#Sylus/oc

[soft-sylus]

"You Were Meant for Gentle Things"

Note: A start to a long fic! It starts dark but I promise the following chapters are much lighter! A rewrite of my beginning chapter.

AO3: Here

Pairing: Sylus/OC non!MC MC/Sylus

Words: 2,516

Content Warning: Violence and emotional distress

Chapter 1: Sylus’ First Mistake

She breezed past Leilah unannounced and unfazed. She strode to Sylus, a surprised but satisfied look on his face.

Leilah didn’t need to hear their words, his voice alone was enough to send a shiver down her spine. Low and calm, it carried the weight of something she couldn’t name but knew to fear

The Sylus was here, the ruler of the N109 zone. Not seen for ages, and yet he walked in as if he was never gone, with possibly the most beautiful woman Leilah had ever seen at his side. In fact, she imagined most people were more intrigued with her than him. Her grace and determination. Her defined features and toned body, easily encased in the ruby dress. She owned every person in that room. And him most of all.

Sylus offered his hand to her and she took it, letting herself be guided through the dance. The melody carried them across the dance floor. And no one would dare disturb them.

They make the perfect couple Leilah thought to herself. Her own dress had paled in comparison to anyone else's in this room, let alone the dark-haired beauty. But no matter.

While the party struggled to look away from the couple, Leilah was seeking her opportunity to retreat. She knew what it meant when Sylus showed. Most did, but pride blurred reason. 

Sylus was an omen.

Death dogged him.

And she would not die today.

Her eyes darted to the emergency stairwell, but her feet froze as she remembered her date. She'd chosen him deliberately, a self-absorbed man who moved through elite circles, one whose protection she could buy with flattery. But tonight, even her jaded expectations hadn't prepared her for his spectacular idiocy. Not content with openly ogling Sylus's date, he'd actually tried to buy the brooch from her dress, barely blinking when Sylus himself intervened.

Leilah bit her lip. She didn’t care for her date, but she did not want something to happen to him. And she knew something would if he stayed. She sighed and strode over to him, wrapping her hand around his.

“Let's get out of here,” she whispered. She kept her voice calm and tried her best to be seductive but he shook her off, not taking his eyes off the dancing couple.

“Leave if you want. I’m going to dance with her next,” he said roughly. The hair on the back of Leilah’s neck was standing up. She trusted her instinct enough to know that the time to leave was now.

“Something’s wrong. Please,” she tried, more urgently this time. She pulled at his arm but he pushed her off.

“Get off of me,” he glared at her. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed her touch him and, when satisfied, looked back to the dancing couple.

Alright asshole she swore to herself, but panic seemed to strangle her. She trembled with it. She pushed her way through the thick crowd, faster now. No longer trying to be polite as she knocked into people. Her legs pushed her toward the emergency exit. She opened the door. 

She could not stop what was coming.

But she still screamed when it came.

The sound was excruciating. Her body was airborne and then it was against a wall. Pain erupted from her right side and liquid flowed over her eye and into her mouth. The building swayed. Dust flooded into her lungs.

Only seconds later and the silence was so complete, it rang in her ears.

Her first breath was a sob. She struggled to understand the shape her body took. She looked around. The only light was from the flashing alarms. The wall between the stairwell and the ballroom was gone. Leilah’s body had been hurled down a flight of stairs, throwing her out of the direct blast. 

When she finally found the strength, she started moving each limb, one by one. Untangling them under the ruble and dust that caked her body. It was slow and painful. Her senses split apart, each one drowning in its own kind of fire.

 After an eternity, she was finally able to lean against the wall. Leilah thought she might be crying, but there was so much blood cascading down her body that it was hard to tell.

She heard sounds.

Rustling. Movement. Footsteps on uneasy terrain. She froze. Fear seizing her breath; it came from the room above. A survivor? She thought. But she wouldn’t be the first to call out. They might be trying to finish the job. She did not move.

