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ladywater2010 · 29 days ago

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Repressed Love. Or: Derrick Eckhart and deconstructing the "Duke of the North."

Apologies if you're used to Apothecary Diaries content from me, but I'm currently reading "Villains Are Destined To Die" and Derrick Eckhart has me in a bit of a chokehold.

Because he's such a trainwreck. And he's allowed to self-destruct in a perfectly logical way that follows from his character archetype - an archetype that is usually portrayed as someone to be Healed By Love. Instead, Derrick Eckhart's story is a classic tragedy. He is doomed by the qualities that define him.

(image credit; Ep. 38)

Here's a 30 second recap of the setup for Villains Are Destined To Die. The main premise is that our heroine is suddenly thrust into the world of the romance dating game she was playing on hard mode as the villainess, Penelope Eckhart, who is the adopted daughter of Duke Eckhart after his biological daughter tragically disappeared. The goal? Get one of the five male leads to 100% affection score and achieve an ending before the true daughter reappears at Penelope's coming of age ceremony and the regular game begins with the Duke's True Daughter as the heroine. Because the villainess always dies in the end.

Our five male leads are as follows:

Derrick Eckhart - the eldest son and heir of Duke Eckhart.

Reynold Eckhart - the younger son of Duke Eckhart and a knight.

Callisto Regulus - the Crown Prince and a war hero.

Winter Verdandi - a mysterious nobleman and sorcerer.

Eckles - a fallen noble of a conquered nation, now enslaved, but secretly a swordmaster.

If this looks like a list of tropes, congratulations! That's the point. Each romance-able character fits into a neatly defined trope, but since we're focusing on Derrick Eckhart, we're looking specifically at the following archetype:

"The Duke Of The North."

(image credit: Ep. 37)

Derrick Eckhart hits almost every single bullet point on a list of this trope. Colored in cold tones; black hair and blue eyes, with an angular, cutting beauty that is indicative of his matching aloof and logical demeanor? Check!

While their duchy is not physically in the north, it is isolated in that the Eckhart duchy is neutral, not throwing their support to either candidate in the succession struggle between the Crown Prince and his younger brother. Check!

He's the captain of the Eckhart duchy's knights (20,000 strong), so his military prowess and power is acknowledged. Check!

He is the heir of the duchy and is very aware of it's responsibilities, fettering many of his actions through the lens of those duties. Check!

Traumatic past? Check, check and check!

If Derrick were the male lead of this story, his story would likely follow the typical tsundere path of learning that there is strength in the trust that accompanies vulnerability and intimacy - that the balance between the duties of his position and the desires of his heart is not only possible, but desirable. The female lead's love would either be a redemptive object or, in better written stories, an example that propels him to better himself in order to be worthy of her.

But the author did something interesting. They broke the trope down and deconstructed it. What might actually happen when that traumatized, emotionally stunted man falls in love for the first time? Is this something he is able to handle with grace and maturity or is he motivated by his underdeveloped emotional ego? (I'll let you guess...)

Let's look at the two primary emotions that represent Derrick's two "sisters" and drive his actions: guilt and shame.

Guilt

So, the backstory behind Derrick's trauma is both very simple and heartrendingly realistic. The three original siblings, Derrick, Reynold and Ivonne sneak out to a large festival one night. Derrick, being the oldest, has Ivonne's hand in his, but the parade begins and as the crowd swells, his little sister is swept away.

Ivonne is never seen again.

His little sister's disappearance proceeds to tear the already grieving family apart (the mother has succumbed to Dead Mom Syndrome). It's now only the male members left - and while Reynold is allowed to act out and grieve openly to a degree, Derrick is not. He is the heir and he is already expected to control his emotions and conduct himself appropriately. Because his actions reflect on his name.

It doesn't matter that his little sister is just gone, with no leads or even the closure of finding her body.

It doesn't matter that it's his fault; for taking them to the festival without asking permission or guards, for letting Ivonne's hand slip out of his, for failing to find her.

In that crucible of pain, sorrow and guilt, Derrick learns that there is no possible justification for losing control. Because to do so is to make everything even worse. Ivonne and his mother are both gone. If he shames their name and proves himself to be an unworthy successor, Derrick will lose his father too. Everything in his life must now revolve around being the perfect heir - because it's all he has left.

(image credit, Ep. 152)

Callisto makes a similar observation about the weight of being an heir. "The Emperor must be flawless." (Ch 73). We'll actually circle back around to this, because Derrick and Callisto are narrative foils for each other.

Neither Callisto nor Derrick are allowed to show emotions such as fear or grief - because those are potential weaknesses that people could use to try to take advantage of their family's power to advance agendas that likely do not have the best interest of either the imperial family or the Eckharts in mind. Indeed, Callisto's position is weakened because of his brutal reputation, which he encourages in order to express his anger.

Derrick doesn't have that outlet. Anger isn't something he's allowed to feel; rage will only compromise his judgment and threaten the only identity he has left. The most he is allowed to express is irritation and contempt.

Penelope vs Ivonne

And then the Duke does the most insane thing possible - he adopts a street beggar that has a passing resemblance to Ivonne and makes her the new daughter of the house.

**cough** Does anybody see a problem here?!

Oh, here's one. Penelope is so much more vibrant a character than Ivonne. You can see the surface similarities, but that's where they end. Ivonne, is described as "angelic" and painted in the same pastel tones as Reynold (pale pink hair and light blue eyes that link her to Derrick, Reynold and the Duke). Gentle, kind, quiet. An "easy" child.

Penelope is not easy. She's tempestuous and emotional before abruptly going silent after hitting a certain point. She's painted in jewel tones, her eyes "turquoise" or "emerald", her hair a deeper magenta with wild curls. She demands attention (and justice) through bad behavior and no matter how many times she's knocked down, she keeps fighting back. In short, she is uncontrollable.

(image credit, Ep. 134)

Because Derrick cannot allow himself the luxury of anger or disgust at his father for bringing this strange girl into their home, he deals with her presence by simply ignoring her and shutting away his emotions per the status quo. Or, at least, he attempts to.

But Penelope forces her her way into Derrick's life because she is NOT like Ivonne.

She does everything that Derrick is never allowed, while his father seemingly indulges Penelope with material goods that she demands because it's the only way anyone in the house will actually acknowledge her existence. Except for one person- Derrick. Derrick, as the heir, has to clean up the aftermath of Penelope's tantrums. Messes that, in his mind, there is absolutely no justification for. If he can deal with Ivonne's disappearance with dignity befitting the Eckhart name, then by god this girl can stand to control her own behavior!

And it's good to remember that, until the story starts with our version of Penelope, Derrick's perception of her behavior is spot on. Penelope herself comments on it multiple times - how OG Penelope had turned everyone against her. Reynold may have started the household's ostracism by framing Penelope for theft of Ivonne's necklace, and Derrick and the Duke exacerbated it with their willful ignorance, but OG Penelope was her own worst enemy.

(As an aside, I can tell that some readers have never dealt with a 'problem child' in their own family. As someone who did have a sibling who acted out, sometimes in seemingly unforgivable ways at the time, I can say that both Derrick's resentment and the perpetual cycles of blame are rooted in emotional realism).

This is the static pattern until hard mode starts and OG Penelope is replaced with the current Penelope, who already escaped a eerily similar toxic family dynamic. She has no attachment to these men, therefore she is able to do what OG Penelope could never do - she lets go of them. Which is exactly what is needed to smash the current dynamic to smithereens and force Derrick to contend with Penelope's presence in his life.

Because here's the thing. Penelope's behavior forces Derrick to feel. Penelope evokes a response from Derrick - annoyance, resentment...

...and desire.

(image credit, Ep. 19)

Shame

Penelope is not Derrick's sister. He utterly rejects that role, even as the Duke forces him to play it in public. He repeats this rejection multiple times; "I have only one sister and her name is Ivonne," (ch. 75)

But when Derrick expressed cold contempt, Penelope responded with hot rage. Where Derrick is aloof, Penelope is passionate. Derrick must always be in control, whereas Penelope lets control go freely. It's very much an attraction of opposites. Penelope represents everything Derrick is not allowed to have or be - but desperately wants.

If Penelope had chosen Derrick's romance path, then there's an old trope at play here; Kissing Cousins. Depending on your perspective, the incest angle is eliminated due to the fact that Penelope is adopted and Derrick never once thinks of her as his sister. Penelope's primary game conflict is that she's not truly accepted as a daughter of the house. A way to resolve that is to step out of Ivonne's shadow, tempering her extreme emotional reactions with adult self-control that allows Derrick to see and accept her in a new light - not as a living embodiment of his guilt, but as her own person. That, in turn, could give him the opportunity to process his guilt and grief, while also allowing him a safe space to allow himself the emotions he was denied by his trauma. With this conflict resolved, it clears a path for Penelope's true acceptance by the Eckharts, not as a ghost of Ivonne, but as their daughter-in-law, becoming Duchess Eckhart.

(Look, you don't have to like it, but consanguinity is a romance trope that's alive and well. I'm looking at you, Cyrano de Bergerac, Eight Cousins, Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon...shall I go on? Honestly, Derrick and Penelope is pretty tame. Diet Consanguinity, shall we say?)

But Penelope rejects this path immediately, therefore opening up the chance to explore Derrick's first love in a much more realistic sense - this is not a relationship that brings him joy, but instead fills him with shame. I didn't need to read spoilers of the light novels to realize that he was attracted to her from the beginning- it's right there in his affection score; he doesn't want to be addressed as 'Brother.' Her earliest death event with Derrick is when she implies that he's sleeping with her maid.

It's baked in.

And that shame will propel Derrick to stay stuck in his old pattern with Penelope because he cannot reconcile duty and desire. He cannot even recognize what he is feeling consciously. The easiest thing for Derrick to do is live in denial, blaming Penelope for everything, to continue being the put-upon heir of the family who constantly bails her out of trouble. Because the alternative is to acknowledge the unthinkable.

Is it admirable? No.

Is it likely to get him what he wants? Absolutely not.

Is it realistic psychology? Yes.

He is so caught up in the old dynamic with Penelope that he's too slow to realize that it's gone - the new Penelope reflects his own coldness back at him. The more she retreats, the more he chases her, looking for that source of warmth, her unyielding, continuing affection that he thought he couldn't bear. But without it, his world has become utterly cold and full of nothing but his guilt, shame and duty.

And then Derrick destroys what little attachment Penelope had to him with the trial, when he repeats this pattern for the last time by refusing to hear her defense privately and trying to simply get her to plead guilty to an attempted assassination with the assumption that Derrick will simply be able to use the Eckhart name to help her escape the consequences. Season 2 ends with, 'I had no expectations."

That's a death blow to their relationship. Derrick is defined by the expectations of others, which is why he, in turn, defines Penelope by her reputation. For Penelope to tell him that she has no expectations of him is to tell Derrick the agonizing truth - that he is nothing to her.

Not her brother.

Not the future duke.

He's not even a man that she respects.

(image credit, Ep. 85)

This confrontation is different than the Season 1 conclusion, when Penelope's finally willing to risk Reynold's affection score dropping in order to confront him with the truth and consequences of his own actions. In the aftermath of that fight, Reynold realizes that he is the one who needs to reflect on his behavior, not Penelope.

But where Reynold is able to eventually confess the truth about Ivonne's necklace to his father, Derrick is so ashamed of himself that he spirals. The old relationship is gone, leaving him with only her ringing condemnation of his behavior and her justified indifference toward him.

And he does offer an apology - but it's an apology so steeped in the only identity he has left - the Heir - that even though Penelope recognizes it as a genuine attempt at apologizing, it fails to move her. He is not capable of simply saying "I was wrong - at least, not without a bunch of modifiers about why being wrong wasn't his fault.

The Prodigal Daughter Returns

And then, of course, Ivonne makes her inevitable return - not brought in by an outsider (Winter Verdandi) as in the original game, but by Eckles, Penelope's personal guard. A man whom Derrick is already jealous and suspicious of. And, when Penelope understandably starts to lose her shit, Derrick treats it as a return to the status quo - the absolute worst thing he could do.

Especially because he now appears to have a way to expunge his guilt. He can help restore Ivonne to the family.

Derrick is the easiest target for Ivonne to subvert away from the respect Penelope has been painstakingly building from the beginning of the story, because she yokes his conscious guilt and his unconscious shame into a team that drives his actions all the way to Penelope's critical coming-of-age ceremony and the start of the original game, where Penelope's role of villainess is to be cemented.

Derrick desperately wants his little sister back. He also wants to do right by Penelope in the wake of the hunting arc. This is his tragedy, because the two goals are at odds. There is no way to restore Ivonne and win Penelope's affection.

Especially not playing against this magnificent son of a bitch.

(image credit, Ep. 58)

Like all the best character foils, while Derrick has been wrestling with shame and guilt, Callisto Regulus has been busy actually listening to Penelope, thinking critically and making judgments about her based on facts, both old and current. Unlike Derrick, he learns about Penelope and isn't shackled by what people think of either him or her. Indeed, Callisto understands the power of a bad reputation and how it can be harnessed just as easily as a sterling one.

Winter and Callisto are the ones to spring to Penelope's aid at the ruined coming-of-age ceremony, while Derrick is frozen in brainwashed confusion. Even Reynold manages to be the voice of reason in the chaos of her poisoning, pointing out that if they don't let Winter treat Penelope, she's going to die before the doctor can get to her.

(As an aside, when Reynold Eckhart is your voice of reason, you know things have gone sideways!)

Finally, only after Derrick has temporarily broken free of Ivonne's manipulation, having thoroughly soiled his own reputation and the Eckhart name by bringing Ivonne to the ceremony against the orders of their head of house and causing a public spectacle (everything he's accused Penelope of doing), he is left wandering the halls of the estate, desperate to make sense of what's happened and his own feelings.

He can't even go into Penelope's room to check on her - because that spot by her side has already been claimed. He's too late.

(image credit: Ep. 159)

This panel encapsulates Derrick's character in one shot.

The cool tones and shadows, echoing Derrick's symbolism as he's shut away from the warm light representing Penelope. The longing, the jealousy, the self-hatred as he can only peer through the crack in the door. The eerie green light of Ivonne's control has faded from his pupils, leaving him clearheaded for the first time in days as he slowly pieces his fragmented memory together to view the consequences of what he has done.

Meanwhile, a rival Derrick cannot challenge - Callisto - has the right to ask about her condition from the doctor and sit by Penelope's beside, begging her to wake up, not to leave him alone in hell. A hell that Derrick has helped create.

Derrick has had every opportunity through the end of Season 4 to change course - and each time, he is tripped up by those archetypal qualities that define his trope.

The tragic past and hidden vulnerability? These are the qualities Ivonne uses to manipulate and brainwash Derrick into betraying not only Penelope, but himself.

The emotional coldness? It means that Derrick is unable to even understand what he feels, let alone express it coherently, whether to be accepted or rejected. Instead, he's trapped in a self-destructive cycle, alienating the very person he yearns for, unable to ease his loneliness and self-hatred.

The devotion to duty shackles Derrick to a role that is his only identity that outside forces shatter for him - and Ivonne cares nothing for Derrick's well being in the process.

Rather than either the male lead or even a positive force in the narrative, Derrick's traits destroy everything he cherishes, leaving him utterly alone.

The fate of the Duke of the North is to be on the outside looking in.

