’s side, confront you with such a stupid, obvious question that you want to laugh. You feel the tethers of the years between you snapping, and you feel wild, reckless, a little mean. Because fuck him, and his cheerful neglect of you. Fuck yourself, for having accepted it. Sylus may want to give you what you want for tonight only, but just kissing him, being seen by him, makes you want to give yourself what you should have been giving yourself all along. Freedom, self respect, acceptance that the love you feel when you look at yourself in the mirror is worth more than the crumbs you receive from a boyfriend who you let treat you like a pretty, ultimately worthless trinket. Sylus may only be offering you a dream for tonight, but the feeling that filled you just from his kind, validating words to you is not a dream. You want to give that feeling to yourself, from now on. And dumping your hypocritical, morally bankrupt, shallow boyfriend is how you’re going to start the process.

Sylus slowly pulls away, not taking his eyes off you. He licks you a few more times, presses a few more quick kisses to your lips, like he can’t help himself, just a little sustenance before having to deprive himself for a moment.

“What does it look like?” you ask, turning your head, still pressed against the wall by Sylus’s big body. He’s so warm. His pecs are so pillowy. You want to knead them like the kitten he called you earlier.

Your boyfriend grimaces at you. “Who the fuck is this guy? I knew you were fucking cheating on me,” he bites out, voice rising.

Before you can answer, Sylus rests his cheek on top of your head. “I’m the largest shareholder of your law firm. And your replacement. Your services, such as they are, are no longer required in the boyfriend department.”

There’s a moment where your boyfriend just stares at Sylus blankly, as if his brain is having difficulty processing everything that he just said. And then he gasps. “Sylus Qin?” His eyes go wide.

“Yes. If you want to keep your current professional position, walk away now and forget everything you know about your ex instead of causing a scene.”

Your boyfriend’s jaw is a little slack as his eyes ping pong between your face and Sylus’s. For a split second, he looks like he wants to say something to you, a calculating, mean look in his eyes, that you’ve only ever seen directed at other people before. But then he startles, eyes jerking back to Sylus, and he suddenly looks terrified.

And then he simply turns and walks away, slipping back between the high top tables surrounded by human-shaped sharks, effectively showing you that it was never you, but his job, the wealth and power that he’s chasing, that has always been the main focus of his heart and mind. And that’s fine. You already knew that. It’s just that now, if you had any doubt about your sudden, insane decision to accept Sylus’s insistent request to give you what you want, it is now gone. You’re not willing to remain in a relationship like that, anymore. You’d rather be alone. You turn your attention back to the man currently cocooning you with his big body. He hasn’t moved, as if he’s waiting patiently for you to make the next move.

You ease back as much as you can into the wall, and he lifts his head, looks down into your face.

“Boyfriend replacement, huh?” you ask drily.

He shrugs his big shoulders. “If I’m lucky, with immediate effect. If I’m unlucky, eventually, but inevitably.” One sharp canine, peeking from between his soft lips, gleams under the fairy lights.

You want to laugh. What is even happening? Why go to such lengths to pretend like he’s somehow committed to you, to this insane demand to give you what you want? You just watched your boyfriend walk away without giving you a second glance. You feel entitled to a big, sexy rebound as a treat. You don’t even care what tricks this man is trying to pull to get you into the sack. You’re already convinced. But you are bothered by one thing.

“You’re the largest shareholder in this law firm?”

“Does it bother you?” he answers with a non-answer.

You take in his pretty mouth, his intense eyes. The humor glinting in the curve of his lips.

“I hate what they do. I hate what they stand for. I think I’ve been wanting to leave my boyfriend for a long time, after he started working for your firm. I want to see them go under.” You answer him with a non-answer of your own. Why should he care if it bothers you that he basically owns the firm? He offered to give you what you want for tonight, and then you’ll never see him again. You think that just for one night, it’s your turn to be a little cutthroat, a little malicious, to take what you can get from a shitty world. Maybe that makes you a hypocrite, the same type of person your now ex-boyfriend is. But for tonight, you’re willing to give yourself over to this terrible man. You will wake up tomorrow and self-flagellate to make up for it. You’ll then carry on, trying to do good in the world.

He tilts his head. “If you destroy them, people like them will just fill the crater left behind, if you don’t dismantle the system that allows them to flourish.”

You’re in such danger. With everything this gorgeous, rich man says, he reveals himself to be thoughtful, clever. You don’t want him to be thoughtful and clever. It would be enough if he were simply kind to get what he wants, as he was when describing you, and pretty, so that it feels good to kiss him. You don’t need him to have depth for tonight.

“Why wait to destroy them until the system comes crashing down? Why not actively want the destruction of both?” you ask, only half-joking. You don’t want to talk about this with him. You want him to do as he promised and take you somewhere quiet, warm. But you don’t want to watch television anymore. You want to kiss him instead.

“Then you shall have both,” he says, strangely, before squeezing the hand still holding yours and leading you from the bar.

You follow, focusing on his broad back narrowing to his strong waist, his incredibly thick ass underneath his fancy trousers. Your mouth is watering again. You want to unbuckle the clasp at the back of his vest. You want to slip your fingers under the waistband of his pants and squeeze.

It should be illegal for one man to be rich, powerful, smart, thoughtful, and drop-dead gorgeous.

Your hand is warm in his, as he leads you past the bank of elevators that you stepped out of on your way to the bar, instead going down a short hallway that ends in a discrete black door. He leans forward, lets the retina scanner do its thing, and the door clicks open. You find yourself in what looks like a service passage. Bare, dark walls, the same quiet carpet as the rest of the hotel’s hallways. He leads you further in, until you’re at another door, another retina scan. This door opens into the kitchen of what can only be the hotel’s penthouse. Soaring windows offer a view of the city’s nocturnal skyline below. You have an impression of dark, heavy furniture, sophisticated ultramodern technology and design mixed with more baroque, vintage accents. Potted plants offer a little verdant pop of green in the very rich, urban atmosphere of the space. A big, open floor plan with a full kitchen, a sunken den area with a huge screen over a glassed-in fireplace, pretty stained glass chandeliers and lamps. Hallways leading from the den further into the penthouse must go to the bedroom, the bathroom.

“No wonder you were so willing to fulfill my desire. A short trip down the hall, and here we are,” you laugh a little, half teasing, half serious, after Sylus patiently waits for you to finish gawking at the spacious, expensive room.

He gives you that mysterious little half smile. “I told you that you could be greedy.” He leads you to the large marble-topped kitchen island, slides his hands around your waist and lifts. He sets you on the counter and nudges your legs open with a big hand, fits himself between them. He takes your hands in his and just holds them, thumbs stroking over your skin. “If you had asked to go to a three-star Michelin restaurant, I would have cleared the place and taken you.” He leans forward, kisses you lightly on the lips, pulls back. “If you had asked to go deep sea fishing on one of my yachts, I would have asked what type of fish you were interested in catching.” His eyes flick to yours, then back to your mouth. “If you had wanted to go shopping, I would have—”

You lift your hands and his, pressing them to his lips. “Okay, okay. I get the idea, Sylus. Thank you. Although I don’t understand why you’re doing anything for me at all.”

He turns your joined hands and rubs his cheek against the back of one of yours. “Is it really so incomprehensible that a man would see someone stunning across the room and want to get to know her better?”

“You offering me your black card and to close out a Michelin star restaurant seems a little extreme for just wanting to get to know me better,” you retort, not even touching the fact that he just called you stunning. There were plenty of beautiful people in that room. “Is that really all there is? If you thought I was pretty, you could have just offered to buy me a drink like a normal person.”

“I didn’t think you were pretty,” he says, and your heart sinks a little. He just called you stunning, but maybe he was just…going through the script. The script he doesn’t even need with you, since you’re here, in his nice hotel room, with him between your legs already. But he continues. “I thought you were magnificent. And why would I offer to buy you a drink like we’re two normal people, when we're kindred spirits, and you deserve so much more?”

Okay, so that’s intense. Maybe he’s a little psycho—one of those yandere guys that sees a person and decides, based on an accidental look, that she is their ideal, their possession, their obsession. Guys who place a random person on a pedestal before locking them in their basement. You tilt your head. “How would you even know?” you ask. You don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re thankful for his strange kindness tonight, the feeling of being the sole focus of his attention, the reminder that you deserve better out of a partner than what you’ve settled for, for years. But you can’t understand why he would have chosen you, out of everyone there tonight, out of what is surely a multitude of options for him. Now you’re worried, possibly a little too late, that he’s a little nuts.

He sets your joined hands back in your lap and gently withdraws his. “How much champagne have you had?” he asks as he turns to the refrigerator and pulls out two glass bottles of fancy looking water.

He twists the cap off of one and holds it to your lips. “Drink.”

You obey him without thought, watching him watch your drink, his eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, to your throat swallowing the chilled, refreshing water.

You lean back when you’ve had your fill. “I only managed one glass of champagne,” you say. “And you?”

“I haven’t had anything to drink at all,” he answers, lifting the half-empty bottle to his own lips and taking a few long pulls, never taking his eyes off of you. You return his gaze, enjoying the strong line of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple.

After he empties the bottle, he sets it on the counter next to your thigh. “Are you hungry?”

You know that he hasn’t answered your question yet. That he may never answer. Despite all of the possible red flags he’s throwing up, you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. Perhaps you’re just repeating old patterns, allowing a handsome man to lull you into settling into another toxic relationship. But as of tonight, you’re done with all that. After tonight, you’ll never see this man again, whether he turns out to be a good man or not. “I don’t know.”

And you really don’t know. You think you’re in shock. You just broke up with your boyfriend in public after kissing a man you just met, a man you’re now alone with in the penthouse of the hotel he owns. Are you hungry? What the hell are you going to do after tonight? Who can you stay with? How are you going to arrange to get your things from your now ex boyfriend, your now former apartment?

Sylus, inexplicably—considering your boyfriend never managed this feat after years of being together—must see your anxiety spiral, because he lifts you again, sets you on your feet. He leads you past the den, down one of the hallways, until he opens a door into a bedroom. Again, you just have impressions because you are so focused on the man leading you by the hand. Gigantic bed, dark, cloud-soft puffy blankets and pillows, a little sitting area, the city’s skyline glittering below the wall of windows. A door to the right leads to an ensuite bathroom—marble floors and counters, huge tub, walk-in shower.

Sylus leads you to the bed, urges you to sit on it. You sink into the covers, legs dangling off the end. He kneels before you without a word and begins to remove your uncomfortable, modest, discreetly formal shoes that you wore for this occasion, and only wear when you’re forced to attend your boyfriend’s—your ex-boyfriend work functions like the one tonight. Nothing like what you’d wear for yourself, if you were to go out on the town, nor what you wear when you simply want to be comfortable.

You just stare at the top of Sylus’s head, shoving thoughts of your ex out of your mind. His hair is so fluffy, you can’t resist reaching forward and gently running your fingers through its silver strands.

He neatly sets your shoes aside and then grows still, remaining on his knees at your feet. He leans forward and rests his head in your lap, cheek against your thigh. He encourages you to keep petting him by lifting his hand and nudging yours to keep moving.

You stroke his hair quietly for a while, chalking up your inability to question anything, to think too hard about how you found yourself here, the enjoyment you feel running your hands through his soft hair, to the shock of tonight’s unexpected turn of events, the recklessness and despair that led you to being alone in this stranger’s penthouse bedroom.

However, after a while, you force yourself to speak. “What are we doing, Sylus?

He lifts his head and meets your gaze, the electric zing of his otherworldly eyes coursing through you. He places one big palm on each of your thighs.

“You said you wanted to go somewhere quiet, and warm, to watch something silly on television. The remote is in one of the nightstands. The screen can be lowered from the ceiling with the remote. I’ll make you something to eat while you find something you want to watch. Deal?”

“You can cook?” you ask, because it strikes you as odd that a man with everything at his fingertips would spend any amount of time in the kitchen.

“I can watch online tutorials,” he says, shrugging. “It’s not hard to follow directions.”

“What if I don’t want you to go?” you ask. You should be afraid of how reluctant you already are to be separated from him, all while not knowing if he’s a little unhinged, all while knowing this is temporary.

His eyes widen a little, as if surprised at your question that reveals how much you don’t want him to leave. “I can order something from the hotel kitchen. Would you prefer that?” He sounds pleased.

You nod, not trusting your voice. You’ve only just met him, and yet his presence is so comforting, despite the strange intensity of his answers to your questions, of his eyes following your every move.

He removes his own shoes, lines them up next to yours.

“Come,” he says, nudging you to climb further up on the bed, to lean against and rest your head on the soft padded headboard. He opens one of the nightstands, hands you the remote control to the television, and then calls the kitchen on his mobile phone, ordering what sounds like an entire banquet’s worth of food in a low voice.

When he’s done, he joins you in leaning against the headboard. You haven’t turned on the television yet.

“Do you think you ordered enough food?” you ask.

His eyes soften in a not-quite smile as he turns his head and meets your teasing gaze. “Do you think I ordered enough food?” he counters.

“If I were an army, you still would have ordered too much,” you say, smiling now.

He reaches over, runs his fingers up your arm, slides his arm over your shoulders and pulls you close to his side. “With the way you’ve already conquered me, an army isn’t such a far-fetched comparison for you.”

You groan. “Who knew such a good-looking guy would resort to such cheesy lines?”

He laughs softly. “You think I’m good looking?”

You look up at him from your cozy position of being cocooned in him again, your face so close to his that you can see the dark striations in his ruby irises. “You know you’re good looking,” you whisper.

He lifts his other hand to poke you gently in the forehead. “I don’t care if I’m good looking to anyone else. But I like knowing I’m good looking to you.”

You have no idea why he’s trying so hard to make you sound special to him. You’re already here. You already dumped your boyfriend as a result of less than ten minutes of talking to him.

“Then yes, I think you’re good looking.” You stare into his eyes, bathe in his warmth. The scent you were salivating over in the bar is simply Sylus’s scent. Not cologne, or laundry detergent. Just his skin. Something clean and primal. You want to lick him.

He returns your stare. “Why haven’t you turned on the television?”

You swallow, increasingly aware of being in his arms, on this big bed, alone with him, in a warm, quiet place. His scent, the beauty of his face. The way he touches you so gently. The way he knelt at your feet, like a large, powerful beast quietly asking for the affection of your hands in his fur.

“What if I changed my mind?” you ask him, biting your lip.

He lifts his hand, pulls your lip from your teeth with his thumb. Presses against your lip, gently, with its calloused pad.

“You can always change your mind, kitten,” he murmurs. “But what do you want to do instead of watching television?”

“I think you know,” you say, letting your tongue brush against his thumb.

“Do I? Why don’t you tell me?” He’s teasing you. Daring you to say what you want out loud.

“I want you to kiss me again,” you admit. He looks pleased with your honesty.

“And if I want to do more than kiss you?” he asks, sliding his thumb into your mouth. You suck on it, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Please,” you say. What else is there to say?

“Tell me what you like,” he says, pressing his thumb deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, before withdrawing it so that you can answer him. Your mouth feels empty without him in it.

“What I like?” you ask, buying time. What do you like? Feeling loved. Being praised. Reassurance that you’re fine, just the way you are. But you know that’s not what he’s asking. What you like in bed will likely sound very boring to someone like him, with the world at his feet, money to buy all the pleasures he could dream of.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says. “If you could have me do anything for you right now, without restrictions, what would you want?”

It’s like the question he posed in the bar. If you could be anywhere else, doing anything else, what would you choose?

What does it matter if he knows that you’re boring? If you want someone to say something kind to you. That you want to be touched in a way that your boyfriend hasn’t touched you in a long time, if ever.

You take his big hand, place his palm on your cheek, nuzzle it. “I want you to say nice things to me, but only if they’re true. I want you to take the lead and make me feel good, and I want you to feel good too. I don’t want you to hurt me.” You tell him your most basic desires, as boring as they may be. If he laughs at you, if he pities you for your unsophisticated wants, then you can always get up and walk away. You walked away once tonight. You can do it again, and again. If nothing else, meeting Sylus has given you back the freedom that somewhere along the way you forgot you even had.

He leans toward you, running his nose alongside yours, breathing deeply. He kisses your cheek that isn’t covered by his palm, a soft brush of his lips. He kisses the side of your mouth, right at the corner. He turns your face towards his own, and he kisses you softly on the lips again. Leisurely, again and again. He smells so good. “I knew we were kindred spirits, because I watched you in the bar, listening to those assholes, and you were terrible at hiding your feelings. Your disgust, frustration, boredom. Clear, for anyone who cared to look. The same feelings I was experiencing in that room full of unrepentant, self-righteous bastards,” he says softly against your lips. “When you called me a douchebag, and tried to dismiss me with such arrogant disdain.” He kisses you again, hard, as if excited by the thought. “It was like looking at the truest version of you—principled, an empress dismissing a worm. I could tell that you were wasted on that cretin you dumped tonight. You’ve been wasted on everyone in your life who has failed to recognize your value. I was willing to offer you so much instead of just a simple drink, because I’ve been looking for an empress for my empire and not just another beautiful face.”

You can’t help it. You laugh. “I’m nobody’s empress.” You shake your head a little, bathing in his pretty words. You realize that he’s doing what you asked—saying nice things to you. In this moment, it doesn’t even matter if they’re true or not. The fact that he listened to what you wanted and is trying to give it to you, is enough. Tonight, you can pretend, for a little while, that his nice words are true. “I’m off-putting, too blunt. People don’t know what to do with me. I’d never be able to manage the diplomacy required for running an empire, especially one based on snake-charming like yours.”

“I don’t want you to run my empire. Leave the work and the worry to me. I just want your unvarnished company.” He kisses you again, slides his palm from your cheek to your hair, takes a fistfull of it, gently tugs your head back so your throat is exposed to him. “Be your off-putting, terribly honest self with me, and you will have given me everything I could want.”

You can’t help the little noise that comes out of your throat. He kisses your lips again, licking into your mouth. With your hair firmly in his grip, he tilts your head as he wishes, his tongue big, pressing deeper, slick against your own. He kisses you like this for what could be hours. Your body reacts, you can feel your heartbeat between your legs, the wetness pooling in your underwear.

He does what you asked of him. He takes the lead, slowly undressing you, still kissing you, his long, clever fingers working your top off your shoulders, freeing your breasts from your bra. He tosses them over the edge of the bed. You grow impatient, begin unbuttoning his vest, slide it off his shoulders. Repeat with his dress shirt. Once you are both bare from the waist up, he presses his chest against yours, rolling you underneath him, sinking into the covers on top of you. He palms the back of your neck, and you arch your back, pressing your breasts harder against his chest. The soft silver hair on his chest feels so good against your sensitive nipples.

He grunts, licking out of your mouth, kissing your cheek, your chin. You turn your head, sliding your hands into his hair, dragging your fingertips across his scalp. He shivers. You lick the shell of his ear and he grunts softly again. You drag your teeth along his earlobe, bite down gently on the soft flesh. He whimpers a little. You continue lapping at his ear for a few minutes, until the demands of your body let you know that this is no longer enough. You want more of him. You turn your head again, look back into his now flushed face, watch as he pants through his slightly open mouth.

“And you looked offended when I called you kitten the first time.” His smug smirk is undermined by his obvious excitement. “But here you are, lapping at my ear with your tongue.”

“And yet you’re the one mewling like a kitten as I lap your ear with my tongue,” you counter, reaching up and gently pinching his earlobe, still wet with your saliva.

His smirk takes on a feral edge. “Touché. But now it’s my turn to make you mewl. May I continue?”

You nod, and he wastes no more time, dragging open-mouthed kisses down your neck, between your breasts. He licks, nips, little bright flares of pain, sharp and quick, that you hope will leave marks for you to carry into the next few weeks. He drags the rest of your clothing off, your underwear, with his long, thick fingers, throws them over his shoulder. He hovers on all fours over you, trousers still on, his large dick clearly visible underneath.

“What would you like now? Do you want me to eat your pussy?” he asks, pearl-sheened hair falling over his forehead, messy from your hands in it.

You tense up a little. Your boyfriend hasn’t given you oral since the early days of your relationship. It always felt obligatory, perfunctory foreplay to ensure that you were wet enough for what he was really interested in. The idea of Sylus between your legs like that, his face so far away, not being able to tell if he’s actually enjoying it or just following a script, fills you with anxiety.

You shake your head no.

“No, you don’t want it, or no, you don’t think I want it?” he asks, reaching for the waistband of his trousers, unzipping his fly, all while not taking his eyes off of yours.

“Both,” you say, honestly. “I don’t want you so far away.”

He hums thoughtfully as he efficiently removes his pants, his black boxer briefs, and tosses them aside. He grunts softly as his dick, his heavy balls are freed from his clothing. They’re big, pretty, just like the rest of him. “Okay. We do what you want, sweetheart. If you change your mind, tell me.” He lifts his index and middle finger to his mouth, sucks on them slowly, working them in and out of his mouth while letting his gaze drift from your face, down to your breasts, lower, and then up again. When he removes them from his mouth, they’re soaked with his saliva. “I would love to lick you until you come on my face, but I can be patient till you're ready.” The image of you riding his face at his request sends another jolt of desire through you, layers into the want you already feel for him, throbbing between your legs. But before you can respond, he lowers himself on one elbow, settling a little bit on his side, and lets the wet fingers of his other hand dip between your legs. He slips them easily inside you. He watches your face as he leisurely pumps in and out of you, as his thumb presses down on your clit, as you start to move your body restlessly, because you want more than his fingers. There are only the sounds of your breaths mingled with his, the wet slide of his fingers inside you. You watch, mesmerized by the long, pale line of his strong forearm flexing in the light from the city spilling through the windows, his big hand twisting, thrusting, as he ensures that you’re wet enough, soft enough to take more of him.

“May I continue?” he asks, leaning down, kissing your lips, again just soft presses of his mouth against yours, little flicks of his tongue in between.

“Yes,” you breathe. He lifts his hand from between your legs and then palms his cock with it, slicking it with the combination of your own wetness and his saliva. He leans over you, nudges you between your knees with his wet hand, and you widen them for him. He kneels between your now open legs and lowers his hips until he’s nudging you, pressing in, the slide slick, slow. He watches your face for any signs of discomfort, but even though he’s big, you just feel full. Full in the way his voice fills your chest. Full in the way his sweet nothings fill your heart, despite knowing that they’re just empty, pretty words. He bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, and leans down. He kisses you again, this time opening his mouth wide, fucking into yours with his tongue in the same way that he begins to fuck into your body with his cock. Slow, deep, firm strokes. There is only the sound of his body moving in yours, his panting breath, the soft noises in your throat that you can’t stop with each of his thrusts. The only scents—clean sheets, clean sweat, the musk of his precum and your slick combined.

He feels so good. He watches your face, and when you do truly start to whimper as he promised, he adjusts the angle of his hips, the angle of his dick inside you, and you begin to openly moan, the pleasure filling you. You lift your arms, run your hands down his broad back, his muscles undulating under your fingers, palms, as he rocks both of your bodies.

“I love your hands on me,” he says, not stopping the sinuous roll of his hips. “One of the first things I noticed about you was your beautiful hands, holding the champagne flute.”

“They’re rough from lifting weights. I use them too much when I’m telling a story.”

Sylus leans down, kisses you hard, just shy of punishing.“I don’t want to hear your ex’s bullshit from your mouth while I’m inside you,” he commands. “You deserve more than what you’ve been allowing yourself.”

You’re shocked at the sincerity, the earnestness in his eyes. His defense of you against the voice in your head, your boyfriend’s occasionally demeaning voice, makes you want to cry.

“Allow me to give you what you deserve,” he orders, but it sounds like a plea in his strained murmur.

You know that he’s only doing as you asked. That he’s saying nice things to you, because you said that’s what you wanted of him tonight. Even though you asked for him to mean them, it’s okay that he doesn’t. You’re just so grateful for the way he’s asking you at every step what you want, asking if he can continue, telling you what you think you’ve needed to hear for a long, long time now—so grateful that you can’t help but play along, to indulge in the fantasy that this powerful, gorgeous man really does think you’re beautiful and deserving of a feast when you’ve been living a life of famine for so long.

“Okay, Sylus,” you say, and when you say his name, you feel him jerk inside you, and he begins to pump harder, faster. His body pressed against yours, the angle of his hips hitting you just right—you begin to feel close to coming. He seals your fate when he leans down and bites your shoulder, hard, a low pitched whine coming from his throat as he comes, as his hips stutter, as you come yourself, so turned on by the peak of his pleasure derived from your body that his pleasure cascades into and amplifies your own.

Slowly, the movement of his big hips slows and he melts into you, pressing you into the mattress, licking where he bit you. He makes no move to pull out of you—he simply continues to gently roll his hips, the wet sound loud in your ears, the warmth of his cum squelching between your bodies, pooling in the sheets underneath you.

He lifts his head, smiles at you. Nudges his nose against yours. “Was that okay?”

You sigh, body pleasantly heavy yet weightless. He feels so good blanketing you, still filling you. “It was passable,” you tease, smiling at him lazily.

He laughs low, smug, clearly not believing your obvious lie. “Room for improvement? Challenge accepted,” he murmurs, kissing you again, and you can feel his smile against your mouth.

He thrusts into you again, once, hard. You gasp. “Already ready to go again?” you ask in wonder.

“I should be thanking your ex for the low bar, but I’m pissed that you sound so surprised. What kind of absolute wretch wouldn’t want to worship you over and over again, all night, every night?” he demands.

You laugh. “No need to exaggerate.” You wrap your arms around his neck, run your hands up into his hair. “You’ve already done more than enough to make me feel good for a long time after tonight.”