It was him. Sylus and his date. Completely untouched. Devastation in every direction but they remained pristine. Not a hair out of place. Not a speck of dust gracing their skin. 

Gods among their carnage. Death dared not touch them.

Only a floor below them laid Leilah, shattered. Her agony exposed, her suffering laid bare.

 Their footsteps never faltered. Not when her blood dripped through the stairs' grating. Not when her whimpers echoed. She was less than a shadow to them

I am nothing.

The door closed and she stayed as she was. Her breathing evened out until, again, she heard shuffling from the rubble in the ballroom.

For one pathetic moment, she thought of her date. A glimmer of hope. A glimpse of normalcy.

She moved to her feet. But as she limped to the top of the stairs, Leilah’s hope suffocated. There was nothing left. No one could have survived this. 

Her mind went to the piano player’s divine music and the server who had given her wine. She thought of her date. The only one in the world that knew she still existed. A terrible person but her only companion for months. 

A howl of pain ripped from her chest. Tears and blood mixed. All of the faces of the party swirled in her mind. Could she have done something? Made noise? Done anything.

“Hey!” A voice called out to her. She tumbled back, looking at the two figures that stood in the corner of the room. Alarm lights glinted off their masks. Sylus’ Crows. They crept closer. “Stop! We—”

“Stay away from me!” she cried out. Her body moved before her mind, scrambling backward, shoes slipping in blood. A sound escaped her, not a scream but a whine, the kind a dog makes before it’s kicked. “Please god, stay away from me.”

They paused. And before they could recover, she had fled down the stairwell. They did not follow.

[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

[apple-crunch]

I truly believe that Sylus would not stop trying until he gets a girl.

Sylus made sure you were well rested for tonight, sending your four sons, with an age gap of only 2 years each, out with Luke and Kieran.

A chorus of plop plop plop echoes in the master bedroom, the room was dimly lit having only the night lights on and the moons shine seeping through the windows.

Your husband had you in a mating press for the hundredth time since your marriage. Legs pushed back till it's beside your face, hands held together in his tight grip, you had no choice but to take his dick powelling into you. A white creamy ring squelches from where the two of you connect, cum splashing and dripping all over your thighs and matress. You were barely coherent, eyes drooping, mouth drooling, you could barely form words other than pathetic moans from how deep Sylus was inside of you.

He was fucking you deep and hard, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix each time he bottoms inside of you. Eyes focused on your cunt making sure you're taking all, if not, most of him. "Wan' a girl so bad, baby, fuck! C'mon, give 'er to me." He slurred. The man was so pussy drunk.

[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///

[veebeeboo109]

Early mornings…. 🐦‍⬛✨🍎☃️🐠

(Would I be able to sleep like this? No. Is it nice to imagine?? Yes.)

[tortor-sauce]

this is just for fun - i actually think Sylus is desperately holding himself back

but i wouldn’t put it past him to get excited even just accidentally brushing hands with MC

i saw this text and my mind immediately went to the gutter 😭 meanwhile he probably meant something a little more wholesome

[haverdoodles]

matching lads couples portraits for me and @rilakkatie :)

— (ophelia & sylus) / (ida & rafayel)

.

ida and raf are mine!

[moondvncer]

okay this specific pose is giving dancer/poledancer in some demon nightclub where he's an incubus, do you see the vision?

[faintrustle]

[honeyblackberries]

The world you left behind

Sylus died but what about the people left to miss him? What of the boy who’ll never know what lies beyond the shadow of his father’s wings?

sylus x reader (reader referred to as mother but no pronouns) 1.8k

cw: angst with a (maybe) happy ending, hurt with (maybe) comfort, mentions of blood and physical injuries, lore inaccurate, unnamed son pov.

basically a 'what if' au where mc/reader has sylus's kid after he dies in their dragon myth times. *sylus's son and the transformation scene was inspired by this art by @/napanewt (whole thread makes me sob) | also on ao3

The first time your son wished for his father happened when he was just a child.

