dilf-destroyer-04

[dilf-destroyer-04]

what a sweet ending 🥺

At Your Service Pt.4

⟡Word Count: 17.6k

⟡Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, dubcon, vomiting, suicidal ideations, drunk sex, blowjob, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, mild torture, injury, blood, nicknames like kitten, sweetie, honey, pregnancy

⟡ Summary: Forgiveness. A fickle concept, really. Can you learn to forgive after a lifetime of pain, betrayal, and seemingly falling prey to every man you ever worked under? Can someone like you, who’s only known survival, come to trust anyone again, let alone someone like Sylus?

"I guess in the end, you finally got what you wanted…" you sniff, a bitter smile pulling at your lips, though your eyes shimmer with sadness. His hands, once roaming with purpose, now grip the mattress on either side of you as he tries to steady himself. The way you said it—like you were just another conquest, like he’d manipulated his way into your arms—twisted something inside him. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt, rage, or heartbreak, but it made his chest feel tight. "You think this is all I wanted from you?" he asks, voice low and trembling with something dangerously close to pain. “You think I’ve been watching you, waiting for you, dreaming about you just for this?” He leans in closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “I would’ve burned the world for a chance to hold you again.” Your smile fades, replaced by confusion, and the tears pooling in your lashes begin to fall again. "But you won't get rid of her! I bet she's at your place right now! Just using me until you ca—" Sylus thrust forward suddenly, gripping your hips with a firmness that demanded silence. The feeling of his cock suddenly all the way inside you, hitting your cervix, was sharp and overwhelming, cutting off your words with a gasp that caught in your throat. He holds you tightly, his grip firm as he leans down, his voice a low growl in your ear. "I'm not using you. I'm fucking you. There's a difference." His words are punctuated by another powerful thrust.

⟡AN: Nooo the final part, Im so sad!! I can't believe what was once a dream has now become a full fledged fic??? Ty guys so much for the support, and I hope to turn more of my wild dreams into fics in the future! Ty!!

@leiaglamela @shia247 @hyphensei @hummingbirdoooo @beaconsxd @zoezhive @syluslover1 @mmeerraa @webmvie @calebsbabyapple @mysterios-hoe @ymrai @sinstae @sylvieisoffline @blcknebula @wooasecret @chososlvrr @deathlycrow @joshazraelian @mcdepressed290 @sylusqt @harbingers-lullaby @dummiebunny @rachelaishi @dilf-destroyer-04 @rjreins @thelittlebutton @rie-star @blcknebula @zoezhive @theplaid-wearingmoose @chaotictsumu @ni3rdem1se @certainduckanchor @suicidollz @shi-thats-kiera @marliisastarfrfr @ikesimpleton @chososlvrr @seventeen-x @maiznamai @sabage101 @xanhnax @uchihabucketlist @rubylescent @joshazraelian @teary-eyed-egg @writteninlunarlight-years @sylusgirlie7 @finalgirlfanatic

ao3

Read the other parts on my masterlist!

"Hold still. You're only making this worse for yourself," Sylus said, his voice even but strained as he struggled to restrain a thrashing, irate Lira. She screamed and spat at him, her wrists twisting violently against the slick new cuffs.

"Fuck you!" she howled, kicking her heels against the floor, her face red with rage.

He rolled his eyes, jaw tightening with irritation. In one sharp movement, he drove his elbow hard into her abdomen, knocking the wind from her lungs and sending her crumpling to the floor. She gasped, coughing and wheezing, her strength temporarily drained. Still, her glare was vicious, unwavering.

"I bet you feel like a big strong man, huh? Hitting women? Real fucking pathetic," she hissed through her teeth, hunched and panting.

Sylus crouched beside her, grabbing the thick steel chain and securing it around her wrists with a solid clink. His expression remained unreadable, cool and clinical. The room was dim and cold, lined with reinforced walls and the faint hum of electrical current from the locked doors.

"Weren’t you the one bragging just a few weeks ago about how you used to hit those 'little shits' when their parents weren't watching?" he said quietly, tightening the last shackle until she winced. "Your own nieces and nephews. Did you feel big and bad when you were preying on children?"

Her face twisted, half from pain, half from indignation. Sylus stood, dusted off his gloves, and looked down at her with disdain. His staff had refused to get near her after she broke her last restraints—fighting like a cornered animal. This time, though, there would be no slipping loose. The new setup was designed for war criminals, not spoiled daughters with too much ego.

Sylus chuckled, the low sound reverberating off the cold basement walls as he turned toward Lira. She glared at him with all the hatred she could muster, chained and bruised, but her defiance still flickered behind her bloodshot eyes.

"I bet my dad already has his sights on you. You won't be breathing oxygen for long, Sylus," she spat, venom lacing every syllable.

Sylus raised a brow, amused, and then turned slightly to reveal the glowing, pulsating object cradled in a reinforced case beside him—the very protocore her father had spent the better part of the last few months protecting. He lifted it gently, admiring it in the cold light before casting a mocking glance back at her.

"Your dear old dad?" he said with a grin, his voice dripping with condescension. "Sorry to announce, but he's out of commission."

He leaned closer to her, just enough so she could see the gleam in his eye. "But oh, don't worry. I'm sure he's looking up at us right now, plotting his next moves for revenge in a later life."

Lira's face froze, and the smirk slid off her lips as the implication registered. Sylus only smiled wider, turning away from her crumpled form. She let out a blood curdling scream, much to Sylus's irritation.

He rolled his eyes and turned toward the door. He didn't have time to deal with her. There were more important things to deal with now.

Just as Sylus reached the stairs, a sharp rustling of feathers interrupted his thoughts. Mephisto burst into view, the mechanical bird flapping frantically before landing hard on his shoulder. "Caw! Caw!" it cried, wings twitching in a jittery panic.

Sylus frowned, brow creasing. “What is it? You’re supposed to be outside right now. Too much rest leads to rust,” he muttered, annoyed.

But Mephisto didn’t calm down.

With a whirr, the bird’s eye flickered open wide and projected a small, glowing video feed into the air. Sylus’s gaze snapped to it—and his body froze.

There you were. Limp. Barely moving. Draped in the arms of your greasy, disgusting landlord like a ragdoll. Bridal style. Your head hung against his chest like you’d lost consciousness. Sylus’s stomach turned.

The footage showed him kicking open the door to an apartment that wasn’t yours—clearly vacant, stripped bare except for an old mattress. Sylus’s fists clenched at his sides, jaw tightening so hard he nearly ground his teeth into dust.

He saw red.

You were in danger. Another man—some lecherous, bastard—had you. Touched you. Held you. Thought he could take what didn’t belong to him. Sylus didn’t even bother taking the stairs anymore. One second, he was staring at the projection. The next, he was gone in a blur of red-black mist—vanishing through the hallway like a demon unleashed.

He was going to make this man suffer.

For touching you.

For thinking he could.

You were his. And no one touched what belonged to him without consequence.

Sylus appeared in a violent swirl of red and black mist just outside the dilapidated apartment building, his expression cold enough to freeze bone. The structure was a rotting husk in the dying district of the N109 Zone's graffiti-stained walls, broken lighting, the metallic scent of decay and filth permeating every crevice. The blood in his veins had already turned molten with fury. He stalked forward with purpose, his shoes silent on the weathered concrete. The door to the unit wasn’t even shut properly, left ajar like a grotesque invitation. 

With the barest thought, Sylus vanished again, reappearing inside the dark room without a sound. He materialized like a phantom in the far corner, veiled by the low light. His crimson eye flickered with a cold gleam as it locked onto the scene before him. Robert, that bloated slug of a man, sat beside your unconscious form on a grimy mattress. His hands—those disgusting, trembling hands—were stroking your face with a twisted mockery of gentleness, his expression slack with perverse satisfaction.

Sylus’s breath hitched as his eyes fell on your unconscious form more fully now, the faint light catching your features. You looked...peaceful, though something about it felt wrong. Your face was flushed, your lips slightly parted, and your limbs hung with a dead weight that made Sylus’s stomach tighten. From the shadowed corner, Sylus’s gaze flicked sharply to your form, narrowing as he caught sight of your flushed cheeks and slack limbs.

You were unconscious—clearly—and something about the picture didn’t sit right. Not a single twitch. No murmured breath or sleepy stir. You were limp in a way that sent a silent alarm through him. His red eye sharpened, absorbing the scene with precise scrutiny. You weren’t bruised or bloodied, but there was a heat to your skin even from across the room, a sickly warmth that didn’t bode well.

Drunk? That had to be it. The realization struck him like a slap. You never drank. And if you did, certainly not to this extent. He could practically smell the alcohol from where Robert loomed, but it wasn’t just the booze—it was the way your body sagged against the mattress, like it had given up. His panic turned cold, calculated.

His expression darkened. And that bastard dared touch you in this state? The fury returned tenfold. Sylus stood slowly, eyes burning brighter now. Robert had made a fatal mistake. One he was about to pay for.

"It was obvious after a little while that you'd become some kind of stripper or prostitute," Robert muttered with a leering grin, turning your face toward him like you were a doll he owned. "No other way you could've scored all that money."

Sylus’s jaw flexed. He didn’t blink. Rage sat low in his gut, coiled and ready. His evol—the living mist tied to his essence—snaked out from his feet in a silent crawl, curling beneath the cracked linoleum, winding toward its prey. His fists were clenched so tight the bones ached.

Robert chuckled, his voice an unbearable rasp. "Well, at least this way I won’t have to pay for any 'services!'" He burst into a wheezing, self-satisfied laugh, just as Sylus’s mist struck.

With a snap, the red tendrils wrapped around Robert’s ankles and yanked. His body lifted from the floor like a ragdoll, his laughter morphing into a shriek of surprise and pain. Sylus stalked forward as Robert crashed into the wall with a sickening crunch that silenced the room. Plaster cracked. Something inside Robert might’ve too.

He crumpled in a heap, coughing, groaning, but Sylus was already towering over him. The stench of blood and scorched air began to thicken. His gaze flicked once to your still form, then back to the man on the floor. 

Robert wheezed and looked up at the sight of Sylus towering over him, panic blooming in his eyes as reality crashed in like a freight train. "Woah, woah! Please don't hurt me!" he gasped, his voice shrill with terror. He made a pitiful attempt to scramble away, his limbs twitching like a bug on its back, but his body refused to obey. He rolled weakly onto his side with a strangled groan, his face twisting in horror. A strangled scream ripped from his throat as he tried again to move. "Wait...why can't I move?! What did you do?!"

Sylus stood silent, letting the question hang like a blade in the air. He looked down at Robert with detached calculation, his eyes gliding over the unnatural angles of the man’s lower back and legs. Three breaks, at least. Maybe four. It was written all over the crooked slump of his body. The man was done—paralyzed from the waist down, maybe permanently. Sylus's lip curled with something resembling amusement. "My apologies," he said smoothly, mock sincerity dripping from every word. "I hadn't meant to throw you that hard. Must be losing my touch."

He turned away, ignoring the panicked, broken sob that bubbled up from Robert’s throat. The pleading, the gasping—it all became background noise as he stepped toward the mattress on the far side of the room. That was where his real concern lay.

You were starting to stir on the filthy mattress, your body curling in on itself as if retreating from a nightmare. The moan you let out was soft and disoriented. Sylus knelt beside you, his usually unreadable expression flickering with something harder to define. He studied your face. Your eyelashes fluttered, your brow tensed. But there were no bruises, no signs of a struggle or assault. His fingers pressed against the pulse in your wrist, steady and strong beneath the skin. His eyes scanned your face more closely—the flushed cheeks, the subtle sweat on your brow, the way your limbs moved sluggishly.

You were definitely drunk. Very drunk. The realization hit him like a wave of relief and fresh fury. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breathing. At least you weren't hurt. But what the hell had pushed you this far?

He opened his eyes again, gaze tracing the curve of your cheek with a mixture of guilt and devastation curling in his chest. The faint sting of alcohol on your breath hit him like a blow. Had he driven you to this? Had his failure to protect you pushed you so far into despair that this was the only escape you could find? You looked so small, collapsed in this hellish excuse for an apartment, so heartbreakingly fragile, and the knowledge that you had tried to endure all of it on your own sliced into him like a hot blade.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your damp forehead. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. It wasn't just Robert. It wasn't just Lira. It was him too. His negligence, his greed for you, his selfishness that let things fester until they boiled over. If he'd just acted sooner—said the right words, shown more kindness,—maybe this never would’ve happened.

The sight of you like this—vulnerable, drunk, unconscious in a mans filthy apartment—burned itself into his memory. It would haunt him, and he knew it. He made a silent promise then and there: this would never happen again. He would make it right, whatever it took. No one would ever hurt you again.

You squirmed, finally cracking open an eye as Sylus leaned down, his arms sliding gently beneath your limp form. With practiced ease and a sharp intake of breath, he lifted you into a bridal carry, holding you against his chest. Your body slumped in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder, hair damp from sweat or tears—or both. "Hmmm?" you whined drunkenly, your fingers twitching to grasp something, anything solid. Your bleary eyes blinked up at him, unfocused, squinting as the light stung your pupils. "Rober..t?" you mumbled, barely able to form the word, the syllables sliding sluggishly off your tongue.

"No, sweetie. It's Sylus. Go back to sleep," he whispered, voice gentler than he thought himself capable of. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, the pads of his fingers lingering on your cheek for a moment longer than necessary. Then he stepped forward, gaze burning, footfalls silent but deliberate as he moved past the shattered remnants of the man still groaning on the floor.

Robert.

He was a pitiful sight now, crumpled against the far wall, his breathing shallow and wheezy. The panic in his eyes was unfiltered as he tried to lift himself, only to discover that nothing below his waist was responding. The realization sank in visibly, his face contorting with agony and disbelief. "W-wait! You're not going to leave me here, are you? Please! I need a hospital!" he begged, the words trembling and torn from his throat.

Sylus stopped at the doorway, turning just enough to look down at the groveling man. His eyes scanned Robert’s twisted form—his spine clearly broken, limbs limp and useless, blood smeared along the edge of the wall from the brutal impact. The man would never walk again. Would likely never move on his own again. It would take days before someone found him, if anyone came at all.

The thought of killing him had been tempting. But no—Sylus had long decided that Robert didn’t deserve the easy way out. Death would be mercy. Instead, he chose starvation, abandonment, and suffering. A fitting end for a man who had preyed on the vulnerable, who dared to touch what wasn’t his.

He shifted your weight in his arms slightly, your head nuzzling into the crook of his neck as you whimpered softly. The sound alone was enough to steel his resolve.

"No need to worry," Sylus said, a razor-sharp smirk cutting across his face. "This building will be in good hands after your long gone."

He turned and walked out, each step firm and unhurried, the scent of rot and sweat fading behind him. Robert screamed after him, voice shrill and cracking, but Sylus didn't look back. Didn't need to. The door groaned shut with finality, sealing Robert inside the very tomb he'd built for others.

"Wait—ple—!"

The last syllable was cut off by the echo of the door slamming shut.

Sylus looked down at you, clenched his jaw, eyes hardening with a promise to himself. He couldn’t undo the past. But he could fix this. You were safe now. And he wasn’t letting go again.

As Sylus stepped out into the bitter cold night, your body jerked in his arms, a sharp shiver coursing through you. The chill hit hard, the air dense with dampness, and your clothes were far too thin for the temperature. He frowned as the icy wind stung against your exposed skin, brushing your cheek like knives. His arms tightened around you protectively, shielding you from the worst of the cold. With a flick of his wrist, a ribbon of red and black evol slipped from his coat pocket and retrieved his phone. He kept walking down the sidewalk, eyes glowing faintly under the dim lights of the abandoned street.

Without sparing another thought, he made the call. "Take care of Robert," he said to the twins, his voice a low, cold blade. "Give it a few days. Make it clean. He's already on his way out."

You groaned softly against his chest, your head rolling to the side. Your lashes fluttered, and your breath came in shaky gasps. Slowly, you blinked up at him, your vision still hazy. Recognition flickered through your expression like a spark catching flame—and then, panic.

"S-Sylus?" you murmured, voice cracking with confusion and dread. You tried to lift your arms, weak but stubborn. "No...no, I don't want to go back there. Not to her. Don’t make me see her again... please, not like this. She'll hurt me...she'll..."

You were slurring, but your words sliced through him. You squirmed in his hold, pushing against him with far more strength than expected from someone so intoxicated. He adjusted you gently, keeping you close.

"You're not seeing Lira right now" he murmured, attempting to comfort you. His tone was soft but absolute, each word weighed down with restrained emotion. "I'm taking you somewhere she doesn't exist. Just breathe. You're okay now."

You whimpered again, words blurring into sobs. He could feel the heat from your flushed skin, the fevered confusion, and the pain buried in your voice. It stabbed at his chest—every breath you took a reminder of what he'd let happen. What he had failed to prevent.

Sylus exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for half a second before calling on his evol again. Crimson mist spiraled around both of you, curling like tendrils of smoke, wrapping you in a cocoon of heat and energy. With one last glance over his shoulder at the apartment behind him—the darkness, the filth, the broken man screaming inside—he vanished, taking you away from it all.

He took you to another property he owned, a smaller mansion nestled in the quieter, more affluent outskirts of the city. The building itself was modern but timeless in design—sleek black marble steps led to grand double doors with etched glass, while ivy-covered trellises climbed the white stone facade. Inside, the home was warm and opulent. Marble floors stretched beneath your feet, and golden accents glimmered from the chandelier fixtures and detailed crown molding. The air smelled faintly of cedar and vanilla. This place was nothing short of stunning—every room crafted with care, luxury, and comfort.

This was no accident. This wasn’t just another real estate investment. He had bought this mansion with the intention of giving it to you one day. And though he had hoped the moment would come under different circumstances, here you were.

Sylus carried you up the curving staircase, his footsteps quiet on the plush runner beneath him. You stirred faintly in his arms, but your eyelids stayed shut. Relieved, he entered the master bedroom—a room bathed in soft light from frosted lamps, the bed already turned down. He gently lowered you onto the mattress, moving your limbs with great care, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. For a moment, he simply stood there, watching your chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. You looked so peaceful, finally out of reach from the chaos.

He almost couldn't believe he'd gotten the chance to be alone with you again, to be near you without the storm of misunderstandings and hurt between you—at least for now. As much as he hated himself for it, there was something painfully endearing about the way you looked in that moment: soft and vulnerable, curled slightly into yourself on the bed, lashes damp from earlier tears, your lips parted as if caught in the middle of a breath or a dream. The sight made his pulse slow, made everything else melt away. It made him want to protect you, to care for you in all the ways he had failed to before.

Now came the delicate part—changing your clothes. Sylus exhaled slowly, steadying himself. This wasn’t about anything but your comfort. You were soaked in sweat, grime, and the remnants of whatever you’d spilled earlier, your clothes clinging to you uncomfortably. He reminded himself again: this was for your sake. He had no other motives. No matter how intimate the task, he had to act carefully and respectfully.

Still, he was a man. And while his intentions were purely to make you comfortable, he couldn’t lie to himself entirely. The thought of seeing you, vulnerable and naked, stirred something in him—a gut reaction he ruthlessly suppressed. He clenched his jaw and shook his head, refocusing his head. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

He moved to the dresser and began to dig through the neatly organized drawers, eventually pulling out a set of soft cotton shorts and a clean tank top, both still wrapped in their original packaging. Simple. Breathable. Something you’d be able to rest in. They weren’t flashy, but they were yours—or at least meant for you. He’d bought them with you in mind, along with everything else in this room. Even if you didn’t know it yet.

With the clothes in hand, he returned to the bedside. You were still breathing steadily, though your body twitched occasionally with unconscious discomfort. He sat beside you on the bed, pressing two fingers to your pulse again. Strong. Consistent.

Gently, he began with your shoes and socks. They were kicked off easily, landing quietly on the floor. Then he hesitated. Jeans. They were damp, stiff with whatever drink had soaked through, and definitely not something you could sleep in. He unbuttoned them cautiously, sliding the zipper down and easing the fabric past your hips.

That was when your eyes suddenly cracked open.

You whimpered. Confused, dazed, you squirmed and weakly pushed at him. "No...I don wanna..." you mumbled, your voice shaky, on the edge of tears.

His chest ached with something heavier than guilt. You were being so impossibly sweet, your eyes glassy, lips trembling with confusion, yet still trusting him enough to lie there. It undid him. For a second, he couldn’t move.

One hand stayed at your waist, steadying you, while the other hovered gently at your arm, bracing you as though afraid you might break. He swallowed hard, caught between tenderness and regret, and let the moment anchor him in place, heart thrumming with everything he couldn't say aloud.

"Shh. It's alright, kitten," he murmured, his voice soft and low. "I'm just helping you get clean. You're safe. I promise."

Your gaze darted around the room, unfocused, before settling on him with sudden clarity—and fury.

"You're not safe!!" you snapped, the volume cutting the quiet. "I...hate you! I hate you!" You swung, catching him across the cheek with a surprisingly strong punch for someone half-conscious. The blow wasn’t hard, but it shocked him. He rocked back slightly, sighing, before reaching forward again.

"I know," he said under his breath. "You’re allowed to hate me. You still have to get new clothes on though."

You thrashed weakly as he finished removing your jeans, then collapsed back against the sheets, your body trembling from the effort. Within seconds, your energy faded, and you began to whimper again, eyes fluttering, sweat forming at your hairline.

He worked quickly from there, wiping your brow with a nearby cloth and adjusting the clean shorts on you. When he lifted your shirt, his breath caught at the sight of your bare breasts, your nipples tightening from the chill, becoming sensitive and erect. He'd never been so tested in his life. You lay there, partially naked, whimpering, and gazing at him with such intensity he'd never seen from you before. It became increasingly difficult for him to focus on putting your tank top on, especially with the sudden tightness in his pants.

