#L's Ocs

[please-help-this-little-lesbian]

So I made a cabin for Clio, the muse of history!

I have an OC named Esther, the daughter of Clio, the muse of history, so I built her a cabin! I modeled it after a museum and the Library of Alexandria. (Yes, we don't know what it looks like, but I googled and found some ruins I like.) Pictures and explanations below!

Front! The boats on the roofs are meant to be frieze depictions of the Trojan war but y'know...gotta use what you can.

Close ups of porch! I modeled it after this picture I found when googling the LOA.

Side. Obviously the Greeks didn't have panes but I liked the idea of large, curved windows.

Entry way! Door based off Ancient Greek doors with windows on top, though dark wood would not have typically been used. I wanted the wallpaper to remind people of libraries, and the lights give it an old-timey feel.

Library area! My favorite part:). Esther acts as the Camp record-keeper, so I wanted her to have an official library to work at. (Plus, she's a huge nerd.) I wanted it to be a circle but that didn't really work, but I like how the octagonal platform turned out! There's shelves on each wall, and then the two closest to the entry have desks. There's a fire pit in the center to serve as the hearth! (Made by making another platform in center and lowering it, 0/10 do not recommend.) The steps are the closest wood I could get to the floors.

Bathroom, stairs, and closet. I went with a vintage aesthetic for the bathrooms.

Top-down view of downstairs.

Close-up of downstairs porch. I went with brick to evoke museums and libraries, and the Greco-Roman columns and walls closing windows are era-accurate designs.

My favorite wall:). I put "vintage" and "antique" pictures on the walls. I imagine the portraits are of famous demigods throughout history.

Top-down of upstairs. I went with an open floor plan for if/when more Clio kids show up, and a "historically modern" aesthetic.

Desk area.

Bathroom.

Bedroom area.

Kitchenette.

[krunkidile]

found you a new hat.

[myearts-uwu]

Sylus would be an amazing weighted blanket let's be real.

Mephisto is clearly not amused with being the third wheel 24/7 atp

[khioneee]

zayne hates the way you look in a hospital bed.

the sheets are too white, the room too sterile, and the iv in your arm makes his stomach twist in ways he won’t admit. you look smaller like this.

too still, too quiet. it doesn’t suit you.

‘you should get some rest,’ he says, his voice even, professional. detached, like a doctor should be. but you know better. you always have.

‘you’re here again,’ you murmur, tilting your head just enough to meet his eyes.

he doesn’t answer. instead, he adjusts the blanket over your shoulders, making sure it covers you properly. it’s a useless gesture because the room is warm, and you’re not shivering.

but he does it anyway.

a ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. ‘you should be more careful, doctor,’ you tease, voice quiet but laced with something familiar, something warm. ‘the others might think i’m your favorite patient.’

he should roll his eyes. scoff. say something sarcastic like he always does. but this time, he doesn’t. instead, he just shakes his head, something unreadable passing through his gaze before he looks away.

for a second, you swear he almost says something. but then he pulls back, his hand leaving your blanket, his presence retreating ever so slightly.

you let it go.

it’s late when he comes back. the overhead lights are dimmed, the quiet hum of machines the only thing filling the room. you’re half-asleep when you hear the soft click of the door, but even in the haze of exhaustion, you know it’s him. you always do.

‘you should go home, zayne,’ you mumble, voice thick with sleep. ‘get some rest.’

‘i was.’ his voice is quiet, careful. ‘didn’t feel right.’

‘you care for me too much.’

‘nonsense,’ he said instead. ‘there’s only way too much or none at all.’

you force your eyes open, blinking up at him. he’s standing at the foot of your bed, hands in his pockets, his coat slightly wrinkled like he’s been running on autopilot all day.

‘zayne—’

‘you said something earlier,’ he interrupts, and there’s something in his tone—hesitation, maybe. or something heavier. ‘about being my favorite patient.’

you let out a tired huff of laughter. ‘what, did it offend you? i can take it back.’

he exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, but not quite nothing. then, after a beat, he moves closer, just enough for his voice to drop into something barely above a whisper.

‘you’re my most important patient.’

the words settle between you, sinking into the space where exhaustion lingers, where unspoken things have always gone unsaid.

you study him, taking in the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you.

‘yeah?’ you murmur, softer this time.

his gaze flickers to yours, steady and certain. ‘yeah.’

you don’t say anything after that. but you don’t need to.

instead, your eyes drift to the chair beside your bed. ‘you’re staying, aren’t you?’

he doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. with a quiet sigh, he lowers himself into the chair, shifting slightly to get comfortable. not that he ever will. the chair is stiff, unforgiving, and he’s been running on too little sleep for too many days.

but he doesn’t complain. he never does.

you watch him for a moment longer, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes linger on you even as he leans back.

