syluses

[syluses]

HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯𓂃 PART FOUR (4) of the stepdad! sylus x reader series

(4) HAUNTED

CONTENT ✦ stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

SIDENOTE ✦ hey girlies i’m still alive sorry for not updating for a hot minute (a month)!! 🌝 whewww this chapter marks a developmental shift in the atmosphere…. so excited to show y’all what’s next but in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this belated chapter!! as always, comments, reblogs, likes, & asks are super appreciated. i understand some are ashamed of this genre of content but ya girl loves to hear & see if ur enjoying the story 💗 anyways- i will try (emphasis on try) to be more consistent!! 👀✨ chapter title is like the beyonce song. [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

Days go by.

Months.

Try five.

Sylus has never considered himself an exactly patient man, no, he enjoys pouncing on the things he wants; not quite one to waste time- but even this is…

Tedious.

He can admit that.

And let’s be clear- nowadays, there’s a plethora of things he simply can’t. But this is the outlier to that growing list.

The little finger on his thick, shiny wristwatch ticks. It does it endlessly. It dips and rolls— and maybe it’s just the not-so nice rest he got last night (more like a short nap than anything else, if he’s being honest, certainly not sufficient), but the time seems to be going at a rate that’s almost…

Surreal.

“And…. so the budget for this quarter….”

Voices ring within the room, each more stoic and phlegmatic than the last, but Sylus isn’t particularly interested in the happenings of the round-table discussion.

Same old, same old.

Mundane living. Bouncing from day to day and waiting.

Waiting some more.

They’re looking at him even when he doesn’t speak. All the eyes in the room. Maybe that’s the definition of power. But maybe that’s an old flame he’ll let the younger him pursue in the past tense; in the memories.

As the silver-haired man crosses his leg over the other and leans back into his chair, he allows himself the moment- reluctant as he is- to simply think.

Perhaps reminisce is the better word. There used to be a time, not too distant, where he looked back at it all like a good memory— a long, unbroken chain of events occuring within his home, within his city, within his heart.

But as five months come and go and leave him in the dust, he just doesn’t know if he can see things from the same rose-tinted lens anymore.

She makes him rethink it all.

Oh, not his wife- as much as the term grudges him to say- but his stepdaughter.

And maybe that’s a problem, maybe that’s cause enough to raise an eyebrow, maybe that’s everything that’s been wrong with him for- for the past God-awful year or so.

But no matter how bad it seems on the outside, taken at face value, the nasty looks he’s been giving himself in the mirror lately are ungrounded. They are.

Sylus has always been a very critical, sharp man, letting very little slip under his nose, but the treatment he’s given to himself as of late has been nothing short of cruel what with how he grabs every thought, no matter how meager, and overanalyzes it.

The one that possesses him across the course of many restless nights is this:

He wants her back.

If nothing else, he just needs to ascertain that she’s okay. That all these years she’s been cultivating something for herself have been paying off- that she’s thriving in every sense of the word.

At the very least, if nothing else, he needs to hear her say that she’s ‘doing fine’.

Sylus wants her to be happy, wherever she may be. In Linkon or a distant city or a different plane of the universe entirely. God, that’s all he wants. He’d lay down his life for that.

…But maybe not content. Sylus doesn’t want her to be content. He doesn’t think she can be, anyway. Not like this.

Though that’s not at all to say he’s hoping on her demise, or anything, that all along, he’s been inwardly praying on some metaphorical hammer to drop over her humble little life and crumble it like a cookie. He’s not secretly wishing for some minor or major inconvenience on her end to act as the catalyst for her coming back; no, Sylus wants the best for his offspring, and only that.

But he’s not stupid. Or ignorant to any of the problems he’s damn near certain she’s experiencing- cut off from his finances and the big, warm bed his estate offers.

Yet she’s stubborn beyond proportion to her body. Big-willed and bent on proving some point— that she can stick it out all alone, maybe. That she doesn’t need their love.

And Sylus knows that hell would sooner freeze over before his stepdaughter embodied the role of the prodigal child. Though, a man can dream.

He’s… been doing a lot of that too, hasn’t he?

Dreaming, awake, while he waits.

The time blurs by, too speedy to catch even the tail end of, yet it feels like he’s biding it for something.

Sylus is a thinking, calculative man. He’s mulled over a number of routes he could pursue to either get her back or let her go once and for all. It really depends on his mood in that moment.

The better option, debatably the more moral one, would be to accept she’s chosen her own path and bite his tongue. Watch as she paves it.

Honestly, a decent chunk of him is surprisingly satisfied at the idea, as terribly bittersweet as it is. His boys, Luke and Kieran, for as mischievous as they are, have always liked to linger at his side, but she’s always been a different case. Maybe he should indulge her whims, officially let her go; if either of the boys wanted the space, he’d grant it- so Sylus doesn’t have much right to stamp his foot down at her and suddenly demand she comes back.

But then another part of him, deeper in, rearing one of its many ugly, envious, control-hungry heads like a modern-day medusa, begs the question of why the hell would he do that?

Isn’t she his? Isn’t it his fucking birthright to protect and provide for her, and- and how is he meant to do that from afar?

How is he meant to-

Finally fucking touch—

A sharp gust of breath blows from his nose.

W-What ?

The image that flashes through his mind then, despicable yet vivid- to put it in the lightest of terms: absolutely inappropriate- of his hand running up her bare waist is just as jarring as the unspoken thought it arrives with.

….Finally fucking touch? No-

No.

He said he wouldn’t go there.

How many times has it been now that he’s grilled his animal hindbrain for offering its two cents on her departure where it’s wholly not necessary? For how much longer will he keep having to war with his instincts that scream at him to hold and cherish and shield and-

Sink his cock into—

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose, betrayed.

The circular clock in the room, hung just above the door, ticks. His wristwatch tocks.

He imagines it’s her tongue instead. Emerging from between her smiling, glossy lips to cluck at him with disapproval and say bad, bad daddy.

Holy fuck.

“Boss-? Are you alright?”

His mouth wets. Sylus looks up, absently waving the concerned ask away, and plucks his tie off his chest to smooth it out.

He nods stoicly, “Go on.”

That’s right. He’s in a meeting right now. He’s… He shouldn’t be thinking about this. About her.

A layer of stone blankets his face, smooth and hard, betraying nothing even in the little creases by his mouth and eyes. Yet when a responding voice in his brain sneers back at him for his wayward musings— ‘you dirty old pervert’— his lashes flutter just slightly.

No. No. He didn’t- He didn’t-

Clasping his eyes shut, his nostrils flare as he unsteadily breathes out, quiet despite the unease that’s having a field day inside him, making his psyche its stomping grounds.

He didn’t mean to think of her like that. In an… unbefitting way, he means. He never jumps into the mental rabbithole that is his stepdaughter with the intention to think about her in any sexual regard or fantasize about laying his hands on her, or better yet, the other way around.

He doesn’t hop into his fucking bed each night, for that matter, with his back slotted against his wife’s because they’re not on good terms anymore, with the intention to fall asleep and dream of her stripping down to her panties and then making him get on his knees to rip the cloth off, eat her out like he’s been wanting to since- since—

Oh, God— since never.

Regardless of the comparison that can be drawn between her and a fire-breathing dragon- that’s his veritable stepdaughter.

His precious, darling girl.

And that’s not what he wants.

Actually, that’s the farthest possible thing from what he wants.

The men in suits and ties lining the perimeter of the long, oval-shaped table sit with their hands folded in steeples along the top of it, their expressions equally professional as they rattle off company statistics and earnings like letters of the alphabet.

Sylus, for once, finds himself thinking he’s not fit to be in the same room as them.

In the moment, as he stares unseeing at the blocked reflection of his wrist candy, he thinks he’s far more suited for a cold dingy cell or padded white walls.

Because has he gone fucking insane?

It’s— It’s ridiculous.

All of it.

It’s the stress getting to him, that’s his best excuse and honestly it’s a damn good one. One hell of a multitasker he is: taking care of his family, being mindful not to neglect his kids all the while parrying off the endless carps of his wife- not to mention the multimillionaire projects he oversees on the side.

It’s physically and emotionally taxing at the best of times.

But just one more visit would ease him.

Oh, he fucking knows it would. It’d ease her worrywart of a mother, too.

Sylus knows very well by now that his wayward little stepdaughter loves to come and go as she pleases; he’s well-acquainted with the fact that she’s capricious as a cat and wary of getting too close- but fuck if she’s not comfortable with stepping in and out of people’s lives…

Doesn’t she know they care for her?

Her rowdy, ever bothersome twin brothers, constantly pestering him to just book a flight for them already so they can close the distance since she doesn’t want to. Her mother, too- oh, don’t even get him started on all her whining and moaning about how she misses her baby… how she made a mistake and should’ve been better to her, more considerate of her feelings, because now she hardly comes back.

Sylus has had it up to his knees in complaints for months on end. It’s tiresome, to say the least.

He’s a strong man. A good man. He is. His actions speak for themselves— Now, he’s no philanthropist, but what he does is generally altruistic, and he’s nothing but loving and benevolent with his family.

Yet this is requiring the patience of a saint from him, and at the end of the day he’s no Atlas: he can’t carry the whole weight of the world on his shoulders-

Several different projects worth multi millions combined? yes. The management of his companies and all the ant-like workers within that umbrella? definitely. His endlessly pesky sons and his unhappy wife? yes yes yes to all of that and then some.

But he can’t handle her.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know how to.

“…put this project on hold to fund the new one….”

Although honestly, despite it all- the woman’s infinite nags that leave him feeling miserable on the best of days- he gets it, he does.

Because he misses her, too.

He wants her back, too.

Oh, he pines for her return like the man in the parable did, awaiting his prodigal child to rediscover her roots— most importantly, remember the love it always had for her— and come running.

Sylus swallows thickly. The lump in his throat bobs to the surface again, though, and something (his subconscious, maybe, shrewd and critical, never allowing anything to slip from his scrutiny) tells him he’s not being entirely honest about everything transpiring inside him.

It unfurls like yarn from a ball and tangles, endlessly weaving together and forming knots with anything it touches.

His will, his perception, every scruple he’s ever held in his life, some microscopic and others so big he’s built his core principles on them- hell, sometimes even his better judgement, perhaps the singular thing he always assumed he could rely on— None of that can be trusted anymore.

It’s one knotted mesh.

It locks together and amalgamates into one idea. One thought.

One perfect snapshot in time of her tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaving him again. Again. Again.

His… love for her is wholesome, for the record. No doubt about that. He’s always given her the most paternal of treatments, patient to a fault- even when it physically challenged him to keep from lashing back at times, remaining calm in the face of her defiance; always considerate of her situation and feelings.

A good parent. Biology be damned, he treated her like one of his own. He always will.

Since the beginning, he’s only ever had the best, most fatherly of intents for her, a-and—

His chair wheels closer to the desktop, squeaking.

He props his elbows up on the mahogany, lacquered wood.

And Sylus, perhaps for the millionth time in less than two years, reminds himself to not go off the deep-end.

It’s better, like he has been, to ignore this thing.

This awful, rotten, wriggling little worm of an emotion that’s been making an apple of his heart.

If he focuses on it, this is what happens:

It worsens.

So… No good can come from dwelling on it.

Sylus just needs to know if she’s okay, that’s all... And one more visit, just one more (it doesn’t even have to be anything long or meticulously dotted out on a calendar: she could show up at his doorstep out of the blue and stay for a day and they’d rejoice), would effectively put to bed all his- and her unstable mother’s- worrying.

Whether or not it would put to bed this other… thing, this worm, Sylus isn’t sure. He can’t pretend and say he is.

But one thing is for sure, as she slips farther and farther out from shore, from him:

Sylus is running out of —

“…….suggest we assign this half to the other party… so the project will be more managable…..”

The clock, ticking, never stops.

✦

Maybe it’s not wise to keep putting off getting a dress for the funeral, but you keep doing it anyway.

You tell yourself you will once the twins get back (you’ll take them up to their earlier offer, and if they refuse (which they won’t), you’ll just take their car and drive yourself)- but otherwise, you choose not to think about it too much.

…About anything funeral or mom-related.

A recipe for disaster, maybe, if you know anything about the negative side effects of keeping your emotions balled up inside like a toy ship kept in a too-small bottle- but that’ll be for future you to sort out.

In the meantime, while the boys are gone, you spend the rest of the first day leisuring in your old bedroom, getting reacquainted with the house and the like.

On the second day, you take a fluffy blanket out to the sunroom, cuddle up to a throw pillow on the sofa there, and lose yourself to whatever book you bring out for the evening.

When the plot gets good, Sylus drops by.

“Hey, Sweetie.”

You’re too startled to properly return any actual greeting to him, but if you overlook the whole unexpected factor of it, the interaction is actually pretty… decent.

Without any prompting, he strides forward- only after assuring you’ve seen him (you can tell he doesn’t want to scare you)- and sets down a hot mug on the little table before you.

The steam rises in an undulating mist. It both smells and looks tasty, and you’re too tempted and polite to actually turn him down on it.

The view the sunroom offers to the rest of the estate is beautiful: land extending about as far as the eye can see (you’re pretty sure it’s all his, too) with frost-covered grass and a small, iced-over pond real far out. Some trees dot your periphery as decoration, trimmed and shapely. The pool and hot tub are covered with what looks like tarps, each flap sealed tightly over the lips. It’s ethereal and peaceful. You’re taken back to older times when you were a teenager and young adult, cuddled up in this very same spot as you lost yourself to distant, fairytale worlds.

But it is a bit chilly here. That’s true.

“Um, thanks.”

So you inevitably accept his… gift (peace offering?) and nurse from the mug as you flip between pages, and you’ll admit it makes the experience ten times better.

Sooner or later you have to break off, though.

As you head in, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Luke sends a message. He misses bothering you, he says.

Kieran, right after— ‘You better not be hanging the lights without us.’

Your brain shortcircuits for a moment before it clicks into place. Oh, right, Christmas is in a few weeks, isn’t it? You’d only been half paying attention when you absently agreed to help them decorate the interior for the holiday season; your mother and their father were a bit late this year around, but the boys wouldn’t skip the festivities if it saved their life.

Perhaps you’re getting a little old for all the dressing up and stringing colorful lights along ceilings, but you won’t lie and say you don’t care for the holidays.

