#another bare chested sylus piece /^///^/!~

[massivementalitynut]

My Within Reach Comm of Sylus from @iwanttobeaseme

[himbodruid]

A Dragon In Rut

What happens when you stumble upon a dragon experiencing rut for the first time?

A short Dragon!Sylus x Reader/you oneshot

Breeding kink | knotting | scent kink

Intended for 18+ readers only MINORS DNI

Read the companion piece here!

Read the present timeline mirror here!

Fic Master List

Borrowed some lines from Secret Times 😏

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°⭑ ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩⭑

It had been some time since you and Sylus became close, even longer since you first met him. Days blended together when the only sense of sunlight you got were from various chutes in the cavern ceilings that allowed for airflow, so you weren't exactly sure how long it had been. The two of you became quite the pair of criminals, and thinking of the previous raid brought a satisfied smile to your face.

Dust motes danced in and out of the sun beams, giving the cavern you declared as your chambers a whimsical feeling. Richly coloured tapestries hung from the walls, adding a sense of warmth and life to your space. The fiend, Sylus, had even offered you treasures from his own hoard to decorate your space with. You had come to love the freedom that this network of caverns offered you. And you found yourself quite fond of the dragon that occupied another set of chambers.

Sylus was usually asleep at times like this, when the sun was high and bright. You found yourself mimicking his sleep schedule out of convenience, but something had awoken you and curiosity had gotten the best of you.

When you left your chamber, however, something in the air shifted. You didn’t know what it was, but it was off. Charged. Your pulse quickened as you sought out Sylus, worrying for his well being in the chaotic atmosphere that interrupted the usual calm.

You found him, not by sight, but by sound in his own chamber. As you brushed the tapestries that covered his doorway aside, a feral snarl reverberated from within.

“Sylus?” You questioned, stopping your advance at the sound.

“Leave,” was all he said, his voice strained and more beast-like than usual.

“Is everything okay?” You hazard a step into the dimly lit room. A hiss and a groan greeted you.

“If you know what’s best for you, Kitten, you will leave right now.” His voice was pained and leaving was the last thing you wanted.

“Are you hurt?” Another step forward.

Then all at once, you found yourself pinned to the wall by his bulk, a growl rumbling from his chest. You caught a glimpse of his face as the light from the entrance was snuffed out by the tapestries. His pupils were dilated and his face flushed, and you furrowed your brows in concern.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong, you’re worrying me,” you say, raising your hand to cup his cheek. He made a sound like a barely restrained groan as he turned his face into your touch, inhaling deeply. That fiendish tail of his lashed out behind him, swinging to and fro- much like an agitated cat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” was all he said in reply.

And yet, he leaned into you instead of letting you go. You felt him bury his nose in your neck.

“Your scent…I want it. Steamy and sweet…like cherry wine,” he murmured, his mouth finding your pulse.

“S-Sylus, what..” you stammer, incapable of forming coherent thought thanks to the heat of his tongue rolling so, so sensually against your neck. It was clear that he wasn’t in his right mind, trapped under some spell, but you couldn’t push him away. Instead you wanted, needed him closer.

A sound resembling a purr rumbled from his chest when your hand cupped the back of his head and you tilted your chin up for him. His mouth traveled the expanse of your neck, leaving biting kisses in his wake. Your heart thundered in your chest and an involuntary shiver shuddered through you.

“You should have run away when you had the chance,” he growled, hauling you up against the hard planes of his well-sculpted body. He carried you to a pile of blankets that rested atop a goose-down filled pad.

As he laid you down in his nest, you were consumed by him. That smokey scent of him surrounded you, his body crowded you. All thoughts fled as you were immersed in his very essence. You clung to him, even as his mouth traveled down your body. Taloned hands were surprisingly adept at removing your simple clothing, and the groan he released when you laid bare beneath him went straight to your core.

His hungry gaze roamed your figure, darkening with desire as it finally landed on the apex of your thighs. His nostrils flared, taking in your scent, your arousal.

“Last chance, Kitten.” His crimson eyes found yours again, awaiting your final consent. You hadn’t fought him thus far, but he held himself back once more to give you a chance to run away, to deny him what he so clearly wanted.

But you shook your head, hooking your legs around his hips to keep him from leaving you. He grinned a devilish grin and stooped over you to seal the agreement with a searing kiss. His tongue plunged into your mouth, wrestling with your own for space. Your moans were met with growls of his own. And when you were beginning to feel light headed, he finally removed himself from you.

“I’ll start with your warmest spot…” he murmured against your skin as he trailed those stinging kisses down your body. “And until I’m finished, you’re not allowed to stop me.”

And then the heat of his mouth overwhelmed your cunt as he plunged his tongue against your flesh. When you tried to squirm from the sensation, his taloned hands held you fast. All you could do was sink your hands into that damnably silky hair of his and announce your pleasure to the room. He worked you up so quickly that you crashed over the edge before you even had a chance to think. His name tumbled from your lips like a prayer, even as his teeth scraped against your inner thigh.

His chuckle was deep and raspy and he lazily reclaimed his spot atop you. You didn’t know when it had occurred, but what little clothing he wore was discarded and the length of him pressed solid against your belly. With one hand occupied by holding your wrists together above your head, he hooked a leg over his free arm and pressed you hard into his bedding. His hips ground against you as that obnoxiously enticing purring sound reverberated through the cavern once more.

“You’re all mine,” he growled into your ear before positioning himself at your entrance. You briefly worried about how in the world a man as large as him would fit into such a petite woman as yourself, but all thoughts and fears fled the moment he breached you.

“S-Sy-“ you whimpered into his mouth as he sought to distract you from any discomfort. His body trembled with the effort of holding back. Breaths came short as he fully sheathed himself into you, his gasping pants feathering at your neck as he fought to give you time to adjust to his girth. Despite the effort, his hips still jerked forward.

“Hell, love. How do you feel this damn good?” He whined against your chest as he dropped his head down. The trembling in his body increased tenfold as his internal war continued.