#villains are destined to die #character analysis

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ladywater2010 · 1 month ago

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when he's sick 🌡

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus

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ladywater2010 · 1 month ago

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third tempo

tags: yearning, handjob, unprotected piv sex, sylus gets shot (he's fine), physical hurt/comfort, alcohol mention

The bows trill low; the waltz begins.

Tonight is balmy, early summer, and the darkening sky still has violet curled around its edges. There are no clouds tonight; instead the air is filled with snatches of music drifting out of an open window. Above, stars gaze down at this world with their cold, impenetrable silence.

Sylus would know. He's spent a lot of time up there with them. But although he traversed them extensively, plundering the worlds surrounding them left and right, they never told him what he really wanted to know. What he was really looking for. They just blinked at him, silent. Those stars became his ever-present company as he travelled in his stolen space ships, one even lonelier than the company filling the ballroom below him.

Sylus surveys the scene under the chandeliers and thinks of that distant past.

If he squints his eyes just so the golden lacquer coating the pillars rising to support the upper balcony look like a mountain of coins; the people twirling around in ornate dresses and glittering suits become the gems, ever-shifting in the flickering candlelight. Plush armchairs, sofas, paintings in gilded frames. The eye jumps from one treasure to the other, and that's not counting the jewelry adorning necks, fingers, and wrists.

Your presence completes the scene, and there Sylus doesn't want his vision to blur anymore. He intends to drink his fill of you whenever he is able.

And you look especially beautiful tonight, here under the gleam of the chandeliers. The open-back dress you're wearing accentuates your figure perfectly, as he knew it would. Whenever you move your muscles shift, throwing soft shadows on the planes of your back, and Sylus isn't the only one who looks at you tonight.

It's the price he must pay in order for you to accept his gifts. If it's for a job, a mission, a deal, you'll wear the dresses he sends you, the heels he wishes he could put on for you, gems around your neck that he'd like to see you keep on while wearing nothing else. On any other occasion you refuse his presents.

You have plenty of excuses; you don't want to be indebted to him any more than you are, you can't accept such extravaganza from anyone, you dislike wasting money on pretty things that serve no real purpose. As if you deserve anything but beautiful things to surround yourself with. As if Sylus ever expects anything in return for his gifts save for the pleasure of giving them to you.

But that's not the real reason. Sylus has been watching you very carefully, trying to untangle this new beloved version of you. He can feel you skirting around the truth. If you don't want to tell him, that's fine. He'll find out one way or another eventually.

For now, it means that he's resigned himself to sharing the vision of your naked back with the undeserving public.

The song ends. The dancers scatter to the sidelines, helping themselves to expensive champagne and finger-food. You mingle with the crowd, slowly making your way to the stairs and then, finally, you look up at him and catch his eye.

Sylus tilts his head, one eyebrow raised. You give him a nod, then move up until you reach the upper floor. Sylus is already there, waiting, one hand outstretched for you to take.

“I don't think anyone saw me,” you tell him, fingers curling in his. “I left it where you told me.”

“Good,” says Sylus. He checks his watch; old, vintage, a hobby project gifted by the twins. Five to midnight. Kieran and Luke are positioned outside, ready to quietly follow the tracker's signal as soon as it starts moving. A little treasure hunt—and Sylus does so love treasure. Especially so when it comes with the added bonus of ridding the world of another miserable sack of shit.

He reaches for a glass and presents it to you; you accept it with a half-smile. “What now? Are we leaving?”

“Would you like to?”

You take a sip of your champagne. “I'm not tired, if that's what you're asking. Either way is fine.”

“Then would you like to dance?”

“In these heels?” You laugh a little, but when Sylus coaxes you with him to where the upper balcony leads to an outside one, removed from the immediate vicinity of the degenerates below dressed up in their pretty suits, you don't resist.

You let him take your hand and place it on his shoulder—then flinch when his other hand touches the bare skin of your back.

A step forward, a step back. There is an invisible line. He knows it's there. He wants to cross it. Some days he thinks you'll let him, and then, suddenly, you pull away. He never knows just what spooks you, what causes you to flinch, to hesitate, to hover, warily. Ill at ease.

Sylus works very hard to keep from frowning. His hand hovers just over your back, close but not touching. He looks at you. Waiting.

You reward his patience. You swallow, and your shoulders untense. You lean back a little, pressing into his hand lightly, and Sylus exhales. His thumb strokes carefully, gently, over your spine, and then he starts swaying.

One, two, three; front, side, back. The balcony doors are wide open, letting through enough of the music to keep an easy pace. You were the one who introduced this pastime to him, so long ago. Now it's Sylus who takes the lead; when he lifts his arm you go with him, stepping, then spinning, and back again. Front, side, back.

These rare, precious instances of happiness, of wholeness, of the past repeating the present repeating the past, are ones where Sylus feels—in so long—content. No matter the skittish look you gave him last week. No matter the invitations you sometimes accept, sometimes refuse. No matter that you avert your eyes when he holds your gaze for a little too long. You're smiling, now, and the world is good. When you stumble—these heels , Sylus—you do so into his chest, and Sylus holds you against him longer than necessary.

“Steady now, kitten,” he teases. “Have you forgotten how to land on all fours?”

You huff, squeezing down on his shoulder. “I think you can be a little more generous given how you've handicapped me tonight.”

Sylus' brow creases. “Are the shoes not to your liking? You said they felt comfortable when you put them on.”

“That's because they're made for looking pretty, not for sneaking around backdoors of secret crime syndicates.” When you see the face he's making you smile a little. “Don't worry. They're not hurting me.”

Sylus nods, but internally the brand name of your heels has already been crossed out on the list and replaced by another, one that will be subjected to even greater scrutiny when browsing online reviews.

“Sylus.”

“Hm?”

“Come on,” you tug at his hand when he starts slowing down. “Why are you stopping? Aren't you always the one telling me I can take it?”

He does, it's true. His adoration for you couples with unshakeable belief that you can do anything. Accomplish anything. Whatever you desire, he believes you will find a way to get it. You're so strong, and so smart, and so beautiful. There's no reason for him to ever doubt your abilities.

But that doesn't mean he will ever allow you to hurt. Even by something as innocuous as the glittering heels on your feet.

He looks at his watch again. The twins have sent him the OK; they're on the move.

“Let's call it a night, sweetie.”

Your anticipatory smile falters, and you look away, letting go of his hand. A step back, again. Sylus lets you, mourning the loss of your closeness like he does every time you pull away. Had you really wanted to dance more? If so, you deserve to have a much nicer scene next time. Without the guise of a mission he'll dance with you as long as you desire, in comfortable shoes you pick out yourself.

You don't protest when he offers his arm to escort you outside. Perhaps you really are more fatigued than you let on; perhaps you're relieved tonight is over. Perhaps you'll let him take your heels off for you when he takes you back to the base, his fingers wrapping around your ankle, thumb pressing into your sole—

Sylus quickly tamps down the thoughts that immediately follow this last one.

He walks slowly, measuring his steps to yours down the stairs, through the doorway, over the crunch of the gravel path, all the way to his car.

Here, in the cool night air, away from the busy murmur of the party, he breathes. The music follows you outside, curling around your feet as though reluctant to see you go. When he gets home he knows just the vinyl he'll play. Something soft and melodic, so that if you want to sway with him again you can. On bare feet, on slippers, on top of his shoes...

He allows himself to get distracted in these plans. Tonight, by all measures, was a success. You wore the dress he bought for you, you smiled at him, and you danced with him. The tracker chip is secured. Soon enough the host of tonight's extravaganza will cease to be, and Sylus will get to see you and your fellow Hunters clean up the blood he leaves in his wake. A win-win-win all around.

Really—up until someone tries to assassinate him Sylus is having a great night.

He senses their presence, of course. But there's lots of people here, and you and him aren't the only ones outside. Also, he's busy. You're allowing him to stroke his hand along your back, to open the car door for you, to lean down and inhale the scent of your shampoo.

Besides—who would hurt him? Who can hurt him, apart from you? His pain is a privilege that belongs to you alone.

And so when a shadow passes behind his back he thinks nothing of it. He thinks nothing of it until your eyes widen and you shove him aside, violently, and he has to catch his balance on the car roof, turning around just in time to see you kick a man in the stomach. Hard.

Not hard enough: the man stumbles but doesn't lose his footing and, wheezing, lunges for you again. There's a glint of something sharp, cold and biting and not allowed anywhere near you, and Sylus’ Evol reaches out to stop it—but finds his assistance is not necessary. You wrest the knife-hand away and grab the man by the collar, forcing his face down while your knee comes up with a crunch and a cry of pain.

The man's hand instinctively flies to his face, but you don't let him recover. You have a blade of your own, tucked away against your leg in the holster Sylus had made for you, and you rip it over his throat.

The man gurgles, arms flailing, then slumps to the ground. Your hairdo has come loose, and you throw it over your shoulder with a flick of your head, catching your breath. There's blood smeared on your hands.

Sylus watches, mesmerized. Turned on.

He remembers to close his mouth.

“Ruined my dress. Asshole,” you bite at the soon-to-be corpse at your feet. Then you look up with wide eyes, like you're remembering Sylus is there, too. “Are you okay?”

“What sharp claws you have,” he murmurs, adoring. “I'm fine.”

You relax at his assurance and reach for the knife the assailant dropped. “Don't touch that,” Sylus says sharply, and grabs your wrist. He takes it with his Evol instead; through it, he can feel the poison coating the blade. It's a step up from bullets and the occasional grenade, but it appears his opponents continue to be horribly misinformed.

Good.

Sylus examines your hands carefully for cuts, but aside from drying blood he finds none. He thumbs over your calluses, then places a kiss on your knuckles.

“Let's get you cleaned up at home,” he says. When you stay quiet, looking at your hand in his, he gently squeezes your fingers. “Kitten?” You jerk and blink up at him, eyes coming back from somewhere far away. Now worried, Sylus frowns and asks, “Did you get cut? Are you hurt?”

“No,” you shake your head. “No, just thinking. Sorry. Let's go.”

Sylus looks at you for a beat longer and then releases you. He drives slowly on the way home; you're quiet, head turned away from him to look out the window into the dark. He can't see your expression.

He lets you have your silence until you get back to the base. The first thing he does is click a medical bracelet on your wrist and start a full body scan. The poison knife is put away securely to be tested later; Sylus would love to know what new concoction they've come up with to try and kill him this time.

But right now there are more pressing matters at hand. You sit down on the sofa with that same glum look on your face, and Sylus won't have any more of it.

“Tell me what's wrong.”

“Are you angry that I killed him?” you ask, eyes downcast.

Sylus blinks. It baffles him to think why you would come to such a conclusion. “Have I ever truly been angry at you?” he counters.

You shrug a little. “Just... you know. If he was still alive you could've asked him who sent him. Maybe he had valuable info.”

Sylus sinks down next to you, offering a blanket you can drape over your shoulders. He checks the bracelet; loading at 60 percent, no anomalies so far. “People like him know as little as possible to get the job done precisely to avoid situations like that. Besides,” he says, “I already have an idea who sent him.”

You nod, but you don't look entirely convinced. Or rather, you still look sad, and just like when you flinch from him there is this feeling of something-else. Sylus thinks of his hand, waiting at your back for you to press into. Of that split second where he's afraid you might leave him there, pulling away from him entirely. Disappearing. Again.

“What are you thinking?” he murmurs, half a question, half not. It’s something he wonders often. The few times you've resonated he can feel your trepidation, the tensing up of someone who's readying themselves for the incoming hurt.

He thought it was because of how he reacted to first seeing you again. His hands around your throat, the barrel of your gun against his heart. He scared you. He hurt you. He regrets it, deeply.

He has since given you space, time, holding out his hand, patiently, waiting and waiting and waiting until you're brave enough, curious enough, comfortable enough to sniff his fingers. Hoping that one day you'll climb into his lap of your own accord. To let him stroke you and pet you and kiss you like he's wanted to for so long. (So long.)

But even though you've let him come closer and closer the tension remains. You keep it tucked tightly against yourself, behind thick walls he doesn't try to pierce through. He won't force you again. But he feels enough, sees enough, to sense your conflict. To go or not to go? To say yes? No? Maybe so?

“I'm angry,” you say finally, and this makes Sylus look up from where he's absentmindedly taken your hand in his lap. “That this kind of thing happens. That this is your life. But then I—”

You fall silent, and Sylus squeezes your hand encouragingly. “Then you?”

“I don't know,” you mumble, faltering. You duck your head to avoid his eyes.

“Are you angry on my behalf, kitten?” Sylus says, and he smiles slightly. “I’m honoured. I was very impressed with how you slit my assailant's throat.”

You nod along with his words, but you're clearly not convinced. “Sorry, um. For being so violent.” Sylus blinks, and then he laughs—hearty and low. You're finally looking up at him, part relieved and part offended at his amusement. “It's not funny,” you protest.

Sylus wants to kiss you so badly his body hurts with it. “Sweetie,” he says, thoroughly enjoying the flush rising on your cheeks, “Why are you apologising? I'm finally starting to rub off on you.”

It's only fair. You've shaped his entire heart. His soul. He wants to—needs to—leave a mark in return. He tucks your hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on a particular spot on your neck.

“You sound way too happy about that,” you mutter.

“Do you dislike it?”

He would understand, if you said yes. This you is so different, changed by time and pain and circumstance. You don't enjoy killing. You criticise his work, heavily, even when you come back to him again and again. But your occupation isn't all sunshine and rainbows either. He knows this. He knows you've killed before, that tonight wasn't your first.

He wishes it had been. He wishes he could have witnessed that first death and held you in his arms after. Whether you were sad or angry or proud, whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. He hopes that you didn't suffer by yourself when he wasn't there. That you never had to suffer anything while he was still looking for you.

“No,” you say carefully. “But I don't like feeling like that.”

“Tell me.”

“Like...” You've clasped your hands on your lap. The bracelet beeps at 100 percent; no injuries, no poison detected. Sylus can breathe again. After this, a shower. The blood smears on your skin are bothering him. “Being so angry, I guess. He tried to kill you, and I wanted him dead. I wanted to kill him.”

Sylus’ heart swells with something like hope. “It won't be the last time,” he says gently. “After all, you're keeping company with a bad man like me.”

He watches you cautiously. He's leaving the door wide open for you. You can come and go as you please. He'll do anything in his power to keep you returning, but ultimately, you'll have to step through the door on your own feet. One, two, three.

“But you're not,” you say simply.

“You're full of surprises tonight,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Okay, well. I did think that you were bad at one point. Which, by the way, that was kind of on you.” You give him a pointed look and Sylus smiles, even though you might as well have driven a knife in him. He knows. It hurts to remember what he did. He'll take this pain along with everything else you're willing to give him. “But I haven't thought that way for a long time. I thought you knew that.”

“I didn't dare presume.”

“You can dare to presume a little.”

“Don't you think that's a little dangerous?” he asks, voice low. “I'd rather you tell me, instead.”

You pull the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders. “I thought you could read minds. What do you need me to tell you anything for?”

You mean his eye? “I can only see so much,” he says. “Desire. Lies. Definitely not every passing thought.” And he would never use it on you again, anyhow.

Your eyes flick to his, down to his mouth, then up again. You wrinkle your nose, frowning, and turn away with pursed lips. “Maybe you should see an optometrist,” you mutter. Then, at normal volume, “Is it okay if I wash up here? The blood is starting to feel icky.”

“Of course,” Sylus says immediately. “You know where to find clothes.”