And you also won’t pretend it’s not an excellent opportunity to distract yourself.

So with a very tiny smile and a sigh, you’d stuck your hand in the group pile and threw it up, saying ‘okay, okay, I’m in.’

You stuff your phone back in your sweatpants with a snort and head towards the living room for the staircase, your book tucked under your armpit- before swiftly realizing your hands are occupied with a now-empty mug and redirecting for the kitchen.

Things are quiet. Part of you finds yourself wishing for something to fill it. Hell, even calling up Sylus’s private chef, with his sizzling pan and constant skimming through the cabinets, doesn’t sound too bad.

Which… speaking of food, you’re not sure what you’ll do for dinner considering the boys aren’t around to ring him up for the three of you...

Of course, you know how to fend for yourself, though, so you’ll just do what you do back at your cramped little apartment and make a sandwich or something. An easy, quick meal.

You don’t think Sylus would mind if you plucked a few ingredients from the fridge— I mean, you don’t feel exactly comfortable taking advantage of the amenities here, especially after your regrettable treatment of him in the past, but he keeps telling you it’s fine, so…

He won’t get mad- remind you of all your teenage angst- if you take the liberty upon yourself, right?

The silence is loud in the home, you think for a second time.

Although, letting out a little sigh as you place the cup in the sink, a little piece of you can also appreciate it for what it is. A moment of respite for you to collect and recharge yourself while the twins are gone.

They had their reasons for going, yes; maybe within them, there’s a reason that benefits you, too.

You’re on your way to your bedroom to put down your book when you’re stopped at the staircase.

At the top of it: Your stepfather.

For one simple moment, he seems like his mind is elsewhere as he overlooks the landing. His eyes snap to yours and widen imperceptibly. Before you can fully acknowledge him, your mouth hanging open like a fish, his shoulders lower.

A second later, so do his feet. Tip-tapping down the steps.

Suddenly timid, you draw back and decide to let him go first— the last thing you wanted was to interupt or bother him during your stay here, after all. You’d made the internal vow to be good, be docile, and for your poor mother’s sake you didn’t want to break it. Honestly speaking, it was getting easier to hold it for your own reasons— the main one being that your stepfather wasn’t a half-bad guy and once you finally let yourself accept that fact, the more obvious it became.

For all your demonizing of him, he’s really just one man.

You get that. Maybe you always did.

There’s no point in holding onto all those stupid grudges of your youth, though. Your mother’s gone and you’re here under very serious conditions and you’ll behave accordingly.

You’re not a bratty defiant kid anymore. You’re both adults who are coming together to navigate this- this tragedy.

There’s no other word for it. For this natural disaster.

In that time he descends the stairs, you remind yourself of this- somewhat sorrowfully- and make yourself seem busy. Fidgeting with your book, analyzing the floor… Even pulling out your phone and looking at the weather app doesn’t seem too bad an idea right now.

But before you can do that, from halfway up the stairs, he speaks.

“Are you done reading?” He slowly ventures, one hand hovering on the banister, his ruby-red gaze not straying from yours.

Your stepfather is a proper man, and his voice reflects as much— calm, precise, even-pitched— yet the streak of uncertainty is there.

You wonder if he always feels this way with you. Like he’s walking on eggshells.

A number of years ago, you would’ve felt proud over the fact.

You clear your throat softly, “Yeah.”

Now, it’s hard to feel much of anything but guilt.

Is this what you wanted to be? A person who makes others feel worthless and small? So enwrapped in their own misery that they let it loose to suck and leech off of others— scaring all away in the process—?

No. It never was.

Your mother’s death should mean he’s finally free of you, his wicked little stepdaughter and her sneering scowling face. Perhaps the one silver lining of losing his wife was losing her child, the unwanted addition to the package— but instead, he’s invited you into his home.

And he’s been nothing but good to you.

Hospitable. Patient.

When he reaches the bottom, choosing to stop in front of you instead of moving on, horrifically enough, you’re again reminded that you are the dead weight of this family.

But- that’s okay, isn’t it? Because in less than two weeks, you’ll board your flight, and Sylus will cut you loose. He’ll cut you loose because for all these years, you’ve all but screamed how much you wanted to be, right?

Giving your throat another awkward clear, you think this is it for the interaction. He’s asked you some stupid, unimportant question for the sake of not completely ignoring one another’s presence- and now he’ll let you walk past him.

“Well, I- I’m gonna go to my room-“

He catches you by the wrist in an instant.

You turn around, his eyes just as wide as yours.

“Kitten, I-“ He swallows. You know because you watch the thick apple of his throat bob.

As if remembering himself, he tenses his jaw. When he opens his mouth next, loosening his grasp on your wrist but not releasing completely, he’s more steady. More sure.

“I was going to… ask you something,” his scarlet eyes scan you over, and then he really does let you go. Your arm sways and drops to your side- but your eyes don’t return to their normal size, no. Rather stunned, you gawk at him.

Even as his touch dissipates, the feeling left in its wake, some sudden, tingling warmth that spreads to your chest without prompting, isn’t so easily turned away.

You wet your bottom lip, his eyes tracking the minor movement like it could produce gold, and then shut your jaw.

“Yes?” You breathe.

Sylus inhales. The air is controlled, long, on its way in.

“Have dinner with me.”

When he exhales, though, it’s short and it quavers.

✦

A fog hangs over the moon. Drapes across the wintry, navy-blue sky.

Sylus watches it from his balcony, nursing from a glass of wine.

Decadent, a little. Chilly, yes, but it’s nothing his blazer can’t handle.

It’s eleven o’clock and maybe he should be asleep.

He pushed too hard. Too much in too little time.

It’s why she clammed up and her eyes went uncertain and wide. And it’s why she ultimately declined his invitation to dinner- a rather intimate one, a meal just for two- and perhaps Sylus should be thankful that she let him down easy. She was polite about it. Stammering out the meager excuse of, ah, sorry, I’m not hungry, before clumsily explaining she was tired and scampering off.

The corner of his lips lifts into a small curve. He smirks over the rim, just a wry, tenuous thing before another emotion- a runner up to his amusement- has its turn in him.

Oh, he’s feeling all sorts of things tonight.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He should be careful. Controlled.

Perhaps more importantly: patient.

He should be masking half, at the very minimum, of the enthusiasm he’s feeling over her return- not letting it, and his stunned, giddy delight, bleed all over the place.

Sylus shouldn’t be scaring her with how much he cares.

Oh, fuck if he doesn’t know all that already- that when it comes to this girl, he better tread as if he’s on a frozen lake. One wrong foot forward from cracking down the middle into a thousand micro fissures.

He got ahead of himself, all but demanding that she share an evening’s meal with him on the couch; throwing in the sweetener of watching an old favorite movie of hers only made it worse, he thinks.

Too eager.

Too emotional. Hopeful of the small, seemingly invisible developments he’s made with her to the point of being… Insensitive.

It was in bad taste.

Yes, he was too—

He closes his eyes with fatigue.

It’s a beautiful sight overhead, don’t get him wrong, a nice, starry field with a thin belt of smoke to cover it. Her stepfather is no brute incapable of appreciating the beauty in the small things.

It’s just…

Well, it’s nice to take the breather for a moment. It’s much needed after the past few days he’s had since she’s touched down in Linkon. Since that failed experiment of an interaction that took place earlier.

Not hungry, she said. Ready for bed, she stammered, too uncomfortable to even look at him in the eyes. Eye contact is an intimate thing, he supposes.

And she is not ready.

A gentle breeze swoops by, impossibly cold despite its short-lived visit, and there it is again, that smile, playing at his lips. Stronger this time as he takes another sip.

He’s not particularly fond of lying, honestly; he’s overwhelmingly aware of the fact she came up with an excuse on the spot to decline him. But it was a little white thing and it’s harmless in the long run, anyway.

In any case- he finds he can overlook a whole lot for her.

It’s his fault. Pushed too hard, too fast- yada yada ya, he knows. He fucking knows, it’s just—

It’s tempting him to hold her.

She’s so close, and he knows he’s making headway with her (no matter how seemingly small; any progress is good progress, as the adage goes)— something a good piece of him can’t even quite believe after all these hard, bitter years of charged tension between them.

Her love used to be this unfathomable idea in his head. But as of late, it’s like he sees some softness twinkling in her sad eyes before she either remembers herself or thinks better and recorrects it.

Progress.

…So why the hell does he feel anxious still?

Because he knows she’ll leave again?

But what way is that to live, even? Sylus quietly reasons with himself, brow furrowed into a tiny knot. If all the components of his mind are props in a play, his rationale is an object of the background. Shrinking the more the minutes pass and he tosses down another mouthful, the liquid embittering his tongue on its way in.

It placates the endless fluttering in his chest. Slows it. Tells him it’s okay. And he knows that, he does. He has a whole day before his endearingly pestersome boys are back, after all, and better yet- more than a week left of her stay.

He has time in abundance to work on her. Besides, as tricky as she is, Sylus has never been one to pale at a challenge, has he?

His lashes flutter. He intakes a hiccuping breath and stoops forward to lean his upper body on the railing, his elbow folded over top.

His drink dangles. Sylus experiences a strange, fleeting string of thought that tells him to let it go. Let it drop to the ground below and shatter.

Just let it go.

Just let her go.

Because she’ll be leaving soon, regardless.

He sets his jaw. Clenches it tight. Lets his eyes blink open again as he redirects his darkening, bleared gaze to the pretty clouds above, optimistically reminding himself again, but what way is that to live? Counting down the days of a good thing? You ought to savor this thing while it lasts, Sylus. Don’t let it go to waste.

She has no real longevity. And whatever he… wants from her, that despicable, perverted, monstrous, downright impossible fantasy that lingers somewhere in the deepest bowels of his soul, has no real chance at being.

Good.

Y-Yes, that’s right. And good, Sylus belatedly decides, his ability to critically think- and even see, to an extent- lagging behind his motions due to the inebriation.

Soon, the plane will take her home.

It’s all he can think about. His mind just continuously draws back to that one sticking point, doesn’t it?

Sylus breathes in. Deeply. Then out. An ivory ribbon of warmth puffs from his lips and— Up, up, up and away it goes.

Gone.

Like a mist, she is here for a time and then gone. Appearing for a little while before vanishing.

The plane will take her home. He’ll do the good thing: book it for her- ever the considerate stepfather- and then drive her back to the airport to bid her farewell. Sylus doesn’t think he’ll ever get the opportunity to do it again, because he doubts she’ll ever stop by on her own accord due to her go-to essentially trivial reasons.

Once it’s almost empty, the white-haired man sets his glass down on the banister. Then he cards his hands through his locks with a sigh. Some of them are becoming more grey than white. Iron amidst silver. He hopes she doesn’t mind.

He…

After this week and a half is up, he’ll do the right thing. He’ll do what the better part of him- including his sound conscience- is telling him to do:

Book her flight and watch her go.

He’ll do the good thing. He’ll do the good thing.

Oh, on his life, he must.

But then again… why?

Why is it good? Because she won’t completely and utterly hate his guts that way? Sylus scoffs under his breath, smirking without any real trace of humor as he gazes off into the frosty hills of his property.

Funny, that… See- all along, Sylus was under the illusion that being a parent meant making the hard decisions. Doing what might hurt. Whether or not the child kicks and screams or thanks their father profusely is of no relevance to the choice being made— because that choice is ultimately made in the child’s better interest.

Whether she knows it or not.

Sylus lets out a huff, rubbing his temple as it throbs, irritated with himself. No. No. He’s being brash. He should… think about this later when he’s sober, when he’s well-rested, and when he’s not managing the unreasonable sting of his stepdaughter’s polite albeit firm rejection.

No- I mean, what is there to think about anyway? Sylus doesnt get a say in her future like that, he has no right to butt in. She’s a grown woman. An adult. Fully capable of taking care of herself. She can pave her own path, she can; even if that said path is just a stamp in the dust compared to the industrial road Sylus could snap into existence for her if she so much as mentioned it.

This is… Selfish of him, per usual. Incredibly selfish. Bad.

Bad

Shakily, he inhales, the cold air nipping him. He should go in before his nose starts to run. Before his mind wanders more than it already has. And God- he’s trying his damnedest to keep it from doing that.

But this is perhaps the single most difficult thing Sylus has ever done- or not done, rather- in his life, which is not something he admits lightly.

It’s eating him from the inside out. The guilt, the longing, the- the fucking confusion of it all. Feeling like his heart is one great labyrinth where he must find himself— and her.

It’s uprooting him from the base. Gnawing away at his innards, like a raving beast swelling up in his chest- doing all it can to claw out while simultaneously remain locked up and hidden.

Because it’s better for the both of them that way.

Especially for her.

Nurturing her is really all he cares about nowadays besides maintaining his enterprise and avoiding the toothpaste-filled oreos his impish sons plant on the counter for him on occasion.

Still. The girl, for as precious as she is, is double-edged.

There is a natural process called erosion where rocks, even the hardest of them, are gradually worn down over time by elements sometimes as seemingly harmless as trickling water— and lately, Sylus has been feeling a lot like the grit left behind.

Weak. Small.

Bad

With a shuddering, almost horrified exhale, Sylus pours back the last, ruddy dregs of his glass and then slides open the door to his room with glossy eyes. Burning cheeks.

It’s the liquor. He’s had too much.

Bad, bad daddy

At least if he has another… unpleasant dream tonight, he’ll have the spare room to kick his legs and feet.

♡ tags: @leftpoetrymoon @valhalla-soulstealer @gingybimby @crowsandapples @novthirty @mcdepressed290 @jadeloverxd @satansdaughter123 @blitziwitch @luminaaaz @eialovescats @noliniodeaes @dramaticalsachan @loudhologramturtle @softiepeachess @reni502 @datfangirl @lilyalone @thatsbunnysmind @lioria @floooring @babyx91 @rosie279 @calistaxoxo24 @kingheinrey @msturi2u @theplaid-wearingmoose @blueseachelle @themonotonysyndrome @crazyartist0001-blog @librarydame @deathlycrow @whdhjfjvjvjfjdhsj @terriblesoup @floofycookie @sdlyoongi @hikaakox @melba1982 @crimsonsylus @miuangel @ravynstreasure @corvo-core @mothmothmothmothmothmoth @plainjanegirl511 @dawnbreakerswife @maquiavellica @laur21580 ✦ ask to be added to the taglist! just make sure you have an age in your bio (17+) love yall ty for being patient with me!