The deepest, guttural moan escaped from him as soon as you lifted your hips in a silent signal to proceed. That moan turned into a possessive growl as he shifted his hips, pulling and pushing from your oh-so-willing body. You longed to cling to him, but he still held fast to your wrists.

Feeling mischievous, your mouth found his throat and you scraped your teeth against his flesh. He surprised you by baring his neck to you with a moan, and so you bit down on that corded muscle at the slope of his shoulder. The same place he marked you however many days ago.

At that simple action, it was like a damn broke loose. A heated snarl erupted from him and his hips pistoned in and out at a pace that would be punishing if it didn’t feel so fucking good. Your voice rose to join his as his cock brought you to such a swift climax, it had you reeling.

Even as your walls pulsed around him, he didn’t stop. Indeed, it felt like his pace actually sped up as he mindlessly chased a release that seemed to evade him. You felt as though the moment one orgasm was over, he drove you right into another one. His name fell from your lips with reckless abandon and he buried his face into your neck once more.

But this time was different. His movements seemed deliberate, almost as if he was…what? You weren’t sure how to describe his action, but it was almost as if it was some sort of primal instinct to mark you with his scent.

And there was something else happening.

As he drove himself into you over and over again, you could feel something at the base of his cock…almost like some sort of bulge was forming? You weren’t at all familiar with the anatomy of his kind, so you couldn’t be sure what to expect.

“Sylus, what?” You tried to question, your brain unable to form the full question.

“Mine,” he growled. His voice had taken on that feral tone he had once used with you to try and scare you away. He finally released your wrists to loop his arm under your free leg, practically folding you in half while he pumped into you relentlessly. All you could do was cling to him and ride out the pleasure he continued to build.

And then it happened. You weren’t really sure what “it” was, but that strange bulge at the base of his cock all but locked him to you as he thrust hard into you one final time. His moaning cries filled the cavern as he threw his head back and you felt his cock twitch and pulse inside of you, the sensation being enough to push you over the edge again with him.

And you figured that would be the end of it, a beautiful connection with this incredible being.

But his hips remained locked with yours. He nuzzled into your neck, that purring sound emanating from him again. The smallest of thrusts was all the movement he was granted by the knot, but the tugging sensation elicited sparks of pleasure that coursed through you. You whimpered into his ear as you lifted your hips to meet his with each nudge.

Then, almost as if taken over by his instincts once more, his hips whipped forward and he plunged so impossibly deep into you that you didn’t know where he ended and you began. His cock twitched and more hot ropes of cum flooded you while he moaned against your skin. It dragged you into an abrupt climax, almost as if his own orgasm was some sort of switch for yours.

It happened several more times: he would relax his hips for a moment, only to violently thrust forward again and cum so explosively that you couldn’t help but follow him over the edge. But finally, after what felt like ages, that knot appeared to subside.

Sylus slumped against you, placing soft kisses against your skin. You were exhausted from the ordeal, barely awake as he shifted you to the side. You couldn’t even work up the energy to feel embarrassed as he cleaned you up, taking great care to be gentle with you.

Shortly thereafter, you fell into the deepest sleep you ever experienced while wrapped in his warm embrace.

—

That night, after the two of you woke from your shared slumber, Sylus had the good consciousness to blush at the behaviour he exhibited. He laid beside you, head propped up on a hand while the other traced feather-light swirling patterns on your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have never personally experienced a rut before and didn’t have the willpower to send you away.”

You smiled at him, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “Is this something that dragons experience?”

“Mmh,” he said, thinking about how to reply in a way you would understand. “It is a mating instinct that all dragons experience, yes. Usually the worst of the urges are able to be subdued enough to still function. But when your scent hit me, it was like I was possessed.”

“And what was the..thing that happened towards the end?” You asked, not sure what to call the strange bulge that kept him locked to your body.

“In your tongue, it would be called a knot. When a dragon finds his mate, that is usually how they are claimed. I…don’t really know how to describe it, since I’ve never experienced it before.”

“Hmm, does that make me your mate, then?”

His gaze softened at your question and that lopsided smile you so loved played across his face. Instead of answering with words, he leaned down and kissed you thoroughly.

“Mmh. I rather enjoy my scent being intertwined with yours.”

[eelliotss]

— Borrowed time, part 4

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“Use me.”

word count = 8.5k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

also, i finally got to write the scene i wanted to 😭—took me over 10k words to get here but ugh finallyyyy

part 1 | masterlist | part 5

Peace has never felt more profound. Wrapped in the quiet hush of evening, the cool hum of the air conditioner, and the soft duvet cocooning your body, the weight of the world loosens its grip. The storm of thoughts, the heaviness pressing against your ribs—it all quiets, dissolving into the stillness.

Only when left alone, surrendered to the depths of sleep, do you finally feel light. Free. At ease.

But of course, peace was never meant to last. Not when you agreed to this trip.

Three knocks at the door. A soft beep of the lock.

“Yn? Are you still sleeping?”

MC’s voice pulls you from the haze of slumber, gentle but insistent. The mattress dips slightly as she steps closer.

You groan, turning away from the sound, but she only huffs.

“It’s already seven. You haven’t eaten anything all day.” Concern laces her words as she reaches out, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. A soft smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not burning up anymore.”

Blinking against the lingering blur of sleep, you rub your eyes, squinting up at her.

“Mhmm,” you mumble, barely coherent.

The tension in her shoulders eases at your response, the worry fading as a familiar brightness returns to her face.

“Here—eat.” She sets a bowl in your hands, warmth seeping through the ceramic. Steam rises, carrying the scent of something unmistakably familiar.

Dark green seaweed sways in golden broth, delicate strands floating between pieces of soft tofu.

Your brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Caleb made it.” She grins. “He was adamant about you finishing every last drop, so you better eat up.”

The words settle heavily in your chest.

You know this dish.

It’s the same soup you once made for him when he was too sick to get out of bed, voice hoarse, fever clouding his mind. The same one he had groggily murmured was the best thing he had ever tasted.

The warmth of the memory seeps in before you can stop it.

Back then, his voice had been hoarse, barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion.

