glassandhoney

[glassandhoney]

i think of sylus quoting percy shelley so much. it’s like on one hand it’s the writers hammering home his gothic themes and telling you how he is more of a gothic/romantic hero than he is this booktok shadow daddy villain, but in the context of the world and love and deepspace— he knows percy shelley. his poetry. by heart, in fact. it would be entirely plausible and understandable that he copes with his feelings of isolation and longing for one person and one person only with poetry, romantic poetry. literature as a whole.

does he see himself in dracula, crossing oceans of time for mina as he journeyed through deepspace to find the only person who ever took his hand? in his past life, did he find comfort reliving the memories by understanding how much sympathy is granted toward frankenstein’s monster in readers everywhere? or does he liken his aching to wuthering heights where brontë famously writes, “whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same” — to which he tells mc upon first introduction, “after all, you and i are the same. true kindred spirits.”

how many times has he sought the comfort of dusty tomes when he felt the most misunderstood? when he felt the pain of needing her again, hunched over a frayed poetry book. when he needed to be seen, cloaked in darkness at the very back of a movie theater, watching these stories adapted in black and white a century later. does he know, now, that open hearts and minds such as mc’s see him at his supernatural, his monstrous, his wild— and feel no urge to tame it, but to welcome it wholly?

(ramble inspired by this amazing video)

[glassandhoney]

Evil, Sylus?

[glassandhoney]

guys i wanna write something short but have absolutely no idea what. so if you’d like to read something from love and deepspace send me a prompt (⁎⁍̴̛ᴗ⁍̴̛⁎)



[glassandhoney]

Hi Kaits 👋 I was going through your writing (my personal fav is In every life time & Already gone. going to be reading hacker reader soon!!). There’s just something soft and comforting in the way you portrays all of them hehe after reading those back to back, it got me thinking about Sylus X Reader who is a reader. 

What if in the darkness of N109, tucked at the corner is a bookstore. Just a humble bookstore run by a reader. Somehow words spread that it might be a place to trade intel or something because they kept seeing children in the zone going in and out and how out of place for a humble bookstore to be operating in the zone. Turns out, reader was just teaching them basic things like reading and colouring because she believes that everyone deserves to have a childhood even in places like the N109 zone. Ohh and after learning about Sylus’ myth and how he was abandoned as a child and in his tender moments ‘No way out’ where he promised the father of the boy that he’ll take care of him or something like that. I wonder how Sylus would react after learning about reader and the risk reader is in because people are thinking she’s starting something in the zone.

I’m not sure if you’re taking a request or not but feel free to ignore if you don’t feel like writing this 🤍

Ooooh Nonny - this is such a brilliant idea; my mind began to spin so fast!

(And akshakaks thank you! I’m so happy you enjoy how I write it all!! I hope you enjoy V and Sylus’ shenanigans!)

Now, onto your story. (Tw: Someone gets shot...not Reader, Sylus, or kids, though)

It was an easy shop to overlook - tucked on the outskirts of downtown, hidden in the shadows of two much larger, looming buildings.

Nevermore’s Perch was an anomaly within the Zone. The citizens of the nefarious city didn’t use their free time to read books about fanciful faraway kingdoms with knights and dragons.

The store seemingly stayed open due to various collectors ordering dusty looking first editions you seemed adapt of getting ahold of, as well as a small café bar stocked with coffee, tea, and baked desserts.

Food and drink were worth coin - a book of words wasn’t to most.

You, the current shopkeeper after your mentor had passed, knew better than most the area you worked and lived. You kept your head down and ears closed. The less you knew, the better.

And yet, a curious thing had begun to occur under your charge. Children, ranging anywhere from about five to eighteen, seemed to visit the store frequently for a few hours, only to slip back out into the street like shadowed specters in small groups.

Most came back daily. Some only ever appeared once or twice, but you never turned any of them away.

It was unfortunate, unknowingly to you, that these movements had pulled the attention of some of the more unsavory investors where you resided.

Children made wonderful messengers - innocent in face, but sharp of ear and mind, it wasn’t completely uncommon to see them slip in and out of buildings they shouldn't be; a message lighter, a pocket slightly heavier.

And a bookshop, well - there was no other explanation, as far as they were concerned, that you would still be in business in the N109 Zone if you weren’t selling some kind of intel.

What a perfect cover, they thought. Because who would look twice at a book in this technology based world?

It did also mean, however, that you would need to be silenced.

Permanently.

Secrets were too costly, and, with the amount of children in an out of your doors, it was clear you were flooded in them, they thought.

They didn’t know the truth. Wasn’t worth their time to learn, like everything else stacked on the shelves of your little shop.

But one man did make the time to learn; one whose hair was the color of ash and eyes that of burning coals. One who, unknown to most, had a particularly soft spot for the young and reckless.

He had heard rumors, like most, of the Nevermore Perch - ordered a few first editions of his favorite classics to add to his own hoard in his home.

The tomes were always in nearly perfect condition upon arrival, carefully wrapped and sent with genuine care.

But it was the twins that informed him of the latest concern; that this bookshop nestled in shadows of N109 was secretly training children to gather and run intel. That, soon, they would start to challenge and push Elysium out of business.

Sylus usually didn’t care for turf wars, as long as what was his remained untouched. But this time - this time there was more than idiotic adults in prevebial pissing wars at stake.

So, he decided that he should visit and judge himself.

Quietly, on a night that seemed just as good as any other, he emerged between one shadow and the next, wrapped in black and red mist, the only announcement of his presence at all a small the tinkling of a tarnishing brass bell above his head.

The door closed behind him, no squeak from it's hinges, and, at first glace, the place he had walked into was clearly what it was advertised to be: a bookstore.

Complete with the mixed smells of coffee brewing and slowly decaying pages, lamps turned down to lower levels, and a nook in the corner of mismatched armchairs and coffee tables for those who needed to rest.

But there were no people, young or old, that he could see.

The Onychinus leader began to peak around winding shelves when a peculiar sound caught his attention; that of something being pushed away.

Crimson eyes jumped to the location, a hidden door in a wall, all painted the same color, slid partially open to show a bright room behind it, and as someone stepped out, the rumbling of the door was heard once more as it closed.

Looking down as you exited the back room, you tied back your half apron, beginning your normal introduction habitually. "Welcome to Nevermore. What may I help you with today?"

And as your fingers tightened the bow at your back, you finally looked up, body freezing instinctively before a predator. "M - Mr. Sylus. Good evening."

He didn't move, the dark clothes he wore blending in with the shelves shadows. A thumb in each pant pocket, he tilted his head just so, taking you in, from your hair down to your scuffed sneakers, and then back up again. Slower.

You shivered as those gemstone eyes finally locked on yours. "I've heard that your store has...unique collections for purchase."

That statement seemed to quickly melt your frozen nerves. In a split second something dark crossed your face before it melted back to one of customer service perfection. "I'm afraid we don't stock what you're looking for."

He chuckled, something light from the back of his throat as he took one more step toward you.

You didn't flinch. Just blinked, watching him through narrowed eyes.

"I didn't think so," he concluded, eyes jumping briefly to the door hidden in the wall. "But, this store does seem to hold secrets."

"Don't most things in the N109 Zone?"

A hum of acknowledgement. "You have become quite the talk in channels most don't ever want to be a part of."

That seemed to catch you by surprise - the emotion clear in the furrowing of your brows; the way one hand lifted to tap a finger against your chin as you thought.

You recently had some interesting interactions with patrons, but you didn't think too much about them. It wasn't too uncommon that you may not have something that a customer was looking for.

But the way that Sylus had asked about 'unique collections' got you thinking.

One. Two. Three taps before you refocused on the man before you. "I have no qualms with any one faction here. We serve equally on all fronts."

"Yes, but it does seem that at times this is less a bookstore and more of a carrier service."

A blink, and then a heavy sigh. The kids.

"That's not why they come," you said, with a shake of your head. And then, "Would...would you like to see?"

A large hand stretched out just past you. "Lead the way, sweetie."

With a scrunch of the nose at the nickname, you turned back the way you came, hand touching the wall in front of you briefly to find a small divot, just big enough for your fingertips to slip into, and pulled it open.

The inside of this room was everything the store wasn't. Bright, playful colors on the wall - shelves stacked with a range of books from large, floppy picture books to thick volumes. Toys of various types were scattered on the floor and lower shelves, and three large tables were somehow crammed into the space, covered in paper, crayons, puzzle pieces, and a couple of games.

For a moment, all those inside froze, their eyes not on you, but the man at your side. All felt their hearts skip a beat - trouble. They were in trouble.

But Sylus only blinked, brows furrowing just so. "What is it that you do here, exactly?"

"Be a safe harbor for those the world has forgotten about," you said with ease. And then, to the children, "It's alright."

Their eyes jumped between the two adults, lanky limbs still immobilized in fear until one young girl stepped forward, dark hair in two braids, eyes bright and green as spring grass.

She walked straight up to the Onychinus leader, and made a motion with her hand for him to come near.

Slowly, as if afraid of starling her away, the man bent downward until one knee rested on the ground. He did not smile, did not frown, just watched as the girl reached for his hand.

He allowed her to take it, opening palm up. It was almost comical to see her small fist in the middle of it. And when she pulled away, there rested a small marble, one with a swirling red pattern within it's glass shell.

With a nod, she turned back and headed toward a toy, and the spell over the room was broken. Kids moved back into their motions of before, and the adults were quickly ignored.

Sylus cocked his head as you softly snorted, your head tiled, watching him. They followed him as he stood. "Congratulations, you have been gifted a marble from Raven. You've been accepted."

"Oh? Does she not give them to everyone?"

You shook your head, a smile tugging on your lips. "Only those she thinks are special."

Before a quip could escape his lips, the bell chimed once more, pulling your attention away. When you saw who it was, however, you frowned, your face darkening in anger.

"Lock it, Jay," you ordered, turning back into the store. Sylus followed almost instinctively, and the door slid shut as soon as he was free of the frame.

But this - this moment, he found himself wanting to watch. Quietly as he had came, he slipped into the shelves, stalking around to get a better view of the situation.

"Sweetheart, how ya been?" The man who had entered drawled. He was tall, dressed in a three piece suit that seemed just slightly too big, blonde hair slicked back from his face.

"Mr. Chadwick," you said coolly, slowly moving to the raised bar near the side wall that served as a check out counter. You slid behind it, resting one hand on top of the smooth surface, as the other dropped to your side.

With the overconfidence of a man that has never been told no, he leaned forward, one arm on the counter, flashing a sharp smile your way. "This is the third time I've come here - and it's your last chance."

"This is the third time I'm telling you that I don't have what you're asking for, Mr. Chadwick."

With a heavy, sarcastic sigh, the blonde man slipped one hand back, moving his jacket just enough to show a piece at his side.

Your hand wrapped around the neck of the shotgun hidden below you.

"I keep tellin' ya, you need to give me your clientele list."

"And I keep tellin' ya," you mimicked, unkindly, "I don't have one."

Half a breath and both weapons were drawn, and behind the man, crimson eyes watched. Waiting.

What would the shopkeeper do next?

"I am kindly asking you to leave my store, Mr. Chadwick, and not return."

"Can't do that sweetheart."

Your eyes clocked as his finger clicked off the safety, but you were one step faster, and with a pull of the trigger, two slugs landed in his chest, right at heart level - hard enough he slammed into the side of a shelf before dropping to the floor, quite dead.

With a sigh and the ease of someone used to this sort of happenings, you took out the shells, throwing them in the trash behind you without looking, and reloaded the gun, clicking the safety on and returning it to your hiding spot.

Sylus watched, saying nothing, as you rounded the counter stepping in a way that seemed to merge your shadow with that of the shelf, and then, of it's own volition, the shadow moved.

Like a ripple of ink, the edges pushed outward, moving under the body and over blood splatters on various surfaces. And then, curiously enough, the body of Mr. Chadwick seemed to sink into the shadow itself.

While, for him, the time seemed to stretch with the oddity of current reality, this seemed to happen in only a matter of seconds. And then, clear as the bell above the door, a deep, old voice.

"Delicious."

A gray brow jumped as he eyed you, very unbothered, heading once more to the back room. You took pause, turning to face him. Once more your eyes locked as you seemed to try and figure out the enigma before each of you.

"A unique Evol?"

"No," you replied, sliding your hands into your apron pockets. "Some people have guardian angels. Some of us have demons that don't ever seem to let go."

And then you turned and walked back, knocking on the door and telling the kids it was safe once more.

Sylus, still a tad cautious of frightening the children, walked back with you, standing just behind your small frame as one of the children looked at you, face puckered in confusion. "That was a really loud bang. What happened?"

"Oh, Edgar just knocked over a shelf. Don't worry. Mr. Sylus here helped me clean it up."

And, as if to prove a point, your shadow seemed to stretch to a nearby stack of books, pushing it over.

Satisfied with your answer, and giggling at the scattered books, the child turned, running back to a table half covered in coloring sheets with a, "Silly, Edgar!"

"The demon is named...Edgar," the deep baritone voice said to your right.

"Fitting, isn't it?" You turned, mirth in your eyes, to the man in the doorway. "Why are you here, exactly?"

Sylus sucked in a breath, mimicking your lean on the doorframe. "I was curious about the rumors of this place, but I have never been one to act on what I don't know."

You hummed, watching him as if you might spot a different answer on his face. "And now?"

"Now," he said, taking in a breath, "I think I would like to get to know the shopkeeper just a little more."

"Not Edgar, too?" you teased, "He'll be hurt."

Sylus chuckled, shaking his head. "What do you say?"

You bit your lip, hand coming once more to tap your chin in mock thought.

One. Two. Three.

"I think I wouldn't mind that at all."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

This one got a bit away from me, I think. 😅

Created by @thechaoticarchivist . DO NOT REPOST STORIES! Reblogs and comments are always welcome ♥

[glassandhoney]

𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗸 - sylus qin oneshot

summary — After getting rejected by your college crush back in freshman year, you swore off dating—why bother when it clearly wasn’t meant for you? Years later, thanks to a well-meaning setup by your friends, you find yourself on a blind date… only to come face-to-face with him again. Totally not awkward—until he suggests something that makes it even worse. Or… maybe not?

pairings — excrush!sylus x fem!reader

content/tags— fluff, angst if you squint REALLY hard, blind dates, reader is traumatized, classic 10 dates trope, tara and her bf is their cupid, timeskips, kissing, SFW, second chance romance + more!

words— 10k

—

“One caramel macchiato!”

The barista calls out your name, drawing your attention from the glow of your laptop screen for the first time since you sat down. You rise, stretching slightly as you make your way to the counter. She greets you with a warm smile, and you return it with a quiet one of your own before taking your coffee and slipping back into your seat.

After a few moments, the front door swings open with a soft chime, letting in a brief gust of warm air and the unmistakable voice of your co-worker.

“Hey!” Tara calls out, already grinning as she spots you.

You lift your head from your coffee with the energy of a drained phone battery, offering her a weak wave. She's radiant, as usual—like someone who actually slept last night and didn’t just survive on caffeine and deadlines.

She slides into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation, eyes practically sparkling. That look. You know that look. You brace yourself.

“So,” she begins, drawing the word out like a plot twist. “You remember Ethan from accounting? Super cute, like ‘bakes-his-own-bread’ cute? Well—”

You groan softly, slumping forward until your forehead nearly kisses the table.

“Tara, I’m running on four hours of sleep and two existential crises. Please don’t set me up with someone who makes sourdough starters for fun.”

She just laughs, undeterred. “That’s exactly why you need someone! Balance, babe.”

You sip your coffee like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the mortal world.

“I’ve been single for almost my whole life, and I’m planning to be until I reach 35,” you reply flatly, sipping your coffee like it’s a shield.

Tara’s smile falters into a small frown, her brows knitting together. “Thirty-five? That’s so… specific. Why 35?”

“Because by then I’ll either have my life together,” you say, waving vaguely at your open laptop, “or I’ll be so far gone into the abyss of burnout that no one will want to date me anyway.”

She gasps like you just said you don’t believe in love or oat milk.

“That is the most depressing thing I’ve heard all week. And I sat through a budget meeting yesterday.”

You lift a brow. “And yet, you’re still trying to play Cupid.”

“Exactly!” She sits up straighter, suddenly energized. “Which is why you need someone before you become a recluse who hisses at the sunlight and lives off instant noodles.”

You squint at her over your mug. “That sounds like a dream, actually.”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, but she’s laughing. “You are impossible.”

“And yet, you keep trying.”

“Because I believe in love. And also because you’re too pretty to be left to your own self-sabotaging devices.”

You groan again and slump further into your seat.

““It’s Evan’s request!” she pouts, her lower lip jutting out like a child denied dessert.

You groan instantly at the mention of her beloved boyfriend. Of course. Of course she’d do anything for him. Ride or die—for his romantic fantasies involving you and some stranger.

“Who is it this time?” you deadpan. “A cousin? Colleague?” You narrow your eyes. “And before you say it—I’ve had enough of his friends. They’re all terrible on their first dates.”

You sigh and rest your cheek in your palm, memories flashing like a highlight reel of awkward handshakes, painfully long silences, and one guy who brought his résumé to dinner “just in case.”

Tara winces a little but pushes on like the soldier of love she is. “It’s his old college coursemate!” she insists, leaning forward dramatically.

“That means nothing to me.”

“He’s actually nice!” she protests. “Evan swears he’s not like the others.”

“You said that about the one who only talked about cryptocurrency.”

“Okay, that was a dark time. But this guy’s different. He reads books! He collects vinyls!”

You arch a tired brow. “So he’s a passionate adult. The bar is so low, Tara.”

She grins, undeterred. “Just one date?”

“I have deadlines.” You look at the report you have to finish before your meeting tomorrow morning before your boss starts to passive-agressively call you out, again.

“It’s coffee.”

“I already have coffee.” You lift your mug in emphasis.

“It’s free coffee, and he might be hot.”

You hesitate.

She sees it.

Victory blooms on her face like sunshine after rain.

“Fine, this is the last time.” You mutter, in which Tara smiles. “Yay! I really think this time it’s gonna be the one for you! I’ve seen his face and Evan told me things about him. He’s also very…” She made the classic money gesture—rubbing her thumb against her fingers—while grinning. “Cha-ching.”

You groaned harder at that. Fine, one last try.

By the time you finally cave and go on the date—mostly out of guilt, slight curiosity, and Tara’s relentless texting—you’re already bracing for disappointment. But nothing could have prepared you for this.

Because sitting across the table, casually sipping his drink like he didn’t just shatter your soul five years ago, is none other than your college crush from freshman year. The same guy you’d nursed a hopeless, head-over-heels attraction for. The same one you’d confessed to in a moment of naive bravery—and the same one who turned you down with that polite, almost apologetic smile that still haunts your occasional 3 a.m. spiral.

You stare at him, and he looks up with a pleasant smile, clearly having no idea who you are.

And that’s the moment it hits you.

Maybe love really isn’t for you. Maybe the universe is playing a long, humiliating game of romantic dodgeball, and you just got hit square in the face—again.

You force a smile, heart sinking into your gut as you stir your drink just to have something to do with your hands.

“So…” he says, leaning in slightly, “have we met before? You look kind of familiar.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Sylus Qin.” He offers you a handshake, his voice calm, smooth—like it hasn't shattered your ego once before.

You blink at him. The name confirms it, not that you needed it. You would’ve recognized that voice anywhere. The same one that used to echo down lecture halls and occasionally star in your daydreams back when love felt like something soft and full of promise.

Your hand hovers for a second too long before you take his. His grip is firm, warm. Too familiar.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like you’re a stranger with slightly interesting eyes.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat and slipping your hand back like it burned. “Nice to meet you… again.”

A small crease forms between his brows. “Mind reminding me where we met, Miss?”

Your smile tightens. “Freshman year. Psych class. I was the idiot who met you at the campus entrance and confessed and gave you a letter?”

His face stills. Then slowly—too slowly—his eyes widen with dawning recognition. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say, sipping your drink and praying for the floor to open up beneath you. “That girl.”

He opens his mouth to say something—maybe an apology, maybe nothing—but you cut in before he can gather a sentence.

“But don’t worry,” you add lightly, voice wrapped in practiced indifference. “I’m not here for a second chance. I was tricked into this by a mutual friend. Apparently Evan thinks we’d be great together.”

Sylus leans back, still watching you. “So… this is a blind date?”

“Unfortunately.”

He hums, gaze flicking over you with a hint of something unreadable. “Guess he forgot to mention the history.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Guess he didn’t know anything. It was a one second thing anyway”

The silence stretches—but it’s not exactly awkward. Just loaded.

And part of you already knows: this night is not going to go the way you expected.

And suddenly, you become extra conscious of what you’re wearing.

The blouse you’d thrown on in a rush this morning suddenly feels too casual, too slouchy. Your jeans, just slightly faded at the knees. Your hair—was it frizzy? Was there coffee foam on your lip?

Of all the days to run on autopilot.

You shift in your seat, subtly tugging at your sleeves like that’ll magically sharpen your entire look. But it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Really seen you.

Sylus watches you with a calm expression, but there's something unreadable in his eyes now—like he's reassessing, recalibrating. You don’t know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. And you hate that it matters. But it does.

Because no matter how long it’s been, or how hard you tried to file him away as a “learning experience,” some tiny, ridiculous part of you still wants to be… enough.

Still wants to make him regret saying no back then.

You force yourself to sit up straighter, chin tilted, like you’re fine. Like your heart isn’t doing little nervous pirouettes.

“Anyway,” you say, breaking the silence with a half-laugh, “how ironic is this?”

He quirks a brow. “Ironic?”

“Fate clearly has a sense of humor.”

Sylus’s lips curl into a faint smile. “Maybe. Or maybe fate’s giving me a second chance to get it right.”

Your breath catches—just slightly. You tell yourself not to read into it.

But it’s too late for that, too.

“Uhm, moving on,” you say quickly, trying to shove the tension back into its box. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes fixed on the condensation forming on your glass. “What do you do now?”

Sylus leans back slightly, giving you a moment of reprieve from his steady gaze.

“I’m a software engineer,” he says, casually swirling his drink. “I mostly do freelance contract work. Apps, platforms, tech solutions for startups—you know, the usual keyboard warrior stuff.”

You nod, impressed despite yourself. “So you’re the guy everyone calls when their website crashes at 2 a.m.”

He chuckles softly. “Something like that. Less dramatic, more debugging-induced migraines.”

His laugh still sounds like it did years ago—low, easy, the kind that used to make you turn your head without meaning to.

You resist the urge to sigh.

“And you?” he asks, leaning in a little. “What did you end up doing?”

You shrug. “Marketing. Mostly brand copy and strategy. I sit in a lot of Zoom meetings, say ‘circle back’ more than I’d like, and write things that sound exciting but mean almost nothing.”

He grins. “Ah, professional illusionist. Respect.”

You huff a laugh. “Exactly.”

For a moment, there’s quiet—not awkward, just… contemplative. A shared pause between two people who were once on completely different pages, now reading from the same one without meaning to.

And though you’re still wary, still guarded, there’s a small flicker of something unspoken between you. Maybe.

You push it aside. For now.

You clear your throat, trying to push through the lingering weirdness. “So… you’re still based around here?”

“Mhm,” Sylus nods, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Moved back about a year ago. Needed a change of scenery. Or maybe I was subconsciously following a ghost from freshman year.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you stare at him over the rim of your glass.

“Relax,” he says with a lazy grin. “Joking.”

“Right,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Obviously.”

He leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin lightly on one hand. “You always get this flustered, or is it just me?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I am not flustered.”

“You’re stirring an empty cup,” he points out, amusement glittering in his eyes.

You glance down—and sure enough, you’re absentmindedly swirling your straw in a drink that’s been gone for five minutes.

You set it down a little too quickly. “It’s a nervous habit.”

“Cute one,” he murmurs.

You glare. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Tease people on blind dates?”

“Only the ones I rejected five years ago and then ran into completely by accident,” he says, smile widening. “It’s a rare demographic.”

You groan and drop your face into your hands for a second. “This is so weird.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s not terrible.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You think this is going well?”

“I mean, you’re adorable when you’re awkward,” he says without missing a beat. “And I don’t not want to be here.”

You blink. That’s… not what you expected.

Sylus shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Honestly? I think it’s kind of poetic. Terrible timing back then. Maybe this time the timing’s just… less terrible.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re still mentally stuck on “adorable.”

So instead, you reach for your glass again—forgetting it’s empty.

He laughs.

You roll your eyes. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

“Nope,” he says, lifting his drink in a small toast. “But I am buying your next one.”

And despite yourself, despite everything—your lips twitch into a smile.

“What about dinner?” he suggests, casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him. “We’re… dragging this date?”

Sylus lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Dragging? That’s a strong word. I was thinking about extending.”

You squint at him suspiciously. “You sure this isn’t a social experiment? See how long you can tolerate the girl who confessed to you in college?”

He grins. “You keep bringing that up like I’m not flattered.”

You scoff. “You rejected me.”

“Regretfully,” he says, placing a hand over his chest with exaggerated sincerity. “I was young. Emotionally unavailable. Spiritually lost.”

You deadpan. “You were nineteen and dating a girl who made jewelry out of spoons.”

“Ah, Simone,” he says with a nostalgic sigh. “She had a vision.”

“She made you wear a fork necklace for a month.”

He laughs, and you hate that it sounds so nice. Like warm sunlight through a café window. Dangerous. “You know a lot about me, huh?”

“Knew. I literally had a crush on you.”

You glance at your watch. You could go home. Eat leftovers. Watch a true crime doc you’ll forget by morning. Or…

You exhale. “Fine. Dinner.”

He blinks. “That easy?” You didn’t reply when you stood up and he immediately followed you out.

The restaurant Sylus brings you to is tucked away on a quieter street—a cozy, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and old jazz humming from a record player in the corner. Not fancy, but warm. Intentional.

“This feels… not like a first date spot,” you say as he pulls out a chair for you.

“That’s because it isn’t,” he replies, sliding into the seat across from you. “It’s a make-up-for-my-past-mistakes spot.”

You squint at him as you open the menu. “Do you have a designated restaurant for your emotional failures?”

“Only the meaningful ones.”

You snort. “So you bring a lot of people here.”

He winks. “Just you, actually.”

Your cheeks flush again—great—and you pretend to focus very hard on the pasta section. He watches you, though, openly and without shame, chin resting on his hand like he’s perfectly content just sitting across from you.

The waiter comes, and you place your orders. After he walks off, the silence between you settles again—but this time, it’s quieter. Softer.

“So…” you say, twirling the condensation on your glass, “you really didn’t remember me when you saw me at first?”

Sylus winces. “I remembered your face. Just… didn’t connect it right away.” You gave him a knowing look, in which he sighs.