“Oh, I’m not even close to being done,” he says, pumping into you again. “The question is, do you want me to fuck you like this again, or do you want to ride me?” he looks thoughtful for a moment, and then asks eagerly, “Are you ready to sit on my face yet?”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. “You’d let me sit on your face while I’m still dripping with your cum?” You think of your own boyfriend, how he always seemed slightly disgusted by the wetness from your body on his face anytime he did bother to give you oral.

“Stop thinking about him,” he orders. “Think about me. Unlike weaker men, I don't have a problem with eating you out when you’re filled with the combination of me and you. What could be more delicious?”

You find your body rousing again at the obvious sincerity of his words, his irritation that this is even a question.

“I’ll lick you clean till you’re screaming, and then make a mess in you again,” he promises, rolling both of your bodies so that he’s on his back, pulling out of you, already lifting you by the hips, encouraging you to drip your way up his chest, settle over his mouth. He looks up at you, a smile crinkling the corners of his gorgeous, bright eyes.

You learn that night that if nothing else, Sylus Qin is a man of his word. He worships you, over and over again. While you're regaining your breath after one round, he brings food from the banquet he ordered and feeds you with his hands. He then fucks you again, and again, until you’re both too tired to move. After, he gently wipes the combination of you and him from your body, he brings a bottle of water to your lips and tells you to drink, he buries his head in your neck and you fall asleep, held tightly in his arms.

In the morning, you wake slowly, feeling pleasantly exhausted, your muscles tired and aching from last night’s efforts. Where Sylus bit you and sucked bruises into your skin, pain throbs dully, but you enjoy the reminder that you’ll have something of his on you for the next few days, maybe weeks. You turn your head, take in his lovely face, relaxed in sleep, the dark sweep of his eyelashes across his pale cheeks. He looks younger while asleep, without the frown line revealing his maturity as it does while he’s awake.

He made you feel so loved last night. He reminded you of the possibility of what love can be. That you don’t have to settle for anything less than how he treated you for one special moment in time. You’d rather be alone, than be with someone who doesn’t make you feel how Sylus Qin made you feel for one night. You’re so grateful to this beautiful man for reminding you that you don’t have to settle. For being the impetus in making the decision to never settle again.

You lean down and press a kiss, soft as a feather, to his temple. He doesn’t stir.

You don’t want to be here when he wakes up. You don’t want to watch as the illusion fades, now that he’s conquered the challenge your initial resistance to his charms presented. You don’t want the polite distance, the subtle urging to get you out of his bed and out of his life again. You’d rather carry his strange, unexpected kindness with you as an unspoiled memory, a ruler with which to measure all future potential lovers.

You quietly slip out of bed, collect your clothing and shoes from last night. You dress in the hallway, slip into your shoes. You walk to the private elevator that opens directly into a little foyer off the kitchen that you hadn’t noticed last night. You feel at peace on the long ride down to the ground floor, as you step into the cold, white winter morning.

You are certain now. You’ll never forget Sylus’s eyes, until the day you die.

Sylus wakes up all at once, jerked awake by a feeling of wrongness. He pats the bed next to him, finds only cold sheets, where he should be feeling your warm, soft skin. He cracks an eye open and scowls when he confirms what his hands have already informed him.

You’re gone. You didn’t believe him, when he said he wanted to give you everything, not just last night, but for all the rest of your nights. He huffs a little. Of course you didn’t. The finest things in life are never easy to obtain, let alone keep. Your fuck-up of an ex didn’t understand that until it was too late.

Sylus would rather have woken up to your warm body, to have pressed himself back into your wet, soft spaces, made love to you over and over again until you passed out again.

But this is okay too. He has finally found you. In one night, he got rid of your poor excuse for a boyfriend, tasted the pleasure of your mind and your body, and placed a tracking app in your phone.

You may think that last night was all there is. You couldn’t be more mistaken. Sylus always did enjoy a good hunt.

Over the weeks that follow, you hear news that your ex-boyfriend’s law firm has come under intense fire for financial mismanagement of client funds. That some of the partners will be going to trial for tax fraud and other white collar crimes. Some have been disbarred and forbidden from practicing law for the foreseeable future. In the end, the firm can’t survive the reputational and financial blows, and it goes under.

You don’t even have to go to your ex’s place to pick up your belongings. Before you muster the energy to call him, to arrange for a time for you to come get them, they are inexplicably delivered to your temporary place by two intensely handsome delivery men, obviously twins, although one has an intensely scarred face. They wear matching crow tattoos that peek out from under their tight black t-shirts, winding around their big biceps and the back of their necks. When you ask if it was your ex who hired them, they laugh, make cryptic comments about your ex not having the financial resources to do much at all these days, and then leave, their chatter regarding a bet about how long it will take their boss to confess to his crush echoing down the hallway of your friend’s apartment building.

More weeks pass and you hear rumors of a new resistance movement called Onychinus by its proponents and critics alike. They sabotage banking networks, hack credit card companies, expose predatory insurance practices. They publish the banking information of prominent politicians, following the money to highlight the corruption from lobbying efforts by the worst industries in the country, in the world.

Onychinus’s disruption of the system intensifies, until one day, the first insurance CEO is shot in broad daylight. And then it’s like the killer, or killers, go down the list, and executives of all sorts of multinational companies are ending up dead.

All the while, despite your firm belief that you’d never see him again, you start bumping into Sylus Qin at the strangest, most random places. The grocery store. Going for a jog in the park. Out at the club, dancing with friends. It’s almost as if he knows where you’ll be, and then arranges to bump into you.

The world is changing around you. A quiet revolution occurs, where ordinary people demand better of their leaders, of the businesses they support. You think about what you asked him the night you met him, Why wait to destroy them until the system comes crashing down? —and his strange response: Then you shall have both.

The next time you ‘happen’ to run into him, you’re alone, going for a night walk along the bank of the river winding through your city. The city lights glitter in the water, thousands of stars blinking in the velvet dark.

He’s wearing a thick winter coat, but his neck is bare. You want to thread your own scarf around his throat, protect him against the biting, late winter wind.

“Funny seeing you here,” you say, smiling up at him.

“Very funny,” he agrees serenely. “Have you figured it out yet?” he asks, wine-dark eyes fixed on your face.

You furrow your brow, pretend to think. “You weren’t lucky, were you?” you ask.

He smiles. “No. My kitten wasn’t there when I woke up. I knew then that it would take more than just my words to convince her that I fully intended to replace her boyfriend after she finally had the good sense to dump him.”

You still don’t understand why this man first approached you. Why he treated you with such sincere, loving passion during the only night you spent with him. But you remember your words to him, and his answer implying that he would give you what you wanted. You’ve watched the world change faster than you could have imagined on the night you found yourself abandoned, once again, in the shark tank of your ex’s colleagues and employers.

“It’s you,” you say, stepping forward, taking the lapels of his coat in your hands.

“What’s me, kitten?” he asks, sly, unbuttoning his coat, opening it for you.

“The demise of my ex’s law firm. Onychinus. The new legislation, the quiet revolution.” You accept his invitation, let him pull you into his chest, let him wrap his coat around you.

“No, beloved, it’s you,” he says on a contented sigh. “I told you, I don’t need you to help run my empire. You are simply the reason for its existence.”

“Why?” you ask, resting your head against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat.

“Would you believe me if I said that I met you in another life, and you gave me my name, taught me how to love, and how to be loved in return?”

You shake your head. “Of course not. This is the real world. This life is the only one we’ve got. That’s why it’s so important that we do it right, and don’t be assholes, and try not to leave the world worse than we found it.”

“An idealist,” he says in mock disgust. “I guess you’ll want to teach me about how to be a better person,” he says glumly. “But I’m not selling my yachts. I’ll buy you as many canoes as you want, though.”

You snort, remembering the night you met him, his offers to take you on a midnight yacht cruise, the use of his black card.

“What’s the real reason, Sylus?” you ask, hugging him tightly, savoring the warmth of his big body against the cold breeze off the water.

He rests his cheek on the top of your head. “Kitten wants a bedtime story?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” you whisper.

“It’ll cost you. Sure you want to hear it?”

You nod, and Sylus begins to speak.

“It all began the night I was checking in with the hotel’s security team, and saw the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in an elevator on one of the security feeds. She was telling a story, gesturing with her hands, her face so lively, eyes so bright. I had to listen in. I had to hear what she was saying. She was funny, sharp-tongued. Her voice was beautiful. Compelling. She was clearly intelligent, and deeply angry at the world.” As Sylus speaks, snow begins to fall, big fat flakes swirling in the night. “I knew, immediately, that we were kindred spirits.” His arms tighten around you, almost taking your breath away. “And then I heard the tepid response of her date. His subtly demeaning remarks. As if he needed to put her down to make himself feel better, and to keep her from realizing how much better she could do than him.” He shrugs. “I knew that he didn’t deserve her, and that I had to have her. That I needed to pull out all the stops in order to make her mine. But just my luck, she didn’t believe me when I told her that.”

You turn your head, rest your chin on his chest as you look up into his red, red eyes. “So quick? Just that, and it was enough for you to decide you wanted to keep me?” It’s so hard to believe. How could he tell so much about you, from just a short, accidental encounter?

“I have an appraiser’s eye, darling. I can recognize the priceless, the one-of-a-kind, when I see it.” His self-satisfaction is palpable. Who are you to argue with him? If he thinks you’re worth it, then you will choose to believe him. He reminded you that you deserve it, the night you met, after all.

“Do you still want the job? Boyfriend replacement?”

“No,” he says, but before your heart can sink, he continues. “The cost of this bedtime story is high, I’m afraid. I’m too greedy to settle for boyfriend. I like the sound of husband. Soulmate.”

He leans down, stops a breath away from your lips. Relief floods through you. You smile at him, echo his words. “Then you shall have both.”

Then you kiss him.

You kiss him, and you spend the rest of your life kissing him. You never do forget his eyes, through all the long years, as the world continues to change around you, as Sylus spends every day trying to give you what he insists that you deserve, and you try to do the same for him, until the day you die.

End note: I'm a lying liar and said I was taking a break, but apparently Sylus won't leave me alone.

#he's so good at making us feel loved #frothing at the mouth #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #fic rec

362 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 9 days ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖’𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑.

⟢ sylus x fem!reader.

𝐀𝐁𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 night of your engagement ceremony, you suddenly find yourself as the infamous captain sylus’s bargaining chip toward getting back some valued possession of his from your own father. it doesn’t help he’s one maddeningly attractive pirate king, and you’re more than eager to escape from an unwanted marriage. you can only make the most of things on this boat, surrounded by pirates, in the middle of the ocean, and it doesn’t prove too hard with him around.

⟢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 ⨾ slow burn, fluff, humour, rom-com, fantasy + pirate au, 16+.

⟢ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⨾ 23.7k.

⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⨾ it's here!!! the full pirate sylus fic has arrived!! before we start, though, just a few things: one (1) brief scene of sexual harassment (not by sylus) but sylus is there so you are fine, a lot of pirate slang like wow, (attempts at) humour, i really tried to make this funny because this is to recover from the agony sylus's myth was, reader is kind of an idiot (for sylus) but who isn't, i can't believe i kept this under 30k words & got it out in under a week. anyways, enough yapping, enjoy!!

ao3 ⟢ original drabble here.

You’re not quite sure how you got here.

The bag over your head is moth-eaten, so only the odd sliver of light makes its way through the rough cloth, and it hardly helps you get any more of a grip on your bearings than you already have. Which is very little. And it doesn’t take rocket science to work out what this is.

I am being abducted. Your hands are tied, the person behind you grips the rope binding your wrists as they nudge you forward, and you’re cold. The breeze bites. It’s a bit stifling under this bag, but, mercifully, it doesn’t smell bad. Just a bit dusty. It’s getting harder not to sneeze.

You flinch a little when someone speaks. “Sure this is the one?”

“Yeah,” the person behind you affirms. They sound pretty cheery for a henchman currently kidnapping the innocent daughter of a not-so-innocent nobleman. Perhaps the guy enjoys this kind of thing. “Bit strange, though. She’s not kicking up a fuss.”

You can’t hold it back anymore. Your nose twitches, you gasp in a deep breath, and you sneeze. Loudly.

It’s silent. You’re no longer being nudged forward to keep walking. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you feel terribly embarrassed. It doesn’t help that your sneeze echoes.

“Sorry,” you apologise, politely.

No one says another word for a few more awkward beats, before you’re being prodded forward again. The dude behind you goes, “See? She’s awfully docile. I don’t get it.”

“Oh, well, makes things easier for everyone, I guess,” his companion replies. You feel like asking them to stop so you can take off these damn heels, but you doubt they’d let you. You kind of wish these two abducted you when you were in a less dolled-up state. They nabbed you just as you were stepping out of the main hall for some fresh air, away from all those gossiping nobles, a refilled flute of champagne in hand—which was subsequently knocked out of your hand upon the bag being shoved over your head. Pretty timely, you idly think. You were sick of that ball. Especially considering what it was celebrating. You’re still smarting over your lost glass of champagne, however.

“The Captain will be pleased if she continues to behave.” You pick up on the subtle warning. “Won’t have to turn her into fish food. Way less mess to clean up.”

Why, thank you, good sir. At least you know now that they don’t really want to kill you, so you suppose your life isn’t in danger at present. Or, yet.

Remaining silent and cooperative and calm isn’t something you chose to do. In any other scenario, you’d probably be kicking and screaming to be let free—and then they’d really have a reason to turn you into fish food—but, right now, you can’t really be bothered trying to run. All the self-defence you know how to do is poking an eye out and sending a heeled foot up into a man’s family jewels, and you doubt it’d work here, now. As far as you can tell, there’s two of them. The other would be on you in a blink, and your hands are also tied. So, all you can really do now is just go with it.

You gulp down the lump in your throat and say, “Um, may I ask where we’re going, gentlemen?”

“Wow, she is terribly calm,” the other guy remarks. “Calm enough to be polite, even!”

The guy behind you shifts and nudges you to turn. That’s when you realise, with an involuntary shiver from the cold, that you’re at the port right now. It’s the night chill of the sea breeze. And there’s a strong odor of fish. Yeah. Had an idea it was pirates.

That’s great. That’s wonderful. Just peachy. Fear is starting to settle in now. You, a woman, defenceless and clad in a stuffy ball gown, about to be trapped alone and helpless on a boat at sea, with only men around for company? Pirates, no less? You press your lips together and try not to think about an incident that spread like wildfire of some poor girl being assaulted and drowned at this very port the year prior. Those responsible were pirates. Are these guys the same crowd?

It’s a little harder to breathe and remain rational. You need to sneeze again. A drop of sweat, despite the cold, trickles down the back of your neck. Oh, gods. What do I do?

“Well, milady, you are presently being escorted by two very fine fellows for the voyage of your lifetime!” The man behind you still sounds pretty merry. “But we can’t tell you what boat, though, no! It’s a surprise.”

“Luke, stop being an idiot,” the other sighs. “It’s not a surprise. Don’t listen to him, miss. My brother’s kinda stupid.”

“I am not!” his brother, Luke, it would seem, exclaims in protest. “What’s wrong with making this a little more exciting for the young lady?” “I wouldn’t exactly call this exciting,” you quip from beneath the bag, more to yourself than anyone else, and you wince at the tell-tale signs of a blister forming on your heel. The Luke fellow huffs. “This is very exciting, actually. Captain hasn’t let us do anything so thrilling in so long!”

“That’s because you accidentally set a match to his warehouse of gunpowder back at the archipelago.”

“How many times do I have to explain myself? I thought it was that Corsair band’s stock!”

“At least it was a cool explosion.”

“Yeah. Looked like fireworks.”

“Excuse me, I still don’t know where we’re going,” you hesitantly interrupt, giving an awkward laugh. “I’d, um, like to know the identity of my kidnapper, at least.”

“You’ll find out soon enough, milady,” Luke says mysteriously. “It’s a surpri—”

“Shut up, Luke. We are taking you to the Onychinus, my lady.”

If you could freeze in your tracks, you would. Your urge to sneeze has now been replaced with the urge to scream. “Uh…Onychinus…?”

“The very one, milady.” Luke sounds subdued, but no less humorous. “Cool, right? The greatest privateers of the Seven Seas, abducting you! Huge honour!”

Yeah, massive. Two more droplets of sweat trail down your back. Just my luck. You must’ve deeply offended your ancestors at some point, to the point where they have been out for your blood since day one. Day one being the day you were betrothed to that grubby old duke some provinces over last year, but you digress.

Since ten minutes ago, you had much preferred this little debacle over the prospect of your impending doom (marriage) to some fat noble you met only three hours ago. And since two minutes ago, you have greatly entertained the thought of being diced up into neat little fish food cubes for said fish and dumped into an underwater sea trench somewhere, miles away. At least, then, you wouldn’t have to deal with either dreaded fates before you right now.

“Don’t scare her, Luke. Everyone knows that being abducted by Onychinus isn’t exactly exciting news.”

Thank you. It seems Luke’s brother is the only one with a brain out of the two. But, despite his apparently understanding nature, you still feel awfully apprehensive. What on earth could the Captain of the Onychinus Fleet have to do with me?

Yes, you are a marquess’ daughter, and he isn’t the most agreeable fellow on earth—but you would never have expected him to have potentially incited the attention of the greatest, most notorious, most infamous and most violent armada of pirates in the world. Onychinus, at that. Which meant him, the nefarious Captain Sylus.

Great. Amazing. An impromptu vacation with a couple of bloodthirsty privateers who will probably slit my throat by sunrise is all I’ve ever wanted! Forget your ancestors, it’s probably the gods who have been after you now!

“Does, um, my father have…unresolved business with your Captain, perchance?”

“You will have to ask the Captain himself that question, I’m afraid, milady.” Well, that’s a fat load of help. You feel so assured. Just splendid. I know next to nothing about my father’s internal and industrial affairs! Due to this, the Captain would soon deem you ineffective toward his presumed objectives involving father dearest and, thus, a burden onboard. Then he’d probably make you walk the plank. It feels like you already are.

“Oh, well, alright.” Best remain calm, as you have been so far, for now. You’re not exactly thrilled by the idea of a watery grave, but you suppose your fate’s already sealed. You are helpless against its oncoming whims now.

You are most assuredly at the port, for the hem of your dress has grown damp from the puddles scattered about beneath your feet. It’s getting progressively uncomfortable to continue walking in these heels, too, and you can only hope you can sit down soon. Perhaps even request just one final flute of champagne before Captain Sylus feeds you to his pet sharks or something.

“Alrighty, milady, time to take this old bag off you now!” And with a tug, you can breathe again. You glance over and spot the other boy you didn’t catch the name of. Is that…a crow mask? You blink. Well, it’s fitting, you suppose. Onychinus’ logo is a raven. I guess rumours that the Captain has a pet crow, instead of a parrot, is true.

However, you have only about two-or-so seconds to enjoy the cool, fresh sea air filling your lungs and curiously study the kid before your frame is wracked with another sneeze. You shudder from the cold, and you can already feel a chill coming on. Good grief. Can things get any worse?

You look up and ahead after gathering yourself. You’re being elbowed forward again. But the moon and stars are blotted out by one thing: this utter monstrosity of a ship looming above you, casting a wide shadow across the entire concrete dock it is anchored before.

“Woah,” you breathe, and the kid behind you hums in pleased agreement. “I know, right? Absolutely colossal! Spectacular! Captain Sylus is so cool.”

“Uh-huh,” you absently concur. That is one mammoth of a ship.

The flagship, it would appear. You swallow. No wonder everyone’s always going on about how much of a force he and his crew are to be reckoned with. And it’s also no wonder the emperor’s men have, no matter how hard they’ve tried, never been able to tear the fleet of Onychinus apart. Not once has Captain Sylus been defeated.

He rules the seas, the people murmur about the streets. He is the uncrowned king of the briny deep.

If he hasn’t already, he will go down in history for centuries. Become a legendary figure: the privateer who commanded most maritime trade with an iron fist. Already, bards strum songs of a fearsome marauder sailing the blue horizon with a crow emblazoned upon a blood-red flag. A flag that flaps strongly in the wind, distinct and eye-catching from miles away, striking fear into the hearts of any lesser bands of buccaneers, and even the imperial navy itself.

If this was one of his methods of intimidation, then it was a damn good one. A ship of this size, painted black, the main sail a scarlet so deep, it’s like he splashed the canvass with blood? You gulped. I can only imagine what the man himself is like.

“This way, milady,” Luke guides, gesturing to the gangway of the boat. “Watch your step.”

You’ve heard rumours of his appearance, and it always varies, despite the handsome man the wanted posters, that are plastered everywhere, depict. They say those who cross paths with Captain Sylus are rarely seen again, and hardly anyone has lived to tell the tale of his ‘true’ features. Some profess he is a horror, with a bulbous nose, double chin and a tattered eye patch. He is fat and unpleasant, one who holds a sick love for the sight of spilled blood. And his trusty pet crow, Mephisto, sits contentedly upon his shoulder and pecks the eyes of its victims out for fun.

While others say he is a beauty, one with silver hair reminiscent of the moon’s glow upon the calm nighttime sea, and eyes red as garnets, piercing and cold. A terribly prosaic exaggeration of what the wanted poster, again, depicts, but who can stop the airheads giggling like a gaggle of turkeys during a tea party? Whispers of his alleged tall frame, broad shoulders, and sharp jaw are exchanged among the young debutantes thirsty for the thrill of a forbidden, passionate love affair—and who is better than the mysterious head of Onychinus himself, in all his over-romanticised, illusory charm?

Well, we’ll just have to wait and see which of the two is correct. Not that you really want to find out. What you’d really like to do is go home. Perhaps, if you ask him politely enough, he will let you.

What an idiot. You think a pirate’s going to let you go just because you ask him to? You pick your way up the gangway rather stiffly, feet sore from the heels, and you try to keep balanced. You would very much like to not take a tumble into the ice-cold water below, where your heavy dress would drag you down. You’re smarter than that!

Once the three of you are finally aboard the ship, the two crow-masked siblings begin to lead you along the floorboards and you ascend some steps to the upper deck, passing by the helm. At least, you thought it was the upper deck—they lead you up some more stairs, along another upper deck, some more stairs, then another flight, and then, finally, with your thighs burning and lungs screaming in the confines of your corset, you all stop outside a door.

A double door. It’s oak, the wood garnished to bring out the beauty of its patterned grain, and the knobs are pure gold. Engraved into the centre of each is the Onychinus crest: as expected, a crow.

This guy really likes crows, it would seem. Apparently, the people say “the crow is in flight!” whenever illicit trade has been established between another faction or something. “The crow has landed” states that he has docked at a port, and everyone outside of the crew must be on their guard. “The crow is rallying” means he, or another ship, is surrounding a target, and is preparing to attack. There are many more sayings you can’t quite remember at present, because you suddenly need to relieve yourself very badly.

“May I use the powder room?” you nervously hiss, hopping from foot to foot in urgency. “I need to go!”

“Oh, crap—” The duo look at each other, hesitate, and then Luke hastily unties your hands. “Follow me! We need to hurry; we’ve kept him waiting for a while. Don’t try anything funny!”

“I won’t!” Because you don’t have much to lose either way. If your life wasn’t at risk here, you might’ve been glad for this sudden abduction. Your life would be taken from you, one way or the other.

It takes another ten-or-so minutes before you and Luke are hurrying back from the restroom (a terribly clean one for a pirate ship, too; you were surprised) and are finally in front of the double doors again.

Luke wastes no time in dealing three knocks to one of the doors. It’s silent for a pause; you all exchange jittery glances, you fiddle with your (retied) hands, and then, finally: “Come in.”

A chill slithers down your spine at the deep, muffled voice. Luke’s brother releases a breath and he twists the doorknob, easing the door open, and he enters. Luke silently gestures for you to follow, and you hesitate one more time before reluctantly heading in.

The room is well-lit: warm tones of orange candlelight send flickering shadows across the walls—walls that are lined with maps, paintings, cabinets, tapestries and antiques. They vary from looking very old to relatively new, and all have one thing in common: they are priceless artefacts. Plundered ones, too, almost assuredly.

As you make your way further into the room, the dangling crystal chandelier proves as the interior’s primary source of light, and it glitters exquisitely. Immediately, you know that this Captain has taste.

And then there’s the desk. Evidently crafted from invaluable mahogany, it fits into the cosy design of the study flawlessly, with a large hide rug of a bear—that would have been massive if alive—splayed between the two sofas at the centre of the room, off by the windows looking out to sea. Its head remains intact to it, maw open wide in a snarl, and appears well-kept. You expected the room to stink of rum and tobacco and a man who badly needs a shower, but it has a rather pleasant smell of scented candles, whiskey, and cologne.

You’re led to sit down upon one of the couches. It’s plush and leather, situated to be kept out of the sun to prevent fading, with woollen throws and tassled cushions spread tastefully across its triple seats. The coffee table in front of you, separating you from the sofa opposite, is made of walnut, and has a crystal whiskey decanter upon it, along with two crystal shot glasses, and a vase of flowers. Also, a piece of paper, including an ink pot with a fountain pen inside.

Your eyes finally lift to rest upon the man himself.

You don’t really know what you were expecting. A missing hand, a hook in its place, perhaps? A flamboyant tricorne hat, with the bright feathers of exotic birds sewn into its satin sash? Maybe a greatcoat with flared cuffs and ornate embroidery? An eyepatch, like the rumours? Ebony curls, greasy with gel and rare washes, spilling out from beneath his hat and across his shoulders?