He was born hearing tales of great dragons, of love in bloodshed, of kindred spirits and souls bound together for all eternity. Legends whispered throughout the cities were his bedtime stories, a requiem for the deceased was his lullaby.

Oh how exciting it all was to a young boy. What incredible adventures you’ve had! He wished to know more, desired to always hear of the man who's name stoked the flames of Tarus city.

“When can I meet him?” He’d asked you one night as you lay beside him in bed.

He was seven summers old, practically grown up. He would like to meet his father soon. Sylus was familiar yet completely unknown to him. A fiend that strikes fear into the hearts of the strongest warriors. Yet someone his mother speaks of so fondly, with a voice always gentle.

“I’m sorry love, your father has gone far away,” the words were ones he’d grow used to hearing. Ones he would come to resent.

But not yet.

Your son wondered if he looked the same as Sylus, as he stared at his own reflection in a chalice atop one of the many piles of treasure in your cave. You’d told him that regardless of how much he might look like you now, his silver hair and ruby red eyes come from his father.

“What about the horns?” he asked while pointing to his head. Where yours are and where his own should be. “And the tail, and… wings?”

“I hope you never grow them.” Those words confused him.

“Why?”

“Because they are a curse.”

Back then he didn’t understand what you meant. They would make him stronger, fiercer, more dragon-like. They would make him the same as the man he caught glimpses of in the shadows on the wall. The same as the man he saw in the twinkle of your eyes..

“Well, I hope I do.”

And hope he did, wished and prayed to every shining star. Desperate to be even half the man his father is. He had to be since Sylus was gone.

How else could he protect you from those who wanted to do you harm; fight off all the monsters that curse your existence and hunt you down. Men with wicked intentions and venom on their tongues. How else could he get rid of the sadness that would creep into your gaze when you think he isn’t looking. Stop the heartache that would overcome you sometimes, when you reminisce on the dragon who left you behind.

Your son was stuck with Sylus’s stories and nothing more.

The second time your son wished for his father was when the transformation started. It came suddenly and it tore him apart all at once.

The scream of pain he let out as something began to grow through the bone of his skull, tearing delicate skin. The way his own blood thickly trickled into his eyes from the open wounds. The sickening wet sounds of his body unwillingly shifting in ways it wasn't used to.

That’s how you found him. Curled up in a heap on the floor, body convulsing as if it didn’t know what to do with itself. Crimson staining everything around him.

“Mama—” he sobbed, something he hadn’t called you in years.

His voice sounded broken to his own ears, but he no longer cared about being weak. Not when it hurt so much that he wished death would save him. What a foolish child he had been to dream of this. And what a cruel father Sylus must be to let it happen. How could a father who didn’t even know him curse him so—give him what he so desperately wanted but at such a horrible cost.

He blacked out not long after, cradled in your shaking arms.

You told him later on that the same thing had happened to Sylus when he was still a young dragon and your son wondered if it would have been less scary with him around. If his father would have held him through it like you did, if he would have known what to say to make it hurt less.

He can almost imagine it.

‘Bite down on a cloth so you don’t bite your tongue.’

‘Slow your breathing, don’t panic. The adrenaline will only make it happen faster.’

‘It'll be over soon.’

‘I’m here for you.’

The next few years were hard on your son. Having to learn how to exist within his new body. He always moved wrong. Would trip over his own tail as he walked, cut his mouth with his fangs, tear flesh with his talons.

But all of that paled in comparison to the challenge that was his wings. To the humbling experience of learning to fly.

A part of him yearned for the skies yet he was wet behind the ears with the way his wings would allow him to rise for only a moment, before plummeting to the ground. Always two steps behind spring’s baby birds who could soar past him.

He learned a lot about himself during this time. That he was impatient, easy to anger, easier to lose common sense. It’s good he supposes, looking back on it. The way he was forced to prematurely clip the hubris that was growing within him. Lest he fall just as bad as Icarus.