[syluses]

omg the recent chapter was so good!!! pleaseee never abandon this series it’s too amazing 🤧

Am very happy u enjoyed the new chapter bby :,) 💕 LOL rn i dont have any intentions to abandon the fic…. so i’m just praying i don’t lose the motivation for it lol 🌝 reading asks like these give me another boost to continue writing tho, so rest assured i think the series is safe for the moment!!! 😌

[syluses]

Hi! Stumbled on your stepdad!Sylus fic and now I'm utterly enthralled. I'm sort of new to Tumblr (I'm more of an AO3 human) but I saw you mention asking to be put on the tag list? I would love that.

Aside from that, if you ever need a beta just lmk!

Enthusiastically,

Ushi 🖤

That is very very sweet of u to offer yourself up as beta reader :,)💕 however with the amount of typos and lucid dream prose i write in the first draft, i dont think i could ever put somebody else thru the torture of correcting t all 😭😭 that being said, you can absolutely be tagged & im so so happy ur enjoying the story so far!! (⸝⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ᵕ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀⸝⸝⸝)

btw, if ur an ao3 girlie- for easier access, u can read the fic there too :]

[syluses]

Can we see a version of the secret times audio Midnight Feast in HWWIW😺

I like the way u think, my friend 👀 may be a LIL tricky to incorporate this in,… but i will re-listen to this audio and then see if i can find a way to sprinkle a few crumbs in hehe ✨

[syluses]

Rafayel Yandere fic was SO SO AMAZING AND GORGEOUSLY EVIL I LOVE IT. But cab you explain the ending or what happened? My little brain cant comprehend all that ib one go 😭 so like, he made her write a suicidal note or??

Thank u lil nonnie 💗💕💕 yes u basically summed it up! he puts something in her tea to ‘help’ her fall asleep, but before it can fully kick in- while she’s in an only half-conscious state- he makes her write the final, very concerning letter :,) and then he puts her in a fancy boat to lay low for a bit while he prepares her tribute in linkon… all with the help of thomas ofc 👀

[syluses]

HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯𓂃 PART FOUR (4) of the stepdad! sylus x reader series

(4) HAUNTED

CONTENT ✦ stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

SIDENOTE ✦ hey girlies i’m still alive sorry for not updating for a hot minute (a month)!! 🌝 whewww this chapter marks a developmental shift in the atmosphere…. so excited to show y’all what’s next but in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this belated chapter!! as always, comments, reblogs, likes, & asks are super appreciated. i understand some are ashamed of this genre of content but ya girl loves to hear & see if ur enjoying the story 💗 anyways- i will try (emphasis on try) to be more consistent!! 👀✨ chapter title is like the beyonce song. [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

Days go by.

Months.

Try five.

Sylus has never considered himself an exactly patient man, no, he enjoys pouncing on the things he wants; not quite one to waste time- but even this is…

Tedious.

He can admit that.

And let’s be clear- nowadays, there’s a plethora of things he simply can’t. But this is the outlier to that growing list.

The little finger on his thick, shiny wristwatch ticks. It does it endlessly. It dips and rolls— and maybe it’s just the not-so nice rest he got last night (more like a short nap than anything else, if he’s being honest, certainly not sufficient), but the time seems to be going at a rate that’s almost…

Surreal.

“And…. so the budget for this quarter….”

Voices ring within the room, each more stoic and phlegmatic than the last, but Sylus isn’t particularly interested in the happenings of the round-table discussion.

Same old, same old.

Mundane living. Bouncing from day to day and waiting.

Waiting some more.

They’re looking at him even when he doesn’t speak. All the eyes in the room. Maybe that’s the definition of power. But maybe that’s an old flame he’ll let the younger him pursue in the past tense; in the memories.

As the silver-haired man crosses his leg over the other and leans back into his chair, he allows himself the moment- reluctant as he is- to simply think.

Perhaps reminisce is the better word. There used to be a time, not too distant, where he looked back at it all like a good memory— a long, unbroken chain of events occuring within his home, within his city, within his heart.

But as five months come and go and leave him in the dust, he just doesn’t know if he can see things from the same rose-tinted lens anymore.

She makes him rethink it all.

Oh, not his wife- as much as the term grudges him to say- but his stepdaughter.

And maybe that’s a problem, maybe that’s cause enough to raise an eyebrow, maybe that’s everything that’s been wrong with him for- for the past God-awful year or so.

But no matter how bad it seems on the outside, taken at face value, the nasty looks he’s been giving himself in the mirror lately are ungrounded. They are.

Sylus has always been a very critical, sharp man, letting very little slip under his nose, but the treatment he’s given to himself as of late has been nothing short of cruel what with how he grabs every thought, no matter how meager, and overanalyzes it.

The one that possesses him across the course of many restless nights is this:

He wants her back.

If nothing else, he just needs to ascertain that she’s okay. That all these years she’s been cultivating something for herself have been paying off- that she’s thriving in every sense of the word.

At the very least, if nothing else, he needs to hear her say that she’s ‘doing fine’.

Sylus wants her to be happy, wherever she may be. In Linkon or a distant city or a different plane of the universe entirely. God, that’s all he wants. He’d lay down his life for that.

…But maybe not content. Sylus doesn’t want her to be content. He doesn’t think she can be, anyway. Not like this.

Though that’s not at all to say he’s hoping on her demise, or anything, that all along, he’s been inwardly praying on some metaphorical hammer to drop over her humble little life and crumble it like a cookie. He’s not secretly wishing for some minor or major inconvenience on her end to act as the catalyst for her coming back; no, Sylus wants the best for his offspring, and only that.

But he’s not stupid. Or ignorant to any of the problems he’s damn near certain she’s experiencing- cut off from his finances and the big, warm bed his estate offers.

Yet she’s stubborn beyond proportion to her body. Big-willed and bent on proving some point— that she can stick it out all alone, maybe. That she doesn’t need their love.

And Sylus knows that hell would sooner freeze over before his stepdaughter embodied the role of the prodigal child. Though, a man can dream.

He’s… been doing a lot of that too, hasn’t he?

Dreaming, awake, while he waits.

The time blurs by, too speedy to catch even the tail end of, yet it feels like he’s biding it for something.

Sylus is a thinking, calculative man. He’s mulled over a number of routes he could pursue to either get her back or let her go once and for all. It really depends on his mood in that moment.

The better option, debatably the more moral one, would be to accept she’s chosen her own path and bite his tongue. Watch as she paves it.

Honestly, a decent chunk of him is surprisingly satisfied at the idea, as terribly bittersweet as it is. His boys, Luke and Kieran, for as mischievous as they are, have always liked to linger at his side, but she’s always been a different case. Maybe he should indulge her whims, officially let her go; if either of the boys wanted the space, he’d grant it- so Sylus doesn’t have much right to stamp his foot down at her and suddenly demand she comes back.

But then another part of him, deeper in, rearing one of its many ugly, envious, control-hungry heads like a modern-day medusa, begs the question of why the hell would he do that?

Isn’t she his? Isn’t it his fucking birthright to protect and provide for her, and- and how is he meant to do that from afar?

How is he meant to-

Finally fucking touch—

A sharp gust of breath blows from his nose.

W-What ?

The image that flashes through his mind then, despicable yet vivid- to put it in the lightest of terms: absolutely inappropriate- of his hand running up her bare waist is just as jarring as the unspoken thought it arrives with.

….Finally fucking touch? No-

No.

He said he wouldn’t go there.

How many times has it been now that he’s grilled his animal hindbrain for offering its two cents on her departure where it’s wholly not necessary? For how much longer will he keep having to war with his instincts that scream at him to hold and cherish and shield and-

Sink his cock into—

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose, betrayed.

The circular clock in the room, hung just above the door, ticks. His wristwatch tocks.

He imagines it’s her tongue instead. Emerging from between her smiling, glossy lips to cluck at him with disapproval and say bad, bad daddy.

Holy fuck.

“Boss-? Are you alright?”

His mouth wets. Sylus looks up, absently waving the concerned ask away, and plucks his tie off his chest to smooth it out.

He nods stoicly, “Go on.”

That’s right. He’s in a meeting right now. He’s… He shouldn’t be thinking about this. About her.

A layer of stone blankets his face, smooth and hard, betraying nothing even in the little creases by his mouth and eyes. Yet when a responding voice in his brain sneers back at him for his wayward musings— ‘you dirty old pervert’— his lashes flutter just slightly.

No. No. He didn’t- He didn’t-

Clasping his eyes shut, his nostrils flare as he unsteadily breathes out, quiet despite the unease that’s having a field day inside him, making his psyche its stomping grounds.

He didn’t mean to think of her like that. In an… unbefitting way, he means. He never jumps into the mental rabbithole that is his stepdaughter with the intention to think about her in any sexual regard or fantasize about laying his hands on her, or better yet, the other way around.

He doesn’t hop into his fucking bed each night, for that matter, with his back slotted against his wife’s because they’re not on good terms anymore, with the intention to fall asleep and dream of her stripping down to her panties and then making him get on his knees to rip the cloth off, eat her out like he’s been wanting to since- since—

Oh, God— since never.

Regardless of the comparison that can be drawn between her and a fire-breathing dragon- that’s his veritable stepdaughter.

His precious, darling girl.

And that’s not what he wants.

Actually, that’s the farthest possible thing from what he wants.

The men in suits and ties lining the perimeter of the long, oval-shaped table sit with their hands folded in steeples along the top of it, their expressions equally professional as they rattle off company statistics and earnings like letters of the alphabet.

Sylus, for once, finds himself thinking he’s not fit to be in the same room as them.

In the moment, as he stares unseeing at the blocked reflection of his wrist candy, he thinks he’s far more suited for a cold dingy cell or padded white walls.

Because has he gone fucking insane?

It’s— It’s ridiculous.

All of it.

It’s the stress getting to him, that’s his best excuse and honestly it’s a damn good one. One hell of a multitasker he is: taking care of his family, being mindful not to neglect his kids all the while parrying off the endless carps of his wife- not to mention the multimillionaire projects he oversees on the side.

It’s physically and emotionally taxing at the best of times.

But just one more visit would ease him.

Oh, he fucking knows it would. It’d ease her worrywart of a mother, too.

Sylus knows very well by now that his wayward little stepdaughter loves to come and go as she pleases; he’s well-acquainted with the fact that she’s capricious as a cat and wary of getting too close- but fuck if she’s not comfortable with stepping in and out of people’s lives…

Doesn’t she know they care for her?

Her rowdy, ever bothersome twin brothers, constantly pestering him to just book a flight for them already so they can close the distance since she doesn’t want to. Her mother, too- oh, don’t even get him started on all her whining and moaning about how she misses her baby… how she made a mistake and should’ve been better to her, more considerate of her feelings, because now she hardly comes back.

Sylus has had it up to his knees in complaints for months on end. It’s tiresome, to say the least.

He’s a strong man. A good man. He is. His actions speak for themselves— Now, he’s no philanthropist, but what he does is generally altruistic, and he’s nothing but loving and benevolent with his family.

Yet this is requiring the patience of a saint from him, and at the end of the day he’s no Atlas: he can’t carry the whole weight of the world on his shoulders-

Several different projects worth multi millions combined? yes. The management of his companies and all the ant-like workers within that umbrella? definitely. His endlessly pesky sons and his unhappy wife? yes yes yes to all of that and then some.

But he can’t handle her.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know how to.

“…put this project on hold to fund the new one….”

Although honestly, despite it all- the woman’s infinite nags that leave him feeling miserable on the best of days- he gets it, he does.

Because he misses her, too.

He wants her back, too.

Oh, he pines for her return like the man in the parable did, awaiting his prodigal child to rediscover her roots— most importantly, remember the love it always had for her— and come running.

Sylus swallows thickly. The lump in his throat bobs to the surface again, though, and something (his subconscious, maybe, shrewd and critical, never allowing anything to slip from his scrutiny) tells him he’s not being entirely honest about everything transpiring inside him.

It unfurls like yarn from a ball and tangles, endlessly weaving together and forming knots with anything it touches.

His will, his perception, every scruple he’s ever held in his life, some microscopic and others so big he’s built his core principles on them- hell, sometimes even his better judgement, perhaps the singular thing he always assumed he could rely on— None of that can be trusted anymore.

It’s one knotted mesh.

It locks together and amalgamates into one idea. One thought.

One perfect snapshot in time of her tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaving him again. Again. Again.

His… love for her is wholesome, for the record. No doubt about that. He’s always given her the most paternal of treatments, patient to a fault- even when it physically challenged him to keep from lashing back at times, remaining calm in the face of her defiance; always considerate of her situation and feelings.

A good parent. Biology be damned, he treated her like one of his own. He always will.

Since the beginning, he’s only ever had the best, most fatherly of intents for her, a-and—

His chair wheels closer to the desktop, squeaking.

He props his elbows up on the mahogany, lacquered wood.

And Sylus, perhaps for the millionth time in less than two years, reminds himself to not go off the deep-end.

It’s better, like he has been, to ignore this thing.

This awful, rotten, wriggling little worm of an emotion that’s been making an apple of his heart.

If he focuses on it, this is what happens:

It worsens.

So… No good can come from dwelling on it.

Sylus just needs to know if she’s okay, that’s all... And one more visit, just one more (it doesn’t even have to be anything long or meticulously dotted out on a calendar: she could show up at his doorstep out of the blue and stay for a day and they’d rejoice), would effectively put to bed all his- and her unstable mother’s- worrying.

Whether or not it would put to bed this other… thing, this worm, Sylus isn’t sure. He can’t pretend and say he is.

But one thing is for sure, as she slips farther and farther out from shore, from him:

Sylus is running out of —

“…….suggest we assign this half to the other party… so the project will be more managable…..”

The clock, ticking, never stops.

✦

Maybe it’s not wise to keep putting off getting a dress for the funeral, but you keep doing it anyway.

You tell yourself you will once the twins get back (you’ll take them up to their earlier offer, and if they refuse (which they won’t), you’ll just take their car and drive yourself)- but otherwise, you choose not to think about it too much.

