syluriar

[syluriar]

𝐻𝒾𝒹𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝒜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ pairing: sylus x reader

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ summary: in the humble town of asterville, the duke yearns for the attention of only one woman. if only she knew. (or alternatively: sylus falls in love and attempts to find the courage to act upon it.)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ word count: 6.8k

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ao3: read on ao3 here if you so wish :)

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ notes: this fic contains mature content, so please read with discretion :)

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

Although geographically a small, provincial town, Asterville has become renowned for many things over the centuries despite its humble origins. A bustling spot for merchants to dock their ships weekly to trade goods and news, the town has flourished under the watchful eye of the rather infamous Duke, who is popular among his fellow monarchical acquaintances for giving fruitful advice over a plate of desserts.

If one has not heard of Asterville through conversations of wealth and trading, then it is likely they would have heard of it through snippets of tales from the legendary balls that are held by the Duke for each quarter of the year. Always an event of lavish luxury, each season brings a new frenzy to the residents of Asterville as the Duke insists that everyone is welcome to Fumbally Estate for a night of firework displays and dancing that often begins at midnight and ends at dawn.

Moreover, the Duke’s generosity goes even further than hosting parties for the entire town, because if you are fortunate enough to pass him in the streets during one of his weekly promenades, he’ll spare even the poorest man or woman a good portion of his time. Always polite, he talks to you like he’s interested in what you have to say, even though everyone knows he’s often occupied with his daily affairs. If he’s feeling particularly generous, he might even offer for you to come for tea in Fumbally, but if he’s short for time, a quick pastry from the local bakery might have to suffice. 

There are many rumours that the mothers of Asterville have formed a sixth sense for forecasting his visits to town. The Duke is coming! Quick! Run to the seamstress and fetch the dress you had ordered in preparation (the Duke often asks to be referred to just as Sylus, or Mr. R. if he is feeling formal). Ribbons! It is said that he is fond of silk ribbons in curled hair, his favourite flavour of cake is vanilla sponge with raspberry jam, and he always drinks his coffee with a dash of liqueur. The mothers pride themselves for knowing such prized information regarding the Duke, and they always make sure to have their daughters fluffed up like peacocks upon his arrival, because if you manage to catch his eye, he may gift your daughter with trinkets and a charming smile.

But if there is one location where you really must visit if you seek the company of the Duke, you are more than likely to find him examining the window of Madame Amelia’s boutique; a tailors and modiste where only the prettiest dresses and smartest-looking suits are sewn and stitched with the finest materials that have been imported from all around the globe.

Pretty things. It is also said that the Duke adores pretty things. That’s why he’s always visiting the boutique. It is the only logical reasoning for a man of such calibre to be interested in such mundane things. Or else, of course, he frequents the boutique because he is in search of a wife. Either way, the Duke present or not, one would find it hard to get an appointment at Madame Amelia’s, particularly during ball season, for the fantasy of the Duke searching for a wife only sparks pandemonium across the town as the ladies of Asterville scramble to prepare for the upcoming festivities with haste, false smiles hiding true intentions as each girl hopes to outshine the other for the Duke's hand in marriage.

But of course, all follies and rumours aside, the only person who knows the truth regarding the Duke’s romantic affairs is Sylus himself. A truth that he likes to keep locked away in fear of what might happen if it were to escape his lips. 

Because in the Madame Amelia’s boutique, a young seamstress with gentle hands and a calm demeanour works behind a velvet curtain, every stitch sewn with love as she hums sweet melodies under her breath, her hair always loosely tied up in a bandana to match the colours of the season. Yes, Sylus visits the shop every week in hopes of catching a glimpse of you, the only woman who has managed to enrapture his heart and soul in ways he cannot fathom at times.

He comes into the boutique with the Summer breeze. The familiar tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival as the workers of the shop straighten their posture, and the daughters getting their measurements taken tilt their chins upwards, hoping to catch the Duke’s attention.

Madame Amelia herself curtseys as she greets him. Still pretty in old age, her silver bun is always neatly slicked back in a professional manner. Sylus knows she runs a tight ship, hence why the results are immaculate. This is mainly because instead of instilling fear into her workers, she nurtures them. Nurtures their talent, for it is only the talented that may be allowed to work in her boutique. She does not merely hire any seamstress off the street.

Sylus nods in greeting, but his ruby eyes are already searching behind the curtain for a glimpse of you. The flower blooming in the dim backroom despite the lack of sunlight. 

“I’m afraid you just missed her, Mr. R.” Madame Amelia gives him a soft smile.

“I sent her out to fetch the latest shipment from the Docks.” 

“Materials for the upcoming ball in Fumbally, I assume?” He waves at a girl getting fitted. The action only makes her giggle and blush in response.

Madame Amelia tuts as she takes out her fan and waves it briskly towards her face.

“I admire your generosity for inviting all of Asterville and beyond to your estate for an evening of grandeur, but the orders for gowns and suits are nearly impossible to keep up with. If it wasn’t for her, not a single dress or waistcoat would be ready in time for your extravagant parties.”

“Has she made any inclination that she’ll attend this time?” Sylus dusts off his jacket, feigning nonchalance. 

“She has been her usual clandestine self,” Madame Amelia sighs. “It’s rather pitiful. All she does is scratch away with her quill late into the night, and then once the sun rises, she’s back to stitching hems and lace.”

Madame Amelia raises an eyebrow as she notices the dainty little box of macaroons in his arms.

“As always, you have not come empty handed.”

“It is rude to come to a place of such excellence without a gift of thanks.”

“Your business is more than enough, Mister R. In fact, I do believe most of Asterville’s wealth is all due to your capabilities of turning stones into diamonds, thus, it should be us thanking you.”

“It is not often that your workers get to indulge in decadent treats.”

“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with macaroons being her favourite, no?”

Sylus chokes out a cough as Madame Amelia looks at him with the eyes of a stern mother. Although she is not your mother by birth, her fierce protection of you has often deterred him from seeking information about you. It would appear that with age, she has acquired a wisdom that allows her to see right through his poker face that often fools many.

Clearing his throat, he straightens his posture while trying his best to remain nonchalant.

“Perhaps I could see her before–”

“Mr. R!” 

Sylus blinks as three young women suddenly appear in front of him, rosy cheeks and sparkly eyes. The Patterfields. Sylus would recognise the blonde ringlets and citrus-coloured bonnets anywhere.

“Hello ladies,” he says as they giggle, pushing and shoving each other, fighting like cats in order to gain the spotlight under his–seemingly–fleeting attention.

“Mr. R, what brings you to town?”

“Mr. R, is it true that the ball will include a full roasted pig?”

“Mr. R, will you please buy us some ribbons for the ball?”

“Girls! Leave the Duke be!”

A woman with sharp features and a severe stare seizes the girls, giving him an apologetic bow.

“I do apologise for the lack of manners my girls seem to possess. They know better than to act so boisterously in front of the Duke–”

“No need for apologies, Mrs.Patterfield. I do enjoy the confidence of your daughters. Young ladies ought to be taught to have faith in their words, as there might be a time where their voices will need to be heard.” 

Mrs.Patterfield chokes as the girls squeal in delight. 

Sylus gives them a warm smile. “Ladies, do feel free to browse the ribbons. It would be my pleasure to purchase a ribbon for each of you.”

More shrill squeals fill the little boutique as the girls scamper off, their curtsies forgotten as Mrs.Patterfield chases after them, mumbling embarrassed apologies to Sylus as she attempts to round the girls up once again, like a shepherd attempting to farm wild cattle.

“My oh my, the Duke certainly is as generous as the handsome rumours paint him to be.”

A teasing voice that calls to him like a childhood friend; but who would dare treat him as an old acquaintance in Asterville? A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. There’s only one woman who would dare. Only one woman that has him wrapped around her little finger; and she doesn’t care. Never vies for his attention, nor grovels for his affection. Yet she knows his waist and chest measurements. Knows how to make every pair of trousers hug his hips, and waistcoats button perfectly around his figure without squeezing the air out of his lungs. 

He turns around, only to be met with your teasing smile, a wooden chest full of new fabrics resting against your hips as you lean your body against a shelf.

“Mr. R,” she says with slight jest. It sends a shiver down his spine.

With your hands full, you can only manage the formality of tilting your head downwards, which only causes one of your ringlets to fall out of your baby blue bandana. It lands just above your collarbone, and Sylus can’t take his eyes off of it. Can’t seem to stop his heart racing in his chest as his hand twitches to reach out and touch it.

Despite having luncheon before leaving, he suddenly feels starved.

“Miss,” he replies, the formality rolling off his tongue. “Allow me.” 

He takes the wooden chest in his arms without hesitation, not seeming to care that the conversations within the boutique have suddenly become nothing more than hushed whispers as curious eyes watch the brash seamstress interact with the gentle Duke. Their encounters often make great entertainment in club rooms and around dinner tables, should you be so lucky as to wrangle the gossip out of the mouths of jealous mothers. 

“What brings you back so soon? If you’re curious about how your suit for the ball is coming along, I’m afraid that it is not quite ready yet. I must apologise, but the gowns that have been requested to catch your eye this season are even more flamboyant than usual.”

Avoiding your quizzical gaze, he holds out the box of macaroons, gesturing for you to take it.

“I was just passing by and thought you and the other seamstresses would enjoy something sweet.” He keeps his gaze on the decorative string tied around your waist. It appears no one has bought you a ribbon since his last visit. He wonders if he bought you one, would you wear it?

“Always so kind, Mr. R. I do hope we aren’t bankrupting you,” you joke, leaning in to take the sweets, your sudden close proximity making him clumsy as he tries to keep the wooden chest from slipping from underneath his arm.

“I heard you had a preference for them.” The sentence slips out of his mouth before he can stop it.

You raise a brow in response.

“Did Madame Amelia but you up to this? She’s been trying to stop me from leaving Asterville recently. Apparently I’m much more suited to work as a seamstress as opposed to gaining a proper education.”