‘go to sleep,’ he murmurs, closing his eyes. ‘doctor’s orders.’

you want to argue, to tell him he should be the one sleeping somewhere comfortable, but the weight of exhaustion is already pulling you under. the last thing you see before you drift off is zayne, slouched in that uncomfortable chair, his breathing steady, his presence unwavering.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone.

because you never knew it. never realized it.

but zayne became a doctor for you.

when you were little and scraped your knee, he was the one who pressed plasters to your skin, his hands careful, his touch gentle. when you sniffled from the sting, he’d ruffle your hair and say, ‘there. all better.’

when you climbed trees too high and got stuck, it was zayne who came running, scolding you under his breath as he helped you back down. and when you fell, because you always fell, he was the one who knelt beside you, wiping the dirt from your palms before you even had the chance to cry.

when you got sick, he was the one who snuck into your house with soup he swore wasn’t that bad, sitting by your bed even when you told him to go home. he would press the back of his hand against your forehead like he had seen adults do, frowning like he could will the fever away just by staying close.

when you started training to be a hunter, he was the one who patched you up after every battle, every wound, every brush with death.

he never once told you to quit, but every time he stitched a cut or wrapped a bandage around your wrist, his hands would linger, as if memorizing every scar.

and now, when the world threatens to break you, he’s still here.

still taking care of you. still choosing to stay.

you wake up hours later, the room still cloaked in soft, early-morning silence. the first thing you notice is the warmth around your wrist.

zayne.

he’s asleep in the chair, his head tilted slightly, dark circles visible beneath his eyes. his hand is wrapped around your wrist, fingers loose but still holding on, like he fell asleep taking your pulse.

like he needed proof that you were still here.

still breathing.

you shift slightly, just enough to tighten your fingers around his. he stirs for only a second but doesn’t let go.

and neither do you.

[gattapotatta]

Nobody:

Sylus randomly once in a while:

[ltechofficial]

Faithful puppy girl bodyguard 🐶

[gothtarrare]

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!!

We, collectively as a society, NEED to return to making weird freak ass goth girls and overall weird girl characters!!!

We must return to the age of drawing weird little girls with knives and edgy sayings that belong on a 90s Hot Topic shirt!!!

THESE ARE THE TYPES OF OCS I WANT TO SEE FROM NOW ON, DAMNIT!!!!

I WANT TO SEE BLINGEE STYLE GIFS OF SAID OCS ON YOUR BLOG LIKE ITS YOUR FUCKING 2005 MYSPACE PAGE, GOD DAMNIT!!!

🗣🗣🗣AND YALL BETTER BE DESIGNING MERCH FOR YOUR WEIRD GIRL OCS TOO EVEN IF YOU AREN'T GONNA EVER MAKE SAID MERCH TRUST ME ITS FUN!!!🗣🗣🗣

[poxivix]

Basically Doll's and L's relationship

Also happy spooky month

[swordmaid]

🦋🩸 free chin rest.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

twst trade ^^

Thank you to Oys (they requested that I not use their actual username/handle linked or tagged) for trading with me~! They designed a Nightmare Suit (Dress?) for Miss Raven :> I love how torn and stitched up the skirt is, as well as how the bodice opens up. I think my favorite part is the hair, it has so much character! asdhbaeyoqegtgevaaf Plunked her right in between... two massive problems... sVHUVYFSOFVIYFSFo THE HAIR AND THE HADN GRABS.BV.VX.CV . .DEViOUS LooKS n the dAKR ASMTPSPHERIC bCAKDRoP...TRIYNFH GG SO HA RND TO COMMand ATTENTION... hER EMBATRsead LOOK..... . . ............. .. . .... . . .. .... . . . . OUTTA THE WAY, BOYS 😭 I'm cHARGinG IN TO COLLECT MY daughTER, SHE'S THE CUTEST SONE HERE...

[whenstarsundress]

HEEELLLOOO THIS IS MY FIRST TIME REQUESTING. Can you make nsfw a jealous sylus punishing the reader in the bed. Choking her in his big c*ck hehe. I'm curious how sylus punishing s/o in the bed. Free to ignore this if you don't want this request. but if you want to make it 😻😻 heheh😻......Thaaank youuuu... (Sorry for grammar mistakes)

you were curled on the couch, legs draped over his lap, scrolling your phone with that smug little smile you knew would get you in trouble. “seriously, sylus,” you’d huffed earlier, playfully pushing his hand off your thigh, “you’re all bark lately. but no bite.”

he’d raised an eyebrow and said nothing. just leaned back, expression unreadable, but his jaw ticked. once.