…About anything funeral or mom-related.

A recipe for disaster, maybe, if you know anything about the negative side effects of keeping your emotions balled up inside like a toy ship kept in a too-small bottle- but that’ll be for future you to sort out.

In the meantime, while the boys are gone, you spend the rest of the first day leisuring in your old bedroom, getting reacquainted with the house and the like.

On the second day, you take a fluffy blanket out to the sunroom, cuddle up to a throw pillow on the sofa there, and lose yourself to whatever book you bring out for the evening.

When the plot gets good, Sylus drops by.

“Hey, Sweetie.”

You’re too startled to properly return any actual greeting to him, but if you overlook the whole unexpected factor of it, the interaction is actually pretty… decent.

Without any prompting, he strides forward- only after assuring you’ve seen him (you can tell he doesn’t want to scare you)- and sets down a hot mug on the little table before you.

The steam rises in an undulating mist. It both smells and looks tasty, and you’re too tempted and polite to actually turn him down on it.

The view the sunroom offers to the rest of the estate is beautiful: land extending about as far as the eye can see (you’re pretty sure it’s all his, too) with frost-covered grass and a small, iced-over pond real far out. Some trees dot your periphery as decoration, trimmed and shapely. The pool and hot tub are covered with what looks like tarps, each flap sealed tightly over the lips. It’s ethereal and peaceful. You’re taken back to older times when you were a teenager and young adult, cuddled up in this very same spot as you lost yourself to distant, fairytale worlds.

But it is a bit chilly here. That’s true.

“Um, thanks.”

So you inevitably accept his… gift (peace offering?) and nurse from the mug as you flip between pages, and you’ll admit it makes the experience ten times better.

Sooner or later you have to break off, though.

As you head in, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Luke sends a message. He misses bothering you, he says.

Kieran, right after— ‘You better not be hanging the lights without us.’

Your brain shortcircuits for a moment before it clicks into place. Oh, right, Christmas is in a few weeks, isn’t it? You’d only been half paying attention when you absently agreed to help them decorate the interior for the holiday season; your mother and their father were a bit late this year around, but the boys wouldn’t skip the festivities if it saved their life.

Perhaps you’re getting a little old for all the dressing up and stringing colorful lights along ceilings, but you won’t lie and say you don’t care for the holidays.

And you also won’t pretend it’s not an excellent opportunity to distract yourself.

So with a very tiny smile and a sigh, you’d stuck your hand in the group pile and threw it up, saying ‘okay, okay, I’m in.’

You stuff your phone back in your sweatpants with a snort and head towards the living room for the staircase, your book tucked under your armpit- before swiftly realizing your hands are occupied with a now-empty mug and redirecting for the kitchen.

Things are quiet. Part of you finds yourself wishing for something to fill it. Hell, even calling up Sylus’s private chef, with his sizzling pan and constant skimming through the cabinets, doesn’t sound too bad.

Which… speaking of food, you’re not sure what you’ll do for dinner considering the boys aren’t around to ring him up for the three of you...

Of course, you know how to fend for yourself, though, so you’ll just do what you do back at your cramped little apartment and make a sandwich or something. An easy, quick meal.

You don’t think Sylus would mind if you plucked a few ingredients from the fridge— I mean, you don’t feel exactly comfortable taking advantage of the amenities here, especially after your regrettable treatment of him in the past, but he keeps telling you it’s fine, so…

He won’t get mad- remind you of all your teenage angst- if you take the liberty upon yourself, right?

The silence is loud in the home, you think for a second time.

Although, letting out a little sigh as you place the cup in the sink, a little piece of you can also appreciate it for what it is. A moment of respite for you to collect and recharge yourself while the twins are gone.

They had their reasons for going, yes; maybe within them, there’s a reason that benefits you, too.

You’re on your way to your bedroom to put down your book when you’re stopped at the staircase.

At the top of it: Your stepfather.

For one simple moment, he seems like his mind is elsewhere as he overlooks the landing. His eyes snap to yours and widen imperceptibly. Before you can fully acknowledge him, your mouth hanging open like a fish, his shoulders lower.

A second later, so do his feet. Tip-tapping down the steps.

Suddenly timid, you draw back and decide to let him go first— the last thing you wanted was to interupt or bother him during your stay here, after all. You’d made the internal vow to be good, be docile, and for your poor mother’s sake you didn’t want to break it. Honestly speaking, it was getting easier to hold it for your own reasons— the main one being that your stepfather wasn’t a half-bad guy and once you finally let yourself accept that fact, the more obvious it became.

For all your demonizing of him, he’s really just one man.

You get that. Maybe you always did.

There’s no point in holding onto all those stupid grudges of your youth, though. Your mother’s gone and you’re here under very serious conditions and you’ll behave accordingly.

You’re not a bratty defiant kid anymore. You’re both adults who are coming together to navigate this- this tragedy.

There’s no other word for it. For this natural disaster.

In that time he descends the stairs, you remind yourself of this- somewhat sorrowfully- and make yourself seem busy. Fidgeting with your book, analyzing the floor… Even pulling out your phone and looking at the weather app doesn’t seem too bad an idea right now.

But before you can do that, from halfway up the stairs, he speaks.

“Are you done reading?” He slowly ventures, one hand hovering on the banister, his ruby-red gaze not straying from yours.

Your stepfather is a proper man, and his voice reflects as much— calm, precise, even-pitched— yet the streak of uncertainty is there.

You wonder if he always feels this way with you. Like he’s walking on eggshells.

A number of years ago, you would’ve felt proud over the fact.

You clear your throat softly, “Yeah.”

Now, it’s hard to feel much of anything but guilt.

Is this what you wanted to be? A person who makes others feel worthless and small? So enwrapped in their own misery that they let it loose to suck and leech off of others— scaring all away in the process—?

No. It never was.

Your mother’s death should mean he’s finally free of you, his wicked little stepdaughter and her sneering scowling face. Perhaps the one silver lining of losing his wife was losing her child, the unwanted addition to the package— but instead, he’s invited you into his home.

And he’s been nothing but good to you.

Hospitable. Patient.

When he reaches the bottom, choosing to stop in front of you instead of moving on, horrifically enough, you’re again reminded that you are the dead weight of this family.

But- that’s okay, isn’t it? Because in less than two weeks, you’ll board your flight, and Sylus will cut you loose. He’ll cut you loose because for all these years, you’ve all but screamed how much you wanted to be, right?

Giving your throat another awkward clear, you think this is it for the interaction. He’s asked you some stupid, unimportant question for the sake of not completely ignoring one another’s presence- and now he’ll let you walk past him.

“Well, I- I’m gonna go to my room-“

He catches you by the wrist in an instant.

You turn around, his eyes just as wide as yours.

“Kitten, I-“ He swallows. You know because you watch the thick apple of his throat bob.

As if remembering himself, he tenses his jaw. When he opens his mouth next, loosening his grasp on your wrist but not releasing completely, he’s more steady. More sure.

“I was going to… ask you something,” his scarlet eyes scan you over, and then he really does let you go. Your arm sways and drops to your side- but your eyes don’t return to their normal size, no. Rather stunned, you gawk at him.

Even as his touch dissipates, the feeling left in its wake, some sudden, tingling warmth that spreads to your chest without prompting, isn’t so easily turned away.

You wet your bottom lip, his eyes tracking the minor movement like it could produce gold, and then shut your jaw.

“Yes?” You breathe.

Sylus inhales. The air is controlled, long, on its way in.

“Have dinner with me.”

When he exhales, though, it’s short and it quavers.

✦

A fog hangs over the moon. Drapes across the wintry, navy-blue sky.

Sylus watches it from his balcony, nursing from a glass of wine.

Decadent, a little. Chilly, yes, but it’s nothing his blazer can’t handle.

It’s eleven o’clock and maybe he should be asleep.

He pushed too hard. Too much in too little time.

It’s why she clammed up and her eyes went uncertain and wide. And it’s why she ultimately declined his invitation to dinner- a rather intimate one, a meal just for two- and perhaps Sylus should be thankful that she let him down easy. She was polite about it. Stammering out the meager excuse of, ah, sorry, I’m not hungry, before clumsily explaining she was tired and scampering off.

The corner of his lips lifts into a small curve. He smirks over the rim, just a wry, tenuous thing before another emotion- a runner up to his amusement- has its turn in him.

Oh, he’s feeling all sorts of things tonight.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He should be careful. Controlled.

Perhaps more importantly: patient.

He should be masking half, at the very minimum, of the enthusiasm he’s feeling over her return- not letting it, and his stunned, giddy delight, bleed all over the place.

Sylus shouldn’t be scaring her with how much he cares.

Oh, fuck if he doesn’t know all that already- that when it comes to this girl, he better tread as if he’s on a frozen lake. One wrong foot forward from cracking down the middle into a thousand micro fissures.

He got ahead of himself, all but demanding that she share an evening’s meal with him on the couch; throwing in the sweetener of watching an old favorite movie of hers only made it worse, he thinks.

Too eager.

Too emotional. Hopeful of the small, seemingly invisible developments he’s made with her to the point of being… Insensitive.

It was in bad taste.

Yes, he was too—

He closes his eyes with fatigue.

It’s a beautiful sight overhead, don’t get him wrong, a nice, starry field with a thin belt of smoke to cover it. Her stepfather is no brute incapable of appreciating the beauty in the small things.

It’s just…

Well, it’s nice to take the breather for a moment. It’s much needed after the past few days he’s had since she’s touched down in Linkon. Since that failed experiment of an interaction that took place earlier.

Not hungry, she said. Ready for bed, she stammered, too uncomfortable to even look at him in the eyes. Eye contact is an intimate thing, he supposes.

And she is not ready.

A gentle breeze swoops by, impossibly cold despite its short-lived visit, and there it is again, that smile, playing at his lips. Stronger this time as he takes another sip.

He’s not particularly fond of lying, honestly; he’s overwhelmingly aware of the fact she came up with an excuse on the spot to decline him. But it was a little white thing and it’s harmless in the long run, anyway.

In any case- he finds he can overlook a whole lot for her.

It’s his fault. Pushed too hard, too fast- yada yada ya, he knows. He fucking knows, it’s just—

It’s tempting him to hold her.

She’s so close, and he knows he’s making headway with her (no matter how seemingly small; any progress is good progress, as the adage goes)— something a good piece of him can’t even quite believe after all these hard, bitter years of charged tension between them.

Her love used to be this unfathomable idea in his head. But as of late, it’s like he sees some softness twinkling in her sad eyes before she either remembers herself or thinks better and recorrects it.

Progress.

…So why the hell does he feel anxious still?

Because he knows she’ll leave again?

But what way is that to live, even? Sylus quietly reasons with himself, brow furrowed into a tiny knot. If all the components of his mind are props in a play, his rationale is an object of the background. Shrinking the more the minutes pass and he tosses down another mouthful, the liquid embittering his tongue on its way in.

It placates the endless fluttering in his chest. Slows it. Tells him it’s okay. And he knows that, he does. He has a whole day before his endearingly pestersome boys are back, after all, and better yet- more than a week left of her stay.

He has time in abundance to work on her. Besides, as tricky as she is, Sylus has never been one to pale at a challenge, has he?

His lashes flutter. He intakes a hiccuping breath and stoops forward to lean his upper body on the railing, his elbow folded over top.

His drink dangles. Sylus experiences a strange, fleeting string of thought that tells him to let it go. Let it drop to the ground below and shatter.

Just let it go.

Just let her go.

Because she’ll be leaving soon, regardless.

He sets his jaw. Clenches it tight. Lets his eyes blink open again as he redirects his darkening, bleared gaze to the pretty clouds above, optimistically reminding himself again, but what way is that to live? Counting down the days of a good thing? You ought to savor this thing while it lasts, Sylus. Don’t let it go to waste.

She has no real longevity. And whatever he… wants from her, that despicable, perverted, monstrous, downright impossible fantasy that lingers somewhere in the deepest bowels of his soul, has no real chance at being.

Good.

Y-Yes, that’s right. And good, Sylus belatedly decides, his ability to critically think- and even see, to an extent- lagging behind his motions due to the inebriation.

Soon, the plane will take her home.

It’s all he can think about. His mind just continuously draws back to that one sticking point, doesn’t it?

Sylus breathes in. Deeply. Then out. An ivory ribbon of warmth puffs from his lips and— Up, up, up and away it goes.

Gone.

Like a mist, she is here for a time and then gone. Appearing for a little while before vanishing.

The plane will take her home. He’ll do the good thing: book it for her- ever the considerate stepfather- and then drive her back to the airport to bid her farewell. Sylus doesn’t think he’ll ever get the opportunity to do it again, because he doubts she’ll ever stop by on her own accord due to her go-to essentially trivial reasons.

Once it’s almost empty, the white-haired man sets his glass down on the banister. Then he cards his hands through his locks with a sigh. Some of them are becoming more grey than white. Iron amidst silver. He hopes she doesn’t mind.

He…

After this week and a half is up, he’ll do the right thing. He’ll do what the better part of him- including his sound conscience- is telling him to do:

Book her flight and watch her go.

He’ll do the good thing. He’ll do the good thing.

Oh, on his life, he must.

But then again… why?

Why is it good? Because she won’t completely and utterly hate his guts that way? Sylus scoffs under his breath, smirking without any real trace of humor as he gazes off into the frosty hills of his property.

Funny, that… See- all along, Sylus was under the illusion that being a parent meant making the hard decisions. Doing what might hurt. Whether or not the child kicks and screams or thanks their father profusely is of no relevance to the choice being made— because that choice is ultimately made in the child’s better interest.

Whether she knows it or not.

Sylus lets out a huff, rubbing his temple as it throbs, irritated with himself. No. No. He’s being brash. He should… think about this later when he’s sober, when he’s well-rested, and when he’s not managing the unreasonable sting of his stepdaughter’s polite albeit firm rejection.

No- I mean, what is there to think about anyway? Sylus doesnt get a say in her future like that, he has no right to butt in. She’s a grown woman. An adult. Fully capable of taking care of herself. She can pave her own path, she can; even if that said path is just a stamp in the dust compared to the industrial road Sylus could snap into existence for her if she so much as mentioned it.

