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aethercoreheart · 2 days ago

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sylus | a little birthday treat [nsfw/18+, fem-reader]

"More champagne?"

The sales associate tips the bottle towards you, and you consider it for a moment before holding the flute out to her.

"Yes, please."

You lift the flute to your lips - the carbonation tickles and the champagne is almost sickly sweet on your tongue. You cast another eye around the store, trying to seem calm and nonchalant. The carpet around your shoes is plush and thick, almost swallowing them. The leather couch you're sitting on stretches halfway across the store, an elegant chandelier with dripping crystals hanging above your head. The stock on the shelves is limited and obviously carefully selected and curated - bags, shoes, accessories, clothes - none of which have any price tags on them. When Sylus had said that he had wanted to go shopping for his birthday, this is not what you had imagined.

"Slow down on those, kitten, we haven't even started yet."

Sylus seems to have apparated next to you on the couch, also with a champagne flute in his hand. He raises the glass to you, and you touch it gently with yours, the clink from the glasses ringing brightly in your ears.

"What are you buying from here, Sylus?" you ask, lifting the glass again, your eyes still scanning the room.

"I'm buying for you," he chuckles from behind his glass. "But it'll be a treat for me."

You narrow your eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

Sylus smirks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You'll see."

---

"This is a fitting room? Seriously?" you mutter to yourself.

The sales associate had lead you to another part of the store, further in, behind a few sets of doors. She had left you in the room with another bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, but you had stopped yourself from pouring another glass. Sylus had promised to join you soon, and he had walked off with the sales associate, leaving you in this 'fitting room'.

The room is large, not as big as the shop floor, but it has its own leather four-seater, another chandelier, and it is lined with mirrors. You find it difficult not too look anywhere in the room without seeing your own reflection staring back at you.

You consider taking your phone out to kill some time while waiting for Sylus, when the door opens, with him waltzing in, followed by the sales associate. She is pushing what looks to be a garment rack on wheels, its contents covered by a pale sheet. She wheels it to a corner in the room, steps back, nods to you and Sylus, exiting the room without another word and closing the door behind her.

"Put your glass down for a moment, please," Sylus instructs you. You do as he says, setting it down on a side table, and he offers his hand to you. You rise from the couch, and let him lead you to the garment rack. He pulls the sheet aside, and the contents of the rack make all the blood drain from your face.

"Fuck me," you mumble to yourself, spinning around to look at Sylus. He has that smug, expectant look on his face, the one you hate to love. "Lingerie? Sylus, really?"

"If it's not your thing, we can totally walk out of here, no pressure," he tells you, shrugging. "But this was the birthday present I was wanting for myself."

You sigh, suddenly feeling the champagne hit your stomach, making you a little nauseous. You steel yourself, and take another look at the rack. Several pieces of nightwear seem to stare back at you, taunting you. You grimace, and decide that you don't want to lose this battle.

"Fine," you say, almost in a groan. The glint in Sylus's eyes reappears. "But just to let you know, for my birthday, I'm thinking of getting matching tattoos."

"Deal," Sylus declares, excitement tinging his voice. "Let's get started."

---

You decide to ease into it with the first piece from the rack - a simple, white nightgown. It looks innocent enough, but it's cute and a little playful, with a little pink bow sitting tastefully in the middle of your cleavage. The stitching cups your breasts perfectly - it's like Sylus and the sales associate had taken the time to make sure that the pieces they picked out would fit you well.

You step out in front of where Sylus is sitting on the couch, giving him a little twirl in the frilly nightgown. His mouth quirks to one side, and he takes a swig of champagne.

"Cute," he confirms with a nod. "And it's lovely. Do you like it?"

You shrug, unsure of what he wants to hear. "Do you?"

Sylus exhales quickly through his nose. "You know you look good in anything, kitten. If you like it, I'll buy it."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, I'll try something else on."

You head back to the rack, which is situated behind where Sylus is sitting, and you flick through the hangers on it. You settle for a sheer two-piece set, something a little more daring than the white nightgown. It's mostly black lace, with some red trimmings and bows in strategic places. You try it on and realize how sheer it really is. You knock back the rest of the champagne in your glass before stepping out in front of Sylus again.

He looks you up and down and purses his lips, his eyes lingering for a few seconds on your breasts. You feel your nipples harden and a warm flush spread across your cheeks, but you stay still in your pose for him.

"Turn around," he instructs softly. You had seen your ass in the mirror before showing it to him, and you had to admit, it had looked phenomenal in the panties. You imagine what Sylus is seeing and give yourself a figurative pat on the back. You end up facing one of the mirrors facing the couch, and see yourself in the set. It fits you perfectly, like the nightgown had, but this set shows off your body, while hugging it in the right places. You decide the tease Sylus and bend over, just a little bit, so that he can admire what you had seen in the mirror before.

He doesn't say a word, but you see his hands reach out to you in the mirror, and they grasp at your thighs, pulling you towards him.

You yelp, finding your ass firmly planted on his lap. You feel the fabric of his pants through the panties, and something else too - something that nudges into your ass.

"Sylus..." you say, carefully. "Are you... hard?"

As if to answer you, his large hands wrap around your waist, and he spins you around so that you are facing him while straddling him. You meet his eyes and notice that his pupils are dilated, his breathing ragged.

His hands leave your waist and find their way to your face, pulling it towards his. He stops, just before his lips meet yours, encouraging you to engage in the kiss. You go all in, your lips crashing together, desperate and frenzied. You pull away after a few moments, breathless and lightheaded. You plant your hands on his shoulders while he regards you carefully - he's trying to keep himself composed.

"Stay there," he whispers, his hands finding their way to your hips. He guides them so that your clit is sitting right on top of his bulge - you're surprised it hasn't made its way out of his pants yet. His hands move your hips in guided movements, back and forth over him. Your hands grip his shoulders tightly, and a soft moan escapes your lips.

"Fuck," Sylus grunts, continuing in the motions. The fabric of the panties rub against your clit, which is already slick with your wetness. You're worried about ruining his pants, but he doesn't seem to care. He switches from back and forth to circular motions, and you let him lead your hips, grinding down harder on him. The sounds of your panting fill the room, and you catch your reflection in one of the mirrors. Sylus's head is tilted back on the couch, his eyes focused on you. You meet his eyes, and it's difficult to maintain eye contact as he keeps moving your hips. You feel his bulge press against you, and the friction generated from your panties grazing against your clit sends chills throughout your body.

"Oh god," you groan, feeling something build in the pit of your core. "I'm almost there." You feel your thighs start to tremble as your orgasm builds. Sylus senses this and pushes you away, shocking your system, depriving it of its high.

You start to protest in a whine, but Sylus quickly covers your mouth with his hand. "Not yet, kitten," he scolds you, bringing his face close to yours. "I can't let you have all the fun yet."

You breathe against his hand, your chest heaving up and down. You nod, and he takes his hand away, using it to push a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Bend over the armrest," he tells you, softly but firmly.

You concede, and do as he says, your denied climax making you compliant. You see yourself in another mirror, your cheeks red, your hair a little bit of a mess, one strap of the bra hanging loosely off of your shoulder. Sylus kneels behind you on the couch, and you hear him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. You watch in the reflection as he takes his position behind you, his large frame almost taking up the entire mirror. He runs a finger down your back, sending shivers down your body. He takes the panties, which are now soaked and completely ruined, and slides them down your legs.

"Damn," you hear him mutter. "I wish you could keep these on."

You moan again, wanting to beg him to just insert himself into you. Instead, he takes his tip, and he slides it up and down on your lips, coating himself in your wetness.

"Sylus," you gasp, your hand reaching down for him. "Please, I need it. I need you inside me."

He chuckles, and continues in his teasing. You want to whine at him again, but you feel him stop, his tip just pushing slightly into your entrance.

"Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, slowly sliding himself into you. You hear him groan as he goes all the way in, his cock filling you up. He stays still for a few moments, and you feel your walls throbbing against his length.

"Fuck me," you sigh. That's the second time you've said it that day. "Please."

He leans down, still inside you, his mouth nibbling at your shoulder. You reach for the back of his head and pull him towards you, and he trails kisses from your shoulder, up your neck, and to your ear.

"So greedy," he murmurs against your skin. "I thought I was supposed to be the one with the birthday wishes."

You give him a mirthless chuckle. "I said 'please', didn't I?"

"That, you did."

You feel him bite and suck against the skin on your neck, and you almost yelp in surprise. That's going to leave a mark later.

With that, he pulls out slightly, then pushes into you again, hitting against your walls. You gasp, and grasp at the armrest, fighting to keep yourself balanced on it. His hands grip your waist as he thrusts in and out of you, keeping a steady rhythm. Your moans and his grunting fill the room, but you're past the point of worrying about anyone hearing you. You hear him grunt your name occasionally, and it almost drives you crazy hearing your name spoken in a voice dripping with need and lust.

One of his hands reaches for your hair, and gently pulls your head up so that you make eye contact with him in the mirror facing you. His gaze is piercing, a little crazed, and you feel yourself tightening again, coming close to release.

"I want you to look at yourself while you come. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, yes," you moan. "Please, just keep going. I'm almost there."

Sylus leans forward again as he keeps thrusting into you, his hand trailing down from the edge of your bra, down your stomach, to your clit. You fight to keep your eyes focused on the mirror, watching yourself and Sylus. He starts rubbing circular motions into your clit with two of his fingers while still pumping in and out of you. You feel the orgasm start to build again and this time, Sylus doesn't stop it. You force yourself to look at the mirror as you feel it coming, and see Sylus's eyes staring directly back at you, holding your gaze, as if encouraging your release, and it sends you over the edge. It crashes over you like a wave, and soon, your entire body is trembling, your lips chanting his name. His eyes are still looking at yours in the reflection, a sly grin playing on his lips.

"Just keep going a little more for me, alright, kitten?"

He continues rubbing your clit and thrusting, taking you well past your orgasm. You feel like your entire body is on fire, your legs shaking violently. Your eyes are now tightly squeezed shut, and you're whimpering, willing yourself to last for him. But it becomes too much, and you have to give up.

"Po-po-pomegranate!" you stammer out your safe word.

Before you even finish the last syllable, Sylus stops, staying perfectly still. He pulls out of you, still hard, panting softly.

His lips go for the space between your shoulder and neck again, his breath hot on your already fevered skin. "Good girl. You did so well."

You take a few moments to catch your breath as he continues to leave kisses up and down your neck, his hands gently massaging the sides of your arms. You reach back for his face again, but his hand meets yours, and he brings it to his lips, planting smooches into your palm.

You swallow before you speak, trying to keep your voice even. "Let me finish you off."

Sylus pauses in his kissing, and meets your eyes in the mirror. "I won't say no to that."

You adjust yourselves so that he's reclining back on the couch again, his legs spread apart. You're kneeling at his feet, gripping him with one hand, the other placed on his thigh. He regards you with what seems to be a neutral expression, but you can tell he's fighting to keep it that way. His eyes tell a different story.

You lick at his length, from the base, all the way to the tip, deliberately and slowly. You feel his thigh tense up under your hand, and you hear him hiss softly. You lap at his tip with soft gentle licks, and he groans, your name almost garbled. You decide to stop teasing him and take as much of his cock as you can into your mouth and down your throat. His hand immediately grips at the back of your head, your hair in his fist. He holds you there as he throbs inside of your mouth. You tap on his thigh and he releases you, just a little bit, so you can slide him in and out.

This time, it's him moaning your name. You look up at him through your lashes, tears clouding your vision. You ease up a bit as he thrusts in and out of your mouth, and you let him do the work for you. In and out, in and out, the sounds of his moans filling the room.

"Keep looking at me, kitten," he grunts. "You-you're going to make me-"

Before he can even finish his sentence, you feel him stiffen as he releases his load into your mouth, down your throat. You keep your lips locked around his length as you swallow it.

"Fuck. Fuck."

He's panting, hand still in your hair, his head tilted now tilted back. He slowly looks down at you as you lick him clean, tears running down the side of your cheeks. He releases your hair, and his hand cups the side of your cheek, his thumb swiping across it.

"Happy fucking birthday to me."

---

It seems like Sylus had planned, or at least prepared, for what was going to happen in the fitting room beforehand because along with the rack of lingerie, there was also another rack with a brand new set of clothes, both for you and him, tucked away in another corner of the room.

You watch as he pulls his new pants on, almost wishing that you could ruin those too. He catches you looking, and gives you a smug smirk.

"Hands to yourself for now," he scoffs, shaking his head. "We still have to finish up and get all of these to the car."

You narrow your eyes at him. "... What do you mean, 'all of these'?"

Sylus shrugs at you. "I bought all of it, of course. We wouldn't have been able to play with them until I had paid for it."

Your mouth opens then closes. You can't hide your shock. "You... you just... you bought...?"

He winks at you. "Plus four more of that last set you tried on. I think we're going to go through them quite quickly."

You don't want to admit it, but you're speechless. All you can do is give him a playful punch on the shoulder, which, of course, he mimes as if it actually hurt him.

"Just wait for my birthday," you mutter. "I'm absolutely serious about getting those matching tattoos."

Sylus glances at you sideways, that glint in his eyes back again. "I know you are."

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #sylus x you #sylus smut #sylus imagine #sylus fanfic #lads smut #lads fanfic #lads x reader #lads x you #lads x mc #lads imagine

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amaraee · 3 months ago

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Did a quick sketch because the new Sylus card got me trippin 😩

#sylus fanart #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #loveandeepspace #love and deepspace #lnds #sylus fanfic

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 days ago

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Sylus going into an uncontrollable frenzy but it's his dragon rut, compelling him to breed MC over and over again until she lays his eggs. Rinse repeat until his rut is over. How's that?

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

— 𝑺��𝒍𝒖𝒔

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐃 beneath his skin again.

Not the kind that sweat could cool, or water could soothe, or even pain could drown.

This heat came from somewhere deeper—older. It had lived in his marrow since birth, smoldering quiet and patient, waiting for the right season to ignite and consume him from the inside out.

It always started the same.

A flicker behind his ribs.

A dull throb in the back of his skull.

A tension in his chest, like some ancient chain was being pulled tight—one link at a time.

Then came the ache.

And the ache—gods help him—never fucking let up.

Now, it curled low in his belly—coiled, pulsing—like something inside him had begun to stir.

Something wrong.

Something ancient.

Something with teeth and claws and no fucking concept of mercy.

Sylus clenched his jaw and shifted against the cold stone wall, his shackled wrists dragging with a metallic scrape that scraped raw. The iron cuffs had scorched him the moment he locked them on—runes hissing to life with the sharp sting of burning flesh.

He hadn’t flinched.

Pain was easy.

Pain, he knew.

It was the need he couldn’t fucking stand.

His cock had been hard for forty hours. Maybe longer. He’d stopped counting somewhere between agony and obsession. It throbbed with every heartbeat—each pulse a cruel, relentless reminder of what he couldn’t have.

What he shouldn’t have.

Not when wanting meant claiming.

Not when claiming meant breaking her open and filling her until her body bowed beneath the beast clawing up his spine.

A guttural sound tore from his throat—half snarl, half sob. He dropped his head back against the stone wall and stayed there, breathing through clenched teeth, every muscle trembling from the effort of holding still.

He’d built this chamber with his own hands. Designed it not just as a tomb—but a prison. A sanctuary. The only place he trusted to hold him when the rut came raging.

Not because the chains would hold.

They wouldn’t.

Not forever.

But down here, buried beneath the world, there was no one to hurt but himself. No one for the dragon to scent. To claim. To ruin in the name of instinct.

No one like her.

Gods.

He hadn’t seen her in three days—and he could still fucking taste her.

Not literally.

Not yet.

But her scent clung to him like a sin he couldn’t wash off. Her laughter echoed in the hollow pit of his chest like a memory carved too deep. The shape of her lived beneath his skin—hips, lips, the delicate slope of her throat—and when he closed his eyes, she was there.

Always.

Fucking. There.

Kneeling between his legs.

Whimpering his name.

Begging him to let go.

He could see it.

Her hair a mess. Her lips swollen. Her legs trembling around him. Marked. Bitten. Bred.

The image slammed into him like a punch to the ribs. He growled and jerked forward, chains rattling violently as he doubled over, his cock throbbing so hard it hurt—leaking, aching, demanding.

The pain in his gut twisted sharp, laced with pressure, instinct, and the unshakable, soul-deep knowledge that—

She was meant to carry him.

She was his mate.

Not by choice.

Not even by fate.

By blood.

By biology.

By the old, feral magic running through his veins—twisting him into something not quite human.

Something older. Crueler. Hungrier.

The rut was sacred to dragons. That’s what the archives called it.

A biological imperative.

A rite of claiming.

A holy tradition woven in blood and instinct.

Sacred, his ass.

There was nothing holy about what he wanted to do to her.

Not when he knew—knew—what would happen the moment his skin touched hers.

He wouldn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

The first time would be brutal.

Fast.

Desperate.

The kind of fucking that left bruises shaped like his hands. His teeth. That filled her so deep she couldn’t walk. So hard she couldn’t think of anyone but him.

And then he’d do it again.

And again.

Until her belly swelled with his seed.

Until her voice gave out and her eyes glazed with surrender.

Until she looked at him like he was the only thing she’d ever worshipped.

Until she was ruined.

And even then, it wouldn’t be enough.

His rut wouldn’t stop until he knew—down to the final flicker of instinct—that she’d never walk away.

Not physically.

Not emotionally.

Not spiritually.

She wouldn’t just belong to him.

She’d be him.

Not a lover.

Not a partner.

A mate.

His.

Down to her blood.

Down to her bones.

Down to the place inside her that only he would ever touch again.

He shuddered and let his head fall between his knees, breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. Every inhale stoked the fire. Every exhale whispered her name like a curse he couldn’t shake.

He hated himself for it.

Hated the way his body betrayed him. Hated the way his mind crumbled at the mere thought of her—how she flickered through him like a ghost he couldn’t exorcise.

He should’ve told her weeks ago.

Should’ve warned her.

Should’ve shoved her away the first time she looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

But she hadn’t looked away.

And gods help him—She still hadn’t.

And that terrified him more than the rut itself.

Because Sylus could survive the fire. He could survive the hunger, the pain, the madness.

But her?

She’d burn.

And he’d be the one to light the fucking match.

There came a point when pain stopped feeling like pain. He wasn’t sure when he crossed it—somewhere between the second nosebleed and the moment his claws shredded the inside of his own palm.

Now it was just static.

White noise behind his eyes. A low, bone-deep buzz that never stopped.

Sylus didn’t know how long he’d been down here. There was no light. Only heat. A trembling, relentless fever under his skin that refused to break.

His thoughts came fractured.

Blurred.

Sometimes, he remembered who he was. Other times, all he remembered was her.

She slipped through his mind in pieces—The slope of her shoulders when she turned away. The flicker of her pulse when she stood too close. The way she lingered after speaking… like she was waiting.

Waiting for him to say something more—

Something he didn’t know how to give without destroying it. Without destroying her.

She was gentleness wrapped in fire.

A miracle in mortal skin.

And his body was tearing itself apart just to reach her.

Sylus shifted against the wall and felt the slick drag of his own blood down his thigh—warm, wet, sticky.

It wasn’t hers.

Not yet.

But his rut didn’t know the difference. It just wanted.

It wanted her wet and open and trembling.

Wanted her split wide and sobbing beneath him, nails clawing at his shoulders as he poured himself into her again and again—until the beast finally stopped howling.

But she wasn’t here.

Not really.

Still, his mind conjured her like a fever dream he couldn’t wake from.

Sometimes she whispered his name. Sometimes she knelt in front of him, voice trembling, pupils blown wide, legs parted in offering.

Sometimes—gods—he could feel her fingers on his chest. Light. Lingering. Like she sensed what was happening to him even from miles away.

But the worst was her scent.

That delicate, devastating blend of clean skin and soft things.

She smelled like warmth.

Like home.

And now, that memory was tangled with blood and sweat and fire—and it was driving him fucking insane.

His hips jerked without warning, his cock aching—flushed dark, the head slick from hours of helpless arousal.

He’d stopped pretending.

Stopped trying to ignore the instinct when every part of him was already preparing for her.

For claiming.

For ruin.

A low growl tore from his throat as he yanked at the chains again—not to break free. He didn’t want freedom. He didn’t trust what he’d become beyond this wall.

He just needed something.

Friction. Resistance. A reason to stay tethered.

But all he felt was her.

Her thighs wrapped tight around his waist. Her voice breaking into that helpless little moan when he bottomed out. The way she’d arch for him—like her body was crafted for this. For him.

The sound of skin slapping skin.

The wet drag of her cunt sucking him in—milking him.

Demanding more.

Always more—

No.

His head slammed back against the wall with a sickening crack. Blood spilled over his lips—he’d bitten straight through them.

He didn’t care.

“Stop,” he rasped into the dark. “Stop showing me things that aren’t real.”

But the tomb stayed silent.

And his mind?

His mind wouldn’t shut up.

Now she was on top of him.

Riding him slow.

Cruel.

Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her mouth brushed his ear, warm and sinful.

“I want to feel you lose control.”

He made a sound he didn’t recognize. A broken gasp. A choked cry. He curled in on himself, yanking at the cuffs until bone scraped against iron.

This was what the rut did.

It wasn’t just heat.

Wasn’t even lust anymore.

It was hunger.

Soul-deep.

All-consuming.

A compulsion so violent, sanity wasn’t just out of reach—It was extinct.

And it would only end one way.

With her under him. Screaming his name.

Covered in bruises. Flooded with seed. Marked by promises he’d never be able to take back.

She’d never walk the same.

She’d never be clean again.

She’d be his.

And some feral part of him—ancient, ugly, honest—rejoiced in it.

He was shaking now.

Every muscle locked.

Every breath too shallow to soothe.

His body strained to shift—scales rippling beneath skin, claws itching to break free—but he kept it buried.

Barely.

Just barely.

He wanted to weep.

Instead, he laughed.

A jagged, broken sound—splintered like bone. Echoing off stone like a death rattle.

This was what he was.

At his core.

Not a soldier. Not a protector. Not even a man.

A beast.

And if she walked through that door—if she made the mistake of touching him—

He’d take her.

Ruin her.

He would fucking take her.

And the worst part?

She’d let him.

He was lying on the floor when a shift happened.

Face pressed to cold stone. Breath shallow. Muscles locked tight from hours of holding back the monster gnawing at his insides.

The pulse in his cock throbbed in cruel rhythm with the one hammering behind his eyes. His throat was raw from all the things he hadn’t screamed.

He blinked—slow. Sluggish.

Something shifted.

Not light. No—light didn’t touch this place.

This was deeper.

Like the chamber exhaled. And in that breath, he felt it.

A trace.

So faint it could’ve been nothing.

So familiar it hurt.

Not heat. Not fire.

Something clean.

His fingers twitched.

Jaw clenched.

The scent was impossible. It didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t exist here.

But he knew it.

His body recognized it before his brain did—his hips shifted. His mouth parted. A low, helpless whimper dragged from his throat like confession.

No.

No, no, no.

His eyes snapped open.

The hallucinations were getting worse.

More vivid.

More cruel.

This one smelled like her skin after a storm. Like the smile she wore when she thought he wasn’t watching. Like the place behind her ear he dreamed of biting, licking—claiming.

He froze.

Eyes wide.

Chest barely rising.

Because hallucinations didn’t move.

And this one did.

Footsteps. Soft. Hesitant.

The kind made by someone who wasn’t afraid.

Yet.

His entire body went rigid.

The chains groaned.

He told himself it wasn’t real.

Couldn’t be.

She’d never make it past the outer wards—and if she had... gods, if she had—she wouldn’t be walking. She’d be running. Screaming.

Gone.

But the footsteps kept coming. Closer.

And then—

“...Sylus?”

His heart stopped.

That—

That wasn’t a hallucination.

He didn’t imagine it. He couldn’t have.

Her voice didn’t slither through his head like the others had. It cut.

Clean through the fog. Sharp. Trembling. Real.

Too fucking real.

He rolled onto his side, breath caught behind his ribs.

No.

No, she couldn’t be here.

Except—

There she was.

Standing just inside the threshold. Frozen mid-step, like even she had just realized what a mistake it was.

Hands hovering. Eyes wide. Barely breathing.

She looked like an angel—trapped in a cathedral built to worship monsters.

His monster.

His gaze dragged over her—slow, hungry—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

Because it didn’t.

Not now. Not with her standing there, real and soft and so fucking close.

She hadn’t changed.

Not even a little.

But he had.

He’d rotted from the inside out.

Burned himself down to bone and built new flesh from fire and madness and her name.

And now she was here—and it was too much.

Too fast.

Too bright.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

No words.

No breath.

Only ruin and recognition.

Then he turned his face away.

“Get out,” he rasped. His voice scraped like gravel. “You need to leave.”

She didn’t move.

She didn’t fucking move.

His chest convulsed.

And then—he felt it.

The moment his rut caught her scent.

It struck like lightning through bone.

The shift was instant. The fire inside him exploded, surging up his spine, locking his jaw, forcing his claws to extend with a sharp, sickening crack. His back arched against the wall. His cock—already hard—throbbed violently, leaking, twitching, aching.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his teeth so tight his molars groaned in protest.

“Don’t come closer.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a prayer.

Still, she came.

One step. Then another.

And with each one, the space between them unraveled—disappearing like it had never existed.

He could hear her breathing now. Could feel it in the air, trembling and human and hers.

It was her.

Not a hallucination.

Not a dream.

Not some cruel fantasy conjured by a brain boiled alive in rut.

She was here.

And the weight of that truth shattered something inside him.

He broke.

Not with a roar. Not with violence.

With silence.

Everything inside him folded inward—collapsed beneath the gravity of her presence.

The dragon stilled.

The fire raged... quieter.

Because she was real. And she was close. And he was no longer chained by stone—

Or rune.

Or duty.

Or guilt—

He was chained by her.

By the soul-ripping, terrifying truth that he wanted this.

Not just the rut. Not just the claiming.

Her.

He wanted to drag her to the floor and bury himself so deep inside her she forgot her own name. Wanted to make her scream, beg, break—until her voice replaced every sin etched into his soul.

He wanted to knot her.

Mark her.

Own her.

And he couldn’t.

Because he loved her.

And if he touched her now—he wouldn’t stop.

He’d never stop.

He wouldn’t just ruin her body.

He’d ruin everything.

She stepped closer.

Not boldly. Not recklessly. Not like someone who didn’t know fear—

But like someone who knew him.

And that made it worse.

Unbearable.

Sylus kept his gaze fixed on the floor, terrified that if he looked up—the dragon would see her.

And forget who it belonged to.

Forget the silence. The restraint. The bloodied palms and swallowed prayers.

Forget every line he’d carved into his soul to keep her safe.

Her footsteps echoed across the stone—soft at first. Then louder. Like even the walls had begun to listen.

He tasted copper.

His lips had split open again—reopened by the tension knotted in his jaw like wire.

She was close now.

Too close.

He could feel the air shift around her. Pressure folding inward. Like gravity had changed its allegiance. Like the chamber had always been waiting for her—to step inside it.

To fill it.

Like even the room knew she belonged here.

“Sylus,” she whispered.

Her voice wavered. Just barely.

He closed his eyes.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” she said, gentle and unsure. “I know that.”

He didn’t answer. What else could he give her now but silence?

“But I couldn’t find you,” she continued. “No one could. You disappeared.”

Her breath hitched—soft, cracked.

“I thought… I thought something had happened to you.”

He almost laughed.

Something had happened to him.

She happened.

Every time she entered a room—every time she looked at him with those soft, searching eyes—something inside him shifted.

Shifted until it cracked.

Until it wasn’t just a feeling anymore—but a thing with wings and claws and a single, maddening purpose:

To take her.

To keep her.

To fuck her so deep into the stone that the world forgot her name and remembered only his.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. It burned like punishment.

“I didn’t mean to invade,” she added quickly, her voice fraying at the edges, soft as worn linen. “I just… I couldn’t stay away.”

Gods.

She meant it.

She hadn’t come here out of recklessness.

Or curiosity.

She came because she felt something pulling her. Because the string tying them together had started to fray—and she couldn’t bear the unraveling.

Because somewhere deep down, she knew—he was coming apart in this tomb.

And her absence was the blade.

Sylus’s shoulders trembled.

“I want to help you,” she said. “Please. Let me help you.”

No.

No—

“You can’t,” he croaked.

His voice wasn’t human anymore. It was a rasp of shredded control, every word chewed raw by the beast he kept caged inside.

She dropped to her knees in front of him.

He felt it like an earthquake under his ribs.

Too close.

Too willing.

“Sylus…” she breathed.

Eyes wide.

Lips parted.

She didn’t touch him. Not yet. But her fingers hovered—aching to reach, to comfort.

He flinched.

Not from pain.

Not from fear.

From the unbearable truth: If she so much as brushed his skin, the chains wouldn’t matter.

Nothing would.

He would tear free. He would ruin her.

And gods help him—

It would be glorious.

Her gaze swept over him. The blood at his wrists. The heat shimmering off his skin. The unnatural curve of his spine, strained by what fought to escape.