“thought you were supposed to be dangerous,” you’d whispered in his ear with a giggle. “guess they overhyped you, huh?”

that was it.

now your knees were digging into the carpet, eyes watering, throat burning and sylus was watching you like a king punishing his favorite plaything.

“yeah?” he rasped, one hand buried in your hair, the other guiding his cock deeper between your lips. “still think i’m all bark and no bite, princess?”

you tried to respond, tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, and he shoved forward, hard. you choked around him, drool spilling past your lips. eyes fluttering, fingers clawing at his thighs, to hold on.

“you run that mouth all fucking day,” he growled lowly. “and now look at you. can’t say a word.”

you gagged again as his hips rolled forward, the fat head of his cock nudging the back of your throat. you couldn’t breathe, but you didn’t care. the way he grunted under his breath, the way his thighs tensed, was pure erotic cinema.

“look at you,” he muttered, hand cradling your jaw, tilting your head up so he could watch your wrecked expression. “so pretty like this. full of me. crying on my cock.”

you whimpered, tears streaking your cheeks as he fucked into your throat roughly and controlled. exactly the way he wanted it.

“you gonna behave now?” he asked. “or do i need to fuck the rest of the attitude out of you?”

you moaned around him desperately and clenched your thighs together. he pulled out enough to let you suck in a gasp, but not long enough to answer. because you didn’t need to. your mouth was already wide open again, begging with your tongue out.

sylus smiled dangerously. “thought so, angel. now take it.”

your throat was raw. eyes swollen. mouth dripping. he’d used you until you broke, until your pride cracked and all that bratty mouth of yours could do was whimper around his cock. you were still catching your breath when he scooped you up effortlessly and carried you to the bed.

“i’m not done with you yet, angel,” he whispered full of promises and sin.

you blinked at him, dazed. “sylus…”

he was already undressing you… no, he was ripping the clothes from your body, until you were nothing, but flushed skin and slick between your thighs. you reached for him. “i’m sorry, i—”

he climbed over you, caging your body beneath his. “too late for that.”

and then he folded you, legs up and knees pinned to your chest. his big hands holding your thighs wide apart, keeping you completely open for him.

the mating press.

you gasped, eyes flying wide as he pushed in deep. too deep.

your back arched off the mattress with a cry. “f-fuck! sylus—!”

“yeah?” he grunted, voice thick with arousal. “that too much for you now, baby? you were sure running your mouth earlier. what happened?”

you moaned helplessly. he thrust again, cruelly deep, until your cunt clenched around him like it didn’t know whether to run or beg for more. you clawed at his arms. “i—i can’t—”

“you will,” he growled, picking up the pace. “you want to act like a brat? then i’ll fuck you like one. ruin you so good you forget your own name.”

and he did. every thrust slammed into your sweet spot, deep and brutal. his pelvis flush against yours, his cock thick and relentless inside you.

you babbled his name, tears slipping from your lashes. “sylus, i—fuck, i feel so—full—”

“that’s ‘cause you are,” he rasped against your neck, biting down softly. “taking me so well. so fuckin’ good for me now.”

you tried to talk, but all that came out was broken sounds—whimpers, breathless cries, nonsense. and sylus loved it.

“aw,” he cooed darkly, hips snapping harder. “my perfect little brat finally shut up. look at you. dumb on my cock. you gonna come for me like this?”

you nodded fast, desperate for release. “please—need you—need to come—need you so bad—”

“you got me,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek as he ruined your body. “you always got me.”

he kissed you sloppily and possessive, and came inside you, cock twitching as your walls squeezed around him. you shattered under him, crying out as your orgasm rocked through you, wave after wave crashing down.

when it was over, he didn’t pull out. he stayed buried deep, holding you soft and close, stroking your hair like you hadn’t just been manhandled into oblivion.

“you okay, baby?” he murmured against your temple.

you nodded, barely conscious, face flushed and dewy. “i—i think you broke me.”

he chuckled, kissing your jaw. “serves you right.” he paused shortly and added, softly, “still my bratty good girl, though.”