Thankfully, you let him readjust you on the bed without much resistance, your limbs limp and heavy as he gently guided you into a more comfortable position. He carefully tugged the blanket over your trembling frame, making sure you were fully covered and warm before standing to leave the room. But just as he turned to go, your voice—soft, slurred, and cracked—broke the silence.

"Sy?"

The sound of that nickname leaving your lips sent a jolt through him. He froze mid-step, pulse quickening, and turned on his heel without hesitation. He walked back to you quickly but knelt beside the bed rather than sit on it. He kept his hands in his lap, careful and restrained, his face level with yours.

"Yes, sweetie?" he asked gently.

You blinked at him through the haze, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Then your lips parted, and your words hit him like a slap.

"Just get it over with, please."

His chest tightened. He felt his breath catch in his throat. For a second, he didn’t even register the full meaning. And then he did. You thought…you thought he brought you here to have sex with him.

He inhaled sharply, jaw clenched. "No, sweetie," he said, voice low and shaken but steady. "No. I didn’t bring you here for that. I’m just getting you water. That’s it. You're safe."

You looked at him like you didn’t quite believe him. Like part of you wanted to—but couldn't. And it nearly broke him.

Sylus stood up slowly, careful not to startle you, and stepped into the hallway. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, then leaned against it, his head tipped back against the wood. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

How had it come to this?

You looked at him like he was a monster. Like he was no better than the bastard who nearly laid his hands on you. He had tried so hard to control the chaos around you, to carve out a safe place just for you—and still, he'd failed. Still, you'd suffered. And now you couldn't even look at him without fear in your eyes.

He moved to the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the filtered tap, watching the liquid rise in the cup as if it might offer some answers. If only he had taken care of Lira sooner. If only he hadn’t let his lust get the better of him. If only he’d protected you better. If he had been faster, smarter—maybe you wouldn’t have felt the need to drown yourself in poison just to dull the pain.

He exhaled through his nose, knuckles whitening around the glass. No more excuses. He would prove to you that you were safe now—not just with him, but because of him. You wouldn’t be alone again. And he’d make damn sure you never had to feel afraid like this again.

Carefully, Sylus made his way back to the bedroom, the glass of water trembling slightly in his hand. He wasn’t used to this kind of vulnerability, not in himself, and especially not in others. When he entered the room, he stopped short.

You were sitting up. Not well—your posture was unsteady, head lolling slightly, shoulders sagging like a puppet with tangled strings—but upright nonetheless. Your eyes, watery and glazed with exhaustion and intoxication, flicked toward him. You didn’t say anything at first. Just watched as he approached and slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the glass out toward you.

"Drink," he said gently, tilting the glass toward your lips with one hand, steadying your shoulder with the other. "You'll feel a lot better."

But you shook your head, refusing. Then, without warning, your face crumpled and the sobs came out of nowhere, unrestrained and heartbreaking. "Please hold me," you whimpered, voice cracking as you reached out and gripped the front of his shirt with both hands. You were so desperate you nearly knocked the glass from his hand.

His heart slammed in his chest. He felt it in his ears, in his fingertips. God, how could he ever say no to you when you begged him like that? Still, he tried to keep his tone level, teasing—maybe to steady himself, or maybe to keep things from tipping too far. "One minute you hate me and don't want me to touch you, and the next you’re begging me to hold you. You’re very needy, kitten."

But you didn’t respond. Instead, your body tensed—your breath hitching once before you suddenly turned your head to the side, dry heaving without warning. Sylus reacted immediately, all instincts and urgency. "Shit," he muttered, scooping you up without hesitation and carrying you quickly toward the bathroom. Your limbs were limp against him, your face clammy. He held you tighter, murmuring soft reassurances as he kicked open the bathroom door, lowering you gently beside the toilet.

You threw up violently over the toilet, just in time thankfully, and Sylus was right there behind you, steadying you as your entire frame tensed and convulsed. He dropped to his knees on the cold tile without hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around your trembling waist, grounding you against the storm inside your body. Each retch seemed to tear through you like glass, and your strangled sobs gutted him. "M...make it stop...hurts..." you whimpered through the acid and bile.

He tightened his grip just slightly, rubbing firm, deliberate circles on your back in a rhythm meant to soothe, but your muscles stayed locked, trembling violently. "I know, kitten," he whispered into your hair, brushing a kiss against the crown of your head. "You're doing great. It'll pass soon. Just breathe for me."

The room reeked of sickness, the bitter, metallic taste lingering in your mouth, and you were a wreck—gasping, panicking, sobbing. You clutched the toilet hard, but your other hand latched onto his wrist and didn't let go. He could feel the desperation in your grip, like you were holding onto him as if letting go meant drowning.

Sylus stayed steady, whispering soft reassurances in your ear. But inside? He was cracking. You looked like you were being torn apart from the inside. Just how much had you drunk to get to this point? The guilt seared through him almost as badly as the fear, and it took everything in him to keep it hidden. He held you tighter, letting you collapse into his arms when you finally slumped forward, a shell of yourself.

"Better?" he asked gently, his voice barely louder than a breath, watching your chest rise and fall with ragged effort as your body began to slowly settle. You gave the tiniest nod, your lips barely forming the word, "Yes..." but it was more exhale than speech. He cupped the side of your face, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, eyes locked to yours like he needed to confirm for himself that you were still really there. That you were coming back to him.

He reached for a nearby towel and ran it under cool water, gently wiping your face, brushing damp hair from your feverish skin. You looked like you'd been through a war, and in a way, you had.

He watched as you gently closed your eyes again, your lashes fluttering for a moment before settling like the wings of a resting butterfly. Deciding that you were likely done now, Sylus gently scooped you up once more, careful not to jostle your aching body. He carried you back to the bedroom in silence, his jaw clenched with a mix of guilt and helplessness. His eyes never left your face, watching every twitch and breath for signs of distress.

Once there, he lowered you onto the bed with the same reverence he might use to place a fragile, priceless artifact on a velvet cushion. The sheets were still warm from before, and he eased you down into them, his fingers lingering just a moment longer on your arms as he pulled the blanket over your trembling form. He tucked it gently around your shoulders, smoothing the fabric down as if sealing you in safety. His hand hovered above your forehead for a moment before pulling back, unsure if you'd stir.

As he turned, your eyes fluttered open again—just barely—and your voice cracked through the silence, weak but unmistakable.

"Hold me..."

His heart clenched tight in his chest. He turned back instantly, every nerve in his body responding before his mind had fully caught up. He picked up the glass of water he had brought earlier, his fingers wrapped firmly around it as if anchoring himself.

Sitting beside you, he cradled your head just slightly with one hand while bringing the cup to your lips with the other. His thumb brushed softly against your temple, a silent reassurance.

"Drink," he whispered, his voice thick with something deeper than concern—and impossibly sincere. "And I'm all yours."

You blinked slowly, as if focusing took all the strength you had left. Your eyes found his, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

And then finally, you began to take hearty sips of the water.

He breathed a small sigh of relief, one hand still on your face, the other holding the glass steady. He set it aside carefully once you had drank at least half of it.

He didn't crawl under the blanket. That would be crossing a line he'd set for himself. But he laid beside you, on top of it, and wrapped his arms around you tightly, protectively. 

He had never felt so nervous in his life. Holding you like this, warm and trembling in his arms, felt unreal—like something he wasn’t sure he deserved, but couldn’t bear to let go of. The soft weight of your body against his, the way your breath stuttered into his shirt—it was overwhelming. For someone like him, who thrived on control, this raw moment of closeness felt like diving into the unknown.

You looked up at him again, your expression dazed and unreadable now. The haze in your eyes made it hard to tell whether you were still floating in that drunken fog or swimming your way out of it. Throwing up seemed to have sobered you up at least a little bit though. Then, your lips parted. "You wanna...know why I started smoking…?" you slurred, the words tumbling from your mouth like a secret you’d been dying to tell.

Sylus gave you a small, almost hesitant smile. He had his guesses—trauma, rebellion, boredom—but hearing it from your lips meant more. "Why’s that, sweetie?"

You swallowed hard, your throat bobbing with the effort. Then your face shifted—sadness washing over it like a wave. "Lira…" You winced just saying her name, as if it tasted bitter on your tongue. "She smoked. And…deep down I wanted to be like her. Kinda. And then maybe you’d…look at me like you looked at her."

His chest cracked open. Those words hit him harder than any gunshot ever could. His heart shattered quietly inside him, the pain leaving him breathless. You had wanted his attention that badly? You had looked at her and thought she was what he wanted?

"I just wanted the pain to stop. I just wanted this to all end. Im so sick of everything hurting all the time. No one wants me, no one loves me. I can't even kill myself right."

He stared down at you, stunned at the harsh words coming from your mouth. It had been far worse than he thought. His inability to realize what was truly important and take action had almost led you to your own self inflicted demise. All because you thought no one loved you.

You had no idea. And now, all he wanted to do was show you just how much he wanted you.

You were still a bit drunk. That much was clear. And even if your words were laced with pain and longing, Sylus knew—deep down—he couldn’t let the moment slip into something you’d regret. No matter how much he wanted to lay you back against the sheets and make love to you the way he’d dreamed of, over and over, until every last doubt in your mind was obliterated by the sound of your own voice screaming his name. Until his cock pulsing into your tight cunt was all you could think about. But he stopped himself. Forced his desire back into his chest like a caged animal.

He looked at you. Really looked. Took in the gentle tremble of your lashes, the red-rimmed eyes glossed over from tears and alcohol, the soft rise and fall of your chest as you tried to hold yourself together. And it hit him—not like a freight train, but like a slow, crushing wave—that he loved you. Not in the fleeting, impulsive way he once thought. This was rooted, aching, terrifyingly deep. His mouth parted, heart pounding hard against his ribs, words caught on the edge of his tongue. “Sweetie...” he began, voice cracking with the weight of what he was finally ready to admit, the truth surging up like it had been waiting all along to be set free—

But then your hand moved. Slid down to the front of his belt, fingers clumsy and trembling as they toyed with the metal buckle. His body stiffened, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Just do it already,” you murmured, your voice flat, hollow. Not seductive—defeated. “If I'm going to live I might as well be useful. Men only want one thing from me anyways…” Your fingers hesitated. A tear tracked slowly down your cheek. “Get it over with please.”

The sound that escaped Sylus wasn’t quite a breath, or a curse. It was a noise carved from heartbreak. Seeing you like this—resigned, wounded, giving up your body—shattered him.

“No, no—lay back down. You’re drunk.” Sylus caught your wrist gently, halting your hand as it lingered too close to the buckle of his belt. His voice wasn’t stern, but careful, taut with a strain he could barely hide. “I don’t want that from you.”

He paused, exhaled hard through his nose like he was forcing himself to hold something back.

“Alright, admittedly...I do,” he confessed, voice lowering, as if the words were too heavy to say at full volume. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you. Of course I want you. I think about it all the time—too much. Sometimes it drives me crazy. But that’s not why I brought you here, and it’s not what this moment is supposed to be.”

His eyes found yours, filled with something more fragile than lust—remorse, longing, fear. “It’s more than just want. I care about you. I care in ways I didn’t even think I was capable of. And maybe I’ve done a terrible job showing that. I’ve hurt you more than I ever intended, but I’m here now trying to make it right. I need you to believe that. I need you to see that this—this isn’t about sex. It’s about you. Just you.”

You blinked at him slowly. The room was quiet except for your breathing, soft and uneven. Your expression stayed blank, and when you finally spoke, your voice was quiet and distant. “You don’t have to say the flowery words anymore, Sylus. It’s fine,” you said, like someone numbed to hope. “Can you just...pay me again after we're done? I really need it.”

The sentence hit him like a punch straight to the chest. He sat frozen, his mouth slightly open, disbelief crawling through his body. You had already started moving out from beneath the covers, awkward and unsteady, shuffling closer to him with your limbs slow and drunk. You settled in front of him, hands shaking as they reached again for his belt.

“Sweetie…” he breathed, the sound nearly a plea. His body reacted to you instinctively, shamefully. He felt his cock harden, a flush of heat creeping up his neck. Everything in him wanted you—of course he did—but this wasn’t right. Not like this.

Still, you kept your eyes on him, tears quietly clinging to your lashes. “What?” you whispered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You really don't want this? Now you don't even want me like this?"

His heart ached. Not just with desire, but with the crushing weight of guilt and love and helplessness. He reached up slowly, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing away a tear. “Of course I do,” he said honestly. “I just-”

You don't wait for him to finish, quickly undoing his belt, unzipping his pants, and freeing his stiff cock from his boxers. The moment your cold fingers wrap around his cock, he can't resist. The sensation of your touch is electric, and he finds himself unable to stop you. How could he genuinely refuse the allure of your tight, wet mouth? He lets out a low groan as you rub your face against him, your breaths coming in uneven gasps, and place a soft, teasing kiss on his tip.

"Shit..." he breathes, his voice husky with desire. He gently caresses your face with his thumb, tracing your lips as you give a tentative lick to his tip. The pleasure is overwhelming, sending shivers down his spine, and he feels his body heat up with anticipation.

"S-sorry if I'm not good at this..." you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, before slowly pushing the tip of his cock into your mouth. Sylus is much too large for you to take him entirely, and you struggle just to keep his tip inside. He can feel the velvety softness of your mouth, the wet heat enveloping him, and the gentle suction as you explore him with your tongue. Despite not fitting entirely inside, the sensation is incredible, and he can't help but groan, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through him.

He threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you gently, his grip firm yet tender. He can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten as you explore him with your mouth. He watches you, your eyes meeting his. It emboldens him, making him want to push further, to feel more of your mouth on him, even as you struggle with his size.

He knows better. This was so wrong, yet it felt so damn good. His fingers flex in your hair, gripping tightly as you whine and struggle to fit more of him in your mouth. You look so pathetic, trying so hard to please him, with your tear-stained face and trembling body. Your eyes meet his, and he can see the concentration in them. You look away, then back up at him, choking a bit as you manage to fit another inch of him into your mouth.

He can't fucking take it anymore. He can't bring himself to care that your drunk anymore. He resigned himself to beg for forgiveness later.

He pulls your head off his cock by your hair gently, and you sniffle. "I'm sorry...was it not good?" you sob, looking up at him with more incoming tears. You don't get to say much more though as he pulls you toward him.

Sylus doesn't answer with words.

Instead, his hands are suddenly cupping your face, pulling you toward him with a desperation that matches your own. His lips find yours—warm, firm, and aching with need. The kiss isn't gentle. It's hungry. Frantic. Full of everything left unsaid between you. Your sob melts into a soft moan as your fingers knot into his shirt, and his grip tightens on you like he's afraid you’ll disappear again.

He could taste the alcohol on your tongue the moment your lips met. It was sharp, bitter, unmistakable—absinthe. He nearly laughed into the kiss. Absinthe, of all things. Of course you would choose something so intense for your first drink. It was foolish, dangerous,—so utterly and perfectly you. But any amusement he might have felt was fleeting, quickly buried beneath the heat that rose in his chest.

His fingers curled possessively against your waist as he pulled you closer, supporting your body. Without another thought, he shifted his weight and lifted you effortlessly, cradling you in his arms and gently laying you back against the plush bedding. Even as your hair splayed messily across the pillow and your cheeks flushed with drunken heat, he found you devastatingly beautiful.

"Sylus..."

There was no hesitation now. The moment your body settled into the mattress, he was over you again, bracing himself on his forearms as he descended, lips crashing into yours with a hunger he had been denying himself for far too long. The kiss was deeper this time, almost desperate, and his mind raced with a thousand thoughts—of what he'd almost lost, of how close he had come to never feeling this again. Of how much he loved you.

Everything happens in a blur, a whirlwind of kisses, touches, and moans. Your names are whispered and gasped, a symphony of desire that fills the air. In the next moment, he's ripping your fresh clothes off, his movements urgent and hungry. You're laid out before him, naked and breasts squishing together as you shamefully covered yourself, your body exposed to his hungry gaze. 

"Be gentle, please…" you breathe, your voice trembling, arms still folded protectively over your chest.

Sylus’s eyes soften. He nods slowly, understanding more than he could ever say aloud. With careful hands, he reaches out and gently uncrosses your arms, kissing your knuckles before moving lower. His mouth trails warm, lingering kisses down the curve of your collarbone, then across your chest, each press of his lips deliberate and reverent. You whimper under the touch, your back arching just slightly as if your body is torn between anticipation and instinctive retreat.

“I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve waited far too long for this moment to risk ruining it now.”

His fingers find yours again, threading together tightly—like a vow, like an anchor—and he leans in, capturing your lips in another kiss. This one is deeper. Slower. A mix of need and restraint. He drinks you in like he’s been starving, yet holds back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s not careful.

You push your lower half against him, seemingly growing impatient. He's taken aback at first, but a chuckle escapes his lips. "I see we're on the same page about not wanting to waste time" he whispers, his voice laced with amusement and desire. Still, he wants to ensure you're ready to take him. He deftly inserts a finger inside your wet cunt, feeling your tight walls clench around him.

You grip onto him tightly, your whimpers filling his ear, a mix of pleasure and desperation. He's never felt you so wet before. Maybe you really were ready. He pumps another finger in and out, feeling your body respond, your hips bucking against his hand.

He can hear the wet sounds of your arousal, the slickness coating his fingers. He pulls out, panting heavily as he looks down at your teary, drunk face, your cheeks flushed and your eyes glazed with desire. You're shivering, but you nod, confirming you're ready. He swallows in anticipation, his cock throbbing with need. He lines himself up with your cunt, feeling the heat of you against his tip.

He begins to push in gently, inch by inch, feeling your tight walls stretch to accommodate him. You let out a moan, your fingernails digging into his back, leaving red marks in their wake. He pulls out slightly, then pushes in again, getting slightly deeper this time. "Agh!" you cry out, sniffling into his body, your voice a mix of pleasure and pain. God, you're so fucking tight. It feels like you could snap him in half.

He pulls out again, the sensation of your tight walls releasing him almost painful in its intensity. Then, he pushes in again, feeling your body greedily suck him in, your walls clenching around him like a vice. The pleasure is overwhelming, throbbing through his body in waves. He can feel every inch of you, the way your body responds to him, the way you pull him deeper with each thrust. It's a sensation unlike any other, a mix of pleasure and pain that leaves him gasping for breath. He can hear your moans, your whimpers, your cries of pleasure and desperation.

"I guess in the end, you finally got what you wanted…" you sniff, a bitter smile pulling at your lips, though your eyes shimmer with sadness.

Sylus freezes his thrusts, the heat in his veins cooling in an instant. His gaze drops to yours, hard and unblinking. "Don’t talk like that," he growls, the words sharp and raw.

His hands, once roaming with purpose, now grip the mattress on either side of you as he tries to steady himself. The way you said it—like you were just another conquest, like he’d manipulated his way into your arms—twisted something inside him. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt, rage, or heartbreak, but it made his chest feel tight.

"You think this is all I wanted from you?" he asks, voice low and trembling with something dangerously close to pain. “You think I’ve been watching you, waiting for you, dreaming about you just for this?” He leans in closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “I would’ve burned the world for a chance to hold you again.”

Your smile fades, replaced by confusion, and the tears pooling in your lashes begin to fall again. "But you won't get rid of her! I bet she's at your place right now! Just using me until you ca—"

Sylus thrust forward suddenly, gripping your hips with a firmness that demanded silence. The feeling of his cock suddenly all the way inside you, hitting your cervix, was sharp and overwhelming, cutting off your words with a gasp that caught in your throat. He holds you tightly, his grip firm as he leans down, his voice a low growl in your ear. "I'm not using you. I'm fucking you. There's a difference." His words are punctuated by another powerful thrust.

Your response is only a small whimper, a bolt of sharp pain rippled through your body from the sudden forceful intrusion of his cock. Pain overtook you, sobs wracking your chest as you trembled beneath him.

And Sylus—he froze, his face stricken with guilt as he realized what he’d done. He immediately held you, whispering apologies into your hair, his arms winding around you more gently than before. "I'm sorry, sweetie, shh shh...I'll make it feel better," he murmurs, his voice a soft, soothing rumble. He gently pulls out, repositioning himself between your legs, spreading them wide. Wasting no time, he inserts his tongue gently between your folds, tasting your arousal. His movements are deliberate, his tongue exploring every inch of you, seeking to soothe and pleasure. He can feel your body respond, your hips lifting to meet his mouth, your breaths coming in short, shaky gasps. He focuses on your clit, circling it with his tongue, feeling it swell and harden under his touch.

Your moans grow louder, your body trembling as he brings you closer to the edge. He slides two fingers inside you, curving them to hit that sensitive spot, his tongue never ceasing its dance. Your walls clench around his fingers, your body tensing as the pleasure builds. "Let go, sweetie," he whispers against your skin, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. And then, with a cry that tears from your throat, you cum, your body convulsing around him.

You're still riding the waves of your orgasm when he pushed his cock back in, this time with much more ease than the first few attempts. "Mghn! Sylus..." you moan, and then he's on your lips again, his kiss deep and hungry. As promised, he starts with slow, deliberate thrusts, but as the intensity of your kisses grows, so does the pace of his movements. You just feel so damn good wrapped around him, your body clinging to his like a second skin.

He locks his hand with yours, panting heavily as he thrusts relentlessly into your wet walls. "So damn beautiful...I don't think I can ever let you go again," he whispers, his voice a mix of awe and possession. And it's true. This is the closest he's ever come to heaven. Or ever going to. You're never leaving his sights again. You shakily reach up and cradle his face, panting and whining, squeezing around him. You're close again. He can feel it in the way your body trembles, the way your walls clench around him. He's close too, feeling his own end near, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate.