No such thing. Instead of ebony curls, he has short-cropped ivory locks, falling over his right eye. Eyes as scarlet as a ruby, penetrating and sharp, lidded and calculating, framed with long, silver lashes. He wears no hat, he wears no eyepatch, and he wears no greatcoat. His lips are full and pink and shapely, curled up at the corners, and his right hand is not replaced with a hook. In his right hand, in fact, is a folder, its leather worn and cracked, the clasp hanging on by a thread. And the man’s shoulders are broad, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing the beginnings of a sculpted chest, skin-kissed skin, and strong collarbones. A silver pendant rests upon his sternum, just beneath his clavicle, glinting in the light. His slacks are ironed, tight across his sturdy thighs, and he sits in a languid manspread. Big hands, long fingers, veiny forearms, his cuffs neatly buttoned at the elbows. His sleeves strain against his biceps. It takes a lot to not let your eyes pop out of your head.

What. The. Hell. Who knew those gossiping, man-obsessed, still-wet-behind-the-ears debutantes would be so close in their depiction of Captain Sylus? The wanted posters do not do him any justice. If those airheads saw him now, they’d all drop to the ground in a faint, one by one, like a domino effect.

“Um…” you croak, mouth suddenly very dry. “Hello.”

“Greetings.” Oh, gods, his voice is hot too. What is this? Some third-rate swashbuckling romance novel? He certainly looks like he just walked right out of one. One not at all for children. One filled with scenes of a man, as devilish as him, entangled with a woman far more beautiful than you. And he’s taking his sweet time to look you over too, just as you did, with a hooded gaze far more intense than it needs to be. You feel your entire body flush with heat, and you hastily look away, clearing your throat, fidgeting with your thumbs. Your hands are still tied, rested neatly on your lap, and you suddenly feel very self-conscious.

The man closes his legs (about damn time!) and slings his right one over his left. He throws the folder he had in-hand down upon the coffee table with a resounding smack! and he settles an elbow against the armrest to his right. In your periphery, you see him smile at you, but it’s more of a smirk. “How are you, my lady?”

“Er, quite fine,” you reply automatically, and you’re too busy worrying about how much of a mess your hair must be (it had been previously woven into a gorgeous updo before a bag was rammed over your head) to think about how to appropriately speak to this man. “I can’t say I was prepared for such an, um, inadvertent evening adventure.”

The Captain chuckles, and it’s a silky, rumbling sound that floods you with even more heat. You risk a glance up, and he’s tilting his head at you, jaw as sharp as the rumours professed, smirk both simultaneously infuriating and tantalising. Scarlet eyes pin you to your seat, and you quickly drop your own as he speaks. “I am glad you are taking this little escapade well. But, of course, any anger or explosive tantrums on your part would be justifiable.”

“You’d kill me quicker if I screamed and cried,” you blurt, before you click your mouth shut. You idiot! Are you trying to meet your maker as fast as you can?

“Kill?” the Captain echoes, and he sounds almost surprised. “Oh, no, my lady, I won’t be killing you.”

That makes you look up. “You…won’t?”

“No,” he affirms, and he leans forward, picking up the piece of paper you’d noticed earlier. He extends it to you, before his eyes drop to your bound hands. The man glances over to the duo standing nearby. Well, lounging nearby, actually. “You can relieve her of those ropes now, you two. Is this any way to treat a guest?”

Guest? You rub the tender skin of your wrists after one of them slices through your binds and steps away with them. You give a wary glance at the man sitting opposite you. What’s going on?

Said man extends the paper to you once again, and you finally accept it, cautious. He speaks as you read over it. “You see, my lady, your father and I have a little bit of a history.”

Ah. Just as you expected. Of course this has something to do with your father. And of course he’d stoop so low as to be involved with pirates. But, just what has he done to piss off the most savage one of them all?

“I see.” You bob your head in understanding. The piece of paper outlines it pretty well. This guy is awfully sophisticated for a pillaging, ruthless, disgustingly wealthy pirate king. It almost feels like he’s asking you to sign a contract. “So, erm, in exchange for…whatever it is this document is referring to, you will hand me back to my father?”

Captain Sylus smiles at you. “Correct.”

“I see,” you say again. “In short, he has to pay a ransom for my return.”

“It’s nothing personal, my lady. Believe me when I say I wish I didn’t have to resort to kidnapping a lovely young woman such as yourself.”

Liar. One look at his smug, gorgeous, cold face, even a blind man could tell he hardly cares at all for how low he has to stoop for things. He’d probably raze the marquisate to the ground, with everyone in it, just to obtain whatever it is he wishes.

“Hm.” You glance back down at the paper. “Alright.”

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated,” he says pleasantly. “It makes things far easier for myself, and far safer for you.”

“So, you will be sending this…letter to my father?” You breeze over his subtle warning and force yourself to meet his eyes again. It really does feel like he could burn two holes into where your eyes are thanks to the sheer intensity of his stare. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” the Captain affirms, and you place the paper back down on the coffee table before the trembling of your hands can get too obvious. The man maintains his relaxed posture, which succeeds in both aggravating you and proving to be excellent eye candy. “Surely, your father will go to untold lengths to have his beloved only daughter returned to him?” You almost snort. If it weren’t for my betrothal to that duke, he’d probably send the pre-written reply he has an entire stock of back to this guy, thanking him for his letter. Your father dislikes having to read and personally pen a response to a letter, which bore the idea of scribbling out a couple hundred pre-authored, enveloped and sealed answers to be automatically delivered by the butler himself. And then, if it hasn’t been already, it would really be the Grim Reaper’s crest being stamped onto your death certificate.

“Yes, um, well…” You don’t quite know how to correct the man on that, without possibly having your throat slit right here in the process. You awkwardly scratch your cheek and look away. “It might, erm, take a while.”

“No matter.” He leans forward, picks up the whiskey decanter, and pours two glasses of it. He outstretches one to you, and you have to physically restrain yourself from gulping the liquor down once you accept it. The man has a sip of his own, gazing at you from above the rim of his own glass. “We have a long voyage ahead.”

Just great. It’s one thing to be kidnapped, but it’s another to be stuck on a boat with only the most crooked pirate captain of them all, in the middle of the ocean, without a speck of land in sight, as the daughter of a noble who would not frantically search for his daughter if she wasn’t a vital chess piece in his wider political game. And you’re only vital because marriage to a duke would elevate his status and wealth and reputation overnight.

Too bad you weren’t born a boy. Too bad your mother died during childbirth. Too bad your father never married, and has no male heirs. Too bad the only purpose you’ve ever really had was being sold off to an old duke your father’s age. Too bad you had to be abducted on the very night your engagement ceremony was in full swing.

Your grip tightens around the whiskey glass in your right hand. Too bad, indeed.

Your father’s true origins are common, and he has spent most of his noble life fighting tooth and nail to improve his reputation among the age-old aristocratic families which look down on him, and you, for said commoner origins. Apparently, he earned favour with the Emperor for doing something requested of all citizens: turn in any Evolver they come across. Rewards for such a deed is great—like being granted a title.

Evols and Evolvers—an ancient power and people abolished by the Empire five hundred years ago. Those few who inherit its gene are hunted down and slaughtered without exception, and rewards are generous for those who turn wielders in. And rumour has it that this very man in front of you, is one himself.

It’s only a rumour, though. It’s unconfirmed. If it is true, then that raises a whole lot of other questions.

You’re still not exactly sure what you think of this man. So you decide to test the waters a bit. “Sir, if I am to be staying here, I’d at least like a comfortable room.”

His silver brows lift in mild surprise. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Perhaps the two glasses of champagne you had at the ball and this whiskey here is making you a little more courageous than what’s ideal, even though you’re not that much of a lightweight. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity. “I am the daughter of a marquess. Who you just kidnapped. It’s the least you can do.”

“Goodness.” The man brushes a free hand across his grinning mouth, giving you a long, assessing look. “Well. I do suppose you’re right. I must extend some kind of welcome and thank-you for remaining so calm in such a…stressful situation for a nobleman’s daughter.”

“Stressful, indeed.” You stare into the amber liquid in your glass. You don’t have it in you to be sarcastic back right now. “I don’t really mind all this, just as long as I have food and water.”

“My lady.” Your head snaps up and you look at him as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat, gazing at you. “I have a question for you.”

You blink. “Uh. What is it?”

Captain Sylus doesn’t continue for a brief pause—he just continues to stare at you, and then his eyes narrow. “You are terribly unfazed by all this. May I ask why?”

“Oh…” You reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Um, well, you see, your…henchmen here choose quite the opportune time to seize me.”

He only hums in response, wordlessly urging you to continue. You drop your eyes again. “Tonight is the celebration of my engagement.”

The man takes a sip of his drink. “I know.”

Surprised, you look up at him again. “Oh, you do?”

“Of course. I have had this planned out for a good long while. Naturally, your engagement ceremony was the convenient date to apprehend you.”

Yes, naturally. You chew on the inside of your bottom lip. Your lipstick’s probably smudged. “I see.”

The Captain relaxes back in his chair again. “But I did not expect you to call it ‘opportune’.” He doesn’t ask any further questions to that, though, much to your relief. He has another sip of his whiskey. “Once that letter is delivered, we set sail. In one hour.”

“Okay.” You don’t really know what to think of how he’s ‘had this planned out for a good long while’. You suppose it’s just protocol. Nothing personal, as he’d said—but it sounds pretty borderline personal to you.

“May I just add one thing?” you tentatively ask, giving him a hesitant glance. The man inclines his head toward you in one tilt, staring at you from beneath his lashes. You take that as a yes. “Er, well, you probably already know this, but—my father isn’t the most agreeable of people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So…what I’m saying is…” And then you realise something: if you divulge all the details of your father (most of which this man will probably already be privy to), he could decide you’re not a useful tool toward obtaining the ransom and thus dispose of you. That’s when you quickly decide to fake a yawn and rub your left eye tiredly. Your finger comes away blackened with mascara and eyeliner. Oops. You probably look like you got punched now. “Never mind! He’s just—well, he’s a handful, haha.”

“Mm.” The Captain’s finger taps against his knee. “Understood.”

Then, apparently deeming the conversation over, he lifts a hand and beckons the brothers over. “I presume you’ve already been introduced, but this is Luke and Kieran. They will escort you to your cabin.”

You make sure you try not to sigh in relief too loudly. “Oh, well, thank you very much, Mister Sylus. Your hospitality is appreciated.” As if you aren’t presently being held here against your will.

“You are welcome.” The man looks immensely amused. “Enjoy your stay, my lady.”

“Haha, of course.” It’s muscle memory, the way you quickly bob a curtsy once you’ve gotten to your feet, bowing your head. “Um, and I apologise on my father’s behalf.” What the hell are you doing, you idiot? Why on earth would thank him and apologise for your father—the one who, essentially, got you into this mess? You’re just asking to become fish food, aren’t you? “Please don’t hold a grudge against me.” Save him the time and jump off the ship yourself already, you fool!

“Like I said, my lady.” He gets to his feet also and steps forward, full lips curled up at the corners, and it’s suddenly a little harder to breathe. Captain Sylus is tall, towering over you, chest wider than you’d initially gambled. He reaches forward, takes your hand, and brings it to his lips. He has garnets for eyes, you think, and his right one is, strangely, a little more intense than the other. I suppose the rumours aren’t as inaccurate as I thought. “It’s nothing personal.”

You gulp and give a wobbly smile in response. Yeah, I think I should jump as soon as I’m out of this office. “Well, thank goodness for that.”

You did not, in fact, end up jumping.

The bed is comfortable, if a little cramped. As expected on a ship—despite its colossal size, and the ample room it does appear to have, your cabin is more befitting a crew member, or a commoner, than a noblewoman.

But it’s not like you can complain, or have expected anything more. You got what you asked for. And you are a hostage here.

However, your room, regardless of its dinginess, is rather quaint. It’s not dirty or unkempt; it is in need of a bit of dusting, but you don’t mind. Its mullioned window is circular, with a direct view out to sea, and its frame is lifted higher than the bed so as to avoid one’s weight potentially breaking through the glass, and into the water below, despite it being plenty thick. Said bed is tucked into a little nook against the window, which is something you especially like, for your room back at the manor never had a view of the ocean. Now, you can see both the sunset and the stars as clear as day from where you sleep now.

Once you were led to your room, you didn’t see another soul for the night, nor into late morning. It was afternoon when someone finally tapped on your door—and you hardly got a chance to say “come in” before they shoved open the door and waltzed in.

“Clothes and a meal for the lady.” It was a female pirate, tall and lithe and dark-skinned. Her glossy raven hair was gathered up into an afro puff, a colourfully patterned bandana wrapped around her head, tied down at the back of her neck, behind her ears. She flashed a bright, good-natured grin and strolled over, relieving her arms of the bundle of clothing and platter of food. “The Captain said to treat ya well, missy. These clothes’ll be comfortabler than that stuffy costume yer got there.”

“Oh, thank you.” You gladly accepted the garments, returning the woman’s smile. “Please extend my gratitude to the cook and the Captain.”

“My!” she exclaimed mirthfully. “Never thought I’d see the day a noble’s nice to me! You rich folk usually turn yer noses up at the likes of us.”

You shrugged, placing the platter on your lap, stomach tightening in hunger. As a young child and teen, you used to sneak out of the estate and go play with the commoner children, pretending to be one yourself. They’d never have looked at you the same, or let you join them, if you didn’t. “You’ve brought me food and clothing, ma’am. The least I can do is thank you.”

“Kieran was right,” she laughed, hooking her thumbs on the baldric surrounding her waist in an insouciant pose. “You ain’t no brat, as far as I can tell. They said you wasn’t even bothered by bein’ kidnapped! If it were me, I woulda kicked and screamed and rammed them up the gonads with me boot before they could say knife.”

You chuckled, slicing through the roast chicken on your plate. “Those two grabbed me at the right time. I’m actually thankful.”

“Oh?” The woman looked rather taken aback, no less humorous. “Why’s that, missy?”

“Last night was my engagement ceremony.” You brought a piece of chicken up to your mouth, but paused to finish your sentence before eating it. “To a man I’m old enough to be the daughter of.”

“Ah.” She nodded, reaching up a hand to scratch at the back of her nape. “Gotcha. Well, I dunno much about you nobles and yer arranged marriages, but it does sound like y’all are a right miserable bunch. Guess yer glad?”

“Guess so.” You offered her a grin. Spending the night sitting in here and staring at the ceiling gave you plenty of time to think about the pros and cons of this. And, eventually, you found that the pros outweighed the cons. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

She chortled, and turned for the door. “Henrietta, but everyone calls me Henry—and no need to call me ma’am! Just glad yer a real one. I’ll leave ya to it now, missy. Will be back later for yer dishes!”

You are, at least, glad for the unexpectedly warm welcome, and the female crew members. You had initially been worried about Captain Sylus’s lackeys onboard being all-male, and thus you would be exposed to the danger of men who have been at sea for too long, been exposed to too much sun, haven’t felt the touch of a woman in years (or ever), and thus their true, ruthless depravity. You have heard far too many tales of the atrocities committed by pirates toward the people in their path of destruction and marauding—and many of them usually involved the young ladies they captured for the very same reasons as the Captain with the likes of you, or even just for entertainment.

You shudder at the thought, despite the cabin’s rather warm temperature, struggling with untying your corset fifteen minutes after you finished up your meal. Your maids last night had tightened the corset as much as they possibly could get away with, all to give you that damned cinched-waist look, leaving you practically gasping for air like a dying old chain smoker for most of the evening. Beats you how you bore with it the entire night—and even managed to get about two hours of sleep in that bodice from hell.

Oh, to blazes with it. With a forceful tug, you snap the strings holding it fast around your middle, and shimmy out of the rest of the garment, breathing a massive sigh of relief once it’s off. Now left in your underthings, you swiftly put on the rather tattered pair of trousers and breezy poet blouse provided for you, and stoop to gather up your gown, skirt hoop and corset. Then you proceed to pull open the tiny closet across the room, ball up the vestments best you can, and haphazardly shove the dirty clothes inside.

Out of sight, out of mind. You don’t want to see the damn things again. You don’t mind dresses, but ones with punishingly tight corsets and ridiculously wide skirt hoops are not your cup of tea. Having this airy, wide-sleeved and baggy shirt on feels terribly freeing.

Then you slump back down onto your bed after letting out your hair, scrubbing off the rest of your makeup best you can in the basin of (cold) water you’d been provided just before you turned in last night, and pull the curtain over the window again. That’s when you curl in on your side, and let sleep take you.

He leans against the door frame, arms crossed, top buttons of his shirt undone, smirk lazy. It appears to be a recurring thing of his: a signature, maybe—always providing everyone a permanent, full view of his sculpted chest, showing off his bulging biceps, and sending people mad with his provocative smirk. Provocative in what way? You’re still working that one out.

“Made yourself at home, have you, my lady?”

This is the beginning of your second-ever conversation with him, and he’s already being sarcastic. You had most certainly not expected a visit from him today; it’s been half a week since you first met him, and you feel subconscious all over again. You resist the urge to subtly fix your hair and smooth down the sun dress you’re wearing this evening. It’s rather disconcerting, how you suddenly feel like you wish you cared more about men’s opinions beforehand so you’d know what to do right now. “Uh, yes, I have.”

The Captain, mercifully, appears to be one who appreciates your unintended, awkward honesty, for he lets out a velvety chuckle. “Well, that’s wonderful news. Have you adjusted well to the seafaring life?”

“Well…” Not really, because you haven’t ventured out any further than just down the hall. They don’t lock your door, but you always opt to remain confined to your cabin anyway, because you’re shy. Embarrassingly so, in fact—one of the most prized attributes of a noblewoman is her grace, poise, and dexterity at being a sociable friend and host. Something that, if you hadn’t been kidnapped and the wedding still went through, you would’ve had to master quick—especially as a duchess-to-be. An eloquent title, sought after by all noblewomen in their right mind, and one you never asked for. So, clearly, you aren’t in your right mind. And you’ve long owned up to that, seeing this man and all.

Also, the ship’s constant bobbing and rocking on the waves is taking some getting used to. Sealegs don’t come instantly, it would seem—and more than once you have had to dash to the bathroom, hand over your mouth and complexion green, your guts apparently more than eager to spill out of you. Maybe going up on deck would help, but you don’t know how well you’d get along with the rest of the crew. Chances are, they would be averse to your company, for your affluent roots and defined upbringing would clash against their brash and boorish and foul-mouthed mannerisms. You’d like to make friends, and the twins and Henry are nice enough, but you’re far too unsure about the rest.

Best act as if I’m just not here, you’d decided a few nights ago. Nothing’s changed, really—for them, or for me.

You fidget with your thumbs and avert your eyes. “It’s been…a gradual adjustment.”

“Understandable,” he genially says. “You will get used to it eventually.” Then the man uncrosses his arms, straightens, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “However, my reason for visiting you is to ask something of you.”

Here we go. You’re torn between being on your guard and feeling rather excited. Damn the man for being so attractive! Why, of all times, do you have to be weak to a man’s charm now? Trying not to freak out, you offer a rather unsteady smile. “…Of course. What is it?”

“Join me for dinner tonight, my lady,” the Captain replies in that suave tone of his. “No need to dress up. It’ll just be a friendly chat over a meal and some wine.”

“Ah.” You look down at your lap. It’d be nice to have control over your blood pressure right now, because you feel like exploding. We’re actually supposed to hate this guy, you know. He kidnapped us!

Those old women who warned you, as a girl, about handsome men and their charm were right, you suddenly find. He is probably the most handsome man you’ve ever come across—all the most-sought-after bachelors in high society have got nothing on this guy. You never thought they were all that much to write home about, anyway, but you rest your case. And this man’s looks aren’t pretty or beautiful or pure in nature—no, he’s devilish, maddening, and hot. A less polite term, something that would make you clutch at your pearls if you had any, at any other time—but it’s no less a fact.

And not a very fun one right now. You’d like to dislike this man, to have a reason to take away his ability to have children, but it’s strangely difficult. His condescending tone does grate on you, though.

“I, well…” It’s probably for the best that I decline. Becoming friendly with your abductor (despite your rather relaxed take on all this) is probably something you want to avoid. “I—I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Impose?” Captain Sylus lifts a silver brow at you. “It isn’t imposing when you have been invited, my lady.” One half of his full mouth quirks up into a roguish little grin. “Besides, you are a noble. It’s only manners to provide a woman such as yourself a meal befitting of your status.”

“I don’t think…status really matters here,” you reply, now fidgeting with a loose thread of your dress, not looking at him anymore. “I’m not exactly a guest.” And you jump to add, “But—I am terribly grateful for your courtesy thus far! The clothing, bedding, and food is much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” You stiffen at the abrupt nickname. And you’re afraid he noticed it, because the Captain’s smirk widens, his eyes a hooded scarlet. “Like I said, none of this is personal. It’s your father I have a vendetta against, not you.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Oh, well, that’s reassuring.”

He insouciantly leans his weight on one foot, and he tilts his head at you, smile far more impish than before. “Aw, don’t tell me I am getting turned down by the most beautiful woman on this boat right now, hm?”

“Oh, no, of course not!” You jump to your feet, heart in your mouth, suddenly very afraid you just signed the dotted line for an appointment with the ship’s plank. And his pet sharks, if he has any. Then that word registers. “…Sorry, did you say ‘beautiful’?” “I did,” the Captain affirms smoothly. Then the man gives you a slow once over. “Am I wrong? I don’t think I am.” “I—” You flush from head to toe. “That’s…That’s very, erm, kind of you.”

“Well, then.” He lifts a hand from a pocket and outstretches it to you. “Shall we?” I guess I don’t get a choice in this. You are feeling rather peckish, anyway, so you reluctantly nod and approach him, taking the Captain’s arm. Let’s just hope he hasn’t poisoned my wine or anything.

He leads you down the corridor outside your cabin, up the steps, and to the main deck, where you can finally get a full panoramic view of the ocean, and the rest of the ship.

There is no land in sight, only an endless stretch of dusk-hued blue in every direction, sparkling with whites and yellows from the gradually setting sun. It’s high summer, and the voyage thus far has been speedy and undisturbed and sweltering, the sun’s ray barrelling down upon the boat and making your room awfully stuffy, even if you open the latched window just below the top of its frame. Onychinus pirates are bustling about the ship, chatting away, or even humming age-old folk songs in unexpectedly glorious harmonies. And you notice that people from all stretches of life and ethnicity and gender merrily go about their duties here, even shouting crass, but jovial, greetings to their Captain as he passes by, you on his arm.

“Evenin’, cap’n!” one calls, lifting a hand in a wave. The man, like most of the crew onboard, is bronzed from the sun, cheery and robust. And then the pirate even tips his hat to you. “Milady.”

You lift your hand in an awkward wave. “Oh, hello, good sir.”

Captain Sylus returns the pirate’s greeting, nodding to the musket in the man’s hands. “That engraving’s looking good, Clive.”

“Aw, thanks, cap’n!” Clive’s words are a little muffled from the puffing cigar in his mouth. “Almost done, yer know! Can’t believe ya scored such a beauty back on the mainland. This oughta be worth a fortune.”

“What are you engraving?” Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you’ve blurted the words out before you can remember your place. “Er, apologies, I don’t mean to be nosy, you just look very skilled, sir.”

“Blimey!” The pirate fixes the Captain with an awed look. “Ain’t ever been called ‘sir’ before, ’specially by a dame. You really scored this time, cap’n!”

The man beside you lifts a brow. “Just answer the lady, Clive.”

“Yessir.” Clive tips his hat in apology and extends the weapon out to you, showing you the intricately-detailed etchings of what is a half-finished boat on the ocean. “I like to carve the odd picture into guns ’n swords, milady.” He taps his graver against the steel side of the musket. “Just a hobby, yer know? Passes the time. Once I finish me duties for the day, I sit here and chip away.”

“You’re very talented!” you exclaim in wonder, admiring the realism and sheer detail of the imprinted scene even on such a small piece of metal. “I knew a gunsmith downtown who took on commissions to occasionally engrave weapons, like this! You’re even better than him!”

“Aw, goodness me, milady,” Clive says rather bashfully. “Yer gonna make me blush! I s’pose if you think it’s good, it must be.” Then he tips his hat to you again. “Much obliged, miss.”

“Not at all!” You beam. “I just think it’s very commendable, achieving such a level of detail, with only a chisel and a few picks.” You glance up at the Captain. “Your ship is full of surprises, sir.”

And, to your amazement, the man gives you a small smile. “That reminds me—you haven’t had a tour yet, nor have I introduced you to the crew.” Then the man gestures to the jolly pirate before you both. “This is Clive, the boatswain.”

You politely curtsy out of simple muscle memory. “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Clive.”

“By me beard!” Clive exclaims, even though he doesn’t have a beard, “you really did score with her, didn’t cha, cap’n!”

“Well, we’d best get going.” Captain Sylus takes your arm again and swiftly begins to steer you away. “Dinner awaits us.”

You let out a small, disappointed noise, and send a wave over your shoulder back to Clive. “Have a good evening, Mister Clive!”

The man chortles and returns the farewell, and you follow after the Captain as he leads you to ascend about three hundred sets of stairs again.

You’re quite tired afterward. “You…huff…sure have a lot of steps for a, haa, boat.”

The man beside you chuckles smoothly. “Let’s say it provides a good bit of extra fitness for the crew, and makes enemy personnel’s trek up to my office a little harder.”

“Um, very strategic,” you offer, not quite sure what to say, and still panting. “Not sure if you know, but your intellect is, uh, renowned, sir.”