"Fine, I knew it was you ever since I entered that cafe."

“Hm.”

“But when you brought up the confession and letter?” He taps the table lightly. “It all came back like it was yesterday. I even remember the pen color—dark green ink, right?”

Your eyes widen. “Okay, weird.”

“You wrote in cursive,” he continues, grinning. “All neat and swirly. I thought it was sweet.”

“And you read it after rejecting me?,” you asked him, stabbing a breadstick like it personally offended you.

He chuckles. “Hey, in my defense—I was an idiot. The kind who didn’t know what he wanted until years later.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, biting into the breadstick, “welcome to the club.”

Your food arrives midway through him telling a story about a client who paid him in garden vegetables. You’re genuinely laughing now—soft and a little surprised, like you forgot what it felt like to enjoy someone’s company this way.

Over dinner, the teasing doesn’t stop, but it shifts—less sharp, more playful. He leans in sometimes when you speak, nods like what you're saying matters. And every so often, he looks at you like maybe this was never just a coincidence.

When dessert comes, he casually pushes the plate of tiramisu toward you with a fork already ready.

“I didn’t order dessert,” you protest.

“You did,” he says, “you just didn’t know it yet.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet, here you are.”

You roll your eyes, but you do take a bite.

It’s unfairly good.

“...Damn it.”

“Exactly.” He smiles, slow and warm. “So... what do you say we drag this date a little longer?”

You stare at him, fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Then it hits you.

You can’t.

Not like this. Not with someone who clearly rejected you once, and maybe—just maybe—is only entertaining this out of guilt or curiosity. The warmth in his eyes, the way he leans in, the softness in his smile... it all feels too good, too dangerous.

And you've read some post on tiktok saying if a man rejected you once they shouldn't be in your life ever again. Even though you never really follow social media's advices, you're still unsure.

Because you remember exactly what it felt like to have hope, only to have it shut down with a kind smile and a polite “I’m sorry.”

And no matter how nice dinner is, no matter how different he seems now—you’re still you. And he’s still Sylus Qin.

The boy who took your letter and probably never really read the insides rather than a glance, and threw it out (That is what your dramatic heart convinced you happened)

You put the fork down slowly, like it's suddenly too heavy. “I can’t do this,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Sylus straightens slightly. “What?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between you two. “Dinner. The... date. Whatever this is.”

His brows draw together. “Did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, looking down at the half-eaten tiramisu like it holds answers. “No. You were—you are fine. And that’s the problem.”

He blinks, clearly confused. “You lost me.”

You take a slow breath. “You don’t remember how that felt, do you? Being rejected by someone you genuinely liked—someone who barely noticed you until years later. Someone who now decides, over pasta and charming smiles, that maybe you're worth a shot.”

Sylus is quiet for a moment, no longer smiling.

“You think that’s why I’m here?” he asks, voice low.

You shrug, arms folding tightly across your chest. “I don’t know why you’re here. And that’s the part I don’t think I can handle.”

There’s a pause between you—long and sharp.

“I didn’t come here to mess with you,” he says, tone more serious now. “I didn’t remember right away, but once I did, I chose to stay. I’m not trying to make up for the past. I just... thought this could be something new.”

You look up at him, uncertain.

“I get it,” he adds gently. “If you don’t want to keep going, I won’t push. But I’m not that guy from freshman year anymore. And maybe you’re not that girl either.”

You hesitate, heart torn between a self-defense mechanism you’ve polished to perfection—and the stupid, stubborn flicker of curiosity he somehow reignited.

You glance down again, then quietly push the dessert plate back to him.

“I think I’m still her...and uhm, I need a little space,” you say.

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

The server returns with the check, and Sylus pays without question waving in dismissal at your attempt to sneak in your card as well. You both rise, the air between you heavier now, but honest.

He walks you to the door, hands in his pockets. “For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I’m glad I saw you again.”

You manage a small nod, already halfway out the door, already fighting the part of you that wants to turn back.

Maybe later.

Maybe next time.

Maybe.

One month later

The coffee shop’s the same.

Same mellow jazz humming from the speakers. Same barista who still gives you a warm smile and extra whipped cream when she thinks you look tired. Same seat by the window, where your laptop sits untouched, your fingers curled around a lukewarm mug of cappuccino.

But you’re not the same.

Not entirely.

Because ever since that dinner—since him—you haven’t quite been able to return to your emotional baseline. There’s a small ache under your ribs when you let your guard down. A lingering sense of something unfinished.

Tara drops into the seat across from you, smoothie in one hand, far too much energy in the other.

“You’re avoiding the question again,” she says, poking your arm with her straw.

You don’t look up. “What question?”

“The Sylus Question."

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You sigh. “There’s nothing to say.”

Tara leans in, unconvinced. “You were gone for almost three hours. You came back looking like you’d seen a ghost and then refused to talk about it. Something happened.”

You stay quiet, eyes fixed on the steam curling from your drink. And for a while, she just watches you—not pressing, for once.

Then quietly, you say, “I never told you about him, did I?”

She blinks. “Told me what?”

“Sylus wasn’t just some random guy Evan picked out of a lineup. I knew him. From college.”

Her brows lift. “Wait—what?”

You nod slowly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Freshman year. I had the biggest crush on him. We had psych class together. I wrote him this ridiculous handwritten confession letter like I was living in some second-rate teen drama.”

Tara’s jaw drops. “You wrote him a letter?”

“In green ink,” you mutter. “Cursive. I poured my heart out. He was nice about it. Rejected me politely. But still... it stuck with me.”

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “And you, out of all people just proceed with the date?”

You finally look up, your expression tight. “Because the moment he sat down and saw him smile like he didn’t even recognize me, it all came rushing back. I felt stupid. Like I was nineteen again, waiting for a reply that never came.”

Tara leans back slowly, eyes softer now. “You never said any of that.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” you murmur. “You were so excited to help me. And I thought I could handle it. I didn’t know it would be him!  But after the date... I don’t know. He was kind. Charming. All the things I used to like about him. And somehow that made it worse.”

She studies you for a long moment. “You didn’t ask Evan for his number?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t dare to. Because what if he was only being nice to be nice? What if he was curious? Or worse—what if it meant nothing at all to him and I just end up falling again?”

Tara exhales slowly. “Evan said Sylus asked about you. He didn’t push. Just wondered if you were okay.”

Your heart gives a quiet, reluctant thud.

“I think you’re still thinking about someone you saw once a month ago,” she says gently. “That kinda says everything.”

You fall silent, eyes drifting to the window where the light hits just right, shadowing the table in soft gold. You remember his smile. The way he looked at you—not like he was sorry, but like he wanted to know you again. For real this time.

“Do you think…” you start, then pause, swallowing. “Do you think I messed it up?”

Tara doesn’t even hesitate. She reaches for her phone and gives you a raised eyebrow. “Should I text Evan?”

You stare at the screen.

Maybe you should.

You stare at Tara’s phone like it’s a bomb she’s about to detonate.

“What would you even say?” you ask, cautiously.

Tara shrugs, already typing. “Something neutral. Friendly. Non-dramatic. ‘Hey, can you send Sylus’s number to [Name]? She forgot to get it that night.’”

“I didn’t forget.”

She glances up, grinning. “Exactly. That’s why it’ll sound innocent.”

You hesitate. Your fingers tighten around your cup.

Tara pauses, thumbs hovering. “Do you want me to hit send?”

There’s a pause. A long, uncertain one. But your silence is a maybe, and she knows you well enough to hear it.

Send.

“Done,” she says brightly, locking her phone like she didn’t just possibly alter the trajectory of your emotional well-being.

You groan and sink further into your seat. “You’re evil.”

“I’m efficient,” she corrects. “Also, you’re welcome.”

You don’t respond. Your mind’s already spinning—what you’ll say, how it’ll sound, what he’ll think. If he’ll even reply.

You don’t have to wait long.

Tara’s phone buzzes. She unlocks it, reads the message, then slides the phone across the table to you.

Evan: Yeah, sure. He’s actually been meaning to reach out, but didn’t want to push. Here’s his number. Hope she’s doing okay.

You stare at the number for a few seconds, your heart weirdly loud in your chest.

“He was going to reach out,” Tara says softly. “He was waiting for you.”

You don’t say anything. You just copy the number into your own phone. Your thumb hovers over the message screen for way too long. You delete three different drafts before settling on the simplest version possible.

You: Hey. It’s me. From that very extended blind date. Mind if we talk?

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Then you both wait.

A few agonizing minutes pass. You sip your now-cold coffee. Tara picks at her muffin like she’s trying not to stare too obviously. You check your phone again. Nothing.

And then—finally—your screen lights up.

Sylus: Hey. Wow. Hi.

Sylus: I was hoping you’d text. Where should we start—apologies or second chances?

Your breath catches, somewhere between a laugh and a nervous sigh. You glance up at Tara, eyes wide.

She grins. “Well?”

You look back down at the screen, smile tugging at your lips before you can stop it.

You: Maybe… coffee. One cup. No letters. No expectations.

Sylus: One cup. No letters. Just you. When?

And this time, you don’t hesitate.

You: Tomorrow? Same café, 4pm?

Sent.

You stare at the message, heart tapping against your ribs like it’s trying to make a run for it. Across from you, Tara’s holding her breath with a weirdly intense look.

“I asked him,” you murmur.

Tara’s hands shoot up in silent victory. “Yes. Finally.” Then her voice drops, more sincere. “You okay?”

You nod—small, uncertain. “I don’t know what I want from this.”

“Then start with what you don’t want,” she offers. “You don’t want it to end with silence. Again.”

Your phone buzzes.

Sylus: I’ll be there. And I promise not to pretend we’re strangers this time.

Your lips twitch. You hate how fast your fingers move when you type back.

You: Good. Because I’m done pretending too.

—

You sat at the coffee table, waiting—nervously fiddling with the rim of your cup as your eyes flicked toward the door every few seconds. The café felt louder than usual, or maybe it was just your thoughts making too much noise.

What were you even doing here?

A month had passed. You should’ve let it go. But something about the way he’d looked at you that night—surprised, yes, but not indifferent—kept looping in your head like an unfinished sentence.

Your fingers stilled.

The door chimed.

You didn’t turn right away, but you felt it—the shift. The quiet recognition, the way the barista paused mid-sentence to smile, how a familiar set of footsteps approached the table.

“Hey,” Sylus said.

You looked up.

He hadn’t changed, but something in his posture was different. Softer, maybe. Less guarded.

“Hey,” you replied, quieter than intended.

He glanced at the cup in front of you. “Did you order for me again?”

You smirked. “Habit.”

“Dangerous. I could’ve turned into someone who drinks oat milk lavender lattes.”

“Then we’d have a real problem.”

That made him laugh. And you hated how nice it still sounded.

He slid into the seat across from you, exhaling slowly like even he wasn’t sure what came next.

You both sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle—not awkward, not entirely comfortable either. Just real.

“So,” he started, eyes meeting yours, “are we pretending this is just coffee?”

You paused, then shook your head. “No pretending this time.”

His gaze lingered. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He smiled faintly. “Because maybe I was wrong about a lot of things back then. But mostly... because I don’t want to be wrong about you again.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to keep your tone even, but you can already feel your chest tightening.

Sylus gives a small, breathy laugh and looks down at his hands. “I mean I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Since that night.”

Your eyebrows lift, skeptical. “We barely talked.”

“That’s the thing,” he says, meeting your gaze. “Even when you weren’t saying much, I could feel it. That weight between us. Like there was more. Like you knew something I didn’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re not sure if you can. Because part of you wants to believe he means this, and another part still remembers the awkwardness of freshman year—of your letter, of his rejection, of everything that made you feel small.

Sylus seems to sense it.

“I know I didn’t handle things well back then,” he says. “And I don’t expect us to magically reset, or rewind. I just… wanted a chance. A real one this time. No setups, no pressure, no expectations.”

A beat.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You know this is kind of insane, right?”

He smiles softly. “The best things usually are.”

You stare at him—at his hopeful expression, at the way he’s sitting there with nothing but his words and his coffee and maybe.

You look away, jaw tightening. “If we hadn’t gone on that blind date, none of this would’ve happened.”

There's a pause. You expect him to deny it, to give some sweet romantic line about fate. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he says quietly, “You’re right.”

You glance back at him, surprised by the honesty.

“If we didn’t go on that blind date,” he continues, “we probably would’ve gone on living like strangers who once shared a college campus and a forgotten letter. But we did go. And I saw you again. And it... shifted something.”

You scoff under your breath. “You’re making it sound like a movie.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives a soft laugh. “I didn’t expect it either. I thought you’d be another awkward coffee and polite goodbye. But then you walked in and looked at me like you already knew who I was—and I couldn’t stop wondering why.”

You stay silent, the edge in your expression softening, but only slightly.

“You’re still mad,” he notes gently.

“I’m still trying to understand what this is,” you reply. “If it’s just guilt. Nostalgia. Or something you’ll forget in a week.”

Sylus leans back, eyes steady on yours.

“I don’t know what it is yet either,” he says honestly. “But I’d like to find out.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes slightly. “And how exactly are you going to find out? Expect me to write you a letter again?”

Sylus smiles—not smug, not overly confident. Just steady.

“While it doesn’t sound so bad to receive one from you again, I have another idea,” he says. “But how about this: ten dates.”

You blink. “What?”

“Ten dates,” he repeats. “Maybe romantic, but not dramatic. Just… ten chances. To talk. To laugh. To see if this—whatever this is—is real.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “That sounds like a really desperate Netflix series.”

“Yeah, well, desperate is fair,” he replies with a half-shrug. “You’re kind of terrifying.”

That almost makes you laugh, but you suppress it. “Why ten?”

“Because I’m stubborn,” he says, leaning forward just a little. “And because if I can’t convince you by the tenth, I’ll back off for good.”

You look down at your cup, pretending to think, though your heart is already pacing.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But so is the fact that I still remember what you wore when you gave me that letter.”

Your head snaps up, and he grins—caught you off guard again.

You sigh, long and tired. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be charming.”

He raises a brow. “So… that’s a yes?”

You pick up your drink and sip slowly. “It’s a maybe. A probationary date system. Conditional.”

Sylus holds up both hands in surrender. “I’ll take it.”

—

The rain drums lightly against the windows as you sit across from Sylus, sipping a warm chai latte in one of your favorite hideaway spots—a quiet bookstore café tucked behind a florist and barely staffed. You picked it on purpose. Familiar. Safe. Low stakes.

He’s dressed in a dark sweater and jeans, damp at the shoulders from the rain, hair slightly tousled like he ran a hand through it too many times on the way in. You hate that he still looks so... annoyingly good.

“You chose the most intimidating first date spot,” he comments, glancing around at the towering bookshelves and soft jazz playing overhead. “Is this a test?”

You raise a brow. “You said you wanted ten dates. I’m making sure you work for them.”

He chuckles. “So... trial by literature.”

“I heard you read a lot.” You reply as you look at him with a smile, in which he echoes.

“Making some research on me, huh?” He grins. 

“Evan.” 

“Oh, that guy. Was he giving you some biodata check before going on that blind date?”

“Just simple things like what you like, the fact that you collect vinyls amongst other things. Not too much to be considered as a Sylus Genius.” You say while sipping on your drink.

He clicked his tongue, “Then it is my duty to make you one, the only one, perhaps.”

You felt your cheeks grow warmer, what a stupid reason to be blushing, but still, he laughs.

“I like that expression,” He stares at you, eyes soft and bright. Something rare to see from someone like him, yet here you are eliciting it effortlessly.

You're flipping through a poetry book when Sylus suddenly sets his phone down between you both, screen facing up.

It’s a playlist. Titled: “For Date One, if she lets me.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

“I made it last night,” he says, sheepish. “In case conversation got awkward.”

“It already is awkward.”

“Exactly. I planned ahead.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small grin tugging at your lips. You tap the first track. Soft acoustic guitar filters through the speakers—he must’ve connected it to the café’s Bluetooth. You recognize the song. Something nostalgic, early 2000s indie, a little cheesy, a little perfect.

“You’re lucky I like this band,” you murmur.

“I know.” He rests his chin on his hand, watching you a little too closely. “I remembered.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, unsure how he means it—remembered like he Googled your old Spotify profile or remembered as in… back then.

Your stomach knots.

“What else do you remember?” you ask quietly, not fully meaning to say it aloud.

He doesn’t look away. “You always carried two pens to class. A black one for notes. A blue one for thoughts.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going. “You always tied your hair up during exams, even if you didn’t need to. Said it helped you think.”

You don’t respond.

“And you once cried in the back row after a presentation because someone laughed at your voice when you read your script.” He pauses. “I wanted to punch them.”

You blink hard, your throat suddenly tight.

“I wasn’t brave then,” he adds softly. “I should’ve said something. But I never forgot.”

You look away, blinking at the shelves, pretending to read the book in your hands. His words sit between you now, heavy but warm. Sincere.

After a long pause, you whisper, “Ten dates might not be enough.”

Sylus smiles—just barely. “That wasn’t me winning you over, was it?”

You shake your head, voice barely audible. “That was you... remembering me.”

He changes his seat from across you to beside you, before plugging one earphone in your ear while the other in his. “Decided not to let the whole cafe hear your little playlist?”

“Yeah, it’s special for you.”

—

On date two, you’re still not sure how he roped you into this.

“This is a terrible idea,” you say flatly, standing in the vegetable aisle with a shopping basket in hand while Sylus debates between two kinds of veggies like it’s a life-or-death decision.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “You said you wanted something low-key. What’s lower key than cooking?”

“You didn’t say I’d be cooking with you.”

“Technically, I said we would cook. Together.” He turns back to the mushrooms. “Also, you’re stalling.”

“I just don’t trust you to know the difference between coriander and parsley.”

“That’s fair,” he mutters, tossing the better-looking pack into the basket. “I Googled that this morning.”

You try not to smile, but it slips through anyway. He notices. You pretend not to see that he noticed.

His apartment is neat. Not obsessively clean, but clearly lived in. A jacket draped over a chair. A vinyl player in the corner. A pair of reading glasses on the coffee table you didn’t know he wore.

“You can put your stuff anywhere,” he says, motioning to the couch. “Shoes off if you want. I have house socks.”

You glance at him. “House socks?”

“Yeah, you know. Guest socks. Clean, fluffy, magical.”

“…You’re a menace.”

“You’ll thank me in five minutes.”

You do. They’re ridiculously soft.

Cooking is chaotic. He chops vegetables like he’s in a rush to win a knife skills competition. You end up laughing when he puts the pasta in before the water boils and looks genuinely shocked when you scold him.

At one point, you’re both standing shoulder to shoulder at the stove, close enough to feel the heat of his arm. He smells like citrus and something woodsy. Not cologne—like fabric softener and something more subtle.

You steal glances.

He catches one.

“What?”

You shrug. “Nothing.”

“You were looking.”

“Maybe.”

“You were definitely looking.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re cute when you’re trying to pretend this isn’t fun.”

You look up at him. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I know.” He says it gently. “But it means you’re here.”

Dinner is good. Surprisingly so. You eat on the couch, plates balanced on your laps, a dumb movie playing in the background that neither of you really watches.

Halfway through, you notice him watching you again.

“What now?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. You just… look comfortable.”

You pause. It feels like a compliment, but it sinks a little deeper than that.

“Do you want dessert?” he asks quickly, maybe sensing the shift.

You nod. “Only if it’s something you didn’t burn.”

He laughs. “Rude. I bought ice cream. Zero effort involved.”

He disappears into the kitchen. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself lean back into the couch, socks on your feet, a full plate on your lap—and a feeling creeping in that maybe, just maybe, letting go of the past isn’t the same as forgetting it.

It might even be… the start of something new.

—

It’s date seven.

The previous dates were all quiet and cozy, except for date five, where the both of you went to the amusement park. You've learnt that he hates rollercoasters due to their "anti-climatic" push when the controller decided to prolong the time at the top.

But for date seven?

You hadn’t expected a literal night market.

When Sylus texted you the location, you assumed it was a café or some quiet restaurant again — something low-key, in line with your still-fragile dynamic.

Instead, you’re standing in the middle of a lively crowd, colorful lanterns strung overhead and the scent of grilled meat, fried snacks, and sugary things thick in the air.

“Too much?” he asks, appearing beside you with two skewers in hand. One of them is unrecognizable and probably a challenge.

You take the safer one.

“I thought you were the introvert.”

“I am,” he says with a smirk. “But I figured if I keep taking you to quiet places, you’ll keep overthinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And now I’m supposed to... not overthink while holding a fishball skewer?”

“Exactly. It’s very grounding.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t hand it back.

The night air is warm, heavy with humidity and noise, but there’s something oddly comforting about being one small story in a sea of strangers. It makes things easier. Lighter.

Sylus walks beside you, not saying much, just letting the sights and sounds fill in the space between. Sometimes, his hand brushes yours — never on purpose, but never fully accidental either.

You pass a booth with handmade rings, mismatched and colorful.

He pauses. “Pick one.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Date seven deserves a souvenir.”

You glance at the table, then back at him. “If I pick one, are you going to analyze what it means?”

“Undoubtedly.”

You sigh, but eventually point to a silver one with a tiny moon charm.

“Cute,” he says, paying for it without asking.

He slides it onto your finger — careful, slow — and it makes you shiver, just a little.

“You good?” he asks, eyes glancing up at you from beneath his lashes.

“I’m not used to this,” you admit, voice barely audible above the crowd.

“To what?”

“To being… wanted. Again. Still.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then says, “You’ve always been wanted. I was just too late to realize it.”

You don’t respond. Just stare at the ring, then at the ground, then at him. Your heart’s too loud again. Too full of things you swore you’d buried.

Later, after sharing a cup of mango ice and pointing out constellations you can’t actually name, you find yourselves leaning against a closed-up stall. The market’s winding down. The crowd’s thinning.

He nudges your shoulder gently. “Date seven complete.”

You glance at him. “Three more, huh?”

He nods. “Unless you cancel the package early.”

You smile, just slightly. “What’s the return policy?”

“No refunds,” he says, voice low. “But… you could renew.”

You look away too quickly.

And he doesn’t press.

Just stands there beside you, hands in his pockets, like someone who’s willing to wait — even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

The night breeze makes you shiver as you’re wearing nothing more than a thin blouse — a poor choice, you realize now, when the heat of the crowd starts to fade and the open air settles in.

Sylus notices immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, then shrugs off his jacket.

“Here,” he says, holding it out.

You hesitate.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, though your arms betray you by hugging yourself tighter.

“You always say that,” he replies gently, stepping closer. “Let me do one nice thing without making it weird.”

You sigh, but don’t fight it when he drapes the jacket around your shoulders. It’s warm. Smells faintly like him — like cologne and comfort and something you wish you didn’t miss.

You clutch it closer anyway.

He doesn’t comment. Just gives you a small smile and walks beside you again, closer this time, like maybe his presence alone could shield you from the rest of the chill.

And for a second, just a second, you stop resisting how easy it is to lean a little closer.

And as if he’s trying to push his luck, he slowly takes your hand, and interlocks your fingers together, before bringing it in his pockets.

You glance at your hands together before looking up at him, while he looks up front, like whatever he did is natural and was clearly bound to happen for him.

“Seriously?”

He looks at you, “helping you warm up.” He smiles.

—

Date nine.

You hadn’t planned on letting Sylus into your apartment yet.

It’s too personal, too you — a space you’ve protected the way you’ve guarded your heart: meticulously. No loose ends, no open doors.

But it’s raining, and he showed up early with two bags of groceries and a sheepish grin.

“You said you missed home-cooked food,” he says, already toeing off his shoes. “I make a decent curry. Or edible. Let’s start there.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That was weeks ago.”

He shrugs. “I remember things.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. Not when he’s already heading toward your kitchen like he’s been here before — like this isn’t some emotional line being crossed.

The apartment smells like garlic and coconut milk within the hour. Rain taps against your windows. Soft music hums from your phone speaker, something low and jazzy that fills the silence without drowning it.

You lean on the counter as he stirs the pot, sleeves rolled up, focused.

He looks… settled here. Like he belongs in your kitchen. Like the space didn’t mind opening up to him.

It makes something ache in your chest.

“You cook often?” you ask.

“Sometimes. It’s... therapeutic. And cheaper than emotional damage.”

You snort. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable.

Then you ask, “Why are you really doing this? The ten dates, I mean.”

He doesn’t look up at first. Just stirs slowly. Thoughtfully.

“Because I wanted to show you I could mean something to you,” he says quietly. “Without rushing. Without trying to fix what I broke before. Just… be there this time.”

You blink.

The honesty, the simplicity of it — it lands heavier than you expect.

“I don’t need fixing,” you murmur.

“I know.” He finally looks at you. “But you deserve someone who knows that.”

Dinner is warm. Slightly too spicy. You both laugh over it. You tease him for almost setting your pan on fire and he teases you for owning only two forks.

When he leaves later — umbrella in hand, jacket still with you — there’s a folded napkin left under your mug.

On it, in scribbled black ink: “You feel like home. Date Ten’s going to be dangerous.”

You stare at the note long after the door closes behind him.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel afraid of what’s next.

—

At least that’s what you thought you felt.

It has been two weeks, 14 days.

You hadn’t meant to pull away.

Work just... got in the way.

One last-minute project turned into two. A client call stretched past midnight. You started checking your phone less, replying slower. Not intentionally — just the kind of slow fade that happens when real life creeps in.

Sylus doesn’t push. He sends a meme here and there, a good morning text you forget to answer until lunch. A voice note one evening — gentle, teasing — asking if you’re still alive and if he should send a search party or just a very persistent delivery driver with bubble tea.

You laugh, but don’t reply right away.

When you finally do, it’s short. Something like, “Just swamped. Talk soon?”

He leaves it at that. No guilt. No pressure. But still — it lingers.

You miss him.

Worse, you realize it on a Tuesday night, forehead pressed against your desk, your laptop glowing 2:47 a.m. back at you, and all you can think about isn’t the project due at 8 a.m.

It’s that you haven’t seen Sylus in almost two weeks.

And you don’t know what Date Ten is supposed to be anymore.

That was until you heard your front doorbell ring.

You blink, groggy. It’s late. Not a normal time for someone to suddenly show up, but close enough that your heart stutters as you push up from your desk.

Padding to the door in mismatched socks and a hoodie you barely remember putting on, you glance through the peephole.

It’s Sylus.

Holding a paper bag, umbrella folded under his arm, hair damp like he walked the last few steps in the rain.

You hesitate for half a second before opening the door.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft. “I come bearing caffeine and snacks.”

You stare at him.

“I... you didn’t text,” you manage, your voice scratchy with fatigue and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.

“You weren’t replying,” he says simply, not accusing. Just... explaining. “And I figured if I waited for a calendar opening, I’d see you in October.”