Sylus can feel it building, a tightness in his lower abdomen, a tingling at the base of his spine. He's close, so close to the edge, and the realization hits him like a freight train. He should pull out, he knows he should, but the thought of doing so fills him with a deep, primal resistance. Every part of him ached to let go, to bury his need, to lose himself in the fantasy that had haunted him for weeks: you, wrapped in his arms, cradling the child he’d given you, both of you soundly asleep in his arms.

The thought is intoxicating, and it spurs him on, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate. You look up at him, your eyes teary and wide, practically screaming his name with each gasp. "Would you hate me if I came inside you right now?" The question hangs in the air, a challenge, a plea. He presses his body harder against yours, giving you no room to move or squirm away. 

 "A-are you going to...?" you pant, looking up at him with a mix of fear and anticipation. He nods, leaning down, his voice a low, ragged whisper against your lips. "Forgive me." And then he captures your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a ferocity that matches the rhythm of his thrusts. You can't hold it in anymore, your body convulsing as another orgasm tears through you, your walls clenching around him.

And with a final, shuddering thrust, he comes undone himself, his body tensing and releasing in a series of powerful spasms as he presses himself as far as he can go inside you. He can feel the intense, almost painful pleasure as his cum shoots deep inside you, each pulse of release sending waves of ecstasy through his body. His vision blurs, his ears ring, and his heart pounds in his chest like a drum. He can feel the heat of his release, the slickness of his cum coating your inner walls, a physical manifestation of his claim.

You're both panting against each other now, bodies slick with sweat, limbs tangled and trembling, the room heavy with the echoes of everything that just passed between you. Sylus swallows hard, his chest rising and falling with each breath, the weight of the moment pressing into him like a vice. His eyes drift down to your face, wide and shimmering with unshed tears, your lips slightly parted, your arms wrapped around him like you might shatter if you let go. You’re clinging to him like he’s the only thing tethering you to the earth.

He opens his mouth, and his voice—usually so controlled, so sharp—is quiet and unsure. "If you're upset, I understand."

He trails off, caught in the vulnerability of the moment, searching your expression as if the words he needs might be written there. There’s a rawness in his eyes, a kind of pleading you’ve never seen from him. The edges of his mask have crumbled. "I love you," he breathes. "There's so much I want to say but—"

You don’t let him finish. Your trembling hands reach up, cupping his face with a gentleness that silences every fear, every dark corner of his heart. You pull him into a kiss—soft, hesitant, almost questioning—and he melts into it like he’s been waiting his whole life. When you break away, your tears are flowing freely now, your voice a fragile whisper.

"You do? You really do? You actually mean it?"

The disbelief in your voice hits him like a knife. He sees the years of pain behind your eyes, all the reasons you’ve learned not to believe that your actually loveable. His hands find your face again, cradling you like something precious. He shifts, pulling you into his arms fully, wrapping you up like he can shield you from the whole damn world. He doesn’t even notice the mess of cum beneath you both. It doesn’t matter.

"I always have," he says, his voice husky and earnest. "From the first time I saw you. I just...didn’t know how to say it until now. Nothing we ever did together was to simply use you. I'm sorry I ever made you believe otherwise. Forgive me, please."

You let out a ragged sob and bury your face in the crook of his neck, your tears hot against his skin. His hand rubs slow circles across your back, and he lets out a small, broken chuckle. You’re such a crybaby. And it’s the most beautiful cry he’s ever seen.

"I l-love you too, Sylus," you manage through your tears, clutching his shirt, your voice quaking. "I don't know if I can forgive you right now, but I'd like to try. Just don't leave me...if you really mean it don't leave."

He holds you tighter, the sweet sound of your confession echoing in his ears like a hymn. His chest swells with something so profound, so absolute, that he thinks he could die a very happy man in this moment. The feel of your body curled into his, the warmth of your breath on his skin, the way your words tremble but ring with truth—all of it settles in his soul like a long-lost melody finally remembered. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, savoring the closeness he'd feared he might never have again.

For a long time, he simply holds you, letting the silence between you speak volumes. But eventually, the gravity between you pulls tighter, the need to feel, to affirm what had just been spoken, rising again. He feels your body stir against his, your hands exploring his back, your lips seeking his once more. He responds in kind, his own desire flaring to life, a hunger that only you can satisfy. Hour after hour, you cling to each other, your bodies moving in sync. You claw at each other, your kisses hungry and desperate, your bodies slick with sweat and desire. He cums inside you again and again and you take him. Your body welcoming him, your walls clenching around him, drawing him deeper, holding him tighter.

Again and again you become one, until even time gives up trying to track the hours. You collapse together, boneless and trembling, sweat cooling on your skin. His arms remain around you, locking you to him like a promise carved into bone. You're already asleep, face peaceful in the crook of his shoulder, and he watches you sleep for a few final moments, overwhelmed with everything he's feeling. Then, finally, he lets himself rest, pulling you closer still. He drifts off with one final vow curling around in his mind—he will never, ever let you go again.

"I don't know if I can forgive you right now, but I'd like to try. Just don't leave me."

He decides he will spend the rest of his life making it up to you.

You awake with a striking headache, moaning in pain as your body throbs with soreness. Every muscle protests as you shift beneath the blanket, your limbs sluggish and heavy. The morning light streaming through the tall windows feels far too harsh, stabbing at your eyes and setting off a fresh wave of nausea. You wince, rubbing your temples with trembling fingers. Your mouth is dry, your throat like sandpaper. Whatever you drank, it’s taken a toll. One thing is painfully clear—you’re never drinking again.

As you lie there, flashes of last night flicker behind your eyelids—scattered and fragmented like shards of glass. You remember heat, whispered words, trembling hands, a pounding heartbeat that might’ve been yours or his. You remember the way he held you, the way your voice cracked when you said you loved him, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Your face burns, confusion, vulnerability, and something dangerously close to hope rising in your chest.

You instinctively reach for the space beside you on the bed.

Empty.

Your hand meets only cool, wrinkled sheets. A sharp pang stabs through your chest. The knot of anxiety that had been dormant all morning twists into something harsher, more urgent. Was he really gone? Did he leave? After everything he said, everything he promised—had it all been another manipulation? Just a moment of comfort for him, a mistake for you? You clutch the blanket tighter around yourself, your fingernails digging into the fabric as your mind spins.

"Sylus..." you whisper, your voice scratchy and uncertain. Then again, louder this time, desperation creeping into your tone. "Sylus...?"

Nothing. No reply.

You swing your legs off the bed, the movement sending another jolt of pain through your head and lower half. The cold air in the room bites at your skin like tiny needles. You shiver violently and that’s when you finally notice—you’re still naked. Still covered in remnants of last night. Evidence of everything. It coats your thighs, your skin flushed and tingling in ways you can’t even begin to process. Humiliation creeps in fast, wrapping itself around your chest and making it hard to breathe.

You wrap the blanket around yourself as tightly as you can, tugging it like armor around your aching frame. Your fingers tremble. Your thoughts race. You try to ground yourself, but your heart keeps pulling you into doubt, into fear. Were you stupid to let yourself fall for him again? To believe he meant it? That any of it—his tenderness, his words, the way he held you—was real?

Maybe he had got what he wanted after all.

And then, just as you're about to fully sink into that despair, you hear it—footsteps. Faint at first, steady and measured. They’re coming from down the hall, slowly drawing nearer.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat.

You dive back into bed, pulling the covers over yourself and squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as you can. Your heart thuds in your chest, unsure of what to expect next. The doorknob clicks, and you hear it slowly creak open just as you settle into position, feigning sleep. A wave of warm, savory scent drifts into the room almost immediately—pancakes, thick with syrup, and the unmistakable salt of bacon. Your stomach twists with hunger, betraying you, reminding you just how long it's been since your last real meal.

Still, you don't move. You keep your breathing steady, resisting the urge to follow the smell or acknowledge your rumbling stomach. Footsteps approach. You listen closely as a plate clinks gently onto the nightstand beside you, followed by the soft rustle of clothes shifting and a deep, amused chuckle that sends a shiver down your spine. The weight of the mattress dips as he sits down beside you.

"I know you're awake, kitten. No need to pretend," Sylus says, his voice low and amused.

You peek out of the blanket, an embarrassed heat creeping up your face. You sigh, sitting up but still unable to meet him directly in the eye. "I thought you would've left by now," you say, eyeing the breakfast plate on the nightstand.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, smirking as he leans against the wall. "After last night? How much did you really drink? Have you forgotten already?" He walks over slowly, voice dropping to a playful drawl. "You practically begged me to stay. And I’m a man of my word." He taps the side of the plate. "Now be good, eat your breakfast—you're going to need your strength later."

Your face heats up, your grip on the blanket tightening as if it were your last line of defense. “Don’t remind me...” you groan, burying your face in your knees. “And I think I’m too sore to do that again anytime soon...” The admission comes out quieter, tinged with a mix of embarrassment and lingering awe.

Sylus chuckles low in his throat, the sound somehow both comforting and infuriating. He doesn't say anything at first, only picks up the breakfast plate and sets it gently in your lap. Then he scoops up a bite of scrambled eggs and holds it to your lips with the fork.

“It’s...not what you think,” he says calmly. "As much as I'd like that".

You hesitate, eyeing him warily, unsure if you should let him do this. No one had ever fed you before. Your throat tightens at the unfamiliar intimacy of it. Even the kind act of someone providing you breakfast felt...strange. You bite down, the fork cool against your lips. The eggs melt on your tongue—warm, creamy, seasoned just right. You shudder slightly at how good it tastes, the sensation overwhelming in your overstimulated, fragile state. You chew slowly, nervously, struggling to hide how your body still craves his presence, how your heart betrays you by aching for the comfort in this small gesture. Even now.

You give him a puzzled look as you swallow, but before you can ask what he means, he leans closer, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle gently against your cheek. “You’ll find out...after you’ve been cleaned up.”

Sylus offered to help you bathe, but the thought alone made your face burn hotter than the steam that now filled the bathroom. You couldn’t even meet his gaze, much less allow him to wash your bruised, aching body. With your voice too hoarse to form words, you shook your head timidly. He didn’t argue, only offered you a slow, understanding nod before stepping back and leaving you in peace.

You stepped under the shower’s spray, letting the near-scalding water roll down your skin. The pain grounded you—it was something you could control. But your thoughts ran wild, each one louder than the last. What had last night meant? You didn’t even know. It had been overwhelming, consuming. And yet, this morning, doubt had already taken root. Was Sylus still involved with Lira? Had he broken it off before he brought you here? Or had you simply become another secret? Another mistake?

You scrubbed your skin until it was raw, hoping the sting would distract you. It didn’t. Instead, your chest tightened. Nothing had been clearly defined between the two of you. The lines had blurred beyond recognition. Was he yours? Were you his? Was this real? And if it was...why did it still feel like it could slip away any second?

Eventually, you turned off the water and stepped out into the foggy room, wrapping yourself in the soft towel hanging by the door. Curiosity pushed you forward. Sylus had said he had a surprise for you, and part of you needed something—anything—to latch onto to spend more time with him.

As you entered the bedroom, you froze. Your heart skipped. There, neatly arranged on the edge of the bed, was the outfit you’d worn last night. Or so you thought. But as you drew closer, you noticed the crispness of the fabric. The scent of newness. And then you saw them—the tags. Still attached.

Brand new.

You blinked, confusion knotting your brow. You hadn’t bought these. How had he? How had he known your exact size? The fit, the style, down to the smallest detail—it was all perfect. Thoughtful. Almost too thoughtful.

You clutched the towel tighter around yourself, heart pounding with a mix of awe and anxiety. Why would he go through so much trouble? You didn’t know what it meant, but one thing was certain: Sylus had planned this. He had thought ahead. And he wanted you to feel taken care of.

That realization was harder to process than anything else.

A little while later, a soft knock came on the door just as you finished putting on your shoe. "Come in..." you said softly, your heart beating out of your chest. God, you felt like such an idiot. What had you said while drunk? You couldn't remember. You could still feel the warmth of his arms around you, but were they real? Or just wishful thinking stirred up by too much alcohol?

Sylus entered, beaming with satisfaction the moment he realized you were dressed. His eyes flicked over the outfit and then returned to your face. Without a word, he crossed the room, leaned down, and pressed his lips against yours. It caught you off guard, stealing your breath and freezing your thoughts. But after a moment of hesitation, your body remembered how it felt to be kissed by him, and you slowly melted into it. His hand cupped your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

When he leaned back, he had the softest look in his eyes that you had ever seen. It disarmed you completely. You could hardly believe he had been your boss at one point in time—this was not the same cold, calculating man who ran Onychinus with an iron fist. No, this was someone else. Someone who looked at you like you were everything.

"Does it hurt? Can you walk?" he asked, voice low and genuine.

You nodded, though it was more of a half-shrug. "Yeah, it hurts... but I can wal—ah!"

Without warning, Sylus scooped you up in one arm as if you weighed nothing. You let out a sharp gasp, clutching his neck instinctively, your heart doing somersaults. The sudden change in gravity, the heat of his body, the way he held you so securely—it overwhelmed your senses.

"You shouldn't strain yourself," he murmured, already heading for the door. "Can't have you wearing yourself out before we get to the best part, kitten."

You trusted him. Against all reason and every aching shred of doubt still rooted deep in your chest, you leaned into his warmth, into the quiet, unshakable strength of his arms. Part of you was terrified this was all a dream. That at any moment, the floor would fall out from under you and you'd wake up alone, cold, and still in that crumbling apartment. So you let yourself savor it—just a little longer.

That fragile peace began to falter the moment Onychinus’s base came into view. Even seeing the outer walls made your stomach twist. The memories clawed their way up from the depths. You tried to hold your breath, but the air turned to stone in your lungs. Sylus must have sensed the shift in you because his arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “It’s alright,” he murmured, brushing his lips to your temple, his voice calm and low. “You’re safe with me. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I promise.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did.

But then came the solid iron door.

You stopped dead in your tracks, hiding behind him like a frightened child as Luke approached the keypad. “S-Sylus…” you asked, your voice cracking as your fingers trembled against his. “What’s in there?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned toward you, eyes locked on yours, so calm—so certain. He squeezed your hand, guiding it to his lips for a fleeting kiss before turning back to the door. “See for yourself,” he said softly, the edge of something unreadable in his tone. Then the door clicked.

The heavy iron door creaked open with a deep, metallic groan, revealing a room drenched in cold sterility. The walls were a washed-out gray, lit by an overhead light that gave everything a clinical, lifeless hue. The chill in the air hit you immediately, not just from the temperature, but from something deeper.

At first, you didn't see anything. But as your eyes adjusted, you stopped breathing.

There, shackled to the floor, was Lira.

Her wrists were locked in reinforced cuffs, the thick iron chains snaking down into bolts embedded in the concrete. She looked utterly destroyed. Her once perfect hair was matted and frizzed, her clothes wrinkled and stained with what looked like dried tears and grime. Gone was the smirking, arrogant woman who had tormented you. Now she looked more like a ghost—trembling, terrified, her eyes darting around the room until they landed on you.

Her whole body jolted. She thrashed against the chains, gasping, her voice cracking with disbelief as she cried out in fear. You froze, your heart thundering in your chest. The surreal horror of the moment pinned your feet in place. Your mouth went dry. You could barely form words. "What...what is this?"

That’s when your gaze shifted.

To your left stood a long steel table. Lined across it in unnerving precision were instruments—tools of pain and persuasion. Blades of all shapes and sizes, heavy clamps, syringes, even some things you didn’t recognize but instinctively feared. The sight of them made your knees weak.

You turned, eyes wide, voice cracking. "Sylus...what’s going on?"

He was already beside you, quiet and unreadable. Gently, his hands came to rest on your shoulders, his grip firm but not forceful. You stiffened, uncertain. He leaned down, so close that his lips brushed the curve of your ear as he spoke.

"You said before you were tired of never standing up for yourself," he murmured, voice soft but chillingly steady. "Tired of being stepped on. Well, now's your chance."

Your breath hitched. You stared at him, baffled, trying to make sense of what you were seeing—what he was saying. "But...I thought she was your girlfriend?"

He let out a cold chuckle, stepping forward with deliberate calm. Standing between you and Lira now, he gazed down at her with the kind of contempt that made your blood run colder.

"No," he said flatly. "She was never anything more than a pawn. I needed intel, and she had it. That's all. There was no love, no real connection. She's always meant absolutely nothing to me. I'm sure she'd agree. She was seeing other men behind my back anyways."

Lira whimpered behind him, her fear morphing into disbelief. But Sylus didn’t even glance back.

He turned to you instead, and for a moment, his expression softened—only slightly. "She hurt you. Humiliated you. Made you feel small. This...this is your moment, kitten. You decide what happens next. This is only the start."

You stared between the man beside you and the woman crumpled before you. And for the first time in a long time, you realized—you held the power now. Actual power.

You're in disbelief. This whole time, you had believed a lie? Lira had never been a threat at all. Everything you’d internalized, all the shame and jealousy, had been built on a falsehood. And now... you stood in front of her, watching her writhe against her restraints like a trapped animal, her eyes wild with terror. You could decide what happened to her. You had the power now. The realization was dizzying.

Still, your heart pounded in your chest. You could hear your pulse in your ears. "If you don't want to get your hands dirty, the twins are more than happy to take requests," Sylus offered, his voice calm. The twins, ever loyal and eager, stood beside him, eyes gleaming, already mentally calculating the possibilities. They nodded, practically buzzing with anticipation.

You shook your head slowly, the words leaving you with effort. "I can't—no, this is wrong..."

Before you could finish that thought, a bitter laugh slashed through the air.

Lira.

She lifted her head with effort, her face twisted in rage despite the tears streaking her cheeks. "I knew it. Fucking pussy. Pussies, all of you!" she hissed, her voice coarse and venom-laced. Her gaze locked on yours with pure hatred. "I should’ve poured that cleaner straight in your eye. Should’ve done it right and blinded you permanently."

Your body froze.

Then something inside you shifted. Snapped. The weight of every degrading glance, every manipulative word, every scar she’d carved into your psyche ignited something primal. What were you feeling sorry for? Mercy? For her? No. People like her didn’t understand mercy. If the tables were turned, she wouldn’t hesitate. She didn’t before.

You swallowed hard, your breath slow and steady now. Cold clarity slid into your veins like ice water. The air no longer felt suffocating—it felt charged. You were done being nice to people that wouldn't even give you the time of day. Spat at your feet. Treated you like garbage. You turned to Sylus with your chin high and your voice like a blade.

"Can I have the cleaner from the kitchen?"

Sylus didn’t smirk. He gave you a look, one that made your spine straighten and the heat rise in your chest. A silent "atta girl." Like he was watching something rare unfold, something he had waited patiently to see bloom.

His hand rose and brushed your shoulder, not to guide or command, but to show solidarity.

"Of course," he said, voice low and warm with something deeper than pride. He understood. He knew you had needed this.

You had never tortured anyone before. But as you poured the acidic cleaner directly into Lira's eyes while the twins held her in place, something inside you shifted. You had always been the quiet one, the girl who let things slide, who stayed silent and swallowed the pain. But not today. Not here. As the harsh chemical hissed and burned against her eyeball, you realized—there was no guilt. No remorse. Just clarity. You weren't your usual meek self.

In this room, in this moment, you were the one in control. You had taken your revenge. Made it known that you'd never be anyone's victim again. Lira coughed and screamed, her cries splintering through the cold air. "It burns! It fucking burns!" she shrieked, writhing violently. She begged—sputtering out pleas for water, for mercy—but you didn’t flinch. You only watched. Watched her crumble, just as you once had on that kitchen floor. Except this time, there would be no sink. No rinsing it away. No escape. She might actually go blind.

You slowly turned to Sylus, your breath steady, your pulse no longer racing. He was standing just behind you, eyes trained on you with something sharp and fierce—something like pride. He stepped closer, took your hand with a reverence that made your skin prickle.

"I feel better. But..." you murmured.

"Hm?" he asked gently, squeezing your hand in his.

You glanced away, then back again. Your voice came out softer now, uncertain. "You're my boss...so..."

He let out a low chuckle before bursting into genuine laughter, the sound deep and resonant as it filled the chamber. It drowned out the sound of Lira’s agony as she writhed and sobbed behind you. "No, I’m not. You quit, remember?"

You blinked, your lips parting in a small smile. There was peace in the chaos, in the justice you had taken for yourself. "Then...can you be my boyfriend, then?"

Sylus grinned, a spark in his eyes. "I’ll do you one even better."

He slipped something onto your finger. You looked down, stunned, at the beautiful silver ring now adorning your hand—a silent vow, an unspoken promise of what's to come. He leaned forward, kissing your forehead, and together, hand in hand, you walked out of the chamber. Past the metal doors.

You didn’t look back. And you didn’t need to. Lira’s screams were already fading behind you, swallowed by the dark hallways of Onychinus. The future was waiting—and this time, it belonged to you.

You jumped at the sound of the front door opening, a half-torn delivery box balanced precariously in your lap—your fifteenth of the day. “Ah! Home already?” you chirped, trying to mask the guilty startle in your voice. “How did the auction go?” You quickly moved the box aside, rushing up to greet him.

Sylus stepped into the large living room, his sharp eyes sweeping across the chaos of packaging, clothing, receipts, and opened boxes littering the floor. “Nothing piqued my interest,” he muttered, brushing off invisible dust from his sleeve with an irritated flick. “Complete waste of time.”

Then his gaze shifted, landing back on you. “My kitten’s made quite the mess in here,” he said with a raised brow, motioning toward the avalanche of luxury fabric and cardboard. “I don’t remember you ordering all these clothes. How much did you spend?”

Your stomach twisted into a tight knot. The smile slipped from your face as you swallowed hard. You were still adjusting to this new reality—buying things freely, indulging in luxuries you never could’ve afforded before. You looked down, rubbing the hem of your new top between your fingers. “Erm...a thousand?” you answered sheepishly. “I might’ve gone overboard…”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Sylus scoffed and stepped toward you, a smirk curling at his lips as he leaned down, brushing a hand beneath your chin. “That’s it?” he said, amused. “I expect more next time.”