“Call me Sylus, sweetheart.” He pushes open the door, steps aside to let you through first, smirking down at you in that way of his. “No need for such formalities.”

“But…” You continue following after him as he leads you further into his study, which apparently will also act as the dining room for the evening. “I’m not a guest, sir. I’m a hostage. And I know this is a strange thing for a hostage to say, but aren’t you supposed to keep me locked away beneath the ship completely?”

“My lady, I may be a scumbag of a pirate captain,” Sylus begins, and he doesn’t sound apologetic in the least, considering that roguish grin of his, “but I do have manners. I run a tight ship. We plunder and pillage and thieve, yes, as pirates do, but I know how to treat a lady. Especially…” That’s when he pauses, faces you, and gently grabs your hand, placing a charming kiss to the top of it. “One as lovely and amenable as yourself.”

Steam’s probably drifting off the top of your head, with how hot you suddenly feel. “O-Oh, my. Well, um…” Those crimson hues, as cheesy as this sounds, are far too deep and intense for you to hold without (probably) melting into a puddle right in front of him. Oh, this is really not good! “Thank—Thank you. Very much. I’ve never been complimented by such a handsome man as yourself before.”

“Handsome?” Idiot! You just had to go ahead and let the h-word slip, didn’t you? Why not get on one knee and ask him to marry you while you’re at it, you buffoon! And that devilish smirk widens, like he knows, damn him, and he coyly tilts his head at you. “You think I’m handsome?”

This is the second time you’ve actually spoken, you inwardly seethe at yourself, trying to keep a straight face and not burst into embarrassed tears, and it’s like you’re desperate to be either a) thrown off the edge of the boat or b) chained to him for good! But, well, even you can admit either-or is better than being carted off back to your father.

No! You can’t let yourself go down that rabbit hole. That’s something where you would choose to be chopped up into fish food other than having something so dreadful happen to you. Remember, we don’t really know this guy! And he kidnapped you!

Right. You’re a captive right now, held against your will, and you’re supposed to be incensed. You should probably be acting bratty and trashing your cabin and sneaking into his room to slit his throat at night or something. But you can’t. You don’t know why, but you can’t.

Because this is better than marrying that old duke. That you know, and have accepted, deep down. And this is better than having to endure the cold, empty, and lifeless halls of your father’s estate and his austere attitude toward you by far.

If Captain Sylus was ugly like the rumours professed, perhaps hating him would be easier. Which just shows how shallow you really are inside. I’m no better than those boy-crazed debutantes.

But he’s not ugly—he is, in fact, the very opposite of ugly—which is annoying all on its own. Because right now he’s rendered you speechless with his question, and you’re itching to run and take a swim with his pet sharks yourself. “Erm, uh, well, I-I…suppose so.”

Sylus’s full mouth curls up at the corners a little bit more, maddeningly smug. “You suppose so?” “I—I was just returning the compliment!” you insist, removing your (sweaty) hand from his grip, clutching it to your chest. “I, um, I apologise. I never really quite know what to say when I am praised.”

“A shame,” he hums, turning to continue leading you into his office, and you both finally stop before the dining table. The Captain pulls out a chair, and gestures for you to sit. “Perhaps I shall just have to compliment you more often, then.” “Oh, please don’t.” You take the seat and hide behind your hair. I’ll combust if you do! “It’s really not necessary.”

He remains standing, and lifts a bottle of wine. “But I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t. Wine?”

Just what I need. You refrain from snatching the bottle and guzzling it all down in one go. “Uh, yes, please, Mister Sylus.”

“Just Sylus is fine.” The Captain pours the wine into your glass and then fills his own, before taking a seat. That’s when you have a good look at all the food laid out for you.

Well, certainly a feast befitting a wealthy pirate king and a captive noblewoman, I suppose. You can’t say you’re exactly fond of using your status as leverage, but this is like a meal you’d expect at a formal gathering between repulsively rich aristocrats. Except, the man before you now is not an aristocrat. He’s a pirate. The same pirate who abducted you. The same pirate who’s out to get your father. And the same pirate you’ve been having a very difficult time not slamming against the wall like this is some brainless romance novel. Get a grip, you blockhead. Closest you’ll ever get to being pinned against the wall is when he’s using you as a makeshift dartboard. Which will very probably happen if it turns out your father really couldn’t care less about you and never coughs up the ransom fee.

You take a shaky sip of wine, and, nice as it is, it doesn’t succeed in immediately soothing your frayed nerves. Which, in your opinion, completely defeats the point of wine, but you make do for now. You just hope you can at least stomach some food.

“Well, this is quite the feast,” you awkwardly say, managing out something like a laugh. It sounds more like a cry for help. “I’m very honoured…Sylus.”

You swear he looks pleased when you finally address him by first name. There are no servants, which is fine by you, and your mood gradually improves as you go about placing some boiled potatoes and rotisserie chicken and fresh green salad on your plate. It all smells divine. The Captain gives a grin. “It’s the least I can do for you, my lady. I have to thank you for being so tolerant of this…what did you call it?” He places the platter of boiled potatoes you’d handed him down back in their place, and lifts his glass of wine to his lips. And he’s gazing at you from over the rim of it. “Ah, yes—an inadvertent evening adventure.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and you look down at your plate. I can’t believe he remembers that! “Haha, um, yes. Quite so. Y-You know, you don’t have to call me by such a formal title.” You place your glass down and pick up your knife and fork. “Just my name is fine. If you know it, that is.”

“Of course I know your name.” He calmly goes about cutting up his chicken, giving you a glance without moving his head, from beneath his brow. The man always tends to execute such gestures in such a way that leaves you feeling a little breathless, and you always look away quickly. And you feel like an idiot. Since when did I allow a man to have such an effect on me? Absolutely beats you.

“Ah, I see.” He doubtlessly did his research on you before you were abducted. Oh, well. You chew away on a piece of lettuce. Just makes this whole thing so much easier to know I’ve been watched this entire time.

You hold back a sigh. Nothing personal, but nonetheless disconcerting.

And the evening carries on rather peacefully—a stark, and almost embarrassing, contrast to your constant inward chaos. You deeply dislike how self-conscious the man makes you, while he just sits there, all relaxed and eternally smug and composed, while you’re barely hanging onto your sanity. I’d best make myself scarce now!

“Well!” you announce, once you’ve finished off your plate and wine, attempting a beam of a smile. “That was a lovely meal. I’m so full! I must return to my quarters now. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“You won’t stay for dessert?” The Captain lifts a brow at you, putting his (refilled) wine glass down.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” You’re already standing and pushing your chair in, smoothing down your dress. “The main course was more than enough, I assure you. Besides! I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, me being a hostage and all.” You swiftly curtsy and turn for the door. “Again, thank you.”

“Well, then, allow me to escort you back to your cabin.” He, too, gets to his feet, rounding the table and approaching you. “It’s dark out now, and I doubt you know the way.”

“Oh, I know the way,” you lie, and you sheepishly drop your eyes when he arches a brow at you again. “Sort of.”

“That so,” he says, and then he extends his arm for you to take like the perfect gentleman again. “Well, as you insist on returning, let us go.”

“Ah! Thank you.” You, with an enthusiasm you curse yourself for having, accept his arm, and you begin your walk with the Captain back to your cabin. “I didn’t expect such kindness.”

That smirk looks more like an accommodating smile than something smug this time. “How can I not, when I have such a lovely lady on my arm?” You almost smack him playfully, and instead roll your eyes. “Oh, enough of that.”

Once you both stop outside your room, you give him another curtsy and turn to open your door. “Goodnight, sir—uh, I mean, Sylus.”

The man takes your hand again, placing a peck to the top of it, and that look in his eye really does almost have you shoving him against the wall. Such a notion has you fumbling to open the door and hide away, and he smirks. “Goodnight, my lady.” He looks a little too good in the shadows like this, and you would probably be wise to be afraid. He finally releases your hand. “I enjoyed our time tonight.”

“As did I!” you squeak, avoiding his eyes, smile stiff. Oh, you’re an idiot! Utter idiot! Maybe, at the next stop this ship has, you should take that chance to run. In a flash, you’re peeking out from behind your cabin door. “Goodnight!”

And the last thing you see is his smug little grin you really feel like both smacking and kissing off his face. You wait until his footsteps have faded before screaming into your pillow. Oh, yes, you are an idiot.

Over the next few weeks of the voyage, Sylus takes it upon himself to give you a full tour of the boat and the crew onboard. He introduces them to you, and their attitudes, like Clive and Henry and the twins, are mostly positive toward you. You voice this surprise to the captain.

“Oh, I gave them a talking-to,” he explains, looking very pleased with himself, “the day after you arrived.”

You blink. “Ah. I see.”

And as you continue on your tour of the ship, a sudden call from high above you makes you jump. “Land-ho!”

Everyone drops what they were doing and gathers at the bow of the ship, hands to their foreheads to block out the sun, squinting in the direction which the watchman is pointing.

Far more calmly, the captain leads you to the front of the boat, and the crew parts the way for him, while you stay behind. Someone hands him a spyglass, which he extends and holds up to his right eye. You can’t see anything, for most of the crowd gathered is blocking your view, and eventually Sylus lowers the telescope from his eye, hands it back to one of the female pirates he’d accepted it from, and turns to face everyone. His hands are shoved languidly into his pockets, coat hanging off his broad shoulders, and his silver hair gleams in the sun. “We’re heading due west, right for Othlan, at present. We’ll reach its port city of Othelm in about two days.”

The crew begin chatting amongst themselves, parting the way again for their captain to pass through, and you continue to try and spot the speck of land sighted over the top of the excited crowd. The floppy hat you’d donned earlier after Henry said the sun is “merciless” this time of year doesn’t help much, and you finally give up once he’s returned to your side.

You, with a hand on top of your hat to keep the breeze from blowing it off, blink up at him. “I’ve never been to Othlan before.”

“It isn’t the most interesting of places.” And nor is it the friendliest with the mainland, your country, Rosmon. There’s more of an uneasy, shaky truce between the nations, but as pirates are not strictly allied with anyone in particular, Onychinus will be able to pass through without much of a fuss. You hope.

“Oh,” you say, giving one last glance out to sea, for the crew members are dispersing and going back to their duties now. “Alright.”

“Did you want to see?” Sylus stops in his tracks and half-faces you. “It’s hard to see from this distance. It was only spotted because the watchman”—He points upwards, to the top of the mast—“has the eyes of a hawk.”

“I see.” You squint into the skyline, and you can only just make out the tiniest dark dot, sitting just above the blue horizon, but the sun is blaring down and bouncing off the water, almost blinding you. “It is hard to see, but—look! I can only just spot it.” You point. “Very far away.”

“Yes.” From where you both stand, you can even see the curvature of the planet, and it’s a view you can’t quite get used to. And the man next to you is part of that. You quickly look away before you can start ogling just how exquisite he looks with the breeze softly brushing his hair to the side, out of his eyes, nose and jaw and frame something mighty, as he looks out to sea. Without any doubt, he fits the role as a sea captain and pirate king seamlessly.

“What will we be doing once we arrive?” you ask, brushing some stray strands of hair out of your eyes.

Sylus does not face you, but he tilts his head in your direction, eyes flicking down to you. It’s a motion that’s, as usual, unfairly attractive, and you almost click your tongue in annoyance. “Ideally, my informants stationed there would have received a letter from your father agreeing to the exchange for your return, as my intended destinations never seem to be something I can keep under wraps. So, doubtlessly, the letter would have been sent to Othelm.”

It’s stupid, the little prick of disappointment that’s dealt to that equally stupid muscle in your ribcage by his words. Ideally. Yes, you are, essentially, both a bargaining chip and liability. Extra resources are wasted on you, really—and you should also be eager to get back, but you’re not. You’d like to be, but you’re not.

The smile you give in response succeeds in hiding your disillusionment, however. “Yes, let’s hope so! Fingers crossed my father already has a ship docked there for my boarding.”

“Yes.” He stares at you. “Fingers crossed.”

The next two days fly by like the wind in the sails, and soon, Othelm is directly in sight. Many ships of varying sizes and shapes sit berthed in their respective docks at the port, and people bustle about the area, securing ropes and anchors and carting barrels and crates of goods around.

But everyone, even you, knows the true nature of this port city. Othelm, in all its renowned trading glory, is a thriving pirate hub.

Ruled by Sylus, unquestioningly. The very vessel you’re on right now had drawn the attention of the lookouts and sailors hurrying about the port long ago, as the Onychinus’ flagship approaches with its night-black hull and its signature jolly roger of a red flag and crow in the centre. The Captain’s men stationed here would be fully prepared for his arrival now, and you suddenly feel a sense of foreboding.

Will I be alright? You, a woman, and a captive one, at that, would assuredly be unsafe in such a crime-riddled place as this. You can’t spot a single woman—there would, certainly, be ones, but they would either be brothel workers or female pirates themselves. And you are no safer with a hostile female pirate than you are with a male one, as sad as that makes you. The difference between them is, a female pirate wouldn’t try to violate you in an alley before finally putting you out of your misery. You’d far prefer a woman’s dagger to your jugular than a man’s vicious, bruising grasp, in all potential scenarios.

A knife is a knife. It can be used to slit throats or cut bonds. In this context, your throat is quicker to be sliced open than your escape successful and smooth, regardless of the wielder’s identity.

“I should probably stay down in my cabin, huh?” you comment, veiling your anxiety, keeping Henry company as she goes about readying the anchor for casting. “I have no place wandering around this city.”

“Well, milady,” she begins in reply, straightening and wiping her sweaty brow, “it’s good to see ya so wise and with a rational head here, but I’m afraid ya won’t have a choice.”

You swallow and nervously smile. “Um, how do you mean?”

“I mean, the captain here’ll prob’ly make ya tag along.” She turns to grab a nearby rope. “To make sure ya don’t escape ’n all.”

“What about just…locking me in the cabin?” Is having to follow him around really necessary?

“To be honest, milady, I’m not entirely sure meself, but I presume that’s what’s gonna happen.” Henry offers you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, yer’ll be safe so long as yer by the Captain’s side.”

You know that much—but you also doubt the man’s willing to go to any great lengths to make sure you are safe. ‘Nothing personal’, which probably includes your well-being. You’re just one of the many aces up his sleeve, and not one he necessarily needs.

Perhaps you could go convince him to allow you to stay in your cabin for the time the ship’s docked here. Bidding farewell to Henry, you turn and make your way back to your quarters, waving a hello to Luke and Kieran as you pass.

And then, out of nowhere, there’s a grating caw of a crow, and something black and feathery obstructs your vision. It flaps to a stop at your side, and you jump to find Sylus’s trusty pet crow, Mephisto, perched quite happily on your shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you.” The bird has apparently taken a liking to you, for it holds something sparkly in its beak and blinks at you in offering. You reach up a hand, stroking its breast feathers, before accepting the little trinket it brought to you. “Aren’t you an intelligent fellow, hm? A far more interesting choice than a parrot, I’d say.”

“Agreed,” a deep voice says from behind you, and you almost leap out of your skin in fright. Startled by your sudden movements, Mephisto caws loudly right in your ear and jumps off your shoulder, gliding over to settle on a certain pirate captain’s broad left shoulder instead. He grins down at you. “I am glad to see I am not alone in my more unconventional tastes.”

“It—It makes a statement,” you reply, rather out of breath, attempting a smile. “It’s definitely more, um, intimidating.”

That grin widens. “Ah. So it works.”

You’ve gotten used to his more acerbic, dry humour thus far, over the weeks you have, in essence, befriended him. At least, you consider him a friend. You’re unsure if it’s mutual, however. You laugh a little. “Ahem, yes, it would seem so.”

“Where were you off to?” Sylus casually asks, lifting a hand and affectionately scratching his pet crow’s head. If a crow is even capable of purring, it does now. The bird nuzzles into his palm. “We are getting ready to disembark.”

“Oh, I was just going back to my cabin.” You weakly gesture behind you, in the general direction of said cabin. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything by tagging along. It’s an unfamiliar and, as you’re well aware of, unsafe place.”

He hums, giving you an assessing look. “You are correct. However, how on earth could I be so cruel as to leave you all alone on a boat? You will be tagging along, and I can ensure your safety.”

“If you’re worried about me running away, you don’t have to be.” You look down at your hands awkwardly. “If you like, you can lock my cabin door.”

“My, you really are strange, aren’t you?” the Captain remarks, crossing his arms. “It almost sounds like you don’t want to go back.”

“Uh, well…” You’re not sure if it’s appropriate to confirm that. “Let’s say…I’ve grown fond of the sea view.”

“Is that so?” Sylus lifts one arm and brushes a hand across his mouth, gazing down at you. “How interesting.”

“But, of course, I do have to return,” you hastily add. Get a grip! Push it any further, and he might leave you here, stranded! You suppose that’s a tad bit kinder of a fate than simply marooning you somewhere. You’d just have to snatch a few coins from a crew member’s pouch, or even his office, and you’d somehow make do in this strange, dangerous city. “My—My father must be worried sick. I can, erm, assure you that he would have sent a letter agreeing to your terms. I assure you.”

“Uh-huh,” is all he replies with, and he lowers his arm back to fold across his chest. You really don’t like that perpetually knowing look of his. It’s simultaneously arrogant and humiliating. And it doesn’t help that his face is easy on the eyes, either, which inadvertently makes things easier to forgive. You’ve found you really quite hate that, actually. “Still. Surely you’d like a tour of the city?” Then Sylus lowers his arms, shoving his hands into his pockets, posture so damn relaxed compared to your tense frame, staring at you from beneath his lashes. “You liked this old ship here so much, sweetheart. Othelm has all kinds of thrills and adventures and things to do, too, you know.”

“Oh, I see,” you weakly reply.

His smirk makes you want to smack him, drown him, kiss him and scream at him all in one breath. “Really, it’s like a manual. The perfect introduction to the pirate life.”

“I see,” you say again, avoiding his gaze. Why does this guy have to be so damn perceptive? It’s not that you want to be a pirate, one who joins in on all the bloodshed and thieving and killing—you just don’t want to go back. And, somehow, you doubt your father has dispatched a letter for Sylus, demanding your return. Despite his rather frightening determination to marry you off to that old duke, you doubt it.

“Either way, you simply can’t hide yourself away down in that stuffy cabin for the rest of the week.” The Captain half-turns to walk away. “Come along. The ship is docking now.”

You hesitate once more, staring at his broad back as he strides away, before heaving a sigh and following after him. Things can’t get any worse, right?

Oh, but they could—especially when it’s pirates and Sylus in question.

You trail after him down the gangplank once the ship docks, trying not to slip on the slimy, wet wood of the wharf as he, with Luke and Kieran flanking him, strides along without a falter to his step. Some other crew members have gathered behind you, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their cutlasses, a dare to those surrounding and watching to just try anything. You slow down and fall into step beside Henry, wishing you had at least some kind of weapon, even though you’re not trained with one.

As if she read your mind, Henry pushes aside her loose-fitting outer vest and hands you a dagger, winking. “You’ll probably need it, milady.”

“Oh.” You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Henry.”

The attire you chose to wear today proves to be wise: with a baldric hitched around your waist and baggy trousers for your lower half, the dagger fits nicely into one of the empty notches of your belt, and your shoes are far more practical than the heels you were abducted in. They have grip, supportive against the slippery pier you’re walking along now, and the bandana you used to wrap around your hair helps you look more like the part of the pirate.

Blend in, the logical part of your brain had told you earlier this morning, and that’ll lessen the chance of anyone trying anything.

If Sylus had noticed, he’d made no comment. Henry gave you a thumbs-up when she saw you, and the twins gave you two encouraging thumps on the back that almost sent you flying. All that’s left to do now is try to slump your stance and stride a little more, instead of that straight-as-a-rod posture your witch of a governess used to slap into you. She even used to use a switch on you whenever you did something wrong, and the scars on the back of your calves are still fading.

Nobility is a farce, purported to be a life of luxury and little toil and relaxation. Sure, having a full belly at the end of every day and access to a bath and an abundance of clothes to wear is great, but there’s always darker facets to it that remain overlooked, where skeletons reside safely in the closet, and the more illicit is turned a blind eye to. Such an example is your own father.

You’re not entirely sure of what exactly he does, has done, or is embroiled with, but it is nothing moral, as proven by your abduction. Sylus would’ve had a better chance with getting what he wants if you were a ‘beloved daughter’ to your father. However, you have, for much of your life, gone ignored by the only parent you have.

Such is life. Richer or poorer, there are hardships all the way. You’re more fortunate than most, you know this, but it still rather hurts.

Boisterous greetings are exchanged between the crew behind you and the other pirates milling about the port, and a few even approach Sylus to clap a hand over his back. Shared interests in thievery appear to produce a strong sense of camaraderie amongst these people, and the captain, despite his intimidating and rugged and arrogant approach, returns the greetings with a small grin and nod.

The Onychinus head, with his signature pet crow on his left shoulder, continues sauntering through the streets and toward a bouncing pub up ahead. Its sign, nailed into the wood above the building’s door frame, is hanging on for dear life, weather-beaten and grimy. It looks like it might’ve once spelled “Owen’s”, but the E is around the wrong way. Intentional or not, you’re uncertain. Pirates aren’t known for their literacy.

Just outside the pub, the Captain turns and faces the group following after him. “Alright, everyone, you are free to do as you please for the rest of the day. As long as the boat is restocked and cleaned up before nightfall, you may drink to your hearts’ content tonight.”

Immediately, the crew lets out overjoyed cheers and disperse, hurrying off in different directions with their companions. You remain, Henry at your side, with the twins beside the captain, and he turns once more to enter the tavern. “We have business to attend to.”

What business? you want to ask, but you’re immediately deafened by the sheer uproarious volume of the bar, where pirates gulp down jugs of ale and rum and beer, engage in destructive brawls at their respective tables, or rage at each other over games of poker. The place stinks of alcohol, tobacco, fish and unwashed men, and you almost heave your insides out right there.

And it doesn’t look like it’d be an uncommon sight to see in here, either—you have to carefully pick your way through the tables and men and other unidentifiable things you don’t want to find out about on the floor, and it’s clear the place is hardly ever mopped. With a hand over your mouth and nose, you resist the urge to bolt out back into the fresh air, where the stench of fish and filthy pirates is a little less potent.

The other four with you, however, look completely unfazed, and you follow after them as Sylus makes his way through the pub, up for a set of closed-off steps near the back of the alehouse, and barely gives any of the drunk pirates a second glance, even as they slur soused greetings to the man. You keep your head down, and avoid their eyes.

But that appears ineffective—abruptly, out of nowhere, you feel a hand meet your backside, and you yelp, whirling around, more than ready to deal an incensed hand across the bastard’s face. You turn to find a table full of guffawing men, many of them missing teeth, in terrible need of a shave, and puffing glowing pipes of baccy.

“Yer a new face!” your harasser belly laughs, and you almost shriek when he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him. His grasp is bruising, and you frantically struggle to get away, getting ready to panic. You begin fumbling for your dagger. His companions, all holding sets of playing cards, snicker amongst themselves and watch on with dark glee. “What’s a cute lil’ thing like you doin’ ’round here, eh?”

“Let me go!” you exclaim, enraged and scared, and you lift your free hand to smack his face with all the strength you can muster. It sends his pipe flying out of his mouth, clattering to the ground, and his surprise has him letting your wrist free. Immediately, you back away, rubbing your arm, breathing hard. “Do that again, and I’ll—!”

Your back meets a chest, and a terrified gasp clogs your throat. But the cologne is familiar, something far removed from the reek stifling the air around you, and a large hand meets your shoulder. Your head snaps up to find the face of Sylus, and his set jaw.

“Having fun, boys?” he drawls, gently pushing you behind him. Henry’s standing there also, stepping forward to guard you from the rear, and it takes quite a bit within you not to burst into tears. She gives a comforting squeeze to your upper arm, and softly tugs you to walk away with her. “You won’t wanna see this, milady.”

“What—why? What will he do?” You attempt to throw a glance back, but your view is blocked by Kieran’s taller frame. And then there’s a shatter, a yell, and every pirate in the tavern turns to face the commotion. You’re being herded up the stairs before you can try and catch anything again, and the door at the top of the steps clicks shut just as there’s a pained shriek and collective cheer from down below.

You knew something along these lines would happen to you at some point, as this is the perilous environment you’re now entangled in, but it leaves you greatly shaken regardless. You feel dirty, you’re probably going to cry, and you’re angry. Henry turns and gives you a sympathetic look.

“Don’t ya worry ’bout it anymore, missy,” she soothes, her hand hovering consolingly over the small of your back as she guides you to sit down. “Good thing the cap’n’s fond of ya. Said to us a few weeks ago that if any of us try anythin’, we’ll meet a grisly end.”

“Is…Is that so.” You stiffly take a seat and try to calm yourself, vaguely recalling him saying something along such lines to you. “That’s, uh, kind of him.”

Henry snorts humorously. “He knows this ’as been hard for ya. Sorry that had to happen to ya, though. You got good reflexes!” She grins and jostles your shoulder. “Saw that smack you gave the old scoundrel. Must’ve loosened a few more of ’is teeth!”

You appreciate her attempts at cheering you up, and you crack a wobbly smile. “Yeah. Must’ve.”

Suddenly, you’d really like to go home. And after that happened, slipping away and hiding in a ship set sail back for the mainland isn’t such an ideal notion anymore. Imagine if Sylus hadn’t stepped in? Imagine if you were alone? Compared to them, and their experience in combat, you would be a lost cause.