“You plan to leave Asterville?” The idea of a life without you hits him sharp and sudden, like an arrow that has been aimed and fired right into the centre of his heart. The wound bleeds. Without you, Asterville would be miserable.

You shake your head. “A silly dream, I know. What could possibly be out there for a woman like me? No family, no chance of marriage, and very little to my name….” you trail off, a wistful look in your eyes as you stare off into the distance to a place where Sylus cannot reach you.

“It is not a sin for a lady to have ambition,” Sylus says, voice stern. “In fact, I…find it…admirable.”

Seeming to snap out of your woeful daze, Sylus can only stand there and look at you longingly as you give him a delicate curtsey.

“I do apologise for speaking so liberally in front of you, Mr. R. I doubt a seamstress’s desires are of any interest to a man, let alone a Duke.”

Please don’t go, Sylus wants to say. For I have waited all day for this interaction, and if you are to leave now, I’ll have to wait through another week of sunsets and sunrises before I can see you again.

“I’ll have Madame Amelia write to you immediately when your suit is ready for collection. Or perhaps we can just send it directly to Fumbally if you find yourself occupied with more important matters.”

“Thank you,” Sylus says, disappointment flooding his body as you slowly back away from him.

“I do enjoy our encounters, Mr. R, no matter how brief they may be. But sadly, I must say farewell for now, or else Asterville will be home to many unhappy ladies without gowns for the Fumbally soirée.”

Like cherry blossoms in the wind, he barely has time to fully register your beauty before you disappear, leaving him standing with nothing but an aching heart and a wooden chest in his arms.

And as he sits back into the velvet seats of his carriage on the journey home, he cannot help but let his face fall into his hands as he curses himself for yet another failed attempt of earning your affection.

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

One week later, Sylus finds himself holding his breath as he stands in front of the familiar velvet curtain of the boutique, another box of macaroons in his hands as the ladies of the shop watch him like a hawk.

“How wonderful! Mr. R has graced us with his presence again!”

“Mama, may we please have Father write to Mr. R. and ask him over for tea one day?”

“Do you think Mr. R. is here to see that seamstress again? I heard he only allows her to take his measurements.”

“Shhh! He might hear you and think of us as rather impolite!”

Taking a deep breath, Sylus pushes down his swirling emotions and enters into the dim lighting of the store room.

“You’re late.”

Standing on a ladder, you continue to root through the shelves, barely sparing him a second glance. Your bandana is maroon today. The colour of romance and desire. Or perhaps Sylus is just hoping you’re trying to send him a subtle message.

“I didn’t think you would come today. The ladies who visited he shop said they did not see your carriage enter town today.”

“I was travelling on a different route from a neighbouring town. An old friend needed advice.”

He holds out his hand as you begin to descend from the ladder. You take it in your own, and Sylus forgets how to breathe. This is the first time he has touched you. The first time he has felt the weight of your hand in his. It is more calloused than he had imagined, but this does not make it any less lovely.

“I assume you're here to be re-measured, despite me only measuring your impressive proportions last month. Madame Amelia mentioned you were fretting over your suit not fitting you. Did you know she thinks that your chest rivals Hercules? If you believe what the ancient poets wrote, that is. But I find that men like to exaggerate their stories, particularly when it comes to the details of their bodies.”

You let go of his hand as you arrive safely to the ground, and suddenly Sylus is aware of the lack of space between your chests. It may be the closest he has ever been to you.

Red eyes boring into yours. If a single gaze could reveal a man’s feelings, Sylus wonders if he would make the entire Earth shake with his desire for you. When did you get so close? He can see the faint remnants of ink stains on your fingertips, can smell the scent of roses from the soap you must use. He aches for you. Surely you must know by now? That every trip to town is only an excuse to visit you, and if chance encounters are not in the stars, then Sylus sees to it that he bends the constellations to his will in order to bribe the Heavens into letting him catch even a single glimpse of you. 

“Perhaps those men could take a few lessons on the art of poetic language from you,” Sylus says eventually. Unable to hold back any longer, he tucks the loose ringlet of hair back into your bandana. 

You inhale sharply as his hand accidentally brushes your cheek; or is he simply imagining it?

“I was afraid I missed your visit today. Madame Amelia had me fetch another delivery from the Docks. It was quite busy today. Lots of royalty sailing in for the ball. I could barely squeeze by the gaggles of girls.”

Sylus nods, but he’s not quite sure if he fully understood anything you said, because his desire to reach out and hold you is burning him alive from the inside-out.

“Most ladies wear the most brilliant of bonnets when they visit the Docks. It is a known spot for stumbling across royalty. The Princes of the neighbouring countries often sail to Asterville to marvel at its ancient beauty.” He says this while looking at your collarbones. So thin. He wonders if you would ever dine with him in Fumbally.

You let out a deep, dramatic sigh. “I do not find joy in the superficial affection of anyone, let alone a Prince. Mr. R, have our weekly conversations revealed anything about my personality at all?”

“I find you rather difficult to read, Miss seamstress.”

“How amusing. I find you rather inscrutable too, Mr. R.”

“Shall we?” He gestures towards the connecting dressing room that is used for measuring  important customers in private.

“I suppose we shall.”

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

A dozen candles burning, emitting a soft hazy glow as you kneel before him, eyebrows knitted together in concentration as you tighten the measuring tape around his hips. It’s becoming unbearable for Sylus to remain still. Your skin looks ever so soft in the amber hues, and the scent of roses is making his head spin. Not even an entire garden of roses would smell this strong. If he does not convince you to attend the ball in Fumbally today, he might simply wither like a tree in Winter and die. 

You both haven’t spoken a word since stepping inside the dressing room, but Sylus doesn’t dare disturb you while you’re working. So instead, he waits patiently for you to invite him into conversation, even though the silence that is enveloping the two of you feels like a form of torture.

Still not breathing a word, he watches as you move up towards his chest, humming tunes under your breath as you squint in the light, a small laugh escaping your lips as you shake your head in what looks like disbelief. 

“Perhaps your visit has not been in vain after all. I do believe your chest has grown slightly larger since our last appointment.” You pause, looking up at him through long lashes.

“The ladies of Asterville won’t know how to behave if this news were to be spread into the streets.”

“You’re willing to sell other peoples’ information just like that?” Sylus gives you an amused smile.

“For a price, yes.” You look at him, your features arranged in a serious manner. “But there are some secrets that I like to keep for myself.”

Getting to your feet, you take a step back before taking a mock bow with such dramatic grandeur, it actually makes him burst into a fit of laughter.

You smile at him, your eyes twinkling like little stars.

“You are free to go, Mr. R. As I have said before, I do enjoy our time together. It’s always such a shame that you can only stay for such a short while, but I suppose a Duke must fulfil his duties.”

I can stay forever, if only you so much as utter the word, Sylus wants to say. If you were to even show a sliver of interest in me, then I would ride out to the mines and pluck a diamond from the dark depths myself, and then I would carve it into whatever shape you desire, placing it on your finger in the Asterville Chapel for all to marvel at. It would be a grand occasion, no expense spared. So please, just say you want me as much as I want you. Or if you want, I can throw away my title if it means you will allow yourself to find safety in my arms.

“Mr. R? I do pray you say what ails you. Your face looks rather troubled.”

Sylus exhales, suddenly feeling exhausted. Had he forgotten to breathe for a second? Or perhaps his travels have worn him out. He never sleeps well in the carriage.

Stepping down from the footstool, he bows graciously before you. 

“I apologise for taking up your precious time. I assume the orders for the ball have not quite dwindled down,” he says, shrugging on his jacket.

“No matter how busy we are, everyone must make time for the Duke. It is Madame Amelia’s policy.”

Sylus nods, but he is only half-listening, because inside, he’s at war with himself. Should he ask? He would never forgive himself if he came across as pressuring you into doing something you did not want to do. No, he won’t ask. He’ll simply take his leave as usual. But then again–”

“Mr. R?”

“T-The ball.” 

How embarrassing. It comes out in a stutter, far from his usual eloquence. Thank God for the dim lighting, for he can feel a faint blush rising from his neck to his cheeks.

“The ball in Fumbally next week. I do hope you attend. It will be the best one yet. The firework show will be even bigger than last season’s.”

Avoiding his eyes, you stare down at your hands. 

“There is no room for a seamstress in a place as wonderful as Fumbally.”

Sylus shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“How could you say such nonsense? The ball is for you. They always are. So you must attend. I beg you.” 

“The ball…is…for me?”

Silence.

And suddenly Sylus’s world crumbles, for what has he just said? Too much. And now that the truth is out, it is too late to take it back.

You step away from him in shock, hands wrapping defensively around your arms as your eyes look at him with…with what? Terror? Disgust? Had he raised his voice? He must have, otherwise you wouldn’t have reacted in such a visceral manner. He can feel his calm composure slipping away from him as the room begins to spin. Perhaps he should have taken his leave when you had so clearly wanted him to go. 

Giving you an apologetic bow, he reigns in his spiralling emotions and puts on the most formal tone of a respectable Duke that he can muster up.

“I deeply apologise for raising my voice in your company. I hope you know that it was not on purpose, nor was it done with any ill intentions.” 

Unable to look at you any longer in fear of seeing something that will give him sleepless nights, he bows once more, eyes downcast on the floor as he takes strong strides towards the curtain, pausing briefly as he hesitates to say one final sentence.

“In regards to what I said…I meant every word. However, it would pain me to think that you would force yourself to attend the ball just because the Duke asked you to. Your agency is a gift, and I have made a fool of myself in front of you by letting my emotions get the better of me. Forgive me.”

Silence. Sylus gets the message.

“Good day, Miss seamstress.”

Not daring to look back, he exits the boutique at a brisk pace, bowing to Madame Amelia as he tears open the door and steps out into—to his dismay—the pouring rain.