You smiled sheepishly, cheeks burning as you reached for one of the scattered boxes. But before you could say another word, Sylus scooped you up with ease, making you squeal in surprise. He laid you down gently on the couch, the mess of tissue paper and new clothes forming a soft cushion beneath you.

His eyes raked over you, landing with interest on your new lingerie—black, sheer, and just a little daring. “In fact,” he murmured, hovering above you, his voice low and hungry, “I quite like this one.” He traced a finger along your exposed collarbone, his mouth following right after with a trail of slow, warm kisses that made your toes curl.

His lips found your ear, and his breath sent a shiver down your spine. “Keep dressing like this,” he said, teasingly, “and we’ll have a baby in no time.”

You gasped as his lips found your skin again, heat flaring under each kiss. Your fingers dug into the couch cushions. “Sylus…” you breathed, barely audible.

He smirked, eyes dark and fixed on you. Another kiss, soft and slow, trailed up your neck. “Say it again,” he murmured, low and rough. He kissed your collarbone, then higher. “Say my name again.”

You did. Whispered it like a secret. A need. Again and again, until it became all you could say. You let him make a mess of you until you were screaming his name instead of whispering it.

It didn’t happen just once. Every time he came home—from meetings, fights, auctions—you found yourself beneath him. Sometimes it was slow. Sometimes desperate. Always intense.

He didn’t bother hiding what he wanted anymore. You had never once seen him reach for a condom, not even in the beginning. You’d wake up sore, legs trembling, his hand on your stomach like he was willing it to take.

You were incredibly nervous, no doubt in your mind that you'd see those two pink lines soon. The thought alone made your heart race and your stomach twist with a strange mix of fear and anticipation. You had given up on the idea of ever raising a child in this world—this cruel, broken place where safety was fleeting and hope was often a lie. But Sylus had changed things.

With him, you weren’t afraid of struggling anymore. Not with money. Not with safety. Not with love. He had given you everything, wrapped you in protection so tight you barely remembered the cold edge of survival. And the way he looked at you now, so full of hunger and tenderness—it wasn’t just lust. It was longing. Possession. Commitment. He wanted this. A life with you. A future.

And maybe, just maybe, he had wanted this all along. Each kiss, each whispered promise, every time he pulled you in close with no intention of letting go—maybe it had all been part of something deeper. Maybe this was never about a moment, but about forever.

You weren't sure if you were ready. But you were sure of one thing: with him, you'd never face any of it alone.

He'd spent a significant amount of money getting your fertility tested. You were shocked to learn that it was even possible given your body’s state and lack of consistent food over the years. Malnutrition had taken its toll on your health, and you had long assumed certain things about your future were simply out of reach. But Sylus had spared no expense, consulting top specialists and running every test imaginable. When the results came back confirming that pregnancy was technically possible with care and preparation, it was as if something inside you shifted.

He immediately began implementing a plan. No alcohol, three balanced meals a day, a strict regimen of supplements and vitamins tailored specifically to your needs. At first, you resisted. The constant care, the monitoring, the concern—it all felt foreign. You weren’t used to being looked after. For most of your life, survival was the only priority. No one had ever gone to these lengths for you, not even your own parents, and it was difficult to accept. You had to remind yourself that this wasn’t a trick, that he wasn’t going to yank the rug out from under you.

But over time, something softened. The walls you had built to protect yourself began to lower, brick by brick. You let him cook for you. You let him remind you to take your vitamins. You let yourself be held when you were overwhelmed. When you had nightmares of your old life. Slowly, you allowed Sylus to take care of you—not because you couldn’t do it yourself, but because you were finally starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to anymore.

So here you were now, standing naked beside him while he tested the bathwater with his hand, checking the temperature with the same careful attention he gave to everything involving you. The steam curled up around your bodies, fogging the mirror and warming your flushed skin after what could only be described as the roughest, most intense sex of your life. You ached in places you didn’t even know could ache.

You glanced down at the shredded remains of your lingerie tossed on the floor. It had barely lasted ten minutes. He hadn’t just liked it—he had been obsessed. You made a mental note to buy every color in that set. If he was going to tear through it every time, you’d need backups. Not that you had much of a choice. He always made sure of that.

“Did you eat while I was gone? The chef said you didn't make any requests today.” His tone was casual, but the undercurrent of concern was unmistakable. He shut off the faucet and turned toward you, brow slightly furrowed.

You blinked, caught off guard, your stomach tightening—not from hunger, but guilt. You hadn’t. Again. You never meant to skip meals; it was just...habit. Your body had grown so used to famine and chaos that hunger no longer registered the way it should. Sometimes it felt easier to go without than to admit you deserved to have food waiting for you.

“I…forgot,” you mumbled, almost ashamed.

He said nothing at first, just stared at you for a long, thoughtful moment. Then, with a slow exhale, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms tightly around you, pulling you close until you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. His warmth seeped into your skin, grounding you in a way that made the world feel momentarily safe.

“That’s not going to happen anymore,” he murmured into your hair, voice low and resolute. “I’ll have Mephisto keep an eye on you whenever I can’t be here myself.”

You frowned, arms crossing over your chest, though you didn’t pull away. “He’s so mean though,” you sigh. “He stole my earrings and still won’t give them back! I saw him holding one in his beak and he flew higher where I couldn't reach him".

Sylus let out a deep, amused chuckle and leaned back just enough to lift you effortlessly into his arms. “It can’t be helped,” he said. “You own lots of shiny things now, it was bound to happen.”

He gently lowered you into the bath, making sure the water was the perfect temperature before letting go. The heat immediately wrapped around your aching muscles, and you sighed in contentment. Sylus knelt beside the tub and reached for a soft cloth, beginning to wash you with slow, careful movements that made your heart flutter.

“By the way,” he said, his voice lighter now, “I have a surprise for you. But you have to eat dinner first, sweetie.”

Your ears perked up at the word "surprise," eyes lighting with curiosity. “You can’t just say that and not give me a hint...” you pouted.

He smirked. “Its perfect for a cute kitten such as yourself. But you’ll see soon enough.”

After your bath, you wasted no time scarfing down your dinner, practically bouncing in your seat with anticipation. Sylus's surprises were always grand and exciting. Your energy returned tenfold with each bite, and the moment you finished, you hurried off to get dressed, excitement buzzing in your veins. The rest of your delivery boxes could wait. For now, you had a surprise to uncover—and something about the glint in Sylus's eyes told you it would be worth the wait.

You scrolled nervously through your phone as the car cruised through the city, the warm weight of Sylus’s arms wrapped around your waist from where you sat nestled in his lap. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and he occasionally hummed lowly in your ear, clearly more focused on you than whatever played on the screen.

"Look at this one," you giggled, pointing. "This little kid is dressed like a Wanderer. Cute, right?"

Sylus didn’t respond. Instead, he leaned in and kissed your temple before gently turning your face toward the window. “Look, sweetie,” he said softly.

You blinked. Your breath caught. The playful warmth in your chest turned to ice. Outside the window was a building you recognized instantly, though you'd spent several months trying to forget it. Your stomach twisted into knots.

"My...old apartment?" you whispered, voice thin, brittle. The world outside blurred for a second as your heart thudded painfully in your chest. Your grip on your phone slackened. "What are we doing here?"

Panic nipped at the edges of your voice. You didn’t want to be back. You didn’t want to remember the things that happened here—the loneliness, the fear, the tears. You'd clawed your way out of that life. Why was he bringing you back to it now?

Sylus must have felt your body tense in his lap, your fingers going rigid around the phone. Without a word, he reached down and laced his fingers through yours, gently rubbing slow, soothing circles into your palm. It was a silent message—you’re safe. “It’s alright. I’d never let anything happen to you, you know that. Follow me.”

Still uncertain, you nodded, heart thumping erratically. You held tighter onto his hand as he opened the car door, helping you down with practiced ease. The cold air hit your skin like a warning. You hadn’t stood on this street in what felt like a lifetime. The pavement hadn’t changed. Neither had the cracked sidewalk or the crooked streetlight that flickered like a dying ember. And yet—

You froze.

The building’s exterior was still familiar, but something was different. The door. The entryway. Even the air felt cleaner. You stepped forward, cautiously, and your eyes widened.

The walls that had once been paper-thin and stained were now reinforced, sleek, and clean. The old, broken tiles had been replaced with polished marble flooring that gleamed under new lighting fixtures. The entire office interior had been gutted and renovated into something modern and shockingly elegant.

"Huh?" you breathed, too stunned to find better words.

Sylus smiled at your reaction, a hint of pride shining in his crimson gaze. “Go on,” he said gently, motioning for you to step inside.

The moment you stepped further inside, your eyes widened. What had once been a crumbling, miserable building had been completely transformed—gutted from the inside out and lovingly rebuilt into something extraordinary. Everywhere you looked, there were cat trees, cozy plush beds, auto-feeders, water fountains, and litter boxes lined neatly along the walls. Soft lighting gave the place a warm, inviting glow. The scent of old decay was gone, replaced by something clean and fresh—like lavender and pine.

You could hardly register what you were seeing when a familiar sound reached your ears. Soft meows. Then the padding of tiny paws. One by one, several of the stray cats you used to feed came padding toward you from the far corners of the room. Your breath hitched as the first tabby rubbed against your leg, followed by a sleek black one purring loudly at your feet. You fell to your knees, arms outstretched, laughing and crying all at once as the cats greeted you like an old friend.

"Oh my god...I missed you guys," you sobbed, hugging one of the smaller kittens close to your chest. Tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you looked around at the paradise they'd been given. "Sylus...how—how did you even get this place from Robert?"

Sylus knelt beside you, brushing hair from your face, a knowing look flickering behind his red eyes. "Robert signed everything over when he realized he wouldn’t be needing it anymore," he said, voice calm and unbothered, but laced with meaning. It was vague, but there was a finality to his tone that sent a chill down your spine. Whatever fate had met Robert, it was clear he was no longer part of this world—or your story. "I wanted to give you something that would overwrite every bad memory you had here."

You wiped at your eyes as he stood, offering his hand. "Come. Let me give you the full tour."

Hand in hand, you walked with him. Each apartment had been redesigned with cats in mind—some had climbing walls, others had nap nooks, and one even had a small indoor pond with fish visible through glass. Soft music played in the background, and everything was pristine. It wasn’t just a shelter. It was a haven.

He stopped in front of one door in particular. Your old apartment.

You hesitated, but Sylus gently pushed it open.

The layout was the same, but the darkness that had haunted the space was gone. Cat towers reached toward the ceiling, and plush beds covered every surface. And there, curled up and asleep on the highest perch of a tall cat tree, was the orange tabby with one eye. Your favorite.

You covered your mouth as another wave of emotion hit you. Sylus stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"I never wanted you to be afraid of this place again," he whispered. "Now, it’s yours. For you and them."

You turned in his arms, tears in your eyes, but this time they were joyful. You kissed him without hesitation, clutching his jacket like a lifeline. And when you broke away, breathless and full of gratitude, you rested your forehead against his.

"Thank you," you whispered. "For everything."

Behind you, the cats purred and played, a symphony of soft contentment echoing through a space that had once felt like a tomb. Now, it was full of life. And so were you.

Sylus' knuckle throbbed with a dull ache, a reminder of the man he’d just crushed. The bastard had fought like hell—more than most he’d dealt with during negotiations. But Sylus, with his years of honed precision, brute strength, and unshakable control, had left him broken and bleeding on the floor. The mission was a success, but Sylus wasn’t thinking about that. Not anymore. His mind, his heart, his very being—was elsewhere.

Home.

He drove through the quiet district, past rows of city lights dimmed for the evening, until he reached the mansion he had bought and customized for you. Tucked away in the quieter end of the city, it was designed for peace, privacy, and protection.

He stepped inside soundlessly, setting down his weapons case and shedding his coat, the scent of your vanilla and jasmine diffuser greeting him instantly. The familiar warmth tugged at him, grounding him after the chaos of the day. He climbed the staircase slowly, cautiously, not wanting to disturb you. Each step up heightened his anticipation.

The door to the bedroom creaked softly as he opened it, and the sight that met him nearly brought him to his knees.

There you were, nestled in the thick, cloud-like bedding he’d ordered from across the globe—deep asleep, a soft glow from the bedside lamp wrapping you in warmth. Your arms cradled your shared daughter, just over eighteen months old, her tiny hand curled near your face, her breath rising and falling with yours. And then there was the swell of your stomach—so round, so unmistakably full of new life. His second child. His son.

The room was silent except for your gentle breathing and the occasional sleepy sigh from your daughter. Sylus’ heart clenched with a force he rarely allowed himself to feel. This—this was what all the bloodshed was for. For this moment.

He crossed the room slowly, careful not to wake either of you. His bruised knuckles hung at his side, forgotten. All that mattered now was the serene beauty of the two people who made his brutal world worth enduring. And the third—on the way—whom he’d already sworn to protect with his life.

He walked quietly around the room, carefully setting his things down and slipping off his coat, doing his best not to disturb the serene moment. The soft rustle of fabric, however, must've been just enough, because he heard your sleepy voice float across the dim room.

"Sylus? You okay?" you murmured, your voice groggy but warm. He turned to see you smiling at him, tired but content, your eyes fluttering open just slightly. The soft glow of the nightlight illuminated your figure curled protectively around your daughter, her chubby little hand clutching your nightshirt even in sleep.

Sylus felt a rush of affection as he approached the bed, his lips curling into a gentle smile. "Yes, sweetie. All is well," he said softly. "Did I wake you?"

You let out a long breath, wincing slightly as you shifted, your heavily pregnant belly making it a challenge to get comfortable. "No...he did," you said with a groan, running a hand over your stomach. "He's... restless this time of night. Always kicking, always moving. Can you take her to her room? I have to pee so bad."

Sylus chuckled under his breath and reached down to gently lift your sleeping toddler from your side. As her tiny head, full of white hair, fell against his shoulder, her thumb still in her mouth, he gave you another look filled with adoration. "Of course. Go take your time. I'll settle her in and come back to help you."

You gave him a tired but knowing smirk before groaning again, shifting slowly to sit up. Your heavy belly strained with the motion, and Sylus instinctively placed a steadying hand on your back. “Don’t strain yourself,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got you.”

Your daughter gave a little whimper, her tiny fingers clenching into his shirt. He shushed her softly, his voice a low rumble as he rocked her gently.

You finally managed to stand with some effort, balancing your weight with one hand on the bedpost and the other on your aching lower back. “I’ll be right back,” you whispered, waddling toward the bathroom with the tired grace of someone who had done this routine countless times.

Sylus turned and began the quiet journey down the hall, your daughter’s head nestled against his shoulder, her thumb still in her mouth. As he passed a mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself—bruised knuckles, tired eyes, but with something unmistakable in his gaze.

Contentment.

He pushed open her bedroom door with his foot, stepped inside, and laid her carefully in the crib. She stirred briefly, but the moment he tucked her favorite plush crow beside her, she relaxed again.

He stood there for a moment longer, watching her. Then, without a word, he turned and made his way back to you.

When he returned, you were just stepping out of the bathroom, one hand on the wall for support, your breaths shallow and uneven. He appeared at your side in an instant, teleporting without a sound, his arm sliding carefully around your waist. You didn’t protest as he guided you gently back to bed, easing you down onto the mattress like you were made of glass.

“I can do it, Sy,” you murmured, a breathless chuckle escaping as your head hit the pillow. “I’m not going to break.”

“I know,” he said as he lay beside you, brushing a strand of hair off your damp forehead. “But you’re high risk now. Back-to-back pregnancies take a toll. You’ve got to take it easy, kitten.”

"Oh, and whose fault is it that I’m pregnant again so soon?" you said, arching a brow at him with mock indignation, though your tone carried warmth.

Sylus let out a low, knowing laugh, eyes tracing over your form with pride. You had gotten pregnant again rather quickly. "You were the one begging me to cum inside every time," he said, voice rich with amusement. "It’s not like I’ve ever said no to you, sweetie." His hand rested gently over the curve of your stomach, fingers spreading protectively. "I just gave you exactly what you asked for."

"Sylus! Shh!"

Your face flushed with embarrassment and you sighed, half in surrender, half in exhaustion. He watched you closely, eyes soft with happiness. He hoped the kids weren't driving you too crazy. Two lives he would protect with everything he had.

The little girl who’d just been tucked into her crib, her tiny hands always reaching for him when he walked into the room, and the one growing steadily beneath his palm now, nestled beneath your skin. He loved the feeling of your warmth under his hand, the slight flutter of movement if the baby stirred. You were relying on him, and he cherished that. Cherished that you had given in and given him the chance to prove to you that everything would be okay.

You both cuddled close beneath the soft blankets, the warmth between you melting away the day’s fatigue. Sylus lay on his side, one arm protectively draped over your swollen belly, the other gently brushing through your hair as he listened to you ramble about your day. His heart swelled at the sound of your voice, the little quirks in your speech, the way your eyes sparkled—even when tired. You were right where he wanted you. You, here, warm in his arms, belly full with their growing child, trusting him with every part of your being. He’d worked his entire life for power, but no empire or title had ever felt as rich as this moment.

You giggled softly as you recounted the moment your daughter had thrown a fit earlier, her cries only soothed when the twins had taken turns giving her piggyback rides down the hall. Sylus chuckled, resting his cheek against the crown of your head. "Remind me to give them a raise," he murmured, amused.

"Them? I think I need a raise. Or a vacation after this baby," you giggled softly, one hand protectively rubbing your belly while the other reached instinctively for Sylus's. He took your hand without hesitation, giving it a squeeze. He nodded, a warm smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You had grown so much, and yet there was still that quiet softness in the way you moved, the way you leaned into him without thinking, the way you relied on him. Once just a shivering, fragile girl lost in a world that devoured people like you whole—now, you were a mother, strong in your love, fiercer than you'd ever known. And still his. You deserved that vacation, and everything more he could ever give you.

"I can definitely make that happen".

You snuggled in closer with a satisfied hum, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. He watched you closely as your eyes started to flutter closed, your words gradually slowing, becoming soft, half-formed murmurs. You were drifting, but he didn’t want to miss a single second of you in this vulnerable peace. This was his world now—your comfort, your joy, your safety. And he’d guard it with everything he had. against him. He could tell you were almost asleep—but not quite.

A soft cry pierced the quiet.

"Dada...dada..."

You stirred, eyes fluttering open, and sighed deeply. You looked up at Sylus with an exasperated but knowing expression.

"She’s adapting to my schedule it seems," Sylus said, his tone dry but affectionate.

You gave him a tired look, but he was already sitting up, planting another tender kiss on your temple. "I’ll handle her. Go back to sleep."

You nodded, grateful beyond words, and gave him a small kiss before turning over and nestling deeper into the bed. As he slipped out of the room, you heard his quiet footsteps disappear down the hall, followed by the soft creak of your daughter's bedroom door. You smiled sleepily, safe in the knowledge that everything was handled—that he was handling it all.

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

[dilf-destroyer-04]

THIS IS SO INTERSTING YALL ITS GIVING ISEKAI MANWHA 😝😝

The crow's song

When by fate or by chance alone you wake up inside a novel, your first instinct is to try to save your favorite character, Sylus Qin. Stars align again, and now you're his wife, but only on paper. Or not? Will you be able to change the plot, when it looks like even Sylus himself is against it?

✧ Chapters: 3/8

Chapter 3. Broken fate

✧ t.w. angst, non!mc reader, misunderstandings, english is not my first language, not proofread

✧ w.c. 5.7k

The room is hot. Steam has clouded the windows and warmed up the air, making hair stick to your face. Lucy adds more boiling water to the bath, but it is only hot enough to soothe your body, and not your soul.

Eyes still red from crying, you look up and think, think, think.

Sylus won't tell you about such things, but you already know. Know why it took him so long to secure one single deal with some average guild. Why he is being secretive, why he is so avoidant to answer you directly, to look you in the eye.

Because no matter were you in his life or not, it was destined to happen. You never was supposed to have him, as long as she exists. And it hurts more than it should.

Ah, you know the story. You know better than everybody how fate works, at least in this world. You've seen it and didn't like it one bit.

Because they are destined to meet, but not to exist together. It is a fact you can't change, that tried to avoid it at all costs.

You sigh and close your eyes.

Their encounter is the exact moment that starts the Sylus arc. The main character accidentally learns about an attempt to manipulate a deal to transfer the guild under the direct control of the duchy. Wary of the reasons behind the offer, she expresses her doubts to the head of the guild, and the deal is postponed indefinitely. Determined to get his way, Sylus tries to gain her trust, and eventually, a connection is established.

They turn out to be the owners of the stones that are opposite in power, but very similar in origin. Stones of the soul, Anima lapis. And as soon as they meet, the curse awakens from its centuries-long slumber.

But there is one heartbreaking reason why Sylus's part of the novel is only an ark, and not the ending.

He is not the main lead, therefore he doesn't make it to the end of the story. He takes the hit and dies so she can live.

God, you cried so bad on that part of the story. You want to cry now even more.

Hearing your quiet sobs, Lucy suddenly appears from behind the screen, almost knocking over a bucket of water.

"My Lady, is everything all right?"

"No," you cover you eyes, sobs growing louder. "No, not really."

She comes closer, still hesitant to disturb.

"Are you feeling sick? It must be because of the cold. I was so worried that you didn't take your coat, My Lady. Does your head hurt?"

"No, I'm just... tired. I think I can fall asleep right here."

"All right then. Just let me dry your hair," she begins to prepare some towels, and you allow yourself to get lost in the sounds of her steady work. Even if you still look lost, Lucy doesn't press on. Just stays by your side until you're finally covered by the blanket and then silently puts out the lights.