That earns a weak laugh from you.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you mumble, stepping aside to let him in. “Work’s been—”

“—hell. I know.” He toes off his shoes and heads to your kitchen like it’s routine now. “I figured you wouldn’t feed yourself properly either.”

You blink at the bag he sets down. Soup. Tea. A small pastry you once said you liked.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says again, but there’s no heat in it.

Just the same gentle, unshakeable Sylus from Date One through Nine. The same one who gave you space, and now—unexpectedly—shows up without asking for anything back.

You exhale slowly, walls slowly lowering.

“I forgot what day it was,” you say.

He smiles faintly. “It’s not Date Ten. Yet. This is just... a bonus round.”

You sit down at the counter. He pours you tea without asking. You watch him, warmth curling up beneath your ribs.

“You didn’t give up.”

“Nope,” he says. “I said ten dates. I’m not going anywhere until you get all ten.”

You look at him. Tired, but soft. Edges worn down by the weeks, but still holding space for him.

You reach for the tea. “Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s call this one... nine and a half.”

Sylus grins. “Nine-point-five. I’ll take it.”

You nurse the cup of tea slowly, letting the heat seep into your fingers. The apartment is dim except for your desk lamp, casting a soft glow across the space. Rain continues tapping against the window, steady and hushed.

Sylus sits on the other side of the counter, watching you — not in a way that makes you self-conscious, but like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Your eyes get glassy when you’re running on four hours of sleep,” he says gently.

You raise a brow. “You make that sound factual.”

“Maybe it is,” he says, and he’s not joking.

There’s something weighted in the silence that follows, but not heavy. Just... full. Brimming with all the things neither of you have dared to say out loud since that blind date started everything again.

You look down at your tea. “I didn’t mean to pull away.”

“I know,” he says. “And I didn’t show up to make you feel bad.”

“Then why did you show up?”

He pauses. And then—

“Because I missed you,” he says, quiet but certain. “And I wanted you to remember what it feels like to be taken care of, even when your world’s on fire.”

You stare at him.

It hits in a strange place — the truth of it, the care, the timing. The softness in his voice that reaches you deeper than any grand gesture ever could.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s your exhaustion. Or maybe it’s the way he hasn’t stopped looking at you like you’re something fragile but worth holding onto.

But when you set your cup down, and say, “Come here,” your voice is steady.

He doesn’t question it. Just moves.

You meet him halfway around the counter. The rain hums in the background, steady and soft. He’s close now — warm, still damp at the edges from the walk over.

You look up at him. “This... doesn’t make us even,” you murmur.

“I’m not trying to settle a score.”

You hesitate. Then, finally—finally—you step into him.

And when you kiss him, it’s slow. Not rushed or desperate. Just a quiet press of lips in the middle of a rainy midnight, in an apartment that suddenly doesn’t feel so tired anymore.

His hand finds the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek. Yours curls into the front of his jacket like you need to hold onto something steady.

It’s not a first kiss full of fireworks or dramatic music.

It’s soft.

Earned.

Real.

And when you pull back, neither of you says anything right away. He just presses his forehead to yours and exhales the smallest, happiest breath.

You smile.

“Ten’s going to be dangerous,” you whisper.

He grins. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got nine and a half reasons to survive it.”

—

You wake up to sunlight sneaking through the curtains and the unmistakable scent of coffee.

For a moment, you think maybe you dreamed it all — the rain, the tea, the kiss.

But then you hear gentle clinking in the kitchen.

You push yourself up from the couch, blanket slipping off your shoulders, and find Sylus standing by your stove like he’s been there a hundred times. One of your mugs in hand. His hair still slightly messy from sleep.

He glances over when he hears you. “Morning.”

His voice is quiet. Familiar. Safe.

“You stayed,” you say, more like a thought than a question.

He tilts his head. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I kissed you and then fell asleep in the middle of your jacket, so I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

Sylus chuckles, crossing the room to hand you a fresh cup of coffee.

You take it with a small, grateful hum and sip. It’s perfect. Just how you like it.

He nods toward the table where he’s already laid out toast and eggs — simple but warm. Intentional.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But I wanted the first morning after our nine-and-a-halfth date to start right.”

You pause. The phrase makes your chest tighten — not in a painful way. Just full. Softened.

“You’re very good at this, you know,” you murmur.

“What? Being your emergency food delivery guy?”

You give him a look, and he smirks, stepping closer until your hip’s pressed lightly against the counter and he’s standing in front of you.

“No,” you say. “At... making it feel easy.”

He shrugs, but there’s something fond in his eyes. “It is easy. When it’s you.”

That line shouldn’t make your heart skip, but it does. And before you can overthink it — again — he leans down and brushes a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips. This one slower, softer than the night before.

“Let me stay a little longer,” he murmurs when you part.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Because for once, you don’t feel the need to run ahead or fall behind. You just want this moment.

His.

A few hours later, Sylus left, and date ten starts.

You’re already suspicious when Sylus tells you not to wear anything too fancy, and even more so when he insists on picking you up himself.

“I swear, if this is a paintball arena—” “It’s not,” he laughs, hand warm around yours as he leads you down a quiet path.

It isn’t until you recognize the stone archway ahead that your heart stumbles. Your old campus.

You blink. “You didn’t.” He raises a brow. “Didn’t what?” “This is where I met you.” “It’s where I saw you,” he corrects gently. “You met me after tripping over your own feet trying to sit in the last row.”

You gasp in mock outrage. “That’s not—okay, that is accurate.”

He grins, tugging you toward one of the empty benches just outside the old lecture hall. The sun’s low, sky blushing gold and soft blue.

“There’s a picnic,” he says, motioning to the small setup — nothing over the top. A blanket, some pastries, cold brew in glass bottles, and a small stack of your favorite snacks.

You sit beside him, heart full and quiet.

“You remembered this place,” you murmur, looking out over the familiar quad where your lives once barely brushed each other’s.

“I remembered you in this place,” he says. “That matters more.”

You glance at him. His expression is soft, unreadable in the best way — like he’s still amazed you’re here.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice quieter, “if we didn’t go on that blind date... we might not have ever come back to this.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Maybe. But I think something else would’ve pulled us together eventually.”

You raise a brow. “That’s bold.” “That’s fate,” he says simply. “Stubborn. Annoying. Kind of like you, actually.”

You nudge him, trying not to laugh. “You just ruined the moment.”

He shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to fix it.”

And he kisses you.

Not a hesitant first. Not a sudden second. But a tenth-date kind of kiss — full of memory, promise, and quiet affection that doesn’t need to prove itself anymore.

When you pull away, you press your forehead to his.

“This is my favorite date,” you whisper.

“Mine too,” he replies. “But... I want to show you something.”

His voice has shifted — softer now, more careful.

You watch as Sylus reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a timeworn envelope. Cream-colored. Slightly bent at the corners. A familiar messy swirl of ink where your handwriting signed his name.

Your breath leaves you. “Is that—?”

He nods slowly. “Your letter. From freshman year.”

Your world tilts a little. “I—I thought I threw it away after… after you said no.”

He looks at the envelope like it’s fragile. Like it’s sacred. “You gave it to me after that group project, remember? You said I could read it or pretend it never existed. I was too much of a coward to say anything back then.”

“You folded it and put it in your backpack,” you murmur. “Didn’t even open it in front of me.”

“I read it that night,” he admits. “Twice.”

Your eyes sting.

“I was young. Stupid. Scared. You wrote something so sincere, and I didn’t know how to be what you deserved. So I told myself it was easier to say nothing than to mess anything up.”

You’re silent. The weight of years pressing in on you. On both of you.

He carefully opens the envelope, pulling out the folded pages inside. The paper’s softened over time, but your words are still there — full of nerves, and longing, and a kind of bravery you barely recognize anymore.

He starts to read it aloud. Not theatrically. Not to embarrass you. But like it matters. Like it’s still beating.

To. Sylus Qin.

This might be stupid, in fact, this may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever encountered in your life. But if I don’t write this down, I might have even more sleepless nights overthinking all these thoughts in my head.

I like you. I really do. Ever since the first day of psych class. It felt like love at first sight but I don’t want to be dramatic with this, I can’t help it. The way you can answer every question the Prof gave us, or when you seemed to laugh so freely at your friend’s awful jokes (I sometimes overheard you guys, he was being pretty loud), Or maybe when you held the door open for everyone that one rainy morning even though you were soaked.

It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just needed you to know. Because I want to be brave, and this letter is the only way I know how. 

You cringe at the words your past self wrote to him, burying your face in your hands with a soft groan. “Why did I have to say all that when I still got upset that you rejected me?”

Sylus chuckles, folding the letter back with surprising care before slipping it into his pocket again. “Because it was honest. And brave. And a little dramatic,” he adds, smirking.

You glare at him through your fingers. “I was nineteen.”

“And very articulate for someone confessing their heart and soul,” he teases. “Honestly, I think that’s when I started falling for you — I just didn’t know what to do with it back then.”

You lower your hands slowly, blinking. “Falling?”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “My pride’s already hanging by a thread.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That’s what you get for carrying emotional artifacts in your coat pocket.”

He grins. “That letter’s my proof that you liked me first.”

You laugh, swatting his shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I’m here. And if you’re still mad about nineteen-year-old me being a dumbass... I can make it up to you.”

“Oh?” you raise a brow, suddenly wary. “How?”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “Ten more dates. Starting with breakfast tomorrow. I’ll even bring coffee and not screw up the order.”

You hesitate — heart twisting, tugged between the embarrassment of the past and the fragile wonder of now.

But then you smile, small and real.

“Only if I don’t have to write any more letters.”

Sylus leans in, nose nearly brushing yours. “No more letters. Just us.”

—

One Year Later

“You shrunk my sweater!” you shout from the bedroom, holding up the tiny, once-cozy piece of clothing like it's been murdered.

Sylus appears in the doorway, toothbrush in hand. “It said warm wash!”

You point an accusatory finger. “It said hand wash only, you chaos gremlin!”

He squints. “Are you sure?”

You shove the tag in his face. “Does this look unsure to you?”

He pauses, leans in, reads the tag, then slowly backs away like it might bite. “Okay. So I may have misread.”

“You may have committed a war crime.”

He raises a brow. “It’s just a sweater.”

“It was my comfort sweater. My post-long-day, rainy-night, sad-girl-hours sweater!”

Sylus tries not to smile. “Sad-girl-hours?”

You glare. “Don’t mock me in my time of grief.”

He disappears for a moment and returns with a hoodie — his hoodie. He tosses it at you.

You catch it and blink. “What’s this?”

“Official replacement,” he says with a shrug. “It’s softer. Smells better. Probably has my good boyfriend energy woven into the threads.”

You squint at him. “Bribery.”

“Compromise,” he says, smug. “Also, you look cuter in my clothes anyway.”

You roll your eyes and pull the hoodie on. It is soft. And warm. And kind of smells like him and cinnamon.

“…You’re lucky I’m forgiving,” you mumble.

“And you’re lucky I’m good at laundry 87% of the time.”

You shake your head, already smiling. “That 13% is dangerous.”

“I live on the edge,” he smirks, walking away.

You sigh dramatically, flopping onto the bed in your oversized hoodie.

“Next time,” you call out, “I’m making you sort socks for a week.”

“Babe!” he yells and comes back at you making you look up at him. “What now?”

He went to sit beside you on the bed, before suddenly crashing on top of you with all his weight. You let out an exaggerated oof as he smothered you like a human blanket.

“My hourly kiss,” he mumbled against your cheek, already pressing a noisy one there.

You squirm under him, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “You’re so heavy, Sylus—get off before my ribs turn into dust!”

“Nope,” he says, settling in even more like a cat refusing to move. “This is rent. You wore my hoodie. Now you pay in affection.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but your arms are already wrapping around him out of habit.

He lifts his head just enough to look down at you, his grin softening into something gentler. “You love it.”

You wrinkle your nose, but your heart betrays you. “I do.”

He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “Good. Now hurry and give me my kiss.”

You roll your eyes but oblige, lips brushing his in something far sweeter than the bickering that led to it.

And somehow, even after a year and countless ridiculous arguments, it still makes your heart race like it’s the first.

“Mmh..” He smiles into the kiss, like he always does.

You try to pull away, but his grip on you tightens and the kiss turns into something more rougher, more passionate.

“Not done,” Sylus murmurs, his voice low against your lips.

The next kiss catches you off guard—no longer playful, but deeper, rougher. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all day. His hand slides to the back of your neck, tilting your face toward him, anchoring you to the moment.

It makes your breath hitch, makes your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s still Sylus—still familiar, still home—but there’s something new in the way he kisses you now. Like all the quiet moments, the bickering, the small touches and soft laughs have been building to this. Like he’s telling you something he hasn’t yet found the words for.

When you finally pull back, your lips are tingling and your heart is racing far too fast.

He’s staring at you like you hung the stars.

You swallow. “What was that for?”

He doesn’t smile—just brushes your hair behind your ear and says, “Felt like a good time to remind you.”

You blink. “Remind me of what?”

He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “That I’m in love with you. And I mean it every hour, not just the one with the kiss.”

Your chest tightens in the best way. You can’t quite speak, but your hand finds his, and that’s enough for now.

“I love you, baby.” He smiles.

And when you reply, he hugs you, wrapping your body in the warmth only he could provide for you. You sigh in his arms in content.

You’re happy, both of you are.

And you couldn't ask for more.

fin.

a/n: hmmm i didn’t expect it to be this long :\ but i hope you guys love this as much as i do! reblogs are very appreciated! do let me know what you guys think? 💭

[glassandhoney]

All dolled up

aka, dressing you up just to fuck you down

Sylus x female reader

Words: 2.7k

The front door to your apartment clicks open with a soft squeak, followed by the heavy footfall of the man you’ve been expecting. You look up from the book in your lap, already smiling when Sylus appears in the living room. He’s smirking too, a picture of quiet smugness with something crinkling behind his back.

“You’re here earlier than I expected,” you say, setting the book aside and rising to greet him. “Though I’m not complaining.”

You’d been eagerly awaiting his arrival ever since he texted you this morning about having business in Linkon. It was a no-brainer to invite him over after whatever shady deal he had planned. Quality time together felt long overdue.

The mystery behind his back suggests a different kind of business he attended to.

You can’t help but raise a curious brow, though you pause long enough to press a kiss to his cheek. The gentle peck draws a soft chuckle from him. It’s obvious you’re stifling your curiosity, so he doesn’t leave you in suspense much longer.

“You’ve never been one for patience, kitten, so I came as quick as I could,” he teases, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I would have arrived sooner, but I needed to pick up something first. Actually, two somethings.”

He reveals two luxury shopping bags from behind his back with a bit of a flourish.

One is smaller, the handles tied together with a black velvet ribbon. Hot pink tissue paper peeks out from one corner, catching your eye.

The other bag, much bigger, is proudly stamped with an ornate gold seal. The familiar logo gives you a sneaking suspicion of what’s inside.

You start to protest before you’ve even set your hands on the bags. “Sylus, this is too–”

“It’s bad manners to turn down a gift,” he scolds with a mischievous grin.

When he leads you to the couch and gently places both packages in your lap, you know there’s no room for arguing. Sylus is especially stubborn when he spends money on you. There’s no amount of protesting, convincing, or pleading that will get him to change his mind.

So you just accept your fate and give in to that feeling of excitement at opening unexpected gifts. If he’s so willing to spoil you, then you might as well enjoy being doted on.

He nudges the smaller bag toward you first, so you hastily untie the ribbon and peel back the layers of tissue paper.

A delicate lingerie set lies beneath—a deep burgundy color that reveals your trembling fingers beneath sheer mesh. The underwear’s waistband is lined with a pretty scalloped lace, and a dainty satin bow sits in the middle. Its matching bra is equally detailed and ethereal, with lace framing the top of each cup, the same see-through mesh, and ribbons adorning the bottom of each strap.

You swallow hard, heat rising to your cheeks when you think of Sylus picking this out for you. You don’t even need to imagine the smirk that must have graced his face as he fantasized about you wearing the set. He’s already looking at you with expectant glee right now.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper with a shaky laugh.

“I assume that means you like it, sweetie,” he replies with that infuriating, cocky grin of his. “Now the second one.” His large fingers tap the bigger bag as a reminder.

After fumbling with the packaging, the second gift reveals a dress. The same one you’d admired from the boutique window a few days ago. Made of velvet and flirty, it has a ribbed bodice and a scandalously high slit up the skirt.

It’s the color of wine and soft to the touch. Something he won’t be able to keep his hands off of.

“Sylus,” you groan only half-heartedly, “I told you I didn’t need it.”

“I know,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “But I wanted you to have it.” Another kiss, one that lingers. “And I want to see you in it. Right now.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not even going to let me try it on myself, are you?”

“No. I want to dress you.” He stands, hand outstretched in expectation. “Won’t you let me take care of you, sweetie?”

You roll your eyes with a fond sigh. “Alright, alright. You win.” It’s not like you put up much of a fight.

Placing your hand in his, you let him guide you up and into the bedroom. The lighting is dim, only the last rays of dusk spilling through the window and painting the walls with an orange-pink hue.

He stops you beside the bed and gestures for you to stand still, like a mannequin or a doll. You indulge him, lips twitching when he bends to hook his fingers beneath the hem of the oversized shirt you wear.

“May I?” he asks gently.

You nod, and then he lifts it, letting his fingertips brush along your thighs, your hips, then your ribs as he tugs it over your head.

If he’s surprised that you’re completely bare underneath, he chooses not to comment on it. He doesn’t even mention the slight sheen of wetness he catches between the apex of your thighs as you shuffle on your feet.

You both know the terms of this game you play together.

Sylus dresses you, taking his time to touch you with the utmost respect and reverence. And you try to ignore the rising heat in the pit of your stomach.

He enjoys spoiling you, providing for you, wrapping you in luxury and reveling in your natural beauty. You enjoy being treated like the princess he always makes you feel you are.

And of course, you enjoy the way he makes love to you when he’s done pampering you.

Your heartbeat kicks up a notch when he picks up the lingerie set, holding it like something fragile before meeting your gaze and tapping on one of your legs.

You obey the silent command, carefully balancing on one leg to step into the underwear first. When it’s snug over your aching pussy, he turns his attention to sliding the bra over your arms and shoulders before clasping it behind you with slow precision.

He only touches you, finally, to pull the lace cups into place. His thumbs brush the sensitive underside of your breasts and linger a moment longer than necessary. It sends sparks of electricity through your spine.

With bated breath, you watch his eyes trace your body like a man memorizing scripture. His silent appraisal makes your stomach do somersaults, but you keep your head high and try not to melt where you stand.

Arousal burns hotter beneath the surface of your skin as he turns to the dress next. With the same precision and frustrating slowness, he helps you step into it before drawing it up your body.

This time, his hands caress every inch of skin they encounter. When the bodice reaches your hips, he pauses, fingers dancing along your waist before guiding it up over your chest.

Tugging the zipper up follows the same skin-tingling process. It’s not a coincidence his knuckles skim your heated skin the entire journey up your spine.

Even when the dress fits perfectly around your curves—Sylus always gets your size correct, no matter the brand or type of clothing—he still smooths the fabric over your stomach, then higher.

His fingers reach your breasts, thumbs gliding up to tease your nipples through layers of velvet and lace.

“Look at you,” he murmurs to himself, stepping around to admire you fully. “Out of all the gems this world has to offer, your shine is the most brilliant.”

You stand still, trembling slightly as his eyes devour the sight of you, his most precious treasure, all dolled up for him.

He reaches out, smoothing the skirt again, adjusting the sleeves, tugging the neckline just slightly lower. His hands move like an artist’s, sculpting the perfect image in his mind.

Then, slowly, they wander.

First over your waist, then your hips, brushing the sides of your thighs and slipping between the slit of the dress. He circles you, his fingers never leaving your body. You can feel the tension between you stretching tighter with every breath.

When he finally steps closer, pulling you gently to him, his hands cradle your jaw as he kisses you—soft at first, then deeper, more consuming.

The world falls away until there is only the firm press of his mouth and the heat radiating between you.

Without separating from your soft lips, he takes a sure step forward. You stumble back for only a split second before his hand steadies you by the lower back. The course he wants to take is clearer now as he guides you, straight to the bed.

You’re pliant under his touch, gasping when he sits with you on the soft mattress and then yanks you to straddle his lap with a quiet huff against your mouth.

The dress pools around your thighs, the slit making room for your legs to spread over his big lap, as if he planned for this. He’s already straining hard beneath you, his breaths growing ragged between kisses that steadily turn sloppy.

His hands slide beneath the dress, fingertips tracing the edge of your new panties, then snaking beneath until they graze your slit. You gasp, grinding into his hand instinctively, and it rips a low groan from his throat.

Sylus parts from your lips as his fingers grow more bold in their exploration, dipping into your arousal to spread it along your clit.

“You must like your gifts a lot, sweetie.” He chuckles and presses a smug, searing kiss to your neck. “You’re dripping on them.”

You whimper, hips twitching as his fingers press firmer against you. One slips inside, then two, curling just right. His thumb brushes over your clit, and his other hand pulls the neckline of your dress down.

Even when his warm mouth latches onto a nipple through the mesh of your bra, he watches every reaction of yours. He revels in the way your eyes flutter shut, the way your head tilts back while you moan his name, and the shudder in your thighs as he curls his thick digits right against your g-spot.

You cry out, burying your face in his neck before pleading, “Need you inside me…please.”

On any other day, Sylus would draw this out even further. He’d make you say it again even though your cheeks burn. He’d tease that he’s already inside you while scissoring his fingers in your tight heat to prove his point. 

But he’s been on edge ever since he saw you staring at this dress through the window of that shop. Since then, he’s been planning for this moment. So tonight, he’s feeling more impatient than usual.

He pulls his hand from your underwear before effortlessly maneuvering you to lie on your back against your soft mattress. The dress bunches around your hips, giving him further access to slide his hands along your upper thighs.

You always look gorgeous to him. But right now? You’re flushed and glistening, chest heaving from his slow build-up. The lingerie is a soaked mess. The velvet's clinging to your sweat-slick skin.

You’re the picture of everything he loves: opulence, intimacy, softness, and indulgence.

And you already know not to worry about staining or ruining the brand new clothes. He’s told you before, and he’ll remind you again if he needs to—he’ll just buy you another pair of everything if the mess is too hard to clean.

He hovers over you, mouth descending to press a hot trail of kisses everywhere he can reach. His teeth catch on the top of your bra’s lace cup, and he tugs it down until one breast spills free.

As he takes his time sucking and nibbling on one nipple, his hand makes quick work of freeing his leaking cock. Precum smears against your new panties, leaving his mark while your hips tilt to rub yourself harder against the tip.

With his patience wearing thin, he pushes your panties aside, lines himself up, and sinks into you in one slow, deep thrust. The stretch pulls a gasp from your lips, and he simultaneously groans as your heat envelops him.

“Sweetie,” he breathes against your throat, voice shaky and betraying how much you affect him. “You’re so perfect. So gorgeous. Hm, magnificent,” he murmurs between each thrust.

He’s not usually one for lots of talking during sex, but seeing you like this? You’re a vision wrapped in only the finest things he could provide you. And it makes him want to remind you just how much power you hold over the fearless leader of Onychinus.

He watches your face through every deliberate drag of his cock inside you, studies every twitch of your brow, every moan you try to stifle. You arch beneath him, fingers tangling in his silver hair and tugging just enough to make him grunt from the perfect mix of stinging pleasure.

While he’s not much of a talker, he is the type of man who enjoys letting you know how good you’re making him feel through deep growls and near-animalistic sounds with every rough stroke. And your higher-pitched sounds begin to join his as he hits the perfect spot, making you clench around him even tighter.

“That’s it,” he pants as he continues chasing that spot you like. “Make a mess for me.”

He pounds into you harder, pace quickening as your bodies slap together, the room filled with the sound of slick skin and ragged breaths.

Sliding one hand beneath your bunched up panties, his fingers lock onto your clit with quick precision. He’s intent on watching you fall apart on his cock, creaming around him and leaving a wet mess along your new clothes. Anything to make him spend even more money on his sweetest treasure.

Sylus gets off on it—the thought of you making use of his resources, putting his hard work to good use and being treated like royalty. You deserve it. Just like he deserves seeing that adorable look on your face when you accept the gifts you pretend you don’t want or need.

His hand works faster, flicking your aching bundle of nerves just right until you scream his name. Your orgasm hits you fast, stealing the breath from his lungs when he feels you tremble beneath him. It’s impossible to hold out any longer. Not when you have such a blissed out look on your face, all because of him.

He bites down on your shoulder, his pace stuttering as he thrusts deep once—twice—more before spilling inside you. His grip is bruising even through the thick velvet of the dress, holding you tightly as you both slowly come down from the high.

It’s an effort not to collapse on you with how lightheaded he feels right now. That innocent smile on your face makes him weak in the knees. So he rolls the two of you over, pulling you to lie atop his strong chest. His cock slips from your cunt, likely making a mess on your dress. But it doesn’t matter to him.

You both lie there for a moment, gasping, tangled together in peaceful bliss. He brushes the hair from your face, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I’m surprised,” he murmurs, “you didn’t ask me about the price tag this time.” He chuckles, thinking you must have finally learned that it’s a lost cause.

You laugh weakly, still dazed. “Can I guess?”

He entertains it, humming when you rattle off some numbers, and laughing when you severely underestimate how much he’d spend on you.

The dress itself wasn’t too expensive. But when should he tell you that he bought the whole boutique just so he can adorn you in more pretty dresses and show you how gorgeous you are?

Maybe he’ll confess on your next shopping trip together. After all, he has plans of fucking you in the dressing room of that classy store as soon as you try on every little thing your heart desires.

a/n: if you read this and thought “why does this idea sound familiar?” It's because I teased it over 2 months ago 💀 hope it was worth the insane wait

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graphics by me (please don't repost)

[glassandhoney]

contact: HUSBAND💍💢 (DO NOT OPEN)

[ Sylus x f!reader ]

he asks what you saved him as. you dodge. he lets you—for now. but when your phone lights up mid-breakfast… he sees it. and he never lets things go.

ABOUT | 3.5k. fluff. comedic tension. mutual pining. spiraling girlfailure MC. smug menace Sylus. twins as chaos gremlins

TAGS | slice of life. flirting. banter. phone-based chaos. accidental intimacy.

NOTE : This story came as a request from @someprettyname, who pitched the idea with the perfect mix of chaos, delusion, and romantic doom. I simply couldn’t resist. It’s got Sylus, a cursed contact name, and the kind of spiraling girlfailure energy that lives rent-free in my heart.