I hope you enjoyed this 🫶🏼

… oh i just noticed you wrote jealous and i went for bratty… guess i have to write a jealous!sylus next. i apologize anon. please don’t be mad ☹️

[shaiyasstuff]

sapere aude | sylus | preface/chapter one

synopsis : He promised to protect you. But guilt doesn’t protect. It confuses the living for the dead—and love for something far more dangerous. content : light angst, slow-burn, mentions of death, 50/50 cannon!au, reader is mc’s sister

parts | one | two | three | four

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

It was rhythmic, almost hypnotic—the sound of boots against concrete, echoing down damp, narrow halls like a cruel lullaby. A sound that might’ve meant nothing once. A hallway. A late night. Someone going home.

But now, it was a requiem.

Every step was a countdown. Every echo, a reminder.

Your body hung from chains, swaying slightly with each shallow breath. The pain had dulled somewhere between the blows and the blood loss. Now there was only exhaustion—a bone-deep kind that settled in your marrow and refused to let go.

You didn’t cry anymore. Fear had long turned into a quiet, shivering ache. Something wordless. Something hollow.

The blindfold pressed against your skin, wet with sweat and blood, but you barely felt it now.

“P-Please,” you whispered, or tried to. The word cracked in your throat, weak and worn and useless.

The reply came sharp, a voice made of metal and contempt.

“Shut up, bitch.”

Then came the blow.

Your body folded, something hot and metallic flooding your mouth as you choked on blood. You felt it drip down your chin, staining what little of you was left untouched.

The chains groaned as you sagged forward. The cuffs bit into skin already shredded. Your arms were dead weight. Your legs had forgotten how to exist.

There was no fight left in you. Only the bitter taste of survival, drawn out too long.

Then—

The door opened.

It was just a sound. Just hinges and wood. But it broke the rhythm. Broke the air.

Silence followed, thick and waiting.

“B-Boss! We didn’t think—”

The voice cut off.

Not in silence. In a scream.

And then—nothing. Not even footsteps. Not breath. Not sound.

Stillness.

You flinched. Instinct. Reflex. The body’s last protest.

But you didn’t know why. Not yet.

Not until you heard him.

“Luke. Kieran. Free her.”

The voice was quiet. Even. Unrushed.

And yet, it carved the air clean.

You heard movement. Keys. Chains. Someone’s breath catching. The sound of metal surrendering.

Then you were falling.

But arms caught you.

Warm. Steady.

A chest beneath your cheek. A heartbeat—too fast.

“T-Tha—”

“Don’t thank us yet,” came a voice, younger, clipped. Edged.

Another voice followed. A twin reflection. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

But you were already fading.

The world tilted. Softened. Disappeared.

And just before you slipped beneath the dark, you heard it. That voice again. The one that had ordered the world to stop.

“Who is she, boss?”

A pause.

A breath.

“…A debt I’m supposed to pay.”

But even then, as sleep dragged you under, some part of you heard the truth that lingered beneath the words.

‘Or maybe… a sin I was meant to atone for.’

—•

Evening settled over the skyline like a bruise—purple and bruised gold, too quiet for a city that once knew how to scream. From the rooftop, the world looked deceptively calm.

Sylus stood at the edge, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat, a single coin turning slowly between his fingers. He always carried it. Not for luck. But because it reminded him that everything had two sides.

He didn’t hear Kieran’s approach. Only the shift in air.

“Boss,” Kieran said, voice tense. “There’s a problem.”

A pause.

Luke joined a breath later. “It’s Carson. He took a girl. She’s still alive, but it’s bad.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just flicked the coin upward, watching it catch the last light of the sun. It spun like a blade, glinting—then fell back into his palm.

“Where.”

“Sub-level two.”

He moved without another word.

The stairs echoed with the sound of his descent. Steady. Inescapable. Like judgment wrapped in leather and steel.

He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He already knew.

Carson was dead. Or he would be soon.

The hallway reeked of old blood and mildew, the kind of smell that sank into skin. He walked through it like it was nothing. Like he belonged to it.

The door opened.

And time stopped.

The first thing he saw was blood.

Then—

You.

Hanging from the ceiling like something discarded. Forgotten. Unmade.

Your body trembled, barely. Still fighting, even in ruin.

It should’ve been a stranger. It was always strangers.

But it wasn’t.

It was you.

His breath caught, a sharp, involuntary thing that stole the space from his lungs.

Why is it her?

It echoed in his chest. Unwelcome. Unforgiving.

He didn’t allow the emotion to show. Didn’t let his hand twitch. His jaw tighten.

Only his voice broke the silence. Cold. Measured.

“Luke. Kieran. Free her.”

He didn’t glance at Carson’s remains. Not again. They didn’t matter.