Her breath caught.

But she didn’t back away.

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“You don’t understand what this is,” he growled.

Every word dragged up from the pit of his stomach like they weighed a hundred pounds each.

She leaned closer.

He wanted to retreat—but there was nowhere to go.

“I know it’s your rut,” she said softly.

Every nerve in his body froze.

The word curled in the air like a blade unsheathed.

His eyes snapped to hers before he could stop himself.

Bad idea.

Fucking terrible idea.

Because she was crying.

Barely.

Not from fear.

From understanding. From wanting to understand.

And that wrecked him more than any scream ever could.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not safe. I’m not even a man anymore. I’m a weapon wrapped in flesh.”

“I don’t care.”

Her voice cracked.

And it cracked him.

A fractured exhale tore from his chest.

It felt like breaking open. Like he’d been holding his breath for centuries.

“I can’t control it,” he warned. “If I touch you, I’ll… I’ll do things I can’t undo.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly brushing her knee. Not a choice. Just gravity giving out.

His body trembled.

Not from heat.

Not from lust.

From the agony of being this close.

She reached for him.

Her hand hovered—just above his cheek. Not touching. Yet.

He wanted to lean in. He wanted to bite her wrist. He wanted to weep.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.

He looked up.

And saw everything.

The softness.

The sorrow.

The impossible willingness.

It wasn’t bravado.

It was belief.

She believed in him. Still. After everything.

After seeing what this place had done to him. What the fire was making of him. What little was left.

She still chose him.

And that—that was the final nail.

His vision blurred. The cuffs began to crack.

The dragon inside him stopped pacing.

It leapt.

She touched him.

The lightest graze—fingers along his cheekbone. Barely pressure. Barely movement.

But it was enough to end everything.

Sylus didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The chains held. The runes etched into the iron glowed with warning—dim, pulsing red, reacting to the blood roaring through his veins.

His arms stayed locked behind him, metal biting into burned skin.

You’re not safe. You’re not fit to touch her.

But she didn’t care.

Her fingers lingered.

And he shattered.

Not loudly. Not in a way she could see.

But inside—where things broke clean and never healed right—he came apart.

Because after days of agony—

After blood soaking the stone—

After losing track of what was real—

She touched him like he was still a man.

Not a monster.

Not a weapon.

Just him.

A low, broken sound tore from his throat.

A plea.

The cuffs didn’t break. Not yet.

But the runes flickered.

A warning. Or a promise.

His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

He wanted to turn into her palm. To bury his face in her skin and bite. Mark her. Claim her. Breathe her in until she drowned on it.

But he stayed still. Shackled. Shaking.

Her breath brushed his lips.

“Sylus,” she whispered—a breath shaped like mercy. “I’m here.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

The runes sparked and the iron groaned.

He breathed through his teeth.

Her scent—soft, warm, fatal—saturated the air.

The runes sparked and the iron groaned once more.

Still, he didn’t move.

She leaned in closer.

Her forehead rested against his.

No pressure.

Just presence.

He felt her breath on his mouth.

It didn’t comfort him.

It damned him.

The rut surged beneath his skin like molten metal. Ripping through nerves. Boiling bone.

His hips twitched. His cock throbbed—violently. Dripping. Desperate.

“Sylus,” she said again.

Softer this time.

Not a plea.

A vow.

“Let it go…”

He turned his face into her palm and exhaled—a full-body shudder rolling through him like surrender.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“You can.”

The final rune sputtered.

His right cuff cracked.

The sound was so quiet she didn’t notice. But he did.

He felt it like a fault line splitting open beneath a city—small. Deadly. Final.

And still—he didn’t move.

Because he knew what came next.

If the chains gave—there’d be no stopping it. No dignity. No gentle restraint.

Only instinct. Only fire. Only her beneath him—breaking. Begging. Blissed out of her mind.

She leaned in. Pressed her chest to his. Folded her legs around him.

And the heat of her body sank into his like gasoline to a live flame.

That was when the left cuff snapped.

No light.

No flash.

Just—a break.

Quiet.

Lethal.

His hand fell free.

He didn’t use it. Not yet.

He held it still—like a condemned man savoring one final breath before the executioner’s blade.

She didn’t notice.

She was too close.

Too focused on his face—eyes wide, full of something between terror and tenderness.

And in that moment, Sylus knew—he couldn’t let her go.

Not even if it ruined them.

Not even if it wrecked her.

Not even if the man inside him was already gone—swallowed whole by the thing that wanted to fuck her until she forgot her name and begged to wear his mark forever.

His free hand moved.

Slow.

Shaking.

Like he was reaching for divinity.

He didn’t grab.

Didn’t pull.

He just lifted that trembling, bloodied hand—and let it hover beside her cheek.

She turned her face into it. Let his fingers brush her skin.

And when she did—when she leaned into his ruin like she wanted to belong to it—his last thread of control snapped.

He surged forward.

His mouth crashed into hers—hard, hungry, desperate.

His whole body ignited with the need to taste her.

To feel her.

To consume her.

The last cuff shattered behind him—but freedom meant nothing now.

He didn’t need freedom.

He needed her.

And he’d never stop.

He didn’t remember moving.

One second, he was kissing her—frenzied, messy, too much teeth and not enough air—

And the next, she was on her back beneath him.

Hair fanned over cold stone like a crown of fire. Mouth red and kiss-bruised. Chest rising and falling like she couldn’t breathe.

And her legs—

Spread.

Just enough to welcome him in.

And gods help him—He fit there.

He hovered above her, panting like an animal, hands planted beside her head. His whole body trembled with restraint—the last shred of it pulled tight around his ribs like barbed wire.

His hips surged forward—instinctual.

His cock dragged against her clothed core—hot, throbbing—and the friction nearly made him sob.

Her eyes met his.

She nodded.

Once.

Slow.

And that—that was the end.

No more hesitation.

No more chains.

No more mercy.

He tore her clothes open with both hands—not undressing.

Destroying.

Fabric shredded beneath his fingers. Sleeves split. Her top peeled away in ruins.

She gasped—and the sound hit him like lightning to the spine.

The dragon inside him didn’t purr.

It roared.

He dropped to his knees between her thighs.

Yanked her underwear down with shaking hands—snarling when the lace clung to her skin like defiance—and threw the scrap across the chamber like it offended him.

Then he looked down—

And gods.

There she was.

Bare. Glistening. Open for him.

The sound that tore from his chest was so low, so guttural—it made the stone beneath them seem to vibrate.

“Sylus—”

She said his name like she’d never say it again.

He didn’t answer.

He grabbed her thighs—

Tight.

Possessive.

Claws barely held in check.

And he dragged her into his lap.

Like she was nothing but gravity’s favorite offering.

His cock brushed against her folds—

Hot.

Leaking.

So thick it looked almost inhuman—the ridge swollen from too much denial,the base already beginning to swell—a promise of the knot to come.

He didn’t line up. He didn’t tease. He just thrust.

Hard.

Deep.

Final.

He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

And her scream—

Her scream—

Was fucking divine.

Her walls clamped down around him like her body had been built to break for him.

Tight. Wet.Hotter than fire.

And the second he bottomed out—something inside him howled.

His head dropped to her shoulder, fangs bared at her throat, and his hips—they moved.

Not rhythmically.

Not gently.

They claimed.

Grinding.

Dragging.

Devouring.

Each thrust punched a moan out of her—her nails raking down his back like she didn’t know whether to hold him close or tear herself free.

He didn’t give her a choice.

He slammed into her again.

And again.

Hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Fast enough to erase thought. Deep enough to brand the memory of him into her soul.

“You were made for this,” he growled.

His voice was wrecked—shredded and low, carved out of heat and hunger. Each word forced between thrusts like a vow.

“For me.”

Thrust.

“For my cock.”

Thrust.

“For my knot.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders, claws just barely restrained.

“Say it,” he snarled.

He dragged his cock out—slow, brutal—until only the tip remained. Then slammed back in with a wet slap that echoed off the walls.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Sylus—fuck—I’m yours!”

His hips stuttered.

Her cunt clenched around him so hard he saw stars.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

The dragon demanded more.

He flipped her—one moment she was under him, the next she was on her knees. Face pressed to the stone. Ass arched high. Thighs trembling.

And gods—

She offered herself.

Like instinct had taken over. Like her body remembered what it had been made to do.

He slammed into her—so hard they both cried out.

Her hips jolted forward. Her hands scrabbled for grip.

There was no pretending now.

This wasn’t soft.

This wasn’t sweet.

This was breeding.

He fucked her like the world was ending—like the only thing that mattered was driving so deep she forgot how to walk.

His knot began to swell.

She felt it.

He knew she did—

The way she choked on a cry. The way her body arched back into him, desperate to take all of it.

“Don’t fight it,” he growled into her ear—voice reverent, destroyed. “Let me tie you. Let me fill you.”

“Please—” she whimpered.

He sank in to the base—

And locked.

The knot caught.

And she screamed.

Her whole body convulsed—cunt clenching, pulsing, milking him for everything he had.

And gods, he gave it to her.

He came so hard he saw white.

His vision went black. His roar shattered the silence—thunder in a tomb of stone and sin.

His cock throbbed violently, pulsing rope after rope of heat into her until she was full.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

He kept pouring into her—

Until her belly was taut.

Until her back arched from the sheer force of it.

Until her body went limp.

She whimpered beneath him—trembling. Slick. Painted in sweat and bite marks and the sound of her own ruin.

He held her there.

Locked.

Claimed.

His.

She was shaking beneath him.

Sweat clung to her thighs. Her arms had collapsed. Her palms slid uselessly across cold stone. Her cheek rested against the floor. Lips parted. Eyes glassy.

She looked wrecked.

And gods—

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

But Sylus wasn’t finished.

Not by a fucking long shot.

His knot was still locked deep inside her—still pulsing, still throbbing with the aftershocks of his first release.

And his cock?

Still thick. Still twitching. Already hardening again—inside her.

The dragon didn’t rest.

The rut didn’t cool.

It escalated.

He leaned over her—chest pressed to her trembling back, mouth dragging across the slick heat of her neck.

His fangs grazed her shoulder.

Not biting. Not yet.

But there.

Always there.

A promise. A threat. A vow.

“You’re not done,” he growled—voice low and broken, rasping against the shell of her ear. “Don’t you dare be done.”

A whimper escaped her—half-protest,half-plea.

She was exhausted. Her thighs trembled from strain. But when he rolled his hips—grinding his knot deeper, cock twitching inside her—

She gasped.

Like he’d lit her on fire.

And gods, she squeezed him.

Tight. Reflexive.

Like her body already knew—knew to cling. Knew to keep.

He moaned into her skin.

“Look at you,” he breathed, thrusting shallowly—as deep as the knot would allow. “Already gripping me like you don’t want to let go.”

“Sylus…” she whimpered.

One trembling hand reached back—fingers brushing his hip—barely holding on.

It wasn’t enough.

He pulled out slowly.

Painfully.

The knot dragged free with a wet pop—and both of them groaned.

The moment he slipped out, cum spilled down her thighs in thick, messy drips.

He watched it.

Watched it slide down her skin like proof.

Proof she was his.

She tried to shift—maybe to roll over, maybe to catch her breath—but Sylus growled. Wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her up to her knees again.

“Not yet,” he muttered. Breathless. Wrecked. “Don’t you dare close those legs.”

She obeyed. Whether from instinct or surrender, he didn’t care.

He just needed to be inside her again.

But this time—he didn’t slam into her.

This time—he knelt behind her.

Spread her open with both hands—thumbs parting her slick folds, so he could see.

So he could worship.

Every ruined inch of her—dripping, flushed, swollen from taking every inch of him.

She was panting.

He leaned in. Pressed a kiss between her thighs.

Just one.

Then his tongue followed.

A full, filthy lick—from her entrance to her clit.

Her whole body jolted.

She cried out—

Loud.

Raw.

And he groaned into her heat.

“Sweet fucking gods,” he rasped, gripping her hips tighter. “You taste like heaven after sin.”

And then—

he ate her.

Like a man starved.

Like her pleasure was the only thing that could cool the fire still devouring him from within.

His tongue circled her clit—

Relentless.

Lips closing around it to suck. While two fingers thrust deep—curled exactly right. Precise. Devoted.

He found that spot—the one that made her hips jerk, her voice break.

And he didn’t stop.

She was sobbing now.

Shaking.

Gasping.

Trying to pull away—

He didn’t let her.

“Stay there,” he growled. “Take it.”

“I—I can’t—” she whimpered.

“Yes, you can.”

And she did.

Her back arched—thighs trembling violently—and then she broke.

Clenching around his fingers, sobbing through a climax that sounded like a prayer wrapped in punishment.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

He kept his mouth on her—dragging out her orgasm until she was twitching, babbling, eyes rolling back.

Only then did he pull away.

Only then did he lift her—gently, reverently—

And press her down onto her back.

She looked dazed.

Hair wild. Lips bruised. Chest rising in frantic, uneven bursts.

Sylus hovered over her—panting, his cock already hard again.

Flushed.

Slick.

Leaking across her stomach.

“You’re gonna take me again,” he told her.

It wasn’t a question.

Her legs opened.

It was instinct.

He lined up. Thrust in—one smooth, brutal stroke.

Buried to the hilt.

He groaned—low, broken, animal.

She gasped—half in shock,half in greedy need.

And gods—

She was so wet.

So fucking ready.

Her cunt swallowed him like it missed him—like the brief moments he hadn’t been inside her were somehow unnatural.

And this time?

This time he fucked her.

Not slow.

Not sweet.

Brutal.

Deep.

Obsessive.

He held her legs wide, drilled into her, watched her fall apart beneath him.

Her moans became cries.

Her hands gripped his arms like he was the only thing keeping her from floating away.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, fucking harder. “Do you hear me?”

She nodded frantically, gasping—

“Y-Yes—yes—yours—”

His lips curled into something dark. Something sacred.

“I’m gonna knot you again,” he growled. “Gonna fuck you so full you forget who you were before me.”

Her eyes rolled back.

He bent low, kissed her mouth—bit her lower lip—and fucked her harder. Faster.

His knot swelled again—thick and demanding—pressing against her entrance with every brutal thrust.

And when it caught—

When it locked—

She screamed.

And he came.

Again.

Harder than before.

Hot, pulsing waves of release spilled into her.

Filling her.

Stretching her.

Until her belly lifted from the pressure—until her cunt clenched down like it never wanted to let him go.

She sobbed beneath him.

Not in pain.

In ecstasy.

And Sylus—

He roared.

Head thrown back. Eyes glowing. Hands gripping her like she was the only thing anchoring him to existence.

And the dragon inside him—the beast that had burned and waited and hungered—it sang.

She was limp beneath him.

Skin slick. Flushed. Trembling.

Her thighs had stopped shaking—not from relief, but from exhaustion.

Her voice was wrecked. Her eyes—glassy. Her lips—parted in a soft, ruined sigh that made his cock twitch inside her.

Still locked. Still pulsing. Still not enough.

Even after two full rounds—

Even after he’d emptied himself so deep it should’ve broken them both—

His rut didn’t ease.

The fire still raged.

Hotter. Hungrier. Holier.

He watched her body twitch with aftershocks—and something inside him shifted.

Something sacred.

Something old.

A primal instinct unfolded in his chest like wings.

He hadn’t just claimed her.

He’d begun the claiming.

And he’d do it again.

And again.

Until her body bloomed with his legacy.

Until her womb swelled with the future their blood demanded.

Until she was full of his fire-born clutch.

His hand dragged slowly down her stomach—fingers tracing the gentle swell from the sheer amount of cum stuffed inside her.

“You feel that?” he whispered.

She blinked slowly—wrecked.

But her body answered for her—clenching softly, involuntarily.

He moaned.

Fangs bared.

“You’re holding me so tight,” he breathed. “Even now. Like your body knows what it’s for.”

He leaned down—teeth grazing the curve of her breast.

And this time?

He didn’t graze.

He bit.

Hard.

Deep.

Enough to leave a mark that would never fade.

Her back arched under him—a gasp breaking from her throat.

Not pain.

Not exactly.

It was all too tangled now—pain, pleasure, possession.

Her body didn’t know the difference anymore.

He suckled her breast—tongue circling, lips sealing over her nipple.

And his hips began to move.

Slow, shallow thrusts—grinding his knot inside her,stretching her open all over again.

Her fingers tangled in his hair.

And she moaned.

Gods.

She moaned.

Even ruined.

Even drenched in his cum.

Even trembling with overstimulation—

She wanted more.

And so did he.

【 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 】

#love and deepspace #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus qin #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #smut writing #smut fic #smut fanfiction #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x mc #qin che #sylus smut #sylus dragon #sylus fanfic #sylus fanfiction

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peanutpinet · 2 days ago

Note

Hello I have a request for a sylus x reader female.

Can the request be along the lines of how the reader is sleep deprived from working, and she is scared of thunderstorms and during one night there is a storm and that’s one more day she won’t get sleep. Mephesto sees her being sleepless and reports back to sylus, and sylus arranges Luke and kerian to pick her up and bring her to his house?

You can choose how the rest plays out, but some cuddling and head rubs would also be nice to include:)

Thank you

Anchor - Sylus x Non!Mc Fem Reader

Disclaimer: This work is completely fiction. I do not own the images nor the characters or you (the MC). All images were taken from Pinterest.

A/N: Hi love, thank you for requesting!! This sounds so adorable and as someone who hasn’t been able to sleep well the past few days, I too definitely needed this. Sending hugs to everyone who has been feeling down or tired

Sylus’ POV (tis a first time I’m writing from Sylus’ POV but lessgo)

“I expect the shipments to arrive within the next 24hrs or I’ll ship you in pieces back. Understood, Turner?” I stated, twirling my glass of wine, waiting for Turner to answer me

Once he finally gave a scared nod, I brushed him off and he immediately scrambled out the door. Right as the door was closed and I was left alone in the meeting room, thunderstorm started to erupt following the rainstorm in the N109 zone.

The clock strikes midnight and I can’t help but wonder if she was back at her apartment. The last thing she texted me was she was grabbing dinner with a friend and that was at 7pm.

“Where are you, sweetie?”

Not long, I receive a video from Mephisto. I hooked up the recordings I receive from him onto my computer and there she was under the covers on her bed, seemingly shivering. The rain and thunderstorm were much worse in her area and it made me worried.

Along with her shivering body, Mephisto spotted lots of takeouts, coffees, paperwork sprawled across her desk. Was she overworking herself? Had she even gotten a proper meal and rest?

I quickly dialed a number. “Luke, Kieran”

“Yes boss? Reporting live right now. That Turner guy you told us to spy on is doing his job. He’s getting the new big guns ready to be shipped. They look pretty good boss. Can we have a demo…”

I didn’t let the twins finish their ramble and snapped them back to reality. “Change of plans. I need you two to bring someone to me. I’m going to get the base ready for her arrival”

It only took the twins a few seconds to know who I was talking about because they immediately sounded happy and giddy.

“Right away boss. You got it. Should we bring snacks along the way? We should definitely bring snacks” the twins rambled on again

“Just make sure she’s okay. Don’t ask her anything. Just entertain her in your peculiar ways…” I mentioned and the twins reassured me, turning off the call

Immediately, I prepared the room with some of the plushies she left the last time she stayed over. I took out the extra blanket she once bought then prepared the diffuser with her favorite calming scent before heading to the kitchen and prepared some of her comfort meals.

It only took 20 minutes for the twins to come back as I heard the front door open followed by a soft tired call for my name. “Sylus?”

Hearing her voice sound so tired and broken tugged something in me and I placed the last of the food I made on the dining room before making my way to see her.

When her figure was in my sight, I saw her wearing her oversized sweater and sweatpants followed by a short blanket wrapped around her, making her look smaller than she already is.

I didn’t notice it but my steps got faster and I engulfed her in my arms, allowing her to just slump her whole body on me. “It’s alright sweetie. Take it easy, yeah?” I stroke her smaller back as she let out a sigh

We stayed in this position for a while until I heard her stomach grumbling a bit. “You must be hungry. Let’s get you something to eat yeah? I prepared your favorites. Something light. I promise”

She didn’t complain as I practically carried her to the dining area and set her down onto the chair while I sat next to her.

“You made pumpkin soup for me?” she asked in a small trembling voice

I stroke her hair while I use my evol to bring a tray of freshly baked focaccia into her sight. “And fresh bread for you to dip into your soup. Go on sweetie, have a sip”

She nodded and took a spoonful of soup and drank it. “It taste exactly like the one we drank in that restaurant you brought me”

I smiled as I ripped the fresh bread and dipped it into the soup, feeding it to her. “Perhaps because I may or may not have paid a bit to ask for the recipe. I know you like the soup and it warms you up”

I feed her while also stroking her back but the moment the thunderstorm erupts again, she jumped and clinged to me. I immediately wrapped my arm around her, gently stroking her hair. “It’s okay sweetie. I’m here. You’re safe, yeah? Just lean on me, listen to my heartbeat. You’re okay”

She stayed silent, drawing some circles on my sweater. “It was a rough week” she mumbles but I didn’t cut her off, I kept stroking her hair and let her continue. “I had to work overtime almost everyday. I don’t even remember the last time I had a proper meal”

I stopped my stroking and gently held her cheek, softly making her face me. “Come to me next time you feel overwhelmed. I didn’t have Mephisto watch your every move because I value your privacy. But if this happens again, I may have to have Mephisto watch over you closely next time”

Instead of complaining, she actually chuckled and snuggled further into my chest. “Thank you Sy”

Hearing her thank me made me smile as I hugged her close. “No need to thank me sweetie. I’d do anything for you. I won’t allow you to drown yourself in sorrow alone. When you feel stuck and have nowhere to go, always come to me sweetie. I’ll be your anchor to support you, care for you, love you even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. I’ll remind you” I kissed her temple. “Every day if I have to, sweetie” I kissed her cheeks. “That you deserve everything and more” I softly kissed her jaw. “That you’ll never be alone for as long as I’m here, with you”

I gently held her face and lift them before leaning down to meet her lips, our nose brushing against one another as I softly connect my lips with hers, caressing her cheeks I felt tears streaming down; making me deepen the kiss while wiping her tears before slowly releasing my lips from hers.

“Cry for as long as you want, I would never judge you. But once you’re done crying, I hope you’ll allow me to indulge you and bring a smile to your face again” I softly caressed her cheek with my knuckle but instead she opened my hand and leaned her face into it, making me smile as I pulled her close

A/N: I know this was very short but I hope that it at least brings some comfort to whoever reads this :') wishing everyone good health and take care!! xoxo peanutpinet

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salemrph · 1 day ago

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The first fan arts are coming up!

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #cant stop yapping about this #forgive me for this mad Thursday #soft sylus #I was thinking about writing a fanfic about his birthday but I will wait

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deepspacedarling · 2 days ago

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LADS Movie Theater Headcanons

Warnings: None it's just silly.

AN: I want to see a movie with my boys :( This will have to do.

Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

Xavier

Might fall asleep during the movie if he's not careful. Even if he does, he'll tell you he liked the movie after its done. He has no idea what happened during it but what you don't know won't hurt you.

Sneaks in snacks. You don't know where he's hiding them but he's got a whole family sized bag of chips for you.

Actually wants to watch the opening commercials mostly so that anytime you say you want to see one of the films he can make a mental note to take you.

Zayne

If someone is talking, he'll whisper to you about how rude they're being. If they talk for too long, he'll go get someone who works there to tell them to shut up.

Will mention how dirty the theater is at least once. Not enough times to be annoying but you can see it in his eyes that he's wondering how often the place is thoroughly cleaned. It's not.

Doesn't like recliner seats at the theaters. He's sitting upright. He also bought a bunch of candy to eat while you watch the movie.

Rafayel

He's a movie talker but only at home. At the movies theater he's silent. He'll snap at anyone who is talking in the theater though. He's a "HEY, DOWN IN FRONT!" kind of guy.

He's dropped snacks and drinks on the floor before so he's careful to make sure he doesn't. He always drops something anyway. Every. Time.

After the movies over, he'll spend the next hour talking to you about the movie and what he liked and didn't like. He's a yapper in general so he likes to critique the film especially the camerawork. If it's an animated movie, he'll talk for even longer.

Sylus

Bought you a bunch of snacks from the concessional stand. If there's limited edition popcorn bowls, he bought those too.

While he does think it's cute if you ask him to sneak into a movie with you, it also makes him look broke. He's paying for tickets. You guys can sneak in illegally somewhere else later if you want.

Likes to sit directly in the middle of the theater. The back is too far away, the front means he's craning his neck. Honestly, just let him rent out a whole theater for your movie. It'll save you both the trouble.

Caleb

His phone starts ringing and he's apologizes until he manages to turn it off. It won't ring for the rest of the movie but the mortification will last that long.

He'll sneak into the theater with you if you ask him to. It reminds him of when you two were kids and he likes doing silly illegal things with you.

He'd prefer to just pirate the movie online and watch it with you at home. He gets to cuddle with you on the couch that way. But! He'll go if you ask. He'll do anything for you.

Requests are Open!!

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mephisto-reporting · 5 months ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy with Sylus

Plot: Reader becomes jealous of Sylus and MC's closeness, distancing herself and seeking comfort in another LI. Sylus notices her growing distance and takes action. Based on this request. Pairing: Sylus x Non MC reader Content Warning: Insecurities, injuries, mention of blood, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort Note: Reader is not the MC of the game. I think I got quite carried away writing this because I am a sucker for angst. [ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

The faint hum of the air condition echoed through the Onychinus base, its opulent, luxurious atmosphere doing little to distract from the knot twisting in your stomach. You stood across from Luke and Kieran, their crow masks tilted slightly as if to gauge your reaction.

"Boss isn't here today," Luke said casually, his hands tucked into his pockets. "He’s in Linkon, Boss man’s got other things to handle."

Kieran, his mask tilted slightly to the side, gave a confused grunt. "But I thought he was meeting with her...?"

Luke raised a brow, correcting him. "No, no, he was meeting with Miss Hunter."

Miss Hunter.

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, even though they shouldn’t have. You were a hunter too, an informant who had been feeding Sylus critical intel on the association’s movements for two years now. But she was different. Special.

Captain Jenna’s star pupil, with her rare Anhaunsen-class Resonance Evol, was someone Sylus had spent weeks trying to connect with, both literally and emotionally. You weren’t blind to the necessity of it; resonating with her was crucial for his goals, ones he hadn’t entirely shared with you but that you trusted him to pursue.

Trusted him. Loved him.

You forced a tight smile. "Thanks for the update. I'll let you two get back to it."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance, but you were already walking away, the echo of your boots swallowed by the hum of the base.

The ride back to Linkon was supposed to clear your mind. It didn’t.

The cool wind whipped against your face, but all it did was sting the tears pooling in your eyes. The road stretched endlessly ahead, yet the pressure in your chest only grew. Sylus hadn’t seen you in two months. Two months of unanswered calls and messages reduced to half-hearted responses when they came at all.

You understood why he was focused on her. She was crucial to his plans. She was everything you weren’t: poised, pretty, powerful, and, most importantly, someone he needed.

But understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

The world blurred around you as your thoughts spiraled. You had always known your place in Sylus’ life. You were the informant, the quiet insider who helped him stay two steps ahead of the hunters. Somewhere along the way, though, you had fallen for him. For the man who wasn’t as cold and calculated as others believed. It had been two long years since you started working with Sylus. Two years filled with secrecy, lies, and hidden truths. But over those years, you'd found yourself tangled in emotions for him that you couldn’t shake. Sylus, with his cold authority, his dangerous smile, his complex nature… He was all you could think about. He wasn’t as dismissive as people thought. He had a way of looking at you when no one was watching—a fleeting softness that you cherished, even if you couldn’t be certain if it was real.

And now, it felt like you were losing him.

Your bike screeched to a halt near Meow’s Café. You hadn’t planned to stop, but the sight of the familiar storefront tugged at you. Perhaps a coffee and a moment to breathe would help.

The glass windows glinted under the midday sun, and your breath hitched as you looked inside.

Sylus was there. With her.

They sat at a small table, a deck of Kitty cards spread between them. He was leaning back, his smirk in full display as she laughed at something he said. It was the kind of laugh that reached her eyes, the kind of moment you had only ever dreamed of sharing with him.

You froze, your hands tightening on your helmet.

For a fleeting second, you wanted to march inside and demand answers. To ask him why he had time to play cards but couldn’t return your calls. To tell him how his absence had hollowed you out.

But you didn’t.

He looks so happy... you thought bitterly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The truth gnawed at you. Every interaction, every ignored message, every unread notification on your phone—it was because of her. Because Sylus had more important things to do. She was the one who mattered now. She was the one who he had to resonate with, had to bond with, had to make fall for him.

And you? You were just a pawn, a tool—forgotten. And there you were. Alone. Watching through a window, the warmth of the cafe contrasting the cold, empty feeling in your stomach. He hadn’t even bothered to let you know he was back. He was with her. You couldn’t bear to watch any longer, but you couldn’t look away either. It felt like the world was spinning faster than you could catch up, and you were left stranded, dizzy, and abandoned.