“Caleb, you should eat.”

“Mmnh… not hungry…” He mumbled, shifting away from the dish in your hands, cheek pressed against the pillow.

You huffed, exasperated but unwilling to let him get away with it. “I promise it’ll make you feel better. Seaweed soups are the best for colds. Trust me.”

It took a few more tries to convince him. A few more weak protests before you had enough.

“Bzz, the airplane’s coming!” You guided the spoon toward his lips, making an exaggerated motion.

A smile flickered across his face, slow and lazy, before it stretched into something wider. “Pfft—Stop acting like I’m five!”

His laughter was bright, warm. It tugged at your heart in ways you didn’t want to admit.

“You’re acting like one, so I must treat you as one,” you countered, puffing your cheeks. “Now open up!”

His shoulders shook from suppressed giggles, but he relented, raising a mock defensive hand. “Okay, okay! Pfft—”

His laughter was cut off by a fit of coughs, his body curling in on itself slightly. Your expression immediately shifted, a deeper frown settling between your brows.

“Stop playing around. This is my secret recipe. It’ll stop you from starting another pandemic,” you scolded, pushing the spoon toward him again.

He groaned, but finally obeyed, letting the warmth of the soup settle in his mouth.

His eyes widened, lips parting in surprise.

“You weren’t joking,” he muttered, almost in awe. “This is really good.”

Fatigue seemed to lift slightly from his face, a softness settling in its place.

“See?” You huffed, victorious.

But then—his gaze softened in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

“Thank you, shortcake,” he murmured, reaching up with sluggish movements to ruffle your hair. His touch was light, absentminded. Familiar.

Your heart had tugged—just slightly.

Now, staring at the same soup, the warmth of the past curling in your chest like a ghost of something you no longer recognize, you swallow down whatever unspoken feeling rises in your throat.

“Well?” MC grins, nudging you. “Eat up before it gets cold.”

You hesitate, just for a moment, then lift the spoon to your lips.

It tastes the same.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t.

You take another spoonful, swallowing the warmth down along with the lump in your throat.

MC, oblivious to the thoughts stirring in your head, plops down beside you, stretching her limbs dramatically.

“God, today was exhausting,” she groans, tilting her head back. “I swear, if I have to redo that crying scene one more time, I might actually start sobbing for real.”

You hum absentmindedly, stirring the soup with your spoon.

“And Caleb—ugh, don’t get me started on him. He seemed really out of it today.” she continues, rolling onto her side to face you. “Like, he kept missing his queues, kept dazing in the middle of the shoot. Kept asking me if you ate, made me go shop for the soup’s ingredients with him, double-check the soup, even told me it was your favorite like I didn’t already know that.”

Your hand stills over the bowl.

MC doesn’t notice.

She sighs dramatically, propping her head up with one hand. “He even snapped at me earlier. Like, Caleb snapped at me. Can you believe that?”

You glance at her, arching a brow. “What did he say?”

She huffs. “I was teasing him, you know? Asking if he’s finally realizing he’s in love with you or whatever. And he just looked at me—like, seriously looked at me—and said, ‘She’s sick, Michaela.’ Like, what?”

Something sharp presses against your chest, but you don’t acknowledge it.

MC groans again, stretching her arms before flopping back onto the bed. “I get it, though,” she sighs, rolling onto her side to face you. Then, without warning, she grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly.

“I was worried sick about you too, Yn.” Her voice softens, the teasing gone. “Don’t go fainting like that again, okay? You gotta tell me if you’re too tired. I need you to be okay.”

You stare at her, her fingers warm against yours, grounding you in a way nothing else has. The weight in your chest—the anger, the ache that’s been gnawing at you since this trip began—fades, just a little.

Because this is MC.

Bright, infuriating, golden MC, who always means it when she says she cares.

And you love her for it.

You love her.

You always have.

So despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the way the world has been tilting under your feet—you smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur, squeezing her hand back. “I know.”

Her lips curl into a grin, her eyes gleaming like the sun itself. And just like that, just for a second, the world feels a little lighter.

“Anyways, enough about that. You need to catch up on all the drama you missed today. And—”

She launches into a rant, animated as ever, filling the room with stories of the ‘earth-shattering’ events you somehow survived without.

Somewhere between her exaggerated retellings and her scandalized gasps, you find yourself laughing.

And just like that, the fatigue melts away.

You only realize you’ve finished the soup when MC casually plucks the empty bowl from your hands, setting it on the table without missing a beat.

She keeps talking, her words tumbling out in a steady, animated stream—until they don’t.

You notice it immediately.

The slight stutter. The way her voice falters mid-sentence. The way her fingers suddenly fidget with the loose threads of the blanket. The way a soft, barely-there pink dusts her cheeks.

Your brows furrow slightly. “MC?”

She clears her throat, forcing a casual laugh. “Sorry, I just—uh—” she waves a hand, trying to dismiss whatever just flustered her, but you catch it. You always catch it.

The way her lips press together. The way her eyes flicker away, focusing anywhere but you.

Suspicion creeps in. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“MC.”

She groans dramatically, covering her face with her hands before peeking through her fingers, her voice dropping ever so slightly.

“It’s just—I was practicing lines with Sylus today, and—”

She hesitates, the words caught somewhere between reluctance and amusement.

Your brows lift.

Sylus?

Of course, you know he’s popular. You’ve seen the way girls linger around him, how they find excuses to talk to him. But MC?

Your lips part slightly, but before you can say anything, something else creeps in—unbidden.

The warmth of his body on the tip of your fingers.

The sharp scent of rain clinging to his skin.

The steady grip of his hand, pulling you away from the storm.

The way he leaned against the wall, damp silver strands falling over his eyes, a towel draped over his shoulders, sharp and unbothered.

The quiet turn of a page, his presence steady, grounding, when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow.

The memories pass in a flash, leaving behind something you don’t quite understand.

MC doesn’t notice your silence. She groans again, shaking her head.

“Ugh, never mind. It’s not a big deal,” she mutters, but there’s a warmth on her face she can’t quite hide.