This is… Selfish of him, per usual. Incredibly selfish. Bad.

Bad

Shakily, he inhales, the cold air nipping him. He should go in before his nose starts to run. Before his mind wanders more than it already has. And God- he’s trying his damnedest to keep it from doing that.

But this is perhaps the single most difficult thing Sylus has ever done- or not done, rather- in his life, which is not something he admits lightly.

It’s eating him from the inside out. The guilt, the longing, the- the fucking confusion of it all. Feeling like his heart is one great labyrinth where he must find himself— and her.

It’s uprooting him from the base. Gnawing away at his innards, like a raving beast swelling up in his chest- doing all it can to claw out while simultaneously remain locked up and hidden.

Because it’s better for the both of them that way.

Especially for her.

Nurturing her is really all he cares about nowadays besides maintaining his enterprise and avoiding the toothpaste-filled oreos his impish sons plant on the counter for him on occasion.

Still. The girl, for as precious as she is, is double-edged.

There is a natural process called erosion where rocks, even the hardest of them, are gradually worn down over time by elements sometimes as seemingly harmless as trickling water— and lately, Sylus has been feeling a lot like the grit left behind.

Weak. Small.

Bad

With a shuddering, almost horrified exhale, Sylus pours back the last, ruddy dregs of his glass and then slides open the door to his room with glossy eyes. Burning cheeks.

It’s the liquor. He’s had too much.

Bad, bad daddy

At least if he has another… unpleasant dream tonight, he’ll have the spare room to kick his legs and feet.

♡ tags: @leftpoetrymoon @valhalla-soulstealer @gingybimby @crowsandapples @novthirty @mcdepressed290 @jadeloverxd @satansdaughter123 @blitziwitch @luminaaaz @eialovescats @noliniodeaes @dramaticalsachan @loudhologramturtle @softiepeachess @reni502 @datfangirl @lilyalone @thatsbunnysmind @lioria @floooring @babyx91 @rosie279 @calistaxoxo24 @kingheinrey @msturi2u @theplaid-wearingmoose @blueseachelle @themonotonysyndrome @crazyartist0001-blog @librarydame @deathlycrow @whdhjfjvjvjfjdhsj @terriblesoup @floofycookie @sdlyoongi @hikaakox @melba1982 @crimsonsylus @miuangel @ravynstreasure @corvo-core @mothmothmothmothmothmoth @plainjanegirl511 @dawnbreakerswife @maquiavellica @laur21580 ✦ ask to be added to the taglist! just make sure you have an age in your bio (17+) love yall ty for being patient with me!

[syluses]

ITS VERY LATE BUT PART 4 IS TOMORROW!!! thank y’all for being so patient with my tardy self 🫰✨

HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯𓂃 stepdad! sylus x reader: the series masterlist

SUMMARY: under unfortunate circumstances, you’re called back to linkon to temporarily stay at your stepfather’s home- the one you’d jilted as soon as you were able- and the only way to comfort yourself is by saying it’s just for a little while. like the best of plans tend to, though, they fall apart. [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

𓍯𓂃 CONTENT: stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

𓍯𓂃 SIDENOTE: dilf sylus is always on my mind. ive had this series baking in my noggin for a lil while now. since i cant exactly maximize it in oneshots, i really wanted to focus on the slowburn in this series!! as well as just introduce the concept of multipart fics onto this blog since yall always want part 2’s from me lol. but anyway. im obvi not gonna spoil anything but expect lots of tension, yearning, & slowburn in this fic… maybe even a lil mystery. i hope my writing can convey all the images my mind conjured up. i need yall to see the vision. dilf sylus til the day we die DILF LOVERS RISE. THIS ONES FOR YALL 🥂 but heed the tags!! if this isnt for u- thats perfectly fine- but i wont tolerate disrespect to myself & my readers. anyways i really hope yall enjoy this one. ya girl was verrrry meticulous with it. do lemme know if u fw this style of content and series!! 💞💞 PS, i dunno how often updates will be but i will try :] nice comments/interactions fuel me tho lol so do with that what u will. the first part will be posted very soon

THE PLAYLIST

✦ part one: pilot

✦ part two: the death of peace of mind

✦ part three: love on the brain

✦ part four: haunted (upcoming)

[syluses]

Okay so listing the shit Sylus has gone through from memory...

He is heavily implied to have been rejected or outright abandoned by his parents as a very young dragon

He was always an outcast. Not human enough. Not dragon enough.

He cut off his scales and his horns because he hated them so much. But they grew back no matter what he did (again as a child)

The only kin he had got slaughtered right in front of him. Leaving him as the last dragon alive.

The same humans who slaughtered his kin but spared him because of his appearance turn on him the moment they see he is not in fact human and try to kill him. Again, this all happens when he is young.

He is then persecuted by humans until at some point, he ends up sealed in the Abyss, a greatsword lodged in his chest, preventing him from moving freely even down there. He stays like that for 1,600 years, surviving on Wanderer Protocores

He meets MC, who frees him. They fall in love, split half their souls with each other, and are happy. But due to the dragon's curse, Sylus is destined to kill her one day because she is his beloved... or she him, because she is his destined archnemesis.

MC is taken from him. Sylus goes berserk and loses his mind, his dragon instincts taking over fully.

He sacrifices himself for MC last second before he can kill her. Breaking their curse. Giving her a chance at a life free from being used and abused, and himself eternal rest

Only, MC has other plans and curses him to eternal life, essentially. Only she can kill him.

At some point in time, Sylus is reincarnated together with MC in the nebula. There they are both locked up in a gladiatorial cage as mere children, forced to kill for public entertainment. Think Hunger Games.

They successfully escape together, but at a later point in time they are separated by the Deepspace Tunnel or as Sylus says "You were quietly moved to another garden in a foreign land".

Sylus ends up in space-time prison. We don't know how long he spent there or what was done to him, but I doubt it was in any way pleasant or easy.

He escapes and space pirates through the cosmos for MC, who he can probably sense is still out there. He eventually pinpoints her location, but is unable to properly reunite with her... because she has regressed to a young child. He frees her, but walks off... effectively losing her a third time. He also learns of the horrific torture that Gaia put her through. He watches over her from a distance, but never approaches her, valuing her autonomy too much to insert himself. But he waits for her. Hopes – no, knows – that she will find her way to him, if only to seek answers about her past.

The next 12 years – as most of his existence – are spent almost entirely alone, with no one except Mephie for companionship. He has no friends. No family. No close associates. Things do improve with Luke and Kieran's arrival.

14 years after he left her, he meets MC again. But she doesn't remember him, and worse, actively hates him and blames him for the death of her family, of which he had no part.

He is told straight to his face that MC – his soulmate and prime reason for living – rejects him, fears him, and is disgusted by him. Which very visibly hurts him.

Sees the Deepspace Tunnel again and with it, memories of losing MC. Again, the pain on his face is very visible.

In Death and Rebirth, he gets a hurtful reminder that he still doesn't have MC's full trust. And – yet again – the distress is apparent. Because their trust in each other is everything to him.

So... in summary: Sylus has been used, abused, isolated, and locked away for most of his life. He is so unused to kindness and to being treated like a human being that he doesn't know how to react when people wish him happy birthday.

Any care he was shown for the first millennia of his life came exclusively from MC, the one person to actually see him as something other than a Monster. Said soulmate is taken from him twice, tortured and repeatedly killed, her memories of him erased. When they meet again in current timeline, she hates him, and it takes a long time for Sylus to undo the damage of their first meeting.

The man has not had it easy, nor has he gotten to feel much joy.

So it'd be understandable to become bitter. Cruel. Cold.

But he doesn't

Hell, he never even crashes out (as far as we know).

Instead he's compassionate, an animal and nature lover, attends and donates at charity events, takes in the two orphans that tried to kill him, is the King of Consent, very emotionally mature etc.

Sylus is so strong, man... he never lost himself. He never lost his innate kindness despite a life (or lives ig) where nearly none was ever shown him.

[syluses]

I do wonder how HWWIW Sylus would respond to things he sees as potentially dangerous/threatening to his family/MC. It seems like he's a more non-powered legitimate rich businessman here, but it's also tagged for yandere. I'm assuming he'd see other yandere characters as threats, especially because HWWIW Sylus seems to be not so intense on that aspect. But also just generally speaking I could see maybe hiring a PI to keep tabs on MC occasionally at a distance to make sure she's well after she moved away. Does this Sylus still box for fitness? Teaching MC self defense maybe. Or hiring someone to do it in the past since she'd have been more resistant with his direct involvement.

I love HWWIW Sylus because while yes, the fic is tagged as yandere (and oh, for many reasons 👀), he is depicted as suuuper soft and obliging. i really wanted to flesh out and emphasize that side of his personality— the patient, longsuffering, very loving and accepting yet fierce man. Sylus will definitely get very pissed and defensive if anything so much as breathes harmful intent around his family. He’s a very self aware yandere so I think he really tries his best to keep a thumb on his uglier inner emotions- like jealousy, anger, extreme protectiveness, lust AHEM etc, but those are definitely still things that exist inside him. He wants to monitor her from afar because he worries for her; hiring someone to do so would be very, very easy for Sylus, but he’s afraid of finally ‘making the move’, if you know what i mean? the one action that would finally spur him into a full on obsession and depravity. it’d snowball from there and he knows it. he’s trying his best to be good, be sweet and digestible, for his beloved Mc 💗

also, yes! this sylus does still box and make efforts to maintain his health/image- albeit he still has the typical, creeping signs of aging like crow’s feet and faint, peppered hair. maybe even a tiny bit of a sexy pouch… (>_<) the abs are still prevalent, don’t get me wrong, but i like to image the small amount of fat he does have is carried in his triceps (MMMMMH 😫) and his tummy. he has that insane dad strength and is very much still virile and in good shape 👀 ahhhh can u tell i’m getting a little distracted (∗ᵕ̴᷄◡ᵕ̴᷅∗)

honestly i like to think the reasons why he boxes are also further motivated by the desire to be strong and attractive for a certain someone 👀 but now i’m just running my mouth (>_<)

[syluses]

Yer hybrid!sylus fic is so peak 🙏🙏🙏

Love ya and yer writing 😤 plz take breaks when you need to as well 🙏🙏

Thank you my friend!!! :,] 💗✨ i’m suuuuper inconsistent with fics and im sorry but i appreciate your understanding!! 🥹 i love u all as well and I HAVE HWWIW CH4 ALMOST COMPLETED so i’m sure the love meter will go 📈📈📈 when i feed yall that (and a gege fic i’m frothing at the mouth to write hehe 🌝)

[syluses]

...does HWWIW Sylus still collect things he covets and would he have a little section for MC? Little shrines for MC and the twins for their accomplishments or things he keeps. Some old doodle MC drew on a day she was slightly less prickly relaxing in the sun room, a vase MC made in art class that she hated and tried to throw away, a birthday card for Sylus MC reluctantly signed after the twins and her mother harassed her...

Nonnie i’m actually so obsessed with this concept now. I’ve thought about Sylus hoarding the odd, very unexpected voicemail or two made from Mc- treating it no different than a dragon does gold and shekels- but the idea of something more tangible? like those trophies you mentioned- little crafty knickknacks and notes she begrudgingly wrote to him for his birthday- is super lovely too!!

Awww now i’m imagining his work desk, decorated with a couple frames of the whole family smiling in a group photo 🥹 One picture of him standing in between a younger Luke and Kieran, smirking as he rubs either of their heads; their toothy smiles as they present their first medals to the camera! (Ones he’d later save in his storage after the boys grew up some and no longer felt that their first athletic achievement mattered 💔)

I love dad! sylus can u tell (⸝⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ᵕ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀⸝⸝⸝)💗 love him SO much. Ive said before that i want to incorporate some of yalls thoughts/scenes into the series scent kink nonnie if u see this i have a whole scene prepared for u hehe and this is DEF being weaved in somehow!! ryaghhhhh it’s so on brand for hwwiw sylus to keep and cherish tokens of his family! 💯

[syluses]

[syluses]

Thank y’all for being so patient with me! 🙏🏻 so the rafayel fic is finally out now OMG. it’s not my favorite thing ever but oh well. SO. now i plan to release the next chapter of hwwiw soon (for the sylus girlies), and then a nice lil gege fic for the caleb girlies! 🤭 we all get something. i’m realllllly excited to show u guys both of them hehe… in the meantime, forgive me for being so inconsistent! :,) i am slowly finding my flow again ♡

I will answer asks soon btw!! i see u dw ✨

[syluses]

MY LAST DUCHESS

𓍯𓂃 older! rafayel x reader

SUMMARY: when a longtime friend of your father sees the rocky start to your art career, he does what he can to help it along. there is an unnamed price, you’ll learn.

✦ CONTENT: 9.1k words. older! (mid 30’s) rafayel x younger! (21y) fem reader, dubcon, nsfw/smut, manipulation, obsessive/yandere behaviors, naive mc, power imbalance, non-evol au (wouldn’t be me if i didnt write non-evol) but the element of past lives/soulmates remains, noncon touching/groping, ‘shushu’ used as an honorific (chinese address for older men such as an uncle or family friend), mentor / student dynamic, generally dark content, nonlinear timeline

✦ SIDENOTE: older raf is inspired by this wonderful nonnie! ✨ soooo ngl this one bit a chunk outta me :,) kinda hate this kinda love it. rafayel’s characterization is sooo tricky esp after months of not writing him! but i hope u enjoy friends 💗 for the sake of immersion, pls picture our fishie as above! 😮‍💨

An hour left. Give or take.

And the crowd is already thinning.

How many actually acknowledged you again? Was it… four? Or- Or three-?

Altogether, you’ve counted dozens that have come through the door, filtering in and out over the span of the two-ish hours you’ve had your station set up. There’s been a few people that have drifted by and- maybe just out of pity, that’s a very likely possibility at this point- thrown your artwork a cursory glance.

But no recognition’s been given beyond that, and nobody has cared enough to stop and really look.

To call it hurtful is an understatement.

It’s a blow to your pride, yes. But you’ve only been preparing to show your art for ages, and the painting you’ve designated as your magnum opus- the big one in the center, a depiction of an ocean at dawn with blood in lieu of water- could’ve very well carved off years of your lifespan, it was so onerous.