Thunder claps above in the grey clouds as his men jump to alert upon his sudden arrival, quickly preparing the carriage as the rain soaks through his clothes. Who knew his life would become a pathetic fallacy that the poets will probably write about in their pitiful sonnets? All his hard work of earning your trust has been ruined by his lack of self-preservation. He might as well never step into society again. What is the point, if you will no longer wish to see him?

He’s about to step into the carriage when he hears the tinkling of a bell as the boutique door swings open, and you come tumbling out, the rain soaking you instantly, but you do not seem to care in the slightest.

“Wait!”

A hand reaches out to catch his wrist, stopping him abruptly in his tracks.

Another clap of thunder. He dares not to turn around. Dares not to hope, for it would destroy him if this glimmer of hope were to be extinguished as quickly as it had been lit. 

Frozen in place, time slows as Sylus finds his fate suspended in the air.

“Just…wait.” 

The words can barely be heard over the sound of the rain, but Sylus has always had an ear for your voice.

“What more can be said?” he asks, to himself or to you, that is a question that he cannot seem to answer in his current state.

“If I were to tell you how I truly feel right now…they would throw me into the deepest dungeons of Asterville and toss the key into the ocean.” 

Sylus holds his breath once more as the grip on his wrist tightens. 

“No one is here but me,” Sylus says, voice low. “And I swear, whether you wish tell me or not, your feelings that you fear will not cause any harm to you if you were to speak them aloud, for they shall not be repeated. I promise to take them to my grave."

“Oh, Sylus.” 

He whips around as you drop his wrist, shocked that you used his name. But instead of meeting your eyes, he finds you with your face in your hands, heavy sobs causing your shoulders to shake as the ran drenches your trembling shoulders.

“Don’t cry, my darling. Please—”

“You deserve someone with prospects. A title. Someone who can play the role of a proper lady in Fumbally. But I cannot live with myself, knowing that you are the man I have fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with. A Duke. How pathetic of me to even dream of such nonsense. It is why I refused those pretty invitations to your balls, despite the wretched pain it brought me every time. Crying myself to sleep like a little girl, sewing a gown for every single season, only to toss it into the fire in fear that I wouldn’t be able to see you dance with another girl if I even dared to show my face in your humble abode…”

Removing your face from your hands, you wipe away your tears as he stares at you in disbelief. He wonders if he heard you correctly—no—he prays to the Heavens that he heard you correctly. Has all his suffering in silence been simply caused by a misunderstanding? That perhaps, you had been suffering too, afraid of your lack of proprietary and low title? Afraid of him turning you down in disgust? 

The rain continues to pour down on the forbidden lovers, but neither seem to pay the weather any heed. Instead it serves as a reminder that although fierce, storms can allow for outbursts of emotions, hiding the noise in order to shield secrets from the prying ears of the Universe.

“Say it isn’t true,” Sylus breathes, rain dripping down his face.

“What?”

“Say that you never shed a tear because of me. That you never felt ashamed in front of me.”

“Sylus...”

He reaches out, hands trembling as he takes your face between his palms, his thumbs brushing away the stray tears that continue to pour from your eyes. It breaks his heart, seeing you like this. 

“I thought you knew,” Sylus whispers. His eyes flicker down to your lips. So pink and plump. Begging him to just lean in and press them against his own. Heart hammering against his chest, he waits for you to say something. Anything. 

“Knew what?” You say after a long pause.

Sylus cannot take it any longer. If not now, when will he ever find the courage to tell you the truth that you deserve to know?

“That my love for you burns brighter than any star in the Universe. It is so heavy, that I have been living like Atlas who was doomed to carry the sky, but instead of the sky, I hold my love for you above my head, hoping that one day, you would wish to carry it with me.”

Like flowers blooming after a particularly harsh winter, the two of you stand in the rain, holding your breaths as a realisation slowly dawns between two lonely souls.

“Why me?” You say it with such sorrow that it makes Sylus want to tear the Earth in two for making you feel like you are woman that is not worth loving.

“You could have anyone, but I only have you.” Your lower lip trembles as you speak.

“Excuse my bluntness, but you are sorely mistaken,” Sylus says, ruby eyes blazing. “For I may have the choice of anyone, but my only wish is to have you, if you will allow it.” 

You choke out a laugh. “Was it my sharp tongue or my ragged clothes?”

“It was simply you,” Sylus replies. “From the moment I saw you hiding behind the curtain, I knew it would only ever be you that would be able to make me feel anything at all.”

Another soft laugh of incredulity escapes your lips. 

“My room is above the shop. It’s…well, to be quite frank, there is nothing worthwhile up there for you to see, but I…I want to take you up there just to keep you near me for a little longer.”

“My afternoon is yours,” Sylus says, pressing his forehead against yours. “And so is every moment you seek my company from this day forward. From now on, my time shall only be dedicated to you. I will have one of my men always situated in town so he can fetch me whenever you desire to see me.”

Catching your hand as he pulls away from your face, he presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. 

“Now show me this room of yours, and I will decide for myself whether it is worth my time or not.”

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

Patience is a virtue, unless of course, patience lacks control, and in the unfortunate incident where both seem to be absent in a situation, one can only be left helpless, which is what Sylus feels as he presses his thigh between your legs, half your corset undone as you sink your teeth into his neck, licking over the bruise as he desperately tries to cling to his sanity, because this feels like a dream.

Both of you are still drenched from the rain, yet it does not seem to bother either of you. In fact, it only adds another excuse for the shedding of clothes, for leaving them on would only be an inconvenience. God forbid, Sylus would never want you to catch a cold in the middle of Summer.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs as you detach your mouth from his neck, panting as you watch his eyes rake over your exposed skin and the fullness of your hair now that he’s ripped off your bandana, your full beauty spilling from its restraints.

His large hands suddenly lift you up as he squeezes your thighs through the cotton material of your stockings, a soft moan escaping your lips as he carries you over to the bed, gently placing you down on the rumpled sheets as he finishes untying the strings of your corset. 

Clawing at his shirt, you rip his blouse free from his trousers, your hands quickly becoming acquainted with the buttons as you undo them with all the skill of a seamstress. A lady that knows her way around clothes, he aids you by shrugging off the blouse as he leans over you, fingers sliding across the buckle of his belt.

A soft sigh escapes his lips as his cock is freed from the tight fabric all at once. Without a warning, your hand reaches out to palm his hardness through his briefs, your eyes full of lust as he shuts his own and lets the pleasure course through his body. Finally. All those nights of finding a release by rubbing himself to an orgasm with the fantasies of his fingers on your bare skin, all the cold showers he had to take in order to rid himself of his sexual desires that always seemed to involve you; it has finally come to a conclusion. A conclusion that involves fucking you with all the heat that has been building up inside of him for what feels like centuries.

Now, as he sheds you of all your layers, he cannot help but take his time, despite the fact that you’re begging him to just insert himself already. 

“I did not know ladies even understood the true, obscene, meaning of intercourse,” Sylus hums, kissing a trail down your thighs as he pulls down your underwear with his long fingers, tossing them aside as he observes the wetness leaking from your folds. 

“Any lady with a brain knows that the greatest of pleasures comes from intercourse,” you sigh, catching his wrist and pulling it towards your throbbing clit, a whimper escaping your lips as he begins to massage circles into the little bud. 

“You cannot fathom how many times I’ve thought about this,” Sylus growls, leaning down to kiss your bare breasts as you squirm against the mattress. 

“How humorous. I often found myself thinking of you when I would touch myself,” you reply with an air of tongue-and-cheek.

Sylus moans, his head falling against your chest as you curl your fingers into his silver hair. 

“I wish we had of declared our true feelings of affection sooner. We would have saved so much time.”

“Perhaps we can make up for it now.” 

In one swift movement, Sylus finds his position being shifted as you launch yourself into his bare chest, knocking him onto his back as you climb on top of him, pulling down his briefs, your eyes widening at his size.

“It is not just a big estate you possess, I see,” you say, a smirk on your lips as you crawl towards him, lifting your hips before sinking down on his thick cock with one swift movement.

Sylus curses as you take him in his entirety. His hips buck up involuntarily, but you seem to be on the same page, and you grind your hips to meet his repeating thrusts as his hands squeeze your waist, not wanting this feeling to ever end.

As the bed shakes and the room fills with wet noises of skin slapping against skin, two souls intertwine and become whole, an eclipse that only happens once in a lifetime. Your moans only make his cock throb with desire even more, while his thrusts cause your wetness to increase by the second. Far from delicate, it’s a rough dance the two of you find yourselves in. But there is also a tenderness present in the way he runs his fingers over the soft skin of your thighs every few minutes, or the way you look down at him to check if he’s still enjoying your movements. 

It lasts longer than a dozen waltzes. Sylus takes you in any way he can. Against the wall, on the floor, every position he can think of, he tries, and you are right there with him, bending your body to his will, greed making your pupils widen with want and need. Please take me again, Sylus. I can handle it. My pussy will always long for the feeling of your cock forevermore. 

The rainy afternoon bleeds into a misty twilight as Sylus comes all over your breasts for his third orgasm of the day, painting you with every last drop he has. It’s bliss. 

“Sylus…” 

You tug on his hand, forcing his fingers into your wet heat as you rub your clit, your legs spread wide.

“So greedy,” Sylus pants, but he continues to move his fingers in the way he has learnt that you like. 

“Will you come on my fingers, my darling?”

“Y-Yes,” you sigh, eyes shutting as Sylus feels your walls tightening around him.

“How many more times will you come undone for me like this?” Sylus asks, curling his fingers, taking pride in himself as he finds the spot that sends you into a paradise that only he can take you to.

It doesn’t take you long to reach your climax after that. A few more strategic movements of his fingertips, and you’re coming once more. Sylus makes sure to guide you through it, eventually removing his hand as you whine from the loss. He kisses your forehead as he wipes you down with a handkerchief, assuring you that there will be plenty more time to fill you once more before the day is over. 

Laboured breathing and the musky smell of sex. Sylus has lost count of the hours you both have spent lost in pleasure. The ladies of the town will be wondering how he managed to disappear from their sight. Or perhaps someone will have already put two and two together. But as Sylus looks at your naked figure through the dwindling daylight, he simply couldn't care less. 