Your lips twitch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp dramatically, eyes widening as you lean in closer. “Are you blushing?”

MC swats at you with a pillow, groaning into her hands. “I said never mind!”

That only makes your grin widen.

“No, no, this is important information,” you tease, nudging her shoulder. “MC, do you have a crush on Sylus?”

She groans even louder, flopping onto the bed in defeat.

“Shut up, Yn. My character has a crush on his character. I’m just way too immersed in the acting!”

You laugh, the sound light, genuine.

•

The next few days go by like a blur.

You wake up to MC’s blaring alarm.

You get ready.

You practice your part.

You film.

You watch MC film.

You watch her cheeks flush a little more in scenes she shares with Sylus.

You watch their characters develop.

You eat.

You listen to her rants.

You enjoy the sunset, alone.

You sleep.

Like clockwork, everything plays out like it did yesterday.

And just like everything else, he is on replay, too.

His voice weaves itself into your routine, persistent and unrelenting. A teasing remark over breakfast. A lazy greeting when he passes by. A nudge here, a comment there. Always casual. Always acting as if nothing happened.

“Still mad, shortcake?”

“Damn, I didn’t know you had this much endurance. Impressive.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t respond.

“Was today tiring?”

You don’t acknowledge him.

“Are you hungry?”

You don’t even look at him.

“Someone’s making a full-time career out of dodging me.”

It’s almost comical, how hard he’s trying to act like things are fine. Like you didn’t stand there, glaring at him with every ounce of anger you could muster just a few nights ago. Like you weren’t left in the rain, stranded in a memory of him choosing her, again.

But that’s Caleb. Always brushing things off, playing it cool, making it seem like nothing ever really matters.

And maybe if you weren’t still seething, it would’ve worked.

And to an extent, maybe it has.

Because the desperation in his eyes seems to seep out a little more with every interaction.

And when he leans a little too close one afternoon, when his fingers brush against your wrist as he tries to catch your attention, your heart still skips. But the scene of that night haunts you. The line cutting, her laughter, his tender eyes looking at her. So you snatch your hand away, sharp and final.

The laughter in his eyes dims, if only for a second.

“Damn. Harsh.” His playful tone faltering a little.

You don’t answer.

And after each of these interactions, your eyes always somehow find its way to the man lingering on the side. And more often than not, you meet his gaze. His ruby eyes pierces through you with a smug smirk plastered on his face.

Oh how much you hate that smug face of his.

It’s a look that says he’s watching. That he’s amused.

Like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Like he already knows how this game ends.

You tear your gaze away, but it’s too late. That smirk is already burned into your mind, curling at the edges of your thoughts, creeping under your skin.

Sylus never says much. He lingers—always just far enough to be uninvolved, yet close enough to witness everything.

Though every single time, he holds your gaze just long enough to let you know that he sees you.

And maybe that should feel comforting.

Maybe it should make you feel like you’re finally being seen.

But with him—with the way his eyes glint like he’s one step ahead, like he’s entertained by something you don’t even understand yet—

it doesn’t feel like comfort.

It feels like a warning.

•

“Hey! Can someone grab more drinks?”

“On it!” you shout.

Being done with all of your scenes, you try to help out around the set where you can. You walk away from the beach and to the parking lot where the tents and coolers are set under the trees’ shades. The bickers and chatters fade into the heat as you approach the swaying canopy. The air is heavier here—thicker, still carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen but now mixed with the plasticky cool of stored ice.

You crouch by one of the coolers, popping the lid open, letting a gust of chilled air wash over your arms.

The silence here is different.

Less alive, less buzzing.

You should be relieved.

But instead, all you can hear is the echo of their voices.

“She’s pretty good at acting,” someone says.

“She does her job well,” another agrees.

“We should’ve given her another role. She could’ve pulled off a character with more significance.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. She acts well, but she doesn’t shine. Not like her.”

You exhale, pressing your lips together.

Something inside you tenses.

The other laughs in response. “Of course, I wasn’t comparing her to Machela. Their auras are very different. One’s the main character, the other’s a decent supporting. You can’t compare them.”

Your brows knit together.

You keep your hands still, your breath steady. You don’t react, don’t turn, don’t acknowledge the way the words settle against your skin like grains of sand—light and fleeting, but impossible to shake off

It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

They’re just opinions, just talk.

You don’t care. You’ve never cared.

You know your role. You know your place.

And yet—your gaze betrays you.

Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flicker to the beach, to her.

MC stands effortlessly at the center of it all, bathed in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by the main characters, the ones who make the scene come alive.

Even among them, she stands out.

She doesn’t try to shine, she doesn’t try to call for attention—she just does.

And then there’s you, just there.

Blending so well into the background that no one even notices you listening.

You swallow, pushing away the uncomfortable weight creeping up your throat.

A breeze stirs the trees, making the tents flutter. You reach into the ice, grabbing a handful of cans, the cold biting against your fingertips.

You exhale, force your shoulders to relax, and do what you always do.

You shake it off. You move.

You quickly grab as many drinks as you can hold and hurry back to the set.

“Who wants water?” Your voice bright, easy.

You step back onto the sand, the heat pressing down on your skin, the voices of the crew and cast swelling around you once more. The coolness of the shade lingers faintly on your fingertips, already fading as you carry the drinks back.

But the words silently follow your trails.

“Oh my god, you’re a life saver!”

MC’s voice snaps you out of it as she practically lunges for one of the cans in your hands, tearing it open like she’s been stranded on this beach for days. She presses it to her cheek, sighing dramatically.

“I’m dying,” she groans, tipping her head back for a long gulp. “Why did I agree to film on a beach? Who thought this was a good idea?”

Before you can answer, another shadow falls over you.

A shift in the air. A presence that arrives so smoothly, so effortlessly, that you don’t even notice until he’s already there.

Sylus.

He reaches out and plucks a drink from your hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the condensation-slick surface.

Then—he opens it.

The sound is sharp against the hazy heat, a crisp hiss that barely lingers before he tips the can back.

And you watch.