You unclasp your heels and leave him there, sitting on his sofa. Listening to the shower water run.

You decline his offer to stay the night. You have yet to say yes, but he keeps trying. He tells himself they're little reminders for you, just so you know that the offer still stands. That it always stands. Yes—reminders. Not his own desperation surging up his throat and spilling out over your feet.

The dance continues.

Sometimes a step forward, sometimes a step back. You disappear for a while after that night, and so Sylus has to content himself with watching you through Mephisto with steepled fingers pressed to his lips. He watches you work, eat, come home, and then the curtains are drawn shut. The line, materialised.

Sylus waits with hand outstretched. And every now and then, he holds out a treat.

He sends you flowers, balm for your aching feet, and an invitation to attend an orchestra performing Tchaikovsky. It's old music, fancy and obscure, a private performance for rich music snobs like Sylus except they don't have a private booth reserved year-round with the best seats in the house, and he does.

“Will there be any dancing?”

“No dancing,” Sylus tells you through the phone. “But if you want, we can dance after. They'll play a song I think you'll like—I have it on vinyl. The Waltz of Flowers.”

“Are we the flowers dancing to the music? When did your roots grow legs?”

“Just a few days ago,” Sylus says. “Since you've been so busy recently I had no choice but to grow legs so I could come see you.”

You laugh, and Sylus closes his eyes so he can better imagine the way your lips part when you do. “It sounds like you went through a lot of effort. You're making it difficult for me to say no.”

“So you'll come?” Sylus asks eagerly.

“Hmm. Should I?” you ask, but you're teasing him. You're not hiding the smile in your voice, and Sylus feels his heart lighten.

“Yes. You should. Or I'll have to do something more drastic. Perhaps I'll grow wings next.”

A beat, and then: “Alright. I'll come. I'll feel lonely if you fly away by yourself.”

Your tone has shifted a little, just enough for Sylus to pick it up over the poor reception ever-present in the N109 zone but not quite enough to place it. Surely you don't really believe he'd have any interest in flying if it meant parting from you? “Good. I'll pick you up so you can get dressed here. I ordered a dress for you. And new shoes—I had them custom fitted for your size this time.”

This time there's a longer silence. Sylus resists the urge to tap into Mephisto's channel so he can see your face. “You don't have to do that every time,” you say finally. “I have dresses of my own, you know.”

“You should wear whatever you like,” Sylus agrees. “I just want you to have options.”

“And if I show up in a suit? What'll you do then?”

“Then I'll make sure we match.”

“Mr. Qin, you really have an answer to every question,” you say with resigned amusement. “Okay. I'll be waiting for you.”

“So will I,” Sylus mumbles once the line goes dead.

When the day of the concert rolls around Sylus picks you up at the agreed time and, once you're back at the base, shows you the things he's prepared for you tonight: a dark dress that glitters like the river reflecting the night sky, with shoes and accessories to match. He's pleased to see your lips part in quiet delight once you set eyes on it.

“Do I want to know how much this cost?” you ask, then shake your head before Sylus can answer. “Actually, no, I don't want to know. I'd be too scared to wear it if you told me.”

Sylus tuts. “A few numbers are enough to scare you? Where's that famous Hunter courage I've heard so much about?”

You carefully remove the dress from the hanger, running your fingers over the silky fabric. “Strange rich men with their strange rich hobbies have no business judging people working normal nine-to-fives.”

Sylus arches a brow. “Strange rich—?”

But you're already stalking to the bathroom, and the door clicks shut behind you before he can finish his mock-offense. He takes the time to put on his own clothes; a simple suit with dark accents matching yours. The river and the stars. Reflected in your eyes they lose their indifferent coldness; as long as Sylus knows you're at the other end of them he can bear even their silence. When it comes to you he thinks he can bear anything.

“Um. Sylus?” You poke your head around the doorframe, cheeks slightly flushed. “Can you... Sorry. I can't get the zipper all the way up.”

...Alright, so maybe there are some things that are a little harder to bear than others.

Sylus ignores the discomfort in his too-tight pants and steps forward, gesturing for you to come closer. You do, gingerly holding the front pressed against your chest so the fabric doesn't slip. It's a sleeveless design that shows off your shoulders and arms; when you turn around Sylus sees the zipper is stuck just at your lower back.

His fingertips brush over your skin briefly, and you fail to suppress a shiver. His eyes dilate at the expanse of smooth skin before him. The soft valleys and ridges of your spine are begging him to leave behind marks. His teeth ache with want.

The zzzip is very loud in the quiet room.

“Thanks,” you say, a little breathlessly, and turn around. “Okay... Shoes. Where—?”

Sylus procures them silently, and you slip into them. “How do they feel?”

You take a few steps, testing your balance. “I think they can handle a Sylus mission or two.”

“Only two?” Sylus says, one corner of his lips curling up. “You're hard to please, kitten.”

He holds out his arm for you to take, and you squeeze down briefly. “You're so eager to find fault with the other,” you complain. “You should reflect on what this says about your lifestyle instead.”

There's something wrong with her.

Do you think about those words still? He hopes not. He fears yes. Sylus continues walking and holds open the door for you to step through. “I don't see the problem. You always keep up with me, after all.”

“That would be because it's do or die with you,” you say, ducking your head to get in his car. Sylus fastens your seatbelt for you, then gets in on the other side. He doesn't turn his keys yet, however.

“I don't die easily. And I won't let you, either. So doesn't that mean, as long as it's us—” Sylus reaches his arm out across the console, brushing his knuckles gently over your cheek, “we'll always make it through?”

A deep flush spreads from where he touched all the way down to your neck, and you quickly turn away from him under the guise of readjusting your seatbelt. “...You should start driving or we'll be late.”

Sylus pulls away with a hum, pleased, and drives you to the concert hall. The ride there is smooth, and soon Sylus is opening the car door for you again and helping you step out. The evening sky is starting to dim; faintly between the purples and blues Sylus can spot stars starting to peek out. Normally, on days where he doesn't see you, this is around where he wakes.

Just a little to your right is the concert hall, its evening lights washing the building in warm golden hues.

“Ready?” he asks, smiling.

When you open your mouth to answer him a gunshot rings out across the parking lot.

Sylus grunts in surprise and pain, abdomen tensing against the foreign object trying to pierce through flesh, and he pulls you away from the direction of the shooter, low to the ground, while the tendrils of his Evol shoot out to find whoever just fucking shot him.

Maybe he should reflect on his lifestyle. Or rather, maybe he should reflect on his tunnel vision whenever you're involved. He's never thought of himself as reckless; he's daring, yes, takes risks, loves the thrill, loves to play the stakes, but every move is thought through. Calculated. He plans—

—but you have a way of surprising him. One, two, three, and the cards reshuffle.

He's always had shit luck.

“Sylus," you say, voice high, "you're bleeding.” You rip off your gloves, pressing them firmly against where a bloodstain is very rapidly forming against his nice blouse.

“I'll be fine,” Sylus says, though he can feel the sweat collecting at his nape. It hurts. It always does. His body is already reacting, mending the torn muscles, urging the blood to clot and sending through new blood cells to stimulate the repair process. It pushes against the bullet lodged in his side, making the pain flare up and out like a flame licking over flesh. He grits his teeth.

Crack! A dent sizzles in his car door, way too close to your heads for comfort. You need to move. “Come,” Sylus says urgently. He half-crouches, half-runs with you to the other side of the car, shielding your body with his bigger one. Another bullet zips past him, grazing his cheek. Good aim. Shame they're using their skills for the last time today.

His Evol has found the shit responsible for ruining his very nice evening with you and quietly snaps their neck. He's not in the mood for theatrics today. He'll page the twins to pick up the body and find out who it was this time that wanted him dead so badly later.

And more importantly, how they knew where he'd be. Where he'd be with you, no less. The last thing he needs is for you to become their next target, because that would mean they've found the one way to actually hurt him.

“Get in,” Sylus urges you. He's panting; his body is working overtime, heart thundering to support the extra flow of oxygen to his wound. He needs to get the bullet out.

You climb in, knees knocking painfully against the console as you shift over to the shotgun seat to make room for him, and Sylus quickly follows. The car tires screech against the asphalt when he makes a fast turn, forcing the car into high gear to speed away. Where there's one, there's more, and he doesn't want to take any chances with you here.

“Sylus, oh my god,” you say, aghast. “At least let me drive!”

Sylus’ Evol pushes you back against the seat so it can click the belt in place, and then Sylus steps on the gas for real. “You can drive,” he says. “Once we're somewhere safe.” His voice is strained; it feels like his body's regeneration is both pushing the bullet out and pulling it back in, trying to recreate life around the metal in a way that is starting to hurt really fucking bad.

“You just got shot. Are you trying to bleed out behind the wheel? ”

“No, which is why I'll be needing a nurse in a moment. First aid kit in the glove compartment.”

You click it open and take the kit out after putting aside sunglasses, mints, two glocks, and several ammo casings. “I'm not a nurse, Sylus.”

“But you've got plenty of experience, haven't you?”

“Thanks to you, yeah,” you mutter.

Sylus presses the comm interface while he drives, eyes darting over the road to see if there's any other fools that want to die tonight. Luke picks up after one ring.

“Boss?”

“Ran into trouble. On the way out now, but I need eyes on this place.” Sylus sends the twins his coordinates and changes lanes; if there's still someone following you he wants to shake them before changing course and heading to one of his safehouses nearby.

“Got it. We'll be there.”

The line goes dead. “Pull over,” you say firmly. “ Now. I swear to God, if you pass out while driving and crash the car with us in it—”

“As you wish.” It should be fine—Sylus doesn't see or sense anyone following. He retracts his Evol with no small amount of relief and slows the car, pulling into one of the abandoned warehouses at the side of the road. The N109 Zone is riddled with these. They're wonderfully useful for all sorts of things; Sylus himself is partial to using them as smuggling sites, torture grounds, and, just like right now, temporary hiding places.

He exhales when the engine goes dead. The brief adrenaline rush ebbs away, leaving more pain in its wake, and it's now that he's starting to realise that the bullet in his body isn't a standard one. This one comes in the fun grappling hook edition, where once it finds purchase in the body it lodges itself in there with mean little pegs that dig into the flesh. No wonder his regeneration can't get it out. You're going to have to cut him open again, and something tells him you're not going to be any happier about it than you already are.

You're unbuckling your belt the second the car stops, leaning over and pulling on the pin that reclines Sylus’ seat with a jerk so it can serve as makeshift operating table. He grunts, eyes squeezing shut briefly.

“Sorry, sorry,” you say hastily. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to hurt. Hold still, okay?Gonna touch you now.”

Sylus turns his head and watches you cut through the blood-soaked fabric with scissors, ripping it open further when you can see the entry wound. “The bullet has hooks,” he says hoarsely. “You'll have to cut it out.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “Wonderful.”

“I trust you.”

“Please tell me you have more than just painkillers in here.”

Sylus smiles a little, though it comes through more as a grimace. “I'm afraid you'll have to improvise.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. You soak wipes in disinfectant and try to clean the bloodied area as gently as possible, but Sylus still hisses at the sting. “It's going to hurt a lot worse than this,” you warn, and he nods.

“I know. It's okay.”

“It's not fucking okay,” you snap, and Sylus closes his mouth. Then you deflate, sighing. “Just—here, bite on this. Tell me if I need to stop.” You tug his belt free and offer it to him. Sylus bites down on the leather. It tastes bitter.

The bullet isn't deep, but the knife cutting through his flesh is agony. Your brow is furrowed in concentration, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Sylus tries not to think of a time where he was the one holding the knife, clutching at his skull as broken pieces of himself grew back despite his best efforts.

“Almost there.”

Sylus breathes hard, nostrils flaring when you start to tug at the bullet. He can take it. This is nothing. He thinks of the pain on your face when his hand closed around your neck, and this is nothing. He remembers the years spent in a vast, endless river of stars, alone, and this is nothing. He's had worse. Everything, until you showed up, was worse.

The relief when the bullet is finally tugged free is so intense his eyes sting. There's blood absolutely everywhere, soaking your hands, his pants, the seat, the console. Courtesy of his body working overtime to supply the constant loss. His head feels dizzy. His jaw aches; you have to dislodge the belt by cradling his cheek, tugging the leather free with your hands. It comes out with deep, sharp teeth indents coated with saliva.

You hand him a bottle of water and painkillers, and Sylus drinks it down greedily. He's parched.

“Thank you,” he says once he's swallowed the last drop in the bottle. His body is exhausted, and he focuses his remaining energy on patching up the re-opened wound. The offending bullet is tossed carelessly to the side, and you bandage him with careful fingers. When you're done you slump back against your seat.

“Kitten?” he asks when you stay like that, silent, eyes closed.

Your eyes open slowly. There's blood smeared on your cheek. His. This time it doesn't bother him so much. “Don't make me do this again.”

Sylus looks at you, your beautiful, tired face framed by messy hair. The flutter of your lashes, the downward slant of your mouth. His beloved is upset. “Do you hate it that much?”

“No. Just don't get hurt.” You press your hands against your face. “I don't want to see get hurt.”

Your voice is tight, and Sylus’ heart squeezes. “I'll be as good as new in a few days,” he promises.

You lower your hands just enough that he can see your eyes. They're tinged red. “Does that make it hurt less?”

He deliberates his answer, but eventually, as always, settles on the truth: “No.”

You close your eyes again, hiding them behind your hands. When you remove them it's to wipe at your cheeks, and Sylus belatedly realises through the haze of painkillers and blood loss that you're crying.

“Sweetheart?” he asks, alarmed.

"I'm fine,” you say thickly. “I'm going to call Kieran to pick us up.”

Sylus watches you dial the twins silently. Your voice is quiet and tense, though no longer as frantic as when you were trying to press down on his side to keep him from bleeding out. Neither of you says anything while you wait, though Sylus doesn't take his eyes off you.

This is the first time you've shown him your tears. He wants to understand them. Stress? Shock? But you're used to this. You've been trained to be used to this—and this is hardly the first time you've played nurse for him. Anger he can understand; it's an emotion as familiar to him as breathing. And you are angry, he thinks—there's also just that elusive something-else. A smile that falters. A step back. Eyes tinged red, averted.

Sylus keeps mulling over it until Kieran arrives. He's feeling much better, if more fatigued, and he could probably make it home himself by now. You refuse. You tell him that if he dies after your hard work you'll resent him for the rest of eternity. Also you prefer riding in a car that isn't splattered with his blood.

Kieran serenely twirls his car keys around his finger, leaning against the hood while his boss and his boss’ beloved argue.

It doesn't take long for Sylus to give in. Not because your threat scares him; you'll already haunt him for the rest of eternity whether he dies or not. He just feels sorry for the night you've had so far, and guilty for the tears you shed over him. As Kieran helps him into the back he resolves to plan things more carefully next time. He'll take you somewhere remote for your next outings, places his adversaries don't know to look for. You told him not to make you do this again. He'll do what he can to make your wish come true.

To his surprise you climb in the back with him, holding out an arm for him to lean into. “Lie down,” you say. You sound tired. “You should rest.”

Sylus wordlessly complies. You don't protest when he puts his weight on you a little more heavily than he normally would, and you don't say anything when he takes your hand and laces your fingers together. If you'd asked, he'd have told you it helps with the pain.

The quiet hum of the car is peaceful. Kieran asks you if you need anything and you shake your head, and after that no one speaks until you return to the base.