It was during each failure—in the moment just before the crash—where he would find himself wondering if his father would hold his hands as he taught him how to take flight. Show him how to follow the wind above mountain peaks and along the edge of the horizon. Go with him to the edge of the sea beyond where the datura flowers bloom.

He remembers you asking him once, years later, if he regretted wishing to be like Sylus. If after what had to be done for it to happen, he could still want to be like him.

His answer then is the same as it would be today.

Even if the pain was once unbearable and the struggle seemingly never-ending, it chipped away at his rough edges. Honed him like a blade. He could now fight his own battles; win against those who started ones against you. He could hear the joy in your laugh as he picked you up and flew off towards the dawn. Could see the look of pride on your face.

You were proud of the man he grew to be.

It was worth it to get a step closer to his father.

The last time your son wished for his father was on the day you left him. Dragons live long but not forever and you only had half the soul of one.

It had been lifetimes since he was a boy but he felt more helpless than ever before. He could do nothing for the mother who kissed his bruises and loved him twice as much to make up for the absence of his father.

He could only lay you to rest in the field of flowers you cherished. Could only fix your hair and cover you in the softest fabric as he buried you. Lay by your grave as long as his body would let him. Through tears he cursed the heavens, cursed whatever deemed it fit to take you away. Cursed the father who was never there.

Where was he when you needed him?

…

He wondered for the last time what Sylus was like. Not as a myth or a father, but as a man.

A man beloved enough to have a son with. A man you hoped to see again in the next life.

A man you'd to turn yourself into a monster for.

Your son never came back to visit you. Never came back to the home that held nothing except bittersweet memories. He left for the farthest corners of the world and still sought to go further.

Without the father he never knew and the mother who was his everything, he was truly alone.

Centuries passed but your son never forgot you. Everywhere he went the wind and the wings of birds carried your presence. In the people he met he saw your kindness. But time was a gentle mistress to him. It healed wounds, altered him in ways never expected.

He was different. Changed to fit the new life he was living—one with towers that reached beyond the clouds, new monsters, and so many people. There was a maturity to him now. A quiet patience. Gone was the boy who would dream of dragons.

Actually, he hadn't been him for a long time.

Then it happened one day.

He was out in the city centre—waiting in line for a new cafe—when he saw you. It was only in passing but he knew it was really you. Knew it in that innate way one can recognise their mother.

Feet moved on their own and he was following behind you before he even realised. You were younger, closer to how he remembered you looking when he was a child. And where were you going? Home? Or to meet up with friends, maybe even a lover?

He just wants to watch you for a bit; won't approach you. You were different, you wouldn’t remember him and that’s okay.

You cross the street and stop, seeming to reach your destination.

He watches curiously as you sneak up behind a man with his back facing the two of you. Sees you throw yourself onto him, hugging his neck. The man turns suddenly and lets out a deep laugh, arms wrap around your waist and he leans down to smile at you.

His breath catches when he sees the stranger's face.

This man is someone he'd recognise from the very marrow of his bones. Hair silvery white like the flash of light that would hit his eyes when he used to fly too close to the sun. Eyes like the rubies that littered the floor of the cave he once called home, a perfect twin to his. And his gaze is fixed on you, much like his own. But there’s something there, a depth of love and longing he’s never seen.

“Hey!” a voice calls out to your son.

“Where are you running off too?” his lover chides out of breath, as they run up to him.  “You just suddenly disappeared, I thought you were waiting for me.”

“Sorry,” he smiles apologetically. “It’s nothing. I just… I thought I saw someone familiar.”

They talk his ear off and drag him back to the main street, but the warm feeling bubbling in his chest stops him from hearing any of it. What are the chances that his wish would finally come true. He got to see his father. On top of that, he can tell from the way he holds you that the man loves you with depths beyond time.

Across the street Sylus watches the retreating figure of a man. His gaze drawn to him with a pull he can’t quite explain.

“Sy, you know him?” you ask as you tilt your head to see who he’s looking at.