You’ve framed this thing. Made it into a masterpiece— or what you were eventually able to convince yourself was, anyway, only after months of hemming and hawing and contemplating if all the time you spent on it was actually meaningful-

And it is. It is meaningful.

It meant something to your heart. Even if all the insecurities floating within your brain, the thoughts that said it’s stupid or ugly or nobody could possibly understand the intention in which you swept that brush across the canvas, have their foothold somewhere in you— at the very core of your person: that’s where this creation exists most.

It’s special to you.

You couldn’t pinpoint where the inspiration came from if it meant saving your life. It blew in out of the blue and for whatever reason, you listened to it.

And how compelling that little spark was… Urging you to paint for sometimes days on end before scrapping the piece entirely and starting anew. But despite all the wasted efforts, the product was something you could finally say you resonated with.

You’re not one of the greats, you find yourself bitterly thinking as day darkens to night outside the building, dusky hues seeping into the floor-to-ceiling windows by the front. You’re just an idiot with the brush and canvas your father bought for your twenty-first birthday. Before then, on your eighth, it was chalk and an easel. You were just as passionate then, too.

But clearly, your ability to appreciate art doesn’t conflate with your ability to create it, regardless of for how long you’ve enjoyed it as a medium.

The longer you stand here, the longer you make a fool of yourself.

With a soft sigh, now ten minutes before the gallery is over, you hang your head and prepare to begin packing everything up.

…It’s fine.

It really, really is.

Balling your fists so tight your fingertips go white, you will yourself to pretend it doesn’t feel like a slap to the face as tears well in your eyes, your little spread of art blurring before you.

You’re so lost in your own mental efforts to compose yourself that you don’t notice the figure that glides down the walkway, past the other extravagant works of suddenly quiet attendees, and stops behind you.

“Cutie?”

A rather concerned voice pulls you from your thoughts. You whip around, quickly blinking away the looming tears, and pause.

Rafayel, one of your father’s friends- and Linkon’s most talented painter without question- greets you with a sort of bemused look.

Yet it’s not directed towards you, no- it’s directed to the portion of the wall in front of you under your name.

Suddenly aware of your slight slouch in the presence of a man that is both a celebrity in your city and a prominent, respectable friend of your dad’s, you pull back your shoulders and plaster on a smile.

“O-Oh, Mister Rafayel-“ before you can punch out a proper greeting, or even hope to steady the slight warble in your tone, his eyes widen and he murmurs something beneath his breath. Along the lines of disbelief.

“Did you make these?”

Admittedly, you don’t see an extreme amount of your uncommon shushu, but still, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so…

Stunned.

Feeling all but embarrassed after the whole gallery has made a fool of you unknowingly- you hasten to shake your head and prepare a fervent denial. You’re not so sure you want to be associated with what’s behind you anymore, not after being made to feel like the one outlier to this creative, special event- the one that doesn’t belong.

“I- uh, well, I was just testing out some new brushes and-“

Finally, Rafayel spares you a glance, fast but sharp as he interrupts you. (Not that you’d ever dare to call him rude for it or anything…)

“The ones your father got you for your birthday?”

You blink slowly. “Yeah…”

It’s true you held a small celebration for your twenty-first, with only your closest relatives and friends as guests, but you suppose his hearing of it through the grapevine isn’t an impossibility... He’s a buddy of your dad’s, after all, and they’ve always gotten along well during the occasional get-together.

His lips, plump and pink, part to let out a short breath, and then he’s back to gaping at that main painting, eyes as wide as china plates as he pays you no further attention.

His hand, a warm weight on your shoulder, remains there like he’s forgotten to move it, and as you begin to feel slightly uncomfortable, you remind yourself of his absent-minded personality.

Clearing your throat softly, you offer a polite smile (one he doesn’t even notice) and overlook the innocent but persisting touch.

Your cheeks are warm: along with your skipping heart, you ignore that, too.

It’s more than reasonable to be a little nervous, a little girlish, when stood beside someone like him- all the glimpses you caught of him throughout your childhood be damned.

You’re just a plain, homespun thing in comparison.

“It’s… uh, really nothing special, so…” Your attempts to distract him from your stupid illustrations are carried with a trembling voice, and you don’t think he’s listening to them anyway, so- still ignoring his hand on your shoulder- you try a new angle at small talk.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Thankfully, he actually gives a response to that- nonchalant as it is.

He hums, only kind of focused on whatever you just said, “Yeah. Me and Thomas were driving by. I remembered you’d be showing your art this evening and told him to pull over.”

“O-Oh,” you say with the appropriate amount of shock.

You knew he ran in the same circles as your father, yes, but you didn’t realize he’d be privy to your participation of this art gallery or actually remember your birthday; and tonight is baffling you in several regards.

What he’s doing here, why he wanted to see your side of the exhibit and why he even valued the information that you’d be doing it is, to say the least, a surprise.

Well, you suppose quietly as he eventually turns over to look at you again, a bit more composed this time, your shushu has always been nice. A little eccentric, yes…

But nonetheless nice.

Maybe this is just part of what he does. Perhaps this is… normal for him.

To attend art galleries for the simple purpose that he felt like it in the moment; yet, to hardly give the participant he’s apparently there for any consideration beyond a hand placed on their shoulder—

and you don’t take that hand off your shoulder, heavy as it begins to feel—

Gawking at some amateur’s painting like it’s the runner-up to Van Gogh or Picasso and not the work of some bungling young newbie.

All of this is just his thing.

It’s on brand for him.

…And you guess- as you distantly recall those vivid conversations he shared with your parent years ago and his inclination to cartoonishly tune his manager out and procrastinate on his deadlines- that the shoe fits.

He’s incredibly talented (and everybody and their mom knows it- how important he is), but that doesn’t mean he can’t be bizarre at times.

To be clear- when he gives you his full, undivided attention, suddenly staring at you like you hung the damn moon in the sky, and you balk accordingly-

That is very, very bizarre.

A small lump forms in your throat. You swallow it down. His hand, still perched on you, gives a little, harmless squeeze as if to emphasize whatever amazement he’s feeling inside, and you don’t do anything but stand there and stare back at him, agog.

“It’s incredible,” he finally breathes.

“W-What-?” You stammer owlishly, “What’s incredible?”

“Your art you created, silly girl,” he adds, looking a bit dizzy as he lets out a soft laugh, marbled eyes softening at you. Light from the golden-white fixtures overhead catch on his pupils and make them shine. They seem to ripple and inflate the longer he holds unbroken contact with you.

“It’s…” his indigo-red gaze scours your face for something.

“Perfect.”

You’d be lying if you said this whole interaction isn’t just a touch unnerving. Not a lot, but a little. But then again…

As you remind yourself of his natural, exaggerated persona, your dad’s longtime friendship with him, and his critical acclaim in Linkon, you feel a bit comforted by those things.

Besides, up until now, in those uncommon brushes you had with him, he was never anything but civil and friendly- so there’s no reason to let your own leftover unease from the past couple hours sully your image of him just because he won’t get his stupid pretty hand off your shoulder is acting a little touchy.

You know the guy. Not too well, but you know him. He’d say the exact same for you.

You bow, “Oh, thank you, S-Shushu,“ and as five minutes remain on the clock until you’re meant to wrap it all up and go home- pretend you’ve not felt this close to throwing up since that bad hangover you had the morning after your first drink- Mister Rafayel gives you the most charming, easy smile and finally withdraws his hand from you.

He uses it to lift your own and kiss the knuckles of it. The epitome of a gentleman.

“What’s with the formalities?” He tilts his head. “Just Rafayel is fine with me, cutie.”

You’ve always been something close to just distantly involved with one another, but after tonight, you can’t help but wonder if his opinion of you has changed. Because when he asks if your painting’s for sale and how much it costs, he follows it up with a request to see what else you have in your collection- as enthusiastic as you’ve possibly ever seen him- and you reluctantly agree to have him over at the house on Friday.

For the first time, he will not be visiting for your father.

✦

He does have a discussion with him, though, over the table.

You’re shy, feeling just a little bit like a bug under a microscope as two sets of eyes trail over you, evaluating you on occasion.

One does so more than the other. You cant count the amount of times your Shushu- or, Rafayel, he says to call him- looks for a little too long before refocusing on the other man.

Although to be fair, you try not to pay much mind to it, instead occupying yourself with your plate as you pretend to find their conversation only half-interesting.

The last thing you want to seem is rude during Mister Rafayel’s visit. But they’re speaking about you, the art he’s suddenly so interested in, like you’re not even there, and despite feeling left out, you can’t deny the excitement.

I mean, any young, fledgling artist would be positively thrilled at the idea of being mentored by Linkon’s greatest. This isn’t something to scoff at here.

What he’s proposing to your father now is personal, one-on-one lessons over the length of a few months. A ticket to success, by the sounds of it. Your parent listens in, nodding every so often, and he seems as interested in propelling his daughter’s passion forward as much as he does wary.

Three months is… a long time, after all. And to be sharing them under the same roof with someone who is more or less a stranger to you—?

Whether he’s your dad’s longtime friend or not, that doesn’t make him any less of a man.

That fact isn’t lost on either of them.

It’s not until the very end that your father finally pulls you out of the little reverie you’ve deliberately sank yourself into in an attempt made against boredom, calling your name rather cheerily.

You lower your fork, perking up, yet you simultaneously try to remain civil and sophisticated as a concoction of nerves and excitement dances in your chest.

Just about every single one of your dreams and aspirations hinges on the conclusion they’ve made.

“So?” He goes, putting down his drink with a soft clink.

You haven’t touched yours. Your twenty-first birthday brought lots of fun crafty gifts, but also the realization that liquor does not like you- and you do not like it.

You startle slightly, promptly raising your shoulders under his gaze. “Y-Yes?”

Your father blinks at you, shares a momentary, just marginally amused smirk with his pal, and then proposes, “Do you want to start pursuing art under your Shushu’s tutelage?”

The lights shine brightly overhead and Rafayel’s expectant, patient look towards you is perfectly lit.

Awaiting your answer- your mouth flopping open like a fish- he takes a slow drag of his flute of wine before the ends of his lips quirk up at you. His hair is like purple satin, and even despite being well into his thirties now, his appearance is an overall pretty, almost delicate thing. His eyes twinkle with golden threads as highlights, his stare dazzling.

It reminds you of a tranquil, starlit pond up until the moment you zero in on the reddish hue below the pupil- and any comparison you can draw to something peaceful is broken.

He’s… pretty, yes— But something about those colors- that scarlet splash amidst otherwise serene pools of blue- reminds you of blood in the water.

His behavior was nothing but pleasant when you’d shown him your scattered collection upstairs in the attic you use for crafting.

An hour later, he’s still just as friendly.

Nice.

Reaching over the table, he nudges your glass closer with a finger.

You hasten to throw him a reassuring smile and, deciding tonight is special, pick it up to drink at once.

Before you do, you timidly peer above the rim, “if Mister Rafayel would be okay with that,” you say, trading between their gazes, “then I’d like that a lot, yes.”

Glancing to your lips as you tilt your head back to take a long, although trickling sip of your wine, your guest smiles to both you and your father.

It’s a real thing.

In the moment, you make the quiet realization that everything else, every other mild or delighted expression made from him before now, has looked very much the opposite.

“Wonderful.”

✦

The first month you spend under him is…

Interesting.

But that much makes sense, you suppose. It fits the shoe that is his whimsical persona.

It’s a whirlwind life that he lives.

For days on end, he’ll drag you from exhibit to exhibit- leaving you little time to rest or so much as jot down notes as he raves on and on about an exquisite piece on display at one of his friend’s private collections, flitting between the busts and statues.

You’ve shared more meals with him and his manager, Thomas (the poor, poor guy; he has a backbone, though, you’ll give him that) than you can count- and though you didn’t grow up anywhere near lower class, it’s still a humbling experience whenever Rafayel has to teach you how to eat a certain dish because you’ve never even seen it before.

His lifestyle is lavish and, if you’re being honest, a tiny amount hedonistic… With a side of superficial.

When the pesky camera or two isn’t tailing him, he’ll loop his arm around your waist in public, sticking closer than what might seem inappropriate to those unaware of your strictly professional tie, and you’ll quietly wonder if this is how he’s always been.

A bit two-faced, you mean.

Other days, it’s a chore to even get him out of the bathtub and motivate him to check your work at the living room’s easel.

Sluggish— And then awake. Back-talking some other poor party-goer as soon as they waltz off to the drink bar- but just as quickly, spinning around to take your arm in his and whisper about just how gorgeous you look in that new dress he bought for you, saying in cliche manner that you’re the star of whatever show you attend.

Capricious as a cat, the guy. But he’s always been good to you, your shushu, and despite all the to-ing and fro-ing he does- and his ever revolving door of moods- he’s taught you invaluable lessons thus far.

As an up and coming artist, you wouldn’t trade what you’ve learned for the world.

Make no mistake- what you want to do, what you want to become, might as well mean that much to you.

Sometimes you have to pinch yourself to know you’re not dreaming. It’s all so glamorous and exciting (albeit, it comes with the tasks, the learning curve) as to be unreal.

You’re on a metaphorical ship sailing to artistic eminence and Rafayel, the best possible mentor your father could’ve ever bought for you, is pioneering it.

So yes, maybe he can be a bit… Eccentric sometimes—

With the piercing glances thrown across the studio room, the needless touches to the small of your back or shoulder that linger, the weird breathy tone he takes on with you sometimes and then the sudden distance he applies between you whenever a lens flashes- as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—

Sure, his behavior is just a touch creepy (although, for obvious reasons- the main one hinging on your veritable career- you’d never say that aloud), but there’s a reason why he’s Linkon’s number one, undisputed painter and a contender for the country’s overall best. You have an inkling that each of his quirks, some endearing, some confusing, and others irritating, have contributed to that shining reputation.

Peels of laughter echo from the front door- and then, Rafayel, with a mild, friendly smile a touch too mannered to be real, turns around to join you at the car.

A sleek, black thing: as expensive as his wristwatch and as spotless as his get-up for the night, a creme-colored button-up and slacks with polished shoes.

His collar hangs loose as a stylistic choice, and with the balmy breeze blowing in, you think he’s wise for that.