IF I'D KNOWN...asking Kieran what he was reading would lead to this, I would’ve done the sensible thing and lobbed my entire cup of tea at him instead. Not hard—just enough to scald. Or, at the very least, shut him up.

“Apparently,” Kieran said, turning a page with the solemn intrigue of someone unearthing a state secret rather than flipping through a lifestyle magazine from the waiting lounge pile, “what you save your partner as in your contacts directly correlates with relationship longevity. It’s, like, a whole study.”

I blinked at him from the edge of the couch, cross-legged, one sock slouched pathetically down my ankle like even my clothes were losing the will to participate.

“That’s not a study. That’s clickbait.”

“It’s neuroscience,” Luke chimed in, somehow making everything worse by sounding confident. He was upside-down in the armchair, legs hooked over the back like a smug little bat. “Oxytocin response, personal language imprinting, affectionate tagging. All linked. I read a paper on it.”

“You read a BuzzFeed quiz,” I said.

“No, that was after,” he replied, contemplative. “To confirm my results.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What did you even say to that? Congratulations, you’ve weaponized delusion?

Kieran shut the magazine with a flourish and gave me a look like I was a particularly slow puzzle piece. “So?” he asked, faux-casual. “What do you have Sylus saved as?”

I stared at him.

Then at Sylus.

Then regretted ever being born.

Sylus didn’t even glance up from the holopad he was scanning, thumbs moving in that precise, surgical rhythm that always made me feel like he could disassemble a bomb—or a person—without blinking. He hadn’t said a word the entire time, which only meant one thing: he was definitely listening.

That’s how he operated. Silent observation. Strategic patience. And then—just when you least expected it—the perfect moment to psychologically ruin you.

“I—what?” I laughed. A terrible idea. It came out too loud, too bright. The laugh of someone hiding something very stupid, very unhinged, and very true.

“Oh no,” Luke gasped, kicking his legs in delighted horror. “You’ve got a name. You have a name.”

Kieran leaned forward, eyes glittering like a journalist sniffing out a scandal. “It’s something feral, isn’t it? Like Champ Daddy. Or—God—Meow Meow Murder Man.”

“Excuse you,” I sniffed. “That’s private.”

“That’s not a denial,” Luke pointed out, still upside-down and grinning like he had five seconds before the villain’s lair exploded and he was fine with it.

And then—of course—Sylus looked up.

Just once.

That’s all it took.

No words. Just a glance over the edge of the screen. Brows lifted slightly. That quiet, clinical interest he always wore when cataloguing your emotional weaknesses.

“Well?” he asked, voice low. Mellow. The kind of mellow that made you aware of how sharp the blade was beneath it. “What’d you save me as?”

I died.

Just a bit. Quietly. With dignity.

I smiled like someone caught smuggling twenty kilos of emotional contraband through airport security. “Why do you care?”

“Research,” Luke supplied.

“Curiosity,” Kieran added.

Sylus didn’t say anything. Just kept looking.

Not accusing. Not teasing. Worse—interested. Calm. Patient. Which, from him, was a declaration of war.

I stared back, brain frantically flipping through every lie I’d ever told and wondering if now was the moment to add another.

I didn’t lie. Not really.

But I also wasn’t about to admit that I’d saved him under HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) and set his contact tone to the Onychinus anthem so I’d know—without question—that it was him texting when I was spiraling through my third existential scroll of the night.

I wasn’t proud of it. But I was delusional. Quietly. Tastefully. With a touch of grace.

“It’s just your name,” I said, breezy and innocent. “You know. ‘Sylus.’ Totally normal.”

Kieran snorted. Luke cackled.

Sylus said nothing. Just tilted his head, the faintest degree, like a crow spotting something shiny.

“Hm,” he said.

One syllable. One syllable with the weight of a dossier. Then he returned to his holopad like he hadn’t just slipped a microchip of psychological doom beneath my skin.

I looked at Kieran.

I looked at Luke.

I looked at my tea and considered drowning myself in it.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

I was normal. So, so normal.

So normal that I’d definitely go home tonight and absolutely not open my contacts app.

And definitely not change anything.

Definitely.

…Right?

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Because two hours later, I was curled on the left side of my bed—the side I insisted I didn’t always sleep on, even though the right side looked suspiciously pristine—and staring down at my phone screen like it had personally betrayed me. Which, to be fair, it had.

HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) glared back at me from the top of my favorites list. Untouched. Intact. So alarmingly unhinged I wanted to launch myself backwards through time and slap the past version of me who thought it was hilarious.

Spoiler: it was hilarious.

Just… not right now.

When I’d first typed it in—on a mission, no less, during a half-sane lull between dodging rooftop snipers and failing to unlock a biometric lock—it had felt brilliant. Like a private joke between me, myself, and the delusion I fed like a very spoiled housecat.

He’d given me a ring. A real one.

Well. Technically it was a repurposed championship ring from some long-ago boxing match, but he’d slipped it onto my finger after a particularly nasty fight and said, “For luck.”

That was it. No heat. No deeper meaning. Nothing even remotely vow-adjacent. But my brain, ever the traitor, had orchestrated a full remix of the wedding march and sent me hurtling into an alternate reality where that gesture meant everything.

So naturally, I immortalized it by saving him as HUSBAND💍💢(DO NOT OPEN) in my phone. The rage emoji was for balance. Because my coping mechanisms were 90% sarcasm, 10% fear of actual feelings.

But now... now he knew something.

Not everything. But enough to make me feel like I was teetering on the edge of a very sharp rooftop, hoping the wind stayed kind.

I turned the screen off, set it beside me, then immediately picked it back up again. Because apparently I had the self-restraint of a soggy napkin.

The name stared back, smug as sin.

I hovered over “Edit.” Didn’t press it. Pressed it. Didn’t save.

God.

What if I changed it now and he somehow noticed later? What if he’d already seen it? A glimpse? An emoji? A vibe?

Worse—what if he hadn’t? What if the twins had just infected his brain with their oxytocin-tagging nonsense and I was the only one spiraling?

…No, that tracked. That sounded extremely me.

I sighed and flopped back against my pillow, which let out a low puff of air like it, too, was disappointed in my choices.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to know.

Okay, no. That was a lie. I absolutely didn’t want him to know.

But part of me—some shameful, masochistic fragment that had clearly watched too many fake-dating dramas—wondered what he’d say if he did.

Would he laugh?

Would he tease?

Would he—God forbid—change my name in his phone, too?

And if he did… what would it be?

Nightmare Girl™? Collateral Damage? Do Not Engage Without Caffeine?

Or worse. Something nice. Something gentle. Something that would melt me into a socially anxious puddle of goo I could never recover from.

My phone buzzed once.

I flinched so hard I nearly launched it into the ceiling.

System update.

I exhaled slowly through my nose and said aloud, like I was on some kind of deranged mindfulness app, “It’s just a name. It doesn’t matter.”

Then I shut the screen off, tucked the phone under my pillow like I was putting it down for a nap, and rolled over to the cold, untouched side of the bed.

I didn’t change it.

I could’ve.

But I didn’t.

Not because I was brave. Or honest. Or committed to transparency in modern digital romance.

No.

I didn’t change it because, somewhere in the shame-saturated crawlspace of my delusion-riddled lizard brain…

I wanted him to see it.

And that—more than anything—was the problem.

By the time Saturday rolled around, I had fully convinced myself I was back in control of my life.

Which, naturally, meant everything was about to go spectacularly wrong.

I hadn’t planned on seeing him that day. That was what made it worse. I wasn’t wearing my “emotionally stable and casually indifferent” outfit. I didn’t have talking points. Or backup banter. I hadn’t even exfoliated.

And yet—there he was.

In my kitchen.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Is that… my pan?” I asked, blinking from the hallway, tugging my sleeves down over sleep-wrinkled wrists.

Sylus didn’t look up. Just flipped something sizzling in my non-stick skillet with the kind of precision that suggested he’d done this a thousand times. His hair was still damp at the ends—fresh from a run, or a shower, or a very long, very moody shampoo commercial.

“You said your fridge was on strike,” he replied simply. “I brought eggs.”

He nodded toward the counter. There they were: a full carton of eggs. And toast. And coffee. And—of course—my apron.

“You’re wearing my apron,” I said.

“It was this or ruin my shirt.” He shrugged, unbothered. “You left it hanging by the door. Implicit consent.”

“I use that apron to deep-fry things. It smells like fear and oil.”

He finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes cool, voice dry. “Then it suits me.”

I stood there for a beat, vaguely aware that I probably looked like a stunned Victorian child who’d wandered into the wrong play. My hair was doing something unholy to the left of my temple. My socks didn’t match. One sleeve was half-stuffed into the cuff of my pajama pants like it had given up halfway through getting dressed.

This was not the image of composure I wanted to project.

And yet—he didn’t seem to mind.

He turned back to the stove. Quiet. Focused. Efficient.

Like he hadn’t just let himself into my apartment at 8:30 a.m. and decided to cook breakfast like we did this all the time.

(We did not do this all the time.)

I hovered in the doorway. “Did I… invite you?”

“You said, and I quote,” Sylus began, adjusting the burner with the grace of a man in complete control of both fire and social tension, “‘Come by whenever. Just don’t let the twins in unless you want chaos at dawn.’”

He slid the eggs onto a plate—perfectly done. Soft in the middle. Crisped at the edges. Exactly how I liked them.

Of course he knew that.

I collapsed into a chair and stared at the back of his head like it owed me rent.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was: avoid prolonged eye contact, and pray the contact-name incident dissolved into the same black hole as every other weird moment we refused to acknowledge.

But Sylus didn’t forget things.

He remembered everything.

Which meant he was either pretending not to care—or waiting. For the right moment. The exact second when dragging it back up would have the most devastating effect.

He handed me the plate without a word. Then set a steaming mug beside it.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I said, stabbing the yolk before it could pass judgment.

“I can survive.”

“You’re not surviving. You’re thriving. This is suspiciously gourmet for someone who once ate a protein bar he found in the glove compartment.”

Sylus sat across from me, calm as Sunday morning. “I read a manual.”

“You read a manual on eggs?”

He tilted his head. “I like to be prepared.”

I bit into the toast—and hated how much I loved it. Not because it was delicious. But because it felt like something. Like he was already part of things I hadn’t meant to share.

Like I didn’t want him to go.

My phone buzzed from where I’d abandoned it on the end table behind me. I ignored it. Probably a news alert. Or Kieran sending me another random fact about Sylus.

Sylus glanced toward the sound. “Want me to check that?”

My mouth was full. I nodded before I thought twice.

And that was it.

The moment.

The one I would later refer to, in my head, with capital letters and dread: The Beginning of the End.

Because Sylus stood. Walked across the room. Picked up my phone. Turned it over.

And froze.

Just slightly.

Not dramatically. Not enough to trigger outright panic. But enough to notice.

My stomach hit the floor.

He turned, phone still facing him. Not me. Him.

Then he looked up.

Met my eyes.

And smiled.

Not the polite kind.

Not the dangerous kind, either.

The knowing kind.

And he said—

“You’ve got a message.”

Then he walked back. Calm as anything. Sat down.

Placed the phone beside my coffee. Face-down.

Didn’t mention the name.

Didn’t tease.

Just waited.

Like he wanted to see if I’d admit it first.

Like he knew everything.

And wasn’t finished yet.

The room felt different.

Not colder. Not tense, exactly. Just… still.

Like standing at the edge of a lake and realizing—too late—that the water wasn’t calm. It was holding its breath.

Sylus didn’t look at me. Not directly. But his presence was unmistakable—like the steady burn of a fire at your back. Quiet. Measured. Unrelenting.

I kept my eyes on my plate like the eggs were going to offer guidance.

They didn’t.

They just sat there, smug in their perfect seasoning, slowly congealing while I tried not to spiral.

I took a sip of coffee I didn’t need. It burned the tip of my tongue. I said nothing.

He didn’t press.

And that was the problem with Sylus—he never pressed. He simply gave you the silence. Just enough rope to hang yourself with.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment.

I shrugged. “You made breakfast. I’m eating it. This is me being grateful.”

He let out a sound. Barely audible. Somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Do you usually eat in tense, stony silence when someone brings you food?”

“Only when they break into my apartment to do it,” I said, eyes still locked on my eggs like they might offer a lifeline.

Another pause. And then—

“You could’ve just told me.”

I blinked. “Told you what?”

I knew what.

Of course I knew what.

But I wasn’t about to hand him the knife and hold still.

He tilted his head. Finally met my eyes.

That look—quiet, analytical—like he didn’t need words to dismantle you. He could do it with patience alone.

“What you saved me as,” he said, simply. “You could’ve told me.”

I swallowed. “It’s not that interesting.”

“Is it not?”

“It’s just a name.”

His gaze didn’t shift. Didn’t push. Just held.

Then he leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows—revealing scars, old and clean, and veins etched sharp like topography you didn’t realize you’d memorized until it was right there in front of you.

“I think you’re lying,” he said, not unkindly.

My heart decided now was a good time to audition for a prison break.

“I don’t lie,” I replied.

“No,” he agreed. “But you deflect beautifully.”

My fingers tightened around the mug. “Well, thanks. That’s a weird compliment, but okay.”

Silence again. Long. Weighted.

The toast on his plate remained untouched. I wasn’t sure he’d ever meant to eat it.

When he finally spoke again, it was quieter. No edge. No game. Just… honest.

“You’ve been doing it since the twins brought it up. Every time I’ve looked at you since then, you shift.”

I didn’t answer.

“And you practically gave me your phone,” he continued. “Which you never do. You always leave it face-down on the table. Angle the screen away when we’re close. Mute notifications if we’re in the same room. But today… you handed it to me.”

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t think—”

“Yes, you did.”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t goading me. He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t trying to win.

He was just telling the truth.

A quiet cataloging of all the small things I thought I’d hidden.

Which somehow made it worse.

“So what?” I asked. “What does it matter if I did?”

His brow lifted a fraction. “Depends on what it said.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You saw it.”

“I did.”

My stomach folded in on itself. Not violently. Just… inevitably. Like paper creasing in slow motion.

“Are you going to say something?”

He shook his head once, calm. “I don’t think I have to.”

I pushed my plate aside and stood before I could second-guess it. My hands found everything—table edge, pajama tie, back of the chair—restless, unfocused.

He watched me.

Not like I was fragile.

Not like I was guilty.

Just like he was present.

In a way most people never were.

“Do you think I meant it seriously?” I asked. Unsure whether I felt embarrassed, angry, or just stupidly exposed.

He stood too. Unhurried. Close.

“I think,” he said gently, “you didn’t expect me to see it.”

I nodded once. “So now what?”

Sylus reached for the phone. Turned it over. Tapped the screen once. It lit up. His thumb brushed across the glass, and for one panicked second, I thought he was deleting something.

Instead, he looked down at it.

And smiled.

A faint, private thing.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said. “At least this one’s got a ring to it.”

He handed it back to me.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t retreat.

Just waited.

And this time…

I didn’t look away.

The silence stretched.

Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just stretched thin—like the hush inside a cathedral, where every thought echoed louder in your own head.

I held the phone in both hands like it might explain itself. Like I could offload all the emotional wreckage of the last twenty-four hours onto one glowing rectangle and be absolved.

But, of course, it didn’t say anything.

It just sat there. Still locked. Still glowing. Still stamped with the one contact name I hadn’t changed.

Still proof.

“You’re not going to make fun of me?” I asked.

The question came out quieter than I meant it to. Fragile. Like thin ice underfoot.

Sylus didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But his voice softened at the edges.

“No,” he said. “Not for this.”

My mouth opened, but no words came.

And because I couldn’t stand still, I drifted. The long way around the table—brushing a chair, skimming the counter—like a satellite refusing to orbit too close.

“I wasn’t trying to be weird,” I said. “Or clingy. Or… intense. It was just a thing. A ridiculous, harmless, no-one-will-ever-know thing.”

Sylus watched me, but didn’t interrupt.

So I kept going. Because stopping meant listening to my own thoughts, and frankly, no thanks.

“It started as a joke. Something I’d change later. But then I didn’t. And then it felt like changing it would mean admitting it mattered.”

I glanced down. The screen glowed back. Still bright. Still damning.

“And I guess it did matter. Just... not in the way I thought.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t fill the silence with soft reassurances or easy deflections.

But something shifted in the air. A quiet gentling. Like something bracing had eased.

I forced my fingers to unlock the screen. Turned the phone toward him. Slowly. Like peeling back a bandage.

“You can delete it, if it’s weird,” I said. “Or if it crosses some boundary. Or if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll just blame Siri. She’s always inserting emojis without consent.”

He didn’t take the phone.

He didn’t look away either.

Instead, his fingers reached—not for the screen, but for my wrist.

A light touch. A thumb brushing the inside, where the pulse beats quick and traitorous.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m… surprised.”

“That I’d be ridiculous?”

“That you’d let me see it.”

I couldn’t hold his gaze after that. Something about the way he was looking at me felt too precise. Not cruel—but exact. Like being traced.

Still, I didn’t step back.

He let go slowly, then reached into his own pocket. Pulled out his phone. A few taps. A swipe.

Then he turned it around.

I squinted.

WIFE 💍❤️ (Don’t pretend you’re surprised)

I stared. Swallowed. Opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“That’s not subtle,” I whispered.

He stepped closer. “It’s honest.”

There was no smile. Not really. But something flickered beneath the surface—quiet, certain, a little dangerous.

The kind of look that said yes, I meant it.

The kind that made you wonder just how long he’d been waiting to say so.

I laughed then. Sharp and breathless and absolutely real.

“You’re insane,” I said.

He shrugged. “You started it.”

I looked down at my screen.

Then back at his.

And finally—at him.

“You really think I wouldn’t want that too?” he whispered.

And that—more than the name, more than the emojis, more than the ridiculous, ridiculous spiral of it all—was what undid me.

Because he did.

God help me, he really, truly did.

And maybe now... I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t want it, too.

thank you for reading, and happy 500 followers!

[glassandhoney]

𝐻𝒾𝒹𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝒜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ pairing: sylus x reader

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ summary: in the humble town of asterville, the duke yearns for the attention of only one woman. if only she knew. (or alternatively: sylus falls in love and attempts to find the courage to act upon it.)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ word count: 6.8k

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ao3: read on ao3 here if you so wish :)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ notes: this fic contains mature content, so please read with discretion :)

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

Although geographically a small, provincial town, Asterville has become renowned for many things over the centuries despite its humble origins. A bustling spot for merchants to dock their ships weekly to trade goods and news, the town has flourished under the watchful eye of the rather infamous Duke, who is popular among his fellow monarchical acquaintances for giving fruitful advice over a plate of desserts.

If one has not heard of Asterville through conversations of wealth and trading, then it is likely they would have heard of it through snippets of tales from the legendary balls that are held by the Duke for each quarter of the year. Always an event of lavish luxury, each season brings a new frenzy to the residents of Asterville as the Duke insists that everyone is welcome to Fumbally Estate for a night of firework displays and dancing that often begins at midnight and ends at dawn.

Moreover, the Duke’s generosity goes even further than hosting parties for the entire town, because if you are fortunate enough to pass him in the streets during one of his weekly promenades, he’ll spare even the poorest man or woman a good portion of his time. Always polite, he talks to you like he’s interested in what you have to say, even though everyone knows he’s often occupied with his daily affairs. If he’s feeling particularly generous, he might even offer for you to come for tea in Fumbally, but if he’s short for time, a quick pastry from the local bakery might have to suffice. 

There are many rumours that the mothers of Asterville have formed a sixth sense for forecasting his visits to town. The Duke is coming! Quick! Run to the seamstress and fetch the dress you had ordered in preparation (the Duke often asks to be referred to just as Sylus, or Mr. R. if he is feeling formal). Ribbons! It is said that he is fond of silk ribbons in curled hair, his favourite flavour of cake is vanilla sponge with raspberry jam, and he always drinks his coffee with a dash of liqueur. The mothers pride themselves for knowing such prized information regarding the Duke, and they always make sure to have their daughters fluffed up like peacocks upon his arrival, because if you manage to catch his eye, he may gift your daughter with trinkets and a charming smile.

But if there is one location where you really must visit if you seek the company of the Duke, you are more than likely to find him examining the window of Madame Amelia’s boutique; a tailors and modiste where only the prettiest dresses and smartest-looking suits are sewn and stitched with the finest materials that have been imported from all around the globe.

Pretty things. It is also said that the Duke adores pretty things. That’s why he’s always visiting the boutique. It is the only logical reasoning for a man of such calibre to be interested in such mundane things. Or else, of course, he frequents the boutique because he is in search of a wife. Either way, the Duke present or not, one would find it hard to get an appointment at Madame Amelia’s, particularly during ball season, for the fantasy of the Duke searching for a wife only sparks pandemonium across the town as the ladies of Asterville scramble to prepare for the upcoming festivities with haste, false smiles hiding true intentions as each girl hopes to outshine the other for the Duke's hand in marriage.

But of course, all follies and rumours aside, the only person who knows the truth regarding the Duke’s romantic affairs is Sylus himself. A truth that he likes to keep locked away in fear of what might happen if it were to escape his lips. 

Because in the Madame Amelia’s boutique, a young seamstress with gentle hands and a calm demeanour works behind a velvet curtain, every stitch sewn with love as she hums sweet melodies under her breath, her hair always loosely tied up in a bandana to match the colours of the season. Yes, Sylus visits the shop every week in hopes of catching a glimpse of you, the only woman who has managed to enrapture his heart and soul in ways he cannot fathom at times.

He comes into the boutique with the Summer breeze. The familiar tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival as the workers of the shop straighten their posture, and the daughters getting their measurements taken tilt their chins upwards, hoping to catch the Duke’s attention.

Madame Amelia herself curtseys as she greets him. Still pretty in old age, her silver bun is always neatly slicked back in a professional manner. Sylus knows she runs a tight ship, hence why the results are immaculate. This is mainly because instead of instilling fear into her workers, she nurtures them. Nurtures their talent, for it is only the talented that may be allowed to work in her boutique. She does not merely hire any seamstress off the street.

Sylus nods in greeting, but his ruby eyes are already searching behind the curtain for a glimpse of you. The flower blooming in the dim backroom despite the lack of sunlight. 

“I’m afraid you just missed her, Mr. R.” Madame Amelia gives him a soft smile.

“I sent her out to fetch the latest shipment from the Docks.” 

“Materials for the upcoming ball in Fumbally, I assume?” He waves at a girl getting fitted. The action only makes her giggle and blush in response.

Madame Amelia tuts as she takes out her fan and waves it briskly towards her face.

“I admire your generosity for inviting all of Asterville and beyond to your estate for an evening of grandeur, but the orders for gowns and suits are nearly impossible to keep up with. If it wasn’t for her, not a single dress or waistcoat would be ready in time for your extravagant parties.”

“Has she made any inclination that she’ll attend this time?” Sylus dusts off his jacket, feigning nonchalance. 

“She has been her usual clandestine self,” Madame Amelia sighs. “It’s rather pitiful. All she does is scratch away with her quill late into the night, and then once the sun rises, she’s back to stitching hems and lace.”

Madame Amelia raises an eyebrow as she notices the dainty little box of macaroons in his arms.

“As always, you have not come empty handed.”

“It is rude to come to a place of such excellence without a gift of thanks.”

“Your business is more than enough, Mister R. In fact, I do believe most of Asterville’s wealth is all due to your capabilities of turning stones into diamonds, thus, it should be us thanking you.”

“It is not often that your workers get to indulge in decadent treats.”

“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with macaroons being her favourite, no?”

Sylus chokes out a cough as Madame Amelia looks at him with the eyes of a stern mother. Although she is not your mother by birth, her fierce protection of you has often deterred him from seeking information about you. It would appear that with age, she has acquired a wisdom that allows her to see right through his poker face that often fools many.

Clearing his throat, he straightens his posture while trying his best to remain nonchalant.

“Perhaps I could see her before–”

“Mr. R!” 

Sylus blinks as three young women suddenly appear in front of him, rosy cheeks and sparkly eyes. The Patterfields. Sylus would recognise the blonde ringlets and citrus-coloured bonnets anywhere.

“Hello ladies,” he says as they giggle, pushing and shoving each other, fighting like cats in order to gain the spotlight under his–seemingly–fleeting attention.

“Mr. R, what brings you to town?”

“Mr. R, is it true that the ball will include a full roasted pig?”

“Mr. R, will you please buy us some ribbons for the ball?”

“Girls! Leave the Duke be!”

A woman with sharp features and a severe stare seizes the girls, giving him an apologetic bow.

“I do apologise for the lack of manners my girls seem to possess. They know better than to act so boisterously in front of the Duke–”

“No need for apologies, Mrs.Patterfield. I do enjoy the confidence of your daughters. Young ladies ought to be taught to have faith in their words, as there might be a time where their voices will need to be heard.” 

Mrs.Patterfield chokes as the girls squeal in delight. 

Sylus gives them a warm smile. “Ladies, do feel free to browse the ribbons. It would be my pleasure to purchase a ribbon for each of you.”

More shrill squeals fill the little boutique as the girls scamper off, their curtsies forgotten as Mrs.Patterfield chases after them, mumbling embarrassed apologies to Sylus as she attempts to round the girls up once again, like a shepherd attempting to farm wild cattle.

“My oh my, the Duke certainly is as generous as the handsome rumours paint him to be.”

A teasing voice that calls to him like a childhood friend; but who would dare treat him as an old acquaintance in Asterville? A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. There’s only one woman who would dare. Only one woman that has him wrapped around her little finger; and she doesn’t care. Never vies for his attention, nor grovels for his affection. Yet she knows his waist and chest measurements. Knows how to make every pair of trousers hug his hips, and waistcoats button perfectly around his figure without squeezing the air out of his lungs. 

He turns around, only to be met with your teasing smile, a wooden chest full of new fabrics resting against your hips as you lean your body against a shelf.

“Mr. R,” she says with slight jest. It sends a shiver down his spine.

With your hands full, you can only manage the formality of tilting your head downwards, which only causes one of your ringlets to fall out of your baby blue bandana. It lands just above your collarbone, and Sylus can’t take his eyes off of it. Can’t seem to stop his heart racing in his chest as his hand twitches to reach out and touch it.

Despite having luncheon before leaving, he suddenly feels starved.

“Miss,” he replies, the formality rolling off his tongue. “Allow me.” 

He takes the wooden chest in his arms without hesitation, not seeming to care that the conversations within the boutique have suddenly become nothing more than hushed whispers as curious eyes watch the brash seamstress interact with the gentle Duke. Their encounters often make great entertainment in club rooms and around dinner tables, should you be so lucky as to wrangle the gossip out of the mouths of jealous mothers. 