The ghosting touches of sleazy noblemen that had you spinning around in a rage have got nothing on what you’ve just experienced. You hug yourself and force yourself to relax back into your seat, praying that your father has sent a letter, demanding your return, just so you have a way out of here.

Ten minutes later, the door clicks open, and in enters Captain Sylus. His eyes meet you, trailing up and down your frame in a scrutinising manner, before he strides past and for the door at the end of the corridor. “He won’t be harming you again.” The man casts a glance at you from over his shoulder. “None of them will.”

“Uh, thank you,” you croak, trying to smile again. You rather wish you did the honours yourself. “Much obliged, sir.”

“No need to thank me.” He pauses before the door, pulls out a set of keys from his pocket, and shoves one into the lock. “Luke, Kieran, Henry, you know what you’ve been assigned.”

Henry gets to her feet, smiles, pats your head, and walks over to join the twins. “See ya later, milady. Let’s pray it don’t happen again, but, knee the next guy in the balls, alright? Really give it to ’im!”

That earns her a laugh from you. “Noted, Henry. See you.”

And that leaves you seated here, on the sofa outside Sylus’s presumed second office, the man still standing outside the door. He’s looking at you. “Are you alright?”

You heave a sigh and look down at your hands on your lap. “Yeah. Just a little shaken. Thank you for stepping in.”

“Again, no need.” The Captain turns the doorknob and begins to open it. “I have things to attend to now.” And then he points to the door diagonal to his. “If you would like to rest, there is a bed in there.”

“But, isn’t it your room?”

“I hardly mind.” He shoots you an impish grin, but it’s not unkind. “It seems you’ve convinced yourself you’re a bother, when you’re the hostage here, so isn’t it the other way around?”

“And you call me strange,” you mumble, scratching the back of your neck, “when you treat me like this.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” You jump to your feet and hurry for the door he’d pointed to, offering a bright smile. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I won’t keep you any longer.”

And you swear you hear him chuckle as you shut the door. He’s rather good at distracting you, even if he doesn’t seem to try.

Perhaps that’s the thing. He doesn’t need to try.

A few days have passed since that incident, and you let Henry drag you about the safer streets, pushing it to the back of your mind. But you notice one thing—the pirates bustling about the place seem particularly avoidant of you.

Is that her? You’d heard a few of the escorts serving ale and female pirates murmur amongst themselves. The Captain’s woman?

“The Captain’s woman?” you gasp at Henry, rather mortified. “Is…Is that what I’m being called now?” “Gotta cut ’em some slack, missy.” The woman pats your shoulder. “’Tis a bit of a shock, because he ain’t done that for nobody else in the past.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Ah.”

It just makes you more eager to get back on the boat and leave this port city, for its heavy atmosphere, violent crime and the looks everyone gives you has the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. However, no harm comes to you—it appears the warning Sylus demonstrated proved effective.

If only my father could see me now. He’d either have a heart attack, throw a hissy, or personally march you off to the dukedom himself. You, a noblewoman, dressed in the tattered, sun-faded rags of a pirate? Those debutantes would drop to the ground in a faint.

You would’ve, too, if you were that age. No wonder your father was in such a hurry to marry you off—you are now well past the common and ideal age for women to be wed, and you think you did a rather good job at putting it off as long as you have. And, now, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, you’re no longer so glad to have been kidnapped, but it’s still better than having to warm the bed of some squalid old man you don’t know from a bar of soap.

But, eventually, the day arrives for everyone to board the ship again and head off to the next destination. You’re probably one of the first to hurry on the ship, a safe haven from the malignant attitudes and perturbing stares you receive from man and woman alike at the port, and somewhere you can finally think.

It was a harsh wake-up call for you, all of the commotion and the incident you’re still reeling from. It proves as a reminder that, although Sylus and Henry and the twins and the flagship crew treat you a little kinder than the rest, pirates are still pirates, and are evil people by profession.

This has been a fun adventure, while it lasted. You wait until Sylus has boarded the ship, given the command to set sail, and retreats back to his study before you approach him.

You knock on his door, and the answering “come in” has you, with some hesitance, clicking open the door and entering. You swallow, drawing in a deep breath. Alright. It’s okay. Just pretend he’s ugly and nasty and horrible like the rumours, say your piece, and get out of here. Stop overthinking things!

“Ah, it’s you, sweetheart.” Great. In an instant, all your resolve has crumbled, all because he’s, apparently, taken a liking to addressing you endearingly in a tone so deep, it reminds you of the ocean. That sounds corny. And it makes you want to jump in said ocean, and willingly become fish food.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, clearing your throat. “I’m just here to, erm, ask if you received a letter from my father?”

Hours ago, when the last of the resources were being loaded onto the ship, you’d noticed the captain speaking with another man far more well-dressed than all the other surrounding scruffy buccaneers. He’d handed Sylus a bunch of letters, tied securely together by a string, and your heart had immediately lifted with hope. Surely, there would be a letter in that pile that would mean your return home.

The man pauses in his present perusing of said pile of letters, and looks up at you from above the rims of his glasses. He doesn’t say anything for a brief pause, before he puts the paper in his hand down, slips off his glasses, and leans back in his chair. “Unfortunately, my lady, no.”

You immediately deflate. You look down at your hands and stiffly pick at your nails. “…Ah. I see.”

“I am sorry,” Sylus says, but his tone sounds impersonal. You half-consider asking him if you can double-check the pile of letters, just in case—however, you know that would be pushing your luck. Instead, you glance up and try to smile. “Oh, no, it’s alright. It…might just…take a little while longer. I apologise for the wait.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, and you avert your eyes from his, unable to hold his stare. There’s a long, tense moment of silence, before you look at him again. “You don’t have to answer if this is too, uh, personal, but may I ask what it is my father took from you?”

Sylus, again, doesn’t answer you for a beat, before standing from his seat and lifting a hand to tug at his collar. His sleeves are rolled up at the elbows, revealing his corded, toned forearms, and you try not to gawk at him. Dammit, I always had a weak spot for tanned men. His bronzed skin looks positively delicious in this low light, and maybe it’s time for you to leave. Before you actually jump him this time.

Besides, you’ve been rather uninclined to male company since that mishap at the tavern. Every time it comes to mind, it churns your stomach painfully.

“Your father is currently in possession of something I discovered myself,” he begins, rounding his desk, crossing his arms and leaning back against it. “Emphasis on the I. It is something called a ‘Protocore’.”

You turn your head to look at him sidelong, puzzled. “Proto-what?” “A Protocore,” he repeats. “Wanderers are thought to be extinct. No one knows how they came to be. It’s been centuries, almost an entire millenia, since the last Protocore was recorded. Five years ago, I found one.”

“I see.” You’re still not entirely sure what he’s getting at, but you understand the gist of it. “So, it’s…some kind of mystical item that provides supernatural powers, perhaps, like in those fairytales?”

His lips twitch with an amused grin. “If you like. Except, they are filled with energy I don’t know how to extract and tap into yet, but it is connected to my Evol, I believe.”

You straighten, startled. “I’m sorry, did you say Evol?”

“I did.” Sylus lifts a hand, and something red and black and like mist gathers around his palm. The empty pitcher of water on the coffee table lifts and clatters to the ground, and you let out an exclamation of surprise. “It’s a less well-known factor about me.” He tilts his head and smiles at you, but it’s sharp as a knife. “Usually, those who see me use it don’t live to see the morrow.”

So the rumours are true. Your heart drops. “Oh. Oh.”

Then, realisation hits you in the face. “Wait. Hold on.” You take a step closer and stare up at him with wide eyes. “Is the reason why you hate my father, why you’re the most-wanted criminal of today, and why my father is out for you…” It’s a little less harder to hold his gaze now. “Is because he turned you in?”

His mouth is tightly shut as he gazes at you, long and hard, before he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Oh, yes, you’re a smart woman, alright.”

You falter, taking a step back. “Oh. Well. This is…” You run a hand through your hair. “This is something.”

“It is,” Sylus croons in agreement. “I was only a boy.” You glance up at him. “How old are you?”

“I am twenty-eight.” He tilts his head. “I thought that was common knowledge.”

You shrug. “Some people say you’re hundreds of years old, an immortal alien creature, and the devil incarnate. Rumours tend to spiral out of control and be exaggerated.”

“That is true.” The man gives you an assessing look. “And how old are you?”

“Well, you know that the night you kidnapped me was my engagement ceremony,” you say, shrugging again. “But I’m actually past the ideal age women are married off. My father was in a hurry to get rid of me. That event was celebrating my betrothal to a duke in the northwest. I’m only a little younger than you.”

Sylus gives a low hum. “Ah. That is the reason why you weren’t all that worried about the abduction.”

You smile wryly. “The man is my father’s age. I was being congratulated left and right because I was about to marry into such an affluent family and achieve a grand title, but…” It has been drummed down your throat your entire life: you are the daughter of a noble, his only offspring, thus, it is only protocol that you would be shipped off somewhere, to some man, who you will long outlive. Yes, the money and position and power and life is attractive, but you just didn’t want it. It wasn’t even because you wanted to marry for love—you just didn’t want another set of chains to be locked around your ankles, more than you already have from your father.

Your mouth twists to the side, and you shrug again. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to get married. Not to a man thrice my age.”

“I suppose that’s understandable.”

“Anyway, this ‘inadvertent evening adventure’ turned out to be far more than I’d bargained for that night I sat here in front of you.” You grin up at him brightly, and then it fades. “Apart from being assaulted, it’s been…fun, I guess.”

“I…am sorry that happened to you.”

You shrug it off, not wanting to talk about it. “I’m surrounded by pirates. You guys try your hand at anything.”

“If you are suggesting that I would lower myself to such a thing…” Sylus straightens in his spot, towering over you. “You are sorely mistaken.” A hand of his comes up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your right ear, and his gaze roots you to the spot. “That man met his end in a fitting way for harming a woman.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “And, as long as you are on my ship, you’ve nothing to fear.”

You resist the urge to lean into his palm and look down, biting back a bashful smile. “Oh, well, thank you, Sylus.”

“Think nothing of it, sweetheart. I may be a pirate, and I may have kidnapped you, but I do not happen to be completely immoral.”

“Nothing personal, right?” you say, voice strangely hushed.

The Captain’s shapely lips lift at the corners, and his eyes aren’t such a lethal shade of red anymore. His hand drops back to his side. “Nothing personal.”

Sylus revealing the true nature of his history and relationship with your father ended in connecting a whole lot of dots for you: it explained why your father’s reputation is so good, even though he is ‘new money’ and of commoner origins, why he was in a rush to marry you into even higher status, and his elusive countenance. You actually can’t believe Sylus chose not to kill you—wouldn’t it be the perfect revenge against the man who ruined his life from childhood?

The Empire is, despite openly encouraging people to turn Evolvers in, secretive as to exactly why. They brush it off with an excuse that such people are “dangerous” and “alien”—but it confuses you terribly as to why they haven’t revealed to the public, in the man’s wanted poster plastered across all stretches of the Empire and beyond, that Sylus is an Evolver. Wouldn’t it be the cherry on top? Wouldn’t it be the perfect selling point to really motivate people to hunt the man down and capture him?

The answer is simple, you found, after mulling over it for a good long while afterwards: it would make no difference to his reputation anyway, and Sylus is simply too powerful. He is too powerful an adversary, too influential a figure, and too loved as a pirate king to tear down so easily. He has mastered the art of evading the Imperial Navy. They hardly even try anymore, in fact.

But, perhaps the true nitty-gritty of it is that Sylus has his fingers stuck in everything. He makes deals with nobles, maybe even the Emperor himself, and thrives off of their desperation to keep their illicit trading with the pirate king under wraps. Why does he always get away from them by just a hair? Why does he always remain undefeated?

Corruption. And Sylus is at the centre of it all. The uncrowned king of the briny deep. He, in essence, shoulders all maritime trade. He, in essence, rules not only the verboten business of the sea, but of the land, as well. He, in essence, is the true power behind the golden-gilded Imperial throne.

He’s too useful to dispose of. Too powerful to contend with. The Emperor is a weakling compared.

So, perhaps the reason why he is dead set on getting that Protocore-thing back from your father is because it may just be the very thing the Emperor needs. The very key to finally dethroning Sylus. But, just what is the Protocore?

Not even Sylus knows. Or he’s just not telling you. Why would he tell you? The daughter of the very man who brought about this mess, who threw a wrench in the pirate king’s plans? You stare out your window, seated on your bed in your cabin, gnawing on your thumbnail, buried in your thoughts. He surely knows. The man is too cunning to not know.

You just hope it isn’t anything too risky. Knowing that man, however, it’s guaranteed. And you just hope you don’t get too caught up in the crossfire, if everything ends in blowing to hell.

Days melt into weeks, and weeks melt into months. Soon, you’re sure it’s been at least half a year since you first arrived on this ship, and now you have visited more places than you can count. Henry started showing you a few tricks with how to effortlessly gut an assailant without a hitch. You spend time chatting with the crew members up on deck, helping out with the odd menial task, and gradually adjusting to the seafarer’s life.

One little responsibility you’ve taken up is mending some of the crew members’ torn garments. You’ve always been rather good at embroidery, much to your governess’s (very rare) delight, and you gladly accept anyone’s clothing to sew back together.

Some of the woman pirates aboard the ship expressed wonder at the high quality of your needlework, the seamless stitches patching their ripped shirts or trousers up to perfection again. It proved a good pastime for you instead of just sitting in your room and reading, doing nothing, and it makes you feel useful. Especially when you get to redo the loose and poorly-sewn hems of their clothing, as not one of them appears to be much good with a needle and thread.

“Always get me clothes caught on the odd nail or hook,” Henry had lamented once, sitting by your side and peacefully observing as you mended one of her colourful bandanas. “Before you came along with those nimble hands of yers, most of us used to just continue on with massive holes in our pants or shirts! Then the cap’n got us some thread and all that to fix our clothes, but we didn’t really know what we were doin’.”

“I can see.” The shirt she had given you to repair had the most horrid stitching you’d ever seen. First, you carefully removed the yarn, threaded the needle, and began repatching it. “It’s alright.” You smiled at her. “I enjoy doing this. And it’s really quite easy to get the hang of, too. See? I could even do a bit of decorating for you, if you’d like.”

Word spread, and soon many of the crew’s clothing had piled up in your cabin, ready for you to mend—and even a certain someone knocked on your door and leaned against the door frame.

“If you’re unopposed,” Sylus said, lifting a neatly folded shirt in the air, “I have a few things that need stitching.”

“Alright,” you’d agreed, accepting the garment. Its material was highly expensive, with gold thread and intricate embroidery. “It might take a while, though. I’ve got…” You glanced at the mountain of shirts and pants and other things gathered by the closet. “A lot to get through.”

“Take your time.” And he’d even ruffled your hair. “It’s not urgent.”

Then, Sylus started turning up with the odd trinket and jewellery. A lot of jewellery. It only ever happened whenever the ship would make a stop at a port, and the man had taken a strange liking to showering you with gifts.

You stared at the pair of cream pearl earrings in the velvet box. “You…got me these?”

The Captain was standing on the threshold of your cabin, hands in his pockets, head inclined down to you. “I did. I thought they would suit you.”

“Pearls suit anybody,” you blurted, before realising how that sounded. “That is to say, I am very grateful for this gift, Sylus. They are lovely.”

“Try them on.” He lifted one hand from a pocket and brushed some hair away from one side of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You shivered slightly, trying not to preen at his touch. “Let me see them on you.”

“Uh, alright.” You turned away before he could see how flustered you were. “Let me, um, get my mirror.”

After that, he always returned from trips into cities with jewellery, clothes, or other miscellaneous luxuries you’re quite overwhelmed at receiving. And then you start overthinking things, keeping yourself up at night, mulling over every single act of generosity toward you, and that’s when you decide to get up and cool yourself off with some fresh sea air.

You’re an utter fool, you chastise yourself, tugging your cool, silken robe shut to fend off the chill. Another gift from him. Pull yourself together! He’s most likely fattening you up for the slaughter. Leading you along to let your guard down, and then you’re dead meat!

Most crew members are in their bunks and hammocks by now, while some remain out on guard and watch above deck, and you make your way up to a more secluded area where you can be alone to clear your head.

Only, someone’s already there and enjoying a glass of whiskey.

“Oh,” you say, before you can remember to be quiet and slip away unnoticed. Their head turns to you, and you recognise the build as the captain’s. You awkwardly curtsy in apology, even though you’re in a robe and nightgown. “Apologies, sir. I didn’t know anyone else would be here.”

“It’s late,” he replies instead, lifting his glass to his lips. You remain a polite distance away, ready to turn and leave, but he continues. “What are you doing up?”

What am I, a child? You purse your lips. “I can’t sleep.”

Sylus hums, and his head turns to gaze out to sea again. “I am the same.”

Before you can think better of it, you approach the man and come to a stop beside him, a good metre between you. You’re not about to risk giving into temptation. “Aren’t you cold?”

He chuckles. “I am not, but thank you for your concern, sweetheart.”

“Ah.” What were you going to do if he was? Offer him your robe? You’re chilly enough on your own, even with the dressing gown. This was a very bad idea. You clutch the railing you’re both leaning against. “No worries.”

It’s silent for a few more beats, and you can’t stand the tense atmosphere any longer, so you open your mouth to take your leave, but Sylus beats you to it. “Care for a drink?” Your mouth falls open, before you click it shut, awkward. “Oh, you don’t have to. It would be a long walk from here to your quarters. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“Sweetheart,” his chest rumbles with a chuckle again, and you can feel his eyes on you, “this is my private balcony.”

You gasp, reeling back. Oh, gods, imagine how this must look! A woman, dressed in a thin, mercifully modest, nightgown, visiting the very man she has an uncomfortable amount of sexual tension with, at night? Especially this late, where it’s quiet and those onboard are mostly asleep? He must think I’m so pathetic! What an idiot!

“I’m—I’m very sorry,” you fall over your words, blazing hot with humiliation. You take three hasty steps back. “I didn’t know, I promise you. I was only wandering about aimlessly, looking for somewhere to think. This was terribly rude of me. I’ll, um, I’ll leave now. Again, I apologi—”

“I never told you to leave,” Sylus softly cuts in, and he sounds so smug. But he places his glass down, faces you, and takes a step forward. You can’t see his face; he’s just one tall silhouette of muscle and arrogance, horribly good at driving you mad, and you clutch at the front of your robe, finding it uncomfortably hard to breathe. “I’m not averse to your company.”

“Oh…” You lower your head and stare down in the general direction of your slippered feet. It’s too dark to see anything, really, as the moon isn’t out tonight. The scent of his cologne and body wash and shaving cream is almost overpowering. And it’s getting harder to resist the urge to not just grab his collar and wrench him down to kiss you. Get a grip, you buffoon. You think this is a romance novel or something? He’d sooner keelhaul you than return such affections! “Well, that’s kind of you.”

He’s close. Standing right in front of you. You can feel his body heat. And you jump when his hand suddenly meets your chin and lifts it. “You know, I had always wondered what on earth I was going to do with all that jewellery of mine.”

“O-Oh?” You swallow and smile unsteadily, despite him probably not being able to see you. If this is his private balcony, why doesn’t he have any lights on, or a few candles lit? You should’ve brought a chamberstick with you. “Is that, uh, so?”

“Mhm,” he hums deeply. “And then I thought: why not just gift them to the only woman aboard who knows what to do with them?” Sylus’s hand moves, lifting to brush his knuckles against your cheek. You shiver, and not from the cold. “Imagine my happiness when I saw how flawlessly they suited you.”

You try not to think about how all that jewellery is likely stolen goods, and their original owners are either dead or still out there, stripped of their wealth, all because of this one man. “I don’t quite know where to start repaying you.”

“You don’t repay gifts, sweetheart.” His hand is warm. “Besides, isn’t it the least I can do?”

“To be honest,” you begin, voice cracking slightly, and you clear your throat, “I, um, there’s one thing I don’t really understand.”

Is he doing it on purpose, the way he caresses your cheek? Damn the man. “And what is that?” “My father is responsible for you leading a life of piracy.” Your words make his hand stop. “I’m his daughter. Aren’t you at least a little resentful of me?”

“If anything, it should be you who is resentful of me, sweetheart.” Sylus shakes his head at you. “Are you forgetting who’s the vile abductor here?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” You twist your robe’s tie around in your hands. “I just—well…” You tilt your head to the side and avert your eyes. “I would understand if you decided to send my head back on a platter to my father as a pleasant little message to hurry up.”

He snorts. “Are you saying you’d let me?”

You shrug. “I say this because I know you won’t.” Then you give him an unsure glance. “I think.”

“Rest assured, I will not.” The Captain then grabs your hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “I’ve said this countless times before. It’s nothing personal.”

“Sounds pretty personal to me,” you mutter, flushing. “You must be going out of your mind with impatience. He didn’t even bother to send a letter agreeing to your terms.” Is a Protocore more important than his own daughter?

“That is why we are set on-course for Rosmon right now.” He lowers your hand from his mouth, but doesn’t let go. “I have plenty of less-sanguine methods of procuring an item without mailing a human head to someone.”

“That’s a relief,” you softly laugh, still feeling feverish. I should probably leave now. Stay here any longer, and you will be pinning this man to the wall. “That’s, er, all I wanted to say.”

“So you did ‘wander about aimlessly’ in search of me?” Sylus teases in that sultry tone of his. “Goodness, sweetheart. If you wanted to speak to me so badly, you could’ve just said so.”

“I—no, I really didn’t mean to disturb you here,” you insist, humiliated. “I know how that must’ve looked. Those really weren’t my intentions. Please, just—forget it ever happened.”

“Why should I?” It appears he doesn’t intend on letting you off the hook tonight. “You got my hopes up.”

“Wh-What?” Your heart’s in your mouth at this rate. “I—! That’s—I didn’t…”

“A cruel woman, you are,” Sylus taunts, even going so far as to step away and cross his arms. “What else was I supposed to think?” You put your face in your hands. “I’m terribly sorry, Sylus. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to explain myself to you. I swear, none of that was my intention! Stop teasing me!”

He pretends to heave a forlorn sigh. “I suppose I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life wandering aimlessly about these seas, dreaming of what could’ve been, forever heartbroken by one woma—”

That’s when you let out an exasperated noise, lash a hand out, grab the collar of his shirt, and wrench him down, like you’ve been dying to for months. You still can’t really see him, so you blindly push yourself up onto your toes and head for where you picture his mouth to be—and your judgement proves accurate, for Sylus immediately uncrosses his arms, grabs your hips, and pulls you flush against him, meeting you halfway.

The Captain’s lips slot directly over yours, and they’re as soft and satiny and hot as you’d imagined them to be. Your hands are balled into fists on his chest, tightly clutching at his shirt, and one of Sylus’s hands comes up from a hip and cups your right cheek, tilting further into your mouth, deepening the kiss. His lips move, vehement and slow, prying your lips open. You squeak into his mouth as his tongue enters, laving against your own, and you can taste the aftermath of the whiskey he was enjoying earlier. It’s a rich, smokey tang that you find yourself enjoying, as if it’s enough to get drunk off of, and you go limp against him. The one hand left on your side slides to wrap around your waist, splayed against the small of your back, keeping you upright as you tug on the silver strands of hair at the back of his neck. You’re trying to push yourself up higher, to meet him far more closely and comfortably, and Sylus takes that chance to turn you around, back you up against the railing, and continue his burning incursion on your mouth.

“Mmph—can’t—oh!” You try to break away for some air, but he’s far more eager than you’d initially gambled, and you’re cut off by his tongue swathing against your lips, diving back in, leaving you thoroughly inarticulate. You’re probably going to shred his shirt through with your nails from how tightly you’re grasping it, clawing to find some kind of grounding. You can’t keep up with him; Sylus’s ministrations are deep and passionate and sensual, you’re trying to match his speed, hardly lacking in vigor, but you’re running out of oxygen.

My lungs! They feel as if they’re about to burst, so you pound one fist against his wide chest and squirm, whining into his mouth. “Sy—Sylus—air!”

You can see him now, as he finally breaks away; the moon’s peeping out from behind a cluster of clouds, his hair is identical to its pale beams, mussed from you running your hands through it, and he blinks at you, as if drawn from a haze. You’re breathing hard, gulping in the oxygen, offering him a shaky smile. “…S-Sorry, just a bit out of air.”

Sylus is gazing at you with an intensity that makes your heart both stop, plummet, and leap, and the intimate region between your thighs is burning. You blurt out whatever comes to mind to fill the awkward silence. “Um, I didn’t know you were such a good kisser.” You look away and to the side, lost for what to do and say. “And, uh, I’m sorry for grabbing you like that, um…I just needed to, you know, shut you up.”

“Do you know…” he says instead, one of the man’s hands brushing back a loose strand of hair, eyes roving over your face. “How angry I was when that man harassed you?” You blink. Why is he bringing that up now? You’d rather not talk about it. “…No.”

His smirk is something that instills a deep sense of dread within you—not for your life, but for another’s. Another’s that’s already long gone. “I almost razed that pub, that town, to the ground. With every one of those repulsive bastards inside. That man got off very lightly for what he really deserved.”

Your mouth twists to the side. “Didn’t you kill him?”

Sylus’s teeth flash with that sharp smile. “Far too quickly.”

Lowering your head, you bite back a smile. “I wish I’d had the honour.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle and buries his face into your neck, clutching you close. He’s quiet for a few moments, and you try not to preen too much at his previous comments. He’d go to such lengths for you, a captive, and the daughter of the very man he hates? Your cheek rests on his shoulder, and you allow yourself to smile. I suppose he won’t make me walk the plank just yet.