The way his throat moves as he drinks, slow and deep, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The way a bead of sweat drips from his temple, trailing down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the dip of his collarbone before disappearing beneath his shirt.

For a second, the world feels too slow.

When he lowers the can, he’s already looking at you.

“What?” he says, voice smooth, amused, a smirk tugging lazily at his lips. “Not for me?”

Your face immediately scrunches up.

Not a word leaves your mouth, but the reaction is enough.

Sylus chuckles, taking another sip like he’s entertained by something only he understands.

Then, just as effortlessly as he arrived, he turns and walks off, the warm breeze ruffling through his hair, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of cool metal and salt air.

Silence settles between you and MC.

It takes you a second to notice it—the fact that she hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word.

You glance at her. The red dusting her face. The way she presses her lips together, eyes darting everywhere but where Sylus just stood.

Something tugs at your chest.

A feeling—small, unclear, curling at the edges of your ribs like an itch you can’t quite scratch.

You don’t exactly understand it, nor do you want to.

So you push it down, bury it deep, shove it away before it can take shape.

“Oh,” you hum, forcing a smirk on your lips.

MC immediately stiffens. “No.”

“Ohhh.”

“No, no, no!” She flails her hands in front of her face like she can physically push the accusation away.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You totally are.”

She lets out a strangled noise, shaking her head so fast her hair whips around her shoulders. “I—I’m not crushing!” she wails, throwing her hands up. “I’m just—ugh, it’s the next scene, okay?!”

You pause.

The next scene.

The kiss scene.

With Sylus.

You blink, then grin. “That’s what you’re nervous about?”

MC groans, dragging a hand down her face. “He’s so annoying,” she grumbles. “How am I supposed to do this with someone who just—oozes arrogance?” She gulps down the drink in her hands, turning away.

“Try not to melt, yeah? Would be real awkward if the crew had to scrape you off the floor after this.” A playful voice interrupts your conversation.

Caleb.

He strides toward the two of you, effortless as always, plucking a can from your hands and popping it open with a crisp hiss. His smirk is there—light, teasing, the same one he always wears when he’s messing around.

But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

His gaze flicks to the spot where Sylus had just been.

Something in his jaw tightens.

Others might have missed it, but you know him too well. You’re well too accustomed to watching him, seeing all his micro movements when he interacts with MC.

His fingers curl just a little too tightly around the can, knuckles faintly stiff.

Still, he plays it off.

“So,” he drawls, turning back to MC, forcing that smirk back into place. “How long are you gonna make us suffer through this? You practicing, or are we just skipping to the part where you swoon?”

MC snaps to attention, the red still fresh on her face. “I don’t—shut up.”

Caleb clicks his tongue, mockingly thoughtful. “Huh. So defensive. Makes you wonder.”

“You wonder too much,” she fires back, narrowing her eyes.

“Nah,” he grins, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I just have an eye for lost causes.”

And then, before she can dodge, he presses the cold can against her cheek.

MC yelps, jerking away. “Caleb—what the hell!”

“Thought you were overheating,” he muses, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t want you fainting before the big scene.”

MC glares, rubbing at her cheek like he’s personally offended her. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Still a better option than him.”

MC groans. “Are you seriously insulting Sylus right now?”

“I’m just saying,” Caleb shrugs, casual. “The guy looks like he bites.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re gonna let him lick your face in front of all of us.”

“It’s a kiss, you idiot—”

“Same difference.”

Before MC can strangle him, the director’s voice cuts through the chatter.

“Alright, places, everyone! Let’s run the scene.”

MC freezes.

The teasing dies.

Caleb hums. “Uh-oh. That’s your cue.”

She exhales sharply, smoothing down her clothes like that’ll somehow fix her nerves.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says lightly, taking another sip. “It’s just a scene, right?”

MC glares at him, muttering something under her breath before stomping toward the set.

His eyes follow her form, watching her go.

Caleb’s smirk lingers, but it’s hollow now—more muscle memory than anything else.

Then, without a word, he crushes the empty can in his fist.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there, staring at the crumpled metal in his hand, feeling the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

The sharp crunch of aluminum still lingers in the air when you finally take a step back, about to turn away—

But before you can, his hand grabs your wrist.

Firm. Unrelenting.

Your breath catches.

“Come here,” he mutters, low, rough, before pulling you with him.

You barely have time to react before you’re being led away from the crowd, past the chatter, past the cameras and the blinding sun.

He doesn’t stop until you’re tucked into the shadows of a secluded corner, hidden behind a wall where no one can see.

Only then does he let go.

Only then does he turn to you, dark eyes burning with something too raw, too intense.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks.

The words hit the air, heavier than they should be.

You blink. “What—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice is frustrated, breath uneven. “I know I messed up. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

He stops himself, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s barely holding something together.

Then, before you can move—

His hands press against the wall, caging you in.

Not touching you. But close.

Too close.

His scent fills your senses—something warm, sharp, unmistakably him.

“You can’t convince yourself to hate me with every fiber of your being, wouldn’t you agree?” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less desperate. “I’ll eventually find a way to make things right. As long as…” he pauses. His breaths are shuddering.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re by my side,” he whispers.

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting—

And then, softer, rougher—

“Please.”

A breath.

“I need you now more than ever.”

The words sink into your skin, settle into your chest, and God—

It hurts.

Because you know.

You know this isn’t about you.

Not really.

Not in the way you want it to be.

He’s frustrated. He’s angry. Not at you—but at something else, at someone else, at the way things are slipping through his fingers.

And here you are.

Pulled into the scene like always.

Here to fill in the gaps.

Here to be the character he needs in this moment.

Your throat tightens.

Your fingers curl into fists.

You don’t shove him away.

You don’t give in, either.

You just look at him.

At the tension in his jaw. At the way his chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

“Action!”

The director’s voice rings out.

Like a snapped thread, Caleb pulls away.

Your attention shifts

And you see it.

The perfect scene unfolding before you.

The setting sun drenches the world in gold, soft and warm, casting a glow over the sand, the ocean, the two figures at the center of it all.