“What brings you back so soon? If you’re curious about how your suit for the ball is coming along, I’m afraid that it is not quite ready yet. I must apologise, but the gowns that have been requested to catch your eye this season are even more flamboyant than usual.”

Avoiding your quizzical gaze, he holds out the box of macaroons, gesturing for you to take it.

“I was just passing by and thought you and the other seamstresses would enjoy something sweet.” He keeps his gaze on the decorative string tied around your waist. It appears no one has bought you a ribbon since his last visit. He wonders if he bought you one, would you wear it?

“Always so kind, Mr. R. I do hope we aren’t bankrupting you,” you joke, leaning in to take the sweets, your sudden close proximity making him clumsy as he tries to keep the wooden chest from slipping from underneath his arm.

“I heard you had a preference for them.” The sentence slips out of his mouth before he can stop it.

You raise a brow in response.

“Did Madame Amelia but you up to this? She’s been trying to stop me from leaving Asterville recently. Apparently I’m much more suited to work as a seamstress as opposed to gaining a proper education.”

“You plan to leave Asterville?” The idea of a life without you hits him sharp and sudden, like an arrow that has been aimed and fired right into the centre of his heart. The wound bleeds. Without you, Asterville would be miserable.

You shake your head. “A silly dream, I know. What could possibly be out there for a woman like me? No family, no chance of marriage, and very little to my name….” you trail off, a wistful look in your eyes as you stare off into the distance to a place where Sylus cannot reach you.

“It is not a sin for a lady to have ambition,” Sylus says, voice stern. “In fact, I…find it…admirable.”

Seeming to snap out of your woeful daze, Sylus can only stand there and look at you longingly as you give him a delicate curtsey.

“I do apologise for speaking so liberally in front of you, Mr. R. I doubt a seamstress’s desires are of any interest to a man, let alone a Duke.”

Please don’t go, Sylus wants to say. For I have waited all day for this interaction, and if you are to leave now, I’ll have to wait through another week of sunsets and sunrises before I can see you again.

“I’ll have Madame Amelia write to you immediately when your suit is ready for collection. Or perhaps we can just send it directly to Fumbally if you find yourself occupied with more important matters.”

“Thank you,” Sylus says, disappointment flooding his body as you slowly back away from him.

“I do enjoy our encounters, Mr. R, no matter how brief they may be. But sadly, I must say farewell for now, or else Asterville will be home to many unhappy ladies without gowns for the Fumbally soirée.”

Like cherry blossoms in the wind, he barely has time to fully register your beauty before you disappear, leaving him standing with nothing but an aching heart and a wooden chest in his arms.

And as he sits back into the velvet seats of his carriage on the journey home, he cannot help but let his face fall into his hands as he curses himself for yet another failed attempt of earning your affection.

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

One week later, Sylus finds himself holding his breath as he stands in front of the familiar velvet curtain of the boutique, another box of macaroons in his hands as the ladies of the shop watch him like a hawk.

“How wonderful! Mr. R has graced us with his presence again!”

“Mama, may we please have Father write to Mr. R. and ask him over for tea one day?”

“Do you think Mr. R. is here to see that seamstress again? I heard he only allows her to take his measurements.”

“Shhh! He might hear you and think of us as rather impolite!”

Taking a deep breath, Sylus pushes down his swirling emotions and enters into the dim lighting of the store room.

“You’re late.”

Standing on a ladder, you continue to root through the shelves, barely sparing him a second glance. Your bandana is maroon today. The colour of romance and desire. Or perhaps Sylus is just hoping you’re trying to send him a subtle message.

“I didn’t think you would come today. The ladies who visited he shop said they did not see your carriage enter town today.”

“I was travelling on a different route from a neighbouring town. An old friend needed advice.”

He holds out his hand as you begin to descend from the ladder. You take it in your own, and Sylus forgets how to breathe. This is the first time he has touched you. The first time he has felt the weight of your hand in his. It is more calloused than he had imagined, but this does not make it any less lovely.

“I assume you're here to be re-measured, despite me only measuring your impressive proportions last month. Madame Amelia mentioned you were fretting over your suit not fitting you. Did you know she thinks that your chest rivals Hercules? If you believe what the ancient poets wrote, that is. But I find that men like to exaggerate their stories, particularly when it comes to the details of their bodies.”

You let go of his hand as you arrive safely to the ground, and suddenly Sylus is aware of the lack of space between your chests. It may be the closest he has ever been to you.

Red eyes boring into yours. If a single gaze could reveal a man’s feelings, Sylus wonders if he would make the entire Earth shake with his desire for you. When did you get so close? He can see the faint remnants of ink stains on your fingertips, can smell the scent of roses from the soap you must use. He aches for you. Surely you must know by now? That every trip to town is only an excuse to visit you, and if chance encounters are not in the stars, then Sylus sees to it that he bends the constellations to his will in order to bribe the Heavens into letting him catch even a single glimpse of you. 

“Perhaps those men could take a few lessons on the art of poetic language from you,” Sylus says eventually. Unable to hold back any longer, he tucks the loose ringlet of hair back into your bandana. 

You inhale sharply as his hand accidentally brushes your cheek; or is he simply imagining it?

“I was afraid I missed your visit today. Madame Amelia had me fetch another delivery from the Docks. It was quite busy today. Lots of royalty sailing in for the ball. I could barely squeeze by the gaggles of girls.”

Sylus nods, but he’s not quite sure if he fully understood anything you said, because his desire to reach out and hold you is burning him alive from the inside-out.

“Most ladies wear the most brilliant of bonnets when they visit the Docks. It is a known spot for stumbling across royalty. The Princes of the neighbouring countries often sail to Asterville to marvel at its ancient beauty.” He says this while looking at your collarbones. So thin. He wonders if you would ever dine with him in Fumbally.

You let out a deep, dramatic sigh. “I do not find joy in the superficial affection of anyone, let alone a Prince. Mr. R, have our weekly conversations revealed anything about my personality at all?”

“I find you rather difficult to read, Miss seamstress.”

“How amusing. I find you rather inscrutable too, Mr. R.”

“Shall we?” He gestures towards the connecting dressing room that is used for measuring  important customers in private.

“I suppose we shall.”

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

A dozen candles burning, emitting a soft hazy glow as you kneel before him, eyebrows knitted together in concentration as you tighten the measuring tape around his hips. It’s becoming unbearable for Sylus to remain still. Your skin looks ever so soft in the amber hues, and the scent of roses is making his head spin. Not even an entire garden of roses would smell this strong. If he does not convince you to attend the ball in Fumbally today, he might simply wither like a tree in Winter and die. 

You both haven’t spoken a word since stepping inside the dressing room, but Sylus doesn’t dare disturb you while you’re working. So instead, he waits patiently for you to invite him into conversation, even though the silence that is enveloping the two of you feels like a form of torture.

Still not breathing a word, he watches as you move up towards his chest, humming tunes under your breath as you squint in the light, a small laugh escaping your lips as you shake your head in what looks like disbelief. 

“Perhaps your visit has not been in vain after all. I do believe your chest has grown slightly larger since our last appointment.” You pause, looking up at him through long lashes.

“The ladies of Asterville won’t know how to behave if this news were to be spread into the streets.”

“You’re willing to sell other peoples’ information just like that?” Sylus gives you an amused smile.

“For a price, yes.” You look at him, your features arranged in a serious manner. “But there are some secrets that I like to keep for myself.”

Getting to your feet, you take a step back before taking a mock bow with such dramatic grandeur, it actually makes him burst into a fit of laughter.

You smile at him, your eyes twinkling like little stars.

“You are free to go, Mr. R. As I have said before, I do enjoy our time together. It’s always such a shame that you can only stay for such a short while, but I suppose a Duke must fulfil his duties.”

I can stay forever, if only you so much as utter the word, Sylus wants to say. If you were to even show a sliver of interest in me, then I would ride out to the mines and pluck a diamond from the dark depths myself, and then I would carve it into whatever shape you desire, placing it on your finger in the Asterville Chapel for all to marvel at. It would be a grand occasion, no expense spared. So please, just say you want me as much as I want you. Or if you want, I can throw away my title if it means you will allow yourself to find safety in my arms.

“Mr. R? I do pray you say what ails you. Your face looks rather troubled.”

Sylus exhales, suddenly feeling exhausted. Had he forgotten to breathe for a second? Or perhaps his travels have worn him out. He never sleeps well in the carriage.

Stepping down from the footstool, he bows graciously before you. 

“I apologise for taking up your precious time. I assume the orders for the ball have not quite dwindled down,” he says, shrugging on his jacket.

“No matter how busy we are, everyone must make time for the Duke. It is Madame Amelia’s policy.”

Sylus nods, but he is only half-listening, because inside, he’s at war with himself. Should he ask? He would never forgive himself if he came across as pressuring you into doing something you did not want to do. No, he won’t ask. He’ll simply take his leave as usual. But then again–”

“Mr. R?”

“T-The ball.” 

How embarrassing. It comes out in a stutter, far from his usual eloquence. Thank God for the dim lighting, for he can feel a faint blush rising from his neck to his cheeks.

“The ball in Fumbally next week. I do hope you attend. It will be the best one yet. The firework show will be even bigger than last season’s.”

Avoiding his eyes, you stare down at your hands. 

“There is no room for a seamstress in a place as wonderful as Fumbally.”

Sylus shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“How could you say such nonsense? The ball is for you. They always are. So you must attend. I beg you.” 

“The ball…is…for me?”

Silence.

And suddenly Sylus’s world crumbles, for what has he just said? Too much. And now that the truth is out, it is too late to take it back.

You step away from him in shock, hands wrapping defensively around your arms as your eyes look at him with…with what? Terror? Disgust? Had he raised his voice? He must have, otherwise you wouldn’t have reacted in such a visceral manner. He can feel his calm composure slipping away from him as the room begins to spin. Perhaps he should have taken his leave when you had so clearly wanted him to go. 

Giving you an apologetic bow, he reigns in his spiralling emotions and puts on the most formal tone of a respectable Duke that he can muster up.

“I deeply apologise for raising my voice in your company. I hope you know that it was not on purpose, nor was it done with any ill intentions.” 

Unable to look at you any longer in fear of seeing something that will give him sleepless nights, he bows once more, eyes downcast on the floor as he takes strong strides towards the curtain, pausing briefly as he hesitates to say one final sentence.

“In regards to what I said…I meant every word. However, it would pain me to think that you would force yourself to attend the ball just because the Duke asked you to. Your agency is a gift, and I have made a fool of myself in front of you by letting my emotions get the better of me. Forgive me.”

Silence. Sylus gets the message.

“Good day, Miss seamstress.”

Not daring to look back, he exits the boutique at a brisk pace, bowing to Madame Amelia as he tears open the door and steps out into—to his dismay—the pouring rain.

Thunder claps above in the grey clouds as his men jump to alert upon his sudden arrival, quickly preparing the carriage as the rain soaks through his clothes. Who knew his life would become a pathetic fallacy that the poets will probably write about in their pitiful sonnets? All his hard work of earning your trust has been ruined by his lack of self-preservation. He might as well never step into society again. What is the point, if you will no longer wish to see him?

He’s about to step into the carriage when he hears the tinkling of a bell as the boutique door swings open, and you come tumbling out, the rain soaking you instantly, but you do not seem to care in the slightest.

“Wait!”

A hand reaches out to catch his wrist, stopping him abruptly in his tracks.

Another clap of thunder. He dares not to turn around. Dares not to hope, for it would destroy him if this glimmer of hope were to be extinguished as quickly as it had been lit. 

Frozen in place, time slows as Sylus finds his fate suspended in the air.

“Just…wait.” 

The words can barely be heard over the sound of the rain, but Sylus has always had an ear for your voice.

“What more can be said?” he asks, to himself or to you, that is a question that he cannot seem to answer in his current state.

“If I were to tell you how I truly feel right now…they would throw me into the deepest dungeons of the Asterville and toss the key into the ocean.” 

Sylus holds his breath once more as the grip on his wrist tightens. 

“No one is here but me,” Sylus says, voice low. “And I swear, whether you wish tell me or not, your feelings that you fear will not cause any harm to you if you were to speak them aloud, for they shall not be repeated. I promise to take them to my grave."

“Oh, Sylus.” 

He whips around as you drop his wrist, shocked that you used his name. But instead of meeting your eyes, he finds you with your face in your hands, heavy sobs causing your shoulders to shake as the ran drenches your trembling shoulders.

“Don’t cry, my darling. Please—”

“You deserve someone with prospects. A title. Someone who can play the role of a proper lady in Fumbally. But I cannot live with myself, knowing that you are the man I have fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with. A Duke. How pathetic of me to even dream of such nonsense. It is why I refused those pretty invitations to your balls, despite the wretched pain it brought me every time. Crying myself to sleep like a little girl, sewing a gown for every single season, only to toss it into the fire in fear that I wouldn’t be able to see you dance with another girl if I even dared to show my face in your humble abode…”

Removing your face from your hands, you wipe away your tears as he stares at you in disbelief. He wonders if he heard you correctly—no—he prays to the Heavens that he heard you correctly. Has all his suffering in silence been simply caused by a misunderstanding? That perhaps, you had been suffering too, afraid of your lack of proprietary and low title? Afraid of him turning you down in disgust? 

The rain continues to pour down on the forbidden lovers, but neither seem to pay the weather any heed. Instead it serves as a reminder that although fierce, storms can allow for outbursts of emotions, hiding the noise in order to shield secrets from the prying ears of the Universe.

“Say it isn’t true,” Sylus breathes, rain dripping down his face.

“What?”

“Say that you never shed a tear because of me. That you never felt ashamed in front of me.”

“Sylus...”

He reaches out, hands trembling as he takes your face between his palms, his thumbs brushing away the stray tears that continue to pour from your eyes. It breaks his heart, seeing you like this. 

“I thought you knew,” Sylus whispers. His eyes flicker down to your lips. So pink and plump. Begging him to just lean in and press them against his own. Heart hammering against his chest, he waits for you to say something. Anything. 

“Knew what?” You say after a long pause.

Sylus cannot take it any longer. If not now, when will he ever find the courage to tell you the truth that you deserve to know?

“That my love for you burns brighter than any star in the Universe. It is so heavy, that I have been living like Atlas who was doomed to carry the sky, but instead of the sky, I hold my love for you above my head, hoping that one day, you would wish to carry it with me.”

Like flowers blooming after a particularly harsh winter, the two of you stand in the rain, holding your breaths as a realisation slowly dawns between two lonely souls.

“Why me?” You say it with such sorrow that it makes Sylus want to tear the Earth in two for making you feel like you are woman that is not worth loving.

“You could have anyone, but I only have you.” Your lower lip trembles as you speak.

“Excuse my bluntness, but you are sorely mistaken,” Sylus says, ruby eyes blazing. “For I may have the choice of anyone, but my only wish is to have you, if you will allow it.” 

You choke out a laugh. “Was it my sharp tongue or my ragged clothes?”

“It was simply you,” Sylus replies. “From the moment I saw you hiding behind the curtain, I knew it would only ever be you that would be able to make me feel anything at all.”

Another soft laugh of incredulity escapes your lips. 

“My room is above the shop. It’s…well, to be quite frank, there is nothing worthwhile up there for you to see, but I…I want to take you up there just to keep you near me for a little longer.”

“My afternoon is yours,” Sylus says, pressing his forehead against yours. “And so is every moment you seek my company from this day forward. From now on, my time shall only be dedicated to you. I will have one of my men always situated in town so he can fetch me whenever you desire to see me.”

Catching your hand as he pulls away from your face, he presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. 

“Now show me this room of yours, and I will decide for myself whether it is worth my time or not.”

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

Patience is a virtue, unless of course, patience lacks control, and in the unfortunate incident where both seem to be absent in a situation, one can only be left helpless, which is what Sylus feels as he presses his thigh between your legs, half your corset undone as you sink your teeth into his neck, licking over the bruise as he desperately tries to cling to his sanity, because this feels like a dream.

Both of you are still drenched from the rain, yet it does not seem to bother either of you. In fact, it only adds another excuse for the shedding of clothes, for leaving them on would only be an inconvenience. God forbid, Sylus would never want you to catch a cold in the middle of Summer.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs as you detach your mouth from his neck, panting as you watch his eyes rake over your exposed skin and the fullness of your hair now that he’s ripped off your bandana, your full beauty spilling from its restraints.

His large hands suddenly lift you up as he squeezes your thighs through the cotton material of your stockings, a soft moan escaping your lips as he carries you over to the bed, gently placing you down on the rumpled sheets as he finishes untying the strings of your corset. 

Clawing at his shirt, you rip his blouse free from his trousers, your hands quickly becoming acquainted with the buttons as you undo them with all the skill of a seamstress. A lady that knows her way around clothes, he aids you by shrugging off the blouse as he leans over you, fingers sliding across the buckle of his belt.

A soft sigh escapes his lips as his cock is freed from the tight fabric all at once. Without a warning, your hand reaches out to palm his hardness through his briefs, your eyes full of lust as he shuts his own and lets the pleasure course through his body. Finally. All those nights of finding a release by rubbing himself to an orgasm with the fantasies of his fingers on your bare skin, all the cold showers he had to take in order to rid himself of his sexual desires that always seemed to involve you; it has finally come to a conclusion. A conclusion that involves fucking you with all the heat that has been building up inside of him for what feels like centuries.

Now, as he sheds you of all your layers, he cannot help but take his time, despite the fact that you’re begging him to just insert himself already. 

“I did not know ladies even understood the true, obscene, meaning of intercourse,” Sylus hums, kissing a trail down your thighs as he pulls down your underwear with his long fingers, tossing them aside as he observes the wetness leaking from your folds. 

“Any lady with a brain knows that the greatest of pleasures comes from intercourse,” you sigh, catching his wrist and pulling it towards your throbbing clit, a whimper escaping your lips as he begins to massage circles into the little bud. 

“You cannot fathom how many times I’ve thought about this,” Sylus growls, leaning down to kiss your bare breasts as you squirm against the mattress. 

“How humorous. I often found myself thinking of you when I would touch myself,” you reply with an air of tongue-and-cheek.

Sylus moans, his head falling against your chest as you curl your fingers into his silver hair. 

“I wish we had of declared our true feelings of affection sooner. We would have saved so much time.”

“Perhaps we can make up for it now.” 

In one swift movement, Sylus finds his position being shifted as you launch yourself into his bare chest, knocking him onto his back as you climb on top of him, pulling down his briefs, your eyes widening at his size.

“It is not just a big estate you possess, I see,” you say, a smirk on your lips as you crawl towards him, lifting your hips before sinking down on his thick cock with one swift movement.

Sylus curses as you take him in his entirety. His hips buck up involuntarily, but you seem to be on the same page, and you grind your hips to meet his repeating thrusts as his hands squeeze your waist, not wanting this feeling to ever end.

As the bed shakes and the room fills with wet noises of skin slapping against skin, two souls intertwine and become whole, an eclipse that only happens once in a lifetime. Your moans only make his cock throb with desire even more, while his thrusts cause your wetness to increase by the second. Far from delicate, it’s a rough dance the two of you find yourselves in. But there is also a tenderness present in the way he runs his fingers over the soft skin of your thighs every few minutes, or the way you look down at him to check if he’s still enjoying your movements. 

It lasts longer than a dozen waltzes. Sylus takes you in any way he can. Against the wall, on the floor, every position he can think of, he tries, and you are right there with him, bending your body to his will, greed making your pupils widen with want and need. Please take me again, Sylus. I can handle it. My pussy will always long for the feeling of your cock forevermore. 

The rainy afternoon bleeds into a misty twilight as Sylus comes all over your breasts for his third orgasm of the day, painting you with every last drop he has. It’s bliss. 

“Sylus…” 

You tug on his hand, forcing his fingers into your wet heat as you rub your clit, your legs spread wide.

“So greedy,” Sylus pants, but he continues to move his fingers in the way he has learnt that you like. 

“Will you come on my fingers, my darling?”

“Y-Yes,” you sigh, eyes shutting as Sylus feels your walls tightening around him.

“How many more times will you come undone for me like this?” Sylus asks, curling his fingers, taking pride in himself as he finds the spot that sends you into a paradise that only he can take you to.

It doesn’t take you long to reach your climax after that. A few more strategic movements of his fingertips, and you’re coming once more. Sylus makes sure to guide you through it, eventually removing his hand as you whine from the loss. He kisses your forehead as he wipes you down with a handkerchief, assuring you that there will be plenty more time to fill you once more before the day is over. 

Laboured breathing and the musky smell of sex. Sylus has lost count of the hours you both have spent lost in pleasure. The ladies of the town will be wondering how he managed to disappear from their sight. Or perhaps someone will have already put two and two together. But as Sylus looks at your naked figure through the dwindling daylight, he simply couldn't care less. 

Pulling you into his arms, he rests his chin on the crown of your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, legs tangling together as you both bask in the post-sex haze. 

“So will you come to Fumbally for the ball?”

A burst of giggles that sounds akin to the bells of an orchestra. Sylus did not know that you could make such a sound, did not know he was capable of making anyone feel happiness that is so pure and genuine.

So lovely. So free. Perhaps this is the true-self that you had been hiding from him in fear that he would not accept you for who you are.

“I do not own a fancy gown that would be suitable for such an event,” you say, once your giggles have died down. 

“Then let me commission one for you. You can use whatever material you want. I will see to it that you won’t have to use a penny of your wages.”

“And a ribbon?”

Sylus kisses your head. “From now on, I will only buy ribbons for one woman in Asterville.”

“Oh? The ladies of the town will be terribly unhappy about that.”

“Let them be unhappy, for I am now spoken for.”

Brash as his words may be, he means every single one, for this is only the beginning of his quest to earn, not only the full depths of your heart, but your hand in marriage. But there will be plenty of time to do so, now that he has laid his intentions out for you to bear witness to.

Kissing your head once more, he shut his eyes, slowly falling into a deep sleep.

And for the first time in his life, the Duke dares to dream of a future with the seamstress who has entrapped him in her eternal embrace.

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ a/n: thank you to everyone who encouraged me to post this; it has been living in my head rent free. and yes! i did rewatch pride and prejudice 3 times in the past 24 hours in hopes to capture even a fraction of the beautiful essence of jane austen and the power of yearning !!!! as always, much love to all who take the time to read my silly little fics. as always, i dedicate my work to you.

love always, daisy ❀

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ taglist: @peascribbles @dyeinsomniadontwake @blessdunrest @sylusgirlie7 @madam8 @glassandhoney @ash-dreamer220 @sleepykittyenergy

[glassandhoney]

Flowers | Sylus one shot

Flowers grow where dragons take their last breath. It was an unspoken truth of their kind, one passed only in the collective consciousness of the terrible creatures.

The little dragon grew among the endless hills of scarlet, stems of moonflowers swaying in the breeze and rocking him to sleep each night they bloomed, their deceitfully cloying fragrance carrying stories of mighty beasts and devoured souls. He had been spared only because of the otherness that had marked him since the cradle, the frail human body he had been cursed with. For a time, the curse became a blessing in disguise, bestowing on him yet another heartbeat, breath, day bathing in the sun and night lulled by the stars above. He didn’t know each of their mischievous twinkles counted down the moments until the last dragon would lay his garnet gaze upon them one final time. The flowing years took to him much like waves to a jaded bit of glass: they cultivated his softness and nurtured his kindness, polishing any sharp edges there might have been; coaxed him into the world of his kin’s executioners; created an illusion of acceptance.

Alas, there is no escaping the Master of Fate.

Like tender branches, ones he had first hacked off one starless night in his early years to stave off his fate, the basalt horns sprouted from between the white strands of hair. And humans, so blind to their own sin and monstrosity, saw. They revelled in the rare opportunity to give in to their basest, most animalistic desire to hunt – it was of little consequence that he had lived among them for years, well-liked and appreciated by many. They chased him into the flower-filled fields, the wind howling through the crimson valley as countless soldiers thrust weapons at his chest – for this was war, one he had no chance of winning. In the abyss, he was sealed, the adolescent dragon whose wings had never felt the wind’s caress. For aeons, he dreamt of the one that would free him of his shackles, claim the broadsword piercing his heart as his archnemesis and grant him true death.

When the sorceress came, she gifted him with revenge. Oh, but she was greedy. With her by his side, they razed cities, plundered coffers and seized starships, making the lair he claimed for himself a shining nest for them. She wanted a crown – she took it. She wanted a silly windchime her starry gaze spotted in the market – she took it. She wanted his heart – she took it. It would have been the second war declared on him in his life—yet could a conquest be as delicate as the flower petals that had swaddled the young dragon when the others had fallen? Could the spoils be surrendered as naturally as if they were the air escaping his lungs with each breath? He adored her greed, stoked it, even; fed her lacklustre soul with fulfilled desires, until all he could smell was its sweet cherry wine fragrance. Even so, she never let their deal be one-sided: she retaught him compassion and showed him human love, making the dragon think he could live like a human as well. And when she made her next demand—his soul—there was no hesitation in his still-free mind when he grasped her hand and took an oath never to betray her, even when doomsday arrived.

It did, sooner than either of them expected, thrusting them into the blooming datura hills yet again. For the first time, he had denied her – refused to give her the death she begged for when they stood at an impasse, facing an impossible choice, at least to her: kill the dragon as his fated archnemesis or allow him to tear his claws into his beloved’s chest when the dragon’s curse took his mind. But he had tasted humanity, not by devouring their souls, but letting his own be halved and known; by holding it in his embrace each night like the most valuable of treasures in their hoard, whispering bloodiest promises into her ear. He refused to be a dragon again. He forced her hand, vowing to himself never to do so again, letting her take the life she had never wanted with the broadsword she had freed him from. Even then, she had to be greedy, his sorceress: she answered his refusal with her own, taking his death for herself, the privilege of flowers making a home out of his ribcage. He had freed himself of one curse only to be bound by another.

And the once-dragon wouldn’t have had it any other way, even when the 10.5 grams of energy that used to be him barrelled through the cosmos, waiting for the other half of his soul to join him, searching for a place for them to be reborn in. He should have known better than to hope for fate to be merciful to the likes of him. They were a soul separated by thousands of stars that had mocked him through every step of existence. When he finally found her, garnet vortex glimpsing into the vast expanses of the universe and seeing at last, he dared to celebrate, ridiculing them all – thousands of years, yet his childish, innocent hope persevered. How cruel of a long-awaited awakening it was – when half the soul he had dedicated his every gesture, every choice to, didn’t recognise him. She gazed upon him and saw not a sliver beyond the monster his sorceress had never seen. Desperate, he pushed, forcefully tugging at her soul, demanding it accept and accommodate his. It achieved nothing but disgusted looks and baseless accusations thrown at him, giving way to a war. He chose his battles wisely – though never when it came to her. He ceded ground, going against instinct and revealing the soft underbelly. Vulnerability laid bare, the dragon needed to learn anew how to be human – he could only wonder if it would be her again who taught him.