“No,” it’s true, and yet—

“He just seems familiar.”

a/n: this only exists because i was listening to epic and had sons never knowing their fathers on the brain. also tysm for 200 followers! kissing each of you on the forehead *muah*

[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

[soft-sylus]

You Were Meant for Gentle Things

Chapter 3

Masterlist: Here

AO3: Here

Pairing: Sylus/OC non!MC MC/Sylus

Words: 5k

Sylus savored music, not only for its sound but for its obedience .

It was predictable, rarely able to catch him off guard. It’s melody, it’s rhythm, easy to distinguish. Eliciting any emotion it craved from the listener. Manipulating its audience.

He’d been born with an innate understanding of it. His voice was a natural asset, one he honed relentlessly, but true mastery came from dissection. Notes and scoresheets memorized by age ten. Instruments conquered out of spite, their simplicity irritating, until he found the organ. Its complexity was the only worthy opponent.

 Battle soothed him in the same way. Here, too, he was the composer. People became instruments, his shadows the strings. If they resisted? He’d tune them himself. The melody never wavered. Never betrayed him. His oldest, deadliest companion.

And If he was the conductor, she was his star musician.

Sylus ducked as Mai sent another fist at him, his reflexes as a boxer serving him well. Before she could wind up again, Sylus hooked his leg behind her knees, and she toppled. She glared at him, a look he always enjoyed.

“Trying to scare me, Kitten?” he leaned over her. Mai’s lips curled.

“Well, if we're playing dirty…” she said seductively. Her moves were quick, wrapping his leg between hers before pulling him down. She flipped over onto his body, straddling him. “Then I guess I can play too.”

Sylus couldn’t help but let out a satisfied laugh. “Not exactly legal in boxing, but yes, you are a fiesty warrior for such a small thing,” he sighed. He enjoyed her here, so close to him. The symphony in his head caresses the lack of space between the two. He reached up beneath her chin, pulling her face closer to him. He drank in the self-important smile left by his compliment.

Their moment was shattered by the most offensive sound Sylus had ever endured. Were those chipmunks singing?

Mai giggled before rolling off of him in one fluid movement. “Like my new ringtone, Sylus?” She walked over to her phone, wiping the sweat on her brow off with a towel.

“Is this going to be a permanent feature?” 

“I can make it your personal ringtone if you're interested?” she quipped. She finally answered the phone, and Sylus could feel himself grow irritated. They needed her again. She spoke a few words before hanging up. “They called me into HQ,” She said, her voice already professional.

“As they always do,” Sylus replied, not even trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. She shot him an apologetic smile.

“Aren’t you busy too? Mr. Big Bad Boss of the N109 Zone,” Mai teased. 

He had cleared his schedule for her, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

“I can find a way to keep myself busy, Kitten,” he smirked.

“Give ‘em hell,” she said, pulling her gym bag over her shoulder. “Oh! I forgot! You got a new cook right?” 

He thought back to the background check the twins had left on his desk. “Yeah, a girl off the streets of N109 zone streets. Not exactly the Crows' smartest move. But I guess no one else was willing to sign up for the job. The name is Laurie or something. Why?”

“She’s incredible,” Mai said without hesitation. “What she left us for lunch was some of the best food I have ever had. If you get rid of her, send her to me. I’ll find a way to keep her.”

Sylus smirked. The cook had been in his service about 10 days. He rarely noticed his food; his real indulgence was wine. But as long as she stayed invisible and kept Mai happy, she could stay. “Noted.”

Mai kissed his cheek. “See you later Sylus.”

His hand snapped out, catching her wrist. “Be careful.” The words came out rougher, more exposed, than he’d intended.

Mai blinked, then grinned. “You’re going soft on me.” She nudged his shoulder. “Of course I will be.”

He released her, jaw tight, unable to meet her eyes. She didn’t seem to notice as she left, vanishing into the neon haze of the N109.

Alone, Sylus exhaled. The gym felt too quiet.

-----

“The bastard thinks he’s too good for food .” Leilah wrenched the strainer of tomatoes under the faucet, water sloshing over her wrists. “What kind of overgrown steroid-case survives on three bites a meal?”