Only you did.

You fell.

Kieran caught you.

Even unconscious, you looked like resistance incarnate—shattered, but not surrendered. A porcelain doll cracked by grief, still managing to hold her shape.

“Who is she, boss?” Kieran asked, quieter now.

Sylus didn’t answer at first.

He stared at you. At the blood. At the mess someone else had made of you.

“…Miss Hunter’s sister,” he said at last. The words burned more than they should have. Like ash he couldn’t swallow.

Luke exhaled slowly. “She had a sister?”

“She didn’t talk about her,” Kieran murmured.

The hallway swallowed the rest.

There were ghosts here. Too many. Too close.

They carried you back, steps careful, arms too gentle for the kind of men they were.

The medic arrived wordlessly. She didn’t speak. Just worked. Quiet and practiced.

Sylus stood outside, back against the wall, fingers curled tightly into fists.

When the medic emerged, she nodded once. “She’ll live.”

He nodded back. Said nothing. Then stepped inside.

The room was dim. Shadowed.

You lay motionless, wrapped in bandages and silence.

He moved toward the bed slowly. Each step drawn by something he couldn’t name.

And then—he saw you. Fully.

Your features were a reflection. Not perfect. But enough.

His breath stilled.

He hadn’t expected the resemblance to hurt.

And it did. Sharp and surgical.

The same jaw. The same eyelashes. The ghost of a woman he couldn’t save, buried beneath the bruises and blood of another.

You looked too much like her.

He’d watched you from afar. Always from afar. Mephisto’s footage. The corners of crowds. Rain-streaked windows in cities that had forgotten what light was.

He told himself it was enough.

But guilt has long arms.

And tonight, they’d wrapped around your throat.

He reached out once, fingers trembling in the space between your cheek and the air. But he didn’t touch you.

Couldn’t.

Instead, his hand curled into a fist and fell back to his side.

He sat.

And waited.

His presence didn’t fill the room. It pressed against it.

A vow unspoken. A promise he didn’t deserve to make.

Still, he kept watch.

Not because you needed him.

But because it was the only thing left he could do.

Light bled in soft through narrow curtains, pale and reluctant, as if even the morning wasn’t ready to face what lingered in the room.

You stirred.

Slowly. Like rising from beneath water.

Your body ached. Not with sharpness—but with the heaviness of something that had been broken and stitched back together without your permission.

The ceiling was unfamiliar—dark beams carved with patterns too intricate to be decorative. There was no sterile white light. No beeping monitors. Only hush. Only warmth.

And him.

He sat beside the bed, still as stone.

At first, you thought he was part of the silence. A shadow carved into the corner of the room.

But then your eyes adjusted. And his gaze was already on you.

Silver hair caught the morning light like something delicate, ethereal. But his eyes—

Red. Deep. Unreadable.

They didn’t flinch when you looked at him. Didn’t soften.

He was watching you the way someone might watch the final flicker of a candle—distant, resigned. As though he expected you to disappear.

Your throat burned when you tried to speak. The sound died before it found shape.

He moved, then. Smooth. Practiced. Like he’d done this before. Like he’d waited for this moment longer than he cared to admit.

A glass of water. Held out.

“Don’t talk,” he said. Quiet. Firm. Not unkind, but final.

You took it. Because your body was too tired to do anything else. Because his voice left no room for resistance.

The glass touched your lips. Cool. Steadying.

You drank, and his eyes never left you.

There was no pity in them.

No cruelty either.

Just something still. Like regret that had forgotten how to ache out loud.

Then—a knock.

Another voice. Familiar. Steady.

“Boss. We investigated.”

He didn’t look away from you.

“Come in.”

The door opened. A man stepped in. Young, sharp-eyed. Startled when he saw you—but only for a moment.

“Carson,” he said. “Tried to sell her. Took five others. Kieran’s cleaning it up.”

You saw it.

The shift in Sylus’s posture. Not movement—he didn’t move.

But something cold gathered in the room. Like breath freezing in the lungs.

“I see,” he said.

And nothing else needed to be said.

You knew then. Carson was already dust. The kind of dead that didn’t leave echoes.

Still, the younger man hesitated. “We don’t deal in that kind of business. Someone’s pushing. Instigating.”

Sylus turned to him, and the man straightened under the weight of that gaze.

“You know what to do.”

“Understood.”

And then the room was quiet again.

The man left.

The silence returned.

But now it was different.

Now, it had shape. It had weight. And it was sitting across from you, watching every breath you took as if it might be your last.