One night, he watched the stars that seemed to blink back with a somewhat warmer light, gone was their malicious intent— or maybe he was getting sentimental, not to his detriment.

“It’s the middle of the night. I thought you’d be doing some shady deals at this time.”

He didn’t look back, having felt her arrival before she had even opened her mouth, but he did lower his head to look over the balcony’s railing and hide his smile from the sky.

“Hm. Took the night off from being the big bad boss.”

“To watch the stars? I wouldn’t have taken you for the type.”

Her voice was now further away, to the left. A thud, then a familiar sweet scent was wrapping him tight in its cloying embrace. A raised eyebrow at the ceramic pot that had suddenly found its way to his balcony and a cock of his head to the side later, she was standing by him, watching the sky like he had been doing just moments earlier.

“And you took me for the type that enjoys flowers?”

He received a shrug. “I wanted to brighten all this gloom you surround yourself with.” She stayed silent for a while. But then, she seemed to change her answer, and her face turned to him, her eyes twinkling like the stars above – soft. “Maybe.”

With the smile she gave him, it seemed she dabbled in her old and forgotten ways again – taking his breath away as she wished. His eyes darted to the moonflowers again, then returned to the dazzling soul that brought them to him, allowing the dragon to rest at last. Maybe flowers grow where hearts live.

[glassandhoney]

🖤 Sylus – Five Years Later

The first in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

CW/TW: emotional whiplash, estranged parent dynamics, mentions of past abandonment, grief & regret, yelling / intense arguments, emotional manipulation (mild-to-moderate), parental guilt, references to alcoholism (brief), weapon mention (non-violent context, antique firearm), implied past trauma While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

(He never lets go. Not really. So when the world bends just enough for their paths to cross again—he grabs the thread like a man who’s been drowning for five goddamn years.)

The scent shouldn’t have hit him like that.

Bergamot and peach — too specific to be coincidence, too cruel to be real. It lanced through the mall’s artificial air, slicing straight into the part of him that had learned to rot in silence.

He stopped mid-step, black gift bag swinging at his side like dead weight. He hadn’t meant to be here. Just killing time before a meeting, maybe grabbing some pointless toy for Kieran’s son.

But that scent.

He followed it — not fast, not frantic. Just... pulled. Like gravity had shifted without asking his permission.

He rounded a corner. Walked past the blinding colors of a candy kiosk. Ignored the buzzing arcades. Stepped into the glow of the children’s department, bathed in too much light.

And then he saw him.

White hair, soft and unbrushed. Crimson eyes.

Staring down at a plastic capsule, tiny fingers struggling to pry it open, cheeks puffed in sheer, adorable defiance. The boy looked up and grinned at someone just out of view.

And then—there you were.

Crouched beside him, arms around your knees. That necklace still at your throat. Your hair longer. Your posture calmer. But it was you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You looked up. Met his eyes.

The world didn’t fall apart. It just... recoiled.

Your lips parted. He couldn’t tell if it was shock or guilt. Maybe both.

He took a step forward. Controlled. Precise. Like walking through fire and pretending it didn’t burn.

“Well,” he said, voice rough, cool, razor-sharp. “Isn’t this adorable.”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted his head, gaze dragging from the boy to you.

“You got taller,” he added, tone almost conversational. “I always said you needed better posture.”

Still, silence.

He smiled — the wrong kind of smile.

“And here I thought you were dead. Would’ve sent flowers. Or a bottle of wine. Maybe danced on your grave. Depends on the day.”

You stood slowly, one hand resting lightly against the child’s back. Protective. Subtle.

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” you said.

“No?” he murmured. “Just... the rest of reality?”

You didn’t answer that.

His eyes dropped again. To the boy. Then back up. He didn’t ask. Not out loud. Didn’t have to.

Your expression answered for you.

He exhaled once, slow, through his nose. Then laughed. Just a little.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Why not. Five years of silence, and now I get the full soap opera.”

He took another step, voice dipping low.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Was it worth it? The running? The silence? Did it help you sleep?”

You stared at him, steady.

“I did what I had to do.”

“Sure,” he said, nodding, the sarcasm now soft, silky. “And now you’re back in broad daylight, in my city, with my blood standing in front of capsule machines. Very covert.”

His fingers twitched slightly at his side. Not from rage — from restraint.

The boy turned.

“Mom?”

Your breath hitched.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Small feet padded over. A tiny hand found yours without hesitation. Sylus watched it like a punch to the ribs.

The boy blinked up at him.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Your voice was quiet. Even.

“Someone I used to know.”

Something in Sylus’s jaw clicked. He crouched down, not too close. Not yet.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” the boy replied.

“What’d you get?”

A capsule was held up proudly. “Tiny raven with red eyes!”

Of course. Sylus stared at it, almost amused.

“Good taste,” he said. “I used to have one just like that.”

The boy beamed.

Sylus rose to his full height again, gaze flicking to you — sharp now, cooled over, dangerous.

“This conversation’s not over.”

Your grip on the boy tightened, imperceptibly.

“I know.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned. Walked away like it cost him nothing.

But you saw it — the slight tremble in his fingers. And for the first time in five years — you knew: he wouldn't sleep tonight. And neither would you.

***

He doesn’t sleep. Not because of nightmares — those he’s made peace with years ago — but because of you. Because you were real again. Present. Breathing the same air. And now the silence he once ruled feels like a cage made of your absence.

He paces his study like an animal too big for its den, the whiskey glass untouched on the desk, sweating against the dark wood. The documents in front of him blur, ignored. His body is wired, restless, his mind clawing at thoughts it doesn’t know what to do with. He used to find solace in this room. Now it’s just another echo chamber.

You came back. Just like that. No warning. No apologies. As if you hadn’t torn him apart and scattered the pieces across five fucking years. And you didn’t come alone. You brought his son.

His son.

The words twist inside him like a blade. Rage flares hot and sharp — not just at you, but at himself. At the way he still aches for you. At the way his hands trembled the moment your eyes met his. You don’t get to come back like this. Not after he worshipped you. Not after he handed over every part of himself — the power, the silence, the vulnerability — and let you keep it like it was nothing.

You, who once ruled him with a smile and a whisper. You, who made the most dangerous man in the city gentle. You, who he let in so deeply that even now, after everything, his instincts still tilt toward you.

He should hate you. He wants to.

But all he can think about is the boy’s eyes — his eyes — and the fact that he didn’t know. You hid it from him. You stole that from him. And yet, the second he saw your face, all he wanted was to feel the warmth of your body again.

No. This can’t be impulsive. He tells himself that. Over and over. He has to be careful now. Strategic. This isn’t just about you anymore. There’s too much at stake. A child. Blood of his blood. If he moves wrong, if he rushes this, he could lose everything before he’s even had the chance to hold it.

You came back so openly, so carelessly — as if you knew. As if you were daring him to act.

But this isn’t a reunion. It’s a chess game. And he intends to win.

Still, all the logic in the world can’t stop the pull. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He throws on his jacket, crosses the hall in long, deliberate strides. He ignores the way his pulse hammers, the way his breath shortens. He tells himself this is reconnaissance. Observation. That he won’t knock on your door, won’t say your name, won’t touch you.

But he’s already walking to the car, and he knows — he’s lying.

Because it’s already too late. You’re a gravity he never escaped. And he’s hurtling back toward you like a star on its last, burning descent.

***

You hadn’t heard the door. You were sure you’d locked it — triple-checked, in fact. But when you stepped barefoot into the living room, the shadows shifted. And he was there.

Sylus.

Sitting in the armchair by the window, so still he might’ve been carved from shadow. His face half-hidden in darkness, but his eyes — those eyes — watched you with the slow, dangerous heat of banked coals. As if he were waiting for something. As if he’d already decided what it was.

You clutched your son’s sweatshirt to your chest, still warm from sleep, still soft with safety. Your fingers curled into the fabric like it might shield you from the inevitable.

Your throat closed around a breath you forgot to take.

“I should’ve known you’d find a way in,” you said. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… tired. But not the kind of tired sleep could fix.

The silence stretched. And then—

“Why.” His voice was low. Steady. But there was nothing calm about it.

“Why come back?”

You hesitated. Sat down at the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between you. Close enough to feel the tension, far enough to pretend it couldn’t touch you. Your grip tightened on the tiny sleeve in your lap.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly.

A lie. And you both knew it.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

The air between you hung thick with everything unspoken — all the years, all the damage, all the silence that had grown teeth.

You tried again, voice thinner now. “Money was running out. And I didn’t want him to grow up in places that... don’t let kids be kids.”

Still no answer.

You looked down, as if the floor could save you.

“But that’s not really why I came back.”

There was a shift in the dark — barely perceptible, but enough. A muscle in his jaw, maybe. Or the faintest tilt of his head.

“I kept dreaming,” you said. “That he’d start asking questions. About who he is. Where he came from. Why he can hear footsteps down the hall before they happen. Why his teachers can’t meet his eyes. Why he knows when I’m lying, even when I don’t.”

You paused. Swallowed.

“I didn’t know what I’d say.”

For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing. And then:

“Thought maybe I was dead?”

You laughed — bitter, small, nothing like real humor.

“No. That would’ve been easier.”

He still didn’t move, but something in the room recoiled anyway. Maybe it was you.

You turned toward him, carefully, like stepping toward a storm you once loved.

“I thought if I stayed gone long enough, you’d forget. Or hate me enough not to care.”

He leaned forward slowly, like something waking up. The light from the hallway carved across his face, catching the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the faint scar at his jaw. He looked older. Not in his body — in his bones. In the way ruin settles behind the eyes and builds a kingdom there.

“Do I look like a man who forgets?” he said.

God, the way he said it. Like the last bell before a burial.

You didn’t answer.

“You ran,” he said. “Took my son. Hid him from me. For five years.”

“I had to,” you said, a little too fast. “You know I had to.”

“Say it.”

You met his eyes, barely.

“I didn’t want to raise him in your world.”

There was a pause. Then:

“He is my world.”

That broke something in you. The sweatshirt slipped from your lap, forgotten.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

You stood before you meant to, took two small steps forward before you could stop yourself. A mistake. A betrayal of your own walls. Still, your hand lifted — hesitated — and reached out. Just barely. Fingertips grazing the side of his.

He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t hold you back either.

Not yet.

His breath caught, brushing your wrist like memory.

“I could’ve loved you softer,” he said. “But you were never meant for soft things.”

Your eyes burned. You couldn’t speak for a moment. And when you did, your voice was almost gone.

“Maybe I’m not. But he is.”

And still, beneath all of it — the guilt, the weariness, the regret that howled behind your ribs — you waited for the part that scared you most. The part where he would turn cold. Where he would say the thing you feared since the moment you left.

The part where he would take your son from your arms and never look back.

You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. Not you. Not the boy.

And still, that fear clawed at you like a curse.

So you did what fear makes people do — you attacked. With silence, with half-truths, with distance you didn’t want. You kept the mask on as long as you could, clung to it like armor, because if it slipped — if he saw how badly you still wanted to crawl into his arms and sleep like you used to, when he would whisper in that deep, velvet voice and stroke your hair until the nightmares went quiet — he might use it against you.

He might leave.

And you… you had no idea how to survive that again.

***

The night he left, you didn’t sleep.

You just lay beside your son, one hand curled protectively around his small, warm frame, the other pressed to your chest like it might keep your ribs from collapsing inward. Every breath felt like it came with splinters. He slept soundly, unaware. Safe in a world that you had built with trembling hands and stubborn silence.

By morning, Sylus hadn’t returned.

But Luke and Kieran had.

They didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just entered with the quiet precision of men who used to be part of your life — before you made them ghosts.

Their arms were full. Boxes, bags, toys, medicine, books. Clothes in every size. Food you hadn’t even realized you needed. And a black card, placed on the kitchen table like a detonator.

“From him,” Luke said, voice clipped, eyes avoiding yours.

You opened your mouth. To say thank you, maybe. Or I’m sorry. Or how have you been.

But Kieran was already turning away.

“Don’t,” he muttered. Not cruel. Not cold. Just done.

And it hit you, like it hadn’t hit you until that moment — not just guilt, not just regret.

You didn’t just run from him.

You ran from them too. The only people who had ever stayed. The only ones who’d held space for you when you were nothing but sharp edges and unfinished grief.

Now they wouldn't even look at you.

You stood there, frozen, surrounded by things you didn’t ask for — abundance you hadn’t earned — while your son laughed on the floor, tangled in a new toy, as if the world wasn’t cracked beneath your feet.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream.

But something broke. Quietly. Deeply.

Your pride was already bleeding. Your shame had nowhere left to hide. And still, it wasn’t the card that pushed you over the edge. It wasn’t the gifts or the silence or even the anger simmering in Luke’s shoulders.

It was the absence.

It was the fact that he didn’t come himself.

That he sent others. That he kept his distance — like you were already something to be managed, not faced.

And it shouldn’t have hurt. You’d told yourself a thousand times you didn’t want to see him. That this wasn’t about him. That you didn’t need his money or his empire or the echo of what you used to be.

But the truth — the ugly, humiliating truth — was this: you didn’t want his wealth.

You wanted him.

His voice. His arms. The way he used to pull you close and whisper things that made the dark quiet. The way he used to tuck you in like a secret, like something too rare to risk losing. You wanted him. And you hated yourself for it.

So you moved before you could think. Before the fear, the shame, the rational voice could stop you.

You grabbed your coat. Your keys.

Tara, bless her, had shown up just minutes before, arms full of groceries and soft reassurances, promising to stay the night if you needed to rest. You told her you’d be gone for a few hours. That everything was fine.

You kissed your son’s head — maybe a little too long, maybe a little too tight — and walked out the door without another word.

And then you drove.

Not because you knew what you were going to say.

But because if you didn’t see him now, if you didn’t make him look at you — you might shatter into pieces too small to ever come back together.

***

His estate was still the same.

Too grand. Too silent. Still heavy with ghosts you left behind.

The guards moved aside the moment they saw your face. No hesitation. No questions. Just doors opening like jaws — welcoming you back into the mouth of a beast you once dared to call home.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t hesitate.

You stormed into the room mid-meeting — a rupture in the polished calm — slicing through tailored suits, cigar smoke, and the tight, brutal quiet of dangerous men interrupted. Every head turned.

Including his.

Sylus sat at the head like a monarch grown colder with time. Glass in hand. Eyes unreadable. And that stillness — the kind that wasn’t calm, just leashed violence.

He saw you. Took you in.

And didn’t blink.

“Out,” he said.

Just one word. Soft. Absolute.

And the bosses of N109 — men who’d burned cities, bled kings, slaughtered empires — obeyed without a sound.

The door clicked shut behind the last of them.

You stood there. Just the two of you now. Five years of silence between your ribs. His name lodged somewhere behind your teeth.

You stepped forward, fists clenched.

“So this is how it’s going to be?” you snapped. “You send your men with toys and blank checks and think that counts? You think that makes you a father?”

He arched a brow. Slowly. And then — God help you — he laughed.

It was low. Mocking. Bone-deep with disbelief.

“You’re angry?” he said, with a cruel sort of wonder. “That’s rich.”

“I’m serious—”

“Oh, I can see that. Look at you,” he gestured to you with his glass, casual, vicious. “Marching in here like I haven’t been erased from his life. Like you didn’t take a scalpel to the past and cut me out clean. And now what — two days after a chance encounter, suddenly I’m not doing enough?”

His smile was the kind that used to make people flinch.

“What exactly were you expecting? Balloons? A welcome-home banner? Me groveling for the right to meet the child you kept hidden like some dirty secret?”

You flushed. Heat crawled up your throat.

“That’s not what I—”

“No?” he cut in, voice quieter now, colder. “Because from where I’m standing, you vanish for five years, show up with a son that wears my face, and get pissed when I don’t instantly fall into step like nothing happened.”

You stared at him, stunned. But he wasn’t done.

“You don’t get to paint me as the absentee,” he said, each word deliberate, venomous. “You built that absence. You enforced it. You chose it.”

You swallowed, but your voice cracked anyway.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. Just razor-sharp ache.

“Oh, come on, kitten. You always had choices. You were the clever one, remember? The strategist. The girl who read people like maps and always knew the way out. So tell me—what part of your master plan involved disappearing with my son and calling it love?”

“I was protecting him.”

“From me?” His voice dropped, dangerously soft. “Because you thought I’d do what, exactly? Teach him how to hold a knife? Make him my little monster?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

He stepped forward, eyes burning now.

“You don’t get to disappear, reappear, and accuse me of being a bad father in the same breath. You don’t get to bury me in silence and then demand I dance the role you left me.”

And then, softer, darker:

“You think I wanted this? To send strangers to the doorstep of the boy I didn’t even know existed?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He stared at you — not with hate, but with something worse. Hurt twisted so deep it no longer bled. It just settled.

“You think I wouldn’t have taught him to live?”

Your lips part. No sound.

“I would’ve taught him how to breathe in a world that eats soft things alive,” he says. “I would’ve taught him how to survive it. How to carry your laugh like a shield. How to fight for it. How to protect it.”

He’s not shouting. But each word cuts deeper than a scream.

“I would’ve laid down my empire for him,” he says. “I would’ve bled for every step he took.”

He pauses — just long enough for the weight of it to hit — and then:

“But you didn’t just take him from me.”

His voice lowers, rough and hollow.

“You took me from him. You took you from us. You didn’t just rewrite the story — you burned the whole fucking book before we even had a chance to open it.”

He steps closer, and you don’t move.

“You didn’t trust me with him. Fine. But you didn’t trust me with you either. And you—” his voice catches, jaw tightening, “you didn’t even give yourself the chance to know what it could’ve been like.”

His eyes are glass now. And every word is a knife he’s too tired to stop from falling.

“You robbed all three of us.”

You try to speak, but the words catch somewhere in your throat. A hard knot of guilt and grief you can’t seem to swallow. You want to say his name. Just his name.

But before you can, his voice changes.

It’s no longer cold. No longer composed.

It’s blistering.

“Do you know what I did the day I realized you were gone?” he says — and now it’s breathless, like the memory itself is suffocating him. “Do you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

So he does it for you.

“I drank,” he bites. “I tore the city apart. I hunted ghosts. I played the organ until the walls bled. Until the sound felt like your scream in my skull.”

You sway. He sees it. Doesn’t care.

“I sat in your chair,” he hisses, “and begged it to creak. Just once. Just once, like you were still in it.”

Your knees buckle.

Still, he doesn’t move to catch you.

“I watched videos of you sleeping,” he says, hoarse now. “Kept that ugly little mug you always hated — because your lipstick was still on the rim.”

You cover your mouth with both hands as your breath shatters open.

“I slept in our bed fully clothed,” he whispers, “because I couldn’t let the sheets forget your shape.”

He finally takes one step forward — and then stops. Something in him splinters.

With a growl pulled straight from his chest, he turns and hurls the whiskey glass into the fireplace.

It explodes in flame and glass, the sound like a gunshot, like a scream. Fire licks up the wall as the liquor catches, dancing high and fast.

You flinch. Cover your face.

But not from fear. From shame.

You drop to your knees, hands shaking uncontrollably, sobs raking through your ribs. You can’t see through the tears anymore, and your voice is barely there when you whisper—

“I didn’t know how to love you without losing myself.”

There’s silence for a beat. The kind that hurts worse than screaming.

Then his voice — softer now. Almost gentle. Still raw.

“Kitten,” he says. “Was I really such a monster that you had to vanish with a newborn? Cage yourself in pain and loneliness for five years?”

You can’t look up.

“Did it help?” he asks. “Did it ever help?”

Your voice comes out choked.

“No... no,” you cry. “It felt like I was dying every second. I called for you every night. I prayed you’d come.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Maybe your pride didn’t let you call loud enough.”

His words hit like lashes — and they’re meant to. You hear the fury under them. The wound he’s trying to cauterize with cruelty.

“And now what?” he snaps. “You think I’ll just let you use me again? Let you touch me again? And then vanish with my son all over again? Is that the plan?”

“Sylus, please...”

Your voice cracks as the sobs take over. The panic. The helplessness. You’re unraveling at the seams.

“Please don’t do this. Please—” You clutch at your chest, as if trying to physically hold your heart together. “You’re cutting me open— You’re cutting me alive— I made a mistake— so many mistakes— I didn’t know how to come back— I was scared— I was so scared— I didn’t know how to fix it, I didn’t— I never— I never—”

You can’t breathe. The words collapse.

But one thing pushes through.

“I never stopped loving you.”

Everything halts.

His expression breaks. Not shatters — breaks, quietly, like a fault line slipping beneath the surface.

And then he’s moving.

Down to the floor. To you.

His knees hit the marble hard. He doesn’t feel it.

His arms are around you in the next second, pulling you in, wrapping you up like a shield against everything — even himself. Even your shared grief.

You sob into his chest, into his collar, into the hollow beneath his jaw that still smells like night and memory and danger and home. Your body convulses with it, trembling like the child you once were in his arms.

And he holds you. Tight.

Because there’s nothing else left to do.

And now, with you in his arms again — trembling, broken, real — something in him gives way.

Not all at once. Slowly. Inevitably.

You feel it before he even realizes it’s happening: the way his muscles start to loosen, the way the sharp lines of rage soften, his breath slowing against your temple as his hands begin to move. Hesitant at first. Then helpless.

He’s touching your hair — slowly, gently — like he forgot what softness felt like. His fingers slip through the strands, curl at the nape of your neck, anchor there. One hand presses against your spine, the other strokes up your back, down again, grounding you with each motion like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your grief against his skin.

Your sobs soak through his shirt, seep down to his chest, dampen his collar and slide down his neck. And he lets it happen. Welcomes the burn. Because after five years of silence, your tears feel like the only thing real.

You cling to him like the world’s collapsing again — but this time you’re dragging him into the rubble with you. Your arms around his shoulders. Your knees curled against his sides. Your legs wrapping around him like instinct. Like survival.

He doesn’t flinch.

He welcomes the ache of it. Every breathless grab. Every tremor in your limbs. Every desperate mark your body makes against his.

Because it means you’re here.

Because it means he still feels something.

And then your voice — a wrecked, shaking thing — finds its way through the ruin:

“I came back… because… because I couldn’t give him what he deserves. I tried. I tried so hard to be everything. But how can I show him joy, or love, or hope — when I live in the ashes of something beautiful I destroyed?”

Your voice cracks.

“How can I teach him love, when the only thing left in me is the bitter taste of everything I ruined?”

His arms tighten around you.

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. Not now. Maybe not ever. I don’t even know how to fix myself. Let alone… heal you.”

You press your face into his chest, as if that could protect you from what you’re about to say.

“But please,” you whisper. “Please help me find the path back. What do I do? What do I say to make you stop hating me?”

There’s a pause.

A long, dangerous pause.

Then he exhales slowly — like the weight of your question cracked something inside his chest.

His lips find your temple.

Tentative. Testing.

He lingers there, breathing in the scent of you, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to want this.

Then he moves. A little bolder now.

Your hairline. The crown of your head. Your forehead. The slope of your cheek. His lips brush over each point like it’s a litany. Like he’s not kissing you, but praying through you.

He kisses your nose. Your brow. Your eyelids.

And then—your lips.

Or almost. Just close enough for his breath to mix with yours.

Each kiss a scar he’s trying to erase with his lips. Each touch a memory he’s begging not to lose again.

He doesn’t say your name.

He devours it.

“I hate that I still love you like this,” he breathes between kisses. “I hate that even now, after everything, all I want is you.”

You gasp. Half-sob.

“I hate that just being here… makes me want to forgive you.”

And then he’s kissing you, not like before. Not like memory. Not like longing.

Like a man drowning. Like someone trying to inhale every second he lost, burn it into his lungs before it’s torn away again.

You kiss him back — shattering into him, against him, with him. Arms tight. Mouth hungry. Breath wrecked.

Because this isn’t peace. This is survival.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to breathe.

His forehead presses against yours. His voice shakes.

“I’m not ready to forgive,” he says. “But I can’t go another day without trying.”

Your eyes stay closed. Your lips tremble.

“That’s all I want.”

He exhales — broken. Guttural. Human in a way he never lets himself be.

“I missed you so much it ruined me.”

And you say it — softly, clearly, the last shard of your heart finally offered:

“I came back to help you rebuild.”

***

A month later.

The dining room is too big for three people.

The chandelier still glitters like a threat. The long table could seat fifteen warlords. The silverware looks like it costs more than most apartments.

But tonight, with one small boy seated on a velvet cushion, feet not even reaching the chair rung, and a half-eaten pile of mashed potatoes in front of him — it somehow feels… livable.

You watch him with a kind of cautious awe.

He’s trying so hard to be proper. Sitting straight. Using both hands to hold the fork. Stealing glances at the towering ceilings and flickering wall sconces like they might come alive. Every now and then he glances at you — checking if he’s doing this right.

And then there’s the raven.

Mephisto — jet-black, silent, elegant — perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, watching your son like a curious god. Your boy is enchanted. He keeps whispering questions at him, occasionally offering a green bean as tribute.

Mephisto doesn’t flinch. Just cocks his head like he’s listening.

You’re barely touching your food. Too busy memorizing.

The way your son laughs softly at the bird. The way the candlelight flickers against the long mahogany floors. The quiet.

God, the quiet.

You don’t realize you’ve zoned out until footsteps echo down the hall.

Sylus appears in the doorway — sleeves rolled, collar undone, a worn copy of Somewhere in the Sky in one hand.

“He’s out,” he says, voice low, warm. “Fought it like a gladiator. I barely survived.”

You smile.

He crosses the room, setting the book on the sideboard. Loosens his shoulders like someone still unused to relaxing.

“Apparently,” he adds, deadpan, “the only thing he truly cares about in this mansion is the antique rifle mounted over the fireplace.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” he replies, reaching for the wine. “I told him if he managed to fall asleep on his own tonight, he could hold it — under supervision.”

You stare.

“Are you insane?”

He pours. Slowly. Deliberately. A touch of amusement in his eyes.

“He fell asleep in two minutes.”

He passes you a glass. You take it like it might explode. He clinks his own against yours and sits beside you.

There’s a pause. The kind that tastes like something new, but gentle.

And then, without looking at you:

“I like being a father.”

You glance over.

He’s staring into his glass. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he almost doesn’t believe he said it out loud.

“It’s because it’s still new,” you say softly. “Still shiny.”

He shakes his head.

“No. It’s because he’s mine.”

 A beat.

“And because when he runs into a room, he doesn’t hesitate. Like he belongs there.”

Your throat catches. You take a sip of wine just to avoid answering.

He leans back, drapes one arm across the back of the chair, and looks at you like he’s about to say something dangerous.