In the too-short dress he all but coerced you into wearing before you left, your thighs on display like an opus at one of those art museums he’s taken you to, you still find yourself sweating. Feeling too hot.

Maybe he’s partly to blame for that.

He helps you into the passenger side without your asking, releasing your hand once you’re in- but not before giving it a squeeze and a fleeting kiss. When you shyly thank him, offering a laugh so patently nervous it’s as if you forgot how to, he sends you a wink that- despite your considerable age gap and the grounds on which you know him- your animal brain can’t quite overlook.

An inner part of you, as a base instinct, perhaps, trembles.

He’s just being playful. That strange fluttering of your gut is a clear sign of your giving into his flirty persona, which is… admittedly, not to your delight- the last thing you want is to be one of the preening women he butters up at the gatherings- but hey, the point is—

That flip of your belly isn’t a sign of discomfort.

It’s just you being excited and secretly kind of crushing on your amazing shushu. Right?

That’s what one of your cousins said at a get-together the other night, at least, and you think her suggestion is as good as any. The epithet ‘naive’ has been given to you by more than one relative throughout your childhood, and maybe they were right to call you that.

But you really don’t think Rafayel— a minor celebrity to the world and quite possibly the best that Linkon’s ever produced (alongside that heart surgeon making headway in the papers)- a trusted, longtime friend of your father— has any weird intent with you. Seriously.

It’s just…

Well, it’s just how he is.

On the drive home, midway through your vivid retelling of unexpectedly bumping into the nice lady who used to babysit you, Rafayel’s hand finds your thigh and stays there.

Oh, to God you pray he doesn’t hear the delicious little gasp you let out in turn- but you know, what with his sitting a foot away, that there’s no way he doesn’t.

The breathy, soft chuckle he responds with solidifies your quiet fear.

But he doesn’t mean it in any weird way, he- he doesn’t.

It’s not possible. You’re a silly, sometimes embarrassing newbie, not the worst of your craft but a definite ways off from being even remotely considered as one of the greats; on top of that, you’re the rather clumsy daughter of one of his good friends- overall, a very bland girl despite the abundance of opportunities her cushy upbringing offered her, and—

Did you already mention the age difference?

Yeah, no. He’s way too mature for all that.

For you.

His curious, quirky, sometimes even petulant personality nudged to the side- Rafayel is a grown man, well into his adulthood, and he wouldn’t suddenly throw his whole luxurious life to the side just because- because what?

Because he woke up one day and decided he wanted to risk it all for some young pussy?

Come on. Be real here.

Not that you want to throw yourself under the bus, but you’re not particularly special, and he’s way too good for you. Moreover, he might act a little funny on occasion what with the way he stares at you- sometimes like you’re the long lost love of his life; at others, like you’ve done something terribly wrong to him in a past one- but the guy has morals.

Geez. Get it together, you tell yourself in an instant, briefly shutting your eyes as if the darkness behind them can bring you clarity, before opening them back up again, redirecting your focus to the bustling city around you as the lights smear behind the window.

Pretty, to say the least.

Pretty and a good distraction from the hand that creeps just a little higher up your thigh, slender fingers curling in almost possessively.

Swallowing down the kernel of unease that sits in your throat, you cover up the sudden loss of your train of thought with a dry cough and resume your story.

A good chunk of you has lost the enthusiasm over it, though. You become aware of how stupid you must look- babbling to your poor mentor whom you’ve quietly shoved all these accusations onto in your head- and feel overwhelmingly small.

Your voice shrinks along with your confidence.

With the last of it, you risk a look down to your lap, and your breath catches when you realize just how fucking scandalous it looks. Your shushu’s hand disappearing up the glitzy skirt of this whorish dress he bought for you- all for the sole reason that you might look good in it as he tugs you alongside him throughout the evening.

As his palm, warm and broad, rides just a smidgen higher, it’s like he’s not even aware of what he’s unknowingly doing. How this could make you feel or how badly this could bounce back on the face of his career and prestige if anybody else so much as caught a glimpse of it.

…Conveniently, though, they never do, do they?

No,.. he always releases you right beforehand or swiftly loses interest in your side-profile whenever the paparazzi swings by; in particular, however, it’s your ever the pest father that weasels his way in between more often than not, forcing your shushu to be on his utmost best behavior—

A shaky breath in, and then out.

This past month of learning under him has been great, really, it has. It’s just…

You just…

Wish he’d get his fucking hand off you

You just wish he was a little less eccentric and a tiny bit more aware of his frivolous, unthinking behavior.

That’s all…

The wind whips outside the window.

Willing yourself to focus on the sound of it, you close your eyes again and think of homeward.

How four turns ago, if Rafayel had just taken a left instead of a right, he would’ve steered you both on track for your father’s estate and his open arms rather than Mo Art Studio, the inexplicably distant place you’ll be staying at for the next couple months.

Beside you, a voice, Rafayel’s, murmurs something- your name, you realize- and your gaze snaps over to him accordingly. His own is expectant as he risks a quick look in your direction, otherwise focused on the road ahead.

He chuckles lowly, amused by this or that. “Lost in thought, cutie?”

Perhaps you’ve learned more than artistically advertised from your teacher, because when you plaster on a tight smile and laugh, it’s mimicking his reception to the nosy press. Maybe you’ll be good at the whole publicity thing.

“S-Sorry, what?”

“I said that dirty old bald guy was staring at you the whole time. It was almost like he couldn’t take his eyes off! …Were you not listening to your shushu?” he pouts. And that much is to be expected from him.

The undeniable streak of jealousy in his seemingly unbothered tone, however, a detail that, for all your naivety, you can’t quite overlook, isn’t.

“No, I-“ you settle for a sigh, fidgeting with your purse as you pull it closer, discreetly trying to angle your hips away from his hand; anything to distract you from it in the meantime.

“I didn’t see him. I didn’t see anybody. I was looking at the sculptures.”

He hums, apparently placated by your answer. You catch a flash of his smile- rather smug, mind you- from the corner of your periphery before he responds with a soft, breathy chuckle.

“Spoken like a true artist,” he comments, lighthearted as ever. But right as you start to forget the warmth of his hand on your leg, harmless but niggling, it coasts higher up, his long, attentuated fingers curling into the plush of your inner thigh- brushing the seat of your panties.

Your heart, galloping in your chest at race horse speeds, sinks to your stomach.

This time, you don’t gasp. But in your frantic efforts to keep from doing so and maintain a straight face, you definitely forget to breathe.

It takes every fiber of your being not to shiver and throw a confused, hurt look his way.

Rafayel’s tone lowers, then, dipping into territory you would consider as absolutely possessive- although you inwardly fight tooth and nail to understand why.

“Why don’t we stay at the Studio tomorrow?” He broaches. “After the night I had watching all those creeps sniff around you, I feel like we should take a break from all the events for a bit, yeah? As a newbie artist,” he spares a brief look over to you just to wink, “You’ve definitely explored outside of your comfort zone enough.”

He gives your upper thigh a squeeze you can’t pretend to be anything but hungry. “It’ll just be me and you, cutie.”

✦

A little funny.

Going your whole life, some odd 35 years, being acutely aware that something is missing in the bigger picture, but not knowing quite what—

And then some girl’s picture, some ocean full of blood, with its scarlet, lapping tide made with amateur strokes at best and a clearly limited palette, comes along, and it confirms that niggling feeling in the most bizarre way possible.

She comes like a lightleak into his life. Out of the blue like a meteor hurled from the sky; but the joke in it all is that she’s been under his nose for the past decade.

Just… the timing was all wrong.

All those years go by, yielding no result, it’s hard not to think you’re starting to go a little crazy… Besides, Rafayel knows the artists of olden times (Van Gogh, Picasso, Munch, the list goes on), all the greats, were a little mentally unstable, too, so maybe those delusions he’d been having—

That cold, unforgiving blade. Her hair between his fingers, slipping like quicksilver. A shapeless but soft face with blue lips- his name on them like a prayer. Luxurious silks and flaming, sweet incense with a beautiful sunset as a backdrop to their evening chats—

Were all pretty par for the course.

Convincing, but ultimately meaningless. A product of his own, very vivid imagination. Maybe the lack of being understood had something to do with it, too.

And then lo and behold… spitting in the face of his dismissal, he has some dream of her days out from her twenty-something-th birthday, successfully planting the seed of suspicion in him- and then he happens upon her gallery just a while after, hitting the gold he wasn’t even fully sure existed.

Yeah. A little funny sounds about right.

The cherry on top is the fact that she doesn’t remember what he’s beginning to.

The origins of that blood-red sea she thinks to be merely fantastical; the dagger at dusk and the underhanded, downright cruel method she used to go about delivering that fate to herself and him.

If the universe is having a laugh at Rafayel- God, he wants it to stop already.

Because he’s trying to be patient with her, he is.

It takes time to adjust, after all, especially to something so world-altering. He’s become acquainted with those visions of his apparent past life to an uncomfortable degree- so he gets it, he does: the initial sense of uncertainty and doubt. And maybe this much is one-sided- but what it feels like to be stabbed by the knife of pure betrayal, the endless fear of being abandoned again that crushes him from all sides—

It’s safe to say that Rafayel tried denying it at first, too.

That he resisted.

But regardless of the slight grudge he’s developed for her over a number of very valid reasons, he’s nothing if not a good lover. The memories of his past life directly prove that.

They also prove that she is meant to stay by his side- be his perfect bride, fulfilling her duty to love and remain loyal to him- forever and always. And vice versa.

But this is all a process, of course, he knows that. Even if it feels like whenever he sees her his soul might jump out from his mortal skin or he might press too hard too fast and scare her away and end up all alone again.

Pining for her. Yearning for her. Praying for her. Painting and hurting and searching because it’s all he can possibly do without her.

Within due time, if the vow he made to himself means anything, Rafayel will make her remember him, too.

…In the meantime, though, Rafayel knows by now that the world will stop at nothing to tear them apart and drive a wedge in between them. Inevitably, it’ll make its wretched attempt on the blood of their covenant using some person or thing, and…

And Rafayel is so, so terrified that it might succeed.

But it’s okay.

He’s got an idea or two on how to keep her safe.

For good, this time.

✦

Loud squelches ring between your bodies. His hands underneath your back, pressing you into an arch for him, and his tongue laving attentively along your neck make you feel like you’re floating.

Adrift over the ocean. Like a message in a bottle- waiting to be opened. Violated.

…And when you close your eyes, you even think you can see the water.

As gory as a wound. Taking you in like an offering.

Rafayel moans in your ear, “My bride.”

‘Bride’ is perhaps the single most intriguing name he could’ve given you. But if his desire is to prove you’re more than just a quick fuck to him, what you thought you were initially, then he’s succeeded with that title.

You’re tired. Already spent from the however many orgasms he coaxed out of you within an hour or more while he laid on his tummy to eat you out, using worship as foreplay.

Though he’s far from finished with you, it seems.

“You’re getting closer,” he murmurs into your collar, voice thick and unswerving in his goal to break you and reshape you into-

Into what? His quote on quote bride? You can’t be sure.

He keeps you all but hidden from the outside world now, your family just an echo that’s made its rounds and faded to silence. Your father never cared much for supplying you with a phone- seeing it as a distraction from your classes- so there’s no real way to access him save for writing.

For as far as they all know, you’re happily schooling under Rafayel’s roof as his epigone to-be.

But whatever it is he wants from you, you’re not certain if you can bend that way. And all those promises he pours down your throat with his tongue, each of them hammered into your conscience via fervent kisses and repetition— they all might as well be hogwash to you.

It’s entirely too confusing. The things you’re supposed to remember but your mind continually draws a blank on.

He spells it out for you. Paints it out for you. Leads you by the hand to the sculpture of a woman who vaguely resembles your features, her white grooves flowing like a veil from her head, and with a kiss to your temple says it was you on your wedding day.

However many centuries ago that was.

If misery loves company, insanity must love to be lent an ear. ‘Cause you didn’t believe him at first, you swear to God you didn’t.

…But then he starts to explain this supposed timeline with you, sketching some of the points out for clarity or just to invoke something within you, and all the meandering little tangents he goes off on are too intricate to simply ignore.

Somewhere along the way, you started to listen to him. If his intent is to spread his madness like a contagion, then it regrets you to say it might be working.

For the final months of your tutelage, he’s kept you almost exclusively inside Mo Art Studio. Barred you from the rest of society and even your father.

Over the course of several long weeks, he’s only allowed you to write him a few letters— all just as long as it’s under his close supervision, of course.

In all this time, he’s sat you before a canvas and forced you to paint, draw, sketch— there’s no medium he hasn’t provided you with to help remind you of your apparently shared past, yet it’s not enough to make you a full believer in it despite your spark of interest, and it’s never enough to satisfy him.

Waves at night, the tranquil surface lit by a marble white moon overhead: you’ve worked on something identical before (the piece now framed in his bedroom for you to look at glumly while he drapes an arm over your waist), yet along with a few other descriptors he’s given you to conjure something to mind, you can’t seem to illustrate it.

Not like before, at least. The inspiration is fleeting at best. Here and then gone.

Your so-called husband doesn’t explicitly say how upset it makes him... If anything, you spot the signs that he’s trying to be patient with you; encouraging.

But when he takes the brush from you, uncaring of the wet hues dying his hand, and drops it to the floor before dismissing you without a word, not meeting your eye, it’s obvious you’ve scarred him in some way.

And you loathe to tell him for the umpteenth time that you just-

Can’t fucking remember.

Part of you thinks he’s crazy.

The other recognizes those little crumbs of deja vu scattered amongst your memory bank and it cautiously follows them. Stooping over curiously (albeit desperately, because your career- yes, you still have hope for one- relies on how obedient you are, after all) to pick them up.

So maybe you’ve lost it together, then. Your minds.

But when his cockhead hits a particular, spongy spot inside you and your walls respond with a torrent of arousal in turn, his tone as seductive as a siren’s as he murmurs in your ear, your working brain thins out and you swear you see it. Even if only for a split second.

You. There. Under the gleaming with his hands in your decorated hair, hugging you close to his breast as- rising up from beneath the cool, luminescent water- a scaly appendage curls along your torso to support you as your limbs fall at your sides.

His eyes— oh, you could lose yourself in the anamnesis they bring sometimes. But the moment you try to focus on that strange sense of familiarity, it’s gone.