You tried again.

“W-Who…”

But he raised a hand. Not abrupt. Just enough to quiet you.

“I’ll explain everything,” he said. “But not now.”

His tone didn’t threaten. It promised.

“For now,” he continued, voice shifting ever so slightly—less frost, more gravity—“Just rest.”

You looked into his eyes then, and for the first time, you saw it.

Not safety.

Not warmth.

But stability.

And for someone who’d forgotten what solid ground felt like, that was almost enough.

“You’re safe with me,” he said.

And somehow, you believed him.

Not because of the words.

But because of the silence that held them.

—•

When you woke again, the light had shifted.

It was afternoon now. Slanted gold filtering through the narrow space between curtains, brushing the bed with a kind of fragile tenderness.

As if the sun knew how easily you might break.

You were alone.

And somehow, that felt heavier than being watched.

You sat up slowly, the ache in your ribs blooming sharp under the movement. Your breath caught. Your muscles trembled. But you moved.

You had to.

The room was too still. The silence too complete. You couldn’t bear to drown in it again.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. Your feet were bare. The world felt far away.

But you took a step.

Then another.

The hallway was quiet—dimly lit, lined with heavy bookshelves and gold-edged sconces that cast soft shadows along the walls. It smelled like wood and old paper. Like memories.

Then—

Laughter.

Faint. Two voices, low and familiar. It reached you like a thread in the dark, something warm and fraying.

You followed it.

Not because you trusted it.

But because you didn’t want to be alone.

You found them in what looked like a living room. Wide. Open. Wood-paneled walls. Weapons scattered like afterthoughts. A fire lit in the corner, though it didn’t crackle. It simply burned.

Luke was lounging on a couch, flipping a knife with casual precision. Kieran stood by the window, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

They turned when they saw you.

“Hey—she’s up,” Kieran said, voice light but edged with caution.

Luke sat up, brows lifted. “You should be resting.”

You didn’t answer. Just stood there, gripping the doorway like it was the only thing holding you up.

“Who… are you?” Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be.

But it didn’t matter. They heard.

“I’m Kieran,” the one by the window said. “That’s Luke. My twin. Don’t hold it against me.”

Luke grinned. “Nice to meet you, I guess. Still breathing—so that’s a win.”

You didn’t smile. Not really.

But something loosened in your chest.

Kieran stepped forward. Not close. Just enough. “We were the ones who pulled you out.”

You nodded. Slowly. The words hung in the air between you, unspoken.

They saw you broken. They saw you bleeding.

You couldn’t look at them long. There was too much memory behind your eyes.

You glanced around the room instead, drinking in the details. The normalcy. The warmth.

“Why am I here?” you asked.

Luke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because one of ours forgot what the rules were. Took you. Tried to sell you.”

A pause.

Kieran’s voice was softer. “Boss handled it.”

That word again.

Boss.

The one who didn’t smile. The one who said, You’re safe with me.

Your fingers curled slightly at the memory.

“He’ll explain everything,” Kieran added. “Eventually.”

Luke pushed off the couch, stretching with a casual groan. “In the meantime, wanna tour the place? Beats sitting around waiting for answers you won’t like.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

Because doing nothing meant thinking. And you weren’t ready for that.

They guided you through the halls, slow and careful. Kieran stayed close, steadying you when your steps faltered. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

Luke talked enough for both of them—spinning stories of near-deaths and absurd luck, of missions gone sideways and rescues pulled off by the skin of their teeth.

His words danced with levity, but there was steel under them. Like someone who knew too much about endings.

You saw the way Kieran watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Not out of curiosity. Out of calculation.

Not because he didn’t trust you.

Because he didn’t trust what your presence meant.

Eventually, they led you into a grand dining hall. Tall windows. Carved chairs. A chandelier that caught the light like frozen starlight.

It should have felt like safety.

It didn’t.

It felt like a memory you hadn’t earned.

“Don’t let it fool you,” Luke said, smirking. “We still eat like animals.”

You made a sound—something almost like a laugh.

Almost.

They kept walking. The manor was vast. Worn in places. Lived in. This wasn’t a kingdom. It was a sanctuary built out of necessity and quiet rebellion.

They weren’t soldiers. Not really. Not anymore.

Problem solvers, they called themselves.

Saviors, sometimes.

Monsters, on the worst nights.

By the time you reached the final corridor, your body ached with every breath. But you didn’t ask to stop.

Not until you reached a tall, unmarked door.

Luke knocked. “Boss. She’s awake.”

Silence.

Then—a sound. Barely audible.