Pulling you into his arms, he rests his chin on the crown of your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, legs tangling together as you both bask in the post-sex haze. 

“So will you come to Fumbally for the ball?”

A burst of giggles that sounds akin to the bells of an orchestra. Sylus did not know that you could make such a sound, did not know he was capable of making anyone feel happiness that is so pure and genuine.

So lovely. So free. Perhaps this is the true-self that you had been hiding from him in fear that he would not accept you for who you are.

“I do not own a fancy gown that would be suitable for such an event,” you say, once your giggles have died down. 

“Then let me commission one for you. You can use whatever material you want. I will see to it that you won’t have to use a penny of your wages.”

“And a ribbon?”

Sylus kisses your head. “From now on, I will only buy ribbons for one woman in Asterville.”

“Oh? The ladies of the town will be terribly unhappy about that.”

“Let them be unhappy, for I am now spoken for.”

Brash as his words may be, he means every single one, for this is only the beginning of his quest to earn, not only the full depths of your heart, but your hand in marriage. But there will be plenty of time to do so, now that he has laid his intentions out for you to bear witness to.

Kissing your head once more, he shut his eyes, slowly falling into a deep sleep.

And for the first time in his life, the Duke dares to dream of a future with the seamstress who has entrapped him in her eternal embrace.

⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ a/n: thank you to everyone who encouraged me to post this; it has been living in my head rent free. and yes! i did rewatch pride and prejudice 3 times in the past 24 hours in hopes to capture even a fraction of the beautiful essence of jane austen and the power of yearning !!!! as always, much love to all who take the time to read my silly little fics. as always, i dedicate my work to you.

love always, daisy ❀

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ taglist: @peascribbles @dyeinsomniadontwake @blessdunrest @sylusgirlie7 @madam8 @glassandhoney @ash-dreamer220 @sleepykittyenergy

[syluriar]

[syluriar]

from the latest story chapters full on x

[syluriar]

I put the "sex" in "sexy", shit, I would even undress me

[syluriar]

american satan

[syluriar]

tantrum

synopsis: what makes sylus snap?

tags: fluff, sylus is tired and grumpy bc he misses you, he obliterates his phone with his evol, sunshine reader probably, cartoonish luke and kieran appearance (sorry boys) word count: 842

a/n: after that magnum opus line i really wanted to see sylus throw a tantrum and i kept mulling over what would actually make him do that because i can’t see him doing anything much worse than this. i think he’d find Actual grown man tantrums lame. anyway i don’t like this and will maybe delete? nvm but i had the writing urge so i sacrificed this concept from my wips. 

When you arrived at the base after your three-week business trip, your long-awaited homecoming was…tame, to say the least. You’d been expecting a teasing “How nice of you to join us, sweetie,” or a cocky yet vulnerable “I was beginning to think you’d run away.” But once you’d stepped through the front door, Sylus had barely said a word. A soft “Welcome home” and a kiss on the forehead, and before you knew it, you were cradled in his arms as he carried you to his office.

He’d sat you both down in his leather armchair, making you face him in a straddle. His tired eyes had searched yours, and a moment later, he’d buried his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. 

“I missed you,” you’d murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss to his hair. With a quiet groan, he’d tightened his grip on your hips and nuzzled into you even deeper.

That’d been 15 minutes ago. Basking in the comfortable silence, you’d traded kisses all the while—yours on his hair, his on your neck. 

But suddenly, a low buzzing noise cuts your reunion short: his phone is ringing.

When he makes no effort to answer, still breathing heavily in your embrace, you twist in his arms and accept the call before he can protest. 

A familiar voice crackles over the line. “Boss?” Kieran asks. “Next meeting’s in 10. The one about those stolen shipments from Linkon—we’ve been waiting to hear back for months. You coming?”

Sylus doesn’t answer.

“…Boss?” Kieran repeats. “Boss, you there? You oka—”

Red and black mist shreds the phone into pieces. 

“Sylus!” you yelp, jumping in his lap. “What’d you do that for? He’ll probably be worried. And how will I text you now?”

You pout up at him, and as you study his chronically calm expression, you see something unusual: Sylus’s eye twitches. Just for a millisecond, only moving a millimeter, but you catch it.

“I’ll have a new one delivered tomorrow. As for the meeting, I’ll stay here,” he says lightly, a tight, closed-lip smile on his face.

“But Kieran said it was important,” you reply in confusion. “Why don’t you want to go? Are you feeling sick?” you frown, starting to lift off of him.

“No,” comes his too-quick reply. “It’s just…the twins can go in my stead,” he decides simply, moving to lean into you again.

But before he can move an inch, a rhythmic sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

“Come in!” you chirp happily, too excited to see the faces you’d missed the last few weeks to notice Sylus stiffening under you.

Immediately, the door swings open, revealing two masked figures. 

“Hi Luke, hi Kieran!” you beam, and they wave back at you eagerly.

“Long time no see,” Kieran begins. “Boss, did you lose signal or something? I tried calling you about the meeting, but I think it disconnected. Anyway, we���re about to head down and—”

“Cancel it,” a frustrated growl rings out.

You all freeze.

Somehow, you’d been too wrapped up in your excitement to feel Sylus's body shaking—no, quaking—beneath you.

“W-what? But they’re already here!” Luke sputters.

“Cancel. It.” Sylus grits out the words as if holding back a snarl, and the power in his voice leaves no room for argument. 

“O…kay,” the boys say in unison, and as they back away slowly, you shoot them a sympathetic look.

Red tendrils wrench the door shut behind them, and when you’re alone once more, it’s like the man under you deflates.

His head returns to the crevice of your neck with a soft but unceremonious thud, and his deep exhales and burning hot skin tell you he’s trying to calm himself down. 

Uncertain and a little amazed—you’d never seen him lose his composure—you give his cheek a gentle poke. “Sylus,” you whisper. Nothing. 

“Psst. Sylus,” you try again, and there’s some force behind your poke this time. With bated breath, you watch as your finger sinks into the space under his cheekbone, sighing in relief when the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

Lifting his head up to make eye contact, you smile at him softly. “Hi.”

“…Hi,” he rumbles, and as his crimson gaze softens, the remaining annoyance dissolves from his face.

“Are you upset?” you prod gently. 

A brazen scoff precedes the dry chuckles that fall from his lips. “And what makes you say that, kitten?”

A squint and a slight tilt of your head is all it takes. 

“I haven’t had you to myself in a while,” he begins cautiously. “Three weeks is…a long time. The longest we’ve been apart. And then the moment I have you in my arms, well…” he trails off, gesturing to the shards of phone on the table. “I just want to enjoy you right now. Undisturbed.”

“Oh, I see,” you coo, cupping his face in your hands. “Is this your way of saying you missed me too?” you quirk a brow.

“Yes,” he responds through squished cheeks, honest and unabashed. “Now, won’t you stay with me like this for a little longer?”

[syluriar]

f1 driver!sylus as your bf headcanons | sfw ver.

✧ f1 driver!sylus is ferrari’s precision weapon—their very own thoroughbred—hot-blooded and agile. sylus doesn’t just drive to win—he drives because domination is second nature. no opponent rattles him. no track unsettles him. he walks into every race weekend with that slow, deliberate confidence that says: you were never going to beat me.

✧ f1 driver!sylus never raises his voice. he doesn’t need to. his words cut cleaner in a whisper. he’s the kind of man who’d look a rival dead in the eyes and say, “try harder. i need at least a challenge before lunch.” and mean it.

✧ f1 driver!sylus once refused to appear at a post-race fan event because you had collapsed on the team’s sofa after a long day. he didn’t care about press schedules or sponsorship obligations—if you needed rest, that was his priority. that night, he stayed quietly by your side, his presence alone saying everything you needed to hear: you come first. always.

✧ f1 driver!sylus makes sure you always have a reserved spot right in the ferrari garage. whether it’s the pre-race preparations or celebrations, he wants you close enough to see every detail—the way his crew moves with precision, the sparkle of victory in his eyes, and the rare moments he lets his guard down just for you. this spot isn’t just a seat—it’s his way of letting you know that you’re his number one, always.

✧ f1 driver!sylus loves making friendly bets with you about his race outcomes—sometimes wagering small things like who makes dinner or who picks the next movie. his cocky grin only grows wider when he wins, but beneath the teasing, he cherishes the way you get so invested, as if you’re racing alongside him. these playful bets are a private language, a way to keep the competition playful and the connection alive, no matter how intense the season gets.

✧ f1 driver!sylus has your signature prominently imprinted on the rear wing of his ferrari car, right below the team logo—a bold, personal mark that shows everyone exactly who’s with him every race. before every race, he runs his hand lightly over your signature, a small ritual that centers him, grounds him, and fuels the fire that drives him forward. it’s his personal good luck charm, a symbol of your unshakable bond.

✧ f1 driver!sylus is so catastrophically dramatic, it’s theatrical. he’ll tweet “my girl hasn’t replied in 43 minutes. if you see me full-send into a wall, know i went out thinking about her eyebrows.” swears he’s fine, then texts you “would you still love me if i lost pole position?” after winning a race, he’ll deadpan into the camera, “this victory means nothing. she’s still mad.” they could hand him champagne, a trophy, a contract extension—he’d just sit silently on a folding chair in the back of the garage, helmet still on, just… staring at the wall. engineers are too scared to speak. someone asks if he’s okay and he mutters, “she said ‘do what you want.’ i don’t know what that means.”

✧ f1 driver!sylus turns everything into a game, pulling you into his fierce, competitive world with ease. grocery shopping becomes a silent battle of who picks the better snack, choosing a movie turns into a playful standoff, and even casual conversations carry the edge of a contest. it’s his way of sharing his sharp mind and keeping you on your toes, and deep down, he loves that you rise to the challenge.