She really had tried. It was part of her plan. She needed to become indispensable. But it didn't matter what she cooked,  duck confit with perfect crispy skin, uni nigiri glistening like ocean-polished amber, even the simple omelet every culinary student could perfect in their sleep. Each dish returned, only slightly touched. But the wineglass? Drained every time.

The Crows, at least, devoured her food without complaint. Kieran, the taller twin, still glared at her through his mask, but his plate was always scraped clean. Luke, quieter and quicker to thank her, had become her only ally in the cold apartment. He’d brought her clothes, played uneasy cards with her once, and had a gentleness that surprised her.

“Back with your list,” Kieran announced, dropping the groceries onto the counter. “Hope this one’s worth the trip.”

Leilah ignored his tone, sorting through the bags. Luke lingered, holding out a package wrapped in butcher paper. “The fish you wanted,” he said, his voice more hoarse than usual.

“Thank you.” The words almost escaped as a sigh. She’d begged them half a dozen times to let her join their market runs, to teach them that quality wasn’t measured in money. But Kieran always refused, citing orders: the apartment’s location stayed secret.

Luke shifted his weight, watching her inspect the fish. “It looks great,” she admitted, and his shoulders relaxed as if her approval mattered. 

Kieran was already rifling through her fridge.

“Out.” She didn’t raise her voice. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

For once, he listened, but not without a muttered threat about “ungrateful strays.”

The boys retreated to their rooms a floor below, down the hall from hers, leaving her to work in quiet solitude. Tonight, she cooked Pesce all'Acqua Pazza - not for Sylus, but for herself. The fragrant broth of tomatoes and white wine simmered gently, the fish poaching to perfection. This was comfort, not concession.

When the dish was ready, she summoned the twins first. Only after they'd begun eating did she prepare Sylus' tray, carrying it upstairs with measured steps. His study loomed at the end of the first-floor hallway, a place she'd only ever approached to leave meals outside the door.

But with a stroke of impulse, she took a chance. 

She knocked.

Sylus’ voice called, and carried her in.

As she entered, he was engrossed with a book, a record playing in the background. Leilah looked around and nearly snorted.

He has a gun wall . 

“Something funny?” Sylus asked. She immediately smothered her smile.

"No," she lied, approaching his desk. She set the tray down. "Your dinner."

His hand bypassed the food entirely, closing around the wineglass instead. "And this required an audience?" His eyebrow raised. His red eyes finally looked at her. Fear no longer grew in her gut when she looked at him. Only anger.

You did not erase me that day .

"I want to know what you actually eat. Clearly it's not my cooking."

“Food is food. Not something I am passionate about,” He drawled, returning to his book. “I am sure yours is fine. But I have had food from all around the world. It never impresses me.

“I am the best,” the words slip out.

“You're the best, are you? The best cook in the world is found on the side of the road in the N109 Zone? Convenient.”

"Good enough to know when I'm wasting my talent." She forced her hands to unclench. "If you want fuel, I'll give you fuel."

"Do as you please, master chef." The title dripped acid as he reopened his book. "Just leave it outside next time."

Her palms ached from clenched fists as she left. Later, she’d dice onions with unnecessary violence.

Note: The next chapter is already posted on Ao3 and it's my best yet! Hope you enjoyed!

[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-

[totallyxtaurus]

Depollute me, gentle angel

Summary: Sylus is away on a business trip while you sink deeper into your depressive episode. Pairing: Sylus x gn reader Genre: Angst (I guess, I'm not sure lol) Trigger Warnings: depression, mental health struggles, anxiety, self-neglect, and hints of suicide A/N: Soo I was going to make a fluffy/smutty story but my PMDD hit me hard af and then BOOM, this. This was super hard yet easy to write at the same time probably because it's a self insert lol like this is literally me. Sylus' "perfect" persona does intimidate me and I grappled with the thoughts of "what if Sylus was real, could he actually handle this?" I hope everyone enjoys and please please please remember to take care of yourselves! 💗

Next

When was the last time you crawled out of bed today? Your stomach twisting, hunger pangs turn into nausea. But the thought of forcing your limbs to carry you into the kitchen for food feels insufferable. So, you stay buried in the tangle of unmade, unwashed sheets. A hint of fabric softener desperately clinging to the fibers, the stale scent of sweat and skin already taking over. Earlier, you pressed your nose into your shoulder, checking. The sweet floral deodorant from days ago (you think) has spoiled into something sour.  