Sylus realises barely two hours have passed since you left. It feels like much longer. His body is heavy, but he declines Kieran's offer to support him as he walks. You'll feel better seeing him on his feet by himself.

“You wanna go home after this? I can take you,” Kieran says. You glance at Sylus.

“Thanks, but I've got a patient to look after.”

“Okie-doke. Let me know if you change your mind. Luke's on his way back, by the way,” Kieran adds, jerking his chin at Sylus. “Got the guy. Didn't find anyone else there, but we'll keep looking.”

Sylus nods. “Page me with updates.”

Kieran salutes, then turns around on his heel and marches off, humming to himself as he does. Just another day on the job.

“You should lie down,” you tell Sylus once the two of you have watched Kieran disappear through the door. “You lost a lot of blood... Don't you have IVs here somewhere? I'll—”

Sylus stops you by taking your hand. “Stay with me,” he says.

You consider his demand. “I will if you lie down.”

Easily done. Sylus walks to his bedroom, your hand still in his, and carefully lies down on the bed. When he tries to pull you down with him you swiftly slip out of his grasp and instead start to unbutton his blouse. “You're getting blood on everything, you know.”

“Doesn't matter. I'll just replace it later.”

“Wasteful,” you tsk. Your eyes have gone dark again, quiet and thoughtful as your fingers slip the last button through its hole. You lightly fan your fingers over his naked skin. “It's so easy for you to discard things.”

Your mouth sets, suddenly bitter, and your touch disappears. Sylus watches you closely. Are you coming closer, or are you backing away? You're off-tempo, moving along to a rhythm he can't follow. “I just know how to distinguish between what's important and what isn't.”

Your gaze flits up to his for a moment, and then away again. What little he can glimpse is unknown to him. “Do you need help getting clean? Or do you want something to drink?”

“I want you to tell me why you cried earlier,” he says.

“You're a very demanding patient.”

“Well?”

You sigh. “The average person doesn't enjoy being shot at and then having to cut through someone's abdomen to fish out bullets in a car. Seriously, and you ask me to work for you. I'd quit after a day.”

"Does that mean you're still considering my offer?” Sylus asks, lips curling up.

You shake your head. “Didn't you hear what I just said?”

What Sylus hears is the bluster of a kitten caught in a corner, and none of it is an answer to his original question. He considers what you've told him so far. You don't want to see him get hurt. You wanted to kill the person that tried this stunt on him previously. You did kill him, in fact, and you're angry.

“Sylus.” He blinks out of his thoughts when you call his name, and he looks at you. You’re wary again. He wishes he knew why. “Did you know this would happen?”

He didn't expect this question; his brows rise, then furrow. “I didn't. I suspected there was a leak somewhere,” he says, “and tonight confirmed that. The good thing is that we can now trace who it is, and after that they'll be no more.” He takes the hand you pulled away, and you let him. “But I didn't know it would happen tonight.”

He does his best to sound sincere because he is, and he doesn't want you to think that he'd go through the trouble of involving you just for tonight to end the way it did. You're silent for a while, studying the hand holding your own. “You must have really rotten luck, then.”

He smiles. “You think so? Then what should we do? Will you share your good luck with me?”

“You can have all of it if it means people stop trying to kill you.”

Sylus’ breath stops for a moment. Your eyes are downcast, still on his hand cradling yours. Both are smeared with red. A blood pact.

As long as he's alive, this is one of the few things he can't promise you. There will always be people hunting him, and he takes this in stride. This is just his life. The bullet-proof windows, the base that is really more like a fortress, with locks and cameras and double walls and secret exits. The gun on his nightstand. Do you hate it?

“I'll start to think you care about me when you say things like that,” he says softly.

“I told you,” you say. Your voice is trembling a little. A step forward. “You can dare to presume a little.”

Sylus laughs—then winces, because ouch; the pain in his abdomen flares. He doesn't let it deter him. “Only a little? What else will you let me do?”

You open your mouth, then close it. You shake your head, already turning your body away from him, getting ready stand up, to leave. “We should talk about this some other time. Right now, you need—”

No, no. No. His hand waiting at your back. Your fingers digging into his flesh. You can't leave him now. Sylus tightens his grip on you. “Right now I need you. Tell me what you were going to say.”

“There's—I don't know,” you protest. But you don't tug free from him. “Sylus...”

“How else will I know?” he asks. “Tell me. Please.”

Tell me I can touch you. Tell me I can kiss you. Tell me I can take your shoes off for you, take your clothes off for you, tell me I can love you with my heart and my hands and my body.

“I already gave you all of my luck,” you chide. “And you still want more? You really are a greedy man.” You push the hair that’s fallen over his brow away with gentle fingers, and your voice softens. “Why are you asking me things you already know?”

He doesn't know. Or rather, he dreams. He hopes. He wants; a delirious, despairing desire. He's afraid. Terribly so. If he's too forceful, if it's too soon, too heavy, too much, you'll leave again. You won't pick up his calls, won't answer his texts. You'll disappear again, wink out like the stars glimmering on your bloodied dress.

You spare him from answering you by lifting his hand and pressing it against your cheek. It's the first time you've invited his touch, and Sylus burns with it. He dares to thumb over your lower lip, and you part them for him.

“Come here,” he says, low and beckoning and desperate, and then he waits. He waits then for your eyes to search his, waits for you to hesitate, to weigh your own stakes, and he waits for your lashes to flutter as you lean down, guided by his hand, and press your lips against his.

You're so very soft.

A groan rises in Sylus’ throat. You kiss him so, so gently. Your hand mirrors his, on his cheek, stroking so carefully over his jaw. Like he's precious. Like he's something to be cherished. You pull away much too soon and Sylus chases you, lifting himself from his lying-down position. You deny him by placing a hand on his chest. “Your wound—”

“Is fine,” he supplies, and tries again. You push down a little harder.

“No,” you say firmly, though the effect is greatly diminished by the flush on your cheeks. “Rest first. Please?”

Ah. The trump card.

Sylus sinks back into the mattress with an unhappy frown. “For how long?” How much longer must he wait? He has you here, now, and his side is mending up nicely now that the bullet is out. He could fuck you like this, if you'd let him.

The corner of your mouth ticks up. “Until you're all better.”

“My love,” he complains. “Must you torture me like this?” He expects a laugh; a teasing remark. You'll tell him that he likes it. That he deserves it. That it's your job to torture him, because who else will take him down a peg. That you're the only one who can do this. That you're the only one.

Why does he keep being surprised when you don't act the way he thinks you will?

You don't smile, and you don't tease. You lean down to press your forehead against his, eyes closed; your breath is warm against his lips.

“I was scared for you,” you say quietly. “And angry. I'm still angry. And that kind of scares me, too.”

He thinks he understands. “There's nothing to be afraid of,” Sylus says gently. “We're here together.”

You draw back far enough to look into his eyes. He looks back into yours. Then, finally—a smile.

“Okay.”

Sylus relaxes. “Kiss me again,” he says. He tucks your hair behind your ear, stroking gently over your head, your ear, the back of your neck. This is torture, too. Having you hover so close, noses brushing, breaths mingling. The sweetest kind. When he reads the hesitation on your face he adds: “I won't move.” Then once more: “Please.”

You oblige. You kiss him with your soft lips and your sweet breath and a shiver when you sigh into his mouth. Sylus does as he promised and stays still, although his hand presses gently against the back of your skull to keep you from pulling away just yet.

When he bites at your lip you make a little noise that has his cock twitching and he presses you into him a little harder, coaxing your mouth open with his, giving you his tongue and inviting yours in return. You whine, a high, needy sound he files away carefully, and he digs his fingers harder into your hair.

“Sylus—” you try to say against his mouth. He swallows the words and pulls you into another kiss. He's breathing hard; so are you. You've fisted your hands in his ripped-apart blouse, fabric bunching between your fingers.

“Wait, wait,” you say, and this time he reluctantly lets you go. “We should—slow down.”

“Do you want to?” he asks. He enjoys the way your eyes drift down his neck as he speaks, his Adam's apple bobbing around the words.

You push yourself upright from where you'd been leaning over him. “It's not about wanting. It's about not hurting you.”

“I'm feeling great,” he says with no small amount of cheek, because he is feeling great. This night is working out wonderfully for him. No matter the blood, or the bullet, or the ruined date. Who cares about a concert when he can hear you making sounds straight out of his dreams? “I'm sure I'd feel even better if you kept going.”

You laugh and poke his cheek. “Why are you making me be the responsible one here? Is this what blood loss does to people?”

“No,” he sighs. “This is just what you do to me.”

You shake your head, smiling. “We should get cleaned up first. And change clothes. And sheets, probably. Also, you need an IV, like, yesterday. I'm worried your wound will get infected.”

“Then at least stay until I recover fully.”

You give him a look. “You know I have work, Sylus.”

“Not tomorrow you don't. And may I just say that Onychinus offers excellent work hours? Very flexible. Working remotely is an option, too—”

Exasperated, you clap a hand over his mouth, but you can't stop the smile from tugging at your lips. “Okay, okay. Enough. I'll stay.”

Satisfied, Sylus licks your palm and laughs when you yelp and snatch it away.

You clean each other up.

It's foreign and a little odd, to be cared for like this. To have you peel off his socks while he lies on his bed, skin damp from the rag you used to clean the blood away. You help him into clean, comfortable clothes, and then do the same for yourself. Sylus watches with dark eyes as you turn your back to him, unzipping your dress and letting it pool at your feet. He traces the curve of your ass, your thighs, and thinks of his big hand splaying out over your flesh. Squeezing. Holding. All his.

It takes a little more coaxing for you to sleep next to him, but Sylus is quickly finding out that he's not the only one with weaknesses. You falter when he says my love. Your mouth softens when he says I need you beside me. You stroke your fingers through his hair when he asks you to touch him, and you curl up like a kitten at his good side when he dims the lights.

“I'm not hurting you, am I?” your voice says in the dark.

“Quite the opposite.”

It's quiet for a while, then. Sylus lets himself drift comfortably, anchored to you where his fingers lace through yours. Your warmth presses against him like a perfect puzzle piece.

He is content like this. Watching your breath even out, chest rising and falling slowly. You've put on one his shirts, much too big for you, and it slips over one of your shoulders. He ignores the way his cock stirs at the sight. There'll be many more nights like this, many more opportunities to have you here every which way in his bed wearing things he's carefully collected in a locked dresser.

He slips in and out of dreams, of memories, of wants and needs. In between that line of waking and sleeping he'll feel for you, squeezing your hand, assuring himself you're still there, and then his body's fatigue pulls him under again.

When he wakes for real he's dismayed to find the bed empty.

Sylus pushes himself upright. His side throbs, but it's muted. He knew you'd do a good job. He stretches to test his range of motion and flexes his fingers, Evol dancing forth with a crackle. His reserves aren't back up to full yet, but what has been restored is buzzing, new and alive and impatient to move. To be used.

He's just about to swing his legs over the side of the bed when the door opens, and you step through holding a glass of water and a bowl of something that smells warm and sweet.

“Good morning,” he says.

You still in surprise, lips parting, and then you're hurrying over to him. The bowl and glass are placed on his nightstand, and you push against his shoulders. “You shouldn't be up yet,” you frown. “Lie down. Rest some more.”

Sylus goes with your touch, but not without pulling you onto his lap. You flail, hands and knees pressing into the mattress so you don't put your weight on him.

“Sylus—”

“Is that for me?” he asks, glancing at the dishware.

You settle for placing your palms on his shoulders, looking down at him from your seat. “Maybe. Only obedient patients who listen and rest when they're told get my special recovery oatmeal.”

Sylus laughs. It doesn't hurt much anymore; just a dull throb. He drags his hands up your bare legs and squeezes at your hips. “Really? Then tell me. Have I been a good boy?”

You flush. “Let me check your injury first.”

Sylus gestures with his hand. “Be my guest,” he says, amused. He already knows what you'll find, and then you'll tell him what he wants to hear. One way or another. You shuffle back on your knees and peel away the bandages, chewing at your lip. Your gaze darts up when Sylus brushes a thumb over it. “Don't bite,” he says. “That's mine.”

You sputter, half-heartedly smacking his hand away. “That's—well—stop that. Let me focus.”

The blush has spread from your cheeks to your ears, but otherwise you make a valiant attempt at appearing unruffled as you inspect the entry wound. You keep your teeth from your lip.

“...Your body really is remarkable,” you say. You gaze at Sylus’ skin, looking fresh and new and pink. On his side sits a puckered scar that on any other person would have taken several weeks to form; tomorrow, there will be no trace left that it was ever there. “Does it hurt?”

“Barely.”

Your shoulders relax, and you give Sylus a real smile. He drinks it in greedily. “Good. I'm glad.”

“So?” Sylus asks. “Am I your good boy?”

You laugh a little, hands fanning out over his chest. It feels so incredibly good to have you touch him. “Yeah,” you say, amused. “You're a good boy, Sylus.”

Sylus’ hips buck up instinctively; he can't help it. A groan is trapped behind his teeth. “Then give me my reward,” he demands.

You look down at him, cheeks flushed, smile fading into surprise and arousal. “The oatmeal? Let me—”

“Forget the food,” Sylus says impatiently. “I want you. Kiss me. Touch me.”

For a moment you look like you want to argue with him, but then you lean down with a shaky exhale and press your lips to his. He bites down on them like he said he would, and you make a needy sound that immediately has him doing it again. You taste so sweet, lips sliding over his own, letting him palm your skull to kiss you deeper. You're still hovering over him, so his hands move to your hips, lifting you over his clothed cock and pressing down.

You gasp into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I don't know if—I don't want your wound to reopen.”

“Is that the only reason?”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “You're overestimating my self-restraint.” You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “If I didn't have to be so worried about you I'd let you do whatever you want. But I am worried. So...”

Whatever he wants. Sylus is going to make good on that promise to the fullest extent possible. Your concern is endearing, but it seems like you're the one who's overestimating his self-restraint if you keep saying things like that. If he can take whatever he wants he'll take it all. Everything.

“Doesn't hurt,” Sylus says, voice rough. He bucks his hips up again and groans when your nails dig into his chest. “I'll tell you. Trust me?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, and finally you stop resisting when he coaxes you down again. “I do.”

Sylus hums into the kiss. It's a pure sound, a relief, a want, an invitation. This is what he needed. This is what he's been needing for lifetimes.

He palms your thighs, digs his fingers in your flesh when you rock against him, and drinks from you. You shudder against him, making wanton little sounds in the back of your throat that encourage him to press harder, kiss deeper. The shlick of spit against spit is loud and wet in his ears; the good kind of drowning. His cock aches, the friction of your clothed cunt against his sweatpants sending little zaps of pleasure through his body. You said whatever he wanted. He wants more.

He slips his hands under your—his—shirt and groans when he realises you're wearing nothing under it. Your skin is hot to the touch, soft and toned. His strong Hunter. He runs his hand over your naked back, and you don't flinch from him. He presses his fingers against your spine, swipes down, and you arch against him when he grips the fat on your hips.

You break the kiss, saliva clinging to your lips, and press your forehead against his shoulder. His name, moaned softly in his ear. You rock against each other while your wet little mouth slides over his neck. He hisses in pleasure when he feels teeth against his pulse. “Yes,” he rasps. He threads his fingers through your hair, pulling you against him. “Again. Harder.”

You bite down and Sylus shudders on a gasp turned moan. His other hand roughly palms your ass. He's leaking, rock-hard and aching, and he breathes your name when you nip his ear.