.

.

The duchy is always unbearably quiet at night, you noticed. Darkness approaches softly and silently, taking away everything but one feeling: loneliness.

You tried adding more pillows to the headboard, asked for extra blankets, arranged a canopy, but to no avail. The bed stayed cold and uninviting, too big to fit just you alone.

Sometimes, before falling asleep, you liked to pretend someone was there, laying just beside you on the soft mattress. Hand hugging the waist, you wondered how would it feel to sleep in a warm embrace, hearts beating in sync, completely disarmed.

Did Sylus ever feel lonely? You guessed no, not really. If he was, he would've located you a little bit closer than the floor above in the other wing of the estate. His balcony was clearly visible from yours, but he never looked up, never acknowledged you, not even with a nod. Just stared ahead at those ill-fated mountains with their unbearable guild, as if he knew exactly where his destiny was.

The canopy curtains parted slightly, and a ray of moonlight fell shyly on your wedding ring.

No, it wasn't the time to give up your hopes yet. Sylus is still here, alive and breathing, you just needed to change the approach. If you can't escape the illness, you need to find a way to cure it. Yes, that will do.

You sigh. Pull the blanket over your head even more.

It would've been nice if he was a bit closer though.

Would Sylus keep his distance if she was his wife?

The question hangs in the air like a suffocating cloud.

You don't want to know the answer.

Next morning comes with a dull headache, steady and pulcing.

Stuffy room resounds with the sound of your feet softly padding on the way to the windows. Hand reaching for the handle, you glance outside and almost gasp: fog is so thick that you can hardly make out the estate’s entrance down below.

Still sleepy, you rub your eyes. What time is it even?

Catching some movement, you pause, leaning closer. Someone is going up the steps. Some servant, maybe? But the silhouette is too dark for their uniform. The figure moves higher, revealing a piece of light fur by the collar.

Sylus? But these aren't his indoor clothes... Did he just return from somewhere again-

"Oh, My Lady, you are finally up!" Lucy waltzes in, a tray full of plates in her hands, and you flinch, pulling the curtain back abruptly.

"Oh God, Lucy!"

"Oh, sorry... I didn't mean to startle you, My Lady," she looks away, sheepish, and places the tray on a small tableby the side of your bed. "You slept longer than usual, so I was surprised to see you awake."

"What time is it?"

"It’s long past noon, My Lady. Here, I brought your breakfast... or, well your meal," she gestures towards the tray. The sight of food makes your mouth water, but you don't let yourself be distracted. Lucy was up all morning, so she must have seen something.

You turn fully to face her, a little uncertain. "Lucy, I'll ask you something, but you need to promise it will stay between us. Understand?" You don't mean to threaten her, but you can't afford slipping up.

She visibly stiffens. "Is something bothering you, My Lady?" Lucy searches your eyes, a little lost. She was always very sensitive to changes in your mood, making her worried about all (un)possible reasons in advance. You sigh.

"No, it's nothing serious," you step closer, lowering your voice. "Just.. Have you seen His Grace going anywhere at all today? I mean, outside."

Lucy pauses, visibly lost in thought. "I don't think so, but I can't be sure. I was in the west wing all morning, learning how to bake a honey pie," she eyes the plates, squinting a little. "The chief promised to teach me months ago, but he didn't have time until today... So I spent most of my time in the kitchens. Even if His Grace went out, I wouldn't know. I'm sorry, My Lady."

Silence hangs over you like an uncomfortable haze. Lucy anticipates your reaction, unmoving as if afraid to scare you away. She follows your figure as you go back to the bed, sit down and reach for a cup. "I brought you some pie, too, My Lady. The chief said I, indeed, succeeded, so I thought you might enjoy it."

"I see. Thank you, Lucy."

So, it was still possible Sylus went somewhere. You didn't want to appear paranoid, but considering his condition, there isn't thar many places he would want to visit. If he understood what is happening, he must be looking into the nature of his illness, or, well, bond, so he can get rid of it. Right? That's what he was doing in the novel, a least. What he was doing until he found out what their connection means...

You look down into your cup, gently rocking it, causing your reflection to sway. This was your favorite part of the novel, the moment when he gradually realizes his feelings in an attempt to break the bond. You almost want to laugh. How ironic is it, that the exact things you fell for in him are now turning against you?

It was never explicitly stated what the conditions of the bond were, but one thing is clear: once he falls in love with her, he will no longer think about himself. You will lose him to a selfless sacrificed and unrequited love. Hand clenching around the hem of your nightgown, you realize one thing: you need to act before he gets too far. The sooner the better. You need to find someone who knows about gemstones. A jeweler maybe? Yes, you definitely need to find one-

"Do you want me to help you with your clothes?"

You jump, looking up. Lucy is still eyeing you, now with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Yes, yes of course. I got lost in thought."

She doesn't say anything more as you get dressed and finish your breakfast, just nodding at your compliment about her pastries. Only when leaving, after bowing out, she suddenly turns to you, reaching for the handle.

"Do you want me to keep an eye on him?" Lucy looks you in the eye, completely serious.

"I will be more uttentive. Just tell what to look for."

Her sudden assertiveness takes you by surprise, and your first instinct is to reject the offer. However, after some thought, you decide to take a different approach. It certainly won't hurt to try.

"Oh, don't say it like that, Lucy. I don't want you to spy on him," you come closer to her, wanting to leave as well. "Just tell me if you see something out of the ordinary, yeah? You don't follow him around."

"I understand."

She bows politely and quickly disappears through the door. You cross the threshold, going through your next actions. Now, you need to find Sylus.

.

.

Luckily, you don't need to search for long. Calm and commanding, he's discussing something with the butler, who nods enthusiastically, gesturing slightly with his hands. You decide to wait until they're done, allowing yourself a closer look at the duke. At first glance, he looks fine, even too good: his maroon shirt contrasts beautifully with his blond hair, making him look truly regal. Just when you become frustrated that you can't see his eyes, you catch his gaze on you, already waiting. How long have you been staring?

He steps closer. "Did you have a good night sleep, Dear? I heard you didn't feel well last evening, so I asked your maid not to bother you."

Just so you can sneak out whenever you need to, you think to yourself, but all you say is, "Yes, I appreciate that."

Sylus chuckles a little, lowering his head. "You're quite accommodating today, huh? Do you want to ask me something, Dear?"

You blush a little, caught red-handed. It never failed to throw you off when he started acting like this — light flirtations did not fit his otherwise cold and distant demeanor as a husband. At such moments, it was difficult to restrain yourself, when what you desired desperately seemed so close. His attention felt intoxicating.

The more painful it was to realize that he was probably just trying to distract you from an unwanted conversation, using all hisadvances while at it. Not that he needed much to swoon you... But not today.

"I wanted to ask about the celebration, Your Grace."

"What celebration?" he appears genuinely surprised. Strange.

"Well, you birthday is coming soon, so I thought I should probably take part in preparations as well," you eye him cautiously, assessing his reaction. After your words, Sylus looks even more lost. His gaze slides over your face, as if searching for some hidden motives, a little absent and hard to read. Then, as if waking up from an old memory, he shakes his head slightly and smiles sadly.

"Where won't be a celebration." Wait, what?

"No celebration? What do you mean?"

"I don't usually celebrate my birthdays, Dear. There's simply no need."

You give him a worried look. "But- What do you mean by no need? Aren't you the head of the duchy? You're like, the main reason all of this still exists, no?"

He just chuckles. Looking away, Sylus reaches out to straighten a crease in your sleeve, lingering a little longer than necessary. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost shy.

"I see you've delved into my biography, haven't you, dear?" He runs his hand down your sleeve, movements slow and gentle, until he reaches your wedding ring. "Even though I'm touched by your care, where really is no need. You can look at it as a... peculiar custom," Sylus twists your ring slightly, meeting your eyes. "I'm honestly more surprised that you know my date of birth," he wispers. "How so?"

Entranced by his gaze, it takes you an incredible amount of effort to mutter, "I'm you wife, Your Grace, it's only natural that I know." Wrong. You only know because you read about it.

"When I'm looking forward for a present from you, Dear." He gives you a satisfied grin, and you suddenly sober up.

"A present? I mean- of course, but when I'll need to go to the town for that-"

But before you're able to finish, Kieran suddenly appears at the end of the corridor. He's clearly in a hurry and doesn't notice you right away from you're hidden behind Sylus's broad back.

"The letter finally arrived, Your Grace!" he visibly panting as he hastily extends his hand with the letter to Sylus, and they both flinch when your gaze falls on the envelope.

The quickly takes the letter, letting go of your hand and straightening up.

"I'm afraid I need to deal with it right now. Sorry."

"What?" But he is already nodding politely and turning to leave, stride fast and hurried. After taking a few steps, he halts a little, as if remembering simething and turns slightly towards you.

"I'll ask you to refrain from traveling to the city until the fog clears, Dear. In such a weather, no coachman can guarantee your safety. Wait a couple of days if needed."

And in in a blink of an eye- Sylus is gone, Kieran following him like a guilty puppy, leaving you behind, baffled and tongue-tied.

And what was that just now?

You stand there for a while, too stunned to speak or move, with only one thought in the back of your mind: is the letter... from her?

The road outside the window winds down the hill, causing the carriage to sway slightly from side to side. It took a couple more days for the weather to improve, which you think is too much under the given circumstances. It meant two more days spent in uncertainty, two more than you can bear.

You still don't know for sure who was the person behind the letter, but something told you that no deal, big o small, could have thrown a seasoned man like Sylus off his game. And he wouldn't have been so vehemently hiding the circumstances of another contract: Sylus may have been overly cautious with you, but he never hid his affairs. He was more indifferent to your attention than wary.

This reaction made you even more worried: your husband had never let his emotions get the better of him, so something must have really stirred his heart to make him act so recklessly. But, again, that's exactly how he behaved with everything related to the main character in the novel, never standing on the sidelines, always ready to act. Not that he had changed from meeting her, it's just that he was never obligated to behave this way with you, a side character who wasn't even mentioned in the main story, the complete opposite of her.

And even though you knew you were trying to save him, every action, every attempt to find out what was going on, felt like an intrusion into someone else's personal life, never meant for your wandering eyes to see.

Does he even want to be saved for your own personal happiness?

The carriage wheels hit a rock, causing you shift your gaze at the other passengers inside.

"Once again, why are you two here, exactly?"

Luke and Kieran visibly straighten up. "To assure your safety of course, Your Grace."

You frown. "What could possibly happen to threaten my life? I'm just visiting the town."

"And we are here exactly to guarantee that nothing happens at all," Luke tilts his head, as if studying you. "Why are you going in person anyway? You could have just sent one of us or someone from the estate."

"I need to find a present for His Grace. Do you happen to know a trusted jeweler by the way?"

At that, the twins an incredulous look.

"A present? For what?" they seem genuinely surprised. Wait, they don't know?

"For his birthday? It's in couple of days, so I need to hurry," you study them for any reaction.

"What?! You know the date??" Luke gasps, and Kieran hits his shoulder to calm him down. "Ow- But seriously how do you know that? Are you sure, Your Grace?"

"I apologize on his behalf, Your Grace," Kieran hits him again, stronger this time. "It’s just... nobody in the estate knows. We quite ... surprised."

You huff. Of course they are skeptical. But you're, in fact, sure. It was stated clearly in the novel, so your conscience is clear.

"You guys are forgetting we are literally married. Don't underestimate how much a wife truly knows." Kieran wants to intervene, but you wave him off. "It’s fine."

"It's hard to forget about your marriage when you have the same stare." Luke mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I thought so."

.

.

Soon, low white buildings with narrow windows begin to appear outside the windows, casting cold shadows on the hem of your skirt. You finally arrived.

The twins get out of the carriage first and help you down.

"Here, Your Grace. The jewelry store is right across the street," Kieran points to a two-story gray-blue building with an unusual pattern on its walls.

"Thank you, and I'll ask you to wait for me here. Hope you understand." You begin to walk away, crossing the street. It's early, so there is hardly anyone out.

"But-"

"Don't. Please wait outside, it won't take long," you quip, quickly disappearing behind the wrought-iron door.

Inside the store, it is bright and quiet. Numerous storefronts wink at you with the brilliance of dozens of precious stones, cut, natural, and inlaid in jewelry. As expected, there are almost no customers, and only one woman at the far counter breaks the silence with her slow steps.

Hearing the bell above the door chime, a short, gray-haired man looks out of the back room. He catches your eye and immediately hurries to meet you.

"I'm sorry for the wait, Miss...?" he eyes you expectantly, and you give him your first name.

"It's an honor to see you in our store," he nods in greeting. "Are here to pick up an order or, on the contrary, order something? We also have ready-made products available for you to view," he gestures to the closest storefront.

"Yes, I would like to place an order. Here," you pass him the sketch. There was plenty of time to think about the gift while the fog was still hanging around, and you decided to go with cufflinks. The design consisted of a gemstone with a thin silver border that curled like branches around its edge, a simple and elegant gift.

The man studies it carefully.

"Oh, I see, I see. A truly delicate work. Have you decided on the stone, Miss? We have everything from sunstones to sapphires to choose from," he smiles at you. Ah, and here's your chance to find out what you really came here for.

"What about Anima lapis? I heard it's quite rare," you ask, watching his reaction carefully.

The man suddenly turns pale and fumbles with the sketch, almost dropping it. He starts to back up and knocks over a necklace stand on the counter, and a couple of them fall like stars to the tiled floor.

A woman at the end of the hall turns curiously towards the source of the noise.

"Oh Miss, what are you...! How can you, sacred stones, in such a way..." he starts to mutter, embarrassed beyond words by your suggestion. Obviously, he won't provide any relevant information, so you quickly change the subject

"Oh, I'm just kidding, of course. I was actually thinking about pomegranates. Such a deep color they have, exactly what I need."

The jeweler exhales nervously and puts the sheet on the counter to pick up the fallen jewelry. "I see," he doesn't look convinced, but he reluctantly takes out his order book. "So it will be pomegranate cufflinks with silver lining. It will take about five to seven days to make; I will give you a receipt in a minute," he closes the book and reaches for a stack of papers. "Payment required in advance."

"Seven days? Is it possible to make it sooner?" That won't do! You need the cufflinks in three days, or you'll have to find another gift.

He gives you a displeased look without looking up from his writing. "We do not provide such services, Miss. You either should plan your time for such orders in advance, or choose something from the available range. We cannot postpone orders that have already been started." Ohh, looks like you pissed him off. Well, then it's time to use your trump card.

"Is there really no way?" you give him your best pleading look. "Just place it under Lady Qin. I'm paying double."

And, as if on a snap of your fingers, you watch the man turn pale again, then blush, bowing deeply. "Your Grace! I opologise, I should have known!"

You hide your smile with feigned surprise, prompting him to stand up. "Oh, no need for formalities! I'm here for personal matters," you chirp, patting his shoulder.

The jeweler turns even redder and begins to write at a newfound speed, almost dropping his pen in commotion.

In less than a minute, you're handed a ready-made receipt, its edge slightly curled by a large, fresh seal in the corner.

"Everything will be ready in two days," he finalizes. You smile, politely bowing your head.

"I'm really grateful to hear that," with this, not wanting to embarrass the poor man any more, you quickly leave the store.

.

.

The street is still quiet when you step outside. Luke and Kieran are nowhere to be seen, so you seek cover behind the wide column by the entrance to catch your breath.

Once again, everything became even more confusing. The shopkeeper clearly knew about the significance of the stones, but it was unlikely that he could tell anything new their actual qualities.

The wind picks up, bringing the sound of a distant bell, and in the midst of your thoughts, you hear someone calling your name.

In front of you stands the same woman from the store, smiling warmly from the corners of her eyes. Or rather, from one eye, as half of her face is hidden by a black lace veil, which contrasts sharply with her light locks. Despite her gray hair, the woman does not look old, but rather experienced, though a small wrinkle still lies at the corner of her lips. A large pendant stone, fox-red and dangerous, peeks out from the deep line of her décolleté. A black cape shimmers in the light as she begins to speak.

"You really made old Owen worry just now, Your Grace. Such a devout man he is, but so unenlightened in matters of the temple. Such a pity, isn't it?" the dim morning light glints warningly in her eyes as she continues, "But it's not a problem for those who are willing to share. My salon is not far away, so why don't you come by? Precious stones are my weakness, you see."

.

.

The salon of Lady Alva, as she introduced herself, was much smaller than it appeared from the outside. Thin chiffon sheets were woven together in the center of the ceiling, making it appear even lower and giving the room a cocoon-like appearance. The windows were also covered with fabric, but this time it was silk, and the patterns shimmered in the light playfully. The scent of incense intensified in the already stuffy room, pressing unpleasantly on your temples. You needed to find out everything as quickly as possible and leave.

As if sensing your impatience, the Lady Alva finally sits down at the table, slowly shuffling the tarot deck in her hands. A fortune-teller, goes through your head.

"So, it's time we start, isn't it, darling?"

"I'm not interested in a tarot reading."

She smiles knowingly. "There's a price for all knowledge. But you're lucky, and I only charge for my honest work. So we'll have to combine them," she stops her movements finally. "Now, who are we playing the cards for, hm?"

You give her a suspicious look again, studying her face. In both lifes, both past and present, you didn't like fortune-telling and usually avoided it. Maybe this time it will work out too?

"Is there any other way to... use your skills?"

"Shy, aren't you? Don't worry, your secrets a safe with me," Alva puts the cards aside. "If you insist, though, we can skip the cards at all. Just come closer and close your eyes, darling."

She extends her hands and covers all of your face gently. You expect a certain sensation when she starts murmuring quietly, but all you can feel is a light scent of a spicy perfume.

Alva suddenly falls silent and pulls her hands away abruptly. When you open your eyes, she looks lost, almost scared, so you ask her cautiously " What? Did you see something?"

She stays silent a little longer, eye erratically raking over your features, as if seeing you in a new light. The sudden movements caused the veil to shift slightly to the side, revealing a large, creeping scar strung over her cheek like a cobweb. Her right eye is blind, you notice, right as she begins to spak again, regaining her composure.

"It’s better if we return to the cards, darling. Sometimes I fail to see some things."

You want to ask more, but she is already placing the cards on the table, her actions once again sure and steady.

"You're a married woman right? How about we check on your husband?" She takes four cards from the deck and lays them in front of you, one by one, face down. "And now... let's take a look at the true order of things," Alva starts turning over the cards.

"One for sorrow," Two of swords. "Hidden information, stalemate. Looks like he can't choose the right one of two choices. But in vain," she glances at you. "Indecision will only make things worse."

"Two for joy," she smiles bitterly. Three of Swords."It calls for misunderstandings. If they are not resolved soon, it will lead to a separation or...loss. A heartbreak."

Alva waits for your reaction, and after getting none, turns two cards at once.

"Three for a girl and four for a boy," Ten of Swords and the Tower. "An illness, perhaps, with a... with the bitter end."

Well...that sure does follow the story line. But what is choosing from?

However, the outcome seems to surprise the fortune-teller, and in an attempt to improve the situation, she shuffles the deck with shaking hands. " Now, now — let's leave it at that. Just... take a look at what awaits you-"

She hastily takes out one of the cards and slams it down in front of you.

Death.

Alva takes a sharp breath, and you stand up abruptly, hastily covering the card with your hand.

"Enough! If you won't tell me about the stones, I'm leaving, Lady Alva," you reach for your purse and take out a generous handful of coins. "Here, for your services."

But she quickly pushes your hand away, looking at you almost fearfully.

"No- no Your Grace, no need for payment. I'll tell you now," she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Anima Lapis is merely a legend stone, but not many people know about this either. Their history is closely linked to the story of the nameless goddess, the one after whom so many temples in the empire were built. A tragic story about love and separation, but you can easily find it in any church library without much trouble," the fortune teller glances at you once more, as if hesitant to continue. "Although... my visitors usually already know that."

"So what about the stones?" she's taking her time, and it's starting make you restless.

Alva fixes her veil pensively, then gently shakes her head. You hear a light knock when she takes off one of her many rings and places it firmly right atop the coins in your palm. It's a bleak little thing, old and tatterd with a symbol of moon and sun intervined ingraved instead of a precious stone.

"That you will have to find out by yourself," her eye glints in the beam of light that sneaks through the web of curtains as she stands up, gently but insistently escorting you to the door. "Show the ring to some priests in any temple and you'll be escorted without any questions asked."

You want to protest, but she continues. "I will only advise you to not loiter unreasonably. We are nearing the new moon now, but when the moon starts growing again, it will become more difficult to enter the temple each day passed. They sure do not like guests on the eve of the Crimson Moon. The goddess should be greeted in silence, you see."

And just like that, you end up on the street again.

You clutch the ring to your chest, still stunned and suddenly completely aware that you don't remember how did you get here. Luke and Kieran must be looking for you.

Heart beating in your ears, you duck into a narrow alleyway, but quickly rush back, hiding around the shabby corner of a building.

Your breathing quickens as you glance back to make sure you're not imagining things.

But to no avail.

It's no there is no mistaking that in the end of that small, dark alleyway, hidden from prying eyes, stand Sylus himself, in all of his unrelenting glory. But what's worse, right next to him, back facing you, stands she.

They must have written letters to each other to meet up.

With her hair blowing in the wind, she stands in front of him, stubbornly trying to pull her hand out of his tight grip.

He holds her confidently and openly, without the ever-present uncertainty in his touch that is so often evident in his interactions with you.

You turn away, unable to watch their conversation anymore. In just one action towards her, Sylus shows more determination than he has in the entire duration of your marriage. It's subtle, but it's still there.

What were you even hoping for? That he would suddenly forget about his connection to please your feelings? Try to persuade you, shady and emotionally unavaliable? He didn't even ask for this marriage.

You feel your legs giving way as you slowly slide down the cold wall.