MC and Sylus.

MC in the center, like always.

Sylus’s hands rest on her waist, firm but careful. His fingers trace along the curve of her back, pulling her closer, into him, into his world. His head tilts, his smirk faint, unreadable—like he’s in control of every beat of this moment.

MC leans in.

Slow, hesitant, shy.

Like a girl falling into the gravity of a man she can’t escape.

The light catches the soft parting of her lips, the uncertainty, the delicate trust in her expression.

Sylus’s fingers tighten, and he closes the distance.

Their lips brush—light at first—before she melts into him, hands lifting to his chest.

It’s effortless.

Beautiful.

The kind of moment people will remember.

The picture-perfect romance.

A story falling into place.

Your stomach twists.

It’s not the kiss itself that gets to you. It’s the way the scene feels like fate, the way it’s framed, the way the world seems to bend itself around her like she was always meant to be at the center.

Like everything happens for her.

And, as if to prove your point—you gaze shifts.

And you see Caleb.

He’s watching the scene.

Watching her.

His breaths are coming even more uneven than before.

Not obvious, not noticeable to most.

But, caged between his arms, you see it.

The way his chest rises just a little too fast, the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, the way his jaw locks so tightly you swear he might break something.

And your chest burns more than ever.

You hate it. You hate everything about this.

You hate how, no matter what happens—this world, this story, this entire thing, bends itself around her.

That all of you—you, Caleb, and even Sylus— are just pieces in the grand design of her narrative.

That no matter where you stand, no matter what you do—

MC is the one the light falls on.

She is the one everything happens for.

She is the one whose all her wishes come true.

You hate it. You hate how you’re just here.

Always here.

Always playing a role in someone else’s story.

And you hate it most that your eyes are turning green looking at her.

That the jealousy creeping up your throat, curling tight in your chest, isn’t just about the scene or the way Sylus or Caleb seem to orbit around her.

It’s about the way the world chooses her, time and time again.

And the fact that you’re bitter about it—

That you feel this way at all—

God, you hate it.

“You don’t need me, Caleb.” your voice much weaker than you want it to be.

You push him out, and quickly turn away, walking off, leaving the beach, the golden sunset, the picture-perfect scene.

And if Caleb calls after you—you don’t hear it.

You don’t want to.

•

The night air presses against your skin, cool but not enough. Not enough to wash away the tension in your chest, not enough to erase the way your own voice had echoed back at you—

The long walk you took should’ve made you feel lighter.

You should feel relieved.

But you don’t.

Instead, the weight follows you, pressing against your ribs with every step, every breath, every slow drag of the tide pulling at the shore. The muffled sounds of the set fade behind you, swallowed by the darkness of the beach.

Only when you get closer to the resort do you start hearing the music.

It starts as a distant thrum, pulsing faintly through the heavy night air. A low bassline reverberating from somewhere ahead, blending with the sound of crashing waves. It takes a second to register, for your feet to slow, for the familiar heat of it to sink in.

The afterparty.

It’s inside the main house, a sprawling beachfront villa that serves as the cast and crew’s retreat after long filming days. The windows glow golden and inviting, the silhouette of moving bodies visible through the sheer curtains.

You hover near the doorway.

Inside, the world is warmer, hazier, looser.

The weight of the evening still sits heavy on your shoulders, but no one else seems to notice. No one else cares.

People are sprawled across couches, tucked into booths, pressed against walls, drinks in hand, faces flushed from alcohol and laughter. The lighting is low, a mixture of dim lamps and fairy lights strung along the ceiling, flickering against the glass like trapped fireflies. The scent of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and the lingering trace of bonfire smoke fills the air.

MC is somewhere in the center of it all.

You see her immediately.

Perched on the arm of a couch, grinning, draped in warmth and attention, her head tilting back in laughter as someone hands her another drink. She looks effortless, as if the day never happened, as if the weight of the scene she filmed with Sylus didn’t still cling to her like it does to you.

She glows.

Like she always does.

And for the first time, you don’t want to be anywhere near her.

Not tonight.

You turn away, slipping past the clusters of people, past the thrumming energy, and find a quiet corner.

A small table sits against the wall, lined with bottles, a stack of plastic cups haphazardly placed beside them.

You grab one.

Then a bottle.

The first drink goes down too fast. The second burns, but you barely react. The third is easier, a slow warmth spreading through your limbs, seeping into your fingers, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts.

You lean back against the wall, fingers wrapped loosely around the cup, and watch as the night moves on without you.

MC is spinning, giggling, spilling half her drink as she sways to the music. Someone reaches for her waist, catching her just before she loses her balance. Caleb.

He’s there, as always.

Steadying her, teasing her, watching her.

You tip your cup back, draining the rest of your drink.

The music swells, the bass thrumming against your skin. The alcohol curls deeper into your system, warm and heady, numbing the part of you that still feels too present, too aware.

You don’t want to be aware.

You just want to sit here in this corner, where no one is watching, where no one is expecting anything from you.

And for a while, you do.

Drink after drink, until the night feels softer at the edges, until the sound of laughter no longer feels like it belongs to a world you can’t touch.

But then, a loud clap pierces through the room and the music lowers.

The music lowers.

“Alright, listen up! It’s time to bring some romance to life!”

The energy shifts.

People perk up, some groaning, some cheering, all of them gravitating toward the center of the room.

You barely react, swirling the last bit of alcohol in your cup.

But then, you hear it.

“Seven minutes in heaven, baby! Who’s in?”

Your fingers tighten around your drink.

MC perks up immediately, eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless excitement that only comes with being several drinks in.

Caleb groans, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning.

Meanwhile, you simply sigh as your gaze falls back to the cup in your hand.

Because of course it’s this.

Of course this night, like everything else, will find a way to make her the center of it.

“We’re going to spice things up a little bit,” someone announces over the music, their voice dripping with amusement. A cup filled with rolled-up pieces of paper rattles in their hands as they shake it for emphasis.

“Instead of randomly drawing two names, only one name will be called.”