“Still okay?” you ask breathlessly. You push yourself up, resting your weight on your forearms.

He laughs. His pupils have dilated fully, and his teeth feel sharper than normal. Your scent, your arousal, is thick in his nose. “More than okay.” He dips both hands back under your shirt. “Can I take this off?”

You lift your arms in silent assent, and Sylus sighs when your skin is bared before him. Yes. Finally. Everything. He tugs at your shorts. “This too.”

You have to sit back for that one, swinging your legs over his for a moment to shimmy it off. You hesitate when it's just your panties left, eyes flicking to his, and then, cheeks burning, you slide those off too. You hold his gaze while you do, and Sylus swallows.

“Yes,” he says.

Yes. Everything.

His Evol neatly catches your underwear when you drop it, tucking it away somewhere you can't see. You crawl back over him fully naked, a little shyly now, like he isn't about to bust with just the sight of you on hands and knees over him. He moans when he feels you settle back into his lap. You're wet enough he can feel it through the dark spot on his sweats, and his cock twitches again when he wonders how much of that is yours and how much is his.

He kisses you again, palming your breasts, and he marvels at their softness, how perfectly they fit into his hands. You mirror him, hands traveling over his chest, down his stomach, fingers playing with the faint white hair trailing down his pelvis as they go. You pause when you reach his waistband. “I want to touch you, too,” you murmur. “Can I?”

Sylus lifts his hips, and you help him slide down the clothes you put on him just hours ago. You sit there on your knees in front of him, gazing down with dark eyes. Your hand reaches out tentatively, feather-light, and you stroke over his leg.

“Acceptable?” he asks, lips curling up.

You smile, too, face soft and open, and a weight swings loose in Sylus’ chest. You could ask him for anything right now. His money, his men, his bike, his card. The world. His eye. You could take a knife and cut out his heart and hold it in your hands, and it would only be right.

“Do you really need me to tell you? You know what you look like.”

“I want to know. Tell me what you see, when you look at me.”

You lean down and kiss his abdomen, carefully, just a little to the side of his entry wound scar. “I see someone who is strong and proud and beautiful,” you say against his skin. “On the outside, too. Every part of you is.”

Sylus brushes the hair out your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Come,” he says softly. “Come here.”

You go, settling yourself across his lap as you were before. The silken heat of you right on top of his most sensitive parts is divine. He watches you open your mouth, spit in your hand, and wrap it around his cock, and that's about where the hindbrain takes over the wheels and he stops thinking about anything else.

Your hand is warm, callused, wet. You work him slowly, squeezing down gently while you swallow down his ragged breaths with wet kisses until he has to clamp down on your wrist to stop from coming.

“I want to feel you,” he rasps. “Can I? Inside?”

You whine against his mouth. “I want to. I want to, just—don't wanna hurt you. Don't want you to hurt.”

“I know,” Sylus says roughly. “I know. My sweet girl. You're not hurting me. Really. I promised you.”

“Okay,” you say, finally, a whisper against his cheek. “Okay, Sylus. I want you.”

That's all he needs. Sylus reaches down and works his fingers in you, curling and stretching and languishing in that wet heat, burning with the anticipation of feeling it elsewhere. Of being inside you, of sharing himself with you as deeply as possible. To become one being with you again, two halves of the whole, for a little while.

You tremble above him, fingers digging into his hair, rocking your hips against his touch. “Good,” he encourages. “Good girl. Perfect for me. Shall I make you come like this? Just like this, on my fingers? I can feel how tight you're getting. Just a little more. Good, yes, just like that...”

Your body gives out on you with a choked moan. You collapse on top of him, pulsing around his fingers, and Sylus works you through it until you go limp and swat at his arm for him to stop. He puts his arms around and squeezes tight enough for his side to hurt.

“More?” he noses against your hair.

He can feel your laugh more than he hears it. “Impatient,” you tease, and Sylus snorts. Can you really blame him? He's waited so, so long, and he's been so good all this time. He thinks he's allowed to be a little impatient.

You push yourself up with still-trembling arms and reach behind you, line his cock up with your sex, and then you sink down slowly. Sylus’ fingers squeeze your thighs hard enough to bruise. He grits his teeth. It's like sinking into a hot bath, wet and warm and welcoming, except this bath squeezes down on him like a tight little vice and pulses against his cock when he shifts. He wants to roll you over and mount you, fucking you into the bed until you forget everything but his name, but you told him he's a good boy. He'll stay like he is now, indulging your worries and your concerns. He'll make you come on his cock as many times as you let him to make up for it.

“Doing okay, sweetie?” he manages, brushing over your cheek. You're panting, eyes gone a little glassy, and his hips buck without thinking. You whimper when he does, eyes squeezing shut.

“'M okay. You're just— ah. You're huge, holy shit, give me a minute—”

Sylus would laugh, but it's all he can do to keep from fucking up into you. Instead he circles his thumb over your clit to encourage you to take him deeper until you finally sit down on him fully. His head nudges against your deepest spot, and every time you so much as breathe it sends pleasure up his spine like lightning.

You start moving, slowly at first, then faster, aided by his hands and his hips. He kisses you messily, hungrily, biting down on your neck, your shoulder, right over that little spot that's always been his alone to have. He claims what is new and reclaims what was lost. Everything that's his will always be his. He'll never let you go after this. He's never losing anything ever again.

He keeps touching you, stroking your sides, your breasts, your hips; your clit, too, until you begin to shake and your movements start to falter. “Sylus,” you moan against him, sweaty forehead pressed against sweaty forehead. “I need—please, little more? Feels so good, you feel so good—”

Sylus wraps his arms around you and presses you flush against him, drawing up his knees. He moves his hips again to fuck you for real, now, the slap of flesh against flesh loud and wet. He grows rougher as his pleasure builds, teeth sinking into your skin, eyes wild, a low rumble in his chest. His side throbs as an afterthought, but it's washed away by the feeling of your body curling around him, clenching, straining, that soft heat burning through his restraint until he's coming with a desperate whine high in his throat. He rolls his hips without thought, reduced to the animal want of release. He buries it deep inside you until eventually his breath evens and you slump into the sheets, together.

Sated.

Sylus breathes. He turns his head and presses kisses where he can reach: your hair, your temple, your nose when you lift your head to look at him. You kiss him, too, gently on his lips, then his cheek, down to his neck where he asked you to bite him. His marks match your own, a trail of teeth down your neck, your shoulder, and your chest.

“My love,” he murmurs.

“Was that okay?” you ask him. “How does your side feel?”

“Perfect. Let's do it again.”

You laugh and quickly slip away from him before he can try to roll you over. And let your oatmeal get cold? Absolutely not, you tease him.

He eats; you clean up. He coaxes you back into bed; you agree, as long as he holds you and you get to pick what you watch.

You never have made him an offer he can refuse.

The bows trill low; the flowers dance.

Sylus gently releases the tonearm. The flutes pick up with a slight crackle through his record player; then they're carried away by the violins. He hums along with first notes, off-key, then turns around to hold his hand out for you.

“I like it. Is this what you were taking me to hear at the concert?” You put your wine glass down on the table and drift over to him, placing your hand in his. You're barefoot, wearing his shirt again, and it keeps sliding off the shoulder no matter how many times you readjust it. You've refused offers of other (appropriately sized) sleepwear.

Sylus draws you closer, placing one hand on your lower back and dipping his head down for a kiss. It's impossible to stop doing it now that he can. “Correct. Though you are by far the loveliest flower partaking in this particular waltz.”

You laugh, resting your head against his shoulder while you sway together. One, two, three, slowly and off-beat.

“I couldn't let you be the only one who grew legs out of roots. I have to keep up with you somehow.”

Sylus hums. “I'd never go without you, beloved. We dance together or not at all.”

You curl your hand over his heart. “...It's going to take some time for me to get used to you calling me that.”

“That's alright,” Sylus murmurs. “I've got time.” As much of it as you like. Everything you can't accept yet will be here waiting for you until you do.

He, too, can wait. As long as you let him hold you like this in the meantime he thinks he can bear a little more patience. And then, when you're ready, he'll tell you how much he adores you. How much he needs you. He thinks you already know, but he also knows his kitten is skittish.

That's alright, too. He's happy to keep holding out his hand and let you come to him. He'll show you over and over that you don't need to flinch from him. That for all the violence and anger that soak his hands red he will still cradle you in them gently.

You stay there, swaying together in the dim evening light, long after the waltz has ended.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus

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ladywater2010 · 1 month ago

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Sylus: I’m not jealous.

Also Sylus: Heading to the cafe to politely tell the server to back off.

#lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus

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ladywater2010 · 1 month ago

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you hadn’t meant to start a fight, not really. but rafayel had this uncanny talent for pushing all the right buttons with that silver tongue and pouty mouth. a careless comment here, a teasing grin there until suddenly the mood snapped, and you walked away instead of feeding into the bickering.

he texted that night.

still mad at me, little star?

you know i didn’t mean it.

fine. be like that.

you didn’t respond. you turned your face into the pillow, groaning softly. you were still mad. angry enough to stay quiet, but not angry enough to stop rereading his messages.

don’t leave me on fucking read.

your mouth fell open at this message. it was bold, even for him. maybe also a little hot.

your phone buzzed again, almost vibrating off the nightstand.

answer me.

another buzz.

i’m outside.

your heart stopped. you rushed to the window and pulled back the curtain and there he was. in the middle of the night, arms crossed over his chest, expression dark, hair tousled, that velvet shirt clinging to him like sin incarnate.

his violet eyes lifted and locked on you. you froze and then your phone lit up again.

if you don’t open the door, i’m climbing through your window like a movie villain. don’t test me.

you opened the door and he was on you in seconds. mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation. his hands gripped your waist, then your face, like he didn’t know which part of you to hold first, like he’d spent all day aching for you and didn’t care how mad you were as long as he could taste your mouth.

“i hate you,” you whispered against his lips.

“you left me on read,” he pouted—pouted, even now—walking you backward, hands sliding under your shirt. “i went insane.”

“you deserved it.”

“i don’t care.”

his fingers curled in your hair as he kissed you deeper, tongue pushing past your lips, claiming every last inch of your mouth with possessive heat. he backed you into the bedroom with that smooth, predatory grace he always had, soft and sharp at the same time, velvet and danger. he pulled your shirt over your head, breathing hard.

“i kept seeing you walking away,” he murmured, trailing his lips down your neck. “i hated it. i hated how i let it happen.”

“then don’t let it happen again,” you whispered.

“i won’t.” his voice dropped. “you’re not going anywhere.”

he made sure of it. he laid you down like you were the only thing that had ever mattered, kissed you like he was still fighting the memory of losing you. his hands going straight to your thighs, parting them as he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed.

“i was an asshole,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “i know i was.”

he didn’t wait for permission. he just kissed your inner thigh, slow and soft, and then higher. higher and higher, until his lips met your heat through the thin fabric of your panties and you exhaled a soft, broken sound.

“i can say i’m sorry a hundred times,” he murmured against you, the warmth of his breath making your hips twitch, “but it won’t mean anything unless you feel it.”

and oh, did he make you feel it. he dragged your panties down your legs with reverence and pressed his mouth to your core like a man starved. his tongue moved slow, deliberate, needy. one hand gripped your thigh, the other snaked up to hold your stomach down when you started squirming.

every flick of his tongue, every suck against your clit, was an apology. every moan he coaxed from you was a confession. he looked up at you as he did it. deep, violet eyes locked to yours, drinking in your pleasure like it was his penance.

you came with your hand tangled in his hair and his name a shattered moan on your lips. but he wasn’t done. he climbed over you, mouth glistening with your warm arousal, pupils blown wide.

“still mad?” he rasped. you could barely breathe, let alone answer. “good.”

because then he kissed you, deep, filthy, still tasting like you, and slid into you with one smooth, punishing thrust. your back arched. his name escaped your throat again. he fucked you slow and unrelenting at first. like he needed you to feel how sorry he was from the inside out. his forehead pressed to yours, hand laced with yours against the pillow, the other gripping your hip so tight you’d wear the bruise tomorrow.

“i love you,” he whispered against your mouth. “say you forgive me.”

you didn’t, but you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. his eyes fluttered shut before they opened again. he never looked away, not once.

even as you fell apart beneath him a second time, and a third. even when his voice broke as he spilled into you, burying his face in your neck with a choked, “mine. mine. mine.”

even after, when you were both trembling and tangled and silent in the dark, he held your face in his hands, lips ghosting over your cheeks like prayer. “i’ll never fight with you like that again,” he said.

you smiled, dizzy and dazed. “good. because next time, you might not get to apologize with your mouth.”

“there won’t be a next time.”

you both knew there would be.

“so, i better make tonight count.”

and he did. over and over again, until you forget why you were fighting in the first place.

#love and deepspace

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ladywater2010 · 1 month ago

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A Dragons Claim

Word Count: 10.9k

Tags: dragon!sylus x fem!reader, smut, cunnilingus, breeding, creampies, biting, slight injury, some bleeding, primal kink, courting rituals, mating rituals, sylus has two cocks :333

Summary: Sylus begins to act strange and you think he may have caught some sort of illness. He's strangely warm, irritable and eating more. However this "illness" turns out to be more intense than you could have ever imagined... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you." You freeze. His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do." His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made. "You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

AN: Okay so, this fic was SO fun to write I may have gotten a little carried away hehe. This was a little bit out of my comfort zone but I am so happy with it!! Plus it was about time I did a oneshot for dragon!sylus. After what he went through he deserves as many babies as he wants ;(

Enjoy!!

Sylus had been unusually irritable lately, and it wasn’t just in the way he grunted or snapped when spoken to—it was in everything. His eyes seemed sharper, flicking around like he was constantly on edge, and his tail, which normally lay relaxed behind him, had developed a twitchy, agitated flick. He wasn’t acting like the level-headed fiend you’d come to know and love.

Even he seemed aware of the shift; there were moments he paused mid-sentence or mid-motion, as if catching himself acting out of character. When he returned to the cave after hunting, he couldn’t seem to keep still. He paced the stone floor in restless circles, ran his claws along the wall, muttered to himself under his breath. His whole body seemed to vibrate with pent-up energy, with something unspoken roiling beneath the surface.

His appetite had doubled, maybe even tripled. He devoured whatever meat, vegetables, or fruit he managed to scavenge or hunt for the both of you, sometimes not even bothering to sit down before tearing into it. He would eat so quickly it was like he hadn’t tasted food in days, and when he was done, he still looked unsatisfied. It was primal, instinctive, like something inside him was demanding more than he could give it.

And then there was the heat.

He’d started to feel noticeably warm to the touch, which was strange for a reptile. The first time you noticed it was when he brushed past you, and you flinched, startled by the heat radiating off his skin. Since then, it had only intensified. Whenever he hugged you, lingered too close, or let his fingers graze your arm, you felt it—his body running hot, almost feverish. It was unnerving. And his touches had changed too. They weren’t violent, but they carried a kind of hunger, an urgency that hadn’t been there before. He gripped a little tighter, held on a little longer. Like proximity alone wasn’t enough to settle whatever storm was brewing inside him.

It worried you terribly. Was he getting sick? Could dragons even get sick? The question gnawed at your thoughts, carving out little pits of anxiety in your chest no matter how often you tried to push it away. The heat that seemed to bleed from his skin, the sharp glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the unpredictable mood swings and restlessness...it all felt off. Like something inside him had shifted, and you didn’t know if it was something natural or something dangerous. You'd never seen him like this. He wasn’t just irritable, he was volatile. Every movement held tension, like he was wound too tightly and one wrong word might snap him in two.