Instead, you turned away, your chest tight and vision blurred. The world felt suffocating, the weight of your unspoken feelings dragging you down as you climbed back onto your bike.

It was for the best, right?

You couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t keep waiting for him, couldn’t keep fooling yourself that there was something real between you two. He was busy. He had her. And you.. well, you didn’t even know why you bothered anymore.

The ride back to your apartment was a blur of taillights and muffled engine noise. The city’s glow that usually brought you some sense of comfort felt glaring and alien tonight. By the time you made it inside, the suffocating silence of your small space was overwhelming.

For someone who prided herself on being strong and independent, you barely made it to your couch before the sobs overtook you. Hot, angry tears streamed down your face as you clutched a pillow to your chest, trying in vain to keep your cries muffled. It felt as though something within you had been ripped apart, leaving an aching, hollow void that throbbed with every thought of him.

You replayed the image of him at the café in your mind, over and over, as if some part of you wanted to punish yourself further. His smirk. Her laughter. The ease of their interaction. It contrasted so sharply with the heaviness that now weighed on your heart.

Every chime of your phone made you flinch, hope briefly sparking to life, only to be cruelly snuffed out when the screen lit up with messages from others—work updates, pointless notifications, or friends checking in. Nothing from him. Of course, there wouldn’t be.

You wiped at your face, your chest tightening as you scrolled through the last few conversations you’d had with Sylus. They were short, clipped responses. A "thanks" here, an "I’m busy" there. You’d convinced yourself for weeks that he wasn’t brushing you off, that his focus was just elsewhere. But deep down, you knew. You’d always known.

You weren’t as important to him as he was to you.

That realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and final. And yet, you tried to convince yourself it was okay. He doesn’t owe me anything, you told yourself, though the thought only twisted the knife deeper. He’s free to choose who he spends his time with.

But it didn’t stop the tears.

The days that followed were a haze of exhaustion and numbness. You threw yourself into your work, spending long hours tracking and confronting wanderers. The physical exhaustion helped, even if just a little. At least when you were in the middle of a fight, the pain in your chest was drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Still, the nights were the worst. Alone in your apartment, the quiet crept in like a suffocating fog. You tried to distract yourself—reading, cleaning, even organizing old mission reports. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to him. But it was impossible.

Each time you saw his name in your contacts, you hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the call button more times than you cared to admit, but the fear of hearing his indifferent voice stopped you every time. What would you even say? That you missed him? That you wanted to see him? That you’d fallen for him, even though you knew it would never be mutual?

No. You couldn’t do that to yourself.

You worked harder, pushed yourself further. Every wanderer you fought became a stand-in for your frustrations, your insecurities. You told yourself that if you could just stay busy enough, the ache would go away. But no matter how many missions you completed or how many late nights you spent staring at your phone, the weight in your chest never fully lifted.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted—physically and emotionally. But you were surviving. Barely. The bell above the door jingled softly as you pushed into the chocolatier’s shop, the rich scent of cocoa and vanilla wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The day had been grueling—hours of chasing leads, a narrow escape from a particularly aggressive wanderer, and not a single bite of food since morning. Your stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder that you’d been running on fumes for too long.

Rows of meticulously crafted chocolates gleamed beneath the glass counter, their perfect swirls and shimmering finishes almost too beautiful to eat. Almost. You leaned forward slightly, scanning the display, your reflection ghosting over the pristine surface.

Dark chocolate truffles. Raspberry ganache. Caramel hazelnut clusters. The options were overwhelming, and your indecision felt heavier than it should’ve. Your chest still ached from the lingering emotions you’d been suppressing all week. The quiet joy of the shop felt alien, like stepping into a world you no longer belonged to.

Just pick something and go, you thought, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. But the choices seemed endless, each one whispering promises of sweetness you weren’t sure you deserved.

"If you’re struggling," a soft, measured voice spoke behind you, "the pistachio crème chocolate is an excellent choice."

Startled, you turned, your gaze falling on a man standing a few steps away. Tall and lean, he exuded an understated confidence that was both intimidating and captivating. Dark hair fell in against his forehead, and sharp hazel-green eyes, softened by gold flecks peered at you from behind thin-framed glasses. His white doctor’s coat was open, revealing a simple black shirt beneath, and he held a small paper bag in one hand.

You blinked, caught off guard by both his suggestion and his presence. "Oh, uh… thank you," you stammered, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt. "I’ll… I’ll try that."

The shopkeeper nodded and carefully packed your selection as you stole another glance at the stranger. There was an air of calm authority about him, a quiet assurance that made you feel oddly exposed, like he could see straight through you.

He waited patiently as the shopkeeper handed you your bag, but just as you were about to leave, his voice cut through the quiet again—this time, more direct. "Chocolates shouldn’t be your first meal of the day."

The statement was delivered without malice, his tone stoic and matter-of-fact, yet it hit like a stone to the chest. Your lips parted in shock, the question forming before you could stop it: How does he know? But before you could say anything, he was already moving toward the door. The bells jingled softly as it closed behind him, leaving you standing frozen in place. The stranger’s words lingered, intertwining with the rest of your messy emotions. Your fingers clenched the small bag of chocolates as you tried to process the brief encounter.

A soft gleam on the floor caught your attention, breaking your spiraling thoughts. A wallet, its sleek leather worn but well-kept, lay just inches from where the man had stood. You knelt and picked it up, your heart thudding as you opened it to check for identification.

The name embossed on his hospital ID was like a jolt: Dr. Zayne. Your eyes widened. Doctor Zayne? The name was familiar—a renowned surgeon whose skills and precision were legendary, often described as a miracle worker. You’d imagined someone older, more weathered, not… this.

For a moment, you stared at the ID, piecing together the puzzle of the composed, enigmatic man who had called you out so effortlessly. You tried the number listed on a card tucked into his wallet, but it rang unanswered, the sterile monotone only adding to your frustration.

"Of course, he wouldn’t answer," you muttered under your breath, chewing your lip as you debated your next move. The idea of keeping his wallet overnight felt wrong, and leaving it here in the shop seemed equally careless.

That left one option.

The hospital loomed ahead as you approached, its towering structure illuminated against the evening sky. Anxiety gnawed at your insides, twisting with every step you took through the sterile white halls. You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge—maybe it was the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that had been haunting you lately, or maybe it was the lingering impression of Zayne’s knowing gaze.

At the reception desk, you hesitated, gripping the wallet tightly as you cleared your throat. "Hi, um, I’m here to return something for Dr. Zayne. He… accidentally dropped this."

The receptionist barely looked up, taking the wallet with a polite but indifferent smile. "Dr. Zayne isn’t in right now. I’ll make sure he gets this when he’s back."

"Oh," You nodded, murmuring a quick thanks before retreating back toward the exit. You thought nothing of this interaction as you left. You did what you thought was right and left the hospital back towards your apartment.

The days blurred together in a haze of work and routine. You buried yourself in assignments from the Hunter’s Association, throwing yourself into dangerous missions with a single-minded intensity. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Sylus messaged you once during that time, his tone professional as he asked for updates regarding a lead he was tracking. You’d responded quickly, sticking strictly to business. No pleasantries, no banter—just the information he needed. He didn’t press, didn’t call you out for your uncharacteristic coldness. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to say anything.

That night, you jogged through the dimly lit streets, your breath fogging in the cool air as you tried to exorcise the restless energy gnawing at you. The rhythmic slap of your sneakers against the pavement was grounding, steady. Jogging had always been your go-to, a way to clear your head and silence the endless stream of "what-ifs" and "if-onlys" that plagued your mind.

But no amount of movement could completely shake Sylus from your thoughts.

His voice, his presence—it clung to you, even now.

Why didn’t he ask how I’ve been? Why didn’t I?

You shook your head, annoyed at yourself. There was no point in dwelling. Sylus wasn’t the kind of person to give you what you wanted, and even if he did, could you trust it? Could you trust him?

The sound of skidding tires yanked you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Look out!”

Before you could process the warning, a cyclist veered wildly toward you, their momentum too strong to stop. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself. The impact hit like a freight train, and suddenly, you were on the ground, tangled with the bike and its rider. Pain blossomed sharp and hot in your knees as the asphalt scraped them raw.

For a moment, you just lay there, stunned. The world tilted unsteadily, the city lights smearing together like a watercolor painting.

“Hey, you okay?” The cyclist’s voice snapped you back. They were scrambling off you, helmet slightly askew but otherwise unscathed. You shook your head to clear it, wincing as you sat up. You pushed yourself up, shaking the dizziness from your head, and checked on the cyclist who had crashed into you. They were already scrambling to their feet, looking slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed, their helmet and guards having done their job.

“I’m fine,” you managed, even as your knees throbbed in protest. “Are you?”

“Yeah, thanks to the gear,” they said, pulling off their helmet to inspect a small crack along its surface. “Guess it did its job.”

Relief washed over you. “Good. Let me just—”

“Wait.” A different voice cut in, firm but calm. You stood there, still trying to regain your bearings when a figure appeared beside you, moving with a grace that immediately caught your attention. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw who it was. Dr. Zayne. The same man who had crossed your path in the chocolatier's shop just days ago. His sharp eyes locked onto yours, and for a split second, everything else seemed to vanish. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something more concerned as he took in your state.

Without saying a word, he immediately began assessing you, his gaze narrowing at the blood now staining your knees. You winced, feeling the sting of the cuts that had begun to bloom with a fiery intensity, but you were determined not to show it. You were used to pain—used to the sharp discomfort that came with being a hunter. You didn’t need help. You could handle this on your own. You’d always been able to.

But Dr. Zayne wasn’t having any of it.

His voice, low and steady, broke through the haze of your thoughts. "You’re bleeding. Those need first aid," he said firmly, his frown deepening as he glanced at your scraped knees. "Sit. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute."

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him you were fine, but the words caught in your throat. He wasn’t asking. His tone, though gentle, was authoritative—demanding in its own quiet way. There was something about the way he carried himself, that calm, unflinching presence, that made it impossible to argue.

"I’m fine, I am a hunter." you managed to say, your voice rougher than you intended. "I can handle it at home. Really." You tried to force a reassuring smile

“Is this a hunter thing?” he interrupted, one brow arching skeptically. “Are all of you this stubborn about basic care, or is it just you?”

The words should have been biting, but his tone was almost... patient. Like he was accustomed to dealing with difficult people.

You flushed, suddenly hyper-aware of the sting in your knees and the heat of his gaze. “I’m not being stubborn,” you muttered. “I just don’t want to bother anyone over something so small.”

“Small injuries have a way of turning into bigger problems,” he said, folding his arms. “And I’m not bothered. As a doctor, I’m asking you to wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Without waiting for your protest, he turned and strode off, leaving you no room to argue.

You sat stiffly on the bench, gripping the edge as the minutes dragged on. The ache in your knees was nothing compared to the gnawing discomfort blooming in your chest. Anxiety clawed at you, whispering insidious doubts.

He’s wasting his time on you.He probably thinks you’re pathetic and weak.Why couldn’t you have just gotten up and left?

Your fingers curled into fists, the tension radiating through your body.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your spiraling thoughts, and Dr. Zayne was back, carrying a small first aid kit. He knelt in front of you without a word, his hands steady as he cleaned the cuts on your knees. The gentle pressure of his fingers as he worked felt almost surreal. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was just… calm. You found yourself drawn to it, to the quiet that seemed to settle around him.

"You’re lucky," he said, glancing up at you as he bandaged your knees. "That could’ve been a lot worse."

You nodded, the words caught in your throat. There were so many things you wanted to say, things you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know where to start. So you remained silent, watching as he finished his work, his hands moving with the practiced precision of someone who had seen too many injuries to count.

When he was done, he straightened up and met your gaze. "You should be more careful," he said softly, his voice a little lighter than before, though there was still a note of concern underlying his words. "Next time, don’t run so late at night. You never know what could happen."

You forced a tight smile, the words feeling like they were coming from someone else. "I’ll keep that in mind," you said, your voice quieter now.

Dr. Zayne took a step back after finishing the bandages, his sharp gaze softening ever so slightly as he packed the first aid kit. You glanced at him, your mouth opening to thank him, but before you could get the words out, he said, almost in unison, “Thank you.”

Both of you froze, the simultaneous expressions of gratitude hanging awkwardly in the air. A surprised laugh slipped out of you, breaking the tension.

“You first,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I was just going to say thank you for… you know, helping with this.” You gestured vaguely toward your knees, the bandages clinging to your skin. “You didn’t have to.”

The moment stretched between you, awkward yet somehow comforting. Zayne gave a small, almost amused smile at the simultaneous gratitude, but his gaze softened when it landed on you, his concern still present.

"Thank you for returning my wallet," he said, his tone steady but with a hint of appreciation.

His words caught you off guard. “Oh, right! That. It wasn’t a big deal, really.” You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, avoiding his gaze. “I found it at the chocolatier shop. I figured it was better to bring it to the hospital than leave it lying around.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I appreciate it. Not many people would go out of their way like that.”

You tried not to let his kindness throw you off, but it wasn’t easy. There was something about Zayne that made you feel... small in a way you didn’t like to feel. He was kind, yes, but that kindness made you wonder if you were deserving of it. Why should you be the one he cared about?

But before you could dwell on that any further, his voice cut through your swirling thoughts.

"Have you eaten today?" His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity beneath it, one that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. It reminded you of that conversation in the shop, of how he had so effortlessly read through your tiredness.

The sheepish look that crossed your face must’ve been obvious, because Zayne sighed, the sound so deep that it almost felt like a reprimand. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture that was both familiar and surprisingly endearing.

“You’ve got to take care of yourself,” he said, his voice almost too gentle for the weight of his words. “It’s not healthy to go without food, especially if you’re going to keep running around like you hunters do.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him it wasn’t a big deal, but Zayne didn’t give you the chance.

"There’s a diner close by. It’s the least I can do to thank you for returning my wallet."

You shook your head instinctively, trying to backpedal. "It’s really not necessary," you said, but Zayne wasn’t having any of it. His eyes were firm, and there was an undeniable warmth behind them that almost made you feel guilty for refusing.

"Yes, it is," he replied, his tone steady but with a hint of finality. "Now, come on.”

You hesitated for a moment, the unease building in your chest like a brick wall, but the thought of Zayne’s calm, commanding presence made it impossible to say no. So, with a quiet sigh, you relented.

"I’ll pay," you muttered as he led the way, the words almost reflexive. You always felt like you had to pay your way—like it was your responsibility to do so, especially with someone who had helped you, even in the smallest of ways. You were used to standing on your own two feet.

Zayne only gave you a side glance, his lips quirking up in the barest of smiles. "No, you won’t. It’s my thank you, remember?"

The diner wasn’t far from where you had been, a cozy, low-lit place with a soft hum of quiet conversations and the clink of silverware against plates. The familiar scent of warm food—steak, mashed potatoes, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread—immediately filled the air as you stepped inside. You followed Zayne to a small booth in the back, the vinyl seats creaking under your weight as you slid in.

You wanted to say something—thank you, maybe—but the words felt stuck, trapped somewhere in the pit of your stomach, along with everything else that had been piling up for weeks. Zayne didn’t seem to notice, his focus already turning to the menu as he gestured for you to pick something.

You wanted to ask him more, to understand him in the same way you understood the empty streets you ran through, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just end up looking foolish. So, instead, you stared at the menu in front of you, unable to focus on the choices, as your mind churned with questions that had no answers.

Zayne ordered for both of you, his voice low as he made his choices, and when he looked at you, you caught a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity, or was it concern? It was hard to tell.

"You should eat more regularly," he said again, as though the words were a reminder he had to repeat for his own peace of mind. You nodded, letting the silence fill the space between you for a moment.

The food arrived, warm and satisfying, and you took a bite, surprised at how hungry you were despite the earlier denials. Zayne watched you for a moment, his gaze softening as you ate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it. His concern, his care—it felt too much. You weren’t used to people worrying about you.

But as the meal went on, you found yourself starting to relax, the initial tension loosening from your shoulders. Zayne was easy to talk to, his calm, steady presence settling you in a way you hadn’t expected. By the end of the meal, you felt... lighter.

"Call me Zayne," he said when the check came, his voice quiet but sincere.

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the request. "Zayne?" you echoed, testing the name on your tongue.

"Yes," he replied with a small, patient smile. "It’s easier than 'Dr. Zayne,' don’t you think?"

You blinked, taken aback. “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve earned the title—”

“And I’ll still have it in the hospital,” he interrupted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But here, it’s just Zayne.”

You nodded slowly, testing the name in your mind. It felt strange, almost too personal. But there was something grounding about it, too.

By the time dessert arrived, the knot of anxiety in your chest had loosened considerably. The warmth of the diner, the steady cadence of his voice, and the shared laughter over a poorly made joke had a way of pulling you out of your own head. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you weren’t obsessing over your failures or doubts.

As you finished your meal, Zayne pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. “Here,” he said simply. “Add your number. In case you ever need anything.”

You hesitated, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it probably was. But his expression was patient, expectant, and you found yourself entering your contact information before you could overthink it. When you handed the phone back, his lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Thanks again for returning my wallet,” he said, his tone lighter now. “And for the company.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but this time, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It’s not a problem,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

As you stepped out of the diner and into the cool night air, a strange sense of calm settled over you. Zayne walked you to the corner where your paths would diverge, his presence steady and reassuring.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The diner’s warmth lingered even as you stepped into the cool night air. For the first time in what felt like weeks, your chest didn’t feel as tight, the oppressive weight that had been bearing down on you now lifting slightly. You still felt the ache of Sylus’ absence—a hollow, gnawing sensation that seemed to creep in whenever you let your guard down, but it wasn’t as suffocating as it had been. Instead, a new sensation fluttered in its place, tentative and fragile: excitement. It was strange to feel this way, to look forward to the possibility of a friendship formed under such unlikely circumstances. Zayne’s calm demeanor, his steady presence, had surprised you.

As you walked, the sound of fluttering wings caught your attention. Instinctively, your heart skipped, your mind jumping to Mephisto. You tilted your head to the dark sky, half-expecting to see the telltale silhouette of his familiar. But it was just a cluster of pigeons, their wings catching the faint glow of the streetlights as they soared away.

Right. Of course. It was unlikely that Sylus was watching you tonight.

You exhaled, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and forced your thoughts away from him. Zayne had offered you a rare moment of normalcy, and you weren’t about to let your memories of Sylus overshadow that.

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The following weeks were a blur of activity, and before long, you found yourself stationed at an outpost on the outskirts of Linkon. A metaflux surge had disrupted the area, and the temporary makeshift hospital was bustling with injured workers, hunters, and even a few civilians caught in the chaos. The air was thick with tension, the metallic tang of metaflux faint but persistent, a reminder of the unseen dangers that lurked just beyond the safety of the encampment.

Zayne was assigned as the doctor for the outpost, and you often found yourself crossing paths with him. At first, your interactions were brief—a nod here, a shared glance there—but over time, you began to talk. It started with simple pleasantries, discussions about the metaflux readings or the influx of patients, but it wasn’t long before the conversations deepened.

You learned that Zayne had a dry sense of humor, his sharp wit often catching you off guard. He’d tease you about your stubbornness, and you’d retort with a quip about his overly serious nature. Despite his professionalism, there was a warmth to him, a quiet compassion that made him easy to trust. And though you’d never admit it, you found yourself looking forward to those moments of shared laughter, those fleeting glimpses of something lighter amidst the chaos.

But even as your friendship with Zayne grew, Sylus lingered at the edges of your thoughts, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. The conversations you had with him were sparse and strictly work-related—updates from the Association, bits of intel you passed along to him. It felt transactional, a far cry from the intimacy you once shared. Yet, every time his name appeared on your screen, your heart still raced, betraying the fragile boundaries you’d tried to set.

One evening, a message from Sylus broke the monotony of your routine.

‘Come over tomorrow night, Darling. I have an exquisite wine I’d like you to try—procured it during a recent deal.’

The invitation was simple, almost casual. For a moment, you imagined it—the rich scent of wine filling the air, his sharp yet alluring gaze fixed on you as he poured you a glass. But reality quickly crept in, dragging you back to the present. You couldn’t go. You couldn’t risk it. Not when your heart was still so fragile, still aching in ways you didn’t want to admit.

You stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as your mind raced. The truth was, you wanted to see him. But you knew better. You had to keep your distance—for your own sake, if nothing else.

‘I’m tired..'

You typed, the words feeling hollow as they formed.

'Busy day tomorrow. Maybe another time.’

You hesitated before hitting send, the weight of the message pressing down on you. When his reply came, it was as simple as his invitation.

‘Okay.’

The finality of it hit you like a brick, and for a moment, you felt like your breath had been stolen away. He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. That empty “okay” hung in the air, leaving you with the quiet realization that, once again, you had lost yourself in the haze of someone else’s world.

You tried not to read too much into it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already moved on. That he didn’t care enough to fight for your attention. Instead, it felt like you were just a passing thought, like an aftertaste that wasn’t worth savoring.

Miss Hunter. The words echoed in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay behind your eyelids, but they pressed hard, a sting that never seemed to fully fade. You rubbed your forehead, trying to push away the thoughts. But even as you did, you couldn’t escape the suffocating feeling in your chest—the one that always came when you were reminded of how little you meant to him. You felt foolish, but you couldn’t help it. It was like you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to come back, to pull you back into his orbit with that practiced charm, that voice that made you feel wanted, if only for a little while.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dinner with Zayne had been a welcome reprieve. It had been two weeks since you last saw him, the demands of work pulling both of you in different directions. But tonight, seated across from him in a small, cozy bistro, you found solace in the familiar rhythm of your conversations. The mellow lights softened the sharp angles of his face as he recounted a mishap earlier in the week involving a particularly irritable patient.

His dry humor, paired with the subtle lift of his brow, drew a laugh from you—a genuine, light sound that felt foreign after the weight of recent days. For a while, the world outside blurred away. You weren’t Miss Hunter; you weren’t anything other than a person sharing a meal with a friend.

As the meal wound down, Zayne looked at you over the rim of his glass, his expression calm. “You’re doing better than when we first met.” he remarked softly.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Am I?”

He nodded. His calm demeanor always had a way of grounding you, and tonight was no exception.

The meal wrapped up with the two of you trading small updates and light banter. You paid for your half of the meal, Zayne insisting it wasn’t necessary, but you’d insisted back. There was a sense of normalcy here, something you weren’t willing to let go of easily. When you parted ways outside the diner, the night air was cool and quiet. Zayne’s warm farewell echoed softly in your ears as you waved goodbye and headed back toward your apartment.

As you walked, you felt lighter somehow. The stress of the past few weeks hadn’t vanished, but Zayne’s steady presence had reminded you of something important—moments of peace still existed, even in the chaos.

The faint scent of lavender greeted you as you unlocked your apartment door, a hint of the candle you’d left burning earlier. The lights were off, and the air felt too still—unnaturally so. Your heart skipped, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. A lump formed in your throat, panic curling its fingers around your chest.

You flicked the light switch, and the sudden brightness flooded the room, revealing the figure sitting on your couch. Sylus.

You froze. Your body stiffened, caught between fight or flight.

Your yelp of surprise filled the space, your pulse racing as you clutched the doorframe for support. “What—Sylus? What are you doing here?”

He was sitting on your couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest, his other hand resting on his knee. The dim light of the room softened the sharp edges of his face, but his expression was anything but gentle. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, tracked your every movement as if he were dissecting you with just a glance.

“How—what are you doing here?” you stammered, your voice shaky as your pulse raced.

Sylus didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze dragging over you slowly, deliberately. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken, and it made your skin prickle.

“Darling,” he finally murmured, his voice low and smooth, laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You look… exhausted.”

You blinked, still standing frozen by the door. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it was the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers tapped against his knee, that betrayed his underlying tension.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, your voice wavering as you took a cautious step forward. “It’s been a long day. What are you doing here?”

Sylus leaned back, the leather of the couch creaking faintly under his weight. “A long day,” he echoed, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yet you had time for dinner.”

“I…” you faltered, scrambling for a response. “It was just…”

“Just dinner,” he interrupted smoothly, his tone unreadable. “With… someone else.”

The air felt thick, charged with a tension that made your skin prickle. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still calm but his body language telling a different story. The way his fingers drummed against his knee, the slight clench of his jaw, the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

Your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. Why was he here? What did he want? And why did his presence—his very existence in your space—make your chest ache in that familiar, suffocating way?

“I didn’t think…” You stopped yourself, your voice trembling. “You didn’t say you’d be coming by. You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft as he rose from the couch, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Show up to see what’s wrong?”

Your breath hitched as he closed the distance between you, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming. “Nothing’s wrong…”you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that so?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his eyes boring into yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’ve been avoiding me, Darling.”

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.

“I’ve been busy…” you said weakly, your voice lacking conviction.

“Busy,” he repeated, his gaze flicking over you again, this time with something close to disdain. “Too busy for me, but not too busy for… him.”

Your hands fidgeted at your sides, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You wanted to move, to put distance between you, but your legs felt rooted to the spot. “I didn’t think dinner with a friend would..”

“Friend?” he interrupted, the single word slicing through your sentence. His lips curved into something that might have been a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, the anxiety swirling in your chest mixing with something else—something raw and painful that you didn’t want to name. The memories of your last exchange with Sylus came flooding back—the curt messages, the unspoken finality of his “okay.” You had tried to convince yourself that it didn’t matter, that you didn’t need his validation. But standing here now, under the weight of his gaze, you felt every crack in the fragile walls you had built to keep him out.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” you said finally, the words trembling as they left your lips.

His eyes softened slightly, but the tension in his posture didn’t ease. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, something important, but the moment passed as quickly as it came. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture so gentle it felt almost foreign.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that made your chest ache.

Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you. The words echoed in your mind, repeating, twisting, until all you could hear was the raw edge of betrayal laced in his tone.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, a little too loud in the quiet of your apartment. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you felt the space around you grow smaller. You couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think. All you could feel was the heat of anger building inside of you, raw and unrefined.

“That’s rich,” you scoffed, finally managing to find your voice. “That’s really rich, coming from you of all people.”

Sylus blinked, a subtle flash of surprise crossing his face, but it quickly masked over. His lips tightened, his brow furrowed ever so slightly, but it wasn’t enough. You had to push, you couldn’t hold back now. The words were tumbling out before you could even stop them. Your breath hitched, a strangled sob lodged somewhere in the back of your throat, but you refused to let it spill. You wouldn’t let him see you break—not like this, not in front of him. You knew the truth. He knew the truth. It hurt, yes, but you weren’t the one to blame.

“You've been treating me like a stranger for months,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger you hadn't fully realized was there. “Barely responding to my messages, not answering my calls, and when I do see you, it’s like you can’t be bothered. You don’t even see me.” You felt the weight of every unreturned message, every unanswered call, every promise left in limbo. “I’ve had to hear from Luke and Kieran that you’re in Linkon. But you couldn’t even make time to see me.”

You felt the ache deep in your chest, that familiar, suffocating knot forming. He didn’t deserve your pain. Not anymore. You wouldn’t let him have that. Not this time.

You took a shaky breath, suddenly feeling raw, exposed. “You don’t have to feel obligated to check on me, Sylus,” you said, your words clipped and cutting through the thick silence between you. “You don’t have to feel pity for me. I know where I stand. I know my place in your life.”

His expression, that unreadable mask, cracked for the briefest of moments. His lips parted, his gaze flicking to your face, then back down to the floor. His jaw clenched. But his eyes… They weren’t the same as they’d been earlier. The hardness was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous, something even more intimate. The storm was gathering, but it wasn’t just in the air—no, it was inside him too.

“You know where you stand?” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness you hadn’t noticed before. He took a step forward, his body closing the space between you, like a wave of raw energy crashing toward you. His proximity only made your pulse race faster, but you couldn’t back down. Not now.

“I’m just an informant, right?” you bit out, every word feeling like it sliced through the night air, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You don’t have to pretend you care, Sylus. So don’t stand there with that look on your face like I’m some important thing you need to check on.”

The air between you grew heavy, thick with unsaid words and stifled tension. Every inch of your body was telling you to get away, to shut down, to stop this before it tore you apart. But your feet felt heavy, stuck in place. Sylus’s presence was like gravity, pulling you toward him.

"You think that's all you are?" he murmured, his voice dangerously low, like the calm before the thunder. The way he said it made your heart stutter in your chest. It was both a question and an accusation or a challenge.

But there was something else in his voice. Something you couldn’t quite place. His eyes were intense, too intense, and they searched yours like he was looking for the answer. The truth.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he continued, his words clipped, as though they were difficult for him to say. “But I couldn’t....couldn’t make sense of it. Of you.”

It was the first time that he seemed genuinely vulnerable, and it left you breathless and confused. You had always wondered if there was more beneath his cold exterior. You had always told yourself that he cared. But you had never dared to confront him.

His hand was close enough now to reach out, his fingers barely brushing the edge of your wrist. The air between you was still thick with everything unsaid, everything unhealed. And yet, despite the words that had been thrown between you, there was something undeniably magnetic in the tension. The ache in your chest, the rawness, the feelings of betrayal—they didn’t wash away just because you said them out loud.