The man’s large frame is warm and wards off the cold, and your hands are gently rubbing into his back, something that makes him purr delightedly into your nape. “I was wondering how long it would be before you finally found the courage.”

“Uh, sorry?” Your hands pause, and then you flinch when Sylus begins placing soft kisses to your skin, nibbling lightly, before he finally bites down and soothes the sting with his tongue. You jolt upright, mind blank, and he laughs softly, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. “I, um, I’m not quite—” Your head falls down onto his shoulder, and your nails dig themselves into his back, through his shirt. “What you—hm!—mean…”

“Sweetheart, I am no fool,” Sylus murmurs against your neck, the other hand around your middle tugging you closer just that little more. At this rate, he’ll flatten you against him. “Did you think you were being subtle with the way you look at me?” Oh, just wonderful. You burn with mortification and embarrassment. “I…didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It was amusing,” he chuckles, lips now pressing against your collar, “if that’s any consolation.”

You keep your face hidden in his shoulder. “Not really.”

“I kissed you back, didn’t I?” Sylus emerges from your neck and stares down at you, and that maddening smirk has you conflicted between pushing him away and pulling him back down again. It doesn’t help that his eyes flick to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his top teeth tucked beneath his bottom lip. “And, I dare say, I enjoyed it thoroughly.”

You lower your head and wriggle out from between him and the railing, too humiliated to look at him anymore. “I, well…it was okay. I think I should probably leave now.”

“Not so fast, lovely.” He grabs your elbow and pulls you back, leaning in—and that’s when he firmly tips your head up, his other arm around your waist again. “You have to give me a goodnight kiss first.”

“You’ve gotten awfully fond of her as of late, boss,” Kieran begins casually, as if only commenting on the weather. “Giving her special treatment and all.”

“Right,” agrees Luke, parking his behind on the Captain’s desk, making Sylus click his tongue in irritation. The mask conceals Luke’s grin, but his amused tone doesn’t. “It’s already been, like, six months, at least. Never seen you so polite and charming around a woman before.”

“I do believe you’re overanalysing things,” Sylus remarks, not looking up from the paperwork he’s busy signing. “It’s merely treating a noble lady with the respect she deserves. Something called manners.” The Captain gives Luke a pointed look. “Something you two could learn a thing or two about, it would seem.”

“Uh-huh,” Kieran draws out, waltzing over from the window to stand before the desk. “Been a long time since you ever cared about decorum and respect, sir.”

“Especially since she’s the daughter of the very man who, I dunno…” Luke selected a pen from the desk and twirled it around his fingers idly. “Maybe destroyed your entire childhood?”

Sylus, already used to such antics from the two boys, gives no outward reaction. “I am assuring that the goods remain intact.” He finishes signing one document and begins on another. “I’ve no need to explain myself to you two.”

Kieran snickers. “You’re only digging yourself a deeper grave with that one, sir.”

“And they sure are taking a while to get back to you about her ladyship, aren’t they?” Luke drops the pen and then leans over to grab an envelope, buried beneath the mountain of paperwork on the captain’s desk, and holds it up, as if only just discovering its existence, and it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The seal of the letter is broken, its crest one they all recognise, and Luke smirks. “Or, maybe they have, but you’re just…stalling.”

“And that is so terribly out-of-character for our dearest Captain Sylus,” Kieran quips, crossing his arms. “It’s also terribly out-of-character for our cold and intimidating and oh-so-chaste captain to smooch up a storm with his archenemy’s darling daughter.”

Sylus coolly places his pen down, takes off his reading glasses, and leans back in his chair. But there’s a set to his jaw, a sharpness to his gaze, that immediately puts the twins on guard. “I do believe the bilge cleaners could use an extra pair of hands or two.”

“See? He keeps avoiding the topic,” Luke hisses to Kieran, as if their captain isn’t right in front of them, and as if he doesn’t look like he’s about to maroon them. “Poor guy. Does he really think no one could see them? All that charm, and he hasn’t gotten any action in his life.”

“Yes, I think a demotion from first and second mate really would prove a nice little reprieve from your duties.” Sylus puts on his glasses and picks up his pen again. “Apparently, there’s a rat infestation in the bottom of the ship’s hull. I think you’ll be plenty occupied helping the crew out down belo—”

“No need, sir!” Hurriedly, Luke scrambles off the desk and they rush for the door, giving their Captain hasty salutes. “We won’t bother you any more! We know full well how busy you are! Have a good rest of your afternoon, boss!”

And the door slams shut. The wearied Captain Sylus releases a sigh. I need a nap.

Sylus was invited to join in on the partying, but he had declined. Usually, he’d be unopposed to sharing a couple of drinks with his crew and enduring their awful jokes, but, tonight, the captain is busy nursing a glass of wine with his paperwork. And a particular letter on his desk.

So, when there is a knock at his door, he heaves a sigh and clicks it open. “Luke, I already said—”

“Ooh, look who it isssss.” He’s mildly surprised to be welcomed with a drunken smile and the swaying frame of his dearest hostage. “The gorgeous Captain Sylus!”

He lifts a brow, one corner of his mouth curling up. “Oh, my. What a wonderful compliment to receive from such a beauty as yourself.”

You giggle. “Y’know, I can never tell when you’re being—” hiccup, “—sarcastic or not.”

Sylus leans a forearm up against the door frame, looming over you, but that doesn’t seem to deter your inebriated self in the least. The scent of alcohol is overpowering, and he’s thoroughly amused now. “I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest, sweetheart.”

“Little too close!” The woman lands a smack to his other arm. “Got any rum? Henry showed me this game called ‘the cup of sacrifice’. It was gross! Beer, ale and salt do not go together.”

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” Sylus gently grasps your shoulders to steady you. “I’d prefer you to not do so in my office.”

“Noooo! I won’t throw up.” You tip forward, despite his firm hold on you, and your forehead meets his chest. Your slurred words are muffled by his shirt. “I do feel a little—hic—squeamish, though.”

The Captain can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Goodness, you have adjusted to the seafaring life, haven’t you?” He eases you from his chest. “One might even say you’re a full-blown lady pirate now.”

Your head tilts lethargically up at him. “I’d rather that than becoming a duchess.”

“Oh?” Sylus wraps an arm around your shoulder and guides you into his office, shutting the door behind him with his foot, and helps you toward one of the couches. “And why is that?”

“Because,” you say, words garbled, “I don’t wanna marry some paltry old duke. I prefer…” And that’s when you surprise him by reaching up, grabbing his chin, and tilting his face this way and that. “You.”

“I’m flattered,” he croons, gently grabbing your wrist and removing your hand from his face. You slump into the sofa, head laid back against the cushion, smile dopey. You reach up again and poke his cheek. “Yeah. I’d rather marry you.”

That makes him pause. He stares. “That so?”

“Uh-huh.” Your arm flops down at your side. “I don’t want to go back.”

The man straightens and turns to pour a cup of water from the pitcher on his desk. Sylus extends it to you. “I thought any woman would like to become a duchess.”

You give a drunken snort and sloppily drink the water. “Yeah, probably. Is it, hic, so weird that I just don’t…” You sluggishly lean forward and place the cup on the coffee table. “Wanna be forced to bear some old guy’s heirs?”

“I suppose not,” he acquiesces.

“Call me superficial, but he’s ugly, and you’re not.” You flop an arm over your eyes. “Ugh, I have a headache. Anyways, you’re obviously the better choice here.”

Sylus crosses his arms. “That’s terribly kind of you.”

“Can you stop giving me two-word answers?” It was actually four words, but you hardly notice, giving a hiccup and removing your arm to glare weakly at him. “You kissed me. Doesn’t that mean you want to marry me too?”

The Captain cracks a little grin, and takes the seat beside you. “Not necessarily, sweetheart.”

That’s when you wave a hand dismissively. “Was joking, anyway. What’s your hair care regimen?”

Your spontaneity barely fazes him now. He refills your cup, then pours his own. “Why do you ask?”

“’Cause your hair’s so soft.” A hand comes down on his head and pats it. “Dunno how you manage it when spending weeks at sea. You—” hiccup, “—are so strange.”

Sylus grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles. “Let’s say that it’s a secret, my lady. Now, how about getting you back to your cabin and into bed, hm? You’ll have a horrible hangover in the morning.”

“Ooh, you gonna join me?” Your forehead leans laggardly on his shoulder. You giggle again. “You look warm. I get a little cold down in that cabin. Sometimes, the water comes smacking right up against the window…”

“What a terrible state of affairs,” he humours, easing you to your feet, arm wrapped securely around your middle. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and Sylus keeps you steady. “Regrettably, it would be most unbecoming for an unwed man and woman to spend the night in the same room and bed, sweetheart.”

“Oh…!” You appear to only be just sober enough to finally realise the connotations of your words. “No, no, that’s not what I meant…” Sylus briefly considers picking you up and carrying you as you abruptly stumble over thin air, speech slurred from the booze. “I meannnn, I’m not averse to it…but—”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say when you’re drunk, my lady.” He opens his door, sweeps you up into his arms, and turns in the direction of your cabin. The sudden sensation of the ground disappearing beneath your feet has your intoxicated self disoriented and clutching at his shirt. Sylus grunts and readjusts his hold. “Fortunately for you, I am no knave who would take advantage of a defenceless woman.”

“See? Marriage material.” A forefinger lightly jabs at his chest, and his eyes snap down to you. “Could you get me some more rum? We need to toast to this!”

“I think you’ve had quite enough rum for one night.” She is wasted. A rambling nonsense. Nonsense that’s probably going to make him lose sleep tonight.

“You can never—” You let out a very unladylike burp. “—have enough rum.”

Sylus can hear the boisterous celebrations of the rest of the crew down on the main deck, and he holds back a sigh. “I suppose they taught you a few of their favourite drinking games?”

“Sure did!” If it weren’t for his firm stature and balance, perhaps your staggering as you jubilantly threw up a hand in merriment would’ve sent the both of you stumbling. “Real fun. Never did anything like that at those dull old balls!”

“Sounds like the noble life is terribly boring, hm?”

“So boring! It’s…” Your fogged mind has to think hard about what to say next. “Nice to let loose, y’know? Probably why I like this boat and crew s’much.”

“Strange until the end, you are,” Sylus softly remarks, amused, and he gently guides you down the corridor for your cabin. “Almost there. You lie down and I’ll go get you some water, alright?”

“Aren’t pirates meant to be ruthless thugs?” you mindlessly, sluggishly muse, fumbling for the doorknob of your room before the captain takes charge and opens it for you. “So unrealistic. You’re the nicest pirate I’ve ever met.”

“I believe I’m the only pirate you’ve ever met.” He sets you down on the bed, straightens, and turns to open a window. The sea is calm tonight, and so is the cool breeze. “Other than my crew. And, yes, I’m likely the only ‘nice’ one out there. If deciding not to kill you is considered ‘nice’.”

“I’d say generous,” comes your muffled voice from the pillows you’ve buried your face into. “You could wake up tomorrow and settle to feed me to your pet sharks.” “Pet sharks?” Sylus snorts. “Have you convinced yourself that I have pet sharks?”

“S’what those fairytales say.”

“Except, this isn’t a fairytale, sweetheart.” The man picks up an empty jug of water sitting near your bed. “This is very much reality. And I don’t have any pet sharks.”

There’s a grunt. “You should get some.”

The Captain can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll take it into consideration. I’ll be back with some fresh water in a bit.”

When he returns, he finds you grumbling incoherently and rubbing your hands over your face. He sets the pitcher down, pours you a cup, and extends it. “Here. Drink.”

It’s like you hardly even noticed he left, with how you wordlessly sit yourself up and accept the water. Once you’ve downed the whole cup, you peer up at him with glazed, squinty eyes. “Did I ever tell you you’re gorgeous?”

“You did, about ten minutes ago,” he replies, refilling the cup and putting it by your bedside, within reach. “I appreciate the compliment. It’s time for you to sleep now.”

“Sleep with me,” you mumble, and then you yawn. “I’m cold.”

“Can’t do that, I’m sorry, my lady.” Sylus is not a good man, but he draws the line at some things. He takes a seat at the edge of your bed. “You must rest now, or your hangover will be worse in the morning.”

There’s a tug on his sleeve, your grip on his shirt feeble with your clear enervation. The high from the alcohol is dropping into sleep. “…If you asked me to…I’d marry you.”

“Is that so?” He brushes some hair out of your closed eyes. “I’m honoured.”

“Should be.” Your words are fading. “I’m a noblewoman.”

“That you are.”

“So, you have to do as I say…”

“Indubitably, sweetheart.”

“We should…replace the nuptial beverages with rum only…”

“Taken a liking to rum, have you?”

He doesn’t get a reply to that one, and Sylus remains for a moment, ensuring you’re asleep, bringing the blanket up a little further over your shoulders, before leaning forward and placing a kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, my lady.”

And once Sylus arrives back to his study, he picks up the neatly folded letter and gives it one last skim-read.

Marriage?

There’s a crackle and hiss as Captain Sylus strikes a match, lifting the flame to the corner of the paper, allowing it to catch alight. He watches, closely, as the letter swiftly blackens to cinders, and he blows the matchstick out. As far as he’s concerned, you don’t need to know of its existence.

Yeah. Sylus disposes of the ashes and burned taper. Marriage. He could do that.

And, maybe, he’ll tell you about the letter. Someday. Just not any time soon.

While it took a few hours for your headache to ease and for your ability to actually function to return, the memories came barrelling for you in full force. You babbling embarrassing nonsense to the captain. Poking his face, whining for more rum, suggesting marriage, and essentially spilling your guts. You sit here, now, head in your hands, considering doing the honours and voluntarily walking the plank yourself. To save everyone the trouble. And to save you the embarrassment of having to face Sylus again.

What the hell was I thinking? Thank the gods the ship’s sailing right for the mainland again. Perhaps you could take that chance to leave a letter apologising to him profusely and then make a run for it. You wouldn’t be taking the pearl earrings, as painful as that would be. And you almost jump out of your skin when there’s a knock at the door, before you force yourself to relax. “Come in.”

The door opens, and the very person you’d really not like to see is standing there, arms crossed, that stupid grin pulling his full lips up. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You put your face in your hands again. “Please go away. Can I jump off the ship?”

“You’re telling your future husband to go away?”

“Stop!”

“And I can’t let my future wife jump off the edge of the boat and go swimming with my pet sharks.”

You’re a hair away from bursting into mortified tears. “Where on earth is Henry?”

“Most of them are still asleep and hungover. Who else would be able to check on you?”

You turn, lie down again, and pull the covers up so you’re covered fully, back to him. “I’m fine! Now, please save me from further humiliation and come back later!”

One of the floorboards creak as the captain strolls into the room, and there’s the sound of water pouring from the pitcher and into a cup. “I thought you wanted to know my hair care regimen.”

“Sylus!” You groan into the pillow. “I have a headache!”

“Of course you do. I’m just being a good host and fiancé and making sure you’re—oof!”

Said pillow comes flying and smacks him right in the face, and you rush out of bed, clothes crumpled and hair frizzy, dashing for the door. “I’m going to check on Henry!”

Hours later, after you finally succeed in booting Sylus out of your cabin, you really do go check on Henry—and find her sprawled across the floor of her quarters, apparently not having made it to her hammock before passing out. You sigh and roll her over so she’s face-up. “Henry. Are you okay?”

“Mmf…” is her answering grumble, one arm sluggishly lifting to rub at an eye. Then it cracks open. “What the…?”

You grin. “Good morning! Do you have a sore back? You’re currently lying on the floor.”

Her eyes shut tight again as she winces, turning away from the light streaming in through the window. “Gods…I feel like shit…”

“Want some water? Apparently, we’re nearing the mainland. You might want to get up.”

It takes a good long while for the rest of the crew to get up one by one, groaning and heads heavy and swearing, but, eventually, they’re jolted awake when the watchman cries from the top of the mast, “Land-ho!”

After months of seeing nothing but ocean and unfamiliar lands, your home is finally in sight. You don’t really know how or what to feel about it. It neither strikes relief within nor moves you. Perhaps, with your speedy and firm adjustment to the ‘seafaring life’, as Sylus is fond of putting it, you’ve grown accustomed to it all. The bobbing of the ship doesn’t bother you anymore. Seasickness is a bygone memory. It’s nice being able to see the stars in all their full glory at night. The seafaring life is liberating.

What if you scared Sylus off with your antics last night? You can’t imagine him being ‘scared’ in any context, but it still makes you shudder. What kind of idiot blatantly and drunkenly announces that she wants to tie the knot with a man she kissed once—and one who’s her captor, no less? You got off real lucky with Sylus being your abductor. Now he’s teasing you about it. Maybe you should just leap off this railing you’re leaning against right now.

But, even as you look at your country in the distance, everything settles into indifference. Your father didn’t send a letter demanding your safe return. He didn’t send a letter to Sylus stating his agreement to the captain’s terms. And, if that’s the case, you really don’t know what’s going to happen the moment the ship docks at the port. Is your hour of execution finally nearing? If so, Sylus has done a damn good job lulling you into a state of false security, before finally taking back that Protocore-thing he wants, while taking the life of the one thing your father needs to secure heightened status with the marriage—you. Your hands, presently rested against the railing and hanging over it, aren’t the soft ones of a noblewoman anymore. They’re a bit calloused now. And you look at them, and the change this journey has brought.

You find that you’d rather die than be delivered back to your father, and finally married off. You’d rather die than living on knowing that this whole abduction-thing was just a bump in the road. You’d rather die than live the remainder of your life with Sylus as just a transient memory. Your father would rage at you, send a letter to that old duke stating the marriage is back on, and that would be it.

You purse your lips. The mainland is no longer a dot on the horizon. It’s growing bigger, closer, by the minute, and it’s exactly where you don’t want to go.

Someone comes to a stop beside you. They lean against the railing too. You turn your head and look up at the captain.

“I’m sorry that my father never sent you a letter,” you say, still sick with embarrassment from the previous evening. Your words are stilted. “I suppose that, now, all you can do is…do what there is to be done.”

“And what’s that?” He looks at you sidelong.

You look at your hands again. “Well, you never got the agreed upon ransom, and isn’t the penalty for that the death of your hostage?”

“Is that what the fairytales say?”

You groan and rub your eyes. “Stop bringing that up! I was off my face and babbling nonsense. And, no, it’s not what the fairytales say.” Your hand drops down again, and you frown up at him. “It’s common knowledge.”

Sylus hums. “I suppose it is. So, you think I’m going to drag you to your father’s estate and kill you in front of him?” “Wasn’t that planned from the start?”

He’s quiet for a beat, and then he chuckles deeply, in that classic, sultry way of his. Then, the captain fully turns and faces you, leaning one elbow against the railing. “Sweetheart, I may have gone to an extreme length to obtain the Protocore by abducting you, but…well, things have changed a little.”

You blink. “In what way?”

“I always have Plan Bs, Cs and Ds. You were Plan A. And you worked. For a time.”

“Until you didn’t get the letter, so I didn’t, really.”

The Captain snorts like something about your words was particularly funny. “That’s my fault, actually.” He doesn’t elaborate. “No, you’ve been perfectly enjoyable company thus far. And Plan B is a perfect logical solution also, one that will procure the Protocore from your father’s office and safe just fine.”

You still don’t know where he’s going with this. “And that is?”

“I have your father’s schedule and everything mapped out. Within the next few days, he will be out and about at events, greeting delegates from other countries, striking a few more illicit deals, the like. The old fool doesn’t know that all said dealings are all tied back to me. He thinks he cut ties with me long ago.” Sylus tilts his head at you. “Luke and Kieran will take those chances to try and break into the manor whilst he is absent. Mercifully, they have time and opportunity on their side. If the first attempt goes sideways, they have the next night, and the next.”

You’re rather impressed. “I see. But…what will you be doing, and where will I go?”

“Let’s say…you and I have a date with another place once we anchor at the port.”

The wind is blowing some hair into your face, and you awkwardly struggle to brush it out of your eyes and mouth. “Um, where?”

And then, he does something rather uncharacteristic. Sylus doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t grin, he doesn’t even give you that signature smug look of his, no—this time, he smiles. And it’s a gentle one. One that softens his sharp features and eyes. One that’s all for you. “The registry office.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⨾

@abyssal-blossoms, @paper-bag-boy, @miudle, @syluriar, @loraleiii, @myabae, @chrissy26, @bubblegum-bee-otch, @mrswanel, @libromancer, @scarlet-ancunin, @mentalnotstable, @rjreins, @seris-the-aminous, @jupiterswrld, @purpleywire, @jadedist, @teewritessmth, @terriblesoup, @kawaiivanilla-chan, @xyzesf2s, @espace--positif, @hauntedbysmut, @whimsiecat.

#i loved the drabble #so seeing it turn into something more #this is so cool oh pirate sylus #save me pirate sylus save me #fic rec #sylus x reader

1K notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 9 days ago

Text

` last of his kind, or not

—⁠ tags: AU for Sylus's myth. canon divergence. Sylus x fem!reader. human-dragon hybrids. comedy/crack me thinks.

—⁠ teaa’s note: short scenario. possible future fic. or not lol. cliffhanger am sorry (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

Sylus believed he was the last of his kind. Doomed to a life of solitude as an extinct race and condemned by the humans as an abomination.

Yet he persevered, survived and lived out of spite against those foolish humans - creating havoc everywhere he goes, stealing treasures for his trove of collections, and when he's feeling mischievous, he'd toy around with humans that dared to even dream to cross him.

Or stupid enough to try to kill him.

Sylus wouldn't even grant them an instant death, no no, that'd be too boring. He'd let them live for a short while, torture them as he deemed fit and watched in amusement as they begged for mercy. Truly, these humans are much more entraining alive than dead.

That is until he gets bored of them and stabs them straight in the throat with his sharp tail.

Just another normal day for the last dragon of Philos.

Only the rarest day when Sylus isn't being a menace is when he took himself to the skies to observe the lands below, especially towards a certain flower field that gave him even just the tiniest taste of tranquility.

His large wings flutter behind his back, his eyes gazing down at the field of red daturas coming into view. The sight of the flower field that brought solace to his empty heart.

Until he saw something that made him freeze mid-air.

He saw you.

You were crouching down slightly amidst the vast field, picking the flowers into your arms to make a lovely bouquet, your dress fluttering as you moved around, your light blue tail swaying calmly behind you, your moonlight horns shone slightly by the evening sunset - completely oblivious to the dumbfounded dragon watching you from above the sky.

Sylus thought he might have lost it. That the centuries of isolation and loneliness finally caught up to him that he hallucinated the existence of another dragon like himself.

A trick of the light. An illusion. It can't be rea-

But the moment you stood up with an armful of daturas, your eyes flickered up towards the sky, locking gaze with Sylus - he felt time stilled around him.

The confused tilt in your head, the wondering gaze in your eyes and the slightest of movement as you took a step back while still maintaining eye contact with him.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, his heart raced both in anticipation and trepidation, his fist clenched so hard that his claws stung his palm.

You looked alive.

You weren't an illusion.

You are real.

You -

His body reacted in an instant, his wings flapped strongly behind him and before Sylus knew it, he was flying fast towards the alarmed humanoid female dragon.

He didn't even think, subconsciously causing the speed of his flight to increase. In his mind, he'd already be thinking of landing calmly and gracefully in front of you.

Unfortunately for him, his lost control of his own speed caused him to crash unceremoniously into you, sending both of you tumbling across the flower field until he ended up hovering above you.

His breath hitched as stared down at you sprawled on the ground, jaw slightly agape as he took in your similar draconic scales like his, only yours shone in light blue unlike his dark red ones.

Sylus opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, too stunned at the prospect of finding another dragon like him in this lonesome world.

But he should say something, anything, just speak damnit-

Sylus snapped out of his reverie when he felt a strong smack of the flowers against his cheek, causing him to freeze up for the umpteenth time that day. His gaze flickered between your bewildered eyes to the flowers in your hand - he could only continue to stare at you in utter silence, flabbergasted.

You had just slapped him with the daturas.

#HELPPP #him tumbling into the ground #THE SLAP AT THE END #oh sylus you have my heart #fic rec #sylus x reader

594 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 9 days ago

Text

𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄

2000 words | missing scene. dragon sylus. light-hearted. sort of fluff.

Beyond Cloudfall [Deleted Scene]: In which we experience the trials and tribulations of a frustrated dragon and a snobby mountain cat and how, exactly, that cat came to find the Sorceress of Ivory City.

Note: Dragon!Sylus lives to keep his chokehold on me another day! Haven’t been able to get this out of my head since (like MC) I realized Sylus went on a whole ass adventure to make her feel better with a cat. Full of self-indulgence and an out-of-his-depth Sylus. Hope you enjoy xx

The Dragon stood at the mouth of his cavernous home, gazing out at the rain-soaked city below with a stoic frown. The glowing embers of its citizens’ hearths twinkled in the distance, mocking him with their warmth. The scenery was almost peaceful—a true testament to how unbothered Tarus City was by the Legion’s mindless warpath. He didn’t know whether it was admirable or just another example of mortal stupidity.

Behind him, a disturbing silence clung to the rocky walls of the cave. The scent of the sorceress — which seemed to have nestled itself inconveniently into every crevice of his supernatural senses — marked her location atop a stone platform.

Though she toggled between the top of the cave she’d almost hurled herself over the other day — the sharp feeling in his gut from the incident, most likely irritation, had only just dissipated — and the platform, her silhouette remained the same. Knees drawn to her chest, blankly staring into space. He shifted uncomfortably, obsidian horns lightly scraping against the cave’s jagged overhang.