You knew better than to voice your concerns aloud. Suggesting he try any kind of human treatment would go over about as well as trying to leash a wildfire. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, and brush you off with a dismissive sigh. Sylus was proud, fiercely so. Stubborn as a stone wall, and not exactly someone who tolerated being fussed over. An illness? He'd laugh at the implication.

Still, you couldn’t just sit back and watch him burn from the inside out.

So the next time he finally dozed off—after hours of pacing, mumbling under his breath, and tossing scraps into the fire like they’d wronged him personally—you waited until his breathing evened out and his face slackened. He lay sprawled out on the nest of furs you’d both piled near the hearth, the orange firelight casting shadows across his angular features. One arm was thrown loosely over his chest, the other curled slightly beside him. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that looked almost peaceful. Almost.

You moved with painstaking care, the cool, damp cloth in your hand trembling slightly from how tightly you gripped it. Your feet barely made a sound against the stone floor as you approached, every step deliberate. When you reached his side, you crouched slowly, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it might wake him before you even got the chance to touch him. You leaned in, gently pressing the rag to his brow, hoping the cold would cut through the heat pouring off of him like he was lit from within.

For a brief moment, you felt relief. He didn’t stir. Maybe, just maybe, he would sleep through this.

But then something shifted.

Without warning, a firm pressure clamped around your wrist. You gasped, flinching, and the rag slipped from your fingers. Your gaze dropped, heart stalling in your chest, as you realized his tail had slithered around your arm in one smooth, silent motion. Like it had a mind of its own.

His eyes snapped open a second later, glowing faintly in the dim light, red pupils slitted and sharp. He looked at you without blinking, like he’d known what you were sneaking up on him the entire time.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" he murmured, voice husky with sleep and something else—something darker. There was a flicker of amusement there, curling at the corners of his lips, but beneath it was something far more intense. Possessive. Primal. Like he wasn’t just waking up, but awakening to something deeper.

You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it wanted to escape.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between nervousness, concern and something you couldn’t name.

"I'm helping you, silly. You're sick," you mumble, voice soft but threaded with a note of stubborn concern. Your lips purse, irritation flickering across your features as you glance down at the thick coil of his tail still looped possessively around your wrist. "Now let go of me," you add, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in your voice.

To your surprise, he does. The tension releases almost instantly, the pressure around your wrist vanishing as his tail retreats. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, rubbing at your skin where the warmth lingered.

"I am not unwell," he says after a pause, voice rich and steady, threaded with an unmistakable certainty. "Only mortals burn with fever."

You frown, eyebrows drawing together in quiet frustration. "Yeah, but... you've been acting really strange lately," you reply, your voice lowering, touched now with genuine worry. "You’re restless, snappy, and you never eat this much. I just...I want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not hurting."

The confession slips out before you can think better of it. You stare at him for a moment longer, searching his unreadable expression for some crack, some tell that might confirm or deny what your instincts have been screaming.

And then you move, slow and tentative, inching closer to him as if drawn by an invisible force. When you rest your head lightly against his chest, you feel the heat radiating off him in waves, hotter now than it had been earlier. His body is solid beneath you, unmoving, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. The sound of his heartbeat thuds against your ear, rapid and deep, like a distant drum.

You think, for a moment, that he might relax.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his entire frame stiffens. There’s a flash of tension through his shoulders, and then his tail moves again—but not with the idle instinct of before. It wraps around your waist in a slow, deliberate spiral, the grip firm but not cruel. He lifts you effortlessly, his strength startling in its subtlety, and then plants you down several feet away from him.

You blink, stunned, arms still half outstretched in the air where you had been.

The new distance between you is not just physical. It feels like a chasm, sudden and inexplicable, heavy with all the things he won’t say. You sit in silence for a heartbeat too long, the echo of his rejection ringing in your chest like a hollow bell.

He avoids your gaze, eyes cast to the fire, jaw clenched tightly.

"Hey! You can't ju—" you begin, voice raised in disbelief, frustration bubbling over—but the look he gives you stops you dead in your tracks. It's not angry or loud, but it carries a quiet authority that slices through the air like a blade. His eyes flash with a warning, cold and unreadable.

"Silence, love. Sleep on the other side of the cave tonight," he says, each word deliberate, clipped. There is no room for negotiation in his tone. It’s final. Commanding. His eyes close again, as if your protest doesn’t deserve his attention. Like the matter is already settled in his mind.

The dismissal stings more than you expect.

It hits like a slap, raw and disorienting. You reel back a step, mouth parting slightly as you try to process the flood of emotion that crashes down on you all at once. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. They churn in your chest, thick and suffocating. What the hell? All you had done was try to help. You had stayed up, watched over him, worried yourself sick, and this was how he repaid you? By pushing you away like a child being told to go to their room?

Ugh. Stubborn. Always so impossibly, frustratingly stubborn.

Your jaw tightens as the ache behind your eyes starts to burn. He didn’t get to do this. Not after everything. If he thought you were just going to walk away, tuck yourself into the far corner of the cave like a scolded pet and let him suffer in silence, he clearly didn’t know you as well as he should.

Because humans don’t give up on the ones they love.

"Sylus!" you bark, louder this time, anger sharpening your voice. You stomp across the stone floor toward him, every step punctuated by the slap of your feet and the pounding of your heart. "You know I’m not doing that! I’m not going to just curl up in the corner like you didn’t just say that to me!"

He says nothing, but you can see his jaw twitch. That slow, deliberate breath leaves his nostrils again—heavy, controlled. Tired. Still, he doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t look at you. It’s like he's deliberately trying to sever whatever invisible thread connects the two of you.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, fighting the overwhelming desire to scream. "What is wrong with you? Just talk to me! Look at me! Say anything!"

But all you receive is silence. Stubborn, infuriating silence.

Your fists tighten at your sides. The cold cavern air suddenly feels stifling.

Fine. You could be stubborn too.

Without thinking, you finish crossing the cave, heart pounding loud enough to drown out your better judgment. Every step echoes with stubborn purpose as you close the gap he created between you. You don't hesitate. You don’t ask. You simply act—climbing over him, swinging a leg across his large body, and settling yourself squarely atop his waist. The furs beneath you shift and rustle, but he doesn’t stop you. His brow furrows slightly, the only sign he even notices, but otherwise, he remains infuriatingly still.

Still silent. Still distant.

You lean down slowly, hands braced on either side of his torso, and fix your gaze on his face, searching for some flicker of emotion—anything to tell you he’s still there beneath the silence. The heat rolling off of him is overwhelming up close, like standing too near a smoldering hearth. It curls around you, prickling your skin, quickening your breath. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken things.

"Sylus..." you murmur, your voice low, raw with feeling.

No response.

"Sylus! I know you can hear me!" you bark, sharper now, frustration rising with each second he continues to ignore you. Your heart twists painfully.

Still nothing.

You sigh, the sound long and defeated, your chest aching with the weight of his silence. Carefully, gently, you lower your forehead to his, hoping maybe the closeness will shake something loose. His skin burns beneath yours, unnaturally warm.

"I just want to know what’s wrong with you," you whisper, voice so quiet it nearly disappears in the cavern's stillness. "Guess your species are terrible communicators."

Still, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. But you feel it—something in him coiling tight, like a rope being pulled taut. He may be still, but he’s not unaffected. Something inside him is shifting, stirred by your proximity, your touch.

Acting on instinct and desperation, you close the small distance between your mouths and press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be fleeting, a soft reassurance. But it lingers. Longer than it should. Your lips stay, pressed gently to his, drawn in by the heat, the subtle shape of his mouth, the restraint that pulses beneath his immobility. Your eyes slip closed as your hands move—one cupping the side of his jaw, the other resting on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart.

Then you feel it. A breath. Deeper. Shakier. His chest rises and falls faster.

And in a blink, the world flips.

One moment you’re above him, tethered by warmth and hope—the next, you’re on your back, the furs catching your fall as a gasp escapes you. "Ah!" The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your eyes fly open to find him hovering above you, strong arms braced on either side of your head. His large body cages yours in completely, heat surrounding you like a second skin.

His eyes are open now. And they are glowing.

There is something feral in his expression—not cruel, but ancient and wild and hungry. His gaze drags across your face with a depth that makes your breath hitch. Every inch of him is tense, restrained, as if holding back something that wants very badly to be unleashed.

He still hasn’t spoken.

But he is no longer ignoring you.

"You're making it very difficult to control myself, love," he growls, his voice like gravel softened by heat, thick with restraint and something darker coiled beneath it. The words roll over your skin just moments before his lips do. His breath fans against your neck—a warning, a promise—before he dips his head, and you feel the sharp, precise puncture of his teeth sinking into your skin.

This isn’t a playful nip. This isn’t a teasing show of dominance. His bite breaks the surface, deliberate and deep. You feel the sharp pain bloom instantly, a white-hot flash that steals the breath from your lungs. A gasp escapes you—startled, raw—and your hands fly up to clutch at his shoulders. Your fingers dig into him as your back arches against the sensation. Warm blood trickles down your shoulder, and your skin tingles where it flows.

You weren’t unfamiliar with Sylus's biting. He'd always had a possessive streak that came through when things turned intimate or emotional. But this—this felt different. It felt desperate. Like he was trying to root himself in you. Like something inside him was slipping, and you were the only thing keeping him from losing his grip.

His mouth lingers at your neck, his lips now parted just slightly. You feel the tremor in his breath before his tongue slips out and glides across the bite. Slow. Deliberate. He licks away the blood he’d drawn, and the pain dulls under the hot, wet press of his mouth. In its place comes a deep, spiraling heat that blooms low in your belly, tightening your grip on him.

"S-Sylus..." you breathe, barely able to form the words. Your voice trembles. "If you were just...er, in need—you know I would've helped you ages ago."

Still, he doesn’t answer.

You feel the way his body stiffens slightly against you. His hand slides up along your side, slow and controlled, as though he’s still deciding what to do with the storm inside him. Then, he leans in again and presses his lips gently to your neck, just beside the wound. This time, the touch is less claiming and more conflicted—like he's trying to soothe something in himself rather than stake another claim.

He stays there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of your skin, your blood, your closeness. You feel the tremble in his chest where it presses against yours, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch as though resisting the urge to hold you tighter. The cavern feels impossibly still around you, as if the very walls are holding their breath.

At last, he lifts his head. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, he looks completely unguarded. They glow faintly, with a trace of something wild, but it’s the emotion in them that catches your breath—raw, aching, afraid.

"It's more than that," he says, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Just...honest. Like every word costs him more than he knows how to show.

You stare at him, heart hammering, throat tightening.

Oh no. It's bad news, isn't it?

The thought slams into you with the force of a crashing wave, stealing the air from your lungs. You blink rapidly, trying to keep your vision clear, but the sting in your eyes wins. Tears begin to well, hot and fast, blurring the edges of your world as your chest tightens with dread. Something in his voice, in the way he looked at you—it had to mean something terrible. Something irreversible.

"What is it? Please tell me you're okay!" you blurt out, your voice cracking and shaking as panic rises up your throat. Your hands cling tighter to him, desperate and trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of whatever covers his back. As if somehow, your grip could keep him from slipping away. As if love alone could hold back whatever awful truth he was about to reveal.

Sylus blinks, visibly startled by your sudden burst of emotion. The intensity in your voice clearly catches him off guard. His eyes, once glowing with wild tension, soften slightly. His expression shifts—no longer hard and guarded, but touched with a flicker of something else. Something gentler.

Wordlessly, he draws you closer. His arms wrap around you more securely, with purpose now. Not to restrain, but to reassure. His hands press to your back, his warmth enveloping you like a cocoon. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and deliberate. A slow drag of velvet.

"No need to fret," he murmurs. "All is well."

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes wide, your breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your heart pounds in your ears. There’s a moment of suspended silence where you brace yourself for the real answer.

"It's just mating season."

You freeze. Your body goes still, and your mind... blanks.

Of all the explanations you had been preparing for—a curse, an ancient affliction, some kind of irreversible breakdown of his control—that had not even crossed your mind.

Mating season?

You blink once. Twice. And then the realization crashes over you, dragging with it a rush of relief and a sudden, absurd clarity. The heat, the irritability, the pacing, the biting, the overwhelming hunger—both physical and something deeper. It all made sense now. It fit together like puzzle pieces you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You let out a breathless huff, lips parting as the tension begins to unravel inside you.

And then you laugh.

A full, startled, ridiculous laugh bubbles up from your chest and bursts free before you can stop it. It catches you completely off guard, but you can’t hold it in. The absurdity of it all—the sheer contrast between what you imagined and what it actually was—breaks something loose in you.

You double over slightly, pressing your forehead into his collarbone as your shoulders shake with the sound. It’s laughter born of relief, disbelief, and the strange, heady rush of realizing everything isn’t falling apart.

Sylus stares down at you in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly. Clearly, he doesn’t find your reaction particularly amusing. If anything, his expression deepens into a look of resigned irritation, as if this wasn’t quite the response he expected.

But still, he doesn’t pull away. His arms stay around you, anchoring you to him, the heat of his body steady and real. His tail curls lightly around your leg, a quiet, instinctive motion. Protective. Possessive.

And despite the glare he levels at the top of your head, there’s no real venom behind it. He lets you laugh, lets you melt the fear from your chest with every shaky breath, until your voice begins to soften again.

Eventually, you lift your head, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Is something humorous?" he asks, his voice low, edged with a faint note of offense, though there is no true malice behind it. His eyes narrow slightly as they study your face, as though trying to decipher the cause of your sudden laughter. But even in his quiet suspicion, his arms never loosen their hold around you. If anything, he draws you closer.

You shake your head quickly, the laughter dying in your throat as a rush of guilt creeps in. "Honestly, you had me scared" you say, your voice softening, breaking slightly at the end. "I really thought you were going to die on me."

That doesn't seem to ease him. He exhales through his nose in a deep, low grunt—not dismissive, but something closer to acknowledgment. The sound vibrates against your body, a warm, strange comfort. Then, with a fluid, instinctive movement, he adjusts your positions. His strength is effortless as he shifts, guiding you until you're lying beside him on the furs, your body drawn into his larger frame like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

His arm curls around your waist, securing you against his chest. It isn’t just for comfort—there is something possessive in the gesture, protective, as if he’s anchoring you there by will alone. The heat of him envelops you entirely, bleeding into your limbs until the cold stone floor feels like a distant memory.

"Does this mean..." you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper. But the thought drifts before it finishes, scattered like leaves on the wind. You have so many questions tumbling through your mind: What does this mean for him? For you? Is this temporary? Instinct? A sign of something deeper? But they all blur at the edges, softening under the pull of exhaustion.

Your body is finally registering the toll of the night. You had stayed up far too late, keeping vigil while Sylus paced, brooded, fought himself in silence. You hadn't let yourself rest until he did. Now, the weight of sleeplessness pulls at your limbs like gravity, and your eyelids feel impossibly heavy.

Outside, the first blush of morning glows gently. Sunlight begins to pour through the narrow cracks in the rock that serves as the cave’s natural door. The pale beams stretch across the stone floor like golden fingers, warming the air with soft radiance. The quiet sounds of the wilderness beyond stir faintly, muted by distance—birds beginning their morning calls, wind rustling through high branches.