✧ f1 driver!sylus doesn’t tweet often it’s either pure sarcasm (“practiced my victory dance in the mirror. might retire undefeated.”), unexpectedly romantic (“she didn’t look at the grid once. just me. i won twice today”), or completely chaotic like, “my girl’s mad at me. if i don’t make it to fp2, tell the stewards it was for love.” his pr team lives in fear.

✧ f1 driver!sylus has your iris—not just a vague symbol, but a precise, detailed image—instead of the ferrari logo on his steering wheel. it’s a deeply private touch, hidden in plain sight. when he grips the wheel, feeling the texture beneath his fingers, he sees you. that single image reminds him why he pushes so hard, races so fiercely—it’s not just for glory, but for you.

✧ f1 driver!sylus never forgets to save you a seat at every event, ensuring you have the perfect vantage point for every high-speed moment and every victorious celebration. but he doesn’t just think about your comfort; he thinks about the small things that make you feel cared for. nestled in the cooler beneath his helmet bag are your favorite protein bars, a thermos filled with the drink you prefer, and those rare cookies only found back home. he carries these not for himself, but to keep you energized and comforted no matter how grueling the weekend gets.

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

— ✦ © @ x1asirene, tumblr 2025 ✧

[syluriar]

THIS ART IS NOT MINE.. X: https://x.com/friedmayoshrimp/status/1916552379341668615?s=46 •THE AUTHOR ALLOWED ME TO POST THIS.•

[syluriar]

❤️Nap with Sylus~

*More art on Patreon

[syluriar]

Happy Birthday to our dragon Full (it's animated!!) on X

[syluriar]

Hear me out:

Bartender!Sylus.

That's it.

That's the thought.

OooOOooooOoo, anon, say less!!!

𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐇𝐄 ��𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 quiet before the storm.

That narrow hour between dusk and desire, when the bar pulsed with low jazz and half-hearted conversation. When shadows softened and everything felt suspended—breathless. Sylus wiped down the walnut counter in slow, deliberate circles, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hands were steady. Movements economical. He never rushed this part. The ritual grounded him, like a blade being cleaned before its sheath swallowed it whole.

This bar was his domain. Clean lines. Dim light. A curated playlist of smooth jazz and second chances. Everything chosen. Nothing wasted. He knew every bottle behind him, every pour time, every burn it left behind. He’d built this place the same way he lived—understated, tightly coiled, dangerous only when provoked.

And people? People told the truth when they drank.

He could read a person by their order. Gin drinkers were thinkers—overanalyzing, overfeeling. Tequila was chaos incarnate. Wine? That depended. Either soft-hearted romantics or sharp-eyed socialites, depending on how they held the glass. Whether they drank to forget or to remember.

Tonight, he’d already taken inventory.

The trust-fund burnout in the corner, nursing a neat bourbon like it might absolve him. The woman two stools down, texting her ex like she wasn’t. The finance wolves in the booth, guffawing over overpriced Scotch, trying too hard to forget they were aging.

Then she walked in.

Not the kind of pretty that demanded attention. Something older than that. Cultivated. Poised. A weapon dressed in silk.

Sylus’s hands stilled on the cloth—just for a second.

Her heels struck the marble with soft authority. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t scan the room. She walked in like she owned the lease to the night itself, slid into the third stool from the end—his end—and crossed her legs with the kind of calculated ease that made the silk ride up, just enough to suggest it wasn’t an accident.

She entered like she didn’t owe the evening an apology.

No theatrics. No hair toss. Just the quiet click of heels and the whisper of fabric against skin. An energy. An expectation. The kind of woman used to being looked at.

Sylus looked.

Not because she was beautiful. Beautiful women came and went—draped in perfume like armor, lies lacquered over lips. But her beauty was curated. Exact. Not to seduce, but to distract.

She’d chosen that stool for a reason. Not near the door, not too far from him. A perfect angle to watch the entrance without being watched herself.

She wasn’t here to drink.

She was waiting.

Sylus rinsed the shaker, set it down with a soft click, and let his gaze return to her. She hadn’t looked at the menu. She hadn’t looked at him. She sat perfectly still. Not tense. Not relaxed. Held.

Controlled women made him wary.

Controlled women knew why they were here.

Her phone rested face-up on the bar. It hadn’t lit up once.

He stepped toward her, slow. The overhead light caught on the hard edge of his jaw. No lean-in. No practiced charm. Just a quiet offer.

“What can I get you?”

Her eyes flicked up at last.

Not flirtatious. Not cold. Just a glance—calibrated. Indifferent. The kind of look that came from a woman who’d already decided she wouldn’t waste her time.

“Dirty martini,” she said. “Three olives.”

Her voice was smooth. Low. The kind meant for velvet booths and whispered ultimatums—not cheap apologies and easy nights.

He nodded once.

Gin. Vermouth. Olive brine. Ice.

The shaker moved through his hands on instinct, but his mind stayed tethered to the woman who didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t lower her guard.

When he set the coupe glass down before her, she didn’t thank him.

She didn’t need to.

She sipped. Barely. No lipstick print on the rim. Of course not.

Her phone lit once. A notification. She didn’t move. Just pressed the screen dark again.

Sylus stepped back into the shadows behind the bar, arms folded, expression unreadable.

She wasn’t here for conversation. She was here for someone else.

But that didn’t stop him from memorizing her drink. Or the mask she wore to match it.

Time passed in glances.

In the rise and fall of her breath, soft through her nose. In the way her eyes kept returning to the entrance—not frequently, but rhythmically. Like she was giving someone a final chance to fix their mistake before it calcified into something permanent.

She never touched her phone again. That told him more than any expression could.

People expecting good news kept their screens close, eyes twitching to every buzz, hungry for distraction. Hers now lay face-down, untouched. As if she'd stopped expecting anything at all.

The martini remained half-finished. The olives, untouched.

She didn’t check the time. Didn’t fidget. She simply waited—poised and unmoved, like a painting no one dared disturb.

Sylus kept busy, or pretended to. Polished a glass already spotless. Shifted a bottle that hadn’t run dry. His hands moved, but his mind stayed fixed on her, circling her like smoke, drawn to stillness that felt earned.

A woman who orders that drink doesn’t tolerate being second.

Whoever she was waiting for was already making a mistake.

At exactly twenty-eight minutes—he’d counted, though he wouldn’t admit it—she shifted. Just slightly. Not impatient. Not bitter.

Resigned.

She tipped the rest of the drink back in a single, silent pull, then set the glass down with a soft, definitive finality that echoed louder than any goodbye.

Her hand reached for the clutch.

Sylus moved before he meant to.

“Another?”

She stilled.

Fingers on the clasp. But she didn’t look at him. Didn’t open it. Her shoulders didn’t shift.

“For yourself,” she said, coolly. “Or your tip jar?”

The words weren’t sharp. They didn’t need to be. Just calm, factual. Detached in a way that made his jaw go tight.

He didn’t reply.

He simply picked up the shaker again and made her another.

Not out of stubbornness. Not pity.

Curiosity.

She didn’t stop him.

This time, she reached for the glass before he could place it down. Their hands didn’t touch, but the space between them felt calibrated. Deliberate.

She sipped slower.

Still no olives.

Her date wasn’t coming. That much was obvious now.

But what set her apart was the absence of unraveling. No angry calls. No trembling lip. No sharp laughter into voicemail or grand, stomping exit.

She simply… recalibrated.

Like disappointment was an old acquaintance. Like this was just another quiet bruise in a life she’d long ago stopped icing.

Sylus watched her, studied her like a lock he wasn’t sure he wanted to pick.

What kind of man left a woman like that waiting?

And more importantly—why did she let him?

Not for the first time that night, he considered asking.

But Sylus never interrupted performances he didn’t understand. Not until he was sure of the final act.

He poured himself a glass of water—nothing stronger—and leaned a hip against the back counter, arms crossed.

“I wouldn’t take you for someone who settles for silence.”

The words weren’t part of the script. Not from him. They were real.

She turned to him, this time fully. No performance. No posture.

Just a look—level. Unimpressed. But not unkind.

“Isn’t that what bars are for?”

He tilted his head. “Most people come here to forget. You’re not drinking fast enough for that.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. Not amusement. Not pain.

Recognition.

“I don’t need help forgetting,” she said, voice even. “I’m very good at it.”

And this time—finally—she reached for an olive.

Bit into it slowly.

Deliberately.

As if to prove she could still taste the difference between survival and surrender.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

She’d chosen to stay. That was enough.

The second martini sat between them, touched but not rushed. Her fingers skimmed the stem in slow, absent strokes—less for show now. Less for whoever hadn’t shown up. More for herself. For the stillness. For the pause.

Sylus kept his distance. Polished a shaker that didn’t need it. Rearranged the bitters. Let the moment unravel on its own, quiet and inevitable. Like tide meeting shore.

She hadn’t asked for more. But she hadn’t left either.

When she set the glass down again, something had shifted.

A single shoulder softened. Her spine no longer held in perfect symmetry. Not quite vulnerability.

Something gentler. Trust, maybe. Or weariness. Or the quiet grief of expectations unmet.

Sylus stepped forward again, steady, unhurried. Took the space directly across from her, one hand resting lightly on the bar—close, but not enough to touch. Not enough to make her flinch.

“I’ve seen a lot of first dates in this bar,” he said, voice low. “Not one of them deserved to be stood up.”

She didn’t look up right away. Her gaze lingered on the olive pit resting like a secret in the cradle of her cocktail napkin.

“I stopped calling it that after the second reschedule.”

No edge to her voice. No bitterness. Just resignation, soft and clean.

Somehow, that made it worse.

Sylus exhaled quietly. “But you’re still here.”

That earned him a look. Direct. Not defensive. Curious.

“So?”

“So,” he said, “I’m trying to figure out if you’re more patient than I thought… or more stubborn.”

A breath of laughter left her lips—not light, not mocking. Dry. Knowing. A crack in the façade. Not weakness. Recognition.

“I’m both,” she said. “It’s not always a good thing.”