God, you hated him for this.

But part of you yearned for him. That part that still felt tethered to him, despite the distance.

Sylus’s fingers hovered over your wrist, his touch like fire against your skin. For a moment, the storm between you calmed, leaving only the faintest echo of it behind. The weight of his gaze, the force of his presence—it seemed to drown out the rest of the world.

He said nothing for a moment, his lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. His eyes darkened further, not with anger now, but with something you couldn’t quite define.

You took a breath, your body suddenly feeling too small beneath his gaze. The storm was still inside. You had to move away. Your heart pounded as if it were trying to escape your chest, desperate to flee from whatever was stirring inside you. You couldn't—no, you wouldn’t—let yourself get caught up in whatever this feeling was. You were not some fool, ready to throw everything away for the temporary pull of his presence. You knew better than that. You had to.

Every instinct screamed at you to retreat, to put some distance between you and the mess of emotions bubbling under your skin. His sharp gaze was enough to make your knees tremble, and it took everything in you not to look back, not to let him see the quiet devastation that flickered inside you.

“You need to leave… Sylus.” You whispered. You staggered back a few steps, your breathing shallow, desperate. Your feet felt like lead, yet you forced yourself to walk away. You turned your back to him, willing your legs to move, hoping to escape before you got sucked into whatever dark vortex of feelings he was drawing you into.

He didn’t move. Instead, you heard the familiar click of his boots against the floor as he took a single, deliberate step forward. “Why?” His voice, low and curious, sent a shiver down your spine. It was almost too intimate, as if he were searching for a piece of you, trying to understand what you couldn’t explain.

You didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the quiet confusion on his face—the faint flicker of disappointment that stung like salt in an open wound. You couldn’t let him see your weakness, couldn’t let him know how badly it hurt to be around him, how badly it hurt not to be around him.

“Is it so you can run back to your precious ‘friend’?” The words dripped with something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist.

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when his voice—that voice, the one that threaded through the air like silk—was digging into your mind like this. The word echoed in your ears, almost mocking you, and you felt something fragile snap inside you. The weight of the years you’d spent keeping distance, of guarding your heart against him, against whatever he made you feel, started to unravel. But you couldn’t let it.

You took another step away from him. One more step, you told yourself. Just one more. You didn’t need this.

Dark tendrils wrapped around you as you move, pulling you back. He was using his evol to pull you back. You didn’t need him pulling you in again. But then it came. That touch. He pulled you to him, forceful yet intimate, and your breath caught in your throat. You were too close. Too close to the edge of losing yourself, of falling into his presence.

His hands...no, his fingers—snaked around your waist before you even knew what was happening. You gasped, body going stiff in surprise, but his grip tightened, pulling you back into him. You tried to keep moving, tried to pull away, but it was useless. His hold was ironclad, his presence consuming. His grip tightened slightly, but there was an almost comforting pressure there, a subtle reminder that despite the dispute between you, there was something undeniable between the two of you.

“Why are you running?” His voice was a whisper against your ear, the words smooth like silk, but there was something jagged beneath them—something urgent, raw.

You struggled to hold yourself together, but the more you fought it, the more it pulled—this unbearable need to lean into him, to give in to the chaos that his proximity stirred in you. You knew you shouldn’t, but everything in you wanted to. You felt the ache of wanting something you couldn't have, the sting of the distance you had put between you and the thing that was somehow both poison and relief.

His hands tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your ribs in a movement that sent a jolt through your entire system. The words you wanted to say, the reasons you needed to get away from him, all felt so small and pointless now. How could you possibly explain this? This tension, this pull? How could you say that being near him felt like the most excruciating thing in the world, but also the only thing that made you feel alive?

“You’re not just an informant to me,” he breathed, his words slipping under your skin, curling into the tight spaces of your chest. “I didn’t realize I was hurting you this much. That you’d want to distance yourself from me...” His tone softened at the end, but it only made everything worse. The tenderness in his voice—his tenderness—was like a dagger in your side, making the blood in your veins freeze. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could hear was the deafening rush of your own heartbeat. You tried to stay composed, but the words were caught in your throat, and your body was still pressed so tightly against his, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding painfully against your ribs.

Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t you just say it—say that you couldn’t let him get close again? That you couldn’t survive another wound, another aching, empty feeling in your chest because of him? But the way his hands tightened, the warmth of his body against yours, made everything you were feeling a little too real.

You could feel his heartbeat against your back, the rhythm in sync with your own, and the pull of him was growing stronger. You could feel your anxiety bubbling up, the gnawing fear at the pit of your stomach. Was this just him toying with you? Was he trying to pull you into his world of darkness and manipulation? Or did he really care?

Your head was spinning. The emotions warred within you—anger, confusion, guilt, and something else. Something that made your heart race faster and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

“Let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm that raged around you.

But you didn’t pull away. You didn’t push him off.

Sylus' grip on you tightened, his arm like a steel band around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His chest rises and falls against your back as his breath brushes against your ear, warm and heavy. It’s as if he’s afraid, like if he lets go for even a second, he’ll lose you forever. You can feel the tension radiating from him, but also something softer, something desperate.

“No, Darling,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with emotion, his tone possessive, as though the very idea of you slipping away shatters him. “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.”

"You’re going to stay," He pulls you even closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks again, quieter this time, but laced with something raw and vulnerable. "...and you’re going to listen to me. I won’t let you walk away from this."

You can hear the flicker of something beneath his words—regret. And then, his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, lingering just a little longer than necessary. He slowly spins you around, to face him. His voice softens, almost apologetic. “I know I was a dick. I know I didn’t respond to you, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know how to handle it… handle us. It confused me, and instead of facing it, I pushed you away.” His breath catches slightly, and you feel his chest tighten against your back.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face slightly toward him, his thumb brushing over your skin as though it’s a promise, an apology. The weight of his gaze is intense, but there’s also something tender there, something that wants to pull you back in, closer. “I know you’re still hurting, darling. I see it. And I... I’ll spend a lifetime making up for it, because that’s what I want. A lifetime. With you. Not as some informant or some... thing, but as my beloved. You. By my side. Always.”

He pauses, letting his words hang in the air between you. His voice drops, the quiet sorrow of his confession sending a twinge of guilt through you. "I don’t have the right to ask this of you, I know," Sylus continues, his voice thick with emotion. "But seeing you push me away… It’s harder than I ever thought it would be. Harder than I want to admit." He presses his forehead lightly against your temple, his breath shaky. "I’ve never needed someone the way I need you, and I didn’t know how to tell you that. But I do. I need you."

You can feel him tense slightly, the shift in his demeanor telling you that his thoughts have turned darker. His voice lowers, the jealousy evident in the way he speaks, though it’s wrapped in a softness that almost makes it harder to bear.

"And Dr. Zayne... I can’t stand the thought of him being so close to you," Sylus adds, his voice low and thick with a possessiveness that unsettles you in its intensity. "It kills me, you know? Watching him with you, hearing you laugh like that with him, as if I don’t even exist." His arm tightens again, almost painfully, as if he needs to remind you, remind both of you, where you truly belong. "I know I have no claim on you... but... I can't help but feel like there’s a part of you that wants him in a way that... I can't compete with." His voice hardens, jealousy dripping from every word. "It eats at me, knowing he has a part of you that I’m fighting for."

"Sylus..." Your voice cracked slightly as you repeated his name, your breath hitching, caught in the tension between you. His name felt heavy on your tongue, like it was both a question and an answer. You had never said it so quietly, so vulnerably. The memories of earlier came rushing back—him with her, that delicate smile he gave her, the way she leaned into him just a little too comfortably. It had burned in your chest, the jealousy creeping in with a venomous ache.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, too fast to gather, too painful to hide. "I felt the same... when I saw you with her," you confessed, swallowing thickly. "I felt so... so useless, Sylus. When I saw you with her, it felt like... like she was everything you needed. Better than me. And that... it broke me, Sylus. I felt like I wasn’t enough, like I wasn’t... worth it.”

The words stung, bitter and unrelenting, but the weight of them was finally lifted as you let them spill out. You felt exposed, naked in your insecurity, but somehow, it was all you could do to stand there and wait for him to respond. You could feel the weight of it, of how small you’d felt in that moment, how unworthy you had become in your own eyes. The self-doubt gnawed at your insides, each thought of her with him twisting like a knife in your gut.

Sylus’s expression softened, his features melting into a tender sadness, as though he were seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you. His hand reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid to shatter the fragile space between you. His touch was a gentle comfort, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his voice a low whisper, "Darling, you're none of that... none of it, I swear."

You shook your head, feeling the tears threatening, but you couldn’t let them fall, not yet. His words were kind, but the ache in your chest was still there, an unhealed wound.

He continued, his voice steady but thick with something deeper. "I didn’t know you felt that way... about her, in the same way I feel about Zayne." His gaze met yours, and for the first time tonight, it wasn’t uncertain. It was so gentle, so soft, tender. "But you need to know, you're it for me, Darling…" he murmured, his fingers curling around yours, grounding you in the quiet storm of your emotions. "Yes, I want help from her, but..." He paused, as if weighing his words carefully, "...I need you more." His words were a balm to the wounds that had festered within you, but the tenderness in his eyes was what finally reached you. His hand slid down to your shoulder, his thumb grazing the skin there. His warmth surrounded you, and you let yourself sink into the comfort of his words. The jealousy, the insecurity that had burned so fiercely in you when you saw him with her, melted in the face of the tenderness he was offering now.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself as your heart raced, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming. “Zayne… Zayne’s just a friend,” you said, your voice fragile but firm, “someone who helped me... helped me see past the stuff in my head. After everything, I just... needed someone to remind me that I’m not broken.”

Sylus's eyes softened even more, the depth of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. He nodded slowly, his expression filled with understanding. The tension between you didn’t disappear entirely, but it was now laced with something more tender. More real.

“You’re not broken, Darling.” he repeated, and there was a quiet strength in his voice, something that made you believe him more than you ever had before. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed... and more.”

"I... I’m sorry," you whispered, a lump in your throat as you looked up at him. "I never wanted to make you feel like I didn’t care. I just... I was afraid you’d choose her over me."

Sylus’s fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours. "You never have to apologize for that, Darling." he murmured, his voice warm, his breath mingling with yours. “It was my fault and I accept that.”

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of your breathing, as Sylus stood before you, his face drawn with intensity. The flickering light from the lamp cast soft shadows across his features, but his gaze... his gaze was sharp, focused entirely on you.

"I love you, Darling" he said, his words lingering in the air as though they were the first time he had allowed himself to say them out loud. "I’m in love with you," he confessed, his voice steady despite the raw emotion that tinged it. "I’ve been in love with you for a while now, and I’ve tried to deny it. Tried to hide it from you and myself, but I can’t anymore. I won’t. I love you, and I need you to know that."

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught in your throat. Everything in you froze, then splintered. The confession, so pure, so vulnerable, hit you with a force you hadn’t been prepared for. You stood there, unable to move, a mix of surprise and relief flooding your chest.

He loves you. Sylus. The one you had longed for, yearned, and hoped for in silence. Your heart stuttered in your chest, the world around you growing impossibly still.

"I…" you whispered, voice trembling, and you had to stop, had to steady yourself before the words could spill from your lips. "I’ve love you too," you said, your voice barely more than a breath, but it carried all the weight of everything you had kept inside. "I’ve loved you, and I never told you because I was afraid. Afraid that I was asking too much. Afraid of the rejection. Afraid that I wasn’t enough."

Sylus’s expression softened, his lips curling into a frown as he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands reached for you, but not in the way you had feared or expected. They were gentle, his touch a plea for understanding. "Oh, darling," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you ever felt like you needed to hide it from me."

He reached up, brushing his thumb along your cheek, and you flinched slightly, your emotions suddenly overwhelming you, raw and untamed. "We’re both idiots," he continued, his voice almost tender with the weight of the admission. "We’ve been skirting around each other, afraid of saying the one thing we both needed to say."

Your laugh came out soft, almost fragile, the tension in your chest breaking for the first time since Sylus had walked into your home. It was a quiet sound, but it was the first time you’d laughed all night, the first time you’d allowed yourself to feel something other than fear or uncertainty in the past few weeks with him involved. But that laugh didn’t last long. As soon as it came, the tears followed, the ones you had been holding back for so long, finally slipping free. The dam you had built up crumbled, and before you could stop them, hot tears streamed down your face. before you could even reach up to brush them away, his hand was there, steady and warm against your cheek.

"Don’t," you whispered, your voice thick with the ache you could no longer hide. "Please, don’t look at me like this. I’m—"

"Stop," Sylus interrupted softly, his hand holding yours gently, his gaze unwavering. "Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you… everything you’ve been hiding. I know you think I don’t see it, but I do." His eyes locked onto yours with such intensity that you couldn’t look away. "I see it when you think I’m not watching. I see the way you pull back, the way you hide the parts of you that you think I can’t handle. But I am looking. I’ve always been looking. And I don’t want you to hide anymore. Not from me. And I’m here and I want all of you."

His words were a medicine to the parts of you that had been bruised, the parts that had feared being exposed, vulnerable. But in his eyes, there was only love. No judgment. No pity. Just... love. And it was enough. It was more than enough.

The tears that had slipped down your face slowed, but they didn’t stop. You didn’t try to wipe them away this time, allowing yourself to be seen for the first time in ages. The sobs that followed were soft but trembled with relief, with something finally breaking open inside of you.

Sylus’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close, holding you in the kind of embrace that made you feel as though you could finally breathe, as though the weight of everything you had been carrying could finally be set down.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, almost broken. "I’ve been so scared, Sylus. Scared of this, of being cast away... of losing you."

"You’ll never lose me, Darling." he murmured, his voice firm and unwavering as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

You tilted your head back slightly, your face still damp with the remnants of the tears that had fallen, and through your wet lashes, you searched his face. Sylus held you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that made you feel safe, even as the doubts lingered in your heart. You wanted to believe him, but the fear, the uncertainty, was still there, buried deep beneath the surface.

He must have seen it in your eyes, the way you still hesitated, the uncertainty you couldn't quite shake. Sylus made a half-frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his hands tightening around you for a split second, before they slid up to cradle your face. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, a tender, pleading touch, before he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a sudden, urgent kiss.

The kiss was unlike any other. It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t soft. It was intense, filled with desperation, as though he needed you to understand just how deeply he felt for you, just how much you meant to him. His hands cupped your face, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered in that moment, as if the world had stopped turning just for you. His lips pressed against yours with a kind of fire, but it wasn’t angry, no. It was passionate, desperate in its own way, like he wanted you to feel how important you were to him, how much you had been wanted, loved.

Your hands trembled as they reached up, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to bridge the distance between you, as though the kiss itself could erase every lingering doubt in your heart. Your breath hitched when you felt his pulse quicken under your touch, his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of your own. Each breath you took seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, mingling with the heat of his kiss, our lips moving together with a quiet urgency, the world beyond the two of you fading into a distant blur. You felt everything—every brush of his fingers, every subtle shift of his body against yours, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palms, how his breath felt against your lips as if he couldn’t get close enough to you.

Your chests rose and fell together, the world spinning around you. You could feel the heat of him, the urgency that still lingered in his touch, the way he kept you close, almost as if he were afraid to let go.

Breathing became an afterthought, both of you gasping for air when the kiss broke, but neither of you pulled far enough away to lose the connection. Sylus’s forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he whispered, voice still heavy with emotion. “Every day, from henceforth, I will work to make sure you never feel the need to doubt yourself. Not in my life. Not with me." His words, slow and deliberate, sank deep into your heart like a promise he would keep.

The intensity of the moment hung between you both, the room still, save for the soft sound of your breathing as you both slowly came back to reality. But in his eyes, you saw nothing but certainty—certainty that you were enough. That you always had been.

His hand found yours again, fingers weaving with yours, and he gave it a gentle squeeze, as if the simple touch was a quiet reassurance.

"You are everything to me," he murmured, his voice steady now, grounding you as much as his embrace. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, absorbing his words, his warmth, his certainty. In his arms, you could feel the truth of his promise, somewhere deep inside, the doubts began to fade.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him. And when he kissed you again, this time softer, it was like the beginning of something new.

[ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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slimepuparibaba · 2 days ago

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oh lord a sylus ramble anyway

sylus WOULD listen to you ramble about your hyperfixations with the DOPIEST GRIN ON HIS FACE

RANT TO HIM ABOUT THEM!!! HE WILL LISTEN!!!! AND HE WILL BE HAPPY!!!

and btw, this does not mean he does not retain any information you give him. nono, he will now become an expert in your hyperfixation because "it sounds interesting"

you used to be sad because you had no one to talk to about it and felt bad bothering him about said interest, and then sylus shows up the next day asking you about [insert obscure part of said hyperfixation here], and it makes you so happy and you start explaining, and suddenly it's become a back and forth and you have never felt so understood in your life, because you can tell sylus is also genuinely into it, not just asking questions for the sake of egging you on but because he's interested too

you are never alone in anything!!! and if you feel alone, he will make sure that you don't!!!!! he loves it when you're happy, and he'll indulge in what makes you happy because your happiness is the best thing in the world to him!!!!!

also IT DOESNT MATTER WHAT THE HYPERFIXATION IS!!!! IMAGE BE DAMNED, IF YOU LIKE MY LITTLE PONY, HE WILL BUY WHATEVER MLP MERCH YOU WANT WITH A SMILE ON HIS FACE. PRETTY CURE? UHHHH, YESSIR HE HAS THE TRANSFORMATION DEVICES ALREADY ORDERED. DISNEY FAIRIES, HE BOUGHT ALL THE ANTIQUE BOOKS FOR YOU AND HAS ALSO READ THROUGH ALL OF THEM ON HIS SPARE TIME, EVEN ONCE DURING AN AUCTION CUZ DAMN THEM FAIRIES ARE MORE INTERESTING THAN THE AUCTION ITSELF

MAN'S ORDERING YOU WHATEVER YOU WANT. HE'LL BUY YOU COSPLAYS, GAMES, HE'LL DO WHATEVER, ASK HIM FOR ANYTHING FROM THAT INTEREST, HE'S DROPPING EVERYTHING TO MAKE SURE YOU GET WHAT YOU WANT AND YOUR HYPERFIXATION IS SATIATED

BECAUSE SYLUS LOVES YOU. AND HE'S DOWN BAD. AND HE JUST LOVES SEEING YOU HAPPY AND BEING YOURSELF!!!!! BECAUSE WHEN YOU'RE UNABASHEDLY YOURSELF, YOU'RE THE MOST RADIANT BEING TO HIM!!!!!!!!!!!

tl;dr sylus loves you and your interests and hyperfixations and hobbies ok ty

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #l&ds #sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus x mc #sylus x you #sylus headcanon #sylus headcanons #sylus fluff #sylus imagine #sylus imagines #lads fanfic #love and deepspace headcanons

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loveanddeepthroat · 8 months ago

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Baby Blues

Pairing - Sylus x f!MC

Summary - In the first two weeks of being new parents, the dynamic hasn’t been quite what you and Sylus expected. He’s eager to be involved, but your daughter doesn’t seem to have warmed to him.

Word count - 2.7k

⚠️Warning⚠️ - Mentions of pregnancy and childbirth. Hurt/comfort, fluff, and a little sprinkle of angst.

Your newborn didn’t like Sylus.

It sounded ridiculous, but you know he was thinking it too. You didn’t have the gall to say it out loud—not that it even needed to be said. The fact was definitely lingering between you both.

You never thought much of why she would wriggle and kick up a storm in your stomach whenever he touched the swell of your belly, but you now had an inclination that it was because she didn’t like his hands there.

It was strange and upsetting, but he didn’t seem too hurt by it so far, only silently helpless as he watched you do everything. You were two weeks postpartum, so your emotions were already all over the place. It seemed as though Sylus was holding his own feelings back to make room for yours, and when you had asked him about it, he simply kissed your forehead and reassured you that he was fine. All while your screaming daughter cried for you against his chest.

Not that he opened up to you all that often. You did manage to get things out of him with a push sometimes, but he was like an unyielding gate, refusing to open to anyone.

Your exhaustion was only adding to the toll on your fragile emotions. The baby only wanted your touch, and sleep was almost impossible for you because of that very reason. Only you could feed her. Only you could soothe her. Only you could touch her.

That was one thing that was really getting to Sylus. The bloodshot whites of your eyes as you rocked the fussy newborn to sleep and fed her at all hours of the morning. The barely touched plates of food that ended up stone cold and in the bin. Not to mention the completely non-existent ten minutes you needed to at least have a wash without having to run out of the shower to her aid.

He must have felt quite useless in the weeks where you should be recovering, but he didn’t want you to worry about his feelings by indulging you in his thoughts.

Your pregnancy had been smooth, ending with a good twenty-seven hours of rather torturous labour, and pushing that went on for an agonising two hours. It had all been worth it, though. Your little bundle of joy with tufts of platinum hair had finally greeted you both with a piercing wail, but eased her protests once placed against your heaving chest.

You just wished she would settle with both parents.

It was another day of desperate wailing, your arms becoming so heavy with the exertion of having no option but to hold her. You tried to put her in her pram for Sylus to push her around for a while, but her cries only increased to the point of her little face turning purple. You couldn’t sit and just listen to it, and you absolutely would not ignore her—no matter how much Sylus pushed for you to go and get some sleep.

“She wants me,” you say for what felt like the millionth time that week.

Sylus was evidently reluctant to stop trying, but he wouldn’t keep you from her. He conceded with a defeated huff, watching your every move as you gently lifted your screeching daughter out of the plush pram. Her screams died down quickly as you placed her against your chest, her ear-piercing wails whittling down to soft whimpers.

“Of all the dangerous paths I’ve crossed and violent challenges I’ve encountered, it’s our newborn daughter who finally defeats me,” he mumbles quietly, trying to make a lighthearted joke about it.

You tried to smile at his attempt to add a bit of humour to the situation, but the comment only made you cry. Hard.

“Hey.” He immediately stepped toward you, rubbing a large hand up and down your back soothingly. You had to give it to him, his patience with you in the last two weeks had been immaculate. “Don’t cry, sweetie.”

You couldn’t stop, your ragged breaths and shaking shoulders refusing to relent. “I d-don’t get it,” you bawl. “What are we doing d-differently?”

Sylus sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His hand continued to rub soothing circles against your back to ease your upset. “Well, she did live inside you for nine months. Besides, you didn’t exactly like me either when we first met.”

He smiled faintly, tilting his head down to capture your gaze. Despite the obvious tease, he still seemed to be holding himself back. It was frustrating him more than he wanted to admit to you. You knew he was protecting your feelings, but you wished he would just show some sense of vulnerability.

You don’t dare set your sleeping daughter down in her moses basket, knowing full well that she would just wake straight back up. So the rest of the afternoon is spent with your tiny newborn curled up against your chest, a few feeding and changing breaks in between.

Once the day turned into night, nothing in the world sounded more appealing to you than a hot shower, a hot meal, and a hot cup of tea. But letting her scream and cry while you did that was not an option. It wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t fair on Sylus.

He didn’t leave you unless he absolutely had to throughout the day. You watched him every time he heard a little whimper from the baby, his hands flexing and twitching. Every time you had to get up to do something for her, he was either at your back or side.

He wanted to help.

The chef brought through a very large bowl of marinated chicken and pasta for you, upon Sylus’s instruction. As soon as the bowl was set on the little table beside your recliner chair, you almost began drooling. You hadn’t managed to eat much at all in the chaos, and Sylus wasn’t amused when you didn’t even get the chance to finish the two biscuits he’d brought you earlier in the day.

You reached a careful hand over to the fork, not even lifting it before your daughter began to wriggle and whine in your other arm. Dropping it immediately, you retract your hand, only making it halfway back to the fussy newborn before long, slender fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.

“No,” Sylus says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Your initial response is to immediately go on the defence. “She’s cry—”

“I know she’s crying,” he interrupted tightly. “I know. But you’re going to eat while your food is hot, and you’re going to do it without our screaming daughter on your chest.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

He had that commanding look in his eye, the one that would intimidate most, but was only used on you when he was especially adamant on you doing something necessary for yourself.

You were a little relieved to see him so passionate, if you were being honest. He had been treading on eggshells to not upset you or the baby for fourteen whole days, and it wasn’t good for anyone. You felt the tension on him every time you both managed to get into bed together for more than five minutes. He needed this little outburst.

“This needs to stop now. I’m going to figure her out, and you are going to eat. Alright?” His tone left no room for argument, and the more your daughter protested against your intention to eat, the more hungry and tired you felt.

It wasn’t easy, but you handed her off to him carefully, swallowing a lump in your throat. You couldn’t take your eyes off of her distressed little face as Sylus attempted to cradle her.

You were practically twitching, your legs about to push the footrest of the recliner down to retrieve her in the first thirty seconds she was away from you. Sylus noticed immediately, and pushed it back up with his foot before you could close it down fully.

“She’s not in any danger,” he said calmly, but his whole body was visibly tense. “She’s right here, I won’t leave the room. Just eat, sweetie.”

You wanted to protest further, but he wasn’t going to yield this time. His eyes remained trained on you until you finally sagged back into the chair, and it wasn’t until you picked up your fork that he finally turned away, focusing on the distraught newborn kicking up a storm against his chest.

He held her the way you did, one hand cupped over her head to keep it steady while the other hand softly patted her back. Why she didn’t want to be near him was an utter mystery to you, he wasn’t doing anything incorrectly.

You couldn’t eat while the two most important people in your life were quite clearly in a distressing situation before you. “Are you alright?” You asked him gently, hoping that he would answer you.

“I will be if you eat,” he quickly responded, not looking at you.

Sighing, you stab a slice of the chicken onto your fork, just looking at it for a moment. Your brain had managed to kick itself into gear as you forged a new approach to his silence.

This was an opportunity to head in the right direction.

“I’ll eat if you speak to me.”

Blood red eyes shot in your direction, an eyebrow raised. “Blackmail?”

You quickly shook your head. “You were right, this does need to stop. Starting with you shutting yourself off from me.”

“Eat.”

The forked piece of chicken points straight at his unamused face. “Talk.”

He shook his head a little in clear annoyance, the stress consuming him. Your daughter continued to wail, immune to the warmth and safety of his arms. He was basically trapped after promising to remain in the room with you.

Your bleary eyes held his irises of rubies, neither of you conceding. It was a mental challenge to ignore the fragrant aroma of garlic and fresh basil beneath your nose, but you were not eating until at least one of the two beautiful people before you had calmed down.

Sylus visibly swallowed, finally giving in as he noticed your lack of a bluff. “Do you think she knows?” His voice was quiet, barely heard over your newborn’s cries.

“Knows what?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, nodding his head towards the piece of chicken on your fork. You shovel it into your gob, eager for him to continue.

His eyes flicker down to your daughter before he speaks again. “Do you think she knows that I’ve done terrible things? Do you think that’s why she doesn’t like me?”

“I—” you grumble and roll your eyes as he nods to your plate of food again, waiting for you to take another mouthful that you end up having to speak through, “I don’t see how she could. Is that why you’ve been so quiet?”

The corner of his mouth curled upward ever-so-slightly. “Missing my tongue, kitten?”

You couldn’t help your own smile as his shoulders sagged a little from where they were practically touching his ears. It wasn’t often that he opened up to you like this. You almost always had to pry or throw in a proposition to coax him into speaking.

You took another bite of your food, moving the plate from the small table to your lap. “Do you really think she doesn’t like you?”

His smirk faded away quickly, a gentle thumb brushing over your daughter's head. She continued to cry, but the volume had dropped a little. “Do you not think that?” He asked.

You didn’t know how to answer that question. To tell the truth, you did think that, but not for the same reason he was thinking.

“I think she may be a little attached at the moment. We’re very different shapes and sizes. Maybe she feels—”

“Unsafe?”

His tone had dropped an octave—something you didn’t think was possible considering the already bone-chilling vibrations of his voice. Never before had you witnessed him in a state of such vulnerability. He was insecure about this, and it was finally starting to show.

You went to stand up to be near him, but he immediately stepped forward to halt your movement.

“Eat.”

Not wanting to lose this free-speaking Sylus you had barely met before, you did as he said, twirling a fat mouthful of pasta onto your fork for extra brownie points.

You both remained in silence for a few moments, only your fork scraping against the bowl in your lap marrying with the sounds of your baby’s cries surrounding the small sitting room.

Sylus’s gaze didn’t leave the newborn cradled in his arms, a gentle sway in his hips as he tried to keep her moving. All you could do was study his composure, seeing it as it cracked.

After a moment, he looked back at you. “I don’t want to keep failing you.”

You coughed on the mouthful of the creamy pasta at his words, completely in awe of his confession.

Failing you? How did he get to that conclusion?

“You’ve done everything for her,” he continued, not allowing you to immediately reassure him. “I want to be able to do everything, too. For both of you.”

The all too familiar sting in your wet eyes built in intensity by the second, and you quickly found yourself sniffling.

Not only was he insecure about your daughter not feeling safe in his arms, but he felt that he’d failed you both in the past two weeks. It was heartbreaking for you to hear.