She wasn’t crying, he knew. She never cried, though he almost wished she would. That would’ve made it easier for him to write her behavior off as nothing more than some human hysterics.

Instead, she exuded a quiet, crushing sorrow that weighed more heavily on his conscience than he cared to admit. She’d been like this for days.

Despite the world’s insistence of his monstrosity, of his evil nature, the dragon didn’t innately enjoy her despair. In fact, she was weighing down the elation he should’ve been feeling over his long-awaited freedom. Shackle-less, far from the abyss, pillaging nearby towns. This should be a happy occasion for him, by the gods, and she was ruining it.

He’d already tried tributes. In his experience, mortals liked trinkets. The greed in their eyes when they gazed upon gold and jewels almost always overtook any other emotion. He grimaced as he recalled yet another way she defied those expectations the past few days, picturing those empty eyes glazing over further at the sight of his offerings.

The dragon sighed. He loathed how her sadness clawed at him, a grating reminder of the humanity he’d long since tried to bury. But she treated him... differently. This fragile, stubborn human.

Not as a man. Not even as a monster or a dragon. When she spit her version of fire at him, she looked at him as though he were something else entirely. Harmless, unremarkable, and, well, a nuisance.

It infuriated him, and yet he’d never been regarded with such… normalcy.

He rubbed the back of his neck, claws clicking softly against his scales. He needed to do something. Her melancholy was suffocating.

He unfurled his wings, the membrane stretching taut against the sharp gusts of wind that coiled around the mountain peak. With a powerful leap, he launched himself from the ledge, the force kicking up loose pebbles that scattered down the mountainside. The air whipped past him as he angled his descent toward the copse of trees clinging to the slope below.

The treetops swayed gently beneath his shadow as he descended and folded his wings tightly against his back. He strolled the area as his irritation bled into a sense of purpose.

“What does a human even want?” he muttered to himself.

As if in answer, a faint yowl drifted up from the distance. The dragon froze, senses on alert. Peering down the incline of the small forest, he spotted a small, shadowy figure weaving through the underbrush. A scruffy little thing, it had lowered onto its haunches, tail flicking as it hunted for something amidst the tall bushes.

A mountain cat.

He snorted at the absurdity of the creature’s arrogance. The cat was lean and scrappy, its fur sticking out in untamed tufts. It was prowling around with single-minded determination, oblivious to the real predator watching it from above.

“A creature as insufferably small and contrary as she is,” he scoffed. Then again…

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. Perhaps this... thing would do.

The thought of those despondent eyes brightening even slightly steeled his resolve.

Without another word, the dragon unfurled his wings and took flight, gliding effortlessly through the trees, just high enough to keep his approach silent. The soft crunch of underbrush and a flicker of the cat’s ears were the only signs of his arrival.

He stood motionless as the creature turned its curious yellow eyes toward him, fighting offense when it flicked its attention back to its prey, completely unbothered.

“Right,” the dragon said, crossing his arms. “You’ll come with me willingly, or I’ll drag you by your tail. Either way, your new destiny is to be a gift.”

Abandoning its prey, the cat sat up at the sound of his voice. Finally, some self-preservation in the face of his intimidating presence.

”So? What’ll it be, little beast?”

The cat blinked at him and then licked its paw, clearly unimpressed. The dragon narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t mistake this for a negotiation, now.” He crouched low, his tail coiling behind him. “I am Stayrus the Fiend. My name alone strikes fear into the hearts of—”

The cat darted away before he could finish, slipping into the underbrush with a small chirp. Growling in indignation, the dragon lurched forward, His wings folded against his back as he pursued, claws tearing through leaves and brambles in his path as the chase began.

It became quite apparent, however, that his dragon-like physique was more well-suited for widespread destruction rather than stealth. His horns snagged on low-hanging branches, his claws caught on roots, and his tail kept dragging in the soft earth, leaving deep gouges in his wake.

The infernal creature, meanwhile, moved like smoke, slipping effortlessly through gaps and crevices too small for him to navigate. Without his reptilian vision, the dragon was sure he’d have lost it by now.

“Cursed vermin,” he hissed, pausing to disentangle his tail from a thorny bush. “Do you even know who I am? I could scorch this entire hillside with a single breath.”

Though the mountain cat didn’t answer, it did take refuge atop a precariously balanced boulder near the cliffside, its gold eyes glowing mockingly in the moonlight. The dragon glared at it, debating the merits of simply incinerating the creature and presenting her with a pile of ash instead. But no, that wouldn’t do.

She wouldn’t smile at ash.

The ground beneath him was nowhere near strong enough to hold him for long so he shifted his weight and stepped forward carefully, determined to capture his prey. Just as he was close enough to extend his grasp, the cat sensed him and leapt to the next perch, then the next, its movements fluid and maddeningly graceful until it reached the edge of the cliff, paces away from plummeting toward its sad little death.

The dragon growled low in his throat.

“You test my patience, creature,” he snarled, lunging for it. His claws grazed its tail, but the cat slipped free, landing neatly on a patch of grass in the opposite direction.

It meowed at him — a taunt, he was certain of it — before darting off again.

The moon continued to rise over Tarus City as the hours passed and midnight arrived. The once-pristine hillside now bore visible scars of an angry dragon’s pursuit of a wily mountain cat: gouged soil, uprooted foliage, cracked branches, and a few unfortunate scorch marks where the dragon’s temper had flared. The cat, however, remained unscathed, not one patch of fur out of place.

He was reclined against a tree trunk to catch his breath, glaring at the smug feline — who was currently lying on its side, tail swishing calmly every few seconds — as he tried his hardest to hold together what remained of his composure.

And his dignity.

“Alright, enough games,” he rumbled, getting to his feet.

The dragon closed the distance between them in a few swift strides, his footfalls as unrestrained as his frayed patience. To his astonishment, the cat did not flee. Instead, it sat up, blinked lazily at him, and began grooming itself, utterly unperturbed by the massive dragon towering above it.

“You’re mine,” he declared authoritatively as he reached for it, his moonlit shadow engulfing the small animal.

When his claws were inches from its fur, he hesitated, frowning as the cat glanced up and met the dragon’s gaze with an expression that could only be described as disdainful.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said flatly. “Have you been… playing?”

The feline exposed its teeth with a yawn.

The dragon huffed, a stream of smoke trailing from his exhale. “Fine,” he snapped. “But if you bite me, I swear—”

In one swift motion, he scooped the cat up, lifted it into the air, and nestled it into his arms. It only tensed for a moment before it settled, its tiny body warm against his chest. The dragon blinked, uncertain what to make of the sudden compliance and the contented rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate its body.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, cradling it awkwardly as he spread his wings. “Do not get used to this.”

The flight back to the cave was uneventful, though Sylus was acutely aware of the cat’s claws kneading his scales. It was a strange sensation, almost pleasant — though he’d be taking that confession to his grave.

When he landed, he paused at the cave entrance, staring into the dimly lit yet lavish interior where she still sat, her silhouette framed by the distant city. He frowned, his grip on the cat tightening slightly.

He couldn’t let her know it was from him. That would ruin everything.

Carefully, he placed the cat on the ground and gave it a gentle nudge toward the cave.

The cat hesitated, glancing back at him as if to say, you coming?

“Go, you vexing creature,” the dragon said, his voice low. “She’ll like you better than I do, that I can promise.”

The cat seemed to consider this, then accept it, padding cautiously into the cave. Every few seconds it would stop to sniff a treasure or rub the side of its face on a damned goblet, like it was purposefully pulling at the last strand of patience left in the dragon’s body.

Careful to stay hidden, he watched from the shadows as it approached her at last, its tail flicking curiously.

She didn’t notice until it brushed against her leg with a trilling chirp, causing her to blink down at her unexpected visitor.

“Where did you come from?” she murmured, her voice soft but warm. Hesitantly, she reached out, her fingers brushing its fur. The cat made that contented rumbling noise again, leaning into her touch.

And then — finally — a faint smile graced her lips. It was a small thing, fragile, and gone almost as fast as it appeared. But it was enough to melt a block of tension from his body he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

As she started to sigh and coo over the smug bastard — who was acting as if it had scaled the mountainside to reach her on its own four paws — the dragon backed away, retreating to his usual perch deeper in the cave.

He couldn’t say he’d be willing to go through the hours he had spent chasing that infuriating creature again. The frustration and humiliation. The near-incineration of half this mountain.

But seeing that ray of joy banish the stormy dimness from her gaze for a fleeting moment? Well, suddenly the grave indignities he’d suffered that night didn’t smart so badly.

Let her think it was fate, or luck, or some divine gift. Let her smile. That was all that mattered.

He settled in to watch her from afar.

“You’re welcome, my nemesis.”

#this is so cute #him struggling with a cat pfttt #fic rec #sylus x reader

352 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 11 days ago

Text

me doing everything BUT prepare for my finals (yall are NOT ready for the xavier fic im cooking up rn)

on a related note, shld be up by the end of this weekend, if not, beginning of next week.

#yes i drew that #ignore how weird the arms look #im not an artist #im a writer (HA)

10 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 11 days ago

Text

noticed the little heart shape on dragon Sylus' wrist yesterday so i found him a way to use it ❤

#i am a SUCKER for wax stamps #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus

761 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 13 days ago

Text

Kiss-Proof

Sylus x implied fem!Reader

Inspired by this fic by @peachlynnie

Also inspired by an Archie comic lol

Warnings: fluff, kissing, established relationship, lipstick, implied sexual content at the end

Word Count: 948

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form (fill this out to be tagged in future fics)

How he got roped into this situation, he has no idea. Not that he's complaining. What could be better than his partner straddling his lap, kissing him over and over again?

You plant a kiss at a bare spot on his cheek without ceremony. You pull away, hopeful, only to deflate when the vibrant imprint of your lips are left behind. "Ugh, this one transfers, too." The tube of lipstick is tossed off to the side with the other failures.

Sylus grabs the makeup wipe from the previous attempts (almost completely covered in various shades of pink and red). His hand holds your jaw warmly, thumb on your chin, as his other thumb brushes the wipe over your lips.

He could suggest taking you shopping to the high end stores that would most certainly have lipstick proven not to smudge or transfer, but then you'd have to get up and stop testing it. His lips still have some red staining them, and his cheeks, neck and forehead are almost completely covered. He'd hate to stop now.

"How many more do you have to test?" he asks.

You shift in his lap, forcing him to stop his ministrations in favor of holding your hip to support you. You grab another lipstick tube from a pile andshift the remaining ones around. "Like, five more? At least one of these has to work."

He shifts his legs, settling you back into place, and draws your attention back to him so he can wipe away the last smidge of tint at the corners of your mouth. "If none of these work, I'll buy you some more," he promises. He nods slightly as he sets the wipe aside. "Go ahead, try this one."

You use a little compact mirror to help you get the shade on right. It's a warm red, bloody and tempting. It’s the same shade as his eyes after a couple glasses of Gin Fizz, when he looks at you with unbridled affection, enhanced with his slight intoxication.

Sylus would be the first to admit how much he loves watching this. He loves the comfort you have to propose this silly idea, to crawl into his lap with a bag of lipsticks and makeup wipes and the intensity of an executive making a pitch to a board room. He loves getting to watch the concentration on your face as you glide the applicator over your top lip, following the natural line to ensure it's perfect. Loves the mild frustration when you mess up the corner. Loves that you trust him to fix it with the wipe wrapped over his thumb nail. Loves the quiet thanks you mutter before you get back to work.

Fully applied, you hum impatiently as you turn the tube over to read the directions. "'Wait two minutes.' Damn."

"The best results take time," Sylus teases.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare. "Fine. What should we talk about for two minutes?"

He hums as he taps a finger on your hip. "I don't think I ever asked: Why are you so eager to find a lipstick that doesn't transfer?"

"Well," you wipe your thumb along his lip, dragging the lingering color with it, "it's embarrassing to drink from a glass and leave a big smudge behind."

He chuckles. "That's what's got you so worried, sweetie?"

You trace the rouge up to his prominent cupid's bow. "Mm, not completely." You wonder what he'd look like with lipstick on him properly. You're sure he'd look amazing. Hell, even like this, covered with all your kisses, he looks good. You're damn near convinced he can pull any look off.

He squeezes your sides. "Tell me," he implores, voice soft and tender.

You sigh. "When we go to auctions, I feel like I can't kiss you," you admit quietly. "Everyone there is so... imposing. I don't want to, well, do this to you," you gesture at all the lipstick stains, "and ruin your reputation."

"Sweetie." He cups your cheek in his large hand. It holds you perfectly, always. You lean into it without a second thought. He smiles. "My reputation isn't that fragile. Besides..."

His voice gets lower as he draws you in. You could get high on the way his eyes flicker to your mouth. His nose brushes yours, hot breath shared in the centimeters of space left between you.

"How else will they know who I belong to?"

Your breath hitches. His mouth is on yours, seeking, claiming, drawing you deeper into him. You feel the creamy texture of smudged lipstick as you hold his face, slide your fingers along his neck into his hair. It streaks along his perfect skin.

His tongue licks the seam of your lips, begs for entrance. You tug at his hair as you let him in. He groans into your mouth, sighs a wanton rendition of your name. Your shirt slips up your waist as he dives a hand below the fabric to press against your bare skin.

You pull away sharply. "The lipstick!"

His eyes look murderous for being disturbed, by you of all people. Still, he contains himself enough not to dive right back in. Just barely. What he can’t contain is the furrow in his brow and the frown he wears.

You ignore the smudges of color on his skin, matching stains on your hands, as you tilt his head up to better look at his lips. They're still stained with that light red from before, but-

"Sy! It worked! This one didn't smudge!"

"Perfect." He pulls you roughly back down to him, biting your colored lip before licking it sinfully. "Let's take it for a test run, shall we?"

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy

#GAHHHH #mom can i have sylus for christmas #fic rec #love and deepspace #sylus x reader

534 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 14 days ago

Text

war is finally fucking over. i got him.

love the outfits ngl

#don't ask me what it cost #ask me how i'm feeling instead #i'm feeling great actually #still have finals but oh well #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus

46 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 15 days ago

Text

i am on my knees bawling my eyes out. his beauty is just breathtaking wow

#i need him so fucking bad

270 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 15 days ago

Text

#i wholeheartedly believe that mc's hearing is fucked #she battles wanderers on the daily with guns #you CANNOT tell me her hearing isn't damaged #besides being an actual godsend of a man #one of my favorite things about sylus will always be that he cannot sing for the LIFE of him

699 notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 15 days ago

Text

wine

word count: 1.3k

synopsis: in which sylus is obsessed with your lips.

contains: sylus x mc!reader (not dating because i like tormenting him like that), alcohol consumption, horny sylus (not smut tho), suggestive themes, mentions of violence and blood, and LOTS of cussing.

a/n: i told myself i wouldn't write anything until i finish finals but sylus won. i'm also avoiding his myth spoilers since i didn't pull his pair yet. enjoy reading! do NOT copy or translate my work. sylus does NOT endorse plagiarism.

sylus wants to kiss you right now. he wants to kiss you so fucking badly, it hurts.

you can't blame the man. you looked absolutely delectable right now. hair up, ears jeweled, eyes hooded, and back bared, oh, you looked so good in the dress he handpicked for you; he could just devour you whole and leave nothing to spare.

and he would have no remorse for doing so either. the auction you two were at was filled with fucking nobodies. how dare they look at you, let alone breathe the same air as you? he's lost count of how many times he felt the urge to just demolish this shithole of a place.

sylus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. he knows he's being irrational. after all, he was the one who suggested you two attend this auction. you showed interest in an old manuscript that just so happened to be available only at this auction, and he would be damned if he didn't get you everything you could ever want. hell, you could even ask him for his heart, and he would tear it out of his cold chest, deliver it to your divine feet, get on his fucking knees, and beg for you to demand more of him.

so, actually, you can blame him for the situation he is in. he was the one who picked the set you're wearing right now oh so ravishingly. he was the one who brought you to this stupid auction that's taking so long to get on with it already—where the fuck is the manuscript? but most importantly, he was the one who made your lips look so damn kissable right now.

he knew what he was doing when he picked your lipstick for you. deep scarlet that would match his eyes and look good on you. but he never thought it would look this good on you. sylus curses under his breath, feeling his pants tighten around his crotch after remembering you bent over the sink to gaze at the mirror and paint your lips. he recalls how it took him everything not to stride over to you, spin you around, and slam his lips onto yours, hoping to get a smear of that majestic shade.

oh, but it wasn't just the shade of your lips that drove him crazy. it was the texture, too. you must've been feeling heated because you go to take another sip of the wine in your hand. the matted, creamy lip print you leave on the glass has the silver-haired man inhaling sharply and tightening his grip on the table. what he would give to have such a work of art printed on him instead. he wants it all over him. his face, his neck, his fingertips, his cock—everywhere until no single part of him was unmarked by your luscious lips. until there was no room to even question who he belonged to.

that's how badly sylus wants to kiss you right now. but he stops himself using the single thread of patience he has left. yes, the two of you were technically alone, standing at the table in the far back. thank god he reserved a table just for the two of you so only he could marvel at your lip-stained glass. no one would interrupt if the two of you were to just have a full-blown make-out session right now.

but sylus knew better. he knew that you were still wary of him. this, you can blame him. after all, he's not a saint. his entire being is smothered in blood, down to the very tip of his designer shoes. he built his lavish empire of protocores and guns from the taking of lives. hell, he even threatened you the first time you met. though, he only did that to push you to your full potential. he could never truly harm you. but sylus knows you. you, in your most beautiful human form, who dwells not only on the past but also on the lives of others. you, whose empathy is so strong, sylus can't help but admire, even though he sometimes wishes you would just let loose and bring hell upon all those who dare to cross you. thus, your continued, empathy-driven wariness of him. but, sylus knows how to compromise. he's okay with being the one with bloodied hands and fucked-up morals so long as it means seeing you, even if it means from afar. besides, you haven't reported him to your little hunter friends yet. he supposes that's a start, and he could settle with that. he could also settle with this:

"is the wine to your liking, sweetie?" he asks smoothly.

you flinch, taken aback by sylus' sudden question. you were wondering when he would stop staring at you and actually start paying attention to the auction. not that you mind having sylus' eyes on you. it's just that the borderline depraved look in his crimson eyes was making you feel all hot inside and you really wanted to stop feeling all hot inside whenever you were near him, let alone thinking about him.

"uh yeah," you nervously chuckle, setting the glass down. "it's better than i thought." you turn your gaze to a waiter nearby, hoping to get a glass for sylus since he seemed so interested in yours for some reason. "here, let me get one for you too."

you try to catch the waiter's attention by raising your right hand, but sylus stops you. he grasps your hand with his left and rests it on the table. you furrow your eyebrows at him, wondering why he stopped you. sylus, the man who appreciates (that's the nicest way you can describe it) alcohol passing a chance at a complimentary drink? you're utterly confused.

"no need," sylus gives a gentle squeeze, trying to ease your confusion. though, you're not prepared for what happens next.

sylus picks up your glass with his free hand, plants his lips on your lip print, and takes a slow sip. your eyes widen, feeling the heat that was coiling in your stomach spread all around your tense body. holy shit, did he just—?

the aggravating godsend of a man next to you finishes your drink with a satisfied sigh, wiping the garnet droplets from the corner of his lips but not the paint left by yours. "hm," sylus drags his tongue along his lips, a smirk threatening to show. "it is better than i thought."

you flush, seeing your lipstick smudged on sylus' succulent lips. you don’t know what to say. he totally did that on purpose. there's no way he didn't. does this mean the two of you technically kissed-

you don't allow yourself to finish that last thought. you blink rapidly, trying to get your now parched mouth to say something. anything. but you can't. you're completely flustered to the point where all you can do is just gape at sylus with a blush the shade of his eyes tinting your cheeks.

sylus grins, the tip of his canine peeking out from his now-tainted lips. this is better than he thought. perhaps, he should settle more often if it means getting to see you so cutely aroused and embarrassed like this. though, he knows he won't be able to settle for long. he knows one day, he won't be able to hold himself back anymore. one day, he'll conquer your lips for himself and relentlessly indulge in the real thing. but for now, sylus is content. for now.

"cat got your tongue, sweetie?" sylus teases, tilting his head to meet your shaky gaze.

you jerk your head away, trying to get the image of his lips out of your mind. "eyes on the prize, sylus."

sylus chuckles, but not without placing his elbow on the table and propping his face on his hand to get a better look at you. "oh, my eyes are on the prize, sweetie. my eyes are on the prize."

#i'm so cooked for finals #but it's okay #it's not #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x mc #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace x reader #lnds sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace

2K notes · View notes

peachylynnie · 16 days ago

Text

Hunger, sated | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You resonate with Sylus and have sex with him for the first time. Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, Second person POV, you should read Sylus is suffering first if you want proper buildup to this part They/them pronouns are used to refer to reader, intended as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns This story contains: fluff, horniness, nsfw, a sprinkle of angst and responding comfort, resonance + vanilla sex, it's quite boring actually, Sylus giving oral and penetrating reader. This is fantasy people, don't use it as a manual for sex (no condom, no mention of birth control, because aside from the gn nature of this fic, STIs and unwanted pregnancies just are not a concern in this fantasy world because I'm god of this fic and I say so). If you're not interested in the sexy bits of this story, then you can imagine MC and Sylus just go back to the base, kiss tenderly, each of them feel very loved, they fall happily asleep. The next part will contain more of the emotional journey you probably like about this fic.

You don’t remember the motorcycle ride back to Sylus’s base. Not clearly. You don’t know how you left the club—the ride through the dark, the cold wind streaming past your form, pressed against his, an impressionist blur, brushstrokes streaking through the dark.

From the moment you let your power flow into him, and received his in return, everything becomes hazy, lost in gold and scarlet. Where you end and he begins loses all meaning. You are driving the motorcycle, clinging to your last bit of self control to ensure that you both get back to your home safely. You are on the back of the motorcycle, clinging to Sylus’s large body, arms wrapped around his waist. You’re clutching the handles of your motorcycle, enjoying the feel of your beloved’s arms wrapped around your waist. The cold wind slips between the leather of your jacket. The warmth of Sylus’s body shields you from the cold wind. You are him, he is you. You’re in the tranquil ocean again, an ocean without depth because it is endless, dark beyond comprehension, bright beyond sight.

You barely remember the moment Sylus killed the engine in his underground garage, right before you and he dissolve into gold and scarlet mist.

You’re rocketing through his hallways again, but this time you’re good at it, you’re not ricocheting between walls, you’re flying with utter, single-minded purpose, but the speed of your trajectory is so great that everything you pass is knocked over in your wake despite the skill with which you fly—twisted, priceless sculptures shatter to the floor, tasteful, vintage tables lay scattered on their sides, vases in pieces and their flowers spilled along the marble.

Doesn’t matter. You’re finally here. We’re finally here. You said yes.

Sylus’s thoughts are your thoughts. Your thoughts are his.

Pulsing satisfaction twists with a bottomless hunger, two snakes devouring each other, the patience at the bottom of an endless well evaporating, thirst that can only be quenched with saliva, sweat, cum.

Sylus’s bedroom door blasts open and suddenly you’re corporal again. Thick tendrils of his evol, now veined with the gold of your own, slam the door shut, the locks clicking loudly underneath the panting of your breaths, his and yours, yours and his. He stares at you. You stare at him.

Can you tell how much I want you?

He doesn’t open his mouth. It’s not the voice of his throat that you hear, but his mind, entwined with yours.

You slowly become aware of the need of your body. The pulsing between your legs. The sweat under your arms. The hair along your skin standing on end with an electric static, overwhelming want. It is Sylus’s desire, and it is also yours.

It’s painful. Layered with the carnal lust is a yearning—it feels like a broken heart, the pain deep and dull like a bruise, a quiet disbelief that at the end of a long, dark road, there is finally a light guiding you home. You’re afraid to fully believe that it’s here, it’s finally here, that it’s not just a mirage, that your chains have been shattered and your reward for lifetimes of cruelty and suffering and disappointment, of grasping at clues that only lead to dead ends—that the light is right here. That the light is drawing you in, welcoming you, saying yes, yes yes after lifetimes of echoing silence—not even a denial, just an absence of any answer at all.

Sylus’s chest is heaving, visible even under the thick leather of his jacket. He’s suffering so much, even as his face is impassive, observant. You think of all the times he looked at you with this impassive expression and assumed indifference. You think of the look on his face when he tried to make you resonate with him, again and again, as he told you to eat your last meal, to survive the night or die trying. It’s the same face. You thought only his look of boredom was his mask, but this face has been a mask all along, from the very beginning. Behind this blank look of indifference beats the heart of a man who feels so deeply that the tremors of his desire, his heartbreak, are now shaking you to the bone.

He follows your line of thought, and there are no words this time from him, just sorrow, sorrow for how much pain he has caused you since you met, regret at so many of the choices he has made as your relationship has grown. You can’t stand to feel this from him, now that you realize how much he has also been hurting, from the very beginning. Why he has been hurting, you don’t know. You let your mind drift along the resonance connection, like brushing your fingers across the strings of a guitar—you follow the vibrations, slip through his mind, searching, and he watches, like a lord watching a clumsy mischievous thief paw through his treasures, tolerant, amused. But there is a wall that you cannot breach. He gently guides you away from it. Right now, he wants you to focus on how much he wants you, how much he yearns for you, how beautiful he thinks your mind, body, soul are. But it’s like he can’t quite keep a leash on the sorrow that underlies every single feeling he possesses for you.