A pause. Anticipation thickens the air, curious murmurs rippling through the crowd.

The person smirks. “Once that name is called, you’ll be given ten seconds to either volunteer yourself or—” they tilt the cup teasingly, “your friend to be their partner.”

A wave of excitement rolls through the room. Some people cheer, some groan, some exchange knowing glances. A few shove their friends forward, already laughing at the thought of throwing them into the game.

The first name is drawn.

Someone calls it out, and there’s a brief, charged pause before someone steps forward, dramatically throwing their hands up. The crowd erupts as they disappear behind the door, laughter and wolf whistles chasing after them.

Then another name.

And another.

Each round follows the same pattern—a pause, then cheering, then the shuffle of two people slipping into the closet.

Some stumble back out minutes later, flushed and breathless, met with hollers and teasing. Others laugh it off, shaking their heads, grinning like they’ve just escaped something ridiculous.

The alcohol, the music, the flickering lights—everything feels looser, bolder, dipping further into recklessness with each passing round.

People egg each other on, nudging shoulders, calling out names before they’re even drawn, spurring the night forward like a challenge.

And then—

Another name is pulled.

The voice rings loud over the noise.

And your heart stops.

“Yn!”

Heads turn. Conversations pause. A slow wave of curiosity and anticipation ripples through the crowd as people glance around, searching for you.

“There she is!”

A pair of hands grab your wrist before you can even think about running.

Laughter spills around you as you’re dragged through the throng of people, the heat of bodies pressing in from all sides. Your pulse spikes, the alcohol in your system making everything feel sluggish yet sharp all at once—like you’re wading through a dream you can’t control.

They stop right in front of the closet.

Someone swings an arm over your shoulders, grinning.

“Sooo,” they drawl, their voice dripping with mischief, “who’d like to partner up with her?”

A beat of silence follows.

A moment—thick, expectant.

And then—

The crowd parts.

The shift is subtle at first, a presence cutting through the sea of bodies, slow, unhurried, inevitable.

Then you see him.

He steps forward with the kind of effortless confidence that demands attention—shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his fitted black slacks, the faintest smirk curling at his lips.

The room reacts before you do.

A low hum of interest, a few knowing whistles, someone muttering “Oh, shit.”

And God, does he know what he’s doing.

His stride is measured, each step slow and deliberate, the kind that makes you feel like he’s taking his time just to make a statement. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows along his jawline, highlighting the sculpted edges of his face—the messily tousled silver hair, the piercing crimson eyes that lock onto yours like a brand.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t waver.

Just watches you as he approaches, like he’s already decided—like this was never even up for discussion.

Then, finally—

He stops right in front of you.

Too close.

The warmth of him seeps into the space between you, a contrast to the cool scent of his cologne—something crisp, dark, dangerous in a way that makes your stomach twist.

He tilts his head, the movement slow, teasing.

“What?” his voice is smooth, low enough that only you can hear. “Not for me?”

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut—because he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

The room erupts around you, people whooping, clapping, some downright losing their minds over the fact that Sylus fucking Qin just stepped forward for this game.

You swallow.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your pulse spikes, heat curling at the edges of your skin—not just from the alcohol, not just from the intensity of his gaze, but from the sheer presence of him.

Your eyes flicker around the room, anxious of all the cheering going on. Though, it lands on her. On MC.

Your breath catches.

She is staring. Not laughing. Not cheering like the others.

And for the first time tonight, she looks shocked.

Like this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Like this wasn’t part of the story she had in her head.

Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your spine.

However, you were quickly pulled out of your daze when someone claps you on the back, pushing you forward.

The crowd cheers louder and the closet door swings open.

Darkness yawns before you.

Sylus steps forward first, his hand brushing against your lower back as he guides you inside. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done this before. Like he’s leading you somewhere only he understands.

The door clicks shut.

And the world is swallowed whole.

The music, the voices, the party—it all fades, muffled by the thick wooden walls, leaving only this.

Only him.

Your breath comes uneven, your pulse a heavy drumbeat in your ears, because suddenly, the space around you feels too small. The darkness presses in from all sides, thick and stifling, and the only thing clouding your senses—

Is him.

Sylus leans back against the door, his presence unshakable, his scent thick in the air.

Woody. Dark. A hint of spice laced with something richer, smokier.

Cigar musk and worn leather. Something dangerously smooth, something that lingers.

You can’t see him, but you feel him.

Feel the warmth of his body just inches away. Feel the gravity of him, the way he takes up space without even trying.

The realization of your positions slams into you, sharp and sudden, sending heat curling through your stomach.

You take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go—the closet is too small, too tight, too suffocatingly intimate.

A chuckle. Low, amused, sinful.

“Already nervous?” His voice is pure velvet, thick with the kind of arrogance that makes your stomach tighten.

You swallow, your fingers twitching at your sides.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced.

The air between you is loaded, heavy, charged with something you don’t know how to name.

And then—

A shift.

A quiet creak of leather. A faint rustle of fabric.

He moves.

Closer.

You don’t even hear him step forward, don’t see him in the thick darkness—but you feel it. The way the space tightens. The way his heat licks at your skin, close enough to touch.

Close enough that if you just reached out—

A warm breath skims along your jaw.

You freeze.

Not touching. Not yet. But so close it doesn’t even matter.

Your own breath hitches, and that’s when you feel it—

His smirk.

You can’t see it. But you can feel it.

The way the air shifts between you, the way the silence stretches, the way his head tilts just slightly, like he’s waiting.

Like he’s playing with his food.

The muscles in your stomach tighten.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower, more intimate, like a secret meant only for you. “Not used to being this close to me?”

Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your palms.

And God, you hate him for this.

For the way he gets under your skin without even trying.

For the way he makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous, something uncontrollable, something that might swallow you whole if you let it.

The air between you is charged, electric, the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too hot, too tight.

A low chuckle erupts from his chest, its vibrations reaching yours. He leans down towards your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

“Use me.”

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline.

Your breath catches.

A smirk curves against the dark. He knows.

Of course he knows.

“Use me to make him jealous.”

