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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 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

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icyapple · 20 hours ago

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Stars On Ice

From the screen to the ice: it's Movie Week on Stars on Ice! Our participants will bring to life iconic characters from beloved films and TV shows. Action, mystery, drama, even sci-fi — true creativity knows no bounds!

Episode 3. The Mad Man with a Box (Doctor Who OST)

Pairing: celebrity!Xavier x figure skater!MC

Synopsis: Sometimes, when love crashes into your life, you’re just not ready for it — especially if you’re awkward and hopelessly unromantic by nature. But when your partner’s just as awkward as you are, it gets a whole lot easier to handle.

CW: figure skating!au, fluff, awkward romance, newly established relationship, dorks in love, mild social anxiety, mild public embarrassment, they really are dorks your honor

Notes: this is the third episode of xavier's plotline, the previous ones, along with other plotlines, can be found here. mc is a retired olympic figure skater, xavier is a former teen disney star who was trying to build his private life far from fame but still accepted the invitation to the show for some reason. dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

In classic romance novels, the story usually ends right after the grand love confession — two hearts exchanged, eternal happiness sealed, no questions asked. And, of course, not a single word about how, after all that, the couple actually has to get used to each other, figure things out, and face problems together. Lately, I think I’m beginning to understand why authors tend to skip that part. Because even the most perfect hero and the most delicate heroine lose a bit of their romantic glow once it turns out they can be painfully awkward in a real relationship.

Ever since we finally said everything we’d been bottling up (have you ever tried to confess your love in the time it takes for a YouTube video to cut to ads about real estate and chocolate bars?), my brain’s been struggling to process it all. Like... he loves me? Seriously, he loves me? This isn’t a prank? You’re telling me we hang out at his place again, watching season 18 of classic Doctor Who, I scoot closer and ask him to hold me because, as much as I love the show, the cactus villain is making me just a tiny bit anxious — and then, during the commercial break, he says that to me?

And my best reply is “Holy guacamole”?

And then he proceeds to prove, in no uncertain terms, that he’s never heard anything hotter in his life than this?

Our trainings after all that still go on without a hitch — our level of on-ice and off-ice cuddling is steadily climbing, which I’d say is more of a perk than a drawback of the job. We run through our routine — still painfully nerdy and friendship-themed, choreographed back when our relationship hadn’t exactly taken this… unexpected turn. I sneak a quick kiss when no one’s looking and step aside to stretch my back, which started aching mid-practice. By the time I get back, Xavier is already surrounded by the hosts. I realize he’s been ambushed by the camera crew, and there’s no more guessing who’s next up for the “Get to Know the Skater” segment.

“You made quite the impression on our viewers — especially the female ones — as the most romantic contestant this season,” one of the hosts says. Xavier bashfully looks away.

“Must be because of our last routine,” he mumbles, cheeks flushed a delicate porcelain pink. “But I’m afraid I might disappoint them. When it comes to romance, I’m basically Shrek. I’d pick a quiet evening in my swamp over a fancy candlelit date any day.”

“What’s your ideal type of girl?” the host asks curiously. And Xavier, still unaware I’m back from behind the scenes, just spills:

“Someone I can talk to about anything. Someone who gets excited about the simple stuff, the geeky stuff too. Who always has a funny comeback—even to a love confession. Maybe… my ideal girl is just as unromantic and, um, Shrek-like as me.” He pauses, suddenly realizing how that sounded. “I mean, not Shrek-like in appearance — though I totally respect all kinds of beauty! And appearance isn’t even the main thing, it’s about the person —oh my god, what am I saying. Please tell me you’ll edit this part out?”

That’s when he notices I’m already standing there. One look at his kitten-scared eyes and beet-red cheeks says more than any words could. The host glances at me too, and judging by his sly grin, I realize I’ve just as much given myself away — because I’ve been watching Xavier mess this up like a giddy lovestruck fangirl.

Hopelessly in love with how brilliantly awkward he is.

And, as the saying goes — if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I take Xavier’s hand and glance into his eyes just to make sure he’s okay with dropping the secrecy and saying it out loud. He smiles, nods — and before I can say anything, gently pulls me into a hug.

“I’d really prefer not to make this a big topic for discussion or speculation,” he tells the film crew, calm and confident now, not a trace of the earlier awkwardness. “Out of respect for our private life, I hope this doesn’t become one of the main segments in the episode. But let’s just say — according to the story of our program, I’ve got two hearts. And both of them belong to one person.”

“Spoilers,” I say, pressing a finger to his lips. He smirks at the reference and kisses the tip of my finger.

We actually spent a while deciding which part of the endless Doctor Who universe to capture in our program, but I fell in love with the season 5 soundtrack, and Xavier just naturally fit the Eleventh Doctor — young, warmhearted, eccentric, and adorably awkward. I was supposed to be Amy Pond, of course. But we’d choreographed the piece before we started dating, and we didn’t quite consider how much the dynamic between us might shift. It’s normal for figure skaters to perform romantic programs without any real-life romance — but try skating a program without any romance, when you’re suddenly full of it in real life!

And maybe we’re trying too hard to hold back, because the result ends up way too restrained. So much so that our artistic scores are noticeably lower than we’d hoped. I watch my usually composed partner clench his jaw as the judges critique the lack of emotional fire in a piece he poured his nerdy little heart (well, both hearts) into.

“I think the showrunners are deliberately trying to pressure us into producing more romance content,” I say later in the locker room, fingers gently combing through his hair as he lies on the bench with his head resting on my lap, yawning like he hasn’t slept in a week. I’ve noticed this about Xavier too: he bottles up stress, and it often comes out as sheer exhaustion.

“Let’s just skate what we actually feel comfortable with," he murmurs, eyelids heavy. "Even if they underscore us, who cares? I’m not here to win. I’ve already got the most important prize anyway.”

He shifts to his side, curling into my thigh like it’s his favorite pillow, brushing his cheek against it.

“Your bowtie’s crooked,” I whisper, straightening his deep burgundy bowtie and lightly brushing his neck with my fingers, watching his long blond lashes flutter.

“Bowties are cool,” he mutters, finally drifting off.

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