Each day and sleepless night blend together. They become hard to tell apart, except when the phone rings. Work is calling again—probably to ask when you’ll be back in or to terminate you. You know you should care—you do care! Well, you used to. You liked your job; you were good at it. But does it bring you joy? Right now, does anything?

Everything feels like a chore that you can’t be bothered to attempt. Showering? The thought alone is exhausting. But thinking about the steps that come before the shower is enough to make you sit in your own filth. You reach up absently. Your fingers get lost in the greasy roots and tangle in the mess below. Dandruff flakes dust your pillow. You picked at your scalp while scrolling for hours. Anything to pull you out of this pit you’ve fallen into, for a moment of relief. Your stomach churns each time your tongue touches the slimy coating that has built up on your teeth. Panic spikes at the thought of cavities—the decay, a reminder of neglect. Yet, there you lie, paralyzed by your own anxieties. God, you want to move. You really do. But then you tell yourself, I’ll brush them after I eat, for sure. You know it’s a lie. But it makes the guilt easier to swallow.  

These bouts come and go, pulled in by a force you can’t escape—because you are the force. Like the moon dragging in the tides, summoning waves too strong to withstand. When you’re up, you trick yourself into thinking that you have it all together, like you’ve cracked some secret code. You throw yourself into work, into people, an endless loop on performance mode. Blissfully numb. Until the crash. The tide swells too high, knocking you under and swallowing you whole. Then you’re here, again. Bedridden. Isolated. Time slips through your fingers. Days, weeks—who knows how long. Until someone notices your absence. Usually, him. Then you have to explain why you vanished and begin to collect the pieces of you that have washed back ashore.

“You should trust Sylus more," your therapist had said, voice gentle but firm. “Let him in during these episodes. He wants to help you.”  

You nodded, pretending to consider it, not missing the way they emphasized the "want to help you" part. But the idea was absurd, laughable. Let Sylus see you like this? No, it’s better this way. You can keep your dignity and him, a win-win situation.

This episode—as your therapist calls it—came at the perfect time. Sylus is away on a business trip, conveniently absent when you’ve sunk to your lowest. He gives you roughly three days of no contact before the constant calls start rolling in. This time, luck was on your side, a twisted kind of luck, but still one that was to your advantage. You can’t even begin to imagine the horror that he’d feel if he saw you like this.

Undeserving. That’s the only word that comes to mind when you think of Sylus, especially in moments like these.

Sylus, the man who has everything—and if he doesn’t, he simply acquires it. Always composed, always in control. He’s the kind of person who seems to glide through life, untouchable. You can’t imagine him unraveling, not like this. No, if he ever stumbled, he’d just power through it. There are no obstacles he can’t overcome.  

Until you.

You are the only thing he can’t fix. A threat to the pristine world he’s built. Thankfully, he hasn’t seen you like this, and he never will. He can’t.

Your therapist says your way of thinking is the problem. You don’t let him in. You don’t give him a chance to understand. Your therapist doesn’t know Sylus like you do. What if he does understand—but secretly believes you’re too much? And knowing Sylus, what if he doesn’t leave, but worse—stays out of obligation? Out of pity?

Your chest begins to tighten at the thought, your heartbeat picking up. You’d rather disappear completely than let him see you like this.

But before you can spiral any further, the doorbell rings.

[gattapotatta]

Nobody:

Sylus randomly once in a while:

[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 ☹️