He nodded, settling his other hand on the edge of the bar now. Elbows relaxed. Stance easy.

“Most of the interesting people are.”

She didn’t reply.

Just took another sip. Slower.

The glass touched the bar with barely a sound.

Her gaze shifted— Not toward the door. Not to the phone she hadn’t touched.

Toward him.

She watched him now. Not his face, but the shape of his presence. The way he leaned, how his hands never fidgeted. The silence he wore like armor—weighted, not empty.

Her lashes dropped. Not flirtation.

Focus.

“You own this place?” she asked.

It wasn’t tossed like idle conversation. There was gravity in it—curiosity laced with intent. The kind of question you ask when you’re not just trying to fill the silence, but understand the man who poured your drink and didn’t flinch when your disappointment took its seat beside you.

Sylus considered lying. Pretending to be just the bartender. It would’ve been simpler. Safer.

But she was asking because she already knew.

“Yes.”

She hummed. “Figures.”

No smile. No compliment. Just a word, dropped like a coin on the table.

He arched a brow. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”

She tapped her glass lightly. “Depends.”

“On?”

“On whether you built it to belong to something,” she said, “or to stay out of it.”

That hit him harder than she could’ve known.

Not visibly. Not in a way most people would catch.

But she wasn’t most people, was she?

He didn’t answer. Just straightened a coaster that hadn’t moved

“Does it matter?” he said eventually.

She tilted her head. “If it didn’t, you would’ve answered.”

A pause stretched between them—clean, quiet, soft-edged. Not awkward. Just honest.

He looked at her then. Really looked. Not at the dress. Not at the drink. Not at the wait she’d endured.

At her. The woman asking questions she had no business asking. The one who should’ve left by now—but hadn’t. The one studying him like he was something rare and possibly dangerous on a tasting menu.

“I built it,” he said, “because it’s the only place I don’t have to explain myself.”

She nodded, slow. Like that made all the sense in the world. Like she knew exactly what that cost.

And in that moment, they weren’t bartender and guest. Not even man and woman.

Just two people who’d built quiet things from loud pasts. And decided not to apologize for either.

She looked down, reached for the last olive, rolled it between her fingers once… then set it aside.

Then: “What do you drink?”

Simple. Unassuming.

But he heard what she was really asking.

What would you choose, if no one was watching?

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped back. Turned toward the shelves. No performance. No flair. Just motion stripped of showmanship.

He selected a bottle—dark label, half-empty—poured two fingers of amber, unhurried.

She watched. Still and silent.

He didn’t lift the glass. Didn’t offer a toast.

Just said, “Something quiet. No garnish. No finish that lingers longer than it should.”

And drank it like it meant something.

The air shifted.

Not cooler. Not warmer. Just… closer.

She tilted her head. Her eyes weren’t on the drink.

They were on the man holding it.

“I’ve heard bartenders can tell a lot about a person by what they order.”

Sylus glanced at her. The corner of his mouth twitched—more edge than smile.

“Some say that.”

“Is it true?” she asked, voice unreadable. “Or just something you say when the night’s slow and the lights are low?”

It wasn’t flirtation. Didn’t need to be.

Her voice settled between them with the weight of suggestion. Not invitation. An offering. A test.

He leaned in—not much. Just enough to shrink the space between them.

“You looking for an answer?” he murmured, too low to travel, too close to ignore.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass. A meaningless gesture. Or maybe one that meant too much.

“I think I want to hear how you’d lie about it.”

He didn’t answer.

He watched her.

The slope of her neck. The shift of her hair. The pulse flickering just beneath skin untouched.

And then— Silk slipped.

One strap sliding down her shoulder, quiet as breath.

It didn’t fall far. Just enough to suggest softness beneath steel.

She didn’t move to fix it. Didn’t look away.

The silence stretched—tight, electric.

He didn’t ask permission.

He reached.

Fingers slow. Two knuckles brushing the bare line of her collarbone as he lifted the strap and returned it to place.

Not rushed. Not suggestive.

Precise.

Like adjusting something expensive he hadn’t yet earned the right to touch.

Her breath caught—just barely.

The kind of inhale a woman doesn’t know she’s holding until it threatens to shatter her.

And when she exhaled, it escaped between parted lips.

Neither of them spoke.

He let his hand fall away. But the absence of it lingered.

She lifted her glass again—but didn’t drink. Just held it. Like an anchor.

“Tell me, then,” she said at last. “What does a dirty martini say about a woman?”

He leaned in again. Still not touching. But close enough that her perfume broke through everything else—the citrus, the gin, the night itself.

He didn’t smirk.

Didn’t whisper.

He said it like a truth he’d known too long.

“That she knows what she wants.”

A pause.

“And that she doesn’t mind getting her hands a little messy to take it.”

Her lips parted. Ready to answer.

But nothing came out.

Not right away.

Instead, she smirked.

Not wide. Not practiced. Just the faintest pull at the corner of her mouth—like she’d finally decided he was worth teasing.

Her glass met the bar without fanfare. Her fingers drifted. One hand slid forward, slow, deliberate.

Not toward him. Onto him.

Her nails grazed his forearm. A featherlight touch. Barely there. Lazy. Intentional.

Not the kind of contact that asked permission. The kind that assumed it was already granted.

She traced slow circles against his skin—soft spirals, deliberate as a ritual. The pad of her finger followed the edge of a vein. Back and forth. Light. Measured.

Aimless, if you didn’t know better.

But he knew better.

Her touch wasn’t asking.

It was waiting.

Then, with her chin tilted just enough to veil her gaze, she looked up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

Her voice came soft. So soft it could’ve passed for breath.

“What do you think I want?”

He didn’t answer.

Maybe he couldn’t.

The question hit somewhere low. Somewhere quiet.

He swallowed once. Tight.

He never flirted with customers.

Not out of duty. Not even out of principle.

Because it blurred lines. Built expectations. And because it never ended clean.

But this wasn’t flirting.

It was sharper. Surgical. A scalpel in silk.

She kept touching him.

Unhurried.

Her fingertip gliding down the line of his arm like she was charting every inch of tension. Reading his restraint like Braille.

He watched her hand. The subtle twitch of her nail as she neared his wrist. Closer now. Closer still—

And he thought of her dress.

How it might fall.

Of her scent—warm, honeyed—pressed into his sheets.

He inhaled through his nose.

Too deep.

She noticed. Of course she did.

Her smirk deepened—not cruel. Not smug.

Just satisfied. Like she’d already won a game he hadn’t agreed to play.

He leaned in.

Not rushed. Not performative.

Just closer. By degrees.

Until the space between them was nothing but her perfume and the sound of held breath.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t need to.

His voice, when it came, was lower now. Rougher. Stripped bare

“Don’t ask me that.”

Her brow lifted, slow and deliberate. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll tell you.”

The circles stopped.

Her hand went still, resting lightly on his skin. The way someone pauses before crossing a line they won’t come back from.

Another breath filled the silence.

This one wasn’t his.

He reached for her.

No urgency. No heat.

Just one hand, lifting—slow, certain—like the decision had been made long before she ever touched him.

His fingers found her chin.

Tilted. Gently.

Not to control. To connect. To command her attention without force.

Her gaze rose to meet his, dark and unreadable.

And when his thumb brushed against her lower lip—light, reverent, deliberate—it felt like a beginning neither of them would dare name aloud.

Her lips parted beneath the touch.

Not in surprise. In invitation.

He stared at her mouth a beat too long.

Swallowed.

Parted his own to speak—

Though he didn’t yet know what he meant to say.

He never got the chance.

“Hey, boss—inventory’s screwed again. We’re short on the single malt, someone double-counted the Campari—want me to fix it now or wait ‘til close?”

The voice sliced clean through the moment.

Loud. Oblivious. Like cold air knifing through a warm room.

Sylus’s hand dropped like it had been burned.

He didn’t turn to look. Didn’t have to.

His jaw ticked. A curse scraped the back of his throat, quiet but sharp.

The moment—that fragile, burning thing bending the air around it—shattered.

Two sentences and reality had come rushing back in.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t startle like a woman caught in something reckless.

Instead, she smiled.

Slow. Dangerous.

A laugh curved at the edge of it—dry, velvet-edged. Amusement or disappointment—it was impossible to tell.

Her fingers returned to the rim of her glass. Unhurried. Unbothered.

She plucked the last olive, brought it to her lips with a grace that felt like punctuation. Bit. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then rose.

Smooth. Composed.

As if she hadn’t just been seconds from unraveling something between them with a single breath.

She reached for her clutch.

Tucked it under her arm.

“Your duty calls,” she murmured, voice wrapped in silk and steel. “Shame.”

He looked at her then. Breath still shallow. Fingers twitching once against the bar like they wanted to catch what was already slipping away.

But she turned before he could.

Didn’t wait for goodbye.

Just walked— Slow. Steady. The sway of her dress catching light like a secret.

And then she was gone.

Out the door. Like smoke that never intended to stay.

Sylus didn’t move.

Not at first.

The air had shifted—subtly, strangely. Like the pressure had dropped in the room and no one else had noticed.

His eyes stayed on the door. Fixed. Still.

Waiting for it to open again. For her to turn back. For anything.

It didn’t.

Around him, the bar blurred. Voices thinned. Glasses clinked. Music played—something low and slow.

He didn’t hear it.

All he heard was the silence she’d left behind.

And the echo of everything she hadn’t said.

His hand curled around the edge of the bar, fingertips pressing into the wood like he needed the feel of something solid.

She’d touched him. Looked at him like she saw past the mask, the title, the stillness he wore like armor.

And now—nothing.

Gone.

Her stool remained turned at an angle. Her glass, half-full. The olive pit still resting on its napkin like a memory.

She’d left too cleanly.

Like she hadn’t just unmade something in him—without ever laying a hand on his heart.

“Did I…” Luke’s voice pierced the quiet, hesitant. “Did I interrupt something?”

Sylus blinked once. Turned his head, slow.