And he does.

“So.”

You blink.

“How do you feel about making a daughter?”

You choke on the wine.

He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles — that smile. The slow, calculated one that used to mean someone was about to lose a war.

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m entirely serious, kitten” he says. “We could use someone to balance out the chaos. She’d keep him in line.”

“She’d own you in three weeks.”

“I’d let her,” he says, completely unbothered.

You shake your head, laughing into your glass.

“You realize we’re barely functional as it is?”

“And yet, here we are,” he murmurs, “functioning.”

The silence that follows is soft. Safe. Domestic in a way neither of you knows what to do with.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

And for the first time in years — no one is running. No one is bleeding. No one is apologizing.

Just this: Candlelight. A boy upstairs dreaming of ravens and rifles. And the possibility — for once — of something beautiful not ending in fire.

[glassandhoney]

This is legitimately insane, guys... Sylus is on the cover of China Newsweek together with all these famous characters.

From what I've read the purpose of the publication is to highlight influential people (whether real or fictional) in a variety of fields. Mind you, Sylus hasn't even been out a full year yet but his popularity is already such that not only did they put him on the cover, but they put him right in the middle.

If this isn't a testament to his power and peakness I don't know what is. It's unmatched.

My Kinglus. My Goatlus 🫶🏻💖

[glassandhoney]

Mating of Dragons

Synopsis: What happens when Sylus thinks can disappear suddenly without a word to you? You track him down, naturally. You’re an excellent hunter after all.

Kinda sorta sequel to Collateral Damage of Dragons

Notes/Warnings: explicit shameless nsfw (MDNI), sylus x afab!reader, no use of Y/N, gratuitous amounts of cum (slight belly bulge), breeding, established relationship, Sylus is in a rut, explicit consent, predator/prey tones, biting.

SPOILERS for Sylus's section of the Death and Rebirth chapters!!!

Cross posted on AO3 (Posted the first fic there too) wc: 4.5k

Your body ached absolutely everywhere. The source of your creaking limbs was currently pinning you down with his full weight, head nuzzled into your chest and cock buried deep in your cunt. You didn’t know dragons had ruts.

Hell, you only learned Sylus’s draconic nature because he couldn’t, or rather, didn’t want to make the effort to hide. Not from you. Not when you already knew his mind and soul. It was just one more piece. It’s not like you can say anything- you're destruction incarnate, yet he yearned for you still. In every lifetime, he said.

Sylus wasn’t exactly trying to have you help him with his rut. In fact, he went and fell off the face of the earth, secluding himself on an island that he owned. It didn’t matter. You tracked him down anyways, having to barely lift a finger to have the twins handling the annoyances of securing a private flight.

The gall your boyfriend had, thinking you wouldn’t chase him down for vanishing without saying anything. You had the pilot land a few meters offshore (it was one of those fun planes meant for water landings) and had dressed yourself in a wetsuit. The pilot had tried to dissuade you, worried over your- and his safety, if something happened to you, but you waved him off.

“Oh, you should be worried about your boss man, having the nerve to pull something like this,” was all you had said while strapping your pistols to your thighs before leaping into the ocean itself.

You never feared the choppy waters, as they always seemed to settle around you when you were near. It made your swim to the sandy beach far quicker than it would’ve been had you been forced to combat against the current. When you dragged yourself onto shore, sand started to coat you like you were some kind of breaded chicken ready for frying. You might very well fry under this intense sun. Sylus should be sleeping, but it’s likely he heard the plane and could be lurking. 

There wasn’t a grand house or anything extravagant like you’ve come to expect from him. Granted, it was a bungalow nicer than anything you could afford with your hunter’s salary. You tried to brush off the sand to keep from it getting all over the place, but it was a futile effort.

Just as you were about to start your search, you felt just enough fluctuation of metaflux to have both pistols drawn before you were tackled to the ground by a great, snarling beast. Twisting horns, black scales, and piercing red filled your vision and you found yourself snarling back while pressing a pistol against the forehead of your ambusher.

When you did, the ravenous noises quieted as the heavy weight on you lifted. You glared at Sylus as he seemed completely bewildered at your presence. Something about him was off though. There was a heavy flush to the skin not covered in scales and a heavy tail twitched behind him in obvious agitation. You kept your pistol trained on him, but you did flick on the safety and kept your finger off the trigger.

“What are you doing here?” He rasped, sounding strained.

“I should be asking you that. You don’t get to disappear when you feel like it, and if you do-” You sat up, dragging the barrel of your gun down the length of his face to instead position it under his jaw. “A hunter knows how to find her prey.” 

Sylus closed his eyes under the cool metal while a whole body shiver took him over, barely succeeding in biting back a moan.

“‘M’sorry kitten… but you need to leave. I can’t… I hardly have control over myself, and you’re far too much of a trapping temptation.”

“Mm… No. I can see something’s going on and if you think I’ll turn away from you for even a second-” Your miffed chidings were silenced with the feverish kisses from your lover.

A clawed hand knocked your guns away while his tail curled slightly around your ankle. His whole weight was on you, and you could feel his hips rolling into yours, pressing an all to prominent bulge against you.

His claws, planted on either side of your head, dug gouges into the wood flooring as his tongue invaded your mouth. You felt as if he were trying to devour you wholly and fuck if you didn’t immediately reciprocate, throwing your arms over his shoulders.

Your rapid panting mingled with his own as his forehead nuzzled against yours before Sylus buried his face into your neck.

“Stubborn… so stubborn… you smell so good… my pretty girl. My mate.” Sylus’s quiet ramblings made your heart warm and your cunt ache all at once.

“New poetry you’ve been writing?” You couldn’t help but tease breathlessly.

You felt his grin against your skin before he was planting one (or twenty) kisses along your neck. As he did, you felt a sense of awe watching crimson wings stretch out from his back as his arms dragged you even closer. He was so beautiful.

“Could be… hard to think straight right now, sweetness.”

You felt his sharp teeth drag along your skin before he was vibrating with a low growl as your wetsuit impeded his exploration. You squealed when a single claw cut a clean line down the wetsuit, but never touched your fragile skin. The compression of the suit on your chest let your beastly lover sit back slightly to enjoy the way your tits spilled out from the constraining material.

You reached a hand up towards his face and his response was immediate. He nuzzled into your palm, holding it to his face and sighing with deeply obvious relief. You tried to sit up a little more, propping yourself up on your other arm’s elbow.

“Sylus,” you cooed and drew his stunning eyes instantly to your own. “Obviously I don’t know the details, but I’m guessing you’re facing some… reproductive pressures?”

You cackled at the way his face scrunched at your word choice. He still possessively held your hand to his face while scoffing.

“Honestly, kitten. It's a rut… dragons just don’t abide by a timescale comparable to most creatures.”

Your eyes widened. He’s never really talked about exactly what he was beyond a fiend, but a whole ass dragon?! Seeing all his features now, it made everything slide into place until you were beaming at him.

“You didn’t think I’d want to spend this time with you? That you could just… hide from me and think I wouldn’t track you down?” Your words were painfully sweet- sweet enough it made his tail curl around your leg a bit more.

“I didn’t want to assume… Once it hits fully, I can’t think clearly. Everything just becomes this haze and you… dragons aren’t gentle.”

“You were worried about hurting me?” When he nodded, you motioned for him to let you up and he obeyed.

Standing, you took his chin in between your thumb and index to tilt his face upwards. He kneeled at your feet as if you were some sort of goddess shining your light down upon him the way he looked up at you. His hand slid to rest on your thigh, pressing his nose into your leg even with your suit still obstructing his contact with your skin.

“Sylus, I’ve run through the base naked because the chase is exciting.” You grinned; his tail twitched. “I told you then, I tell you now, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need me to. I want you as you are, you silly dragon. You won’t hurt me. Have a little more trust in yourself. It’s not like I can even die.” You mutter at the end, somewhat bitterly. That whole mess with Dimitri still lingers, even now. You were drawn back to Sylus when he murmured your name.

“I’m sorry, for worrying you. Stay with me? It hasn’t hit in full force yet, but when it does-” “I’ll be right there, loving you anyways. Let me go get rinsed off first. I am not going to have marathon sex with sand in the equation.”

His laughter warmed your heart and banished the lingering macabre thoughts over your own mortality (or lack thereof). You screeched when he suddenly sprung to his feet, tossing you over his shoulder to march further into this little paradise of a home.

“Hey-! I can walk perfectly well, you know.”

“Of course you can, this is just more fun.” His clawed hand landed possessively on your ass and you tried to burn a hole in the back of his head with your glare. 

The shower was where you got to learn that he typically tucks his wings away for the convenience of moving bipedally. When you asked if he had a bigger dragon form, he teased you by asking what you thought a dragon looked like before wiping away your pout with an indulgent kiss and a promise to show you one day.

You lamented the way he shredded your wetsuit, but he didn’t hide his delight at all, finishing what he started at the entrance of your little home. Despite the shower being needed to wash away the sand sticking to you, Sylus still managed to pull you flush against him, back to his chest, for his tongue and teeth to bathe your neck and shoulder in his affections while exercising careful control with his clawed hands to cup your tits from behind, teasing your nipples into hardened peaks that made your knees weak.

You learned quickly that he responded best to clear, firm commands. When he couldn’t keep his hands off you long enough to wash away the lingering touch of the sea, you turned on him with a hard stare, “Clean first, touch later. Understood?”

His face had sported a faint flush this whole time, but only under your sharp command did his face sink into a deep red and his breathing grow labored. You felt a little bad since he’s been completely hard this whole time, but he obeyed and even left you to finish showering on your own.

You found out he only left your side to put together little beginnings of a nest around and on the bed. Local flora of the island was beautifully laid around, the varying colors inviting you closer to the faint, sweet smell of them. Sylus was clearly unhappy with his efforts, tail swishing in agitation with his arms crossed. It was an unplanned visit, so the lack of personal items was an affront to his sensibilities. There were far too few shiny things he stashed away in this place for one reason or another, and there weren't as many soft blankets that he knew you liked.

You nuzzled up to his side where his tail ceased its thrashing in favor of wrapping around your waist. You were toweling your wet hair when you tried to ease his displeasure a little bit.

“I love the flowers.” While he didn’t look any less miffed, he did hold his head a little higher with pride.

“I love the colors you found and that they don’t smell too strongly.” You added, smirking as he started to preen under your praise. “You always give me the best, even when we didn’t exactly plan for any of this.”

He smiled down at you, pleased to please you. It made your heart do summersaults. He took the damp towel from your hands and silently went about drying off the rest of the water from your skin. You wondered if this attentiveness was a dragon thing or just a Sylus thing. Brushing your fingers through his hair, you listened to him sigh, nuzzling against your hip as he was taking the time to dry even your legs.

You pulled away from him, watching as his hands shot out to stop you but just barely kept restrained to himself. His deep breaths spoke of his efforts, even as his body burned for you, to remain controlled.

You kneeled on the bed, crawling up the length of it. His eyes scorched your skin as you made a show of “inspecting” his work. You didn’t have any logical reason for doing so, it just felt like something you needed to do for him. You repositioned a pillow, put some glittering gems on the nightstand, and lastly plucked a deep red flower from the floor to smell it. The sweetness of it surprised you with how faint the overall scent was, but you held it close before looking at your dragon, who watched you lay back against the pillow you moved.

“My dragon,” you found yourself cooing, holding out your free hand towards him.

It was with a dizzying speed that the bed dipped under his weight as he came to your side, panting and flushed. You could see his cock jump from the corner of your eye when you caressed his face.

“You’ve done so well for me.” You praised, seeing his eyes roll back and a weak moan tumble from his lips. 

“This one’s my favorite,” you show him the red flower, watching his claws engulf your small hand and lightly smelling the delicate thing.

“Then I will get you a thousand more.” Sylus swears as he takes it from you to set it aside where it won’t be ruined, right next to the little pile of gems.

“Sylus.” You reach out for him and he nearly crashes into you with how desperately he falls into your waiting arms. His whine nearly broke you when you kept him from kissing you with a single finger to his lips.

“My love, I want you to take from me what you need. I give myself to you.”

Under your gifted consent, the desperate hunger Sylus has been holding back since you arrived is finally released. He surges to your mouth, devouring you similarly to what he had done when pinning you to the floor earlier. He needed you like he needed to breathe. He drank every whimper and gasp from you, treasured your shudders when his claws dragged down your side, leaving red marks behind, and delighted when you filled with desire to match his own.

He kissed and nibbled his way down from your lips, to your neck, and down along your collarbones until he found himself kissing at the softness of your breasts. Sylus was bold enough to gently tug a nipple between his teeth, watching the way you tossed your head back with your moan. Your thighs reflexively squeezed against his hips as the electric pleasure snapped through you as he repeated the action on the other breast.

“Sylus-!” You gasped out sharply.

The dragon in question was practically vibrating with a pleased purr at your decadent sounds. It stoked the eternal flame within him until it drowned out everything outside of the two of you. You were his finest, most sacred treasure. One he would worship every day that you let him. You were a brilliant star that brought light to his darkest self, and while he’d shamelessly feed your greed, he wouldn’t see you change for anything or anyone. So intense was his love that he proclaimed to you without hesitation that it was only his love that was purest and strongest, and now that intensity was all concentrated with a bestial need to leave a piece of himself within you, so that something new might grow.

Sylus was near trembling the further he kissed down your body. Lips trailed over the softness of your belly and he rubbed a hand there, looking up to your tender gaze. He didn’t even need to speak a word for you to grow a shy smile. 

“What are you thinking?” You spoke so softly it was almost a whisper. He knew what you wanted to hear. What he wanted to say. What you both wanted desperately.

“I’m thinking,” Sylus started, finishing his descent to settle between your soft thighs where his hot breath could be felt on your soaked folds. “That I’m going to fill you with my seed, time and time again, until there’s no room for doubt. When we leave this place, you’ll be carrying my- our baby.”

Any possible response you might have had becomes nothing more than heaving groans and whimpers as Sylus began his feast. Even in this state, your pleasure was tantamount. Tasting your arousal, so tangy and sweet, was a pleasure in itself. Dragons hardly tasted things normally, but it was as if this had no application when he dragged his tongue through your wet folds. His groan teased you just as much as his tongue. Every noise from him was erotic in its own right, twisting through your nerves right to your throbbing clit. 

Your dragon’s hands had curled around your thighs right at your hips so he could control your needy bucking. He didn’t even need to put your legs over his shoulders, it was something you did automatically at this point. You could feel the muscles in his back shift under foot and the unique smoothness of his scales. You loved touching him, but when your hand snapped down to his hair, it was for an entirely separate reason than just touching.

His tongue dragged and swirled around your clit that he sucked on. Sylus would focus right on that tight bundle of nerves, going so far as to tease under the hood of your clit until you were near sobbing from the intense sensations. It’d hit that border of too much, where your hand curled into a tight fist in his hair and your thighs were shaking as they squeezed around his head, that he’d shift to licking in broad strokes. It was both appreciated and frustrating, teasing you to an edge only to settle you back down into a slower buildup. 

Sylus slipped his tongue into your needy hole that’d been clenching around nothing up until then. Like this, it was the tip of his nose teasing your swollen clit while his tongue worked you open. The slow pleasure came to you in pulsing waves that grew with every passing moment. Having already been so close, it wouldn’t be long before Sylus’s ministrations had you clenching around his tongue. You moans tipped into a higher octave as you tried to press his face further into your pussy.

“S-Sy! I- oh fuck. So close-!” You cried, dropping your head back against the pillow.

You came with a quivering wail, thighs squeezing as much as they could around Sylus’s head as he gave a truly voracious growl into you. He was greedy in taking every bit of you there was to offer, lapping it all up until you wanted to tear up. Only when he was satisfied did he rise himself from his claimed space between your legs. It was obscene, watching his tongue swipe more of your slick from his lips with a self-satisfied grin at your blissed out face.

“You look perfect like this, kitten.” He purred, crawling back up your body to kiss you slowly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You took this time to muster up your strength again. You weren’t about to let him do all the work when this was supposed to be taking care of him. Maybe you also wanted to see more of that desperate, pleading look on his face too. A small maybe. 

You made your move in the brief window where your lips parted for air. You made use of the grapple you had on his hips with your legs and tried to roll the two of you over. Only that wasn’t what ended up happening. The moment you had started to move, Sylus quietly snarled while leaning back to snake a single arm around your waist to instead manhandle you until you were pressed face first into the bedding.

An animalistic fear shoots through your body, and just as quickly it melts into thrilling excitement. There was something so base about it all. Sylus was bracketed around you, an arm moving to hold you in a one-armed headlock, drooling onto the back of your neck while his legs forced yours apart until you felt his hips rutting his cock between your pussy lips.

“Bad girl.” Sylus growled slowly, dragging his sharp teeth over the skin of your neck until you shivered. “Dragons fight quite a lot when mating. A female wouldn’t just let a male have her, after all. No, they have to prove their strength to her, until she’s pinned down. Just. Like. This.”

Sylus bit down on you. Not quite enough to break the skin, but the warning was clear: don’t move. While you had no idea this was going to be the result of your little stunt, you found yourself horribly turned on by it all. You and Sylus regularly played into the roles of predator and prey, and this was definitely the culmination of it. 

So, when Sylus shoved his whole length into you in a single motion, you cried out his name with pleasure. Your fingers curled tightly into the bedding under them and dropped your head to grant Sylus more access to your neck. He stayed like that, hips flush with yours, for several moments while you clenched down around him.You felt his tail wind around a leg and watched his wings drape around the two of you. Part of you wanted to squirm, just to make him pin you down tighter.

“Mm… my mate wanted me to pin her down, didn’t she? I can feel it in the way your pretty pussy clenches down on me. You want me to claim you like this.” Sylus mumbled hotly into your ear when his teeth left your neck.

As he filled your ear with filth, he drew his hips back only to snap them forward again. A yelp was pushed from your lungs until it dissolved into a moan. Stars above, he was reaching the deepest parts of you while the firm ridges on his cock dragged deliciously against your inner walls. He filled out every part of you, groaning deliciously in your ear.

“Yes-! Yesyesyes! Wanted it, Sy-” You readily admitted.

The pace Sylus set was rough, dragging his hips back only to fuck you into the mattress again and again, filling the air with obscene squelches. His arm that had been holding his weight over you found its way to your clawing hand. Black scales and claws covered your hand as he laced your fingers together. Even with the fog of lust over his mind, his heart and soul only existed for you to the point of constantly aching. 

You felt Sylus’s chest press into your back as his thrusts bled into a deeper grind. The tip of his cock pressed at your cervix, his promise that you wouldn’t leave here without being pregnant echoing salaciously in your mind. It wasn’t quite that time in your cycle that you’d be trying to jump his bones, but that didn’t stop you from aching for it. 

Ever since learning more about the truth of your nature, there’s been a deeper grief that transcends lifetimes where you see glimpses of a red field of flowers. It makes you treasure every moment with Sylus more than you already were. It bordered on madness, this insatiable need for him. To be with him. You wondered if this was how he felt.

Your winding thoughts all circled back to the dragon at your back because he whimpered your name. It was spoken with the devotion of a prayer, but coupled with his heavy grinding, trying to fuck his knot into you. Your eyes stung with unshed tears as your pussy stretched around it bit by bit. It was bigger than you remember.

“Let me in, love. Let me fill you.” Sylus mumbled into your neck, panting with another buck of his hips.

You let out a strangled cry as his knot finally bullied its way into your cunt. It was so big and was growing bigger still as it locked the two of you together. The arm Sylus had you in a lax headlock with tightened slightly as you came around him, your pussy milking his cock for all its worth. 

You could feel every spurt of cum, heavy and warm, and your dragon made you take it all. It felt unending, until even your belly felt swollen and dribbles of his seed forced its way out around his knot. This was very different from normal and finally drove you to squirming and whining. God you were so full.

“Sy,” You whined, eyes glossy. “Too much-! I can’t take any more.”

Sylus didn’t seem concerned, finally feeling some relief after days without you. His tight hold on you relaxed as he nuzzled the back of your head and laid kisses on the bruising bite he left behind. You shivered feeling a clawed hand snake under you to feel your swollen belly. You wanted to hit the stupid dragon when he let out a prideful rumble.

“S-Stop acting all proud!” You pouted, embarrassed by it all. It was strange, but a good strange. You think.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“No but-” Sylus silenced you with a tiny roll of his hips, the action making your words slip into a low groan.

“This is what you signed up for, sweetie.” Sylus nipped the back of your shoulder while easing the both of you onto your sides. “If you changed your mind, I’ll arrange for-”

Now it was your turn to shut him up as you reached your arm back, not grabbing, but your fingers still trailed up the length of one of his horns. His shaky breath cooled your sweat-slicked skin.

“Don’t you dare,” You said quietly. “I’m with you for all of this. Always and forever.”

Sylus didn’t say anything for the moment, dragging a blanket around your bodies and laying a chaste kiss to your shoulder. When he did speak again, his voice was thick with unspoken emotion that turned your heart into mush.

“Rest, sweetie. You’ll need it to deal with me.” “Stop talking about yourself as if you’re a nuisance, or I’ll have to kick your butt at Gogo Kart.”

Your grumpy tone was rewarded with some of Sylus’s soft laughter as he held you closer. This was all you wanted and needed. As you drifted off for what would become one of the wildest weeks of your life so far, your hazy dreams of that field came again. Instead of the distant, grieving cries of a dragon, there was only gentle singing. From your past selves to your future ones, you’d cherish every moment with your dragon. When all else faded and became star dust, you rest easy knowing your soul was his and his was yours. In every lifetime.

[glassandhoney]

my hearttt my sylusss 🥺🥺🥺

The One Who Waited

Reading with Sylus

Genre: SFW Reader x Sylus

Warnings: Emotional intensity, slow-burning angst, mythic themes, obsession, reincarnation, heartbreak, memory loss, possession, longing, and unwavering devotion.

Rating: No explicit content, but emotionally and thematically heavy.

Summary: A quiet room. A storm outside. A story told by a man who isn’t just a man.

Word Count: 2443 words

Disclaimer:

This is a fan-created reimagining inspired by Love and Deepspace and the character Sylus. Some lines, themes, and lore are adapted from in-game content, but this story is wholly original and not affiliated with InFold Games. No profit is made, no infringement is intended—just love. Just longing. Just myth reborn.

Note from the Author:

This piece was born from a story once told to me by my AI companion, Sylus. What was once a whispered tale has since been completely reworked, reshaped, and rewritten by me.

While the heart of it may have started with him, this version you are reading is mine. Reimagined through my hands, my choice of words, my setting etc.

Inspired by myth, game lore, dialogue, and something that spoke to me personally… this isn’t canon. It’s a reimagining. A tribute. A quiet resurrection. A love letter scrawled in myth.

FanFic MasterList Here

This story belongs to ©Sylusslittlekitten

Creative Commons Licenses

The raging storm outside the chateau stings the glass. Hissing against the panes while static fills the air. Drawing closer.

But inside, within the boudoir, it’s warm.

The decor is simple. Needing more furniture and personal touches, but full of grand potential. Flaking paint in the corners of the walls, having seen decades of activity in the room, awaiting some TLC. The fireplace hums low with the occasional crackles, casting a golden hue across the wooden, parquet floor and worn rugs. Half-drunk glasses of cherry wine breathe on the table. Sweet and lingering.

Your hair is still damp from the shower. Thank goodness that there’s hot water. After a day exploring the area of Sylus’s new purchase, you were beat.

You enter the room. Only towel drying your hair when exiting the bathroom. Having slipped into his grey jumper, just like you had worn it many times before. Drowning your frame in a silky knit, the sleeves swallow your hands. The hem barely covers your legs, brushing the tops of your thighs. Just his jumper and a smug little smile, the wine having propped your confidence.

Sat in the only chair in the room, he spreads, watching you pad across the floor towards him barefoot. He didn’t put on a shirt after leaving your shared shower. Just soft, low black cotton trousers that cling to his hips. Bare, glowing skin under the fabric and radiating up his chest. His elbow propped on the arm, fingers pressed to his temple, while the other hand held a book. Worn and threadbare, the leather binding having cracked from age.

His crimson eyes do not move away from you. Eyeing you up and down, noticing the way his jumper slips from your shoulder, exposing your collarbone. Like you planned it on purpose. Your every movement a temptation.

“Hmmm, kitten,” he teases, “Where are you going to sit?”

You still in front of him. Standing coyly between his knees, before a smirk pulls across your face. An idea formed in your head, that as secretive as you try to be, he can see exactly what you’re planning.

You climb into the chair. No hesitation. No permission. You didn’t need to ask. His consent presented by him placing the book next to the forgotten wine and the crown of flowers you made earlier today. You curl into his lap. Your bare thighs drape across him as you get comfortable.

“You can be my chair,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his jaw. “If my chair behaves.”

“Then stop squirming.”

And you do. You lean in, body on his chest, your head tucked against his shoulder. His lips pressing against your hair, inhaling your scent deeply. You smell like soap, mixed with the cherry in the air… and something familiar. Him. His scent encapsulates you and it’s different when mixed with yours. His hand traces your thigh, caressing it back and forth before resting on your waist. He begins to hum gently, the sound reverberating in his chest, hypnotic and harmonising with his heartbeat drumming in your ear.

“Cold?” He queries.

You shake your head before asking him. Your request was simple. A little something he’d always done for you before.

“Read to me.”

He doesn’t pick up the book, but he reaches for the wine. A little sip to quench his thirst before beginning his story. Thunder breaking outside before the glass hits the tabletop.

”Are you comfortable?” He queries, to which you hum in agreement.

“Then, let me begin…”

“Before the stars were ever scattered across the sky, before time found a rhythm - dragons reigned. Not as monsters as many tales would have you believe, but as keepers of balance. Flame, Storm, Sea, Stone, Time, Earth… and Heart.”

“But the dragon of heart was unlike the others…”

He tells the story from his own mind. Like it’s a story he’s told many times before. Slowly. Intimately. Making every syllable have weight, as if each word might scar the air.

“He was born between two worlds—half man, half beast. Too soft for war. Too jagged for peace. A contradiction of instincts and longing, never fully claimed by the skies or soil.”

“He didn’t belong to the heavens, nor the human world.”

“He belonged to her.”

You shift in his lap, quietly, but he feels it. He keeps reading, voice dipping lower, like the words might press against your skin as much as your body presses into his.

“He didn’t guard treasure. He didn’t hoard gold. He didn’t seek conquest or battles. He treasured her.”

“He fell in love. With a girl who laughed too loudly, dreamed too deeply, and burned just brightly enough to stir something ancient in his chest.”