Wait, you just need to— you just—

"Oh, Your Grace, you're here!"

"Your Grace, are you feeling alright?"

"Where have you been?"

"Are you hurt?"

Luke and Kieran appear before you in a whirlwind of questions, disheveled and out of breath. You submit without resistance as they take you by the arms and lead back to the carriage.

"We were so worried that after all this time you weren't I the store!" Luke speeds up, careful not to step on your skirts.

"Oh, Your Grace, you're so cold! His Race is going to kill us if he ever finds out we lost you!" whines Kieran, his gloved hand wrapping your scarf tighter.

When you pass the alleyway, you look back.

It's empty now.

୨⎯ ✧ ⎯୧

The salon is still dark and stuffy when a tall shadow slides across the colorful wall.

Lady Alva stops folding her cards for a moment to look to the side, and then resumes her actions with a bitter laugh.

"Such important people in my humble abode."

"I see you're still squandering your gift on useless games, Bishop Cecil."

"Oh, formal as usual, right," she shifts to face him fully and bows deeply. "Greetings, Cardinal Zane," the fortune-teller hides her smirk under the veil. "Won't you even go inside?"

The guest just frowns, straightening up. "There is no time for your antics, Cecil. What did the girl want?"

"Ah, so you didn't arrive just now. You have become so rude, Zayne. I've told you already: Cecil is left in the temple. If you want to know something, you'll need to ask Alva."

He doesn't even budge. "You should have stayed in the temple as well, you know. Maybe then you wouldn't involve just anyone in the church's affairs. You know what the consequences are for that."

"And who said she's just anyone?"

Zayne startles. "What do you mean? Is she one of ours?"

"That's the thing: she's not." Alva crosses her arms and looks away. "But I couldn't see her, Zayne. Not the past, not the future. It's like everything's behind a veil of fog... You should know what that means."

He pauses, then quickly turns to the door, reaching for the handle.

"Then I must take my leave, Cecil."

"I wouldn't rush so much, Cardinal," she meets his gaze once again, ready for the final blow. "Sure you don't want trouble with the local duke, right?"

"Is she his confidante?"

"Oh, worse. She's his wife, Zayne. You need to be careful with Lady Qin."

"So are you," he nods. Glory to the goddess."

"Glory to the goddess," Alva says with a half-smile.

The door slams shut with a heavy thud.

✧ a.n. omg it took me soo long to finally finish this 🫢 but oh wow it is long! I even consulted my friend who does tarot reading so that the scene would seem more real... hope you like it!!

I will be happy to know your thoughts in the comments 💋💋

✧ tags: @napforalifetime @allycat2090 @vellihor @sillyfreakfanparty @eurynam @certainduckanchor @vyntheria @donotspeakunlessyouarenamjoon @mcdepressed290 @hao-ming-8 @loomslis @fallenchipsworld @glassandhoney @mariahuchiha90 @moonlight-inthe-sea @dilf-destroyer-04 @theferretkids sorry if I forgot anybody :(

comments & reblogs are highly appreciated!! 💋

[dilf-destroyer-04]

I love this fandom more than I hate it (sometimes)

the law hates to see him coming

[dilf-destroyer-04]

oh Mr Zero 🫦🫦🫦

[dilf-destroyer-04]

ANOTHER NON!MC READER FIC IN THE BAGGG.

I smell angst and yearning and dilemmas and conflict coming

BOUND

SYNOPSIS in which even if your fate isn't intertwined, you'll force it if needed

PAIRINGS Sylus x Non!Mc Reader

WARNINGS mentions of blood, arranged marriage, slight angst

A/N: In my writer era to the point i'm actually posting this because you can never have enough nonmc fics. wrote this with a younger sylus in mind before he found mc, aaand might turn this into a series if theres demand!

Your father didn’t ask you to marry Sylus Qin. He told you.

And you didn’t protest. not because you were powerless, but because you understood the weight of his words, because in your family, arrangements weren’t requests. They were strategies. You were raised to be one, a flawless instrument of diplomacy, the steel behind a smile.

Since childhood, you’d been groomed to thrive in a world where affection was a currency too cheap to keep. You learned to measure worth in leverage, to lace your beauty with precision, and to hold a room in the palm of your hand before your opponent even knew they’d lost. Power was the marrow of your bones, and you’d never once mistaken yourself for a princess in a fairy tale.

So when your father explained the union, the contracts, the territories, the bloodless consolidation of empires; you listened. You understood. And you agreed without hesitation.

Sylus Qin. the man you would wed, was a storm still gathering strength. Onychinus, was rising from the shadows, lean and hungry. Your father needed the reach of his black-market network; Sylus needed the legitimacy your family’s name could cloak over his ambition. The bargain was simple: your hand for an empire’s birth, his allegiance for your father’s expansion.

Now, here you are. The cathedral smells faintly of imported lilies, the kind that bloom for no one but the wealthy. Your gown is a masterpiece. Ivory silk that cost more than most men’s lives. You move with deliberate grace, each step a pledge to the dynasty you were born to fortify.

He is waiting at the altar. The rising king of N019. Silver hair drawn back with precision, eyes the color of blood on a blade catching light. His stillness carries a warning, here is a man who has not yet taken all he means to take, but will. The world has yet to learn his name the way storms teach coastlines to remember them.

You are not his.

He is not yours

But cold hands meet cold hands.

From this day, the currents shift.

From this day, power will answer to two voices. And the city will learn to bow not to love, but to the weight of your union.

Somewhere, in the depths of the world, the storm begins to turn.

And the proof lies in the band on your finger.

[dilf-destroyer-04]

this is so good ughhhh

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE 😤

Sylus drop the flirtatious snark, you are NOT in my good books right now. selfish ahh.

3 days of emotional and psychological turmoil forrrrr....? what exactly?

You coulda told me all this without this elaborate bullshit plan.

ugh, im pissed off. I hope he doesn't think he's worming his way back into her life with fuckass jokes, fuckass attitude and fuckass overconfidence.

"b-but I did it for you 🥺"

Dawg, she was finally happy, having built a life for herself without you being the sun she orbits. they can't use her for stabilisation evol if you didn't waltz right into HQ to subject yourself to testing???

ever, ever after

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: sylus didn't love you. how could he when she was around? but would he come look for you if you willingly step into EVER's boundaries?

word count: 1.8k

a/n: so sorry for the wait! tbvh i completely lost track of time and didnt realise its been over TWO WEEKS since the last update. i really hpe you enjoy this chapter. lemme know your thoughts! suggestions are always welcome <3

read rest of the chapters here!

V

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the echo of Dr. Voss’s words “the cell’s still locked” reverberating in your skull. How was that even possible? Sylus vanishing from a sealed cell wasn’t surprising. He was like a shadow, and for God’s sake, his Evol was Energy Manipulation. Energy, whether you liked it or not, was pretty much everywhere. But the how gnawed at you. Last you saw him, his screams had clawed through the lab, raw and ragged, as the serum tore into his evol. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, and the memory surged: his body arching against restraints, veins stark under sweat-slick skin, crimson eyes blazing with pain and something like betrayal. How did he have the strength to pull this off?

You sighed, shoving the thought aside as you gathered your things, the lab’s chaos fading behind you. Mara’s voice, sharp and insistent, argued with Voss, demanding answers, but it drifted into static as you pushed through the locker room door. Researchers scurried past, their faces pale, some clutching tablets, others making a beeline for the central exit. 

Panic buzzed everywhere, but you weren’t scared, not really. Deep down, you knew you were safe. Sylus, dangerous as he was, wouldn’t touch you. Not like that.

In the locker room, the air was stale, heavy with the tang of metal and disinfectant. You stepped to your locker, fingers steady as you unlocked it. Your hand closed around the bracelet, red and pink gemstones catching the dim light, a birthday gift from Sylus, heavy with memories you couldn’t shake. 

Of course, you’d kept it. You’d taken it when you fled N109 Zone, along with his handwritten notes, their elegant scrawl tucked away like a secret formula to a bomb. As you turned to close the locker, a folder caught your eye, its edge jutting out. 

You frowned. You never kept work related documents here.

You pulled it free, the title stark: Project Umbra. 

You turned the page, the paper crinkling under your trembling fingers. Objective: Extract and weaponize evol. The words burned into your retina, sharp and cold as the lab’s sterile air. What the hell was this? You’d never heard of Project Umbra, not a whisper in any of the endless meetings or encrypted files. 

You turned another page, and there it was: Secondary Subject: Former Onychinus operative. Role: Stabilizer for Evol  transfer. Your name stared back, clinical and damning. So, they knew all along. They knew everything about you and were using you for something, but what exactly?

Haphazardly, you skimmed the next few pages, your eyes darting over clinical instructions, containment protocols, serum ratios, timelines for Evol transfer. Then, a name stopped you cold. Lead Specialist: Dr. Voss. You gasped, glaring at the folder, nearly letting it slip from your grip. No, that couldn’t be right. Voss, the man who’d praised your work just days ago, was spearheading this? Not transferring Sylus’s Evol to another subject, but turning it into a weapon?

Anger surged, hot and jagged, tangling with confusion and a sickening sense of betrayal. Your pulse thundered, drowning out the distant clamor of evacuating researchers. Just what was EVER doing? How long had they been weaving this web? Was this why Voss had been sweating, his hands shaking like a man staring down his own execution? 

You scoffed, bitter. What had you expected? This was EVER, ethics didn’t exist here. You should’ve known better by now. Tucking the folder under your arm, you locked the locker with a sharp click, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty room. Your next step was clear: the archives. Gather evidence. And then? You’d figure it out just like you always did.

As you stepped into the hallway, your comm buzzed, sharp and jarring. “Still digging where you shouldn’t?” A voice slithered through, velvet and mocking, sending a shiver down your spine. “Predictable, even after two years, kitten.”

You froze, breath catching, fighting the urge to scream, to curse him, to rip the earpiece out. “It was you,” you hissed, voice low but shaking with fury. “You did this. You planted that folder.”

His rich laugh crackled through, and you could picture his smirk, those crimson eyes glinting with infuriating amusement. “Your new bosses did this. To me.”

The words hit like a slap. You stood there, the folder heavy under your arm, the bracelet’s gemstones biting into your wrist. “What’s Project Umbra, Sylus? And why the hell is my name in it?”

“Curious, aren’t we?” he teased, but his tone sharpened. “Sector 9, warehouse district, 1 AM. Don’t keep me waiting, sweetie.” The line went dead.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the sound jagged in the locker room’s stale air. Sylus’s voice, that sinful velvet laced with mockery, was the first you’d heard in two years. The first time you’d spoken to him since you’d fled N109 Zone, duffel in hand, his handwritten notes tucked in your pocket. And yet, the moment his words slithered through your comm everything vanished. 

The hatred that had fueled your escape, the agony of his silence, the grief of being his shadow. It all dissolved, leaving you mute, your tongue heavy as lead. Just like always, he held the upper hand, issuing another order: meet him in Sector 9, 1 AM. 

Your name glared from the file’s pages, a secondary subject in EVER’s scheme to weaponize Sylus’s Evol. They’d used you. No matter where you went, Sylus followed, an unshakable specter. You were irrevocably his shadow, tethered by some cruel gravity you couldn’t escape. 

You looked down at the bracelet in your hand, its red and pink gemstones catching the dim light Then at the folder in your other hand. You tucked both close and left

If you’d had any sense, you’d have ripped the earpiece out, burned the Project Umbra folder, and run. But against your better judgment, you decided to go.

***

At precisely 1 AM, you placed your hand on the warehouse’s rusted door handle, its cold metal biting your palm. The door creaked as it gave way, the sound slicing through the silence like a betrayal. You flinched, cursing under your breath. 

Great, exactly what you needed. 

Sylus’s head snapped up, his crimson eyes locking onto yours across the dim space. Your heart skipped a dozen beats, bile surging in your throat, your stomach churning as your palms grew clammy. Your legs trembled under the weight of his gaze, those eyes that had haunted you for two years. 

Just yesterday, you’d sworn to let him rot in EVER’s lab, certain he’d claw his way out as always. You’d built walls to keep him out, to stop caring. Yet here he was, caving them in with a single look.

You gritted your teeth, anger flooding the hollow where hope had dared to flicker. You marched toward him, the folder clutched tight under your arm. A subtle shuffle of feet made you glance sideways, locking eyes with Luke and Kieran, their masked faces barely visible in the shadows. You’d been worried sick, imagining them dead or worse, and here they were, lounging like nothing had happened. 

You scoffed, shaking your head, your voice sharp. “Well, well,” Sylus drawled, stepping closer, his scent:  leather, bourbon, gunpowder, flooding your senses like a drug. “You didn’t run this time, kitten. I’m almost impressed.”

“I’m not here for your sly remarks, Sylus,” you snapped, throwing the Project Umbra folder onto a warped table between you. Its pages splayed, your name glaring in the dim light. “Care to explain?”

He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes like a blade. “So demanding,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, as he leaned over the table, fingers brushing the folder’s edge.

“Your new bosses were ambitious,” Sylus said, his voice a low, mocking drawl that curled through the warehouse’s stale air. “They planned to rip out my Evol and turn it into a weapon. But it’s volatile on its own and needs stabilizing.” He stepped closer, towering over you, his crimson eyes glinting under the flickering bulb. “That’s where you come in, sweetie.”

The words clicked like a key in a lock. You remembered, years ago, Sylus’s Evol spiraling for a fleeting moment, a chaotic pulse that had nearly torn the room apart. You’d stabilized it, somehow, your hands in his, your mind a blur of instinct. But how? You frowned, racking your brain, sifting through fragmented memories. Nothing surfaced. 

After many futile attempts, you looked up, catching Sylus staring, his gaze intense, unyielding. How long had he been watching? Your confusion twisted into a scowl. “You could’ve told me some other way,” you snapped.

He smirked, unfazed. “Certainly, I could've, but I’m in a bit of a pickle, kitten. I’d really love your help.”

You glared, disbelief burning in your chest. A whole agonizing minute, you held his gaze, his smugness infuriating. Two years. You were strangers now, your life rebuilt from ashes without him. You’d never agreed to help, never implied you’d stand by him. Why couldn’t he just let go? Let go of the fact you’d left, that you were free, that you could, as absurd as it may sound, make your own choices? 

“What help?” you spit out.

“Surprisingly, they managed to extract a fragment of my Evol,” he said, voice dropping, teasing edge fading. “But it’s destructive on its own. Would you help me retrieve it, kitten?”

“You didn’t get captured?” you asked, already knowing. His chuckle confirmed it. “So you waltzed in, let them strap you to those machines, and now you’re busted.” You stepped forward, standing under the flimsy bulb, forcing him to see you, hear you. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Sylus? Did you think you could crash back into my life, and I’d just let it slide? Boss me around again, and I’d obey like some loyal dog? Get over yourself.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by a stern, unreadable expression. You weren’t a face reader, but you knew he hadn’t expected that. Your words, too harsh or too truthful, hung heavy. “I spent two years building my life from scratch,” you continued, voice shaking with rage. “Building myself without you. I don’t want to be near you, associated with you. Respectfully, no. I won’t help. You’ve got your henchmen, your tricks. I’m not dying for your arrogance or whatever the fuck it was that made you come here.”

He didn’t respond, just stared, his silence deafening. You scoffed, turning to leave, the bracelet heavy in your hands. “You,” he said, stopping you cold. You turned, confused. “What?”

A step closer. “It was you I came here for.”

Another step. “It was you I tried to protect.”

Another step, his voice low. “It was you I couldn’t lose.”

He stopped, inches away, his gaze piercing. “So why can’t you see? Everything I do, I do it for you.”

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[dilf-destroyer-04]

[dilf-destroyer-04]

GULP. PLS DONT LET THIS BE WHAT I THINK IT IS 🙏🏿

I smell angst coming...

The crow's song

When by fate or by chance alone you wake up inside a novel, your first instinct is to try to save your favorite character, Sylus Qin. Stars align again, and now you're his wife, but only on paper. Or not? Will you be able to change the plot, when it looks like even Sylus himself is against it?

✧ Chapters: 2/8

Chapter 2. Unfulfilled wishes

✧ t.w. angst, non!mc reader, misunderstandings, english is not my first language, not proofread

✧ w.c. ~2k

Every day since Sylus's departure feels like a calm before the storm.

Half of your first day alone you spend in your bed, trying to sleep the time away. You end up having breakfast in the afternoon, somehow even more tired than you went to bed.

Sylus, of course doesn't return so soon.

The next two days are even longer, with wet snow hitting the wooden windows of your room. You glance outside too often, but to no avail: no sounds of hooves from afar, no carriage near the gates. You go to sleep hoping for a change in the wind, wondering what's taking the duke so long to return.

On the fifths day the entire courtyard is covered in fog, as if mirroring your state of mind. You try to remember how many days he spent there in the novel, but with horror realize thar you in fact, can't.

Let's just say it didn't exactly help you sleep that night.

After six days you feel like you're losing your mind of uncertainty and all-consuming silence.

You are restless, roaming from one room to another, but never feeling relaxed enough to sleep. Lucy follows you like a shadow, always ready to offer some tea or ears to listen.

One particularly unpleasant evening, when you ask for your forth cup, it serves as a final blow, and she breaks her silence.

"I haven't seen you like this since the day you learnt you'll be married to His Grace, My Lady."

You divert your gaze from the the base of far mountains. No matter how long you look there, you won't be able to see the carriage anyway. Too dark to make out, too far to reach.

"Well, I didn't stop at four back then, did I?"

Lucy didn't appreciate your humor, refraining from giving you any answer at all. Well, maybe you still wasn't ready to talk about this.

The whole marriage thing, the wedding, it all felt unreal. Like maybe you made it all up. It happened not even a year ago, in a middle of July, like a dream too good to remember. Exactly a month after you woke up in this odd world, as if someone was specifically waiting for you to come to your senses first, before dropping this fantastic news on your still catching up mind.

You don't remember much, honestly. All the memories are vague, hidden from you by your own mind, perhaps for the best, even.

Because even if you still don't know why your family was chosen as the perfect match for the blood of the Duke of the North, you were too sure Sylus himself wasn't fond of the turn of events in the slightest.

Because even if you forget the church with its stained glass windows, or your wedding gown, with three little crows embedded on its corset like a secret symbol of lost hope, never in your life will you forget his eyes, the weight of their gaze too much for you to handle even after all this time.

Sylus has never been a bad husband, of course not. Mostly because he didn't feel like a husband to you at all.

He wasn't rude or pushy, never asked to much of you.

Never asked anything of you, if you were to speak frankly. Not your time, not your attention, and surely not your intimacy.

The ruling family had provided you with an impeccable wedding, no doubt, but they certainly didn't care beyond the vows at the altar. Because the moment the ceremony ended, your dress was changed and your humble baggage was packed, you were set on an unwanted journey to your new home, far and foreign.

Your room here was truly majestic, totally not something to complain about, with its marble fireplace and windows facing the garden. Like a fancy hotel suite, too good for you too afford. And perfectly far from the one Sylus resided in. You still wondered, sometimes, if any of your family knew, that the only time you shared the place of sleeping with the said man was during your unfortunate trip in the carriage.

You sure hoped not.

So aside from, perhaps, last month and a half, when you suddenly decided that something is about to happen (read as the plot) and put all your willpower to stop Sylus from crossing the threshold of that ill-fated guild, you barely spoken to each other.

During your free time, you roamed the estate like a guest long overdue to leave, hoping not to cross paths with Sylus and that unreadable look of his. What were you so afraid of finding in it? Or were you afraid of not finding anything at all?

Your prolonged silence was interrupted by Kieran suddenly entering the dining hall, Luke following shortly after. You long came to the conclusion they could sense when you had a particularly bad mood, as if to strike while you're at your weakest.

"Counting crows, Your Grace?" chimed Luke, seemingly too pleased with your brows already furrowing. "I fear it's already too late for that."

Before you can defend you honor, Lucy beats you to it. "My Lady and I were reminiscing about our arrival to the duchy."

Or well, she tries to. Bless her soul.

She stops abruptly, suddenly realizing that she spoke before you, but you dismiss her worried look with a wave of your hand.

Kieran, however, doesn't dismiss new pieces of information. He snickers, throwing his brother a knowing glance.

"Ohh, I remember that day. You looked so shaken when you got out of the carriage, we thought His Grace was holding you captive."

"I mean, right!"

Oh, they were enjoying it too much for your liking. You've had enough of nostalgia for the evening already.

Taking your last sip, you stand slowly, gesturing for Lucy to pass your shawl. When you proceed to head for the exit, stopping briefly near Kieran to pat his shoulder reassuringly, with most sincere look on your face.

"First impressions can be wrong, so don't worry." You smile for a good measure.

"I thought you guys were jesters at first."

Luke inhales sharply, scandalized. Kieran chokes on a cookie he stole from the table.

"Wait, what? Hey, where are you going?"

But you are in the hall already.

"I'm going to count the crows now, " you call out. "Where's some tea left, so help yourself."

And before Lucy can nag you about the coat, you spring down the steps, eager for some time alone.

Well, maybe a short walk could help.

Snow squelched under your feet, wet and persistent even in the middle of spring. Estate’s courtyard greeted you with silence and cold stars crowding the moon. It was gaining strength, growing and glowing, casting a dim light on your unsteady path up the hill. A few more minutes, and you'll reach the observation tower, undoubtedly warm and inviting, with someone to guide you home in comfort.

You weren't planning to go this far at first, but three overly curious figures in the living room window left you seeking solitude somewhere out of sight.

You glance up.

An old, crooked tree glares at you from the top of the hill, lazily waving its branch with a single crow perched on it. Well, that's something.

And suddenly, before you can make another step up, another one lands on your shoulder, quiet and heavy.

You shriek and immediately loose your balance.

The crow flies away with an indignant caw, but it's too late: you are sliding down the hill with a string of curses on your lips, ready for a cold fall.