Before he could speak, Kieran reached over and smacked the back of Luke’s head. Hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You really don’t know how to read a room, do you?”

Luke winced. Rubbed the spot. Didn’t ask again.

Sylus didn’t answer either. Didn’t need to.

His gaze returned to the door.

Still shut.

Still wrong.

“You gonna stand there looking like a ghost,” Kieran asked, quieter now, “or are you gonna go after her?”

Sylus didn’t reply.

The answer had already settled in his spine.

He moved.

No urgency. Just inevitability in every step. Heavy. Sure. Final.

He passed behind the bar. Past the register. Into the back.

The others watched. No one followed.

At the far end of the coat rack hung his jacket.

Scuffed leather. Storm-dark weight. The same one he’d worn since before the bar had a name.

He pulled it on.

Not for effect. For purpose.

The helmet followed. His hand closed around it with the certainty of someone who already knew where he was going—before his body had caught up.

Then the drawer.

Keys.

Cool metal pressed into his palm.

He turned.

Kieran was already there. Waiting.

Sylus didn’t speak. Just tossed him the keys.

Kieran caught them in one hand. Said nothing. Didn’t need to.

He understood.

“You’re locking up tonight.”

A pause.

Luke opened his mouth— Too late, as always.

“Wait… where are you going?”

Sylus stopped in the doorway. Turned halfway.

Not smiling. But something in him had lit. Quiet and wild.

Something reckless. Something real.

His voice came low. Measured. Unshaken.

“I just met my future wife.”

And then he was gone.

Not walking.

Moving.

Into the night.

Leather shoulders drawn tight beneath the streetlight. Helmet tucked under one arm. Eyes ahead.

Chasing the woman who hadn’t promised a damn thing—and still took everything with her.

The street was mostly empty.

Just the hush of distant tires. A flyer flapping on a lamppost, its corner tugged by wind. The pale glow of city lights bruising the sky gold.

Sylus stepped out of the bar and turned his head—once left, once right.

Sharp. Focused.

She hadn’t gone far.

His breath left in a slow exhale as he spotted her—twenty yards ahead, near the curb. One hand resting on a yellow cab’s door handle. The other holding her clutch loose at her side.

She stood in profile.

Still. Elegant. Poised in the moment between staying and leaving.

Then she moved—to step inside.

He whistled. Sharp. Low. Two fingers to his lips.

“Hey,” he called, breath catching on disbelief. “Wait—hey.”

Boots struck pavement. Each step controlled. Heavy. Certain.

She didn’t get in the car.

Didn’t close the door, either.

Just stood there. One hand still on the frame. Back angled toward him. The city curling around her like it understood not to intrude.

He slowed as he reached her.

She turned.

And smiled.

Not wide. Not victorious. Just a faint curve at the corners of her mouth—like she’d known he’d come. But also knew he might’ve missed it.

“What took you so long?”

The question floated between them like a thread pulled loose from something private.

He stopped a step away. His smirk came slower than hers.

“I…” He exhaled. A breath more than a word. “I didn’t get your name.”

Her brow lifted. Playful. Composed. Then she extended her hand.

Unhurried. Steady.

Like she was offering something that wouldn’t be offered twice.

She said her name.

It hung in the air like a note held just beyond the measure.

Sylus took her hand. Didn’t rush. Didn’t grip. Just turned her wrist in his palm, angled her fingers, and lowered his mouth to her knuckles.

Not a kiss to impress.

A gesture older than charm. Softer than seduction.

“Pleasure,” he murmured against her skin.

Then rose. Met her gaze.

“Sylus.”

She didn’t repeat it.

Just nodded.

Like she’d already known.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

She watched him.

He watched her.

Not in challenge. Not in invitation.

Just the quiet, steady weight of being seen—and not knowing what to do with it.

Her hand slipped from his. Slow. Careful.

She didn’t step back.

She waited.

So did he.

His mouth parted—like he meant to speak. But nothing came.

Instead, his hand lifted halfway to the back of his neck. Scratched. Brief. A little sheepish. A little exposed.

She tilted her head slightly. The corners of her mouth twitched, as if she were trying not to laugh.

He chuckled first. Low. Uncertain.

She followed a beat later. A soft, breathy laugh that didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

Like neither of them expected this moment—this charged stillness—to feel so... human.

And then—

A horn blared.

The cab driver leaned out his window, voice laced with impatience. “In or out, lady. I got three more stops tonight.”

She didn’t turn immediately.

Just blinked once. Then looked past Sylus. Then back at him.

He beat her to it.

“I could take you,” he said quickly. Then, softer, “If you’re not set on the cab. I’ve got my bike.”

His thumb hooked toward the helmet tucked under his arm.

It wasn’t a line.

He didn’t say it to impress her. He said it because he didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.

She looked at the helmet. Then at him.

Bit down gently on her lower lip—thoughtful, not coy.

Then turned toward the cab.

Reached out—

And with a soft click, closed the door.

The driver groaned, muttered something under his breath, and peeled off, tires whining as he disappeared into the blur of city traffic.

She turned back to Sylus. Chin lifted just enough to feel like a choice.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝… — © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

[syluriar]

LITERALLY CREAMING OVER THE NEW MAIN STORY UPDATE SYLUS IS SO FUCKING HOT SIWUWGSIAIWGE

[syluriar]

如你所愿，现在我们可没有退路了。 You got what you wanted. There's no turning back now. Love and Deepspace (2024), dev. Infold Games

[syluriar]

Birds Dont Sing

sylus x reader | fluff, comfort, a little bit angsty if you squint

this was a request from a kind anon reader♡

summary: sylus silently watches you being vulnerable in front of mephisto

Your apartment was unusually still, wrapped in that soft kind of quiet that only happens on slow afternoons. The kind where time doesn't stop, but stretches, languid and warm.

You were lying back against the cushions of the couch, one arm tucked behind your head, eyes closed as your face was graced with a soft smile, while Mephisto was perched on top of your stomach. Your tired gaze trailed toward the slivers of sunlight as they slipped beneath the horizon beyond the windowpane, painting the city in deep pinks and dusky purples, the last light smudging the skyline like fading watercolors.

Mephisto blinked at you, head tilting just slightly as if studying you with more than just curiosity. Almost like he understood you.

''You're so much gentler than you look, you know that?'' you murmured to the crow, voice just above a whisper.

Mephisto let out a soft click in response, the kind Sylus had once said, was the equivalent of a purr. Your fingers reached out slowly, pausing just before touching him. You always gave him that choice. Sylus had told you Mephisto could be wary, even proud, like a living bird. But today, he stepped closer without hesitation, lowering his head slightly, so you could run a finger along the smooth arch of his neck.

''I'm glad you're here. Both of you. You…help me feel safe.''

Mephisto tilted his head at you, blinking once, and stayed perfectly still. Almost like he was listening. Really listening.

You sighed, settling deeper into the cushions, fingertips still idly brushing from his sleek metallic head, down to his neck and up again. ''You and Sylus…you make everything feel a little less heavy.''

Unseen by you, the door to the kitchen opened moments before. Sylus stood quietly just inside the frame, unnoticed, one hand resting lightly against the wood as he watched you.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He'd simply come back from the kitchen to tell you that dinner was ready. But then he'd seen you, resting softly, speaking so earnestly. And Mephisto, the one creature he trusted without question, perched like a sentinel on top of you, his wings tucked neatly against his sides, responding to your affection like he was more than metal and wire. Like he had a soul. And his footsteps had gone silent out if instinct. He didn't move. Didn't speak. He just stood and listened.

Sylus swallowed the unexpected ache rising in his throat.

Because this wasn't a side of you most people get to see. This quiet, gentle kind of sadness. The longing for reassurance you rarely gave voice to. The way you looked at Mephisto, his creation, with such raw trust.

Sylus had built the crow to be an extension of himself in the field. His eyes in the dark, his silent defense, an extension of efficiency.But he'd never imagined this. That Mephisto could become something softer. A quiet presence. A guardian of your peace. A comfort.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Gentle.

''I think he likes you,'' he said quietly, breaking the silence just enough to let his voice slip in.

You blinked, startled, eyes flying open as your hand jerked back in surprise. ''Sylus! I- I didn't hear you come in.''

He stepped forward, crouching beside the couch and reaching out to lightly scratch Mephisto behind the head in the spot only he seemed to know. The bird chirped happily.

''He's picky,'' Sylus said, smirking just a little. ''He doesn't let just anyone touch him. You've earned his trust.''

You laughed under your breath, cheeks flushing. ''He's a good listener.''

Sylus tilted his head. ''So am I.''

There was a pause, quiet and meaningful.

Your voice softened again. ''Sometimes…it's easier to say the things I'm scared of out loud when I think no one's listening.''

He nodded, understanding in his gaze as he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

''I was listening,'' he murmured. ''And I'm glad you feel safe. That's all I want for you, sweetheart.''

''I worry sometimes,'' you admitted, eyes drifting down to Mephisto again. ''That I lean on you too much. That I'm not strong enough. I try not to show it, but…today, I just needed a quiet moment. And he was here. Like he knew.''

Sylus reached out, hand brushing against yours where it rested on the couch. His touch was cool, steady. Grounding.

''You never have to hide that from me,'' he said quietly. ''Your strength doesn't come from pretending you're okay. It comes from choosing to stay open. Even when it's hard.''

Your throat tightened at his words. You nodded, swallowing thickly.

''I see you,'' he added voice low and reverent. ''Every part. And I love all of it.''

Mephisto chirped again, wings fluttering just slightly before settling. You and Sylus both looked down at him, and for a beat, it was as if the three of you existed in your own pocket of the world. Quiet, safe, whole.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against Sylus's, your hand softly squeezing his.

''Thank you,'' you whispered. ''For listening. For knowing.''

He kissed your temple, lingering.

''Always.''

[syluriar]

[ 🌹 ] Sylusㅤ-ㅤValleydream Bloom Love and Deepspace

[syluriar]

Sylus swears he’s not needy.