Like sand falling through the fingertips, whisking away in the wind.

Red spilling into blue. Carving wriggling lines along the surface like watercolor fissuring through a page. The pearlescent sheen of his eyes when you cup his face to cry.

You shoot your eyes open with a gasp, nails digging into his back, and he gives another moan for that, too.

“R-Rafayel-!”

“M’ here,” he murmurs, teeth nipping your neck cheekily. He lets out a heaving sigh, and when he clumsily rests his forehead to yours, you drink in the sight of his face as he does all he can to mentally record yours.

His cheekbones, flushed like twin cherries as his brow pinches in a way you can almost call cute, regardless of the fact he’s over a decade older than you; His wavy, lavender hair and the delicate shadow it spills over his brow. His mouth parts open to loll out his tongue, and then he’s erasing those couple centimeters in between to hungrily lick into yours.

In a word, his treatment of you is… possessive.

Possessive with the addition of reverent.

It’s only when you’re on the brink of suffocation that he pulls off your lips with a wet ‘pop’ and thumbs aside the hair clinging to your forehead, now peering into your eyes unhindered.

If it’s true that they’re the window to the soul, you wonder just what it is he’s witnessing as he holds your gaze for a certain amount of time, apparently starstruck.

Maybe it’s just your imagination or the fatigue bogging you down to the mattress, making you compliant under his hands, but you swear he finds a new angle- a more dizzying one- his strokes somehow hitting even deeper as he takes the moment to simply admire you.

If he really is your soulmate, if the concept is more than just a myth crafted by hopeless romantics and fools, then you suppose it’d only make sense that he’d know your body so well. Like a potter does wet clay.

And you suppose (or maybe justify is the better word), that it makes sense you’re a margin off from coming harder than you ever have before because of it.

“Hold onto me,” he heaves out, “M’ gonna go faster. Gonna make you feel so good you won’t remember anything else but me afterward,” broad hand splayed out over your collar, trailing down down down- impishly aware of the effect it has on you, tortuously slow- to rub at your poor clit.

Already puffy from his earlier treatment, every nerve ending alight with need and sensitive, it doesn’t take long at all for him to make you whimper. Pretty little calls of his name that make him shudder.

His breath is at your ear, the frenetic, heavy sort of rhythm to it reminiscent of rolling waves. Perfect, pink lips descend on your neck to kiss and suck and nip and then he’s picking up the pace, rutting into your velvety heat with a new groan for every thrust he makes inside.

“You’re so rude, princess, y’know?” Rafayel murmurs ruefully. You feel his lashes fluttering against your throat where he bows his head and tucks it underneath your jaw.

“More than that, even,” he chuckles darkly, “I can’t believe you’re leading me on like this... Why else would you have- ngh, fuck- painted our ocean if you didn’t remember? …I’ll buy you that special dress. Find someone to tailor it just right for our…” another grunt; you shut your eyes, realizing he’s getting closer and so are you— your impending orgasm approaching like a plane nosediving from the sky,

“ah- Wedding.”

The room spins when your eyes fling open again. Rafayel moans louder, the sound a dulcet, low drifting sound, when your nails, perched on either of his shoulders, embed themselves deeper, but otherwise he doesn’t care.

“Wedding?” You gust out.

He hums. Purrs, really, nuzzling into your warmth as he suckles another bright, rosy splotch into your décolletage. Anything to show he’s been there.

“Yeah.” He withdraws just enough to stare at you some more, monitoring your windswept look with soft delight.

His pupils dilate; a black moon hanging amidst that sea of blood, swallowing everything.

In the reflection of them, a very uncertain girl stares back.

His bride-to-be.

“It might be a little lonely without your family and all,” he chuckles, propping his elbows either side of your head now to lean his forehead against yours again, smiling an otherwise cheerful, albeit somewhat tired smile.

He brushes aside your wayward hair once more to trace under your lower lashline, quick to collect whatever wells up and falls from there, “But we’ll have other things to witness us, cutie, kay? Like…”

His lids droop as his gaze dips over your face, examining it like gold to turn over in his palm as he formulates the word.

There can only be one for what’s brought you both together.

He decides, “Fate.”

✦

White linoleum floors stretch down the aisle; with equally white walls to match them.

Dismal, to say the least. Maybe even a little mundane… as much as that’s in bad taste to say.

Saturnine visitors walk slowly, weaving in between the decorated partitions, and murmur amongst themselves.

Rafayel, with a friend close by, oversees the event with a sobered look.

Tucked to the far side, he’s safe from the main throng for now. But he received a flurry of questions and platitudes upon commencing- all of which he either returned with a obliging, weak smile, a slight nod of his head, or a low dip before excusing himself- and he doubts it’ll end there.

They’re all staring at it. Part of him is very, very pleased with that fact. Another is green with envy. Possessive. This is not theirs to gawk at, he thinks. But he holds that thought exclusively to himself: considering the grounds of this memorial of sorts and the propriety required of him, it’s better to keep it…

Captive.

Though, as more and more form a cluster at her display, perhaps that ugly thing festering in his chest is a sign of his indignance as well— but of course, he lets none of that show on his face. No, he keeps it chiefly stoic with the appropriate amount of despondence.

This is a terrible thing that’s happened. Really.

A tragedy.

Beautiful. Young. Full of potential and then gone.

There’s several artists on display tonight- just as planned. Rafayel had made the agreeable suggestion that it would’ve been what she wanted. Maybe that’s true.

Her work, hauled out from his studio in careful hands, is ribboned off as a means to preserve it, but that doesn’t stop some woman- a nosy, conspiring aunt, maybe- from trying to step around it and analyze the signature from up close, as if the scrawled initials could somehow reveal a clue as to her niece’s whereabouts.

If that final, meager note she sent her and her other relatives, however, held any water, then that’s exactly where she is. At the bottom of it. Somewhere off the Whitesand Bay Bridge.

A tragedy. A blindsiding and devastating thing.

Who could’ve known?

As that pest of a lady reaches her fingers out to brush the dried, multihued swaths of paint, her eyes shining like pearls as unshed tears cling to the clumps of mascara, Rafayel is a blink off from striding forward and smacking her hand away with a scoff.

If he had it his way, he would’ve kept all of it in his bedroom or living space with the countless other projects, some finished, some hardly just begun and others somewhere in between. But he’s willing to swallow this temporary upset down.

It’s a one and done kind of thing.

Within a couple days, he’ll be gone, anyway. Linkon will soon be a yellowed page in the big chapter book of his life. A stop along the way.

The destination is not a place he always knew at first, but now he does. Home is where the heart is, they say.

The letter was perfect.

Not just a good replica of her handwriting: it was her handwriting. Prim and proper, albeit a little heavy-wristed as her hand gave out. Clumsy on her K’s and R’s. With nothing left to be deciphered (not that she could’ve done much on the cunning front, anyway, what with the state she was in).

The truth of her demise is far more dark intricate than anyone could possibly know. Rafayel decides it’s better that way.

His name being called in a low, dreary ask alights his attention.

He straightens accordingly, “Ah. My apologies. Would you mind repeating that again?” and then gives the necessary, rather morose acknowledgment to the girl’s father.

The latter hums. Stuffs his thumbs under the straps of his tight suspenders. When he responds, he’s not looking his way, but rather engrossed with the distant section under her name in grandiose, golden-plaque letters.

“I said, now that I think about it,” the older one starts slowly, his furry brow corrugating.

There is a distinct note of sadness in his voice. Distant, like he’s but a spectator to his own person as he stares at the assorted paintings with a frown.

“Her art could have been a reflection of what she was feeling on the inside. A… silent cry for help,” he settles on, “That went on without being understood.”

When he turns over to the lilac-haired man, it’s his cue to sigh softly, nodding back. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “it might’ve been. She was… happy, though, that’s the part that shocks me. Our mentorship was almost over, but she couldn’t stop talking about how much she wanted to stay for longer. She told me she even wrote to you about it. Is that true?”

Another sage hum. The host readjusts his hands around the flat bands containing his belly and gives his agreement, “Oh, yes,” he gives a low but hearty chuckle, too crestfallen to do much of anything but laugh at this awful reversal of events.

“That she did. But fate is cruel, my friend,” edematous eyes hold Rafayel’s stare for but a moment or two before he claps him on the back.

“And what do you plan to do now that so much of your time is freed up? Hm?”

Marbled eyes widen imperceptibly at that.

…What does he plan to do?

The apple of his throat bobs as he swallows.

He wants to see her again, for one.

It’s an exaggeration to say it’s been eons since they last met face-to-face, but it feels like that anyway.

Gentle, hushed humdrum of the event drifts around the ornate, limestone pillars erected throughout the room. Rafayel thinks it’s one of her cousins that he spots vanishing behind one before reemerging on the other side of it, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she supplies from the flowery satchel at her front.

She catches his cool gaze for a second. He breaks it off in favor of replying to the man making his acquaintance.

“I think I’ll leave for a bit. The studio is…” He tightens his jaw, starting anew, “Quiet. Too quiet. I don’t want the reminder of all that happened anymore. And right now? seeing all those half-finished canvases of hers in my living room? Well, it’s impossible to think of anything else.”

Another hum of acknowledgement.

Hm.

A very odd, somewhat depressing conclusion to a very odd, somewhat depressing 35 years.

The pretending, the womanizing, the innumerable distractions he crafted for himself and others���

For the sake of civility, and for the sake of relying on his good, longtime, ever magnanimous friend, the artist asks, “What do you think?”

The hand on his back gives him a good-natured, if not slightly sorrowful shake, and then it withdraws.

“I think that would benefit you. You… You deserve the rest.”

Rafayel is just glad it’s over.

✦

Waves.

That’s the first thing you hear upon waking.

You feel them, too, undulating beneath the boat, sloshing against the side of it with gentle, dragging fingers.

The second thing you hear, coming to in a lush nest of bougie blankets and fluffy pillows, silk to the touch, is a familiar voice, going back and forth with another- one you can’t quite pick up- over the phone.

You groggily blink. Thomas.

“…Yes, yes, all’s well. I told you already, she’s safe. The captain wasn’t very pleased with the unconscious girl I had in tow, but an extra coin helped just fine. Which, by the way…”

As the sounds swirl around you (none particularly harsh)— the muffled ocean, what seems like gulls squawking somewhere outside, and Thomas’s conversation set to the tune of a classical record on the vintage phonograph you blearily spot across the lavish room— a chord of dissonance plays within you.

No… Wait- this isn’t…? You were just in the studio before this. Whatever this is. You’re almost certain of it.

How many days ago? Wasn’t it… yesterday?

Or perhaps this afternoon? You… can’t be sure of that, either, time just a ball of fuzz in the bulwarks of your brain. But what you do know is that you were led to the sofa by a warm hand after lunch, quick to doze off as soft lips pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, praising you on the correct choice you made- as if you really had one to begin with.

Oh.

Oh, no.

…And the ballpoint pen you’d used moments before to seal your death note- you remember that now, too. Lying on the table before he capped it.

Rafayel.

Where is he?

No, more importantly: where are you?

A chuckle. More like a snort, really, and you hone back in on the chatter on the other side of the door- hanging partly ajar as if someone has been entering every so often to monitor you.

“I did take from your pocket, I hope you don’t mind? Your manager went through all this trouble for you, after all. Which, very illegal, might I add!” He tuts. “Yet I can’t even get an answer on your deadline…”

Troublesome, indeed.

You go to sit up and immediately regret it. Your head throbs with something worthy of a motrin or two and another long nap to sleep it off. Behind your brow, a weight settles- reignited by your sharp, sudden movement- and it sends the expensive decor of the suite spinning until you’re facing the ceiling again, wincing.

Your trachea burns.

Water, you think, but can’t check the nightstand at your side for anything to soothe the ache as your vision swims and you shut your eyes- using the same force you would if all the concentrated, unmatched power of the sun blasted your cornea.

When he snips something back to the person on the phone, huffing under his breath, exasperated, is when you make an attempt to call for him.

“Thom-“

The croaking word dies in your throat.

Something on your hand glistens, drawing your attention to it like a magnetic force.

Big and shiny, a wedding ring sits on one of the center knuckles of your finger.

The band is studded with brilliant, intricate gems— the center a pearly, iridescent thing. The fit is… perfect. Wrapped around your digit like it truly belongs there.

But it can’t.

There’s no way he actually-

No.

No- this is all, all, all wrong.

He didn’t. This is all a bad dream. The letter never happened- and the blackberry tea. The long, warm, never-ending nap and the dumbed-out state of bliss it tossed you in.

None of it.

With a startled gasp, you pry your scandalized gaze off the opulent jewelry for just long enough to register a massive, rectangular frame propped against the wall opposite of the bed you lie on: a vivid, three quarters portrait of a woman who looks identical to you— a work so extravagant it had to have taken weeks and months of unbroken concentration.

As well as the painterly hand of someone who truly loves her.

In an instant, you shriek for your father.

Nothing comes out, you’re so horrified. Yet the vaguely conscious piece of you knows it’s futile anyway; you’re under no illusions that he’s aboard this ship on its path to hell.

When that produces no result, you yell for the man loitering outside your door, voice ragged from disuse and on the verge of an emotional breakdown, desperately trying to keep the hyperventilating breaths at bay.

“Mhm. I hardly want to be stuck with the two of you anyway. The soonest you can come back: do it. And then you can have your long, lover’s honeymoon without me. Aren’t you doing it… kind of backwards, though? Anyway- just focus on planning her tribute and then get that painting out before—“

“THOMAS!” You holler.

“Oh, hold on a moment- I think she’s awake-“ the door pushes open on two fingerpads, a concerned, but notibly curious face peering through the widening gap. It glows as it finds the opportune moment to shirk Rafayel.

“Dear? I’m coming in- I have someone on the line for you!”

[syluses]

Blindfolded Caleb.

So he can’t see my bullsh*t? 🌝

[syluses]

Mahiru, who can see red threads, realizes that his sister's red thread is not connected to his, so he cuts each other's red threads and forcibly reties them.

[syluses]

Here I'm thinking if the reader and Sylus ever decide to have kids in HWWIW what will the kids call Luke and Kieran Uncle or Brother

This question is so messed up only because it’s true 😭😭