Sylus doesn’t answer your unfinished thought. He merely presses closer, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. His breath fans across your skin in slow, even waves, and the low, rhythmic sound that rumbles from his chest is unmistakable. A purr. Deep and velvety. Content.

The sound settles into your bones, a vibration that eases the tightness from your shoulders and lulls the last frayed edges of fear from your heart. There is something incredibly grounding about it—like being cradled by the earth itself. One of his hands rests on your waist, fingers spread, as if silently promising that you are safe, that he will not let go.

You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of smoke and warmth and him. Despite the adrenaline, despite the questions that remain unanswered, your body begins to let go. Your thoughts drift. His purring fills the quiet like a lullaby spun from heat and breath and unspoken devotion.

Sleep takes you gently.

And you surrender to it, wrapped in Sylus’s arms, as the light of a new day filters through stone and silence alike.

As the days passed, you began to notice other, more subtle changes in Sylus's behavior—the kind of shifts that spoke not just of mood, but of instinct, of ritual. Of purpose.

It started gradually. At first, it was the gifts. Sylus had always brought you little trinkets here and there—a gleaming stone from a riverbed, a silver ring once forgotten in the ruins of some fallen estate, or a flower pressed flat and preserved between scraps of parchment. But now? Now he returned from his ventures with arms full of treasure.

You began to receive things that looked as though they had been pulled from the vaults of kings. Gemstones the size of your knuckles. Necklaces heavy with gold and set with fire-bright opals. Crowns, actual crowns, one with a missing jewel that he promised to "replace shortly." Delicate filigree bracelets and earrings of such craftsmanship that you wondered if they had come from the hands of mortals at all.

You accepted them, of course. How could you not? They dazzled the eye and stirred something deep within your chest—awe, gratitude, wonder. And then there was the way Sylus looked at you when you accepted each piece. The way he watched your reactions with quiet intensity, hunger and satisfaction warring in his gaze as your fingers traced the contours of every offered treasure.

"Is this suitable to your liking, beloved?" he would ask, voice a rich hum in your ear. There was always a thread of tension in his tone, a need that ran deeper than pride.

You’d smile and nod, sometimes laughing softly at the extravagance, sometimes whispering thanks as you leaned into his warmth. That always seemed to satisfy him. His shoulders would relax, his tail would curl in closer around you, and a low purr would rumble from deep in his chest.

And the gifts didn’t stop with jewels and gold.

His hunting habits changed too. Where once he had returned with modest catches—a brace of rabbits, a string of fish, the occasional deer—now he came back with trophies that left you reeling. Massive elk, towering wild boars with tusks the length of your forearm. Game that would feed you both for weeks. And then, one evening, he returned dragging behind him the largest bear you had ever seen.

Its massive body sprawled across the cave entrance like something out of legend. Thick fur matted with snow and blood, claws that could gouge stone. You stood frozen in the firelight, staring at it, unsure whether to marvel or panic.

Sylus merely stood beside it, chin slightly raised, one clawed hand resting on its flank like a proud hunter presenting a trophy.

"For you," he said simply, as if it were nothing.

You had blinked at him, stunned. "Sylus, I...I don’t even know how to cook that."

He grinned, utterly unbothered. "Then I will learn."

The gifts. The feasts. The constant nearness. The careful watching of your every reaction. You had thought it was simply Sylus being more open, more affectionate in the wake of your recent closeness.

You were trying not to overthink it. Truly, you were. Every part of you wanted to believe that all the changes were just instinct, affection taken to a slightly obsessive level. You’d chalked up the treasure hoarding, the feasts, the increased proximity, the way he hovered just a little too closely sometimes—all of it to simple fondness. Maybe even a primal form of love. But nothing could have prepared you for what awaited you after returning from a brisk walk one particularly chilly afternoon.

The moment you stepped through the threshold of the cave, you froze in place, heart lurching with confusion.

Sylus had completely transformed everything.

Gone were the scattered, mismatched piles of pelts, the half-organized piles of gold, the signs of his usual indifference to comfort or aesthetic. In their place was something deliberate. Thoughtful. Nest-like. The entire back of the cave had been cleared and restructured, centered around an enormous bed of furs that had been meticulously arranged. It looked almost ceremonial in its care.

The old sleeping area had been expanded, padded with thick layers of fur and hide—including the bear pelt from the beast he had dragged home days ago. It now lined the center of the nest, skinned, cleaned and softened into a thick, luxurious base. Softer animal hides had been layered on top, and the perimeter was reinforced with woven branches, dried moss, and feathers, creating a barrier of warmth and comfort.

It wasn’t just for practicality. It was beautiful.

There were little details everywhere. Smooth stones from your favorite riverbank placed in a pattern near the fire pit. Bits of dried herbs—the ones you loved for tea or the scent they gave when burned—tucked into the seams of the bedding. A string of beads you thought you’d lost was now nestled between two thick furs, as if it had been intentionally displayed.

You stood there for several seconds, mouth slightly open, completely unprepared.

"Sylus..." you breathed, your voice caught somewhere between awe and bewilderment. "What’s the meaning of all this?"

He looked up at you from where he knelt, smoothing out the bear fur with surprising tenderness. His expression was completely unreadable. Calm. Focused. As if this were the most natural thing in the world. "You were shivering at night," he said simply. "This will keep you warmer."

That might have been enough for anyone else. Practical. Logical. An easy excuse.

But his eyes told a different story.

He watched you too closely. Not just to gauge your reaction—but to savor it. There was something ancient and yearning behind the glow in his eyes, something that vibrated in the silence between his words. He was waiting. Not for your thanks, but for your approval.

Noticing your lack of response, Sylus's expression begins to shift. The warmth in his eyes dims, replaced by something sterner, more guarded. His tail flicks once behind him—a sharp, agitated motion that echoes his growing unease. He straightens his spine, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

"Do you not like it?" he asks, his voice quieter now but unmistakably tense. There’s something beneath his words that makes your chest tighten—disappointment, certainly. But also something rawer. Doubt. Hurt. The faint tremor of vulnerability from someone unaccustomed to feeling exposed.

Your eyes widen, and guilt rises quickly in your throat. You hadn't meant to be silent for so long. You were simply overwhelmed—by the effort, by the meaning behind it all. But now, seeing the shift in his posture, the way his eyes avoid yours, you realize how that silence must have come off.

You quickly close the space between you, reaching out instinctively. Your hands lift to cradle his face, palms warm against his heated skin. You guide his gaze back to you, gently but insistently, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching your face as though still bracing for rejection.

"No," you say softly, firmly, your voice thick with emotion. "I love it. I really do. It's beautiful. I just...I don’t understand why. You don’t have to do all this. The gifts, the meat, the rearranging—I was already happy. I was perfectly content with how things were before."

Sylus doesn’t recoil. Instead, he leans into your touch just slightly, as though the reassurance eases something deep in his chest. The tightness in his shoulders begins to uncoil, and the tension etched into his brow softens. A quiet exhale escapes him, almost inaudible.

"You laughed," he murmurs after a moment, his voice roughened by something too ancient to be called simple sorrow. "When I spoke of mating season. I assumed then that you deemed me unworthy as a mate—ill-fitted to claim or keep one such as you."

You blink, taken aback. The memory of that moment resurfaces—your burst of laughter, the disbelief, the release of tension you hadn’t realized he was carrying so heavily. It hadn’t been mockery. But now, you see how it must have been received by someone like Sylus—a creature whose understanding of humor, especially human levity in the face of instinct, is limited by centuries of solemn tradition and a worldview where gestures hold more meaning than words.

"So...the jewels? The meat?" you ask gently, your voice cracking slightly as realization begins to sink in.

He lets out a low, almost frustrated huff, glancing to the side. His tail curls around one of your ankles without thought, anchoring you to him in a quiet, possessive motion. "To prove I can provide for you," he says simply. "And for our offspring that I hoped you'd bear."

The words hit you like a wave, your breath catching in your throat. Your heart swells and shatters at once, a knot forming deep in your chest. He really wanted a baby with you? To form new life? With you??

Because that was it, wasn’t it? This powerful, ancient creature—so feared, so composed, so unreadable to others—was doing everything in his power to show you his worth. Not by demanding your affection or asserting his claim, but by showing you how he could build a life around you. Make a place for you. Prepare for a future, one you hadn’t even considered yet.

He had rearranged his entire world to make space for you in it. Courted you to prove himself just as many of his species had done with their mates.

You looked at him now with new eyes, your throat tightening as you caressed the edge of his jaw.

"Sylus...you don’t have to prove anything to me. I never doubted your strength. I never doubted you for a single second. Sometimes humans laugh when we feel relieved. That's all."

You notice that he seemed to perk up ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. His posture straightened by a fraction, the glow in his eyes shifting with something new—not quite relief, but intrigue. A subtle ripple of tension unwound in his shoulders, though he tried to mask it.

"Mortals laugh when they feel better?" he asked, voice low and gravelly, as if the question itself was unfamiliar. There was a curious tilt to his head, the tone almost scholarly—as if he were cataloging your species' behaviors like one would study a rare flame.

You nodded, giving him a gentle smile. "Yes. Laughter is...a release. I wasn’t mocking you, Sylus. I was relieved. It meant you weren’t dying. And...I think you would make a wonderful mate. And father. To our baby."

His grip on you suddenly shifted, tightening with sudden purpose. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that grounded you firmly against him—possessive, almost reverent. His pupils expanded rapidly, red irises eclipsed by black. A primal heat surged behind his gaze, burning steady and intent. You felt the growl in his chest before it even reached his lips, a low, rumbling vibration that poured through your body like a tremor.

"Then...you accept?" he asked slowly, the words thick with restrained emotion. "You will take my seed into you? You would bear my offspring?"

Your heart skipped a beat—no, several. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. He said it with such conviction, with none of the coy hesitations or evasive phrasing you were used to. Just truth. Raw and full of meaning. The ancient kind of promise that didn’t ask, but waited.

You hesitated, swallowing hard. "I mean...I do have my doubts," you admitted, fingers curling against his chest. Your fingers graze the edge of his scales. Your voice trembled slightly under the weight of his gaze. "I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry children of yours. Dragons are...different. Your children, they’d be massive, wouldn’t they?"

You tried to laugh. It came out tight, nervous. A shaky sound that barely carried.

But Sylus didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. Instead, something deeper flickered behind his eyes—a hunger, yes, but also certainty. Purpose. Legacy.

A low, pleased growl rolled from the depths of his chest, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped as you felt his tail move, the strong, silken muscle winding slowly up your leg. It caressed your skin with practiced control, the movement deliberate. Purposeful. The hem of your dress lifted inch by inch under the teasing weight of his tail.

"Nonsense," he growled, and this time his voice was like smoke and stone. "You are more than capable. I would never choose a mate who was not capable of the task. Your body, your spirit, your frame—they are all sufficient. More than sufficient."

His claws ghosted over your hips, drawing you in closer, like a hunter gathering something sacred. You felt the heat of him, not just his body but his intent, his longing, the centuries of instinct that pulsed just beneath his skin.

"I'm not even sure if it will work..." you murmur, your voice laced with uncertainty. "Humans only ovulate for a short time. If that window's already passed—"

Sylus moves before you can finish. His body leans into yours with quiet purpose, and in an instant, the air shifts between you. His breath ghosts over your neck, warm and steady, and you shiver as his nose traces the delicate line of your throat. The movement is slow, deliberate—not just intimate, but instinctual. He inhales deeply, the sound low and resonant like something ancient stirring in his chest. The rumble that follows isn’t quite a growl, but it thrums through you like thunder beneath the earth.

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you."

You freeze.

His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do."

His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made.

"You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

Your breath catches, your face flushing as your heart pounds against your ribs. You can feel the heat rising in you, pooling low, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

You search his face for doubt, but find none. Only certainty.

So, you were ovulating, and he could smell it—and worse, he wasn’t just aroused by it; he was called by it.

You feel your nerves ease, if only a little. Sylus was dependable—fierce, steady, and impossibly sure in the way only something ancient could be. For all his intensity, he had never once let harm come to you, had never faltered in his protection. And now, with the weight of everything shifting between you, that truth brought the smallest measure of calm. If he said he would keep you safe, you believed him. If he said he would protect the life growing between you, you knew it to be a vow etched in something deeper than words.

The idea of having a baby had once seemed distant, more fantasy than reality. Something soft and quiet that belonged to another version of your life, another world entirely. But now? Now it felt inevitable. Natural. Fated. Like every step had led to this moment, and all that was left was to lean into it.

He wanted this with you. You could see it in everything he did: the nesting, the offerings, the way he curled around you at night like a guardian warding off the dark. His every action had been leading here, even if you hadn’t recognized it at the time. And though nerves still fluttered in your chest like a thousand wings, the deeper truth remained. You wanted it too. You weren’t entirely prepared, not yet, but you were ready to say yes.

You looked into his eyes, your heart thundering, and gave a small but certain nod. "Okay. I accept."

Those three words changed everything.

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him, something primal and powerful released from its cage. You barely had time to react before he swept you off the ground with effortless strength. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he cradled you against his chest, his expression focused, almost reverent. In mere seconds, he had crossed the room and laid you gently down on the massive bed of furs he had so meticulously prepared—his gift to you, his offering.

The nest was impossibly warm, soft and inviting, wrapping around your back and shoulders like it had been waiting for this moment. You could feel the heat of his body above you, the power in his frame held taut just beneath the surface. He hovered for a breath, eyes raking over you, and then his tail moved—snaking up one leg, coiling slowly with deliberate grace.

The fabric of your dress tightened as his tail looped beneath it, and you barely had time to gasp before you heard the slow, purposeful sound of it tearing. With practiced precision, his tail shredded the fabric, beginning to peel it away from your body with a hunger that had been restrained for too long. Each thread undone was like a silent declaration: mine, mine, mine.

You felt a rush of cool air against your skin, and your breasts were exposed to his gaze. You could sense his eyes on you, drinking in the sight of your bare skin and hardened nipples, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Your breasts bounced slightly as you shifted, and you could feel his gaze following the movement, his eyes hungrily taking in every detail.

You instinctively tried to shield yourself, your arms moving to cross your chest, but he was quicker. His tail wrapped around your wrists with gentle but unyielding strength, keeping you exposed beneath him. Vulnerable. Claimed.

He leaned in closer, breath hot against your skin, and you felt it hitch as he studied you like something sacred. There was a deep rumble in his chest, not quite a growl but something more ancient—a sound of possession and awe.

"This will not be gentle," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel smoothed by fire. "But do not fret. I will take care not to hurt you, beloved."

His words settled over you like a brand, searing into your skin. There was something sacred in them, a promise forged not in softness, but in strength—and devotion.

And the way he said it, with such conviction and tempered need, made your breath stutter and your fear crumble, replaced with something far more powerful:

Desire. Acceptance. Surrender.

His voice was a low rumble, "I want to see you. All of you." His eyes met yours, seeking consent, respectful despite the fierce hunger within. You nodded, your heart still pounding, but the fear was gone, replaced by a strong lust you didn't know you had.

He reached for the remnants of your dress, his touch gentle yet firm as he pushed the rest of the fabric off you. It slipped down your body, leaving you bare except for your undergarments. His breath hitched, his gaze roaming over you, worshipful and hungry.