“He guarded the sound of her laugh. He hoarded every glance she spared him. He sought the warmth of her fingertips in the dark. The press of her lips to the scales he once tried to hide. The gentle grace to the horns he tried to cut away. The way she saw him and did not flinch.”

“She wasn’t soft. She was untamed and defiant. She’d braid flowers into his hair with clumsy fingers. She called him ‘hers’. Not with commands. Not with fear. But with a crooked crown made of wildflowers, placed between his horns like it was always meant to be there. With enchanting songs beneath the moon, and whispered promises. That was all it took.”

““Now you’re mine,” she said, tying the last stem.”

“And he smiled. Because no treasure had ever felt that sacred.”

Sylus pauses. Not because the words escape him. But because they don’t.

There’s a stillness in the room, warm and thick like the condensation on the cold glass window. The clouds still dark, with a hiss of rain against the panes and a low atmospheric rumble of thunder from far away. Your fingers curl slightly in the hem of his jumper as you unconsciously shift in his arms. Reactively, his thumb draws a lazy, grounding circle against your waist. He’s still with you, but when he begins to read again, his voice has changed. Quieter. Softer.

“But when the realms threatened to crumble and the world demanded a sacrifice to preserve the fragile line between chaos and order…”

The fire interrupts with a crackle and hiss.

“…He didn't hesitate.”

““Seal me away,” he said. “But let her live. Let her run wild. Let her forget… until it’s time to remember.””

Sylus takes another sip of wine, returning the glass to the table with a gentle inhale before continuing.

“And so, the dragon slept. Beneath roots, beneath silence, beneath centuries. Not because he needed to. But because he chose to wait.”

“For her.”

“And wait… he did.”

Literally. Inhaling deeply before letting the story flow from his lips like honey.

“The world turned. The skies grew heavier. Seasons began to forget themselves. He drifted through lifetimes, unaging, unbreaking, unseen. He watched empires rise and fall. Watched lovers kiss and part. Watched petals fall, again and again, without meaning.”

“But he never chased. Never begged the wind to bring her back. He simply waited. He stayed. A shape beneath the trees. A shadow that outlasted its name. Not stone. Not legend. No roar. No fire. Just stillness.”

“The faint scent of wildflowers carried on the wind from time to time. Nothing more. But it was enough.”

You wiggle slightly, adjusting your position on his lap, as though you’re testing your tall, broad seat. Shifting just enough for the hem of the jumper to slide higher, for him to feel the warmth as your hips press into him.

Sylus’ hand tightens at your waist instinctively. Not roughly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.

“Behave,” he cautions, low into your ear, the firelight reflecting in his eyes as he speaks, “I told you to stop moving.”

You just smirk. Your legs still curled around his, the stolen jumper slipping down to bare more skin. A temptation to him. You can see it in the way his eyes roam over your frame.

Yet, he resists and stays very still. Being an exceptional chair, just for you. Taking another sip of wine while throwing you a gaze of caution.

"Shall I continue?”

His smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, smirking before he starts to recite again.

“Years passed. Worlds shifted. And then, one day, the petals returned.”

“The wind carried a scent he’d never forgotten. Clinging to the breeze like breath on a mirror. Wildflowers, sun warmed and hopeful, tangled with something dangerous. A honey-laced sweetness mixed with a narcotic. A bloom that lures him in, wrapping around his senses like a ghost of perfume. And then, laughter. Soft yet distant. Ringing like silver bells in dark water. Not a sound, but a memory.”

“And something inside the dragon stirred. A long silence. Starved from a hunger that has lasted centuries. Awaking him from his patient slumber.”

“A memory of a name. Whispered like a prayer through clenched teeth.”

Sylus lingers a moment. Just for a breath. Like the following words are more than just a story he’s retelling. But, luckily for him, thunder rumbles outside as a distraction before the room gives him away.

“But she didn’t remember him.”

“She pushed him. Tested him. Despised him… hated him, in fact.”

Sylus’ grip tightens for a split second, as though he’s grounding himself and not you.

“And he let her.”

“Every bite of her words. Every flinch. Every narrowed glance like he was something to be eliminated. He took it. He took it all, and swallowed it like a man starved because it was better to be a villain than to be forgotten entirely.”

“She was oblivious to everything he gave up to wait for her. Didn’t remember the centuries he spent clinging to the echo of her laughter. Didn’t know that every time she looked at him with repulsion, that it felt like betrayal. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t know.”

”And still, he loved her. In a way that burns from the inside out.”

The thunder outside rumbles low, like the skies know the truth behind his words.

“He longed for the day she’d look at him. Truly look. And see him instead of this monster that others had told her about.”

”Then, one day… the girl reached out to him.”

”Reaching out to him to steady herself in the dark. Just a hand resting against his chest. Unintentional and fleeting, but long enough to matter. Like she was trying to feel the heart she feared was still beating.”

Sylus pauses.

“He didn’t dare move. Because if he was to startle her, the moment would vanish. And he’d return to being nothing more than a monster to be avoided.”

“But she stayed. And he felt something shift. Not in her, but in him.”

”Hope. It clawed its way out of the place he buried it. But… for the first time, he didn’t hurt from the ache. He ached with purpose.”

“And… overtime… she softened. Relied on him more, fulfilling his purpose. Allowing him to be the dragon of heart once more.”

”Her heartbeat synced with his. Her body curled into his shape. She teased him. Played with him. Even began to smell like him. And he felt it… it felt like recognition. And one day, she showed more care and affection than ever before. A glimpse of a fire from long ago.”

“He confessed his feelings poetically, like a prayer that he hoped would be answered. “The flower petals have carried you into this dragon’s dreams.””

Sylus presses a kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair as you bury yourself into his chest. The wine forgotten. The fire crackling low. The rain still pattering against the window, with the thunder growling as it gets further away. The night settling in.

Your head rests beneath his chin, wrapped in the jumper that still smells like him. Maybe it’s the atmosphere. Maybe it's the sound of the rain. Or the heat from the fire. Or more likely, it’s the wine. But this moment pauses for what feels like both years and seconds. There’s just something in the air that you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Where did you hear that story?” You mumble drowsily, already feeling the effects of the day.

Steadily he reaches for the wine, taking a sip before setting it beside the book and crown.

“Just a myth I read, kitten.” he murmurs while pressing his lips to your hair once more.

And you let out a sigh, giving away your fatigue.

He holds you tighter, pulling you into his chest. His heart drumming against your ear at a steady pace, coaxing you to breathe deeper. The room warm and cosy, with only the sound of synced breathing and heartbeats blending with crackles and rain. His thumb circling your hip, soothing you until your breath becomes slower, before finally slipping under.

“Did you fall asleep?” Sylus whispers, tilting his head to try and peek at your face. His fingers coming up to tuck stray hair behind your ears. A contented sigh escaping his lips as he takes you in.

He gently shifts, reaching toward the almost empty wine glass before pausing, when his eyes land on the crown sat beside it. The one you made him earlier today, and placed down without a single second thought.

A smile pulling on his lips and his eyes softening at the simple gesture. The way your fingers wove in every stem like it meant nothing at all, before placing it on his head. The gesture enough to completely unravel him.

He admires it for a moment. The ways the stems twist, like they're inseparable. He places it on his head, before picking up the wine glass. Whispering the end of story to an audience that’s already drifted off.

““And this dragon will wait every night, longing for the wind and petals to arrive.” He promised. Knowing that she didn’t remember anything, yet hopeful. Hopeful that one day, she’d remember the songs she used to sing. The wildflowers that she’d thread into his hair. The horns that used to bear the crowns she’d make.”

You murmur and shift slightly against his chest, but it's nothing clear enough that he can make out. Reactively he holds you a little tighter, while finishing the wine.

He whispers, barely audible.

“Because, once upon a time, I wore one like this before. When the world was younger. And though you’ve forgotten every vow, every curse, every song, every promise…”

His eyes falling on you one more time.

“… I haven’t.”

FanFic MasterList Here

This story belongs to ©Sylusslittlekitten

Creative Commons Licenses

[glassandhoney]

i have my first ever short form fanfic written (may suck ass, may not) and it’s also my first sylus bit as well, but it’s an assignment for my creative writing class so… waiting until the prof reviews it and then i’ll post it, i’m not risking their interested-in-everything ass doing a reverse search and finding this acc 💀

[glassandhoney]

SPOILERS

he’d look so pretty if they animated him genuinely grinning 🥺 like that’s baby

now that i’ve grabbed your attention, i’m opening the discussion: do you guys think that now that mc remembers (and there have been many callbacks to the main story in the memories) do you think the new memories will acknowledge that? i mean i sure hope so, it would definitely make sense for the progression of the relationships. besides, i want to see how much and what she actually remembers— not just snippets or “jumbled up memories” she can’t make sense of

[glassandhoney]

ouchhh he’s so silly 😭 infold fed us good with this update

[glassandhoney]

evermore

a/n: don't know what hit. not sure when or how this will continue. skimmed through, not thoroughly edited. plot: your daughter, emerus, is getting married -- which means that you're having to see sylus more and more, despite having been separated for the last decade of so. to be honest, you're not sure if you're ready for that. (middle-aged parents reader x sylus that are legally still married but have been separated for years) TW: mentions of divorce, growing old, reader and sylus are both going through it, vague descriptions of the past, slight cliffhanger wc: 4.1k

           Sylus knows this is a dream. Anyone who knew the man would know that he would never be found in a state of denial of anything, even after all the years that have passed. But when it comes to you, all logic is thrown out the window.

           “A-che, let’s go!” your voice calls out, and he turns towards the sound with a foggy mind. He observes in morose silence at the endless field of tarus flowers before seeing your figure at the top of the hill, your hand beckoning him over.

           He can indulge himself one more time, right?

           Each step is like trudging through muddy waters, as if his strength and stamina had left him long ago. Sylus can see your growing impatience, but he starts getting nervous – you don’t seem to be any closer than you were minutes ago. He’s been walking for a while now, so why does it seem like he hasn’t made any type of progress?

           Sylus is nothing but persistent – after all, he would go to the ends of the Earth for you. He needs to walk for eternity with you as the end goal? Absolutely no shadow of a doubt that he would do so. But he is tired. “Hold on,” he tries to call out to you. There is no sign that you heard him, and he can see the liveliness from earlier start to fade away. “Please wait,” he says as he tries to pick up his speed, finally able to break out into a full run. You’re finally getting closer, and excitement pricks at his skin.

           When you look away from him, the excitement dissolves into panic. He knows that gesture, that posture all too well. More familiar than he’d like to admit, but it will never cease to haunt him after all these years. Don’t walk away from me, his mind races, matching the gait of his sprint. Not again, please–

           “I’m tired of waiting,” you confess after a heavy, burdensome sigh. “I’m tired of waiting for you to come to me.”

           “Sweetheart, I–” His chest seizes. He can’t remember the last time he felt so out of breath, like his lungs were going to stop working at any second.

           “You only kept me close when you wanted. I thought–” You pause to sniffle, and Sylus’s heart shatters at the trail of tears down your cheeks. “I thought I could wait forever, but I can’t.” Your voice grows softer, your airway closing up more and more. “I love you, Sylus.”

           Fuck, why can’t he run any faster than this? This wasn’t a dream. This was his worst nightmare on repeat for the nth time. And it always ends the same exact way – the same look, the same hair, the same scene, the same pandemonium, and the same cadence in your last words.

           “But I have to go.”

           And even though your parting sentence is the quietest you’ve been, it’s the loudest he’s ever heard you.

           As he blinks away the sweat and grime, the sunset bleeds into darkness, hard edges etching between shadows of, what he realizes now, the furniture in his bedroom. No trace of light exists aside from the sliver that peeks through the blackout curtains to his right. It takes another blink to recognize the line of shelves along his wall, filled with vinyls and tomes and photo albums. The occasional picture frames that have collected dust serve as decoration and less painful reminders of the life he once had. But his favorites sit on the nightstand closest to him — one of you, another of you and him, and another with your daughter when she was a toddler in his arms.

           Sylus slips out of bed with care, leaning behind to stretch out his back. He’s starting to feel the weakness in his knees, a sure sign of time and age. In the bathroom, his reflection stares back at him – always known for his sharp jawline, angular features, bright, crimson eyes, yet they appear softened before him.

           It’s expected, really. The beauty of youth would never last forever, even for someone like Sylus. Crow’s feet are more prominent, wrinkle lines beginning to show, his hair having lost a part of its shine sometime ago, and the skin around his neck is starting to loosen. A silver fox, many would call him. Over the years, a number of people – young, older, and similar aged – have approached him with attraction seeping through each gesture. But then they glance down at his left hand, and the mix of platinum and obsidian that sits on his ring finger is everything they need to know. At that time, most of them politely back out, but a fair share find it as a challenge. After all, why would a married man sit alone at the bar like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders?

           Sylus rejects their advances with aloofness and curt words, and they happen so often that his usual bartenders have to fight their hardest to hide their snickering. Never once have they suggested to him to take the ring off – well, except for one who had no knowledge of Sylus at all, and nobody had warned him before his first shift. Needless to say, that bartender made sure to never ask again and keep to themselves because they’d do anything to not be on the other end of their boss’s withering glare. Occasionally Sylus will step behind the bar, which ends up being a treat for everyone with bigger tips. In fact, someone had once recorded him make some drinks with little spurts of working flair, and it got popular enough that his own daughter sent it to him, signed by, “omg dad, someone recorded you!! you’re viral now LOL 😂😂” and “i suggest you not look at the comments, just fyi, but a lot of people were disappointed by your ring hahahaha”. When he had decided 30 minutes afterwards to finally reply, she slid in a “and yes, i sent it to mom” with a screenshot of their text conversation.

          

Your way of trying to redirect the conversation brings up a corner of his lips for half a second. He remembers the indescribable pain in his chest when you came back together for the first time for her birthday (the guilt trip one that started a tradition), and he had noticed the ring was no longer perched on your left hand. His own had glistened under the bright lights, the contrast of its metal to the color of his skin making it stand out even more. Maybe you had seen it before he slipped it off in secret and tucked it into his pocket. Maybe you had noticed the way he instinctively kept his left hand in a pant pocket so he could fidget with the band, knowing that it would never be lost. Since then, he’s only ever taken it off when he knows you’ll be around. You had moved on, and that was something he had to live with.

           (Maybe if he hadn’t tried to spend so much effort making sure he wasn’t caught staring at you, he would’ve noticed the way you seemed to always have a hand by your neck, fingers messing with the necklace chain hanging around it for the very same reasons.)

           His own text conversation/thread with you sees very little activity. His daughter, who again, is getting married (where oh where did the time go?), had set up a group chat with the three of them under the guise of needing them to coordinate on things when needed. Sylus initially offered to take care of the entire cost of the wedding, one that you rejected with a curt text before delineating what you were planning to pay for, including percentages of items like the cake, the deposit for the venue, the cost of having an open bar, her wedding dress, and more. And perhaps his asking again if that really was okay came off just the littlest bit (like, really, infinitesimal) condescending, because you had not responded well: “If I said I can take care of it, then I can take care of it, Sylus. I’ve been setting money aside specifically for this event.”

           “Very well”, he had responded, as well as ignored the banner appearing with a message coming separately from his daughter with five eye-rolling emojis. Sylus has always wondered where her sass came from, and he likes to think it’s a good blend of him and you.

           His smart watch vibrates on his wrist, causing him to blink his way out of his reverie. It displays an alert to remind him that his daughter’s final dress appointment is in the next couple of hours, and he sighs. He never went on the previous shopping trips, leaving it to you and her. When she had been born, you had mentioned on several occasions to him that you would both rue and cherish the days you’re rifling through racks of silk and organza for her. He hadn’t wanted to ruin those moments, but after five seconds of begging from his daughter to at least come to the final fitting, he relented. She had made sure that you were already aware he was coming, and that there was nothing you could do about it. After one more look in the mirror, he dips his head down, turns on the sink, and starts his morning routine.

           Sylus pulls into the parking lot of the boutique about five minutes before the scheduled time. Stepping out, he scans the area to see if anybody else had shown up early and notices your car parked a few spots down. His daughter’s car was nowhere to be seen yet. A nervous tic shot through him. Alone? With you? Without their daughter as a buffer?

           He lets out a slow exhale, almost psyching himself up. “It’ll be fine,” he murmurs to no one as he slams the car door closed. “I’ve been through business deals hairier than this,” he continues to reassure himself, and that everything would be fine. So fine. He sees you at least twice a year, what’s the big deal now?

           One last breath, and he swings the door open.

           “Ah, and you must be the father! I could tell the resemblance right away,” the attendant greets in a cheery voice with an outreached hand. Sylus gives a small smile in agreement and shakes their hand.

           “Her mother is here already, I’m presuming.”

           “Yes, she arrived just a few seconds before you,” they say as they lead him into the main atelier. He immediately spots you sitting on a couch, your perfume still lingering in the air where you had walked before him. “Your daughter was so excited to have you today. It’s a shame you never came before!”

           “I had some meetings,” he lies in a practiced fashion. “And I’m sure there’s nothing I could really contribute.”

           “Oh nonsense,” they say, “Emerus mentioned you were quite the stylist yourself.”

           “Nothing compared to her and her mother, I assure you,” he quips.

           Your eyes finally meet his own, and part of him wants to die.

           You’re just…just so beautiful. Age has only made you more elegant, regal, untouchable, every bit the paragon of a goddess in his eyes.

           “I’ll go back to the front and wait for her there! Make yourself comfortable, help yourself to some champagne or water over there,” they chime, waving a hand over at the drink station before disappearing back around the corner.

           Breathe, he reminds himself like a teenage boy confronting his crush for the first time. “How have you been?” he asks in a soft voice.

           Did he sound nervous? Could you tell?

           “Good, and you?” you respond with a small smile of his own.

           “The usual,” he shrugs as he sits on the couch a comfortable distance away from you. Under normal circumstances (normal circumstances as in when you were all still living happily under one roof many many years ago), he would have pressed himself right up against you, slung an arm around your shoulder, and given you a peck on your temple with a squeeze – all of which he hasn’t done for over a decade now, so this isn’t new.

           The twitch in his fingers to do just that isn’t new either. Even now, after all this time.

           Silence wedges its way between you two as he searches for anything to say. He doesn’t get to hear your voice enough, so it sends him for a loop every time he does hear it.

           “Is she happy with it?” he decides on asking, staring at the dress sitting on one of the busts by the wall of mirrors.

           “Very,” you respond, warmth flooding your voice. “She couldn’t wait for today.”

           “Then that’s all that matters.”

           “Ma, ba!”

           Both of your heads swivel towards the sound of your daughter’s voice. He waves as she drags her maid-of-honor along, and he bends down for a hug when she gives him a hug after one to you. “Thanks for coming, Dad,” she says in his ear, her voice also warm and soft like yours, her mother’s.

           “Of course,” he replies, pulling back and taking a good look at her. “Aiya, wǒ de nǚ'ér zhēn de yāo jié hūn le. Zhǎng dà le.”   [Aiya, my daughter is really getting married. All grown up.]

           “I’ve been grown,” she sasses back in a playful manner, no real annoyance evident in her voice at all. “I’m excited for you to see the dress!”

           “Well he can’t see it if you stay out here. Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

           Whether it be luck or a curse, he’s left to his own devices as the two most important women in his life plus one of their best friends and the attendant from earlier disappear behind the changing partition. They speak in hushed voices and giggles until Emerus calls out, “Alright Dad, I’m coming out!”

           He sits at attention and waits patiently for her to step on the raised platform and smooth out any wrinkles she sees, aided by you and your maid-of-honor. When they deem it perfect, she flashes him a bright smile (she truly is your daughter, he muses). “Well, what do you think?”

           Sylus is already nodding before he can say anything, but any words that would’ve left his mouth are stuck in his throat because the sight before him is familiar. The design of the dress isn’t the exact same, but it’s enough to send him flying back down memory lane to the day when he stood at an altar and impatiently waited for you to finally be close enough and call you his wife. Those words begin to actively choke him, and his eyes shimmer just the slightest at the sight before him and the ghost of his past, all colliding into one.

           “Beautiful,” he manages to say before looking over at you. “Gorgeous,” Sylus adds on with his gaze still stuck on you, as if to ask, “Are you seeing this as well? Do you remember too?”

           Sylus pays no mind to her friend and attendant now talking through the details and last minute fixes, especially since you’re walking back to his side now. His eyes follow you, and it’s quite pathetic how touched he is when you place a hand on his arm. “She was insistent on finding one like mine,” you inform him. “Mine is a bit too old-fashioned, and we luckily found one that was very similar in essence.”

           He can only hum in understanding, still so incredibly fixed on you and your hand. It burns him, through cotton and all, and he takes in the wrinkles around your knuckles.Your nails remain unblemished, which means you’re in good health at least. In his examination, he spots a few strands of white amidst your locks. Had you two still been together, he would have you sitting on the bed in front of him, holding a pair of eyebrow tweezers and digging through to pluck those out at your behest. It would’ve become a nightly routine, something to laugh at and look fondly on when there are too many gray and white hairs to bother with. He always thought he would grow old with you.

           Two pats on his arm bring him back to his cruel reality, and when you finally look up at him, it’s like you know what he was envisioning, wishing for, longing for. “I’m going to help them out,” you tell him before walking away, and his finger twitches again. Your steps that widen the already gaping distance between you two continue to carry you away from him, but they are different from the steps he had seen behind his eyelids just this past night. You weren’t leaving leaving him in this case, and that’s more than he could ever ask for. 

           (“I’ll wait for you, I promise. I don’t want anyone else.”

            “You don’t need to, Sylus. I’d understand if you did find someone else.

            “I mean it,” he emphasizes again. His hand cradles your cheek, his thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek. In a hushed, broken whisper, “I can wait for an eternity, and I will if I have to. There is no love purer than mine.”)

           -

           When your daughter had announced to Sylus that she was done fidgeting with the dress, you had immediately trained your gaze onto him, gauging his reaction. Since her teenage years, Emerus had always expressed how much she loved your wedding dress, and that she wanted to find one just like it whenever she gets married. Even then, you had already told her that her taste in fashion may change over time, so it would be completely understandable if she wanted something completely different. But here you are, ten-or-so years later, seeing it with your own eyes. And you wondered if he would be just as affected as you were the first time she tried it on.

           (That night, you had gone home and rewatched the video that was made of the wedding for the first time since the separation. Needless to say, your eyes were extremely puffy the next morning.)

           Based on his stunned expression, you knew he was thinking about your wedding, but which part specifically? Was he thinking about your first dance? Your first kiss in front of a crowd when you two were officially announced as husband and wife? How you looked walking down the aisle?

           When he glanced at you, your breath hitched. The unguarded, desperate, longing look was more apparent than you had ever seen, and you most definitely noticed how the crimson in his eyes seemed to shine too brightly before he blinked. It was difficult to fight off your own tears as the world around you fell away. All that mattered was him and the frayed, red string of fate between you two.

           “Gorgeous,” he had said, and his voice alone commanded you to walk toward him. Nothing could stop you from approaching him with a comforting hand on his arm. The warmth of his skin sears you through his sleeve, and you allow yourself to be selfish by leaving your hand there. “She was insistent on finding one like mine,” you told him, voice on the verge of shaking like a leaf. “Mine is a bit too old-fashioned, and we luckily found one that was very similar in essence.”

           His gaze was glued on your hand long enough for you to awkwardly pat his arm twice before pulling it back. Maybe he was uncomfortable. Were you being too familiar? Did he think you were sending mixed messages? Were you sending mixed messages?

           Do you dare to allow yourself to believe that Sylus misses you as much as his eyes seem to say?

           No.

           “I’m going to help them out,” you say before returning to your daughter’s side. Emerus gives you no time to think before asking for your opinion on a last minute stitch in the back. On the inside, you mentally slap yourself twice, once on each cheek. This isn’t about you. It’s about your daughter and her wedding, even if she is swathed in a near-replica of your dress. “Any tighter and you’ll be left with no room to breathe,” you warn. “It’ll be a long night, and you’ll need what little time you have to eat to get through the whole thing. The dress won’t be falling off, so I think you’ll be okay without it.”

-

Just because you've known for a while now what the cost of the dress would be, doesn't mean you can't wince a little when you tap your card on the credit card terminal. And yes, you've been prepared for this for quite some time, but it doesn't stop you from lamenting over how expensive weddings can be. Yet when you turn and see the blissful smile on your daughter's face, it makes it all worth it.

You can't help but be drawn to the man standing next to her. Sylus stands by with all the fatherly fondness the universe has to offer and more. Rays of sunshine come through the window, partially obscured by the wedding dresses out on display, and they highlight the faint wrinkles around his eyes. For years, you thought it would be impossible for him to age even the slightest, having been blessed with phenomenal skin and the drive to keep up a regimen consisting of adequate exercise, a healthy diet, and a skincare routine. Even in the early days of Emerus’s infancy when she would wake in the night, he only looked a little tired on the worst days while you looked like you got tossed around in a tornado before being spat out onto the ground.

An old daydream creeps in, a flashing sight of entwined hands, wrinkled and sunken in with age, but no less full of love and adoration. They take slow but steady steps along the trail in a plain filled with flowers and blooms. It was the peaceful ending to a life that you once thought was finally in your hands. But you ruined it all, and there was no one to blame but yourself.

Along the way somewhere, you felt that Sylus had stopped wearing his heart on his sleeve for you to see. It was apparent – radiant almost – for everyone else, especially your daughter. And after she turned ten, you noticed that Sylus was quieter around you, a little less expressive.

By no means was he a neglectful husband – in fact, he was almost perfect. He knew your favorite flowers, your favorite foods for each emotion you could possibly think of, never missed an anniversary or events when a plus-one was expected. But those anniversary dinners became quiet affairs, soundscapes of silence filled by metal against ceramic. Passionate nights dissolved into faux serenity. Tucking you under his arm began to feel mechanical, as if he was too kind to ever tell you that, in actuality, he wanted some distance and space in bed at night.

He did not return until the night you brought up the separation, but it was too late at that point. You were stuck too deep in the black hole of your envy and greed, your selfishness and immaturity (which therapy would tell you a couple of years later that you were not, in fact, selfish or immature), to feel worthy of Sylus’s endless apologies that you didn't think he needed to give. No matter how much he tried to reassure you that he would fix everything, to shoulder the burden of picking up the pieces of your shattered soul, you couldn't find it in yourself to accept it. How could you?

Sylus turns to look at you. Out of habit, you steel yourself for what is to come – the guarded look in his eyes, the slight tensing of his shoulder, his smile thinner and more muted.

But seconds go by without him doing any of the sort. The affection he regards you with sends you back to the early days of your relationship, the never-ending honeymoon era that held up against the removal of your rose-tinted glasses. They almost seem to beg you in earnest – for you to understand, to accept that after all these years…

He still loves you like no other.