A hum. Permission.

Luke opened the door and grinned at you over his shoulder. “End of the tour. Five stars or we riot.”

You didn’t smile.

But you stepped forward anyway.

Because this was the part you couldn’t avoid.

The truth was waiting on the other side.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Softly. Decisively.

You were alone with him again.

The air in the room was different—cooler, denser, like the stillness that hangs in cathedrals long after the last prayer has been spoken. A sanctuary built of shadows and silence.

Sylus sat behind a wide desk, fingers poised over open folders and screens that glowed faintly with information you didn’t understand. He didn’t glance up right away.

But you could feel it.

The tension wound tight beneath his skin.

The weight of a thousand things left unsaid.

Finally, he looked up.

Crimson eyes. Cold. Constant. And yet, somewhere beneath the surface, a flicker of something else.

Recognition. Or maybe… guilt.

He closed the folder with a quiet snap and folded his hands in front of him.

“Come,” he said. “I don’t bite.”

There was no warmth in his voice.

But no danger, either.

You stepped forward. Slowly. One careful foot after the other. The ache in your body was quieter now. Manageable. Just another scar trying to form.

You sat.

He watched.

His gaze didn’t pierce. It held. Like a question he wasn’t ready to ask aloud.

“I’m sure you have a million questions,” he said, his voice level, as if this were a meeting, not a reckoning. “But you only need one answer.”

A pause.

“I knew your sister.”

The words landed like a knife laid gently on the table between you.

Not a threat.

A truth.

Your throat closed around the weight of it. You hadn’t said her name. Hadn’t brought her up.

But he had.

And somehow, that made it real.

“How?” you asked.

It came out quieter than you meant. Fragile. But he didn’t mock it.

He took a breath. Measured. Hollow.

“We were… close,” he said. And for a moment, the mask slipped.

Just a crack.

Enough for something old to bleed through.

You saw it then—not clearly, but like a reflection on dark water. Her smile in his memory. Her voice in his silence. Something broken between them, never spoken aloud.

And maybe never forgiven.

You swallowed. “And Carson?”

His eyes sharpened, the crimson in them flickering like embers. “Gone.”

Just that. One word.

Final. Absolute.

You nodded, though the ache in your chest didn’t ease.

Then—his voice again. Low. Heavier now.

“I made her a promise.”

You looked at him, heart thudding.

“What kind of promise?”

His hand twitched—barely noticeable. Then he removed his glasses and folded them neatly on the desk.

That gesture said more than his words.

His eyes were bare now. Unshuttered.

“Before she died,” he said, “she made me swear I’d protect you.”

The room went still.

Not from silence. From memory.

You thought of your sister’s voice.

The way she’d held your hand when you were small. The last time you saw her. The way her shadow still curled around the corners of your grief.

You had cried for her in a stranger’s arms. Grieved her behind closed doors. And now here he was.

The man who hadn’t been at the funeral.

But who had carried a piece of her in silence.

You didn’t know whether to hate him or thank him.

So you said nothing.

Because there was nothing safe enough to say.

“All you need to know,” he said, voice softer now—like the edge of a blade dulled by time—“is that you’re not here by accident. And you’re not alone.”

Your breath shook.

Not from fear.

But because a part of you wanted—desperately—to believe him.

His words echoed like wind through a hollow place:

I promised her I’d protect you.

You pressed your hand to your chest, as if to quiet the ache rising there. As if to keep from falling apart all over again.

You wanted to ask her what to do.

But the dead never answer.

Only the living carry their promises.

And sometimes, those promises look like men with red eyes and silence where softness should be.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke again.

His gaze dropped to the desk, to the place where his folded glasses rested—still, undisturbed, like something sacred he didn’t want to touch.

“I should have known.”

The words were quieter than the room.

You blinked, caught off guard—not by the admission, but by the weight behind it.

“I should have seen the signs.” His voice was steady, but too careful. Measured like someone standing at the edge of a confession he didn’t know how to give. “Carson was… slipping. And I let it slide.”

He finally looked at you, and for a moment, you saw it.

Not power. Not steel.

But something quieter. Guilt, raw and unfinished. The kind that carves itself into the bones and settles in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

“I trusted the wrong man,” he said. “And you paid the price.”

You didn’t speak.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what would come out. Grief. Rage. Or worse—understanding.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, fingers lacing together.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness,” he said, and this time, his voice wasn’t steady at all. “That would be… self-serving.”

The pause that followed was heavy.

“But I will say this—” His gaze held yours now, unflinching. “What happened to you will never happen again. Not under my roof. Not under my command.”