It’s overwhelming. His desire, mirroring your own, reflecting your own. His pain, a distorted mirror of your jagged pieces, still grinding against each other, the cognitive dissonance of being shown, in no uncertain terms, how much Sylus desires your body and cares for you, his beloved, his heart, his torment, his love, and knowing simultaneously that such devotion is impossible. You know your own worth. If he loves you like this, it’s not because you’re worthy of it. It must be a mistake. A delusion on his part. What could possibly account for the depth of his feelings for you?

Sylus frowns. But you don’t want to see him frown, not as he’s looking at you with such admiration, not when he wants to touch you so badly, he wants his tongue in your mouth again, he wants his hands on your skin, he wants your warmth and your scent, your saliva and your sweat. You let his want fill you, mirror it. You pluck the strings of the resonance again and return his desire, doubled with your own, your heartbeat in your heart, your heartbeat between your legs, the need to put your hands in his hair, in his mouth, around his cock, to bury your face between his legs.

A beautiful pink flush rises from the collar of his jacket and spreads over his porcelain skin. Your gaze flicks down and you see how hard, how big he is behind the leather of his pants.

He lets you stare, making no move to rush you, despite his impatience, his eagerness to finally put his hands on you, his yearning loud in your mind, in your body, as loud as your own yearning for him. As you watch, you can feel his dick twitch, even as you see it, from the pleasure he feels under your gaze. His body is yours, yours is his.

You take a step forward, close the distance between the two of you. You reach out, and he watches you intently as you grasp the zipper between your fingers and pull it down, the crisp sound loud in your ears. Once the jacket is open, you lift your hands, lift your gaze, take in the flare of his nostrils, how his chest rises and falls heavily as you touch him, his mouth slightly open, his glowing eyes looking down on you with naked, unfiltered want.

You slip your hands under his jacket at the shoulders, push it down his arms, let it fall to the ground. You continue, running your hands from this thick wrists, up, along the powerful muscles of his arms, to his chest. You palm his big pectorals, the muscles rippling, then let your hands drift lower. You feel his body shuddering, you feel his enjoyment of your touch echoing through you, your own enjoyment doubled, the feel of him under your hands, the way he feels your hands on him. You reach the hem of his sweater and with both hands grasp it, lift it. He helps you, his height making it difficult for you to pull it over his head. He ducks, glides his hands over yours, helps you pull it over his head. You both drop it to the floor.

He waits again. He likes being unwrapped like something precious. He savors the admiration you feel in looking at his body, this body that is yours, has always been yours, to touch, to lick, to eat, to use and dispose of as you see fit.

You palm his shoulders. Run your fingers through the soft hair across his chest. You lift one of his arms, and do what you’ve wanted to do for months now. You press your face into the soft silver hair of his armpit and just breathe in. He smells so good. You take the flat of your tongue and lick.

Sweat. Sylus.

If you keep doing that, I won’t be able to stay still for much longer.

Even in your mind, his voice is strained. He’s been suffering for days because of you. He’s painfully hard for you, and has been trying to hide it all week. You marvel at the effectiveness of his pretending to be indifferent to, tolerant of, the sight of your naked body. He has been hard for you for days, and you were worried that he’d never want to kiss you. You’ve wasted so much time already. You gently lower his arm, grab the hem of his pants, quickly unzip him, and jerk his pants and his tight, crimson boxer briefs down his enormous thighs. His dick springs up, slaps his hard stomach.

It hurts. He hurts. You hurt.

He steps out of his pants and his underwear, casually kicks them aside, stands before you naked and perfect. You let your gaze wander, from the familiarity of his pink nipples, the ridges of his abdominals, his defined obliques narrowing to his hips, the soft silver hair leading from his cute navel down, partially covered by his straining, leaking cock.

Are you done examining the goods? Are they to your satisfaction?

He’s teasing you. He’s so pleased that you’re standing there, staring at his painfully erect dick with saliva gathering in your mouth. But he’s also desperate. He’s being so good for you, letting you look, letting you take your time, when he’s been wanting to throw you down and fuck you until you can’t walk since the first time he laid eyes on you. He remembers you eating a strawberry, the juices running down your chin. He’s been desperate for you for so long, and he has waited patiently until you said yes to all of his questions. Where is his reward?

You laugh. You gather your thoughts, focus. You already know how satisfactory I find the goods you have to offer. Why ask such an obvious question? You tease in return.

He steps closer to you, towering over you, looking down into your face, finally, with a slight smile. How can you know they’re satisfactory if you don’t take them for a spin? You haven’t seen everything they can do yet.

You can’t help it. You reach out, run your fingertips along the sides of his hips, up over his waist, rest your hands there. His skin is so soft, so warm. Oh, you mean you’re not just pretty to look at? You’re functional as well?

You feel him preen at being called pretty, the smug satisfaction radiating through you. Say the words, and you can test my functionality to your greedy heart’s content.

You tilt your head, considering him. Are the words the reward you’re expecting?

He shrugs, the casual gesture at odds with the eagerness, the impatience, the lust that you can feel coursing through him, coursing through you. They’re the pre-financing. The test drive will be the rest of my reward.

You frown. Only a test drive? Is that all that’s on offer? You wonder if despite everything, all of his pretty words, the talk of his beloved, his time investment in you while you stay with him, if after all that, this is just a one-time thing for him. That he knows he’ll be bored once the unknown is known, and he’ll kindly/cruelly set you free, while you leave your heart inside him as you’re forced to walk away.

You step back, your heart hurting, the small distance between you already excruciating, but how much will it hurt when he has his fill of you? You’ll never recover, you already know this. The endless sea of the resonance between you is luring you, making you want to believe in fairy tales. You can’t let yourself drown in him, no matter how much you want him. You have to weigh whether you are actually able to indulge in his body like this and still be capable of walking away afterwards.

Sylus follows, taking a step forward, closing the distance again. He raises his big hands, gently cups your elbows, earnestly looks down into your face. My love, I’ve never been good at the words. It has always been so much easier to simply show you. Say the words. Tell me that I can touch you, that I can kiss you, that I can fill you. I’ll show you that you don’t need to fear anything from me. He runs his thumbs soothingly along the inside of your elbows. As if I could ever tire of you.

You feel a warmth, a deep affection, a joy wash gently through you, like sinking into a hot bath, like sipping a fine glass of wine, the comfort of the familiar, of the intoxicating, a feeling of home, curling up by the fire, of never wanting to leave. A peace that comes only from the most settled, the most secure, the most resolute of decisions, a decision that wasn’t even a decision, there was never any choice at all, it was you, it has always been you, the hearth of Sylus’s heart, the home he never wants to leave, the security of conviction.

But how? What have you done, to mean so much to him? He knows you so well already, and yet he hardly knows you at all. Is time so meaningless, when it comes to the fall into love? How would you know? The love you thought you shared with previous lovers taught you that at the bottom of the fall is simply pain. And you’ve never quite known home like what he’s showing you now, what he’s filling you with. Even at your gran’s, even with Caleb, home was precarious, you knew how quickly the thread could be snapped, how expendable you were. You tried so hard to stay welcome with them, even as they told you that of course you were family, of course you belonged.

You want to slip under the warm water of Sylus’s conviction, of mirroring his security, of accepting the hearth he is offering you in return, a new home with him, in him, one that you will never be thrown out of.

You want it so much, it scares you. You look up into his face, and the softness of his gaze makes you feel reckless.

Please don’t hurt me.

He pulls you to him, your fully clothed body against his naked form, and wraps his arms around you, rests his cheek on the top of your head. I will do everything in my power not to hurt you. The last thing I have ever wanted to do is hurt you. Woven into this feeling flooding through you is an undercurrent of gentle, amused irony. Here you are, worried that he’ll hurt you, when he should be afraid of what you are capable of doing to him. You don’t understand it. What could you possibly do to this powerful, incredible man?

He doesn’t answer your questions. It’s not important right now. Tell me that I can make you feel good tonight, and that I can continue making you feel good after tonight.

You rest your cheek against the soft fur of his hard chest. You listen to his heart beating, painfully fast. You breathe in, the scent of his skin intoxicating, tranquiizing. You exhale.

Yes. Please. There is no other answer. In the depths of you, you have known that there could never be another answer when Sylus is asking the question.

Sylus doesn’t second guess your answer. He can already feel the breathless certainty, the relieved resignation behind your answer. You’re helpless before him, as you’ve always been. You’ll give him anything he wants, from now on. As you’ve already been doing all along, from the moment he showed up bleeding outside your home. Your claws retracted, just for him.

He lifts your head with one hand under your chin, leans down, kisses you softly, a brush of his lips against yours. He does it again, and again, breathing you in, savoring the softness of your lips. The ache that he ignored in order to comfort you returns, grows, the desire growing with it. He slips his thumb between your lips, opens your mouth, adds his tongue, glides it along yours. With his other hand, he lifts your shirt, fists the fabric. He leans back, pulls the shirt over your head, drops it to the floor. He bends down, lifts you with one arm, carries you across his dark bedroom, softly lit by the still-bright red moon pouring through the open curtains.

Through the resonance, the firefly bursts of gold, the deep dark scarlet, he knows what you want. He doesn’t need to ask how you want this to go, how you want him to please you. He sets you gently on the bed, encourages you to lie back on the soft covers. He thinks of using his evol to lift you, to remove the rest of your clothes, to bind your hands and ankles. He thinks of all the other people you’ve been with in the past, a faint worry about measuring up snaking through him, wondering if he should exploit all of the possibilities afforded to him by his evol to make you feel as good as possible, to dazzle you with acrobatics, to completely erase the memory of anyone else from your heart. You strum the strings connecting you to him, try to flood him with the reassurance that with only kisses, no, even before the kisses, with just his eyes on you, his arms around you, his fingers in your mouth, the cinnamon roll on your tongue, fed to you by his hand, the memory of anyone else was already obliterated.

His response is relief—he doesn’t want to use the tendrils of energy he possesses to maneuver you around, to bind you or titillate you—he wants to use his own hands, his own mouth, he wants his skin on yours, not his evol. He doesn’t want to give you a performance, to engage in persuasion, or competition. There will be time enough to explore, experiment, play, to learn together all the ways you can make each other feel good, thrill each other, challenge each other. There is only you and him, now. Only him and you. He just wants to love you now, with his body, with his feelings as naked as the body he is also offering you now.

Yes. Yes. Yes. The only response you can give, as he walks on his knees to meet you on the bed, as he leans down and over your body spread underneath him, his shadow cast by the moon blanketing you, his body still hard and leaking for you. He supports himself with one hand by your head, hooks a finger in the waistband of your pants, your underwear. You lift your ass, encouraging him, as he slowly pulls them down, throws them blindly behind him off the bed.

You’re naked now too. He leans back over you, both hands by your head, knees bracketing your thighs, pauses, stares at you beneath him. He’s letting himself look, not through Mephisto, not through the water of his pool.

How could you not see how magnificent you are? How could you ever doubt the effect you have on me? He lifts a hand and pumps his hard dick absentmindedly as he looks at you. Only you do this to me.

Your previous insecurities, your worry about losing his interest is slowly washed away under the tide of his gaze sweeping over you, his admiration, his unabashed lust filling you.

Now all you can feel is how empty you are without him inside you. You reach for him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him down to you. He allows you, malleable under your touch, and kisses you again, licks into your mouth, lets his full weight sink onto you. You whimper, enjoying the weight, his big body enveloping yours, warm and solid. You kiss him, he kisses you, for minutes, hours, days. You open your mouth as wide as you can, you meet his tongue, push his back into his mouth. He tastes so good. He sucks on your tongue in return. As he kisses you, his hands roam along your skin, seemingly trying to touch you everywhere, along your arms wrapped around his neck, along your sides, over your hips. His hips jerk, little helpless hitches, his cock grinding between your bodies. He feels so, so good. As he presses against you, you feel his relief at the pressure, the gentle friction, and he feels your pleasure from the silken skin of his sensitive dick against your own sensitive body.

You become lost in his skin, his spit, in the gentle grinding, but soon it’s not enough, still not enough, and he feels the same.

He lifts his head, stares into your eyes. His are the same color as the N109 Zone moon. Beautiful and other. Familiar and strange.

Take them. They’re yours if you want.

Just don’t stop looking at me with them, and I won’t have to. You don’t know where this violent response comes from. But instead of being horrified at the possessiveness of the thought, his lust surges and he leans down and kisses you so hard that his teeth click against yours. Saliva begins to slip from the corners of your mouth, down your jaw. He tears himself away, pushes himself further down your body, licking his way down your chin, down your neck, to your chest. He gently bites one nipple, enjoys the soft sound from your throat in response. He runs the rough pads of his fingers over the other, gently pinches, while he licks, pulls the first into his mouth, sucks. You arch into him, wanting more of yourself inside him, the little jolts of pain grounding you with him.

But he releases you, slides his open mouth lower, lower, until his palms are spreading your legs, and he’s lowering face to your body between them. With his first lick, you widen your legs further, inviting him, begging him for more. He’s pleased with your eagerness, satisfaction already winding through him, as he begins to suck, lick, in earnest. He uses his hands, his fingers, to push, caress, to join his tongue in making you feel good. His cock becomes, impossibly, even harder as you place both hands in his soft silver hair, running your blunt nails along his scalp, holding him to you, losing yourself in the feeling of his mouth and hands on, in the most sensitive parts of you.

There are only the wet noises of his mouth on you, the heaviness of your breath in your lungs, the shifting of your body on the smooth sheets as you restlessly move your hips, trying to offer more of yourself to him, as your hands fist in his hair, as he increases the pressure, the suction, as he grunts softly as if eating something delicious beyond words, and suddenly you’re coming, coming, coming.

Sylus feels your climax, his big body shuddering with your pleasure, and he continues feasting on you through it, trying to swallow as much as he can of the results of his efforts, snuffling, wet, a feral creature’s enjoyment of a nourishing meal.

As the pleasure slowly ebbs, where with any other person you’d be too sensitive, overstimulated right after orgasming, Sylus’s own need flows into you, revives your nerves, renews your desire. You want him again. Now.

Sylus.

You feel a deep, dark satisfaction radiate from him as you think his name. Say it again.

Sylus.

Yes, beloved?

You let your renewed lust fill you, push it towards him, along with the feeling of emptiness, now that his mouth is now longer on you.

He sits up, walks on his knees until he can lean down and kiss you deeply. You taste yourself, he tastes you tasting yourself. Then he reaches over to one of his nightstands and pulls out a bottle of lube.

You eye the bottle, lift an eyebrow in question.

No matter how well I might have just prepared you, I’m big. I refuse to hurt you.

And you need fancy pomegranate flavored lube to do that? No plain old corner store Durex for His Royal Horniness Sylus Qin?

He smiles, shrugs. Maybe you’ll want to suck my cock after this. I know you like the taste of pomegranate.

Being with him like this, the glittering resonance connecting you, his genuine affection underlying every move of his body against yours, his promise to do his best not to hurt you, to not tire of you, the post-orgasmic languidness of your body, even as you feel the want tightening in you again, makes you honest. I would like the taste of your cock even if you hadn’t showered for a week, without the pomegranate.

He laughs softly, happiness filling him from the truth he can feel in your thoughts. Kinky kitten.

It’s not kinky. It’s just you. I like everything about you.

His nostrils flair and he doesn’t waste time answering you. He just flicks the cap open, pours a bunch of lube, probably too much, messily into his hand, and starts running it over his dick, pumping himself a few times. You watch, admiring the size of him, the softness of the dark silver hair surrounding his base, his heavy balls big like the rest of him. He leans over you, offers you his hand. Lick.

You take his hand in both of yours, lift his palm to your mouth, and lick the excess lube from it. It’s delicious. You wonder how expensive it was.

Very. Limited edition. I bought several cases.

You burst out laughing. Presumptuous, much?

He leans back, knees your legs open wider. Not presumptuous. Prepared.

You make sure to roll your eyes so hard that you don’t need the resonance for him to feel your amused exasperation with his response.

He snorts softly and then slowly covers you with his body again, his skin so soft and warm against yours, his solid bulk comforting, holding himself up on one elbow. He takes himself in his other hand and aligns himself with your body. Gently, achingly gently, he nudges you, little movements of his hips, pressing, pressing, until he’s sliding in, slick and smooth, filling you, so big that you’re almost on the edge of pain, but he pauses every time it’s almost too much, kisses you, noses along your cheek, licks the shell of your ear, his breath calming along your skin. Finally, he bottoms out, filling you completely, nestled in the warmth of your body.

You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck again, running your hands along his broad back as you feel his pleasure mirroring your own, feel him stretching you, feel your warm wetness making room for him, tight around him, the sensation of filling and being filled overwhelmingly good.

Good. You feel so good, holding Sylus, being held by Sylus.

He feels when you start to grow restless, your satisfaction of finally being connected to him like this fading as your hunger grows again, and he begins to move, rocking his hips into yours, slowly at first. He watches your face, eyes drifting down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, his brows slightly drawn in concentration, soaking in the sight of your lips parted in pleasure, the helpless look of need betraying your desperation for him, the soft little noises that start to work their way up your throat as the pleasure builds. He doesn’t look away as he thrusts himself into you, graceful, powerful, controlled, increasing his tempo. You whine. He shifts his angle, his body pressing into yours at just the right spot, and you close your eyes, moan loudly. This is what he was looking for. Your body, your thoughts are teaching him what you like the most.

His control snaps. He grunts, lowers his head, sinks his teeth into the side of your neck and bites, keeps biting as he starts to rut into you so fast and so hard at the angle he just pleased you with that your bodies start to slide up the mattress with each thrust, until your head almost hits the headboard. He throws a hand up, grasps the headboard, plants his other hand next to your head. You open your eyes, widen your legs even more, encouraging him to keep filling you, to come deeper, further, to take everything you have, and all you see is the breadth of his shoulders curling over you, the curve of his muscular ass flexing as he pumps into you, soft grunts puffing against the skin of your neck where his teeth are still buried.

You arch up, dig your fingers into the skin of his back, and come again. You drown in the feeling, in his mounting pleasure, the joy sloshing between the two of you, overflowing, endless and bright.

After a few more violent thrusts, Sylus comes, and a burst of scarlet and ink explodes through the room, gold bursts like fireworks, knocking the lamps off the nightstands, the books from the bookshelves, the paintings from the walls.

He whines, a little high pitched sound endearing as it comes out of such a big man, pumps his hips a few more times, and finally slumps against you.

You both lie there, his big body pressing yours into the sweaty blankets, your chests heaving, his cock still buried firmly inside you. No thoughts, heads empty, sated. You both float in a depthless sea, your shared exhausted satisfaction two mirrors facing each other, reflecting into infinity.

After a timeless moment, he begins to slowly lick where he bit you, soothing the broken skin.

He doesn’t need to ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t need to ask if it was good for you too.

He can feel how safe you feel, how satisfied, your thirst quenched, the eagerness you already feel to look at the bruise on your neck in the mirror, to carry it around on your skin for days as a reminder that this happened, that this was real.

He lifts his head, smiles down at you. He looks young and happy and smug. A man who just satisfied his lover so completely that all his worries before about measuring up to your past are laughable. The pure male satisfaction of a man with a big dick who knows how to use it well.

You laugh. Do you always wreck the room when you come?

He kisses your cheek. Kisses your lips. No.

You tilt your head, run your fingers along his back. No?

It’s never happened while I jerked off before.

You swallow. Can’t help the next question in your mind. And when you’re with someone else?

He snorts softly. I’ve never been with anyone else.

You freeze. What?

He leans down, nuzzles your temple. You still need a hearing check, when you’re not even using your ears.

What do you mean you’ve never been with anyone else?

What do you mean, what do I mean? Is there another way to say that I’ve never fucked anyone else?

You take his cheeks in your hands and make him look you in the eye. His stubble is pleasant under your fingertips, and you can’t help but squeeze his cheeks a little, shake him gently. He lets you, one dark silver eyebrow lifted.

Why didn’t you tell me?

He turns his head in your hands, licks your palm. I just did.

Sylus!

Yes, my one and only? He nips your thumb, then draws it into his mouth and sucks softly.

How is it possible that you… You stop your thought, a little shy, even though he’s still inside you, even though his lazy satisfaction, his affection, his adoration is still flowing into you through the resonance between you, even as he tongues your thumb.

He lets your thumb fall from his mouth and lowers his face to yours again. You let your hands slide from his cheeks to the sides of his neck, running your fingers through the soft hair at his nape. He rests his forehead on yours. Is it that big of a deal?

You stare into his red, red eyes. No, of course not. I’m just surprised that someone as beautiful as you, as magnetic as you, has never had a lover before.

He’s pleased that you think he’s beautiful, that you find him irresistible. Not everyone sees me the same way you do, darling.

You refuse to believe it. How could anyone look at him, and not see his perfection? You run a forefinger along the side of his regal nose while still caressing his hair with your other hand. You’re so happy that you’re allowed to touch him like this. That he wants you to touch him like this.

Now do you believe me when I say that there’s no one else I want in my bed? That you’re not going to bore me?

Right now, with him filling you, with the resonance glittering gold and scarlet where your skin touches his, with his thoughts in your head and his cum dripping from your body and leaving a wet spot underneath your ass, his smile soft and his blood-bright eyes half-lidded as he relishes in being able to look at you like this, to have you looking back at him like this, you can believe it. Right now, you can believe it.

Sylus’s dick jerks a little inside you, and you suddenly realize he never really softened. He’s just as hard as he was before he came.

You don’t even form the question in your mind, just send your feeling of confusion through him.

A pulse of arrogant, deeply masculine satisfaction fills you. You think healing is the only way I recover quickly?

You stare at him, wide eyed.

Did you think that tonight was over?

You feel a new wave of arousal pulse between your legs, his and yours, yours and his. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He laughs softly, rolls over, taking you with him so now you’re sitting on him, your hands on his big chest. You can’t help yourself as you give in to your greed and start to knead his muscles, as you flick one of his nipples, payback for the bite marks surrounding yours. He grins, his sharp canines gleaming in the moonlight. That was just a warmup round. Now it’s time for the game to really begin.

You bounce a little, gasping quietly at the depth he can reach in this position. His breath hitches. How do we tell who wins?

This game is fun because it’s win-win from the start. But whoever passes out first, loses.

You laugh, begin to slowly lift yourself, the slide easy from how sloppy and wet you still are from the warmup round, from his cum, and then drop your weight again, slamming back onto his hips. He groans, reaches around and kneads your ass with his big hands.

What do I get if you lose? You manage to ask, drunk on how good he feels inside you, on how much he’s enjoying squeezing your ass, watching you above him, pleasuring him, pleasuring yourself.

He clenches his teeth, bucks his hips and meets you halfway. Anything you want. Name it, and it’s yours.

You slow your movements, reach down and run your fingers along his lips, cup his cheek with your palm. And if all I want is you?

He smiles. Have you really not figured out by now that I’m already yours? You can be a little greedier.

You shake your head. You don’t understand why, or how, or when he chose you to care for like this. Why he has relentlessly pursued you since you first met him. What you have ever done to deserve the magnitude of his feelings for you.

But right now, you can’t bring yourself to worry about these questions. Your grief, your anxiety, the loop in your head always whispering that you don’t deserve good things, your inability to trust that gifts are given and not earned—all of these things that are always so noisy in your head are silenced here, underneath this endless glittering ocean, adrift amidst this boundless starfall that wraps you in Sylus’s overwhelming, unwavering, unconditional love.

You let it go, for tonight. You let his adoration blanket you, wrap you in the softest silk, as silken as his tongue in your mouth as you lean down and kiss him, as silken as his cock as he continues to lift his hips to meet yours, as he continues to make you feel good.

You unbind your own affection, adoration, respect, delight that you’ve been clutching to your heart out of fear of discovery, all of these feelings for this strange, sweet, cruel, tender man, and you try to wrap him in return. As you wrap him in all these things that you already feel for him, you hope that you’re comforting him, repaying all the goodness he’s carrying for you. And there’s also a part of you, that strange, insatiable, dark part of you that slithers under all the good you try to offer the world—that part of you hopes that in wrapping him in your own feelings of devotion to him, you’re binding him to you as well. You won’t ever be able to let him go, now that you’ve had him like this.

In return, you feel an inexplicable sense of recognition, of relief from the depth of Sylus’s heart. For some reason, your dark possessiveness reassures him, pleases him, spurs him to lift you, roll you underneath him again, to spend the rest of the night making you feel good, over, and over again. My torment, my love, be near me. A plea answered, fulfilled. In the end, it's a tie, because you fall asleep together, your shared hunger sated, for now.

End notes: this is my second time writing smut ever, I hope you liked it. If you did, please let me know, because if people like it I will write more. I tried to make the sex really gentle and heartfelt for their first time, and didn't want to blow my entire load (heh) about all the possibilities I think are available to these two idiots because of resonance and Sylus's evol, so I have a lot of other ideas for getting freakier, but if people aren't interested then it would be good to know that. I had a lot of fun and it was an interesting challenge. Just for expectation management: I'm going to take a little break after this part for the holidays and try to find some balance for my free time, because although I've had so much fun writing so much and so fast for the past few months (and not because of reader pressure, everyone has been so lovely), I've neglected other things and need to force myself to calm down and balance the writing with the other things I need to do in the limited free time I have. I wish I could build 7 more hours into each day. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I still have a lot of things I want to write about these two, as well as AUs and oneshots, so I'll hopefully be seeing you again soon!

#war is over #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #fic rec

396 notes · View notes