“Don’t cry—”

“You’re…fuck, Sylus. You’re not failing anyone,” you tuck your fork back into the pasta with a loud sniffle, ignoring his glare that silently demanded that you continue to eat. “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

He looked entirely reluctant to answer, his head dropping back down to stare at his tiny twin. You didn’t want him to stop speaking again, so you quietly picked your fork back up, hoping it would capture his attention.

The silence stretched between you as you made the effort to eat for his sake. Even your daughter's cries became a little weaker—like she was pitying him.

He didn’t look at you as he said, “I’m the bad guy. The boogie man. The kind of monster that parents threaten their kids with visits from in the middle of the night if they don’t brush their teeth before bed.”

“Not in our story, you’re not,” you quickly reassured him earnestly. “You’re the husband and father who keeps the monsters away from your family. That’s the only Sylus she will ever know. The real one.”

He still didn’t look up from the newborn, now almost completely silent in his arms, but you catch a subtle bob in his throat. You didn’t need him to respond to you. You knew you had said the right words to soothe that self-deprecating thought in his complicated mind. You could see it.

“Have I told you how perfect you were two weeks ago,” he asked, knowing full well that he’d told her every day since then.

Your mouth curled into a soft smile. Even after all these years together—after welcoming your first child into this scary, yet beautiful world—Sylus had no trouble giving you butterflies.

“I think you might’ve mentioned it,” you hummed softly.

And on that very note, the baby was fast asleep in his hold for the very first time in two whole weeks. His face didn’t reveal anything, but you knew he was relieved. All he wanted to do was make this easier for the both of you.

Finally, you had managed to figure out what the problem had been all this time.

“You were too tense,” you point out quietly, noticing how openly at ease he now was. “That’s what she didn’t like.”

He hummed in response, unable to tear his gaze away from the sleeping babe in his arms. You didn’t say anything further, letting him enjoy that special moment in peace while you proceeded to enjoy the rest of your meal.

Despite the challenges of becoming new parents, things were going to be alright from that point onwards.

A/N - Hello! I hope you enjoyed this oneshot, thank you so much for reading. Just to let you know, I do take requests ❤️

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tojicide · 2 months ago

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ABOUT YOU. ♥︎ SYLUS.

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦. it was easy to get lost in the whirlwind of your new roles as first-time parents, and somewhere along the way, you nearly forgot about the other titles you held—husband and wife. tonight, that changes. for good.

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. fem!reader, husband + dad!sylus, fluff galore, themes of insecurity, pet names, praise, fondling, oral ( fem. receiving ), soft sex, missionary, unprotected, creampie, aftercare. references to his nightplumes card. loverboy sylus is very prominent in this one. 𝑤𝑐. 5k.

𝑛𝘰𝑤 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. about you — the 1975.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Anticipation and anxiety were two sides of the same coin—at least you think so.

Your heart pounded against your chest, the sound was a far cry from the peaceful silence that surrounded the extravagant lodge. Only the wind passing through managed to break that found quiet.

Snowflakes slowly fell from the sky as you stepped out onto the wooden back deck, the brisk breeze threading through your hair in a way that forces a sharp chill down your spine. Goosebumps pricked at your skin, though you quickly cross your arms over your chest to remedy them.

You were beginning to notice that it was almost too quiet. After all, by this time of night, you were accustomed to only hearing the sounds of your infant’s quiet fussing in between the soft static of the baby monitor.

This was different. Different because it was the first time you were away from your daughter from the moment she was born, but also because it was the first time you were truly given alone time for yourself. It was a rarity these days, and you weren’t quite sure how to indulge in it.

However, the quiet, careful sounds of your husband’s footsteps approaching you from behind quickly gave you an idea as to how you could.

Sylus’s scent served as soothing balm, the rich essense of his cologne accompanied by a smell that was uniquely him wafted through the air around you.

“Aren’t you cold, sweetie?” he quietly asks you, his hands coming up to run along the bared skin of your arms.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, covering one of his hands with one of your own. “Hm? No, no… I like the cold.”

The fabric of your dress did very little to conceal you from the elements, though it was a sacrifice worth making in your opinion. It wasn’t often that you had the opportunity nor the time to dress up for any occasion apart from the mock tea parties that your babbling daughter puts on for both your husband and yourself.

“I mean…” your words trail, and you find yourself leaning back into his broad chest. “I know that I’m not exactly dressed for this climate. I just wanted to try and look nice tonight. For you, for this… for… for us.”

His hands smooth over the curve of your elbows as his eyes trace the noticeable bumps that the weather had brought to you. Pressing a longing kiss on the back of your head, he opts to wrap his arms around your shoulders, pulling you even tighter against his chest. “You don’t have to try, sweetie. You look absolutely beautiful no matter what you wear.”

You slowly nod your head, your gaze moving over the vibrant hues of light that emerged from the darkness of the sky. The Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis. It was beautiful, casting faint shadows over your conjoined form as the two of you admired the way the hues blend together.

“I know, I just… I don’t know,” you stammer, knowing that your words must sound like a jumble of incomprehensible words. “It’s been a while since I’ve dressed up for anything, since… since you’ve seen me like this.”

Your temple is warmed up by the press of his lips, and you find yourself unconsciously leaning into it, earning you another peck. “I just… didn’t want you to forget, I guess.”

“Sweetheart.” All you could feel was his hold tighten on you ever so slightly, lowering his head just enough to brush his cheek against the soft skin of your own. “Do you think I’ve forgotten about you?”

For a moment, you were stumped. You weren’t sure how to respond to that question, even though you had inspired it to be asked in the first place. Everything has changed, and motherhood has had impacts on your life that you weren’t initially anticipating. It was tough and unsure at times, yet so rewarding and beautiful.

Guilt set into your heart. You hadn’t meant to bring down the mood of your getaway before it had truly started, but you knew that the feelings you had needed to be lifted from your chest. Now was as good of a time as any.

“I don’t know,” you breathe, tilting your head to rest it against his. “I just… I’m afraid that we’ve forgotten about each other. That we’ll never be able to be like we were before. I feel like a mess all the time, I am a mess all the time.”

Carefully, Sylus takes a hold of your chin to give himself access to your eyes. Minutes could have passed, or perhaps it was only mere seconds, but you hardly felt the passage of time with those softened red eyes staring into yours and his hand running along your arm.

“I don’t think that at all,” he states, his voice still soft yet resolute. “Change isn’t a bad thing, sweetie. Not change of this nature. We’re still learning. It’s only natural that we lose our footing for a small while.”

“You don’t think so?” Your question only has a split second to hang in the air before your words cut it off, and the shake of your head solidifies it. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’m just… overthinking.”

“Then I will over explain.” His thumb brushes along the curve of your chin, his softened red eyes taking in the appearance of you with snowflakes in your hair and on your cheeks. “My heart is so full of you that I can no longer call it mine. For that reason alone, you will never be forgotten by me.”

“But…”

Sylus shakes his head, kissing away your worry with a quick peck of his lips. “There are no ‘buts’ here, baby. There is nothing in this world that could ever drive me away from you, from the family that we have created together. Not busyness, not sleep deprivation, not anything.”

Relief must have been the first emotion to cross your features, because it almost immediately brought a hint of a smile to Sylus’s lips. Overthinking was a habit of yours, one that you couldn’t evade no matter how hard you tried. But he was perfect. When was he not?

“Not even me smelling like baby spit up half of the time?” you tentatively ask, a familiar humor lacing your words.

He chuckles, the sound a deep rumble omitting from his chest. “Has the scent driven you away from me?”

Your answer is almost immediate. “No.”

Sylus runs his hand over the back of your head, cradling it in his gentle grasp. “Well, there’s your answer.” He pecks your forehead. “Motherhood has looked good on you from the moment our little sweetie started to grow.”

“Little sweetie?” you ask. “That’s new.”

“It’s… something Luke and Kieran came up with. You’re my sweetie, so by default, she is… little sweetie.” A moment later, he clears his throat. “Don’t go telling the twins that I’ve developed a liking for the name. They may begin to venture out into unthinkable territory.”

You raise an eyebrow and faintly muse, “Maybe we can all call you big sweetie.”

He clicks his tongue with a squeeze to your hips. “You’re lucky there aren’t people around for miles, baby. Having that material in the wrong hands could be detrimental.”

Once again, a comfortable silence falls over the two of you. He unwraps his arms to reach for the zipper of his coat, slipping it off his broad frame to drown you in the thick, warm fabric instead. He smiles to himself, wrapping his arms around your middle once more as he dips his head just enough for his chin to rest on the crook of your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your saccharine voice filtering into the soothing ambiance of the winter night.

He merely shakes his head, turning just enough to press a soft kiss on the side of your neck. “No need to thank me.”

You knew that he’d never accept your thanks, but you felt the need to say it regardless. His reassurance, his way with his words, his selfless gestures that were unending and unconditional—he deserved to hear that. You knew it.

Tilting your head up, you can’t help but huff out a laugh that turns to condensation in the cool air. “You have snow in your hair, you know.”

Sylus smiles, raising an eyebrow as he lowers his head once more. “Help me.”

And you do just that, raising your hand to shake away some of the pesty fallen snow that had nestled in his silver locks of hair. You were sure that you would have had some too if he wasn’t constantly touching your head.

With that, he places his hands on either side of you on the wooden banister that outlined the luxurious deck. He rests his chin on top of your head, his eyes reflecting the green and purple hues of light that nature put on for the two of you.

After a long stretch of peace and quiet, you hear the faint sound of scratching in the snow. When you look down, you find Sylus dragging his finger through the fallen snow on the banister to draw two small pictures.

“What are you drawing?” you ask.

He smiles, kissing your cheek as he reveals the two semi-finished works of art to your gaze. With his pointer finger, he draws two carets on one of the circles. “A mother kitten,” he murmurs, drawing two smaller carets on the tinier circle. “And her baby kitten.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re silly.”

“Silly?” he soon echoes. Evidently, your habit of censoring your language around your daughter has even bled into your conversations with adults. It was a tooth rotting-ly adorable habit you had that Sylus adored. “That’s an interesting way to describe a man in love.”

Your skin tingles in the wake of his fingertips brushing your hair away from your neck, his other hand coming up to rest on the curve of your shoulder. “Oh? What would a better word have been?”

“Hmm…” He kisses your cheek. “Enamored.” He kisses your jaw. “Smitten.” He kisses your neck. “Besotted.” He kisses the curve of your shoulder. “Lovestruck.”

A hearty laugh consumes you as you inch away from his ticklish kisses, your hand coming up to rest on the back of his head. “Okay, okay!”

He chuckles too, cupping your chin to turn your head to face him once more. “Though I must say, my original verbiage was the most accurate.” His breath was warm and comforting as it found your forehead, and the longing press of his lips followed it. “I am in love. With you, with the life that we created together, with the life that you have given me. Just… in love.”

Your smile is far too wide to hide now, a sight that threatens to bring your husband to his knees, right here on the snowy porch. “I love you too.” And somehow, your words still paled in comparison to the sweetness of your grin, the curve of your lips and the crinkle of your eyes. “Hey… aren’t you cold now?”

Entirely distracted, Sylus buries his nose into your hair, inhaling your scent that always managed to make his legs feel weak without fail. “Mm-mm. Not really,” he murmurs, one of his large hands curving around your waist. “Not when I have my beautiful wife to keep me warm.”

There was that damn smile of yours again. So gorgeous, so natural, so… you. If lovesickness could be medically diagnosed, he would be the first known patient without a doubt. It wasn’t until you spoke again that Sylus blinks three times in a row, forcing his eyes to meet yours once again.

“Not really isn’t a total no, though,” you simply say.

His thumb brushes away the few water droplets that the melting snow had left on your cheeks that are warm with a blush he’s sure the cold weather hadn’t produced alone. “In that case, what would be your preferred method of warming us up?”

“Well…” you say with a dreamy sigh, turning around to face him and wrap your arms around his neck. “I think I saw a fireplace in the master bedroom when we sat down our suitcases.”

(Correction: Sylus carried and sat the bags down, and you watched with lovestruck eyes as you marveled over how this man could be even more perfect. It honestly worked best that way.)

“I like the way you think, sweetie.”

In one swift motion, he scoops you up off the deck and carries you to the sliding glass door with one of his arms while his free hand reaches for the door handle. Pulling it open, he walks inside, but he has no clear intent of setting you down.

“Hey,” you say, poking his cheek. “I have two working feet, you know.”

He smiles, kissing your finger while his free hand expertly works at the straps of your heels. One by one, they fall onto the hardwood floor as the two of you make your way to the bedroom.

“I know,” is all he replies with.

“So… why haven’t you set me down?” you ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Just because my beautiful woman has two feet doesn’t mean she should be expected to use them,” he murmurs, crouching down to turn on the electric fireplace in the room. “Maybe I enjoy being your in-home transportation service.”

You chuckle. “Is that so?”

He can only nod, peppering a few kisses along your cheek that was now illuminated by the warm lights flickering inside of the fireplace. “It is.”

Sylus takes a seat on the edge of the bed, setting you sideways in his lap as he holds you close to his chest. Your head finds its familiar home on his shoulder, and he tilts his own to lean against yours.

One of his hands settles on your back while the other runs long strides along your legs, the chilly feeling of his wedding ring gliding along your skin makes your muscles involuntarily tense.

A nearly silent laugh spilled from his lips, his hand slipping beneath your closed thighs so that the metallic band would warm up. His eyes flit to you, the way your skin glows in the hue that the fire is casting onto the two of you.

You were a sight for sore eyes. You were so perfect that he was inclined to believe that you could have been a figment of his imagination, a physical embodiment of his deepest desires. But you were here, in his arms. His wife. The mother of his child.

Every lifetime with you had led him to this moment, and he would do it all over again if it meant that you were his. Because here, in the world that you two created, you were real. You were here. All that he has ever wanted, all that he could ever want—it’s you.

Tears glossed over his eyes and he hadn’t even noticed. His hand gave your thigh a small squeeze, his head turning just enough to kiss your forehead. “You’re so beautiful.”

You smile, leaning into his touch. “So are you.” After a beat of silence, you turn in his lap to face him. “I’m warmed up now. Are you?”

He nods with a single jerk of his chin. “I am.”

Shifting around, you move to straddle his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands settle on your hips. “I think it’s getting too warm in here.”

Sylus chuckles, giving your sides a gentle brush of his thumbs. “Are you suggesting I take you back outside and leave you to the elements? You’ll catch a cold, sweetie. We don’t want that, do we?”

You shake your head with a huff. “No, we don’t. But… there are other ways of cooling off you know.”

To emphasize your point, your fingers find their way to the buttons of his shirt, slowly and tentatively popping them open one by one. His eyebrows raise, watching your expression as inch after inch of his toned torso is bared to your eyes.

Curving a hand around your waist, he pinches the ribbon tying your dress together in between his thumb and forefinger. He inches closer—close enough for you to feel his breath on your lips—until he speaks. “Can I?”

Without hesitation, you nod and give him your permission. In turn, he slowly tugs on the fabric, watching the way your dress loosens and how it slowly begins to fall down your shoulders.

Your eyes meet, and a smile tugs on the corners of your mouth as you notice the rosy hue that crept up onto Sylus’s ears and cheeks. It was something you never got tired of seeing, that blush of his.

It was almost comical how his eyes lit up the moment your chest was revealed to his hungry gaze, and his fingertips gently brush over the fabric of your bra that covers your nipple.

“Is this new?” he asks you, giving both of your breasts a firm knead.

You nod, placing your hands on his shoulders as the straps slowly fall down your arms. “Yeah. You like?”

“I love,” he replies, lowering his head to kiss along the valley of your breasts. A low groan leaves his mouth as his tongue laves over your skin, tasting you for the first time in what felt like forever. “I’ve missed these, pretty girl.”

His hands work at the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one swift moment before slowly tugging the garment down and off your arms. A sudden gasp leaves you as his lips wrap around your nipple, his tongue swirling around the pointed peak.

Your hand snakes up the nape of his neck and into his hair, earning a deep groan from his mouth that vibrated against your skin. You could feel his cock quickly hardening beneath your bottom, the fabric of his slacks doing very little to conceal his more than obvious arousal.

“Sy,” you whine, your hips instinctively working to grind your clothed sex over his bulge. You needed more, needed to feel him in a way you haven’t in so long.

His hands latch onto your hips, halting your movements as he presses a faint kiss on your nipple after he releases it. “Don’t squirm,” he states, his voice low and full of command. “I need to take my time with you.”

And you believe him. This far surpassed want for him, this was a need. His need. His tone leaves very little room for argument or doubt, no matter how much you wish it did. Another sound of impatience and need leaves you as he sucks your neglected peak into his mouth, his iron grip still holding you still in his lap.

In one swift, dizzying motion, he lowers you onto the bed. Your back hits the plush comforter, and he shifts to settle between your legs. He kneels on the mattress, shrugging off his unbuttoned shirt that you had begun to remove earlier.

His hands then pull your dress down your legs, letting the fabric slip onto the floor near the bed. His lips press to your ankle as he looks down at you, his hands mapping out the skin of your thighs and calves as he hoists your legs up until the heels of your feet rest on his shoulders.

Blinking twice, you feel a heavy sense of anticipation swirling in your lower stomach. You reach out, hooking a finger inside of his belt loop to try and tug him closer. He doesn’t budge.

“Sylus,” you whine.

He can only grin, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your inner legs—your calves, your knees, your thighs—until he flattens onto his stomach. “I’ve never known you to be so impatient, baby.”

You huff, tilting your head to the side. “And I’ve never known you to hold out on me.”

Clicking his tongue, he nuzzles his cheek against the warm skin of your inner thigh. “Holding out? No, that can’t be right.” His voice has a teasing lilt, one that would make you want to say something snarky in reply, but his mouth quickly distracts you from the idea.

His lips leave soft kisses along the damp fabric of your panties, pointing his tongue to leave light kitten licks around your clit. You squirm, but his grip on your hips returns to keep you in place.

“I’ve left my poor wife so pent up,” he whispers, ending his sentence with an open-mouthed kiss on your cunt. His fingers hook beneath the waistband, tugging them down your legs just enough for them to dangle around your ankles. “It’s only right I pay you a personal visit.”

And you almost scream when his mouth meets your pussy directly, dragging the muscle up and down to gather your slick on his tongue. He groans unabashedly, grasping onto your thighs to yank you even closer to his hungry mouth.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. Your hands fly to his hair, hips bucking off the mattress as much as his grip on your thighs would allow them to. Grasping onto his soft silver locks, you nearly lose yourself when he fucks his tongue inside of you.

“Sylus!” you pant, thighs pressing in on his head as he groans. “I—I can’t—I’m going to...”

Your warning is cut off by yet another whine, one that his groaning brought on. The hot sensations of his mouth and the trembling vibration of his voice stimulates your sensitive pearl, his words limited to coos of “I know, I know” that force you to come with a particularly hard grasp on his hair.

All the while, he slows his movements, opting to give you faint licks as you come down from the intensity of your orgasm. A sigh of relief leaves your lips, and your smile returns with it.

Kissing your mound one final time, he crawls up to meet you once more, his forearm bracing his weight as he towers over you. He chuckles as you bring your hand up to wipe away the wetness on his chin, prompting him to capture your wrist and kiss your palm.

And when your hands then run down his toned torso to reach the belt of his slacks, a strained laugh leaves him. “Ah. Do you still feel that I’m holding out on you, sweetie?”

“No,” you answer, undoing his belt and popping open the button of his trousers. “I just want to feel you.”

Sylus smiles, his biceps tightening up as he lowers himself just enough to leave a longing kiss on your lips. “I can do that for you, baby.”

As he begins to undress, all you can feel is a ball of nerves settling inside of you. You haven’t been intimate in this way in what felt like years, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little nervous. After all, much has changed since the last time and…

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, as if he had noticed the worry set into your beautiful face. “Sweetheart,” he softly whispers to snap you out of your thoughts. “I need you and your beautiful mind to stay with me. Can you do that?”

Sucking in a short breath, you nod your head. “I can do that.”

Kicking away the last of his clothing, he settles in between your parted thighs once more. “Spread your legs a little more for me, there you go.”

His hands map out the dips and curves of your body, settling back onto his forearm beside your head while the other runs along his aching length. He runs his tip along your folds, gathering your slick for lubricant. And then, he slides his arm beneath your back, holding you firmly against his chest.

“Hold onto me,” he murmurs, his breath hitching as the head of his cock catches your entrance. You listen, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His cock slowly nudges inside of you, stretching you open with a sense of familiarity. Your nails dig into his back, leaving red welts in your wake. He keeps his movements slow and steady, easy rolls of his hips to fuck you long and deep, letting you feel every inch of him.

“Feeling alright, sweetie?” he asks you, peppering soft, reverent kisses along your jaw and cheek as he begins to find a steady pace.

You quickly nod, one of your hands delving into his hair. “Yes,” you breathe, clenching around him like a vice. “Feels so good, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

“I’ve missed you so much, pretty,” he whispers, kissing your skin from your cheek to your jaw to your neck, his plush lips brushing against you in time with each snap of his hips. “You feel so perfect. I love you. I love you so much.”

His mouth finds yours in a sloppy kiss, one that was messy and disorganized but undoubtedly perfect. A whirlwind of whimpers and gasps leave the both of you, but the feeling of your thundering heartbeats pounding against your chests is what grounded you both. His hand next to your head strokes over your hair while the other grasps onto your hip.

“I love you too,” you say against his lips, your nails on his back, holding him impossibly closer to you.

One of Sylus’s hands shoots up, grasping firmly onto the headboard in an attempt to hold himself back. He needed this to be perfect—for you, his perfect wife who only deserved his best.

You can feel the way his back muscles contort in the new position, prompting you to grasp onto him even more. “I’m close,” you manage.

His fingertips dig into the wooden frame enough for the sound of splintering to rip through the air, but Sylus pays it no mind. His attention is on you, the softness of your eyes and the parting of your lips.

And when you clench around him and your sweet sounds fill the air, he knows that holding back is no use. It’s impossible. His pace staggers as he chases his own orgasm. Tensing up inside of you, you feel the way his seed floods inside of your inner channels, filling you up with the proof of his undying love for you.

For a long moment, all you can do is hold each other close. You breathe heavily into each other’s warm skin, exchanging stolen kisses and the smallest of smiles.

Sylus finally releases the headboard with a huff, prompting you to tilt your head up and look at the damage. A gasp leaves you, your brows furrowing together. “Sylus!”

His eyebrow quirks up as he follows your gaze, finding that he had, in fact, splintered the wood under his vice-like grip. He sucks on his teeth, turning to face you again. “It’s alright. It’s just a… happy accident.”

“A happy accident?” you echo, watching as he makes his way over to the en suite. “This bed frame probably cost a fortune.”

When he returns, he has a damp cloth in his hand and both of your bath robes. He settles between your legs once more, carefully wiping up the mess that he had made of you. “Mm-hmm. That it did.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

He shrugs, wiping himself clean before disposing of the cloth in the laundry hamper. He then wraps you up in the silken robe, following suit for himself. “Because I bought it just for us, sweetie.”

A gasp of surprise leaves your kiss-bitten lips as he scoops you up into his arms and walks you both towards the kitchen. “You did? But…we’ve never even thought of staying here until now.”

“When we first started dating, I ensured that the furniture at each of my properties was well equipped to handle two guests,” he states as if it were obvious. “Though now, I should begin the furnishing process again to make plenty of room for three.”

Your smile widens. “You’re such a softie.”

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The following morning, sunlight cut through the maroon curtains that drape over the gaping windows of the bedroom. You rolled over onto your side, only to be met with Sylus’s back.

Your eyes finally crack open, your fingertips slowly tracing over the scratches that you had left behind last night. Then, you snake a hand around his waist. He places his hand on top of yours to give it a lazy squeeze.

“Good morning, sweetie,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Good morni—”

Your voice was cut off by the sound of Sylus’s cell phone ringing on the bedside table. With a groan, he reaches out, tapping on the pesky green button to answer a call from Luke and Kieran.

He winces at the sound of their loud and excited voices, rolling onto his back to throw an arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side.

“Boss!” their voices cut through the speaker at the same time. “We came up with something that has little sweetie cracking up! Wanna hear it?”

“Go ahead.”

“Watch this, watch this,” Luke says into the receiver as if Sylus could see their escapades through the voice call. “Your mommy is the original sweetie, you are the little sweetie, and you daddy is the…” His voice cuts off for dramatic effect, before it blares through the speaker once again. “Big sweetie!”

You find yourself laughing at the sound of your daughter cracking up over the line, evidently having a great time with Uncle Luke and Uncle Kieran and their jokes that only an infant could find humorous. Sylus glances down at you with a glare, as if he were silently asking you a question.

You shake your head. “What? I didn’t tell them anything.”

𝑛𝘰𝘵𝑒. not that anyone asked but i’ve been working on my first series on this app and i’m motivated to write for the first time in forever :,) it’s for love and deepspace (of course) and it revolves around caleb. i’m lowkey nervous to post thoooo i might try and get a few beta readers to see if it’s any good. anywho thank you for reading, rb/comment if you enjoyed <3

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

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misshuntereevee · 11 days ago

Text

The Winner Takes it All, part 2.

( part 1. )

Synopsis: You look like the MC, and you actually remember bits and pieces of the myth (not all.) But MC finally shows up, with no memory, and Sylus can’t help but be drawn in. What will happen?

Notes: Thank you guys so much for the love. Part 3 will be coming probably in a few days as I prepare to start a new series for Raf. However, there has been some interest in a taglist for this series. I won’t be doing this at this time, but I will keep considering. Comments, likes and reblogs are encouraged but not necessary. Enjoy the groveling. (Also don’t forget I’m not beta-read.)

Sylus knows he fucked up. The moment you were gone -- Miss Hunter ceased to exist. Multiple calls from her went unanswered. And he didn’t even wonder once if she was okay. But every moment since you’ve been gone, Sylus has been searching.

If you’re mad at him, that’s one thing. But he has a duty to you to make sure that Ever never lays a hand on you. And no matter how mad you are at him, he refuses to let that promise go. If he has to rebuild the trust… he will. Brick by brick.

But the pit in his stomach doesn’t subside when he sees you. He’s not a jealous man, never felt the need to be. But right now -- he understands he’s the closest he’s ever been to losing you. And he is feeling envy creep up into his veins.

You were flirting with the cashier. Well, he started it but you definitely were returning it. In all honesty… the attention felt nice. It had been a few weeks since you felt like you got this sort of attention.

The cashier is already blushing. “You know, I get off around -,”

“We don’t care,” a smooth voice comes from behind you, and a shiver runs down your spine. Sylus. You hate that it elicits such a reaction, but there would never be a day it didn’t. Your memories of your past life were hazy at best, but his voice — you don’t remember a single time it didn’t made you fall head over heels.

A hand comes to rest on your shoulder but with a loud huff, you yank it off spinning around. You’re angry. Passionately so. “Don’t you dare,” you hiss at him. “You don’t have a right—,”

“Keep the change,” Sylus tells the cashier, ignoring you.

The cashier looks between you both before he lets out an awkward low whistle and backs up. “Sorry, ma’am, but I’m not risking my life for a date with you.” And with that he leaves the customer service desk, leaving the two of you alone. You swivel around to face him, and you notice a swirl of emotions around his face.

Relief. Anger. Annoyance. Relief again. Adoration. And then finally in lands on one thing you didn’t expect —

“You were actually flirting with him,” he points out, his eyes looking… hurt somewhere underneath an accusatory jealousy. You don’t say anything. In fact, you grab the book you purchased and start walking out the door. He follows you, and you try to put your earbuds in. He takes them immediately with his Evol. You scowl at him and yank him into a nearby alleyway.

“What the hell are you doing?” You spit at him. “Leave me alone. If I wanted to talk to you, I’d answer my phone.”

A flicker of hurt crosses his face for a moment. But finally, he forces a calm look on his face. “My little bird, I know I forgot our —,”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face when you laugh loudly and bitterly. “Are you kidding me? You think that’s all I’m upset about?” He stays quiet, seeming to realize you aren’t done with him yet. In all honesty, he needs to hear what you say. Sylus knows he can’t fix anything until he knows how you’re feeling.

You frown at him before continuing: “She comes along and just because she looks like me she grabs your attention? Oh and that stupid fucking linkage bond thing ---,” How could you forget? You could resonate with him, yes, but there has never been any physical bondage connecting the two of you. That was new -- something only Miss Hunter had. And you had wondered —

Was it enough that you should doubt? Your fears were confirmed when he forgot your anniversary to take her home after a mission.

“And Ever wants you both,” he adds, his eyes narrowing. “Which was enough for me to wonder if you left… or disappeared.”

“Ha, no, more like your ego couldn’t handle that I left!” You say, poking his chest. He scowls at you. “And you know what -- I fucking remember. Does she?! I might not remember everything, but I remember! She can’t… she’ll never —”

You stop, your voice about to shake with tears. A lump forms in your throat, your chest tightening. You remember when he forced the blade through his heart. You remember slaying the dragon. And you remember the pain your past self carried -- everywhere. “Does she remember losing you like I do? However hazy it may be, she doesn’t carry that pain.”