There was a promise in his voice. One made of steel and silence.

But beneath it, something else.

A tremor.

A flicker.

Like the moment before a dam breaks.

You stared at him—really stared—and realized something you hadn’t before.

He wasn’t just protecting you because of your sister.

He was atoning.

For what, you didn’t know yet.

But you felt it in your chest. The way his words seemed to recoil the moment they left his mouth, as if every syllable had teeth.

“I don’t expect trust,” he added after a moment, softer now. “Not from you. Not anymore.”

He exhaled.

And in that breath, you heard it.

The echo of a man who once made a promise to a dying woman.

And failed.

He sat back in his chair, gaze drifting away once more—toward the window, where dusk had begun to gather along the edges of the sky.

The silence between you stretched again. But this time, it wasn’t sharp.

It was soft.

Frayed.

Wounded.

You lowered your gaze, unsure what to say.

So instead, you simply whispered, “Okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness.

It wasn’t absolution.

But it was something.

And in a world like this, where men like Sylus carried ghosts on their shoulders and tried to outrun them with orders and silence, it might have been enough.

Just for tonight.

Night fell slow and uncertain, wrapping the manor in a hush too heavy to be peace.

You stood at the window of your borrowed room, hands resting lightly on the sill. The glass was cold beneath your fingers. Outside, the courtyard flickered with scattered lantern light, their glow trembling against the darkness like breaths you couldn’t catch.

You hadn’t lit the lamp.

There was something comforting about the dark. Something honest.

It didn’t pretend to fix what was broken.

It simply let it be.

You thought he’d left hours ago. After the apology. After the vow laced with guilt and too much restraint.

He hadn’t lingered.

Just turned away, coat whispering behind him, and vanished into the hall with the quiet surety of someone who knew how to disappear.

And yet…

You felt it.

That strange, almost imperceptible pull at the edge of your awareness.

The weight of eyes not cruel, not curious—just there.

You turned, slowly, scanning the room as if the shadows might shift and give him away.

But nothing moved.

Only silence.

You let out a breath. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe your nerves were frayed beyond recognition, making ghosts out of memory and meaning.

You crossed the room, eased into the bed, and pulled the blankets up to your chest. The pillow smelled faintly of smoke and leather. A scent that didn’t belong to you.

You turned onto your side, facing the door. Just in case.

But sleep didn’t come.

It hovered at the edges—teasing, half-formed.

And then—

A whisper of motion.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Didn’t move.

But you heard it. The barely-there shift of air. A coat settling over a chair. The weight of someone sitting down slow, deliberate.

A presence settling like dusk in the corner of the room.

Sylus.

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

But you felt the silence curve around him, reshaping itself. No longer empty. Just… quiet.

You wondered how long he’d been there.

How long he would stay.

You should have been angry. Or afraid. But you weren’t.

Not with him.

Because his silence didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt like a vigil.

Like penance.

You let your lashes lower, heart steady but uncertain.

He didn’t think you were awake.

And so, for the first time, you saw him without the armor.

Just a man in a chair.

Posture too still. Hands clasped together as if in prayer—or apology.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor like it had answers he’d never find.

The light from the hall bled faintly beneath the door, gilding the curve of his jaw, the silver of his hair, the hollows beneath his eyes.

He looked tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

But the kind that came from carrying too much of the past without letting any of it go.

A moment passed.

Then another.

And softly—so softly you almost missed it—he spoke.

“I should’ve come sooner.”

You didn’t know if the words were for you. Or for her.

Maybe both.

He stayed there a long time after that.

Saying nothing more.

Just watching.

Just breathing in the silence like it was the only thing left that didn’t lie.

And eventually, you let yourself sleep.

Not because you trusted him.

But because, somehow, for the first time in days, your heartbeat no longer felt like a countdown.

masterlist

[myearts-uwu]

Sylus rkgk

Did some simple sketches of Within Reach Sylus because I always get jumpscared by his nips. Like they're just OUT THERE like why-

[empty-vessel-of-a-person]

The way they held hands is so intimate. It’s really showing us that their affection for each other is mutual… I’m crying….

[gattapotatta]

Do you want it, kitten? I hope your answer is still yes.. because I just can't hold back anymore

Asking for concent 3 times in a row as if this desperate man literally couldn't believe this is actually happening to him.. wow.

The aftercare he is giving is the most soft and loving thing in the world and it doesn't even depend on how rough or not the deed was done.

Night of Secrecy got me thinking///

[faintrustle]