"You're beautiful" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Like a dream I never dared to have." He leaned down, his lips met yours, a soft, tender kiss that belied the intensity of his gaze. It was a question, a request for permission to explore further. You responded, your body melting into his, your lips parting to deepen the kiss. He tasted of smoke and spice, a heady combination that made your head spin. His claws, those large, warm claws, traced the curve of your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You gasped, breaking the kiss, your body arching into his touch. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine. "I want to hear you," he whispered, his breath hot on your ear. "I want to hear every sound you make, every gasp, every moan." He captured your mouth again, his tongue delving in, exploring, tasting. His hands continued their journey, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, the soft flesh of your thighs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your undergarments, pulling back to look at you.

He slid the underwear down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt a shiver of anticipation and vulnerability, but the heat in his gaze, the raw desire, kept you from feeling exposed again. He stood up, his tail unwrapping from your waist, and you missed the contact instantly. But he was back in a moment, his hands on your knees, gently pushing them apart.

He knelt down, his gaze still locked with yours, and you felt a jolt of surprise and excitement. His rough claws traced up your inner thighs, his touch feather-light, sending shivers through you. You could feel the heat of his breath on you, and you squirmed, your body aching with anticipation. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and leaned in.

His long tongue found your aching bud, hot and wet, and you gasped, your body arching off the pile of furs. He made a sound, a low growl of pleasure, and the vibration sent waves of sensation through you. He gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he explored you, his tongue and lips driving you to the edge. You could feel the pressure building, your body coiling tight, and you grasped the furs beneath you, your knuckles turning paler.

"Thank you for agreeing to give me the gift of new life" His gaze held you captive, even as his tongue continued its torturous, delightful dance. You felt a flush spread across your body, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

But you didn't look away. You held his gaze, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body writhing with each flick of his tongue. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel it, the pleasure building, coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. "Sylus," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.

He growled in response, his fingers digging into your thighs as he redoubled his efforts. The room spun, the golden light blurring around you. Your body tensed, every muscle coiled tight, and then, with a cry, you shattered. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in sensation. You felt Sylus's claws on you, steadying you, his tail wrapping around you, holding you close as you rode out the storm. When the world came back into focus, you found yourself cradled in Sylus arms, your body still trembling with aftershocks. He was looking down at you, his eyes soft with concern and something else...a deep, profound satisfaction.

As you finally noticed the absence of his usual belt, your eyes widened in shock. There, at you waist, were not one, but two substantially sized cocks, side by side, both throbbing with desire. You could've sworn he only had one before?? A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you felt a surge of panic. You tried to wriggle free, to create some distance, but Sylus's grip only tightened. He growled, a low, primal sound that sent shivers down your spine, as you managed to shift into a crawling position. But your brief moment of triumph was short-lived.

With a swift move, he grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back towards him. You could feel his hot breath on your neck as he forced you face down onto the soft furs, his body pressing heavily against yours. "You cannot run from this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust and determination. "Be still." The fear that had been lurking within you surged back, filling every fiber of your being. You knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there would be no escape. Not this time. Not until he had marked you, claimed you, bred you. His need was too great, his desire to leave his seed within you too strong to change your mind now.

As Sylus began to push his first cock into you, you felt a searing pain and a sense of being stretched to the limit. You realized, with a jolt of fear, that he hadn't been lying when he said this wouldn't be gentle. His cock was like a battering ram, forcing its way into your tight pussy with a ferocity that left you breathless. He let out a fierce growl of pleasure, pushing himself as deep as he could possibly go inside your walls.

He pumped feverishly, his hips moving with the strength and power of a beast. You groaned, your voice hoarse and barely audible, as your pussy was forced to take the pounding he was giving you. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that left you gasping for air and gripping the fur beneath you.

His cock was huge, and it felt like it was tearing you apart, stretching your walls to the limit. You felt like you were being ripped in two, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure as he pounded into you with reckless abandon.

You were at his mercy, unable to escape the torrent of sensations that he was unleashing on your body. Your mind was a jumble of pain and pleasure, your body torn between the pain of his thrusts and the thrill of being taken by a creature so powerful and dominant. You felt his second cock rubbing itself between the rounds of your ass.

As Sylus continued to pump into you, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure, he leaned in close and whispered in your ear.

"You'll never want for anything, beloved," he growled, voice low and reverent, thick with the weight of promise. It wasn’t just a statement. It was a vow. An oath carved from the bones of instinct, older than memory and heavier than gold. His breath was hot against your neck, his words brushing over your skin like fire.

"Not once," he continued, a possessive rumble threading through each syllable, "not once you're full with my children."

There was no shame in his tone, no hesitation. Just certainty. Purpose. He spoke like a dragon made flesh, a creature built for legacy, for claiming, for protecting what was his with unrelenting devotion. His hand traced your side as he spoke, the motion slow and reverent, as if feeling the space where new life would soon grow.

"Yes...yes give me as many children as you want Sylus, I want them all..." you begged, feeling yourself beginning to drool into the furs.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to have a profound effect on Sylus. His eyes flashed with a fierce light, and his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure.

Without warning, he pulled his cock out of you, the sudden withdrawal leaving you feeling empty and uneasy. But before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you around, his hands grasping your hips and pulling you back onto his cock. You felt him shove his cock balls deep inside you once again, the sudden invasion making you gasp with shock and pleasure.

You were stretched to the limit, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a mask of pleasure and desire. He pumped into you with a fierce intensity, his hips moving with a rapid, pounding rhythm that left you breathless and gasping. You felt his second cock sliding in harmonious rhythm across your stomach as he continued to pump the other inside you.

Sylus's movements grow frantic, each thrust more desperate than the last. The heat builds between you, an unstoppable force that drives you both to the edge. His breath hitches, and you can feel the tension coiling in his muscles, ready to snap.

With a final, forceful thrust, he slams deep inside you, a low groan ripping from his chest as he cums. The heat floods into you, a searing wave of release that leaves you both gasping. As he rides out the last pulses of his climax, he leans forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. The bite is sharp, claiming, sending a shock through your body that mingles with the aftershocks of his release.

You're both slicked in sweat, your chests rising and falling in a staggered rhythm as you cling to each other, trembling and utterly spent. The cave around you is dense with heat and the scent of exertion, the air thick enough to drink. Your skin is flushed, tingling, every nerve alight from the intensity of what has just passed between you. You feel the large amount of cum he shot inside you begin to spill out, making your thighs stick together. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins—his warmth wraps around you like a living cocoon, steady and ever-present.

Every breath you take is his, pulled in from the narrow space between your mouths, and every exhale becomes a shared offering. His body is heavy over yours, enveloping, protective. You’re still reeling, caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief, when Sylus leans down and claims your lips in a kiss—fierce, unrelenting, yet reverent. It isn’t rushed. It’s deep, meaningful, and possessive in a way that leaves your heart pounding anew.

"Can you help me up?" you whisper, voice trembling, your limbs aching with fatigue. You lift a shaky hand, fingers brushing the fresh mark on your shoulder. The skin there is tender and warm, a physical memory of him etched into your flesh.

Sylus pulls back just enough to look at you, a small smile touching his lips. There’s affection in his gaze, but it’s layered with something else—something feral, possessive, unwavering. You blink at him, puzzled by the look he gives you, your breath catching as your body anticipates an answer.

"We aren’t finished, beloved" he murmurs, his voice like a caress wrapped in iron. The timbre of it thrums through your bones. He motions to his other member, still throbbing with need on your stomach. "I still have seed stored. I told you this would not be brief. We won’t be done until I am certain—utterly certain—that my seed has taken root."

The words wash over you like a second wave of heat. You feel it building again—not fear, not even hesitation. Just the slow, inevitable rush of anticipation. Your breath shudders as he presses closer once more, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. He is so sure. So devoted. So...inescapably yours.

This isn’t just instinct anymore. It isn’t mere biology. It’s a vow, an offering, a claiming that comes from something sacred and ancient within him.

And as his lips brush against your throat, his tail curling possessively around your thigh again, you know one thing for certain:

Sylus isn’t finished.

And this becomes abundantly clear as he pushes his second cock inside you.

The next two days blur together in a haze of heat and aching limbs. Sylus is relentless—a creature driven by instinct and obsession, bound not just by desire but by an instinctual need to claim and secure what he now considers his. The cavern is filled with the sounds of breathless gasps, low growls, and the slick sound of bodies tangled in devotion and purpose.

There is barely a moment to rest. He presses into you again and again, each time with a ferocity that leaves you trembling, breathless, dazed. He rarely lets you catch your breath before pulling you close once more, whispering possessive promises into your ear, vowing over and over that he will not stop until he knows that his seed has taken root.

Still, there are brief breaks. Moments when he leaves to hunt, returning with food to replenish your strength. He never brings back just a meal—he returns with offerings: rare fruit, tender meats, things he’s sure will sustain and strengthen you. His eyes scan you for any signs of weakness, worry carved into the lines of his face even through the veil of lust that constantly clouds him.

One such time, you had tried to redress yourself, more out of instinct than shame. But when he returned and found you clothed again, his eyes darkened, the low sound of displeasure vibrating in his chest. He had stalked over to you, roughly tearing the garments off of your body, scattering them on the stone floor in pieces.

"Sylu-"

"No," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "You are to remain bare for me. Ready. Always."

And with those words, he had taken you again roughly, until the floor was soaked in his cum, as if to remind you that your body was his haven now—a vessel for something sacred. And this continued hourly, even when you had just awoken from a nap. He simply would spread your legs and begin pumping himself inside you. You welcomed this of course, figuring he was just following what his instincts were telling him to do.

Eventually, his frenzy began to slow. The fire that had once consumed him now burned low and steady, replaced by a quieter, more reverent form of devotion. Weeks passed in a blur of rest, warmth, and gentle touches, and then came the shift—he began to note that you smelled different. His sharp senses detected it before you felt a thing. He would murmur it against your skin, nose pressed to your neck or your belly, voice thick with wonder.

"You carry new life," he’d whisper.

At first, you rolled your eyes and laughed it off, teasing him for being so certain. You didn't want to get your hopes up. But soon, you began to feel it too—a flutter, faint and flickering like butterfly wings deep within. The first time it happened, you froze, a hand going instinctively to your belly. Sylus noticed immediately, his head snapping up, eyes wide.

"Did you feel it?"

You nodded slowly, hand still pressed to the gentle curve of your stomach. He was elated. Absolutely overcome with joy. He knelt before you and kissed your belly with a soft, contented purr rumbling from deep in his chest, his tail wrapping protectively around your ankles.

True to his word, he kept his promise. You never wanted for anything. He hunted only the best for you, brought the juiciest fruit, the most nourishing roots. He prepared meals with painstaking care, even if he didn’t eat most of it himself. When your back ached or your feet swelled, he massaged you with surprising tenderness, his large hands easing every knot and tension from your tired limbs. At night, he curled around you like a shield, his wings a blanket of protection, whispering soft things in a language you didn’t always understand.

Eventually, your clothes grew too tight to wear. Your belly swelled gloriously with life, and you gave up trying to force yourself into fabric that no longer fit. You wandered the cave freely, naked and glowing, your hands always resting protectively on your rounded stomach. Sylus didn’t mind in the slightest. He thought you looked divine.

Even in the later stages of your pregnancy, when walking made you tired and your body ached from the weight of his child, he still looked at you with hunger in his eyes. He remained ever ready to take you, though now with more patience, more gentleness to not hurt you or the baby. His touches were slow, reverent, his need no less intense but guided now by something softer—an unshakable adoration.

To him, you were more than his mate.

You were the future of his lineage. A living miracle he worshiped with every breath.

He was awoken one morning by the soft, fragile sound of you whining beside him—a breathy, instinctive noise that sliced through the quiet like a blade, shattering the peace of dawn. Instantly, he was alert, his senses snapping into sharp focus. In one smooth, practiced motion, he propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over you, red eyes scanning your body with fierce, frantic protectiveness. His hands hovered inches from your skin, as though afraid to touch and yet desperate to find the source of your distress.

When he found no visible wounds, he moved lower, his tail curling around your leg and lifting it gently. What he saw next made him still completely—and then smile, slow and reverent. A sheen of clear fluid glistened at your thighs. His chest swelled with emotion, and a warm, knowing glow filled his gaze.

It was time.

His breath caught in his throat, and the world seemed to narrow around this one miraculous truth. He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and gently shook you awake, voice husky with emotion. "Wake, beloved," he murmured. "The hour is upon us."

What followed was the longest, most grueling day and a half of your life. The cave became a sanctuary of primal sound and sacred pain—the sharp edge of your cries echoing off the stone walls, the slow, rhythmic cadence of your breathing, and Sylus’s steady, grounding presence through it all. The space that had once been a den of passion now transformed into a place of birth and bond, of new beginnings.

He had prepared for this, of course. He always did. A nest of soft animal pelts had been lovingly arranged just days prior, thick and warm and perfectly layered to support your aching, straining body. You lay upon them, your skin damp with sweat, hair plastered to your temples, your belly tightening again and again with each new contraction. The pain was searing, unforgiving, your body fighting for every inch of progress.

And Sylus never left your side. Not for a moment.

He positioned himself behind you, his body acting as both cradle and shield. His larger frame curved protectively around yours, arms curled reverently over your middle, claws softened and carefully restrained so they wouldn’t harm you. He rubbed slow, grounding circles into the swell of your belly, the weight of his presence a balm against the storm.

His lips brushed your shoulder often, murmuring affirmations and praise, voice a low, calming purr that vibrated through your bones. His tail coiled gently around your thigh, anchoring you when you trembled. Whenever you cried out or whimpered in agony, he was there—not panicked, not shaken, but steady. Fierce.

"Breathe, my love," he whispered again and again, the words threaded with admiration. "You’re strong. So strong. You were made for this."

There was never a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He watched you with awe, holding space for your pain and your power, never wavering. His devotion took on a quiet intensity, every touch purposeful, every breath synchronized with yours. When you broke down in tears, sobbing through another wave of pain, he kissed your temple, held your hand, and wrapped you tighter in his warmth.

He treated you like something sacred—not just the mother of his child, but the miracle who bore his legacy. There was reverence in the way he touched you, in how he shifted with you through every hour, how his purring grew louder as your contractions deepened. You were his whole world in those moments, and he made sure you felt it.

As the hours stretched into exhaustion and time lost all meaning, he remained your constant.

And when the sharp, piercing cry of a newborn echoed through the cave, Sylus felt the breath leave his lungs entirely. The sound struck him like thunder, powerful and sacred, and his eyes locked on the sight before him: you, cradling the small, wriggling form against your chest. You were slick with sweat, flushed from exertion, but your smile—soft, exhausted, and full of wonder for your new baby—was the most radiant thing he had ever seen.

He moved toward you reverently, as if approaching something divine. But as he leaned in closer, a deep instinct stirred within him, passed down through countless generations. His tongue flicked out ever so slightly, and his body tensed with the urge to clean the newborn himself—the way his kind had always done.

You caught the motion and gave him a knowing look, gently placing a hand on his cheek. "No licking," you whispered with a tired laugh. "That’s not how we do it."

It took some convincing, his instincts hard to quiet, but he eventually yielded, watching with wide-eyed fascination as you showed him the human way. Warm cloths, gentle strokes, soft murmurs of comfort.

He knelt beside you, silent and attentive, absorbing every detail.

And though he did not get to perform the ritual of his bloodline, he found something just as profound in learning yours.

Together, you welcomed new life in a way that blended two worlds into one.