And that’s when you turn away from him. A hand comes up, pushing tears away. “Oh, my little bird,” he murmurs behind you, his voice sounding raw. He can’t stand the fact you’re crying… over him. Self-loathing was the only thing swirling in Sylus’ red eyes right now. “I’m sorry.”

“No. I don’t forgive you. I’m not willing to fight with another version of myself for you. Go away,” you spit. You need time. And you start to walk away from him. However -- You’re only about two feet away from him when you’re yanked backwards. Something is tethering around your wrist, pulling you back.

“Stop it,” you hiss at Sylus. “Let me go!” But as you turn around completely, you can tell — this is not his Evol. You’d be able to resonate with him and make him stop. This isn’t that.

Sylus stares at it for a moment before there’s a small smirk on his face. “Well,” he says. “It looks like you’ll have to hear me out now.” A linkage.

***

“No, don’t you even start,” you say to him, staring at the link. “I’m sure if I just resonated with you — when you finally resonated with her, it went away right?”

You try to resonate with him but —

“You’re blocking it!” You accuse him. “You’re trying not to resonate with me.”

“What can I say? If my little bird flies away before I can tell her how sorry I am, that just won’t do,” he nearly purrs.

“Oh, I hate you. Stop this!”

“You have every right to be angry,” Sylus starts. Granted, you weren’t expecting that, so your response doesn’t come quickly. He keeps talking. “I admit… seeing her threw me off. But anything drawing me to her was pure curiosity, nothing more. Any other pull I felt — it felt empty. Like it belonged to you. Because it does.”

You cross your arms, pretending not to be fazed by his declarations. He leans down, gripping your chin. “You’re right, my Queen. You remember me,” he says. The other hand — the hand linked to yours by the bond — laces fingers with yours. You don’t lace them back right away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “If you wish for me to never see her again, I’ll let someone else investigate her appearance for me. I have to know — for both our sakes why she’s here. Just please -- I can’t lose you. You’re right.”

“Sylus —,”

“Please. You don’t understand. These last two weeks have been — eye opening.” He lets out a deep, ragged breath. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that I mean it.”

A deep breath. Your thoughts are so consumed with confusion. Because you’re also curious to why there seems to be two of you - albeit two crazily different lives. You mean, she had her life and you certainly had yours.

But you also missed him. Your dragon. And the look on his face. You found it remarkable how this crime boss of a man could look like a kicked puppy, begging for forgiveness. And you absolutely hate how much you’re softening. How much you’re still attracted and pulled to him.

“Mhm. Fine. Come back tomorrow and apologize again just as passionately… and I’ll think about it,” you finally say.

His mouth opens and closes. “My little bird — okay. If that’s what you want.” And he takes your hand, ready to resonate and undo the linkage so he can leave you for the night. Sylus doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to give you a single chance to overthink it and -- not forgive him. But he also knows -- if he pushes this, he could lose you forever.

The glow of resonating begins — but nothing happens. Your heart drops. It’s not working. So… it wasn’t Sylus that was holding it together. A brief moment of confusion flits across his face.

He remembers what the scientists had told him when he failed to resonate with the hunter. That they wouldn’t be able to resonate because she was disgusted and angry with him. And in striking clarity -- he knows for a fact that it’s not him holding them back from resonating like he previously thought. It’s you.

“What’s happening?” You says, seeming a little panicked as the bond only tightens the more you try to pull away. In fact, the link tightens so much that you stumble forward into his arms. The more you try to get away from him, the closer you get.

“Hm.” Sylus says, staring at it. He’s currently trying to make sure he isn’t smiling -- this might be a small win, and he knows he has more opportunities to remedy your relationship. “I have a theory.”

“Okay -- so spill,” you say, your eyes widening at him. “I have work tomorrow, and I can’t bring you with me! You’re a crime boss!”

“We’re linked because you’re mad at me,” he finally says. “Or disgusted. Or --- you hate me.” He almost can’t get the words out. Because you can’t. You can’t hate him. There is so much he never got to do with you. You blink at him several times before it clicks -- you’re both bonded until he can fix what he broke.

#lads fanfiction #lads fanfic #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus fanfic #guess who got this done anyway :)#hope y’al like it uwu

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 24 hours ago

Note

We need a part two of "Through the flames"!! What would dragon-sylus' aftercare be like after seeing his mate all sore? And the aftermath of it all...?

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

【 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 】

— 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔

【 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 】

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏. Or unconscious.

He wasn’t sure.

And it didn’t matter.

Because he didn’t know if he was awake either. Or alive. Or still buried in the wreckage of the dream—the rut, the fire, the blinding white heat of needing her until there was nothing left.

But the fire was gone. He could feel its absence like a scar.

What remained was cold. Not the kind that touches the skin—the kind that seeps. Inward. Down to the marrow.

The cold that comes after ruin. After heat. After holy madness.

The cold of clarity. Of aftermath. Of seeing everything—too clearly.

He hadn’t touched her in minutes. Or hours. Time fractured somewhere between climax and collapse.

His arms ached from holding himself above her—still trembling, still refusing to let his weight settle on the wreckage of her body.

The body he’d used.

The body he’d defiled—

Not in anger.

Not even in madness.

But in something worse.

In instinct.

In desire dressed as right.

And gods—he had loved it.

That was the sickness.

Not the taking. Not the knotting. Not the way her voice unraveled around his name—again and again—until it vanished entirely.

No.

It was the holiness he felt in the ruin. The sanctity he imagined in her submission. The monstrous, reverent part of him that believed—in the blackest corner of his soul—that she was meant for it.

That she deserved to be claimed. To be broken. To be his.

Because she’d come to him willingly.

Because she hadn’t said no.

Because in the throes of it—dazed, breathless. Opened by heat and instinct—

She had looked up at him and said,

“Yes.”

And now?

Now he looked at her—what remained of her— and couldn’t find a single inch he hadn’t claimed. Marked. Marred.

Not even her silence was untouched.

Bruises bloomed across her thighs—deep, purple halos where his fingers had pressed too hard.

His teeth had written themselves into her skin—torn through softness in too many places to count.

Her neck.

Her breasts.

Her hips.

Each bore his name in blood and violet shadow. Not letters. Not words. Just violence.

And her cunt—

Gods.

He couldn’t look. He wouldn’t.

Red.

Raw.

Still leaking. Still spilling the evidence of his ruin—as though her body hadn’t stopped bleeding him out. As though she was still trying to survive him.

He wanted to close her legs. To shield her from the sight of what he’d done. To cover her with anything—his hands, his shame, a lie.

But he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because if he touched her now—it wouldn’t be for her. It would be for him.

To ease the sickness in his gut. To paint over the blood with softness and pretend it hadn’t happened.

But it had.

And he had earned this silence.

He had earned the sight of her—

Ravaged.

Exposed.

Still.

He stared at his hands. Shaking. Bloodied. The claws had barely receded—like the beast still lingered beneath the skin. He didn’t know how many times he’d used them to hold her down. To bruise. To claim. To steady her body while his unraveled.

He didn’t remember all of it. Only flashes. Searing. Fragmented. Sacred.

The sound she made when his knot caught—half-moan, half-prayer.

The way her body curled into him after each wave of heat—like forgiveness, offered without terms.

The moment he bit down—too hard—and she bled.

And whispered thank you.

He had thought it sacred. The way her body broke for him. The way she bled—beautiful and willing.

He had thought it love.

But what kind of love demands pain for penance?

What kind of salvation is bought with bruises?

What kind of god does a man become—if worship means wounding the thing he adores?

He swallowed.

Hard.

His throat burned with the bitterness of truth unspoken. Of mercy unworthy.

He wanted to ask if she was in pain. Wanted her eyes—open, lucid—to tell him it wasn’t as bad as it felt. That she didn’t hate him. That he hadn’t taken too much.

That she was still herself. Still whole. Still his.

But he couldn’t ask. Because to ask would be a plea for absolution—and he had forfeited the right to grace.

He already knew.

The verdict had been passed. And he had delivered it himself.

He had caged his nature for years—locked it in discipline. In silence. In the safety of orders that gave him purpose when desire made him dangerous.

But the second she touched him—the second her scent braided itself into his blood—he hadn’t fought hard enough.

He could blame the rut. Blame biology. Blame the dragon.

But none of it mattered.

Because he had wanted it.

Every time she moaned. Every time her body gave out beneath him. Every time she broke for him like she was built to—he hadn’t just taken her.

He had exalted in it.

And that truth—that cold, unrelenting truth—split him open like a blade down the breastbone. Not to kill.

But to show him what was inside.

And it wasn’t a man.

It was hunger.

And love.

And no difference between the two.

He hated the silence. Because the silence saw him. Stripped him. Reflected him back in pieces too sharp to hold.

In the silence, he couldn’t be a man. Couldn’t be a soldier. Not even a dragon—that at least implied control.

No.

He was a beast.

A thing of claw and rut and want—with blood beneath his nails and a mate lying still beneath him.

Not held.

Not cradled.

Claimed.

And gods help him—he had wanted it that way.

He lowered his head until it hovered just above hers. Close enough to feel her breath. Too far to deserve it.

He didn’t kiss her. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t dare.

He only looked.

And that alone felt like sacrilege.

Because she was still beautiful. Even now. Especially now.

Ruin clung to her like lace—skin bruised, lips parted, breath slow and spent—and she had never looked more like something sacred.

And that made him want to die.

Because part of him—the part that hadn’t been scorched clean—still wanted to do it again.

To bury himself in her wreckage.

To hear her whimper beneath him, begging for things he shouldn’t want to give.

Because if she woke up now—if she touched him—he wasn’t sure he’d remember how to say no.

Worse—

He wasn’t sure he’d want to.

Because he knew.

Gods, he knew.

If she asked—even softly. Even once—he’d lock them in this chamber for the rest of their lives, and never let her walk again.

He heard her breathe.

Not shallow.

Not reflexive.

Different.

Not the empty rhythm of a body surviving in sleep—but something else. Something aware.

It came as a hitch. Barely a sound.

The kind of breath someone takes when surfacing from dark water—not because they were drowning, but because they finally remembered they could breathe.

And Sylus…

Stilled.

Because that breath meant she was coming back to him. And he didn’t know if he deserved to exist in the world she woke into.

He didn’t lift his head.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just waited.

Because when she woke—when her eyes opened—he would have to look into the one part of her he hadn’t scarred.

Not yet.

Her eyes were still untouched.

Still soft.

Still capable of seeing him as something more than what he’d become.

He had ruined everything else.

Her body. Her breath. Her silence.

And now—she was about to look at him and see the shape of what he’d made her into.

Not with anger.

Not with blame.

But with knowing.

And that—

That was the part he couldn’t bear.

Her body moved. Just a flicker. A tremble like glass settling after the quake.

One leg shifted—dragging limp across stone, weak and slow.

And then—her voice.

Hoarse. Frayed.

Wrecked at the edges.

Still his.

“…Sylus?”

The sound wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

It sliced down his spine—not because she said his name. But because she said it like it still belonged to him.

Like he still belonged to her.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because shame wasn’t a burden that sat heavy on the shoulders. It seeped.

Into the lungs. Into the marrow. Into the spaces behind the eyes where thought tried to form.

It made movement a threat.

Speech—impossible.

And when he tried to swallow, it didn’t feel like breath.

It felt like drowning—in her voice. In her presence. In the unbearable fact that she still said his name. Like it hadn’t been dragged through blood and ruin.

He lifted himself slowly. Not out of mercy. Out of fear.

He shifted just enough to no longer hover over her—and even that felt like a betrayal.

Like turning your back on a body you broke because you couldn’t stand to look at the ruin you left behind.

And then—she opened her eyes.

Just a sliver. Soft lashes fluttered, hesitant. As if even her vision wasn’t sure whether the dark she woke into was safer than the light that held him.

Her gaze found him. Clear. Unflinching.

And he wished—

Gods, he wished—

She hadn’t.

Because it was too much.

Because it was too kind.

Because it saw him—

Because she looked at him like he hadn’t broken her open with his hands.

Like her thighs weren’t bruised in the shape of his grip.

Like his come wasn’t still leaking from the place he’d used her most.

Like the taste of his breath hadn’t been carved into her mouth for hours.

She looked at him like none of it made her flinch.

Like he didn’t make her flinch.

And that—

That was the cruelest mercy.

Because she wasn’t pretending. She wasn’t looking through him. She was looking at him.

And still choosing not to run.

“Sylus,” she whispered again.

Not afraid. Not questioning. Not laced with the trembling edge of someone unsure.

Just… there. Fully. Present.

And gods—

It broke him in a way pain never could.

Because there was no judgment in her voice. No blame. No soft lie to make him feel less monstrous.

Only his name. Spoken like it still meant something.

Like he still meant something.

And that—

That kind of tenderness?

It was the sharpest blade of all.

He dropped his eyes to the floor. The stone beneath her was slick—slick with sweat. With blood.

His. Hers.

He didn’t know where the lines blurred. Didn’t know which drops came from torn flesh and which came from surrender.

Didn’t matter.

The red still shimmered.

Proof.

Penance.

Desecration.

Because she had bled for him.

Not in battle.

Not in sacrifice.

But in yielding.

And gods—

She should never have had to bleed

Just to be his.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

His voice came out raw. Unworthy of sound.

“I need you to stop looking at me.” A whisper. A plea. Not for silence—for mercy.

She blinked. Didn’t speak.

He kept his gaze pinned to the stone. As if it might swallow him.

“If you keep looking at me like that—” His throat caught. “—like I’m still yours…”

He swallowed, hard and shaking.

“I won’t survive it.”

Because there was nothing more damning than being seen as worthy by the one you broke.

Her fingers twitched against the floor. A small, almost invisible movement—but he noticed.

Before her voice.

Before the break in his breath.

“You are mine,” she said.

Not pleading. Not trembling. Not soft.

Just true.

And that—that undid something in him.

He exhaled, slow and ragged.

“Don’t say that.” A whisper. A warning. A wish.

“Why?” she asked. Simple. Steady. Like the question wasn’t a blade.

His eyes lifted to hers—sharp. Sudden. Like instinct forgot the walls he’d built.

And she saw.

Not hunger. Not rage. Not even possession.

She saw the guilt.

The rot.

The hollow cathedral he had made of her—and the ash he’d left behind.

Because that’s what he was now. Not a man in love.

A worshipper, who had burned his altar and fallen to his knees before the smoke.

His jaw clenched. Once. Twice. Like he was chewing on glass.

Then—

“Because I destroyed you.”

Her answer was quiet. Immediate.

“You didn’t.”

He shook his head. Didn’t let her speak mercy into a wound still bleeding.

“I did.” His voice cracked—split down the middle like something torn. “You don’t see it yet. But I do.”

He looked at her then. Not away. Not anymore.

“I see every bruise I left on your thighs. Every place I bit too hard. I see where my hands held you like I had a right. Where I—” His voice faltered. “Where I used you. Like your body was mine just because you offered it.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

“I turned you into proof of what I am.”

She said nothing.

And gods—he needed her to.

He needed her to scream. To spit. To slap him across the face and name what he’d done.

He needed the absolution that only came with wrath. Because if she raged, he could beg. He could fall to his knees and repent like a man who knew what it meant to crawl.

But instead—

She just looked at him.

Quiet. Steady. Unflinching.

And that was so much worse.

Because she didn’t hand him anger. She handed him herself.

Whole. Present.

Still his.

And that silence—that silence made him bleed.

Because he saw it. Right there in her eyes. No trembling. No shame. Just the raw, brutal clarity of want.

She still wanted him.

Even now. Even ruined. Even with her thighs marked in his hands and his name carved between her ribs.

She wanted him.

Not the idea of him.

Not the man he wished he could be.

But this.

The wreckage.

The monster.

The truth.

And gods—

That undid him more than any scream ever could.

“I hate what I am,” he said. Not a curse. Not anger. A prayer—ground through his teeth like glass.

“Not just the dragon,” he added.

His voice barely held together.

“The man too.”

He swallowed.

“The one who let it happen.”

A beat.

“The one who wanted it.”

Another.

“The one who—” His breath caught. “—who believed he could come back from it.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Because the worst part wasn’t what he’d done. It was that some part of him still ached to do it again.

She reached for him.

And he flinched.

Not like a warrior dodging a strike. Like a sinner shrinking from absolution.

Gods—he recoiled like her fingers were flame. Not because they’d burn. But because they wouldn’t.

Her hand hung midair—caught in that sacred pause between grace and rejection.

He couldn’t let her touch him.

Because if she did—he’d crumble. Fall to pieces like ash beneath her hands.

If she touched him, he’d want back in her body. Back inside the place she broke for him.

If she touched him, he’d beg her to stay in the fire—to let him burn her again.

And she would.

Gods help him, she would.

Because she still believed he was worth the ruin.

And that—that would make him a monster all over again.

Forgiveness is easy to beg for—when you believe you deserve it.

But Sylus didn’t.

Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

And still—

Gods, he wanted her hand. On his skin. On his throat. On the parts of him that still remembered how to ache.

He wanted her touch more than air. More than absolution. More than anything that would make him human again.

Because if she touched him—

It wouldn’t fix him.

But it might make the ruin feel

Holy.

The contradiction lodged in his chest like shrapnel—sharp. Foreign. Refusing to dissolve.

He shifted back.

Just enough.

Not to run. Not to escape.

Just enough to keep her safe from the gravity of him.

Because leaving her would have been mercy. But it would’ve felt like violence. Worse than every bruise he’d painted onto her skin.

He couldn’t walk away. Not when her breath still lived in the hollow of his throat.

But he couldn’t stay pressed against her, either.

Because if he did—he’d lose whatever part of him still believed he was capable of restraint.

But he couldn’t let her touch him.

Not now. Not like this.

Because if she reached for him again—if she chose him in the silence—he would fall.

Not with teeth.

Not with claws.

Not with rut-slick hunger.

But with worship.

With hands that trembled instead of gripped. With a mouth that whispered her name like a prayer instead of a growl. With a need so quiet, it would sound like love.

And that—

Gods.

That was worse. So much worse.

Because brutality he could explain.

But tenderness?

He would never survive it.

He folded in on himself.

Forearms on his knees. Back bowed like a penitent at the altar of his own ruin.

Not to protect her. But to hold it in—the thing inside him. The part that still wanted to reach for her.

To beg.

To burn.

To be forgiven.

His hair slipped forward, veiling his face.

Good.

He didn’t want to see her looking at him. Didn’t want to see that unbearable thing in her eyes—

Not love.

Not pity.

Recognition.

He clenched his teeth until his jaw burned. Until pain replaced thought, until punishment felt like prayer. Maybe he wasn’t a dragon. Maybe he was something worse—

Just a man,

Just a sinner,

Just sick.

And the worst truth?

She would still let him touch her.

If he rolled her over now—if he took her wrists again, she would look at him like she hadn’t felt the bite of his teeth, the bruise of his hands, the shameful heat of his hunger.

She would arch for him.

She would part her thighs.

She would beg him to break her again—to make her his ruin.

Not out of surrender.

Not out of fear.

But because, in some twisted way, she loved him enoughto want the monster he had no intention of burying.

And that love—that unbearable, unconditional belief in him—was the cruelest mercy he had ever known.

Because he didn’t want to earn it.

He didn’t want to redeem himself, didn’t want to become someone worthy of being loved so softly.

He wanted to devour it.

To seize it between his teeth, to swallow it whole, to break her body and soul until there was nothing left but his name bruised into her bones.

Because if she gave him mercy, he would ruin it. If she offered tenderness, he would twist it.

He didn’t want her to forgive him—

He wanted her to surrender until there was no more forgiveness left, until all she had was his hunger and the terrifying certainty that she’d chosen it.

The realization gutted him—opened him from throat to stomach, and left him hollow, staring at the empty space where a better man might have lived.

He laughed.

Not loud. Not joyful. Just soft enough to break. Just broken enough to bleed.

It wasn’t laughter at all—it was the ghost of a sob, choked down, twisted, disguised as something gentler.

He laughed because he finally understood—he would never escape himself. He would never be redeemed.

His voice cracked when he spoke. Not loud. Not directed. Just truth, dropped into the void.

“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

She didn’t respond. Maybe she hadn’t heard. Maybe she was waiting.

But the words hung in the air like smoke, staining everything.

He wasn’t asking her to make it better. He was telling her who he really was.

And that terrified him more than the rut ever had.

Because the rut ended.

But this?

This never would.

The silence settled again.

Thick. Absolute. A noose of a moment that should have hung between them and choked whatever connection still pulsed in the air.

He thought it would stay that way.

She was lying beside him—tender, broken open, bruised in places he hadn’t known he could bruise someone. She should’ve gone quiet. She should’ve flinched, turned away, let her silence speak louder than any words ever could.

Instead—she breathed in. And spoke.

“You’re afraid I still want you.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a verdict.

Soft. Unshaking.

Like she’d been sitting inside his skin the whole time, listening to the echoes, and decided she was done being quiet.

Sylus didn’t move.

His heart punched once, sharp and mean against his ribs.

She shifted slowly. A small, effortful motion—like even gravity had to consider how to move her without tearing something.

She turned her head to look at him.

Her eyes—fucking gods—her eyes still held him like he was worth something. Not forgiven. Not forgotten. Just known.

“You think wanting me makes you dangerous,” she continued, voice low, deliberate, “but not wanting me—that would be worse.”

His jaw tensed.

Still, he said nothing.

Because what could he say? That she was right? That he did want her still? That even now, just the sound of her voice made his cock twitch with something slow and monstrous?

That he didn’t deserve the way her gaze held him like he hadn’t shattered her?

She reached out again. Not to comfort. Just to connect.

Her fingers brushed his.

Not a grasp. Not possession.

Just a reminder: I’m still here.

“You keep thinking you took something from me,” she said. “But you gave me something too.”

His brow furrowed. Eyes finally met hers.

She didn’t smile.

This wasn’t sweetness. This wasn’t softness.

It was honesty—the raw kind. The kind that cuts both of you when it leaves your mouth.

“You gave me the part of you that hates itself.”

He stared at her.

“I saw it,” she went on. “I felt it—every time you held me down and hesitated. Every time you bit me and kissed the wound in the same breath. Every time you ruined me like you were sorry.”

Her voice didn’t tremble.

But he did.

“You want me in ways you think make you unworthy of me. And maybe they do.” She paused. “But they’re still yours. And you gave them to me. No masks. No explanations. Just... you.”

Her fingers curled gently around his.

He hadn’t realized he’d let her.

“But that’s not what wrecked me,” she whispered.

He swallowed, throat dry as stone. “Then what did?”

Her expression cracked, just slightly. Enough for the truth to seep out.

“You looked at me like I was sacred. And then you acted like I wasn’t.”

That landed.

Hard.

The air left his lungs in a slow, quiet exhale. He turned his face away—not from shame now, but from the realization that she understood him too well.

“You don’t get to carry this guilt around like it makes you noble,” she said, her voice low. “It doesn’t make you better than the thing inside you. It just means you’re too much of a coward to admit it lives in you too.”

He flinched.

She didn’t stop.

“Do you want to be better than your rut?” she asked. “Or do you just want to pretend it wasn’t you who liked what you did to me?”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to wound.

He sat there, breathing through it, her hand wrapped around his like an accusation and a lifeline.

And for a second—

Just a second—

He wanted to die.

Because she’d said it out loud.

Because she’d named the thing he didn’t dare confess, not even to himself.

That it hadn’t been instinct.

It had been desire.

His.

And she knew it.

And she stayed.

Her eyes didn’t leave him. Not once.

“You said you don’t know how to stop wanting me,” she murmured.

He nodded.

Barely.

“I don’t want you to.”

It wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t meant to ease anything.

It was a scar laid open beside his.

And it ruined him.

He turned toward her.

Only an inch. Only enough to see her expression clearly.

Her mouth was split at the corner from where his teeth had caught it. Her collarbone bore the shadow of his bite. Her neck was ringed with bruises from where his hand had held her down.

And she was still looking at him like she’d crawl into the fire with him if he asked.

He wanted to say something.

Anything.

But there were no words for this.

For her.

So he just whispered the only thing left.

“I’ll want you until I stop breathing.”

Her eyes flickered. Just once.

Then she whispered back, “Then breathe with me.”

And that—

That undid him more than anything else.

He hadn’t moved in what felt like an hour. Her hand still rested against his, their fingers loosely laced together, the quiet hum of her breath steady and unfazed.

But he hadn’t moved.

Because moving meant doing something that might feel final. Like stepping into a sentence you couldn’t take back.

He kept waiting for her to flinch. For her to shift away, retract the invitation that had been laid bare in the aftermath.

But she didn’t.

She lay beside him, wrecked and real and impossibly close.

And he—

He was still frozen in the contradiction of wanting to hold her and feeling like he shouldn’t be allowed to.

Because everything in him ached to touch her.

Not like before. Not with heat or hunger.

Just… to be near.

To gather the pieces of what he’d broken and not glue them back together—because he couldn’t—but witness them. Offer his presence, if not penance.

So he forced himself to move.

Slowly.

Like a man waking up from a coma and not trusting the light.

His hand uncurled, inch by inch, from beneath hers. His palm hovered over her ribcage, not quite touching.

He watched her breathe.

Measured. Soft. No pain in it.

Still, he hesitated. Because he didn’t want to touch her and feel her flinch beneath it. He didn’t want the guilt to crawl back in.

But she didn’t shrink.

She exhaled—long and even—and he lowered his hand until it met her skin. He didn’t press. Just rested it there. His palm, flat against her ribs, fingers spread. Feeling the movement of her breath. The warmth of her body. The fact of her—alive, near, and still choosing to stay.

And that nearly undid him all over again.

His throat tightened.

Not with lust.

With grief.

Because her skin wasn’t smooth anymore. Not in the places he’d touched.

It bore the story of what he’d done—what he’d been.

Raised ridges where his mouth had bitten too hard. Faint impressions from fingers that had gripped with too much force. Purple halos ghosting her hipbones.

He let his hand drift, barely moving, tracing along her side. Learning her again—not as terrain to conquer, but ground to remember.

She shivered, but didn’t pull away.

Instead, she rolled slightly toward him.

Her head came to rest against his shoulder like she belonged there.

Like they hadn’t spent the night wrapped in fire and instinct and everything ugly he hated about himself.

His other arm came up on instinct—not rut-driven, not mindless—and curved around her. A loose cradle. Protective.

But gentle.

Gods, he hadn’t known he could still be gentle.

She made a sound in her throat—low, not quite a hum—and pressed herself closer.

And that…

That felt like mercy.

Not the kind that forgives. The kind that remembers everything and stays anyway.

He turned his head. Pressed his mouth to her hair. Didn’t kiss. Just breathed her in.

She smelled like sex.

Salt. Skin. Sweat.

Him.

His scent clung to her like oil. Deep. Embedded.

And he wanted to wash her clean.

Not to remove the proof of what had happened.

But to offer her something of himself that wasn’t destruction.

He wanted to carry her. Bathe her. Wrap her in cloth and stillness. Feed her water from his hands.

But that would come later.

Right now, this—this—was all he could manage.

She shifted again. Draped her thigh over his leg, as though anchoring him.

He didn’t flinch.

He let her.

And slowly, he drew her in tighter.

His fingers found her back.

Felt the rise and fall of her lungs.

Counted the beats of her heart like it might sync with his if he held her long enough.

His mouth moved before his brain gave permission.

“I don’t know how to be good to you.”

It wasn’t a confession.

It was a curse he hadn’t finished casting.

She didn’t answer.

But her hand slid across his chest, splayed flat, fingers brushing his sternum like she was searching for a heartbeat she already knew was there.

He felt her breath against his neck.

Warm. Steady. Deliberate.

“I don’t need you to be good,” she whispered finally. “I need you to be you.”

That landed in the hollow of his chest like a slow, low thud.

It didn’t fix anything.

Didn’t absolve him.

But it didn’t let him leave himself, either.

And maybe that’s what he needed.

Not forgiveness.

Just presence.

Just someone willing to stay in the wreckage with him and say, this is who you are, and I’m not leaving.

He kissed her forehead.

Once.

Barely more than a breath.

Then he wrapped his arms around her.

Not tightly.

Just enough.

Just enough to mean I’m here.

The first time she tried to sit up, she faltered.

Her breath hitched—sharp, sudden—and she winced before she could hide it.

That was all it took.

Sylus moved before he could think, his arm slipping beneath her shoulders, the other bracing under her knees.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. It didn’t feel like words. It felt like penance.

She didn’t argue.

She folded against him with the ease of someone who’d already broken once in his arms and had no energy left to resist.

He lifted her from the floor.

She was light. Too light. Her limbs draped over his forearms like fragile silk soaked in heat. Her head dropped against his chest, breath brushing his collarbone.

The scent of her was everywhere. His scent. Their scent.

He swallowed it like poison.

He carried her toward the inner chamber—the one he never let anyone see. A place carved from silence and stone, lit only by the breath of the geothermal springs below. The water steamed, glowing faintly blue in the half-dark. It smelled like minerals and memory. Like solitude.

Like shame.

He lowered her into the water like she might vanish if he did it wrong.