In a last-ditch effort to stop, you grab onto the flimsy vegetation to your right. It doesn't hold up, and halfway through, your back crashes into something far too solid.

But no pain follows, so you look up tentatively.

Two all too familiar red eyes are staring right back at you, clearly amused.

"Oh Dear, is this any way to treat your husband?"

Skirts rustling with the movement, you try to regain your composure, too stunned to speak or meet his eyes.

There's no way he didn't hear your not so demure cry of help.

Oh, well...

"Won't you at least greet me? Did Mephisto scare you that much?"

At that, you quickly raise your head. Sylus is still looking at you, a faint smirk at the corner of his lips. His face tired from the journey, but still hard to read. Did he just return?

"I'm happy to see you in good health, Your Grace. Welcome back."

He follows the movement of your head as you nod, bowing a little. You always noticed he had that curious expression on his face whenever you addressed him politely. Calling Sylus by the name still felt too intimate to you, like stepping somewhere you shouldn't be. Saying someone else's secret out loud while everybody could hear.

"Ah, formalities. And here I thought you conquered this hill just to see me come back home, Dear."

You gave him a look.

"I would've conquered it if Mephisto didn't greet me first."

"Oh, I heard you greeting him back just right."

"Ah, Your Grace!"

Blush touched your cheeks, but you stayed strong, suddenly remembering your main mission.

At first glance, Sylus looked fine. Maybe a little disheveled, sure, with his usually pulled back hair now falling over his eyes a little and clothes too crumpled to fit the Duke, but his posture was still confident, and there was a slight blush on his pale cheeks. It must've been windy... You breathe a sigh of relief.

Well, now it's time to be a bit intrusive.

"How did the deal go? Everything went well?"

Your sudden question makes his eyes widen slightly. Sylus gives you an assessing look and shakes his head with half-hearted laugh.

"Now I recognize my wife. Businesslike like usual, right, Dear?"

You feel your blush deepen hearing that title fall from his lips. His wife. If only it played a role during your occasional disagreements.

With an uneven sigh the woolen shawl is pulling shut by a nervous hand, just in time to hide the rapid heartbeat. Sylus doesn't need to know what business was going on in your heart.

He notices your hesitation and deftly takes the initiative, too happy to get out of an unpleasant conversation.

Sylus takes off his heavy coat, and suddenly the chilly wind becomes bearable again, your face slightly covered by a fluffy fur collar.

If only this weight was the only one you carried on your shoulders, you think.

"How about we go inside, what do you think?"

"I think that it's rude to evade your wife's questions," you frown a little. You didn't like it when he acted secretive all of the sudden. Hated to realize how little influence you really had. "Did something happen? You are... not hurt, are you?" You searched his eyes once again.

But he had already turned towards the estate, his hand steady on the small of your back, guiding you down.

"Sylus?"

"I'm afraid it's too late to discuss such... disturbing matters now, Dear. After all, I'm back in one piece, aren't I? Don't worry your head too much before bed."

Your blood run cold. That wasn't a no.

"Come on now. I'll walk you to your room."

Oh, you needed more time.

"Would you like some tea, Your Grace? Lucy made it right before I left, so it must still be hot -"

"No need," he gave you a tight-lipped smile. "I'm too tired after the road. Not exactly a company you would enjoy over a cup of tea."

The rest of the walk passed in silence. You glanced at Sylus now and then, but he never looked back. Something inside tightened with realization: you've crossed the line.

Only now, standing right next to your door, he once again acknowledged your uneasy look.

"Don't look at me like that, Dear. I won't dissappear during the night again, promise. After all, I'm sure you're not going to leave it like this, are you?"

You don't answer, too nervous to play along.

He sighs.

"Have a good night, Dear."

"Good night, Your Grace." You hand over his coat, ready to close the door.

But then, right before your lock clicks, you notice something a little below his wrist. The coat must have caught his shirt when he threw it over his arm, and now that area was exposed.

You freeze.

No, please, that couldn't be.

Because there, right on his pulse line, the beginning of an unusual pattern is starting to bloom.

And suddenly, the door is closed.

You sank to the floor, unable to stand straight. Lean against the wall and feel your eyes sting.

All that hard work and it's all for nothing?

You look up, blinking back tears. Sigh.

Looks like it will be a lot harder than you thought.

Because whenever you liked it or not,

the plot began to unfold.

✧a.n. ohh this chapter took me days to deliver... I wanted to make it longer so the reading would be more enjoyable 💋💋 hope the pacing isn't rushed 🙏🏻

thank you soo much for your support, it helped me to stay motivated to actually finish this... tysm!!! ♡

✧taglist: @napforalifetime @allycat2090 @vellihor @sillyfreakfanparty @eurynam @certainduckanchor @vyntheria @donotspeakunlessyouarenamjoon @mcdepressed290

let me know if you want to be added too! ;)

comments & reblogs are highly appreciated ❣️

[dilf-destroyer-04]

I need a minute. hold on guys

“Be gentle..”

Him? Sylus? The most handsome, most powerful and ruthless leader in the entire region, gentle? He almost fell out laughing but decided to hold it back due to how ridiculous it was. The thought of him not devouring you and feverishly rutting into you like a beast in heat till sunrise was a crime he couldn’t bring himself to commit. How could he when such delicacies like your self lay bare for him on the very sheets he rests his head everyday? How could you even think to ask him of such a thing when all evening, you have been nothing short of a tease? From the light touches on his arms and chest, to the words whispered haughty in his ear, distracting him from the auction taking place. How could you say such a thing?

He could tell by your fastened heart rate and flushed skin that you wanted everything but that so why say that now before taking you? “Be gentle, you say?” He says while slowly peppering hot kisses on your inner thigh, Your expressions and breathing becoming more erotic with each peck. He hums, smile slowly turning upward into a grin and eyes slowly darkening. A sinister feeling suddenly filling the air as his EVOL slowly appears and wraps itself around your wrist and ankles, binding you in a position that exposes every bit of you. You gasp and suddenly feel yourself suspended and the man who you have been provoking all night longs eyes peering up at you from your spread legs. “Oh kitten…I’m sorry but gentle?” He leans in just enough for his breath to brush against your wet folds making you whimper.

“I’ll be anything but.”

[dilf-destroyer-04]

[dilf-destroyer-04]

damn damnnn DAMNNNN

whoever is always on the end of that stupid little phone, let it be known that my dislike for a faceless individual grows sharper with every interrupted would-be-kiss

HE USED US AS A HUMAN MEAT SHEILD 🧍🏾‍♀️ Sylus Qin. Thin ice, bud.

UGH THIS STORY IS SO CUTE BRUH I CANT DEW THIS.

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, language, mentions of blood & injury, alcohol, mutual pining, romantic tension, jealousy, mild angst tracklist: tú - maye fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4 | fig. 5 | fig. 6

Consciousness toddles in with the finesse of a newborn fawn.

There’s no extravagant fanfare when you fully come to. When you sit up, throat dry, lips sticky, hair chaotic. 

A dull throbbing in your temples and your sides screaming for water is your primary greeting, courtesy of one too many glasses of something you’ll never fuck with again. It went down smoothly enough. But that’s the dangerous part, isn’t it?

Sunlight leaks in, muddied amber across the floor. A sky stuck between raining and roasting the asphalt like marshmallows held to a bonfire. It’s morning if the mourning doves cooing outside is any gauge. 

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to discern familiar shapes, patterns, and textures. The memory foam sinking beneath your palm. Your comforter puddled around your waist. Your bed.

Wait.

Your bed? Your room?

When did you…get here? 

And how?

Wading through the shallow waters of your mind, you catch streams of the night prior. 

Popcorn. Alcohol. The couch. Batman. 

The texture of an expensive sweater imprinting its pattern into your cheek. Even breaths. Heartbeats to match. An arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as if to shield you from the cruelty of the world. That warm scent of skin blended with sandalwood and mahogany. Red eyes like supernovae. Hair tickling your temple. Pretty, heart-shaped lips blurring in and out of focus, slowly panning in.

“Not yet,” rasped when they eased back.

Your heart pinching. A whine. A responding chuckle, a thumb pulling at your poked-out lip. 

Shit.

With a groan, you collapse into your pillows. Shield your eyes with the back of your hand as warmth invades your neck and face.

You almost kissed him. 

Again. 

And there were no mysterious phone calls to interrupt this time. No suspicious trips to take him away. No Roomba to muck up the mood. Nothing but your dulled nerves and the syrupy slosh of liquor in your gut and loosened inhibitions. Yet you were once again barred from making progress. From taking what you’ve craved more than the nostalgic caw of seagulls and the grit of sand between your toes. 

Foiled again. 

You don’t know if you’re more frazzled by another would-be kiss or how trashed you got. Your roommate’s lived with you for almost a year. He’s seen you hammered. Saved you from yourself a few times, cutting you off when your tongue got hung up on syllables and you blinked like your eyelids were sticky with syrup. But he’s gratefully never seen you sloppy. 

Were you sloppy? Gods, did you try to—

Fuck.

Thoughts recalibrating, you frown, trying to recall how you made it up to your room. It yields nothing but your head throbbing in defiance. A hiss. More questions. Less clarity. 

You can only remember warmth. Safety. Softness. That smell—his smell. Lips on your cheek, lingering as if soaking all the heat of your body into his. A raspy voice whispering goodnight. Your mattress sighing when his body left your side, the cautious click of your door, the light of the hallway fading out. A dizzying descent into darkness. 

Did he…did he carry you? Upstairs? To your room? With dirty laundry piled in the hamper and an embarrassing amount of bottled water collecting on your nightstand? 

The thought of it makes your face burn hotter. Your chest spasms, and you sink further down your headboard, willing your mattress to open up and swallow you whole.

Your self-pity party is short-lived when laughter and squealing erupt from outside. Kids enjoying the humid call of summer. 

As mortified as you feel, you can’t rot in bed all day. You’re no bitch. Never one to tuck your tail between your legs and retreat. Besides, the aromatic wisp of your favorite coffee beckons to you from downstairs, making it nearly impossible to fall back asleep.

If he made coffee, he still likes you, right? You didn’t overstep? Didn’t try to touch him beyond what he allowed?

And if he’s maintaining some sense of normalcy, shouldn’t you be, too?

Having a little faith in yourself, you leave the safety of your bed and crowd into the shower where the crisp spray awakens stubborn nerves. You ease into something comfortable afterward, loose enough to make the heat bearable, padding downstairs to an empty kitchen.

Coffee awaits you in that expensive drip. Breakfast under a cheesecloth on the noodle board. Familiar sticky note on top with a crudely sketched cat sticking out its tongue. 

You couldn’t have messed up too badly last night if he’s still using his terrible drawing skills to antagonize you.

You finish your coffee, lowering the mug into the sink and rinsing it. Eat your breakfast standing, watching kids run by with their infectious laughter beyond the bay window. 

While you were in the bathroom trying to make sense of the world, you sifted through your medicine cabinet for something for your hangover. To your dismay, only cough syrup, nasal spray, and Band-Aids peered back.

So, you snatch up your keys from the counter, slip into your sandals, and prepare to battle the heatwave for a trip to the convenience store. 

You don’t know where Sylus is. If he’s even home. Didn’t bother checking, too discomfited to confront him now. Not until you’ve established a game plan on how to address what could’ve been. 

The heat hits like you’ve walked into a sheet of plastic wrap when you step outside. Petrichor threatens the air. Wet earth, warmed rocks. The sky’s half grey, dense with nimbostratus clouds. If you leave now, you can beat the rain. 

You drag yourself down the steps of your porch towards the driveway. And here, something feels…off. Like the prickle of charged ions before lightning strikes. Your skin tingles as you reach for the driver's side handle of your car, trying to shake it off.

But you’re not crazy.

There’s movement behind you. The familiar aroma of bodywash. Before you can turn to acknowledge the intruder, hands encase your arms, violently twisting you towards the street. 

He ducks behind you before you can get a word out. A wash of white and mischief. You're stammering, trying to catch a glimpse of him. But then—

Splat!

Cold. 

Teeth-chattering cold, saturating your shirt, your hair, and dripping down your face. 

You pop your eyes open following the impact, the remnants of a water balloon blurred at your feet. You’ve no time to brace for the next before it explodes on your shin. Another blasts your hip, a shriek dying in your throat against the onslaught.  

Laughter follows as your vision clears. The neon glint of Super Soakers catches in the sunlight before you’re sprayed from different angles. Little feet batter against the asphalt in retreat. You drip like a sopping, wet cat in the aftermath, realizing too late you’ve been used as a human shield.

He used you. 

He used you. 

“You son of a—!”

Sylus darts from behind you towards the street before you can punch him, laughing. Not his usual dry, rich bastard chuckle. Something boyish and unhindered that would stir something in your chest if vengeance didn’t reside there first.

Children come out of the woodwork, giving chase, their plastic weapons trained on him. 

“Get him!” someone commands. 

You think that’s not a bad idea.

You eye the bucket of brightly-colored, shifting water balloons at the edge of the curb. Scoop up a couple, joining the kids in their pursuit.

“I trusted you!” you shout, your balloons clutched to your chest.

But Sylus is already halfway down the street, quick, smug over his shoulder with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen him wear. 

For a moment, the world slows. And if it weren’t already obvious the universe was conspiring against you, your sandal snaps. 

You stumble, the world tilting, your water balloons splattering on the street. You follow suit, scraping your toes, knee, and catching yourself on your palm.

“Shit!” you hiss, sitting up and holding your stinging hand.

The children gasp, crowding around you. Heavy footfalls cut through the dissonance. Sylus is beside you in seconds, blurring into focus with the sun haloing his hair like Helios’ crown, and he’s crouching, hovering. Hands paused near your shoulders, flexing with an impulse to touch. 

“Are you alright?” The playfulness in his voice is gone, making way for tender concern and furrowed brows.

He cups the crook of your knee with one hand, already scraped raw with grit and rocks and shallow streaks of blood. Sucking in a sharp breath, he assesses the damage to your hand next. Not as bad, but still burning an angry red.

You wince. “I’m fine, just—ow.”

Sighing, Sylus picks up your mangled sandal, holding it between you like a roadkill at the end of a stick. “I told you to toss these months ago.”

You glare at him, the adrenaline ebbing. “They’re my old faithfuls! I’ve had them since college,” you lament.

“You mean they’re death traps?” He doesn’t await your snark, already slipping an arm around your back. “Come. Let’s get you up.”

The neighborhood kids part as Sylus hefts you to your feet. Your arm finds his shoulders, and his hand burns through the fabric of your denim at your side to brace you.

He turns towards the house. You stop him before he steps off, turning to him with wide eyes. “Wait!”

You didn’t forget about how he heartlessly used you as a meat shield earlier. So while he eyes you suspiciously, you bring a water balloon you snuck from one of the kids between your faces and squeeze. 

“Really?” he flatly chastises, water dripping down his face.

You snort, swiping droplets from your lashes. Worth it. 

“I should let you hobble back yourself,” he says. But you don’t miss the amused undertones of his voice. And you know he wouldn’t dare do that. Not after you almost broke your wrist chasing him down.

—

You’re seated on your porch bench minutes later, frowning, a cool towel pressed to your scratched-up knee. You haven’t removed your intact sandal yet, kicking up your foot, reciting an internal eulogy for your fallen friend.

Sylus crouches in front of you with a first aid kit he procured from your trunk, pouring some antiseptic onto a cloth. 

“This might sting,” he warns, removing the towel and propping your leg on his thigh.

“Perfect,” you laugh humorlessly, bracing yourself.

You wince at the prickly bite of it. He captures you in his gaze, studying your face for discomfort, fingers gentle yet rehearsed as they dab away dried blood. Inwardly, you wonder how many times he’s done this before—cleaned up booboos for pretty girls who busted their asses chasing him down. 

When he’s satisfied with his work, he angles down and blows. Gentle. Patient. Cool air dusts your scrape, soothing the burn, and sending your pulse roaring in your throat.

He’s pretty like this—kneeling between your legs, white hair dusting his brows, dark lashes bowed, pink lips pursed. For a moment, your mind sinks back into last night.

You clear your throat, putting on that haughty little facade. Focus, girl. Focus.

“Y’know, this wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t sacrifice me to a bunch of grade schoolers.”

He chuckles, still attentive, still holding your leg like it’s made of glass, assessing his work. “If it makes you feel any better, you saved me from those grade schoolers.”

“Not intentionally. You used me.”

Setting your foot down on the ground, he next takes up your hand to clean it. “I adapted. You just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”

Rolling your eyes, you pull a face, flinching when the disinfectant seeps into one particularly deep cut on your palm. He blows on that, too, and you take note of how perfect his hand feels, dwarfing yours.

Your expression softens when he looks up with a fond cant to his lips, and you forget how your lungs work for a second.

Rummaging in the tin, he produces a Band-Aid adorned with cat paws and whiskers, and tapes it onto your knee. He pats your thigh for good measure, flashing that ridiculous, thousand-watt grin.

“What? No lollipop?” you jab.

He ignores you, sliding onto the bench beside you, long, leggy, dizzying warmth. He slings an arm across the bench’s backrest like it’s second nature, his thumb grazing your shoulder to soothe. 

“I’ll buy you new sandals,” he says, eyeing the one dangling from your toes. 

“Don’t want new ones. These got me through shitty breakups and many a night spent in painful heels.”

“Then I’ll break them in before I give them to you. I’ll make sure they’re riddled with holes with no tread left. That sound like a deal?”

You smack him on his chest, his resulting snicker playing up your spine like a xylophone, turning your brain into primordial sludge.

—

The familiar jingle of the ice cream truck echoes through the cul-de-sac, a stark cutout of white and pink amid the grey slowly overtaking the sky. 

The chirp of cicadas and sprinklers jolting to life give way to the laughter and squealing of children running barefoot across the street to gather around as the truck slows to a stop partway to your house. 

It’s humid—a product of the atmosphere threatening rain. 

Sylus looks up, bowed forward with his elbows on his knees, his shirt sticking to his back like snakeskin. You get a good look at those biceps. The veins spilling like constellations down to his wrists, fingers intertwined.

He peers back at you, all teeth and amusement, tone soft, barely above the commotion. “Want anything?”

Before you can answer, he’s already standing. Already fishing his wallet from his pocket, so unfairly tall and good looking, shadowed by your porch cover. A statue etched from marble—something human eyes weren’t meant to see. 

“My treat. Consider it penance for you getting hurt because of me.”

You squint up at him. He’s just trying to butter you up. And it’s working. “I’ll take a Bomp Pop. Since I lost blood today. Hydration and all that.”

Chuckling, and after a nod, you watch him trot down the steps, making his way towards the truck. The kids greet him exuberantly, all varying sizes and ages, parting for Mister Sylus like a school of fish. It’s comical, watching them jump around this skyscraper of a man, tugging on his hands, begging him to buy out the truck.

He’s already on it, fishing a black card from his wallet and thrusting it towards the vendor, telling the children to get whatever they want.

You watch the scene unfold, a dull ache behind your ribs. For someone who claims to disdain people, he’s a magnet for them. He doesn’t try hard to be liked. To get along. To fit in. He just naturally falls into place wherever he goes, fitting as seamlessly as a well-placed Tetris piece.

The neighborhood kids love him. The older residents tolerate him, despite his obnoxious revving of the motor on his bike in the wee hours of the night. He’s a favorite amongst the housewives, which, duh. Can you blame them? Have you seen him?

They find excuses to swing by the house to chat and bring him food when he’s in the garage working on his bike with his tank half off, hair sweat-slicked, skin sun-kissed. He’s a flirt without trying to be. Naturally attractive, but that’s only part of the reason he was able to carve a Sylus-shaped cavity in your chest. 

He’s back with your popsicle while you’re hung up in the nebula of your thoughts, already unwrapped and sweating condensation and sugar down the side of his hand.

“Peace offering,” he rasps, holding it towards you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and your skin vibrates from the simple exchange. For a moment, he looms, lips still rucked up on one side, and it looks like he’s about to say something. But he decides against it, sliding onto his spot beside you, watching the mob of children slowly dissipate.

Silence hangs between you for a while. Comfortable, until the ice cream truck leaves, and thunder roils somewhere far off in its place. 

Your popsicle drips in nostalgic red and blue down your wrist. You’re halfway distracted, studying your roomie’s side profile like you can peer into his thoughts if you stare hard enough. 

Eventually, he rises with a stretch, a swatch of toned, warm ivory skin playing peek-a-boo from beneath his shirt. 

“We should get inside before it rains,” he says, glancing at your bare feet—you finally parted with your other shoe, watching your roomie toss it the bin outside.

Nodding, you maneuver yourself to get up. But the world’s fading from beneath your feet, wind on your face, threading through your hair, as Sylus scoops you up before you can stand.

“Sylus, I can—”

He shakes his head, lips tilting. “Just enjoy the ride.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re inwardly squealing from how good his arms feel cradling you. 

He props you on the kitchen counter when you’re inside, the granite top cool beneath your thighs. You swing your legs like a happy little thing, finishing off your popsicle while he rifles through the fridge for something to prep for lunch.

There’s a quiet concentration between his brows. In the set of his jaw as he rinses vegetables in the sink, sets them on the cutting board, and procures a pan from the cupboard to set on the burner. Domesticity suits him. Whenever he’s done selling property and whatever else he does on the side, you think he’d make a killing as a house husband.

Watching him move around your kitchen with a quiet grace—slippers, loose-hanging pants, soft eyes—makes your chest burn. It’s almost like he’s lived here his whole life. Like this is home. 

He catches you staring beneath the soft hue of light spilling through the sheer whisper of your curtains, and his smirk eats shit.

But then, he stops halfway to the pantry, the humor sloughing off his face. It’s replaced by something unreadable as he turns, padding towards you as soundlessly as a cat. 