Him? Of all people? Pining after someone? Texting them good morning and good night? Calling them just to hear their voice? Missing their presence? Really? Him? No way.

Well actually—

His mood is significantly more sour if he doesn’t hear from you. If he wakes up and doesn’t see your little good morning text that you sent hours ago before going to work knowing very well he was fast asleep.

He gets worried, calling your line the moment his brain isn’t groggy. And even then his morning voice shines through and you’re giggling as you answer the call.

A plethora of excuses, ranging from you running late to simply not wanting to risk waking him up since he had a rough night hours before. None of which Sylus are satisfied with, somehow verbally pouting as he scolds you.

“Kitten, you know that won’t suffice. I can’t forgive you.” And you’re still giggling, smiling like a lovesick fool as you tease your massive 6’2 powerhouse of a lover who is upset because you didn’t send your little crow emoji and bid him a good morning. “What should I do to fix this, hmm?”

That sweet little hum has Sylus rolling over, face briefly burying into his pillow to suppress a groan.

“I only accept in person apologies.” God he was struggling, his heart aching at the thought of you not being able to show up. “In person only? I’ll see what I can do.”

Before he can even open his mouth, he hears a familiar knock on his bedroom door.

Nobody would believe you if you were to tell them that the leader of Onychinus leapt from his bed and rushed to his bedroom door all because he knew you were on the other side of it. Which, in the end, makes it all the more special.

“So, that apology.”

“Ah, yes. I only accept them in the form of—hmph!”

Sylus has never been more pleased to be silenced. Especially when it’s your lips melting into his.

Banner from @cafekitsune

[syluriar]

welded by water

— you take the time to explore the base he offers you as your home, wandering through countless doors. but your favorite will always be the one that leads to him.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: OR SYLUS SWIMMING IN A POOL 😩 sylus’s birthday is in 3 days & i’m unwell ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ he’s gonna be celebrated for the first time and my heart bleeds i love him sm. anyway! this idea was born out of that one ingredient story where he pulls u in the pool I SCREAMED its so romantic & thinking abt sylus in a private pool changed my life 😵‍💫 i hope you enjoy!! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | fluff, romantic tension, smoochie kisses, sylus in a swimming pool hehehe

tw: suggestive touches, very brief description of drowning

You knew the base was big. You barely found your way around to the training room, feeling as if the halls shift and shuffle like an enchanted maze. Usually, Sylus would show you around— lead you by the elbow pushing forward, clasp your hands together to pull you to a secret garden, hike you up his hips and carry you to his bedroom. 

But today you decided exploring would be a good thing. Equipped with Mephisto on your shoulder (a ceasefire between you two today), you walk down the dim crossroads and forks of the building with confidence. 

You’d asked permission before, to walk around and open doors. Sylus merely hummed, lips pressed to your shoulder, saying, “Everything I own is yours.”

You didn’t take that lightly. You refused— tried to— but you knew he was certain. Every word uttered from his lips weighs like a stone in water. You knew, in your heart, he would claim the world and say that all he has conquered is yours to take and use according to your will. 

So here you are, assuming responsibility. Knowing the kingdom where you lay claim. With your phone on the notes app open, you tap tap tap away at directions and take stock of the rooms there are in his— your home.

It’s fun to discover to an extent. Although, when all Mephisto can give you is a head nuzzle and a squawk, you quickly lose interest by the fourth armory. Light fingers trace a line down from the bird’s head to his beak, “Where’s Sylus?” 

Mephisto shakes, his metallic feathers fluttering like real ones except they sound like windchimes— extremely thin iron tendrils clinking against each other like rain. One of your many favorite things about him.

The bird takes off to fulfill your request. This time, he waits for you to keep up. He leads you past an artificial greenhouse, another showcase room displaying his many gem collections, the boxing gym and then…

Mephisto perches himself on the top of the doorway of two double doors. If you’re correct, you should be west of the house. Maybe a wall of the whole structure. Beyond the threshold could be taller windows and maybe the sky. Maybe a telescope. With all the things you’ve seen, an observatory wouldn’t be surprising.

“Bet you three nut-bolts it’s an observatory.” you say and lean your weight into your shoulder against the door. “Though, I never thought him to be interested in astrono…” 

The words fizzle and die on your lips as you’re kissed by a faint blast of moisture and the sound of splashing echoing loud through the hall. Your gaze is drawn upwards at the high ceiling reverberating the sound, and then across the molded crowns of the walls. You follow the pattern, bewildered gaze racing down the curves of the large french windows. The stars— no, the galaxies, splattered like paint onto glass. The moon shines through the glass, and reflects unto the rippling water of the swimming pool. 

The pool where Sylus swam with refined grace. Running through laps with no signs of tiring. Breaking the surface of the water for breath, and then going back under to pop up again on the other end.

You’re too engrossed by the look of it all— how a room with a pool can rival the size of a library, can also feel like an observatory. You file your initial guess as a win at that.

Carefully, you step inside. Almost as if afraid to disrupt the sanctity of it all. But you push forward, into the candle-like glow of the lamps around the pool.

You make your way to the edge, sit cross legged and watch him swim. Up and down. Fast, faster. Silently and then with more force. A faint beeping signals his stop, and he emerges from the water like a god that commands the seas. The moonlight shines on his hair and transforms it into liquid silver melting over his eyes. 

Warm and cool reflect of the wet planes of his body, creating an ethereal illusion glimmering an otherworldly glow. 

And his eyes, so dark and yet brighter than a dying sun, find you. Hold you captive in their focus. Your stomach caves and your chest burns at his perception. 

The little jolt he gets in his chest whenever he finds you staring at him like that never fails to fluster him. What a gift to see you in general, but he cannot deny that he loves when you seek him out. When you emerge from your world and join him in his. When he finds you sitting there, staring, waiting for him. 

He swims from the other edge of the pool towards you. A swan through the water with practiced grace. And when he reaches your dry little island, he pulls himself up by his forearms to greet you. “Done exploring, sweetie?” 

You swallow. Happy he is here, but you often tend to forget how he looks beneath all his designer refinery and comfy, steal-able clothes. Strangled, an “mhm” manages to wriggle its way out your throat. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he smirks, catching the way your pupils scramble down so quickly and clumsily over his body. Beneath his cool exterior, his heart spasms with endearment. “Kitten?” 

And he’s back— love of your life, most annoying man on the planet. Stupid, cocky look dripping along with the droplets of his face as he challenges you. You dig through your pocket and find a coin. 

Swift and easy, you toss it into the pool. It plops and leaves ripples right by his hip. A beat, and then he tilts his head at you in confusion. “Made a wish?” 

“Enriching this pool.” you explain. “It lacks gold, and I’ve always seen you as someone who should be swimming in it.” 

“Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t take it then.” you huff.

He chuckles, turning your upturned nose back towards him with wet fingers, making you scowl. He grins wider, “No, no. it’s just… not enough.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh. I’m sorry, would you like me to throw in a hundred in there?” 

He snorts. “Sweetheart, you can do better than that.”

“Your black card drowns then.”

He laughs, whole and soulful. And it echoes through the hall as this beautiful symphony. “None of that is enough to enrich the pool.” 

“Calling yourself broke isn’t as humbling as you think.”

“Darling.”

“What?”

“Hold your nose.” splash! In a single movement, he’s grasped your hand and pulled you into the water. Your arms flail, but his touch never leaves you as he hauls his soaked little dragon li up to the surface.

“Sylus!” you screech, finding his shoulders and pulling yourself flush against him for leverage. You didn’t expect it to be that deep. His arms wrap around you tightly as he chuckles. 

Truly, how delightful is your misery.

“Now it’s enriched.” he says slowly. Glancing down at your downturned lips and your angry brow. A request you recognize and melts you right away.

Your distance makes it easier to curl your fingers on the nape of his neck and tug his lips to yours in a slow, languid kiss. 

You breathe, “How’d you know my wish?”

He grins, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips in rapid successions. He has no answer, but he lets you know that he wished for it too. 

You’re pulled further into the pool, his movements smooth and unhurried as he kisses you again. A man starved. The first drop of water in the desert. 

You cling tighter, worried when your feet can’t find the ground. But he guides your thigh up and taps the back of your knee so you wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Sweetie.” he murmurs, motions taking pause. He delights in the way you push more, chasing his halted kisses with your soft lips. “Mm, beloved.”

“Yes?” you almost whine, irked by the interruption. Every fiber of his soul frays and blows into the wind at the sound anyway.

“Look.” he says, only because he knows you’ll love it. Gentle fingers wrap around your chin, turning your head towards the length of the pool. With your stillness, the water follows suit, and reveals an endless mirror for the endless sky. 

“Oh,” your lips part, your eyes widen, and you get the urge to cling onto Sylus’s strong shoulders a little more. You press your cheek to his to marvel at the beauty he beholds you.

The flecks of lights dance on the warbling glass you swim in, the lunar touch transmutes the water into silk. The sky is on your body and both are doused in starlight. 

“Beautiful.” you breathe, touching the silver surface carefully, watching the tiniest waves disturb the image. 

“Yes.” he says, but his fingers find your cheek. And his eyes have never left your face, waiting and watching for this reaction exactly. Delighting in the cosmos as well— on your skin, in your eyes. He thinks: Gorgeous. Ethereal. Divine.

All mine. 

You turn to see his drunken gaze at you and smile at the implication of his words. Noses brush and kisses resume. 

“I think this is my favorite room.” you say, but your head is filled with him who holds you in his space.  

His amusement takes form in a laugh, low and suave. “Yeah?” 

You hum. Brush his hair back— bundles of moonlight slipping through your fingers— plant your palms on his chest, and lean your forehead on his. 

His warm hands travel up your back, pushing you impossibly closer to his warmth. Until you’re welded by the sparks of light in the sky. Until you meld together in a warm loving tangle of limbs and breath. He says, “It’s all yours.”

But amongst all the wealth, the treasures and the rooms he chooses to share with you, he is the only one you truly desire. Him, and your soul asks nothing more. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!