Not a splash. Not a ripple. Just her body meeting the warmth like it had earned rest—and he hadn’t.

She made a sound in her throat. Soft. Almost silent. But it tore something open in his chest.

Sylus stayed kneeling. Just beneath the surface. Arms still cradling her, his body submerged, the steam curling around them like smoke off a dying fire.

He didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

His jaw had locked the moment he saw the first bruise bloom fully under the water. One of many.

Not all of them were obvious.

Some floated under the surface like ghosts. Some lingered on the backs of her knees, along the curves of her hips—shadows shaped by his hands, his teeth, his need.

He adjusted his hold on her, just slightly. She sighed. Not in protest. More like surrender.

And that—that noise—was what unraveled him.

Because it meant she still trusted him.

Even now.

Even with her body marked and used and raw between the thighs.

He let her head rest back against his shoulder, her hair fanned out like ink through the water.

Her breath brushed his neck. He felt it like a confession.

His hand trembled as it moved toward her skin. Slow. Hesitant. Almost reverent.

He didn’t start with her throat. Or her breasts. Or the parts of her that made him ache.

He started with her arm.

Her forearm. The small of her elbow. The crook where her pulse fluttered.

He dipped his hand in the water, then poured it over that fragile place like it was a wound that needed ritual more than washing.

Again.

And again.

Fingers spread. Palm flat. Never gripping. Never claiming.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask him to go faster. Didn’t flinch when he moved higher.

He reached her shoulder.

He paused there.

Because above the collarbone, there was a mark—a bite. Deep. Jagged. Still faintly red where his fangs had broken the skin.

He stared at it.

Too long.

Then, slowly, he bowed his head and kissed it.

Not with lust. Not even affection. But with the silence of someone who has only one thing left to offer: remorse.

His lips lingered.

She breathed out, shaky.

His mouth opened.

He licked it.

One slow pass of his tongue, tracing the shape he had left behind like he needed to taste his sin.

And when he pulled back, his breath hitched.

Because he felt himself twitch beneath the surface.

Even now.

Even here.

His body still remembered her.

And that… that made him want to scream.

But he said nothing.

He moved down her body.

To her ribs. The outer edge of her breast. He didn’t touch the nipple. Not yet. He wasn’t sure he’d come back from it if he did.

Instead, he poured warm water down her sternum, let it pool in the valley between.

His fingers followed.

Tracing bone.

Mapping the bruises he hadn’t let himself look at before.

And there were so many.

So many tiny, blooming wounds—evidence of the weight of his hips, the force of his mouth.

He kissed each one.

Again.

And again.

And by the time he reached the lowest one, right beneath her ribcage, he could barely breathe.

Because her thighs were parting in the water now. Not wide. Just enough.

And her hand had slid beneath the surface.

He felt it graze his stomach. His hip.

Like she didn’t know whether to hold him close or keep herself from shaking.

“Let me,” he whispered, voice raw as bone.

She stilled.

“Let me do this right.”

He moved lower.

Beneath the water, he found her thighs. The inside first.

Wrecked.

He bit his lip when he saw it.

The bruising there was ugly—a deep, awful thing that ran the length of where he’d gripped her too hard while rutting, desperate to stay inside.

He kissed there too.

Beneath the water. Mouth open. Breath stolen from his chest.

He kissed the bruise once. Twice. Pressed his forehead there, let the water rise over his mouth as he knelt between her legs.

He let the shame drown him. Because he needed it to.

He stayed there until she touched his shoulder.

A gentle press.

Then he lifted his head, mouth dragging along her thigh.

And gods help him—

She was wet.

Not from the water.

From want.

His cock twitched again. Throbbed. Strained beneath the surface.

But he didn’t move.

He just looked.

At her flushed skin. At the tender heat between her legs. At the space he had broken her open and the place her body still pulsed for him.

And he said—

Nothing.

Because there was nothing to say.

Only this moment.

Only her breath in his ear.

Only the possibility that she might let him have her again—

And that this time, maybe, he’d know how to love her without burning the world down to do it.

Her hand slid down to the nape of his neck.

Not a push. Not a pull.

Just presence.

And then her voice—low, broken, still blooming with sleep.

“Let me feel your mouth again.”

He stilled.

The words were simple.

But the meaning behind them cracked through him like a faultline splitting open. Not a demand. Not lust.

Permission.

She wasn’t asking him to devour her.She was offering herself up again. As if he hadn’t just wrecked her hours ago. As if her body still ached for what only he could give.

And he—

He would not fail her this time.

His fingers sank into the backs of her thighs, gentle, reverent. He spread them slowly beneath the water, not to expose—but to honor.

He watched her.

Watched the soft part of her open.

Watched the shimmer of her slick rise to the surface of the water.

Watched her thighs tremble ever so slightly beneath his palms.

And he kissed her.

Right there.

A single press of his mouth to the place just above her cunt—just below her navel—like she was the center of gravity and he had to anchor himself to survive it.

Then he moved lower.

And when his lips touched her folds, he breathed her in like salvation.

No rush.

No pressure.

Just mouth to heat.

The water floated around his shoulders as he settled deeper between her thighs. His knees sank to the bottom of the pool. He exhaled slowly over her cunt—felt her hips twitch in response.

Then he tasted her.

His tongue dragged upward, slow and deliberate, parting her gently. The first lick was long—broad and flat, from her entrance to the soft hood of her clit, tasting the mixture of salt, water, and her.

He groaned. Into her. Against her. For her.

And she moaned.

A real one.

Shaky. Thin. The kind of sound you make when you’re already too sensitive but too needy to stop.

So he did it again.

His tongue moved with reverence, not hunger.

He licked her like he was praying.

Every pass a confession.

Every pause between strokes a penance.

He circled her clit slowly—avoiding the direct pressure at first. His lips ghosted over it, his breath feathering across her skin. When she twitched beneath him, he knew. He knew she was close already.

But he didn’t want to make her come.

He wanted to worship the moment before.

His hands moved under her ass, lifting her gently, supporting her above the waterline. She was weightless in his arms. Open. Dripping. Made for this.

He whispered, lips brushing her skin between kisses.

“I’m sorry.”

She whimpered.

He licked her again.

“I’m so sorry for how I took you.”

Another stroke of his tongue.

“I should’ve gone slow.”

Flick.

“I should’ve made you come like this.”

Another pass—this one slower, dipping just inside her.

“I should’ve kissed you until your legs shook.”

He flattened his tongue and groaned into her as he suckled the soft flesh just beside her clit.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “And I forgot.”

He licked her again.

And again.

His mouth never stopped moving.

Each lap was a vow.

Each swirl of his tongue a litany.

And when he finally drew her clit into his mouth—gently, reverently, as if it might vanish if he was too eager—she cried out.

Her hand twisted in his hair.

Not pulling.

Just holding.

She ground her hips up once—unconsciously, on instinct—and he let her.

He let her fuck his mouth.

Because she deserved it.

He moaned again, low and guttural, the sound vibrating directly into her as his tongue flicked against her rhythmically, over and over until her thighs clamped around his ears and her whole body shook.

She tried to speak. Failed. Her mouth opened. Closed. Soundless.

He didn’t stop.

Not until she was gasping.

Not until her back arched.

Not until she sobbed his name in a voice so broken he didn’t recognize it—but knew it belonged to her.

She came with a shudder.

A full-body, breathless release.

His arms held her up.

His mouth never left her.

He licked her through it.

Let her ride it.

Let her shake.

And when the tension left her body—when her hips fell limp, her legs twitching in the afterglow—he finally lifted his head.

Her skin was flushed.

Her throat bare.

Her eyes half-lidded and dazed.

And he kissed the inside of her thigh like it was scripture.

“I’ll never be worthy,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Her hand reached for him again—slow, shaking—and touched his jaw.

And when he turned his head to kiss her palm, he felt it.

She was still wet.

Still ready.

Still his.

But this time—

This time she wouldn’t be taken.

She would be loved...

The water had grown cold around them.

He remained silent, submerged in that dreadful stillness, afraid to move even a fraction for fear it might disturb this precarious calm. His head stayed bowed, heavy with thoughts too burdensome to voice.

Sylus did not speak. He had no right to words now. Words belonged to the innocent, to the justified—he was neither.

He felt her fingers slip through his hair. A delicate, tentative gesture. The kind offered to soothe a wounded animal when one feared being bitten again.

And she was right to fear him.

Yet he didn't flinch. Didn't shy away. Because, in truth, he craved that fear—not the fear itself, but the honesty of it. The realization that she knew him fully. And yet still, impossibly, her fingers kept moving.

It didn't comfort him.

It broke something already cracked deep inside his chest—exposing the hollow place where the creature had once raged. He was empty now. Empty, but painfully conscious. Conscious of himself, of the bitter taste of regret, and the even more bitter truth beneath:

That given the choice, he would ruin her again.

It wasn't the monster in him he feared now.

It was the man.

The man who had felt bliss as he destroyed her. Who had worshipped her by tearing her apart. The man who even now loved her with a love that was as merciless as it was deep.

She shifted slightly, her body heavy and slow in the water. He lifted his head, barely, and saw her eyes, luminous with something quiet and unreadable. He wanted her to speak, to break the silence—wanted her voice to wound him or absolve him, or both. But she only watched him quietly, with the kind of sad patience he did not deserve.

Sylus reached up, trembling, to touch her jaw. He paused, inches from her skin, his fingers suspended like a sinner at the threshold of a church. When he finally touched her, it was with a gentleness that held no comfort, only penitence.

He wondered if she'd recoil. She should have.

She did not.

His thumb brushed lightly across her bruised cheek. He felt unworthy even of that faint touch. Unworthy of her gaze, which held no accusation, only a painful, unbearable compassion.

She leaned into his palm, eyes fluttering closed briefly. When she opened them again, they seemed softer somehow, weary but understanding. Understanding not only of him—but of all the brokenness that lived within him. She saw him, entirely—every darkness, every bitter truth—and still she chose not to leave.

And this, somehow, was the most painful truth of all.

His throat closed. He wanted to tell her to go. Wanted to order her away, to push her toward the surface and never let her near again. But he couldn't. He didn't have the strength to lose her. Not after tasting the horrible sweetness of knowing she could forgive even this. Even him.

His hand moved lower, slowly, reverently, fingers grazing her collarbone. He traced the edge of a bruise he had placed there—one of many wounds marking the landscape of his desire. It was a map of guilt. He felt his chest tighten, as though his heart were contracting around a shard of glass.

“I hurt you,” he murmured, the words tasting as bitter as poison. “Not just physically—I wounded something inside you. Something I can’t heal.”

She exhaled quietly. “I gave you permission,” she whispered, soft as a prayer. “It was mine to give.”

He shook his head slightly, denying the absolution. “I should have protected you. Even from me.”

She took his hand in hers then, her grasp gentle but firm. “Maybe I never asked for protection. Maybe I needed to feel the truth of you—the darkness included.”

His eyes stung, but no tears fell. He didn’t deserve them. “But what if the darkness isn’t something temporary?” he rasped. “What if it’s simply what I am?”

Her eyes searched his face, carefully, patiently. “Then it’s what I love,” she breathed.

He winced softly, the declaration striking him like an arrow he had invited willingly. He couldn’t accept her words—yet neither could he deny how desperately he longed for them.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, stripped bare of all artifice, of all pride. “I love you,” he admitted, as if confessing an unforgivable sin.

She touched his jaw, lifting his face to hers. “I know,” she said softly. Not a dismissal—but acceptance. The quiet kind, which knows the truth and welcomes it without conditions.

He closed his eyes tightly, brow furrowing, a line of agony carved deep between them. He whispered it again, voice shaking. “I love you.”

And then again, the words losing strength, thinning into something desperate, something raw and quiet and aching. “I love you.”

Each repetition was not a reassurance. It was a verdict. A judgment he cast upon himself, a punishment he willingly endured because he knew he deserved the torment that came with admitting it.

She pulled him closer, her lips brushing his forehead. “I know,” she whispered once more, as though she understood that each word was a blade he chose willingly. “And I love you, Sylus—every part of you. Even the ones you hate.”

He pressed his face against her chest, breathing shakily. He couldn’t look at her now, couldn’t bear the compassion, the understanding, the absolution she offered.

He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

He didn’t want it.

He wanted her, yes. But he also wanted the ache, the punishment, the endless self-flagellation of loving something he should have only ever protected.

So he held her tightly, quietly, as though bracing himself against a storm he knew would never cease. And in the silence that settled between them, he realized with a devastating clarity:

He would never escape this torment—this exquisite and unbearable pain of loving her.

And he accepted it willingly.

Because the torment meant she was still there.

Because loving her was worth the anguish it brought.

Because his love was no longer something he could control, or hide from, or deny.

It simply existed, raw and merciless. A truth as irrevocable as death.

He lifted his face slowly, met her eyes, and spoke again—quietly, brokenly, for the last time tonight.

“I love you.”

And in those three words was all the shame, all the torment, all the reverence he had left to give. A quiet, bitter, sacred truth he laid at her feet like the condemned offering their final confession.

She heard it.

And she held it—without judgment, without flinching.

She simply wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her body as though she could hold all the pieces together.

And perhaps she could.

He didn’t know if he deserved that chance.

But in that moment, he took it.

He held her, and she held him back.

And that was enough.

#love and deepspace #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus qin #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus smut #smut writing #smut #smut fic #smut fanfiction #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x mc #qin che #sylus dragon #sylus fanfiction #sylus fanfic

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abyssyby · 28 days ago

Text

to be devoured, to be held

— a storm brews in your head as you grapple with the longing to take up a little more space in sylus’s life— would he mind?

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: something i conjured up @ 2am thinking about spending time with sylus fresh-relationship, when things are still a little fragile & a little unsure. struggling w this myself, to all who do— you are allowed to take up space. you are enough. fueled by the singular image of sylus chasing fingers with kisses. also!!! the free 5 star henckskd i canT WAIT 😫. enjoy! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, self-conscious reader, overthinker sylus, longing, smoochie kisses, face masks!

Sylus is visibly busy. He doesn’t move much when he works, resembling more a statue really— one carved with passion and love, if you were to gush.

Were it not for the rapid flickering of his eyes and the tack-tack-tack of his fingers on his keyboard, you’d wonder if he was even breathing.

Your gaze lingers on the thin-framed glasses you gifted him, now perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t need them, you’d think regeneration would grant him immunity against mere blue-light, but he wears them anyway. A silent gratitude, a heart-fluttering token of you in all his endeavors. Your fingers itch to push them up just that little bit.

But he’s busy.

You linger by the door of his office. Meticulous as you take in the set of his jaw, the slight pout of his lips, the subtle crease in his brow and his soft, disheveled hair. You swallow down the burn to run your fingers through the cloud-like tufts and smooth them away from his forehead.

He’s busy.

“Sweetie.” You stiffen, pulled from the haze by low, thundering endearment. His eyes never leave the screen, his fingers never cease typing. But you know he’s got every intention of luring you in like a siren.

“Mm?” you reply, clearing you throat. How you can make a simple hum so utterly pathetic, you’ve no idea. Your face heats, your scalp prickles. Your gut churns at how little of him it takes to undo you.

But he only smiles, just the slightest bit. Eyes require strain to capture its split-second existence. “Need something?”

Your eyes widen. Oh, the last thing you want is for him to think you’re insensitive and entitled enough to distract him. “No— no! I’m okay.”

His brow raises. The clacking beneath his fingers is silenced. Once shifting eyes now focused on you. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yes. I’ll go.”

You’re turning away before he catches a glimpse of the tingles you feel beneath your skin. You shouldn’t disturb him. He had come home late last night. Slipped into bed to hold you for an hour at most before you felt him drift away once more. Back into his office. To his very important schedule.

The lump in your throat is remedied by a big gulp of water but the irritation for your self-pity is a fire you cannot easily douse.

You should be grateful that he accepted you into his home for the holidays. Overjoyed that he’d become more comfortable with your intimate (albeit shy) advances like fingers caressing his own, and lips brushing on any exposed speckle of flesh of his you see. He always indulges you with a shudder and a controlled breath.

Looks at you like you’d wronged him, like he’s piously holding back unforgivable sin should he touch you back.

And yet, your chest aches at the lack of attention. You grind your teeth. Dramatically and truthfully, you’re starved, thirsty, and craving for his regard. But how greedy would you be to demand that of him.

Digging your nails in your palms, you relent. He has enough on his plate. He invited you in despite his work schedule. Because you insisted, asked, wanted. And now you must adjust. Be mindful. Behave.

The skin of your cheeks is agitated, you’re sure, when you run your fingers down your face. In hopes to silence a groan. Annoying. Can’t help but be. You’re annoyed— with him, with his work, with yourself for being annoyed.

Not knowing that as soon as you fled from the threshold, Sylus was quick to stand and follow after you. Had it not been for the shrieking of his infernal phone, you’d be eating your words and thriving in your greed for him by now.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

In three hours, you’ve successfully explored the base in efforts of distracting yourself or making yourself useful— hit the underground gym, sketched the pristine dragon statue down the hall on a piece of sticky note, made an ice cream sandwich, taken a shower and applied your skincare.

And he— he’d been standing from his desk every few minutes to look for you. But deals were falling through, there are new programs to be coded and all his men were apparently incompetent today.

He caught glimpses of you— your hair disappearing around corners, your humming as you doodled and made snacks, your silhouette through fogged glass. But something always pulled him away— another problem, another issue, something infuriatingly needing his attention.

And if he were just so terrible, he’d throw the entirety of Onychinus away just to join you in the shower.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The clay mask is tightening on your face when you exit the kitchen. Just beginning to crust at the edges, but goopy still. You might have mixed it wrong. The cucumbers you cut out rest on your cheeks for now, until you no longer need to navigate your way through the winding halls from the kitchen back to Sylus’s bedroom.

A groan escapes your throat as you throw yourself into his plush mattress and silk sheets— knocking the breath out of you at the impact. Gravity pulls your spine down, pops each vertebra into place in a glorious melody of release. Then, you flip the cucumbers over your eyes and draw out a long, loud exhale.

Ten minutes, your app said, orange little happy face promising the silence of your thoughts. Ten minutes of focusing on your breath and your fingers and your toes and your skin. Ten minutes of listening to the sound of a ticking clock you otherwise would never have noticed. Of resisting the urge to twitch a muscle. Of constantly reminding yourself to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. Ten minutes of—

“A salad.”

The bed dips on your side and your breathing— that you’ve been working so hard on— ceases. You feel his hot fingers on your arm, trailing, trickling down to your wrist and over your open palms. Drawing shapes. Making a home. “How appetizing.”

You don’t need to remove your cucumbers to know the look he has on his face. Cocky, teasing and deep with that unspoken desire. “Got a moment away?”

He hums. Fed up, he made one final call and warned his partners that if they did anything to disrupt his time with you again, heads would roll— or something along those lines. His phone rests ominously silent in his office.

Yearning for him all day and finally having him, you are overwhelmed— his touch burns you, and you slip your wrist from his grasp without thinking.

He tries hard not to let that affect him. He is thankful for your lack of vision right now, because the scowl he gives you borderlines on homicidal.

There is a cant to your tone— one you could not quite be rid of from your initial irritation despite it slowly fizzling away in his presence. One he bristles at.

“You’ve had a lot on your plate.” you simply state, a supposed expression of sympathy. I feel bad for your workload, I’m sorry I cannot do anything to lighten it.

But your lips had twitched, pressed into a firm line. This reads like criticism to him— You’d ignored me all day and now, now take this distance as consequence. He swallows. “I have.”

You rise from your position. He’d laugh if he didn’t feel liquid dread swirling in his stomach now. You pulled away— you don’t want to be touched. Your tone— you don’t want to hear his excuses. He’d scorned you, and now knows not what to do with his lungs or limbs.

“Hungry?” you ask, a cucumber slipping down your eye to your cheek, finally revealing his perplexed gaze and— oh, no. He’s upset. Your mind connects it to your initial worries: of wanting too much, of clinging and pulling him away from the important things. And now he’s here, not there. Had he picked up on your discomfort? Were you so overbearing that he felt the need to check on you? You avert your gaze.

“I— I made ice cream sandwiches.” because being useful right now seems like the best route. Offering him something he can take and consume for his benefit— that will soften the blow somehow. Make you worth his time.

And he broods, swallowed in his own clouding thoughts, and follows you to the kitchen. “Alright.”

The sandwich is a scoop of cookie dough squished between two graham crackers. You put a little mint leaf on top to make it look cute (Keiran commended this detail as Luke choked on it).

You place it on a plate and serve it to Sylus quietly.

He barely looks at it. No, he’s too busy, busy, busy with you. What you’re thinking; what you’re feeling. What you think— what you feel for him. “Sweetie—“

“It’s cookie dough.” you blurt to fill the deafening silence. Unintentionally loud, drowning out his gentle coaxing. “If— if you want vanilla, there’s vanilla. And, sorry, I don’t know if you like chocolate, but we have some. There’s strawberry too.”

Sylus furrows his brows. Were you so upset that you didn’t want a word out of him? “Okay.”

“Enjoy,” you say.

He frowns. “I will.”

And as he eats, his gaze never leaves you. You in that ridiculous clay mask with cucumbers on your cheeks. In his shirt and your hair in a mangled twist. Your beautiful, divine self— upset with him.

Was it how he failed to approach you throughout the day? Was it something more specific? Something he said? The way he probed for your needs? How he didn’t look at you when you stood by his door? How he didn’t reach for you when you passed his office several times more?

He’d thought you’d wanted space. That you’d appreciate a day without his coddling and clinging, after being so ecstatic about you spending the holidays with him. He asked if you needed something, didn’t he? Asked and, inside, desperately wanted you to say ‘yes, you.’ But now… now?

“It’s delicious.” he finally comments. Shamelessly pushing, testing this boundary you seemed to have put before him. Ever so carefully. Not wanting to make it feel worse that it already does. He must show you how he appreciates you being here.

“Oh?”

“I’d like another.”

“Mm.”

Shit. Has he miscalculated? “I mean… share one with me?”

Your eyes widen. “Ah.”

“Or, or not.” He’s fumbling. Tripping and falling over himself but who cares. He can’t take the bile rising up his throat with the way you look at him. Brows scrunched. Hesitant. Wary. It’s sending him into a spiral. “Just… sit with me, please.”

The hoarseness of his voice is enough to make you soften. Something in you clicks, and your anxiety makes way for his. Work must have been a lot, you think. And he doesn’t deserve your insecurities getting the best of you when he needs you.

You do as he asks once you take a strawberry sandwich out of the freezer and settle with your own fork.

“The twins told me you liked strawberry best.” you start, voice now calmer than it was before. Returning like the gradual seeping in of the tide. Sylus— oh, Sylus revels in it quietly. “But I remember you snuck spoonfuls of my cookie dough from my fridge when you were at my place.”

The acid neutralizes. “Oh?”

“And I thought,” he watches you take a bite, how your plump and shiny lips close around the fork. “What if that was another one of your cover ups? You are particular, yes, but never polarizing.

“We had this whole debate on whether or not you’d like the strawberry more than the cookie. Luke was very adamant about you only having one favorite.” you cut another piece of the sandwich and bring it up to his lips. An offering. A truce. An understanding. “But if you’ve influenced me to be anything— it’s to be greedy.”

He takes a bite from your fork. Curling his lips and dragging it over where yours had just been. He is zeroed in on your face, reading every tick, every twitch. And ultimately searching for any absolution.

He catches your wrist, prays you don’t pull away, and removes the fork from your fingers in favor of his face. He presses his hard edges into the softness of your palm and closes his eyes at the contact. “Tell me what I did so I never do it again.” he breathes.

You frown, blindsided by this reaction— he’s… worried? Anguished and anxious because he thought he was at fault for something? “What?”

He opens his mouth to explain again but you drag your thumb over his lower lip. He is compelled to silence. “I’m not upset with you.”

He’s breathless. Clinging to your warmth. “Then what—“

His lingering stare, almost a scowl, so focused on the micro expressions he cannot read. His sudden distance: a courtesy. It clicks— his upset really just… dejection.

Oh.

He thinks you were punishing him.

The thought slams into you, hollow and sickening. So afraid of asking for too much, of being too much— that you never realized how it projected onto him. What it looked like from outside the eye of the hurricane. How it would have made him believe… How could you have let him think—?

The weight of it presses down, suffocates you harder than the insecurity ever did. You would never— never. But you share this, this inability to comprehend how utterly forgiving and needing the other is.

So wrapped up in pondering a space you don’t deserve, you’d done this. That space, now, he is mourning. Begging you to fill again, as he drowns in desperation to fix a mistake he never made.

“I thought I was being a burden.” you mutter, searching his eyes for confirmation that never arrives. “That I was lingering around you too much, hovering and you’d had enough—“

His brows furrow bringing an intensity in his eyes that worsens the caving in your chest. He exhales then, more than air— everything that has choked and squeezed him inside.

“No. Never.” he cuts you off quickly, too overwhelmed by fear and sorrow and relief to even be the least bit composed. Oh, he was so relieved. His lips chase and kiss the tips of your fingers like a man starved. He mutters, low and clear against your skin, “Could never have enough of you, beloved.”

You melt into his touch as he circles his arms around your waist and finally pulls you against his warm body. His breath tickles your neck as he presses his face into your shoulder, inhaling the scent of body wash, shampoo and you. “I am yours for the rest of the week.”

“No, stop that.” you argue, but your tone does not reflect. It dissolves, melts away. “Sylus, I’m not asking…”

“Neither am I.” he states, sturdy vibrations traveling from his lips down your spine. “I need to make you greedier. Be greedier for me.”

Your lips press together in a shy smile and you feather them over his pulse point. You seize control of your fingers. At last, you get to push his glasses up his nose, press on the fat of his jutted lip, ease the crumple of his brow and run your fingers through his soft, unkempt hair— just before you kiss him. Consume him. Devour him.

Sylus corrodes at the edges, unmoored at the feel of your lips on his. He presses, holding you to him, needing to be closer, closer, closer. To taste. To feel. To have.

Putting your each wretched thought of unworthiness to shame. Silenced. Dust.

When you pull away, your eyes take a while to adjust, still giddy and tingling from the static in the air. He lingers, nuzzling into your skin, nose skimming reverently along your cheek. Once your vision returns you let out a genuine giggle.

He swoons at the sound. Half lidded eyes and lips curved into a stupid smirk, asks, “What?”

Your laugh escalates into a shriek as he dips to kiss you again and again. “Stop!”

He’s grinning. The epitome of sunlight. “Why?”

You’re in tears at his appearance— light green smears of clay over his lips and cheeks, a stray cucumber hanging off his jaw. Shaky fingers go to right him, wipe away the remnants of a passionate kiss. Meanwhile, he turns to nip at your wrist and kiss your palm, and you think fondly: it is impossible to clean him up here. He is impossible.

“Come on.�� you say instead, dragging him by his fingers which he meticulously intertwines with yours.

He follows, wordlessly, obediently. More than overjoyed to be led to— it does’t matter. He would be led anywhere as long as it were you. He savors how he can press on the soft skin on your palm, how he can so easily stop you in your tracks to kiss you soundly. All because he can. He can and he will.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Not long after, you’re wriggling in his iron grasp, tickled by the movement of his digits on the dips of your waist. You hiss, “Hold still!”

“I’m not the one squirming here, sweetie.” he chuckles, breathy and deep. His hand slides up the curve of your back and up the length of your arm, drawing one up over your head to pin you to the wall. “My little bird, trying to get away? Won’t you check your work?”

“You’re doing this on purpose.” you say pointedly, a fond grin on your gracious lips he cannot help but devour. You stop him in his tracks as he leans down, “We just got you cleaned up!”

“I can clean up again.” he insists, leans again. To his displeasure, you turn your head to dodge him.

“Let me kiss you.” he whispers, begging with no sense of subtlety. Laid bare and open. With only the thought of tasting you. He nods to the jar in your hand. “Before you put that on me.”

You click your tongue, but inside your belly swoops at his open expression. Head fuzzy with affection. “You said you couldn’t wait.”

“Your touch is enough to intoxicate and persuade. I am yours all week..” he purrs. He hopes you allow him a kiss— the sudden need make his ears pink. “Sweetie?”

“One.” you relent, and he is quick to accept. Pressing his lips to yours lightly, to your surprise, as he swallows your gasp in delightful satisfaction.

He pulls away clean, none of your replenished mask on his face. Then he drops his hands to cage your thighs on the sink you sit on. His eyes glint playfully as he inspects your flustered state, “Done playing around? I can’t wait.”

You scowl at him— like he didn’t just beg you to… you sigh in kind exasperation and get to work.

To say he was putty in your hands was an understatement. Sylus has always been sensitive, that is a fact, but at every touch of your fingers on the bridge of his nose, the brush of the pads of your thumbs under his eyes, the scrape of your nails just under his jaw make him lose a shuddering breath. The devotion trickles down your spine like rain.

When you place the cucumbers on his cheeks, he smiles, earth-shattering and gorgeous. Such a powerful man in a matcha-green clay mask. “There.”

“Now we match.” he says so tenderly it aches. Every valve gives way.