He leans over the counter towards you, palms roosted on its edge, arms bracketing your thighs. The air shifts. Pulses with charged ions. You get a nose-full of cologne and warm skin. Unconsciously lean forward as he angles closer, scarlet gaze jolting between your eyes and lips.

Popsicle forgotten, you brace your hands on the counter, lids drooping, lips pursing. He mirrors you, so close, your breaths mingle, and your skin hums with the press of his body between your legs.

He’s going to kiss you this time—you’re sure of it. Nothing’s holding you back. No deceptively sweet liquor, no nerves, no hesitation.

The air tightens like a hand towel being wrung dry. You’re holding your breath when your noses brush. Let a sweet little sound leave your tight throat, one of your hands closing around his wrist, granting him wordless permission.

But the universe hates you, remember? She’s a finicky bitch who’s gotta be on her period. 

Because a familiar, obnoxious ringtone startles you apart, coming from his pocket.

He exhales through his mouth, still so tortuously close. He waits until the ringing stops before he tries again. But that god damn phone starts acting up again. Whoever’s on the other end means business. That, or they’re intentionally cock-blocking because they just know.

“It’s alright,” you whisper around a wobbly smile, voice husky, blood throbbing in your neck. “Get it.”

Don’t get it. Don’t—

He hesitates like it hurts. Drops his forehead into the crook of your neck, letting out a strained, frustrated noise. Reluctantly, he ducks back, snatching his phone from his pocket, and pacing into the living room to take the call.

You catch it before he’s out of sight—that name. The one always snatching him away, activating him like a sleeper agent. The one his voice drops a few octaves for like he’s speaking to a lover.

Your stomach sinks. Twists.

You hop down from the counter, needing something to busy your shaking hands, adrenaline still spuming through you after you toss what’s left of your popsicle in the trash can. And you take to chopping vegetables in his place, smiling bitterly at the cutting board as his voice fades in and out in the background. Hushed things you can’t be bothered to follow.

You’re the safety in his life. The sense of normalcy he seeks when he isn’t jetting around the world, cryptic with what he does. Who his “clients” are. You’re the woman with a scraped knee, shitty taste in shoes, Bomb Pop-kissed lips, and a terrible time holding her alcohol.

Meanwhile, whoever’s on the phone is his world-ender. 

Or maybe still the center of his universe.

tags: @blessdunrest @peascrabbles @finalgirlfanatic @kpop-athena @codedove @yourlocalcatscammer @darkeskye @zaynessbeloved @young-adult-summer @seventeen-x @ikesimpleton @raginginferno267 @dyeinsomniadontwake @satansdaughter123 @nerezzaworlds-blog @secretkiseki @beesin03 @animecrazy76 @thirstblogforaparchedgirl

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[dilf-destroyer-04]

This might be an insane reach, but i thought I'd point it out anyway... (if someone already has, my bad :/ ...)

Is that a pomegranate??? Maybe I missed an important part of their lore and forgot some kind of significance pomegranates hold between sylus and mc... HOWEVER!

I'm thinking hades and persephone 3rd myth ??? 🥹🥹 maybe? perhaps? potentially?

I think it'd work well with their dynamic.

Again, i am well aware this is such a far-fetched reach, but like... maybe??? Just some food for thought 🙂‍↕️

[dilf-destroyer-04]

thank yewww for the tag @blcknebula 🥹🫶🏾

Tag 9 people you want to know more about

Currently reading: The Mindf*ck series!

Last song: Ride it - Jay Sean (where the hell did this man go??)

Last Film: Iron Man 2 (reminiscing on the times when the MCU wasn't so hellish )

Last Series: Binge watching the early seasons of special victims unit

Sweet, Salty, or Savoury: I have such a nasty lil sweet tooth. I can't help myself. I'd easily be lured into a suspicious van by all things sweet and lemon flavoured

Tea or Coffee: Tea!! Grew up in England after all. Travelled to Marrakesh recently and their mint tea was fabulous.

Working on: Learning to read sheet music for the piano and perfecting my barre chords on the guitar. I haven't had cute nails in 3 months 💔

No pressure tags: erm... I'm too shy to tag ppl. SORRY 🫤 anyone is free to reblog with their own! I'm very nosy and like knowing information about everyone :)

— TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU WANT TO GET TO KNOW MORE ! thank youuu @fayerie and @lily-bisque for the tags <33

currently reading: (re)reading yellowface by r.f kuang last song: still into you by paramore (great for playing val let me tell uuuu) last film: how to train your dragon last series: true beauty (ep 11 now) sweet/savory/salty: savoury tea or coffee: tea working on: fics (oh boy) + healthy sleep schedule

no pressure tags! <3 - @oporotheca @riveredmoon @elswhore @goonforgeto @lafleurperdue and anyone else who wants to do it !!

[dilf-destroyer-04]

WELL I'LL BE DAMMNED! the beast turned out to be... beastly in the best way?

horny or angry or horny or angry or horny or–

well... my scrunched up nose suggests anger, but im pretty sure my panties are wet at 9AM so...

When you cook up a fucked up non-MC, right hand reader scenario that you just know will have the entire fandom on your neck.

[dilf-destroyer-04]

AND SO THE PLOT THICKENSSSS

I want this man on his knees, curled into himself, crying.

[dilf-destroyer-04]

but wait– THERE'S MORE!!!

this is making me so happy I can't even.

They're so in love with each other. *SIGH*

She notices everything about him! all the little details that people would otherwise miss.

AND he knows what her different silences mean ?? 🥹 to be known is to be loved.

quiet time [ deleted scene ] | sylus

cw: royalty au, king sylus, knight/bodyguard reader, femme reader, romantic tension, cheesy, cliche, a pinch of self-loathing, sylus might be ooc, 2.5k wc notes: cleaning up my drafts. takes place in the same au as serve & protect after sylus’ meal with the queen but before the revelation. thanks for reading! tracklist: je te veux - erik satie

Of the many ways for a young woman to find herself in peril…

Well, you know the lot of them thanks to a certain white-haired monarch.

You figure he’s the most beautiful thing ever to grace this kingdom. Watch him with childlike wonderment as he sits hunched over his desk, silver brows pinched over the wire frames of his glasses, lips thinned with concentration. 

His Majesty’s been like this for at least an hour, working through the stacks of paperwork littering his study. He occasionally releases a thoughtful hum, tapping his fountain pen against the lacquered surface as he flips through a binder housing official documents. 

Rafayel must’ve really gotten to him today.

The royal advisor cornered you in the king’s study following your brush with danger. 

He huffed something about ball preparations and coral reef preservation, hands on hips as he demanded that Sylus “sit still and do some actual work.” 

You couldn’t help the snicker that tore itself from your body, watching the two bicker from the door like an old married couple. 

Not much has changed about their dynamic since your childhood.

Rafayel threw his hands up with resignation, and Sylus turned up his chin over crossed arms. 

“I’ll handle it,” His Majesty clipped, clearly done with their conversation, inspecting an adjacent wall. 

Rafayel sighed and marched to you, pinning you with an iridescent glare. He thrust a finger in your face, his irritation emanating off him in waves. 

“Make sure he doesn’t leave this office until all of those documents are signed. And no making googly eyes at each other, you hear me? You know he has the attention span of a goldfish.”

You replied with a curt nod, stepping aside to allow the exasperated advisor to leave. 

The heavy door slammed behind with finality, leaving you and your charge in prickly silence.

A part of you wished that Rafayel stayed to maintain the peace. Because the moment he left, the air shifted, weighted like storm clouds rolling over the horizon. And you felt like a sheep that had wandered into the maw of a wolf’s den.

“A picture would last longer,” says Sylus, drawing you back to the present. 

He scrutinizes the documents laid out before him, not once looking up. He knows your silences—their different meanings—too well. Parses through them like the yellowed pages of the books on his shelves.

Straightening, you clear your throat, tamping down the heat in your cheeks. You’ve been caught staring again—a regular occurrence between you and your king. 

Can it be helped, though?

The man is gorgeous in every sense of the word, glowing like the cinders he was forged from. And you would be a fool to deny that, though you’ve barely succeeded in reining yourself in thus far.

You swallow. Try to tear your eyes from the pulsing veins in Sylus’ forearms—he discarded his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows a little while ago. Unwound his tie and undid the first two buttons of his shirt; his waistcoat wrapped snugly around his torso.

Gods bless his tailor for their precise and patient hands. And curse them for being so meticulous. 

The sun swathes Sylus’ silhouette in its ethereal glow, its rays pouring through the ceiling-high windows of his study whilst it seeks refuge behind the horizon. 

He’s something like an angel in this light. Someone untouchable. And if he knew you were comparing him, of all people, to something ethereal, he would have you turned into a saddle. 

You lapse into the disorder of your thoughts as your charge works quietly, face impassive, yet your hands wrench tight at your back.

You don't deserve his affection, what with the grime caked beneath your nails and the scars littering your body. His Majesty should court someone as beautiful as he is. Someone who will bring honor to his kingdom, who will help him rebuild and unite a world torn asunder by darkness.

Not you—a commoner. His sword. Someone “noble” by happenstance and not by the blood coursing through your veins. 

As if sensing your inner turmoil, Sylus sighs, fetching another set of documents. He pierces through your ruminations again with that smoky voice fringed with amusement.  

“How long do you intend to stand there gawking at me?” 

He levels you with those brilliant eyes, pilfering the air from your lungs. His lips curve into a challenging smirk, chin resting on his palm like you’re the most intriguing thing.

You stiffen, cursing your wandering eyes, throat constricting. “I’m not. I mean, I-I wasn’t, Majesty—”

“How do you expect me to focus with you so far away?” he interjects with a raised brow. 

“Huh?” 

“Sit,” Sylus beckons, motioning to the crimson, velvet chaise beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world to invite the help into the most intimate bits of his world.

You swallow. No good will come from this. It never does. You were already so dangerously close to losing your composure earlier. 

“I shouldn’t—”

“Sit.” 

And there it is—that tone which leaves no room for argument. A command layered beneath a friendly coaxing. You have no choice but to obey.

You pad to your king’s side after he showed no signs of letting up. Sighing defeatedly, you fall onto the cushions, folding your hands together in your lap, spine stiff as steel. 

This is also routine between the pair of you.

He’s always had something against you standing guard at his door—like that isn’t your sole purpose. So you’re often held captive while he works, still as the paperweight on his desk. 

It most certainly has nothing to do with him being irrevocably taken by you.

You slightly puff out your cheeks, eyes skittering every which way but on your wayward king. You feel his gaze drilling into the side of your head. See him shamelessly staring at you through your periphery, and it takes all of you not to shrink into yourself.

Fine. If a staring contest is what His Majesty wants…

You throw caution to the wind, fixing him with your own stare. His lashes flutter behind his lenses, eyes wrinkled at the corners. And then he smiles, a disarming, boyish thing boasting those perfect teeth, those rounded canines. 

Wordlessly, he squeezes your rigid hands settled on your thighs, his hand big enough to engulf them. So pleasantly warm and roughened from years of wielding a blade. 

You tense, your breath lodged in your throat, heart jackhammering in your ears.

Hot. 

Terribly hot. 

He always is. The action alone is enough to make you lightheaded, whilst his thumb makes slow expeditions over your knuckles.

“Now I can focus,” he says. Couples it with a deep chuckle as you sputter, the sound of it vibrating your spine. He then retracts his hand to take up his pen with renewed vigor. Like you are his battery pack, recharging him with a simple brush of skin. 

You silently simmer, a ghostly pout descending onto your lips. You’re bereft of the loss of contact, but what for? This is nothing new—the fleeting touches and stolen glances. So, what’s got you so out of sorts today?

Though your nerves flare from the proximity, you’re thankful for it. From this angle, you get to see all of him. Greedily take in the sight before you—this work of art. Temptation forged by the gods. 

His Adam's apple bobs whilst he swallows. The faint scent of citrus overhauls your senses. Biceps ripple beneath his snug, silken dress shirt, tendons in his neck jumping enticingly. 

You battle a sudden inclination to kiss his throat, saliva puddling in your mouth. You wonder what pretty sounds you can emit from him. If you can turn him to mush the same way he does to you each day. But as if tuned to your less than savory thoughts, your shoulder pulses, quietly reminding you of your place—you’re his prey. 

Silly woman, you chastise, shaking your head. What in the world are you thinking about? Where did these primal thoughts suddenly come from?

You sit like this in silent contemplation for a beat, transfixed on every twitch of his muscles. The scribbling of his pen is the only sound exchanged between you. You pick at your nails, feeling obligated to fill the stillness. 

It’s strange—you’ve known each other for decades, yet it’s become nearly impossible to speak comfortably with him these days. What, with him growing more bold with affections, and you slowly whittled down by them. 

“Are you—”

“Do you—”

Scarlet eyes flit to yours over the interruption. 

Sylus huffs a soft laugh, leaning back in his seat. Your lips quirk the slightest, butterflies skittering about in your stomach. You’re beaming inside, because who else gets this level of attention like you?

“My apologies,” he says, turning to give you his full undivided attention. “What were you about to say?”

“Ah, nothing. Um, what were you going to say, Majesty?” 

Suddenly, the onyx buttons of your uniform are so fascinating, warmth flooding your skin as you pull at them.

“Do you have plans for the long weekend?” 

You perk up. Find it hard to meet his gaze, but you admit, “Not really.”

“Really.” He taps his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes, Majesty.”

“You are free from your duties tomorrow, yes?” There’s a hint of a pout in his voice. How dare you do anything but be at his beck and call. 

You nod in confirmation. Honestly, you need it, what with you working tiring hours as a glorified babysitter. You care deeply for your king. However, keeping up with him and his wayward spirit is taxing on its own. Couple this with your unchecked feelings for him, and you have quite an exhaustive cocktail.

Your only warning is the rustling of paper.

Suddenly, the couch dips beside you. He’s moved faster than you can process, a blur of white and black. No doubt a product of his inhuman characteristics.

He swaddles you in his overwhelming heat and commanding presence. A gasp rends itself from your throat. Your knees bump, thighs graze. He is uncomfortably close, and it’s become much too hot again. You feel restricted by your uniform. Has it always had this many layers?

Your king looks to you with impish delight. Drapes an arm across the backrest, closing in until your skin prickles from the static charge. “Will you be accompanying me, then?”

You reel back, spine colliding with the chair’s arm. “Accompanying you? Where?” 

Impatience meddles with his voice. He leans away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I assumed your boss would’ve informed you of tomorrow’s excursion.”

The mere mention of your commander causes your brow to twitch. “He hasn’t told me a thing, Majesty.”

With an exhausted sigh, Sylus forges onward. “Well,” he begins, leaning forward with his elbows pressed into his powerful thighs. “There is a bazaar in town. On the outskirts of the citadel.” 

He scans your features to gauge your reaction. Searches for any opposition. You urge him forward with inquisitive brows.

“I planned to go to...browse.” Sylus wets his lips, looking elsewhere, an incredulous laugh in his throat. 

Had he been anyone but your king, you might’ve mistaken his sudden shift in demeanor for bashfulness. Since when has he been uneasy about buying cheap trinkets?

“Your commander was more than enthusiastic about joining me. I figured he would’ve invited you as well.”

A pang strikes your chest, searing like white lightning. 

And you thought you were all friends. 

Though you’re never too keen on the idea of His Majesty leaving the citadel alone, you also know that he prefers to travel discreetly. A ring of bodyguards and staff looming around would only draw attention. Besides, it isn’t too often that he gets to leave the castle without some official business tacked onto it. 

And Caleb is more than capable of fending off any attempts on your king’s life, the cocky bastard. 

“I wouldn’t want to impede, Majesty,” you say haughtily. Since the offer had slipped Caleb’s mind, you felt it best to take it out on your king.

“I want you to come,” he insists, patting your hands, a disarming lilt to his voice. “That is, if you would like to join us.” 

You sigh, lips twitching into a small smile. Try as you might, you’ve never been able to resist him like this. “I would love to, Your Majesty.”

The tight line of his shoulders loosens, and he’s yet to let go of your hands. The air shifts when his eyes find yours again, and the world grows fuzzy and muddled around you. 

 “Might I make one final request since you’re feeling generous?”

You nod, tuned to his every movement. “Don’t push it. But, sure.”

Without warning, your hair waterfalls onto your shoulders, spilling from the crude bun you had fashioned it into after Sylus had so graciously stolen your mother’s hairpin. 

You stammer, an astonished look taking up residence on your features.

He’s done it again.

Sylus’ expression melds into one of endearment. He beholds you with boyish fascination, engraining every spasm of your lips selfishly into his memory. 

“I prefer you like this,” he whispers, breath wafting across your molten cheeks, followed by the cautious scrawl of the backs of his fingers. “You should wear your hair down more often. It’s pretty.”

You cannot help the warmth that wades over you at his request. Your heart swells with something indescribable. He always knows how to disorient you with his satiny, manipulative words.

You resist a whimper whilst Sylus slides his knuckles across your face towards your temple, twining one of your coils around his finger, and gently pulling. He wears that look again—the one he dons before trying to kiss you. Love drunk and mesmerized 

Something in your slowly frays. Maybe you will let him get away with it this time. Your tongue darts from betwixt your quivering lips to dampen them. Eyes half-slit. You glance at his mouth, watching with bated breath as it pans in.

To hell with it, you resign as his fingers creep like spindly spider legs around the nape of your neck. He threads them in your tresses, drawing you closer into him. 

To hell with being his bodyguard. To hell with his monarchy and your feeling like the lowest on the totem pole. 

You’re hyperaware of his mouth so close, your breaths fusing, mind reeling. 

If not for the door thrown open noisily behind you, you might’ve finally let your king have his way—might’ve finally succumb to your own desires. 

[dilf-destroyer-04]

seems the stars are aligning right along with my dreams and Spotify playlist. This is exactly what this fic feels like to me 🥹

THEY'RE REAL TO ME OKAY

masquerade | king sylus

cw: royaly au, king sylus, knight/bodyguard reader, femme reader, romantic tension, fluff, 750 wc notes: clearing out my drafts. takes place in the same au as serve & protect. tracklist: into the unknown - jack jones

“May I have this dance?” your king asks from beneath an ornate, onyx mask.

He startles you amid the winking wall sconces and the soft swell of strings and chatter filling the banquet hall. 

You blink, your hands slackening at the small of your back, mouth spilling open. 

A smirk cants his lips beneath the mask’s beak. He likely anticipated your response. You’re so easy to fluster, even after all these years at his side.

His eyes dip into mischief as he angles himself slightly towards you, always the paradigm of poised, beckoning you with a soft hand. You feel like you’re navigating a dream. 

Bristling, heat bleeds into your cheeks, your stomach matted in knots, and…

And he can’t be serious, can he?

“Syl—Your Majesty,” you hiss, surveying the hall. 

You search for prying eyes that seek a modicum of scandal to liven up the evening. It’s no secret around the kingdom that of his royal guards, you’re his favorite. He doesn’t try to hide it. 

“Majesty, I’m on duty! A-and you are the king—”

Sylus doesn’t await your excuses. Just wrests your arm from behind your back, slipping his hand into yours. He huffs an amused sound over his shoulder, softly commanding that you “come, dear friend,” as he leads you down the stairs to your unwilling fate.

The soles of your boots squeak against the marbled floor, Sylus having dragged you from your post to beneath the luminous lighting of the dancefloor. The other partygoers make way, their exuberant chatter simmering into murmurs. They regard you with varying degrees of interest, some hiding their whispers behind gloved hands, and others more bold with their scrutiny.

The knots in your stomach pull tighter, much like Sylus’ grip on your hand, as if he senses your plight.

Ill. 

You suddenly feel so very ill. And so very heavy under his guests’ judgement and the crystalline chandelier dangling overhead. Thank the gods for your mask. Otherwise, you’re sure everyone would be tickled by the king’s otherwise stone-faced bodyguard's mortification.  

“Majesty, please—”

“Come now,” Sylus intones, twirling you ‘round until you are face-to-face, your hands falling into his much larger ones. 

He towers over you, and yet he swaddles you with warmth and reassurance. His expression softens into one of heart-wrenching endearment. “I’ll lead if you’ve forgotten how to use your feet,” whispered so close to your ear, a shiver rattles your spine.

Sylus’ eyes crinkle with mirth. He squeezes your sweaty palms, drawing you closer, studying your face as if you had created the universe. “Ready?” 

He holds your hand as if you are a frail rose petal. Secures your waist with lithe fingers, burning through the dense fabric of your uniform. You place a timid palm on his virile shoulder, figuring you have no other choice but to humor him. He would surely chase you down if you somehow slipped free.

With your heart hammering in your throat, your gazes interlock, and you nod—albeit hesitantly.  

You fall into a steady sway as the string quartet changes tempo. A light, upbeat number spills through the various columns adorning the grandiose hall. You find it effortless to keep step with him despite the anxiety wading in the currents of your body.

“You are a natural,” Sylus notes, beholding you with appreciative eyes. Something akin to passion flickers within them. “It’s almost like you’ve done this before.”

You avert your gaze, snorting. Feel the heat of bashfulness spilling forth like a tidal wave at his praise.

He knows better than anyone that you were well-versed in the art of courtship and how a lady should behave. Your mother raised you as a proper woman before you sullied your hands with the glacial steel of a sword. Before you traded your lipsticks and perfumes for armor and many a sleepless night.

Sylus cleaves through your musings, drawing your attention back to him. “Have I lost you?” he asks, a chuckle at the cusp of his lips.

“Sorry,” you offer, breathless under his intoxicating gaze.

Sylus is much too handsome this way, beaming with a dimple forming in his cheek. Despite the mask concealing half his face, he appears to have shaved ten years off his life with that smile alone. You wonder if it's because of the festivities and surviving another year around the sound.

However, a small part of you knows it’s because he's a man completely and irrevocably in love.

With you, no less.