For the rest of the afternoon, you are both in clay masks. Cucumbers over your eyes; happily wrapped around each other in bed like the greedy scum you are.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!

2K notes · View notes

reilemon · 2 months ago

Text

𔘓 Let's Break Up, Sylus! 𔘓

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ Reason for the breakup? You got tired of chasing Sylus’ shadow.

♡︎ pairing: Sylus x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: brief mention of blood and wounds

♡︎ tags: angst, fluff, smut, dry humping, oral (female receiving), multiple orgasms

♡︎ word count: 6.5k

♡︎ a/n: idk, i don't like how i wrote the breakup fics, but i'd feel bad if i never posted them. so, if you don't like how i wrote this, especially the breakup part, then pls don't say anything.

♡︎ Thank you to my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @anitalenia

The faint hum of the car does nothing to soothe your nerves. If anything, it only serves as a reminder of today’s plans, the source of your anxiety. You sit in the driver’s seat, the plane tickets trembling slightly in your hands. You glance toward the house—the lights shining through the bedroom window suggests he woke up. You exhale slowly, staring at the tickets again.

This isn’t how you imagined your vacation. This was supposed to be your time to recharge, to take a step back from the chaos of work, but instead, you’re about to board a plane to a place you hadn’t even known existed. All because you couldn’t stay behind.

The irony isn’t lost on you. Hunters aren’t passive. The words you planned to say to him when he sees you holding up the tickets, rehearsed in your head with all the conviction you could muster. But now, sitting here in the quiet, you can’t help but wonder if bravery is just a mask for recklessness.

Would it really have been so terrible to let him go alone this time?

Your gaze drifts to the empty passenger seat.

Did he expect you to follow him?

You glance at your reflection in the rear-view mirror, the faint circles under your eyes a proof to the sleepless nights that have become all too familiar. Staying behind would’ve meant another string of those nights—lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was alive, injured, or worse.

But this... this is no better.

The front door of the house creaks open, and you sit up straighter. Sylus steps out, his tall frame moving with its usual confidence, his silver hair catching the early light. He looks like he always does—calm, in control, untouchable. And you’re supposed to be the same.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

The room is dimly lit, the single overhead bulb flickering faintly like it might give out at any moment. The walls are bare, the furniture is sparse and the air is heavy. The faint metallic tang of blood lingers, mixing with the sharp bite of antiseptic.

Sylus sits on one of the chairs, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his shirt discarded and tossed over the backrest. Blood-stained rags lie on the table beside him. His torso is marred with fresh cuts and bruises, deep gashes standing out against the taut muscle of his abdomen. You kneel in front of him, wrapping clean bandages around his ribs. Your forearm is already bandaged—a sloppy, hurried job. He’d insisted you patch yourself up first, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The quiet between you is oppressive. The only sound is the rustle of bandages and the faint hum of the overhead light.

Sylus watches you carefully. Usually, by now, you’d be berating him for getting hurt, but he knows that you always mask your worry with irritation. Or you’d be recounting the mission in vivid detail, your energy buzzing with lingering adrenaline. But tonight, you’re silent, your gaze focused on the task at hand, not meeting his.

“You’re quiet tonight.” he says.

You don’t look at him, your fingers securing the bandage. “I’m tired,” you reply curtly, your voice flat.

It’s a half-truth, and you both know it. He stays still, letting you finish your work, though his gaze never wavers.

Your mind won’t stop racing. The mission plays over and over in your head, the close calls, the mistakes, the weight of Sylus’ injuries.

“There.” you say quietly, standing up and turning away to gather the discarded rags and put them into a plastic bag, your back to him as you fight to steady your breathing.

Behind you, Sylus shifts slightly in the chair, his eyes following you.

“You handled everything well.” he says, his tone soft, almost coaxing. “Better than well. You were incredible out there.”

You freeze mid-motion, your fingers still gripping the bag. You swallow hard, trying to stifle the frustration bubbling in your chest, but it’s too late. When you turn to face him, your expression betrays you.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “What’s that look for?” he asks with the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You take a step closer, arms crossing over your chest. “Sylus, we barely made it out. I don’t think anything about this is ‘incredible’.”

His lips quirk in a wry smile. “A few scratches. I’ve had worse.”

That does it. “Wha - Do you even hear yourself? ‘A few scratches’?!”

His smirk falters, replaced by a flicker of confusion, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You didn’t even want me to know about this mission!” you continue, your voice rising. “I had to dig through your phone, beg my colleague for help, buy plane tickets, and then throw myself into danger just to keep up with you!”

Sylus’ jaw tightens, but his gaze stays fixed on you.

“And now you’re sitting here, acting like this is normal, like this is fine. Like it’s okay that we’re both bandaged up in the middle of nowhere!”

You don’t realize your hands are trembling until you feel the sting of your nails digging into your palms. Sylus stands, almost carefully stepping closer to you.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” he says, his voice low but firm.

“Too late for that,” you snap, your breath coming faster now. “Do you have any idea how exhausting this is? How much I—”

You cut yourself off, your throat too dry to continue. Your chest heaves, your heart pounding as you glare at him.

Sylus stays silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours. Then he speaks. “You didn’t have to come with me. You could’ve stayed behind.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “Stayed behind? And what? Spent another week staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re dead or alive?” You take in a shaky breath. “I didn’t come because I wanted to, Sylus. I came because the alternative was worse. It’s always worse.”

His expression falters for a split second, a flicker of something—surprise? Hurt?—crossing his face before it hardens again. “I knew you could handle it. I’ve always seen you as capable—more than capable.”

“And that’s part of the problem!” you fire back, your voice trembling now. “You always expect me to be right there, don’t you? Always catching up, always bending my life to fit yours. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

For the first time, Sylus doesn’t have a ready response. The argument stumbles into silence. The adrenaline of your frustration fades, leaving behind an aching exhaustion.

“I can’t keep doing this, Sylus,” you say quietly. “I can’t keep choosing you over everything else. Over my own sanity. Over my own life. I need to be on my own.”

His expression doesn’t change, but your eyes know his too well to be deceived – you know your words hurt him. He doesn’t argue, though. Instead, he steps toward you. You don’t pull away as he stops in front of you, his fingers brushing gently over your cheek. His touch is so tender that it takes everything in you not to lean into it.

“You’ll always have a place with me.” he murmurs.

His words pierce straight through you, and your chest tightens as you see the quiet acceptance in his gaze that makes it so much harder to walk away. Your throat constricts, but you manage a small nod. Stepping back, you feel the loss of his touch immediately, a hollow ache spreading through you as you turn to leave.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Returning to work feels refreshing. That’s what you tell yourself. You smile through the questions about your bandaged forearm - “Just a stupid accident.” you brush them off with a rehearsed laugh and no one presses.

You take every mission they throw your way. You linger in the office long after everyone has left their desks, filing reports and analyzing cases until your eyes burn. When you’re not at work, you’re training. You work your body until your muscles shake, until your lungs burn. Exhaustion becomes your companion, the only thing that lets you collapse into bed.

And when you give your muscles a breather, you throw yourself into social plans. Nights at the bar with friends blur together into a haze of laughter and drinks. You keep the conversation light, deflecting whenever someone asks about your love life.

But you can’t always stop your mind from wandering.

On your walks through the city, where you tell yourself you’re just stretching your legs, just enjoying the scenery, the truth peeks through. You��re looking for him. A glint of silver hair in the crowd, the flutter of dark feathers overhead—anything that might mean Sylus is nearby. But he never is.

The frustration comes in waves, sharp and bitter. Sometimes it’s anger at him—for the secrecy, for the danger he seemed so at ease with. Other times, it’s anger at yourself. For following him. For leaving him. For caring so damn much. And yet, no matter how busy you keep yourself, the memories slip through the cracks. The way he’d call you ‘kitten’ in that smooth tone. The glint in his eyes when he teased you. The softness in them in the quiet moments. How he made you feel like you were the only person who truly mattered to him.

As the days pass, the routine becomes second nature. You throw yourself into missions, into nights out, into silence. The wound on your arm heals, but others linger. And no matter how much you try to move forward, his shadow remains.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

You lie in your bed, staring at the ceiling faintly illuminated by the light of the tablet beside you. It’s paused on some show you weren’t really watching. The air feels heavy tonight. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, as if it could shield you from the thoughts creeping in, from the memories you’ve spent all day trying to push away.

Your focus is pulled towards your phone lying face down on the nightstand. You tell yourself to ignore it, to roll over and let sleep take you. But before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching for it.

The screen lights up, the harsh glow making you squint. Your tired eyes take a moment to adjust, before your finger taps the messaging app. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t look for his name. But tonight, you can’t help it.

Tapping the thread, the messages he sent a week or two ago fill the screen.

“The flower finally bloomed.” [Attached: A photo of a vibrant red flower, its petals unfurling.]

You skim through the words you’d typed in response.

“It’s beautiful.”

Further down, there’s another message—a photo of the same flower, wilted and curling in on itself. “Guess I should’ve expected this.”

You never replied to that one.

You scroll up, searching for happier times. Your thumb slows as you reach an older picture—one of the two of you. Sylus has your cheeks squished in his big hand, your face pouting in mock annoyance. Your eyes linger on his face. You gaze at his soft, genuine smile – an expression only you had the privilege to see.

And then there’s the voice note.

Your finger hovers over the play button, your chest tightening as you debate whether to listen. You remember the moment clearly—Sylus had sent it during one of his missions. You press play - his voice is quieter than usual, but the smile in his tone is obvious:

“I’ll be back soon, kitten. Don’t get too comfortable without me.”

Your vision blurs as tears gather in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them. Pulling the blankets tighter around yourself, you press your face into the pillow, letting the tears fall freely.

You lie there in the dim light, the sound of your own breathing filling the room as sleep creeps up on you. The tears dry slowly on your lashes, but the ache in your chest doesn’t fade.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Your breath fogs in the chilly air as you step outside a corner store, clutching a pack of noodles like a prize. You glance at the time on your phone and sigh. It’s late. Too late, actually, to be out in the cold hunting down instant noodles. But the craving wouldn’t leave you alone, not after the day you’ve had.

It had started early. You’d dragged yourself out of bed and decided to keep busy— run errands, go to the gym, deep clean the apartment. A pampering routine followed. Scrubbing the grime of the day away in a shower, leaving your skin soft and your mind momentarily calm. Wrapped in your fluffiest robe, smelling like heaven, you’d almost felt good.

Then the craving had started sometime after dinner. A silly little craving for a specific flavor of noodles you thought you had in your kitchen. You opened the cabinet and couldn’t find it, but you were determined, so you threw on a sweater and a pair of leggings and stepped out. The impulse led you further away from you building since your corner store didn’t have them.

Now, here you are.

You pass by the small park near your apartment, and your thoughts are more on getting home than on your surroundings.

But something catches your eye.

A figure with silver strands illuminated under the soft glow of a streetlamp. Your feet falter, your pulse quickening as your gaze zeroes in on him. Sylus.

He’s there, at the park, crouching with his arm extended toward a stray cat that eyes him warily. The sight is so achingly familiar —his careful, as-patient-as-possible approach, the way he stays still, letting the animal come to him. You don’t realize you’re staring, too focused on watching the scene unfold. The cat inches closer, sniffing cautiously at his outstretched hand. He murmurs something low, his voice too soft to hear from this distance. The sight is so disarming, so tender, that your chest tightens.

Slowly, you take a step forward, then another, careful not to startle the skittish animal. You approach from the side, your heart racing faster with each step. He must’ve sensed you before he sees you because his head tilts slightly, his attention shifting from the cat to you. His eyes meet yours, widening slightly in surprise. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The cat darts away, but you barely register it.

Sylus straightens to his full height.

“It’s been a while.” he says softly.

For a moment, you’re lost in his eyes – the tenderness his mesmerizing eyes hold when they’re on you. You slightly shake your head as you catch yourself staring, your brain scrambling for a teasing remark, “I didn’t think you’d actually get the cat to—”

Your voice falters when you notice the cat again. It’s sitting a few feet away in the shadows, watching you and Sylus with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I think I scared it off.”

Sylus chuckles. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to feed it anyway.”

True to his words, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small can of tuna. He crouches again, flipping open the lid with ease. His eyes flick to your hands.

“Still on the hunt for those, I see.” he teases, nodding toward the noodles you’d been craving.

You chuckle, about to reply, when the faintest frown crosses his features. Your eyes dart to his hands, and you notice the thin red line on his finger, a bead of blood welling at the tip.

“You cut yourself.” you say with tone sharper than you intended.

“It’s fine.” he replies casually.

Sylus places the can on the ground before stepping back to let the timid cat approach. As expected, the cat approaches, its tiny nose twitching as it investigates the food. You’re about to smile at the sight, but your focus snaps back to him when you catch the bead of blood rolling down his finger. Before you even think about it, you step closer and reach for his hand.

“Let me see.” you say softly, taking his hand in yours.

His fingers are cool, the faint roughness of his skin familiar under your touch. You tilt his hand, inspecting the small cut. Sylus doesn’t say a word, but you feel the weight of his gaze on you, the way his red eyes soften as he watches you carefully inspect the cut.

You clear your throat, letting go of his hand. “It’s not bad.” you murmur. “But it should be cleaned. And you’ll need a band-aid.” You glance around, as if a store might magically stay open just for you, but the quiet streets and locked doors tell you otherwise. Before you can stop yourself, the words slip out:

“You should come to my apartment.”

The moment the invitation leaves your lips, you freeze, realizing what you’ve just said. A habit developed of all the times you’ve patched him up before. And it still hasn’t died, no matter how much distance you’ve tried to put between you.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The cat crunches happily on its meal, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air.

Sylus tilts his head, studying you, then shrugs lightly. “If you’re offering.”

You nod, more to yourself than to him, convincing yourself it’s no big deal. He’ll come up, you’ll clean the cut, and he’ll leave. That’s it.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Even though you were in your apartment minutes ago, now it feels completely different with Sylus standing in your entryway. You catch how he glances around, his eyes taking in every detail. Then he notices a particular pair of slippers near the door, and you quietly nudge them toward him with your foot.

“These are yours.” you murmur.

Without a word, he slips off his shoes and slides into the slippers.

You motion for him to sit on the sofa while you retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom. When you return, Sylus is already seated, relaxed as always, his eyes following your every move. Sitting beside him, you set the kit on the coffee table and take his hand in yours again. You focus intently on cleaning the small cut on his finger, trying to ignore the awkward silence. The alcohol wipe stings, and his hand twitches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. You press the band-aid over the wound carefully, your fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

"There," you murmur softly. "All done."

But neither of you moves. His hand lingers in yours, and when you glance up, his gaze is already on you. Sylus shifts slightly, leaning forward just enough to brush his knee against yours. He lifts his free hand, his knuckles grazing your cheek.

His voice, low and soft, breaks the silence. "Can I hug you?"

Your chest tightens, the lump forming in your throat almost unbearable, but you nod, and it’s all the invitation he needs. Sylus shifts closer, his arms wrapping around you carefully, as though you might slip away if he moves too fast. The warmth of him envelops you as you rest your hands on his back, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt, taking in his scent. You press your lips tightly, willing yourself to remain calm, but a single tear escapes, trailing down your cheek before soaking into his shirt. Sylus holds you tighter, his hand moving slowly, soothing you. Neither of you speaks, the silence filled only with the faint sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

When you finally pull back, his hands linger on your waist. His touch is light, uncertain whether you’ll allow him to keep holding you. His eyes trace the faint streak of wetness on your cheek, and with unbearable tenderness, his thumb brushes it away.

Your gaze flickers downward, just for a moment. A fleeting glance at his lips. But it’s long enough for him to notice.

With a quiet inhale, his thumb drifts, trailing from your cheek to your jaw, then lower—grazing your bottom lip. He hesitates there, his fingers barely pressing against your skin.

His eyes search yours before he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath hitches, your heart hammering in your chest. A quiet sound escapes you—a barely audible hum of approval, “Mhm.”

He exhales, relief flickering in his eyes. The corners of his lips twitch, just slightly, before he slowly, carefully, leans in.

His lips brush softly against yours, your breaths mingling. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer. You feel the faint tremble in his fingers as they press into the fabric of your sweater. Without thinking, your hands reach for him—trailing over his shoulders, up the curve of his neck, until your fingers slip into the softness of his hair. A low, faint hum escapes his throat, vibrating against your lips.

When he pulls back, just enough to break the kiss, his forehead rests against yours. His breath fans across your face, warm and uneven.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” he’s whispers, “I thought I could give you space, let you find peace without me, but—” His jaw tightens briefly, the muscles flexing as he searches for the words. “But every day felt wrong. I left a part of myself with you, and I don’t know how to be without it.”

His hands slide down to your waist, “I don’t know if I should ask you this, but - ” his gaze locks onto yours. “Can I stay a little longer?”

The lump in your throat doesn’t let up. You know why you left – how keeping up with his lifestyle has taken a toll on your mind and body. But you also know that the man, whose eyes are filled with adoration and reverence as he waits for your answer, is the sanctuary for your heart.

You nod, “I would like that.” You take in a shaky breath, your hands settling on his neck.

Sylus stills for a second, like he needs to make sure he heard you right. His grip on your waist tightens, and his breath hitches when you’re the one who closes the distance. He angles your face gently in his hands, his palms warm against your skin. His thumbs brush featherlight strokes along your cheekbones as he deepens the kiss. As though memorizing the shape of your lips, the taste of your mouth, the way you melt against him. Then his hands find your waist again, pulling you closer until the hard plane of his chest presses against yours. You feel the faint shudder in his breathing, the tension in his body, like he’s holding himself back despite the way his lips devour yours. You sink into the kiss, your nails lightly grazing the back of his neck, feeling the way his breath hitches at your touch. But the hunger builds—his kisses growing deeper, needier.

His hand slides down, finding your thigh, his palm searing through the thin fabric of your leggings, the touch making your breath stutter as liquid heat pools low in your belly.

Sylus exhales sharply. “Tell me if this is too much.” he murmurs against your lips. His thumb strokes your thigh in small, soothing circles, a contrast to the possessive grip of his other hand still anchored to your waist.

You shake your head, pulling him back in. “It’s not,” you whisper, though deep down, there’s a flicker of hesitation.

Of course, he notices. He always does. He leans back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. Just this.”

Your fingers tremble slightly as they thread into his hair, tugging him back down. You kiss him again—with more urgency, as though trying to chase away your own uncertainty. And then you move without thinking, shifting onto your knees as you swing one leg over his lap, straddling him. Sylus groans softly as you settle onto him, his hands sliding to your hips, holding you there, and you can feel his cock pressing against your clothed core.

His breath is a ragged exhale against your skin, his lips trail down the line of your jaw, his teeth grazing just enough to leave a lingering tingle. His lips settle on the side of your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin. You shudder, fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck as warmth floods through you.

And then your hips move, feeling the hard press of him against the damp heat between your legs, the delicious friction making Sylus groan in response. His hands slide up, slipping beneath your sweater, palms skimming the heated skin of your back. Then his hips shift beneath you, pressing up to meet you in a deep grind. The motion sends a shock of pleasure straight to your core, your hands holding onto his shoulders as heat coils tighter inside you. His hands go back to your hips, guiding your movements, keeping you anchored to him as you find a rhythm together.

His lips unlatch from your neck, shifting his attention to you, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

The way he’s looking at you, the way his body moves with yours—it’s too much, too good, and the coiling pressure in your core tightens too fast. Your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt, your thighs trembling against his hips. You try to slow down, to savor it, but the pleasure builds too quickly.

The orgasm hits out of nowhere. A soft, breathless cry tumbles from your lips and your body tightens, your hips stuttering against him as the pleasure rolls through you.

Sylus stills beneath you, his grip steadying you, his breathing uneven as he watches you come undone. His expression is both hunger and devotion. The corner of his lips tugs into a small smile.

The heat creeps up your cheeks as the mortification sets in. Your heart still racing, you bury your face against his shoulder. “I— I didn’t mean to—”

His hands are already sliding up, cradling your back. His voice is low, soothing. “Don’t,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your temple. “I’ve missed seeing you like this.”

His hands drift lower again, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth moves down, lips grazing your ear.

"Can you give me one more?"

Your cheeks flush at the question, the residual buzz of your climax still tingling through your limbs. You answer by shifting your hips, experimentally rolling them forward. The motion pulls a deep, guttural groan from his throat, and the sound alone makes your core tingle.

"That's my girl." Sylus rasps.

He starts a rhythm for you, his grip firm enough to steer you but loose enough for you to take control if you wish. The friction is delicious, his cock pressing against your soaked underwear through the fabric of his pants, creating just enough pressure to. The layers of clothing feel like a tease, amplifying every grind, every roll of your hips.

"You're so sensitive." he murmurs, his gaze never leaving your face.

His words make you shiver, spurring you on to move faster, your hips gaining a mind of their own. You can feel his breath on your neck as he leans forward, his lips brushing your ear.

"I want to hear you again." he whispers, teeth grazing the delicate shell of your ear.

Your body reacts instinctively, your pace faltering as you gasp, the coil of pleasure winding tighter with each roll of his hips. Sylus doesn’t let you lose the rhythm, his hands guiding your hips again.

"Let go for me." he urges, his voice a low rumble.

His words, combined with the perfect grind of his body against yours, tip you over the edge. A broken moan escapes your lips as the pleasure crashes through you once more. Your thighs tremble, your body arching as you cling to him, his name spilling from your lips. He groans as his grip tightens on your hips as he presses you down against him, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm. His gaze locks onto yours, as he watches you come apart in his arms.

You slump forward, panting against him, your forehead brushing his shoulder as your arms wrap around his neck. His hands roam your back now, soothing as you catch your breath. You can feel the tension radiating from his body, the rigid line of his cock still pressing against you.

"Better?" he murmurs.

Your body feels like jelly, but you crave more. With a shaky exhale, you nod, nuzzling your face against his neck, the gesture earning a soft chuckle from him. You give yourself a moment to catch your breath before you sit up and move. Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off you as you stand from his lap, following your hands as they grip the hem of your sweater, lifting it over your head to reveal your bare skin. The soft glow from the living room lamp caresses every curve of your body, and his lips part slightly as he drinks in the sight of you. You hesitate briefly, heart pounding, before your fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings, sliding them down with your panties in one smooth motion, and now you stand completely bare before him.

Sylus leans forward, his breath warm as it fans over your skin. His gaze trails up your body, lingering for a moment, before settling on your face.

“You’re breathtaking.” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp.

You don’t have time to respond before his hands settle on your thighs. His lips brush against the curve of your hip, tender and sweet. He shifts forward, kissing the crease of your thigh, then above your pelvis, the attention making your knees weak. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, gently urging you closer.

He turns around to push stray pillows off the sofa, before turning back to you, “Come here,” he says. “I want to taste you.”

Your breath hitches at the words, but you follow his lead. Sylus lies back on the sofa, his hands guiding your hips to straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his head. For a moment, you hover above him, your nerves fluttering. But you find reassurance when Sylus looks up at you with a gaze so utterly devoted as he places a kiss on your inner thigh.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, his grip tightening slightly as he guides you down.

A soft gasp leaves your lips at the first stroke of his tongue against you wet folds. You grip the backrest with one hand, while the other one finds purchase in his hair and he pulls you closer, burying himself between your thighs. His tongue moves with expert precision, swirling and dipping, but then his nose presses against your clit, catching it just right, and a shiver bolts through you. The unexpected pressure makes your hips twitch, grinding against him instinctively. His tongue continues to lap at your entrance, tasting your juices, and the wet sounds of his mouth against you filling the room. You let yourself move, rolling your hips, the rhythm dragging your clit against the firm bridge of his nose while his tongue explores deeper, delving into you with an unrelenting hunger. Even lost in the haze of pleasure, you keep some of your weight off him, careful not to press down too hard.

“Sylus…” you whimper, the sound breathless, desperate.

He groans against you, the vibration coursing through your body and making you moan louder. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you steady but letting you control the movement, as though he relishes the way you’re using him to find your pleasure. Each grind sends sparks of ecstasy shooting through you, the friction of his nose against your clit and the way his tongue delves deeper, fucking you in shallow, filthy thrusts. He shifts slightly beneath you, the angle of his face changing just enough to hit a perfect spot, and your legs tremble as you chase another release, rolling your hips harder.

“Fuck - ” you gasp, your hands clutching the sofa like a lifeline.

Sylus hums again, his tongue and nose working in tandem to drive you higher, his hands kneading your thighs, encouraging you to let go completely. And you do.

You come with a shattered cry, hips jerking erratically as he drinks every pulse, every flutter, his grip tightening to keep you from pulling away from the overwhelming high. Your body slumps forward slightly, panting, thighs quivering as you try to gather yourself. But Sylus doesn’t give you time to recover. One moment, you’re perched above him, gasping in the aftershocks of your release, and the next, you’re on your back, the shift leaving you momentarily stunned.

You barely get the words out before his lips crash with yours. The moment your tongue brushes his, the taste of yourself coats your mouth. A shiver rolls through you, your thighs instinctively tightening around his waist. Sylus lets you kiss him like this, lets you taste what he’s done to you, but when your teeth graze his lower lip, teasing, claiming—his control finally breaks. Without breaking eye contact, he sits up just enough to swiftly take off his shirt before his lips are back on yours.

You hear the sound of his zipper, his hips shifting as he frees himself. His cock brushes against your drenched folds, the thick length sliding through your slickness, coating himself in your arousal. A shudder runs through both of you at the contact, the anticipation stretching unbearably between you.

Sylus exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours. “Can I finish inside?”

Without hesitation, you nod, your voice trembling as you whisper, “Yes... please.”

Sylus aligns himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and he takes his time, pushing in slowly, watching your expression. The stretch is deliciously intense, every inch of him filling you, making your walls clench around him. A strangled groan escapes his throat as he bottoms out, his cock twitching inside you. His forearms cage you in, the heat of his body surrounding you as he rests his forehead against yours.

He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, dragging along every nerve inside you. But even with his languid pace, just the feel of your pussy already has him trembling. You feel him pulse, his hips stuttering as he groans your name, his body shuddering above you. Sylus buries himself as deep as he can, his cock throbbing as his release spills inside you. The warmth spreads, and you can feel every pulse of his cock as he collapses slightly against you, his breathing heavy, his lips brushing your neck.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his hips jerk with the aftershocks of his first orgasm, he keeps moving, his cock still hard, still sensitive, as he rocks into you with slow thrusts.

“I can’t get enough of you.” he murmurs against your ear.

The sensation of his thick length moving inside you, now slick with his warm release, sends waves of delirious pleasure through you. Your hands cling to his shoulders, your nails pressing into his skin as his pace begins to pick up again. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, and his name tumbles from your lips in breathless gasps. Sylus leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his hips snap against yours. The pressure builds rapidly inside you, your body arching into his as his cock hits every perfect spot, the wet sounds of your connection filling the room.

“I missed you.” you finally confess, your voice trembling as the words spill out between moans.

Sylus freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, his thrusts faltering as your words hit him. “Say it again.” he demands softly, his lips brushing against yours as his hips begin to move faster.

“I missed you.” you repeat breathlessly.

His rhythm grows erratic, his breaths ragged as his second orgasm builds rapidly. His hips slam into yours, his cock throbbing inside you as he grips your hips tightly.

“Fuck - I’m gonna—” His words cut off with a strangled groan as he thrusts into you one last time, his release flooding you again. The sensation of him filling you, paired with the grind of his pelvis against your clit, pushes you over the edge, your walls clenching around him as your fourth orgasm tears through you.

Your breaths mingle as both of you come down from your highs. Sylus doesn’t move right away, his cock still buried inside you as you both lie tangled together on the sofa, your limbs wrapped around him tightly. His weight presses into you, grounding, comforting, his body a welcome warmth against yours.

His lips brush against your temple first, then your cheek, and finally your lips. There’s no urgency now, just a gentle savoring. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he pulls back slightly.

"I never want to lose you again," he murmurs, the sincerity in his tone making your chest ache. "I was a fool for not seeing how much you were struggling. I took your strength for granted and thought you didn’t need me to change."

You swallow hard, unshed tears stinging your eyes. Your arms tighten around him instinctively, your fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair. He meets your gaze, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

"I’m more than willing to compromise," he continues. "Whatever it takes. I don’t care if it means slowing down, changing plans, or letting you set the pace. Just... please. I need you."

A lump forms in your throat as his words sink in. The dam of emotions you’ve been holding back all night begins to crack, a single tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. Sylus notices immediately. His thumb brushes the tear away, his touch featherlight.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, though there is a small tremble in your voice when you whisper. “I need you too."

Relief washes over his face, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile as he leans down to kiss you again, his hands cradling your face like you’re the most precious thing in his world. The kiss lingers, his lips moving against yours with tenderness that leaves no room for doubt. When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, "Thank you."

You smile softly, your heart swelling as you gaze up at him. For the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest begins to lift, replaced by the tender hope cradling your heart.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@totallytaurus4 @ladyparamount @solifloris @withering-dream @yumii-34 @sapphic-daze @feuilledelis @cheesemachine44 @codedove @curiositykilledthecatx3 @sarangdipity @grabby-smitten

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