Your stomach tightens, heat spreading through your limbs like liquid fire.

You swallow. “That’s—”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His voice dips lower, a soft, taunting hum, stepping closer, just enough that you catch the faintest trace of clean linen and something sharp beneath it.

You hate that your pulse spikes.

You hate that he’s right.

You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how effortlessly he peels you open without even touching you.

You part your lips to deny it, but—

“Or,” he muses, tilting his head slightly, voice edged with something wicked, something dangerous, something that makes your knees feel weak—

“If you’d rather make it more interesting…”

A pause. A shift. A fraction of movement, barely there—

But you feel it.

The brush of his breath against your skin, the slow, unbearable closeness.

“…Use me to make her jealous.”

Your breath stutters.

He sees it.

He feels it.

And the slow, lazy smirk that tugs at his lips—it’s lethal.

Like he’s already won.

Like he knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing.

Like he’s daring you to say yes.

Your fingers curl into fists. Heat rolls beneath your skin, something dangerous, something reckless.

You should tell him to fuck off.

You should shove him away.

You should—

But you don’t.

Because in this moment, in this dark, stifling space—

You don’t know what you want more.

To prove him wrong.

Or to let him be right.

Perhaps it’s the pain you’ve been swallowing for months, the way it’s settled deep in your ribs, pressing against your lungs like a bruise that refuses to fade.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, heavy in your bloodstream, loosening your grip on restraint, making you weak to the things you never let yourself touch.

Or maybe—maybe—it’s the way your stomach twists at the memory of her face.

MC’s wide, stunned eyes. The sharp sting of betrayal flashing across her features.

And as much as you hate it, as much as that look should send you crumbling—

Some twisted part of you puffs.

Some part of you, buried beneath layers of resentment, self-doubt, and the endless role of being cast in the background, thrives on it.

Because for once—for once—she is not the one standing in the center of the world.

For once, you have something she doesn’t.

And maybe it’s wrong. Maybe you’ll hate yourself for this later.

But right now—right now—

The weight of Sylus’s heat against you, the scent of smoke and clean linen and something sharp curling into your senses, pressing into the empty spaces inside you—

It’s stopping you from thinking straight.

And when his lips part, when his breath brushes over your skin, when the last thread of tension pulls taut between you—

You stop thinking altogether.

Because before you can second-guess yourself—

You grab him.

Fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, yanking him down, crashing into him like you’ve lost control of gravity itself.

Heat.

Pressure.

It is all you can feel.

His lips crash against yours, and everything ignites.

Your lips slowly move, and his follow suit. You can feel the smirk on his lips.

That damned smirk.

But your mind is wiped clean as soon as he tilts his head, the kiss turning hungrier. The tension builds, unraveling into something desperate, something heavy, something neither of you have the willpower to stop anymore.

Sylus lets out a low, dark chuckle against your mouth, but you swallow it whole.

He recovers quickly—of course he does—because the moment you give in, he’s already taking.

His hands slam against the wall behind you, pinning you between him and nothing else, his body pressing in, heat bleeding through his clothes and onto your skin.

The kiss is rough, deliberate, his lips moving against yours with slow precision, dragging, teasing, tasting.

Like he’s memorizing you.

Like he’s proving a point.

Your breath shudders when he bites, just enough to sting, just enough to make your knees buckle.

You hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Hate that he’s making you melt so easily.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, gripping him tight, using it as leverage when you press your body flush against his.

A sharp inhale from him.

A brief pause.

His fingers dive into your hair, twisting, tugging, tilting your head back as his mouth slants over yours, harder this time.

Deeper.

His other hand slides down, skimming over your ribs, tracing heat into your skin through your clothes before settling at your waist.

Firm. Possessive.

You don’t even realize you’ve been backing up until your back hits the closet wall and he presses in, caging you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him.

Your head spins.

The alcohol, the heat, the weight of him—it’s too much. But not enough.

A low groan rumbles deep in his chest when you tug at his hair, nails raking lightly against his scalp.

And then, his lips break away from yours—just barely, just enough to breathe against your mouth, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his swollen lips.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he murmurs, voice thick, husky, laced with something dangerous.

You exhale, your own lips tingling, your chest rising and falling too fast.

“Shut up.”

His teeth flash in the dimness, his breath hot against your lips.

Your grip tightens on his shirt, but it does nothing to steady you.

Sylus moves slowly—deliberate, like he’s savoring this moment, like he has all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

His hands dip beneath your shirt, fingers curling against your waist, his touch cool against the heat of your skin.

You shudder, a sharp inhale betraying you as his fingers start to move—slow, teasing strokes, tracing along the sensitive dip of your spine, mapping you out like he’s memorizing you by touch alone.

His mouth hovers just over yours, his breath fanning against your lips, his smirk felt more than seen in the heavy darkness.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice a low hum of amusement, his fingers pressing just slightly harder into your waist.

You bite your lip, hating the way your body responds to him, the way his touch burns through the fabric of your self-control.

“I’m not shaking.”

Sylus laughs, a deep, satisfied sound, his grip flexing slightly—his thumbs skimming just beneath the curve of your ribs, fingertips lingering dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be.

“Sure,” he muses, tilting his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then—he shifts.

A slow, taunting drag of his mouth, skimming along the curve of your jaw, down to the edge of your throat.

You swallow hard, your pulse thundering beneath his lips.

“You still thinking about them?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something dark, coaxing, his fingers spreading wider, pressing into the dip of your lower back, pulling you flush against him.

The sharp heat of his body bleeds through your clothes, overwhelming, intoxicating, making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.

His mouth brushes against your neck—just barely, just enough—and a low, approving hum vibrates from his chest when he feels your breath catch.

“Good,” he whispers, voice dark with satisfaction.

His hands trail higher, warmer, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, his touch searing against your bare skin.

His fingers splay over the curve of your spine, pressing in just enough to make you arch, just enough to remind you that he has full control of this moment.

“You know,” he murmurs, lips grazing against your throat, voice thick with amusement, “when I said to use me…”

His hands continue their slow ascent, fingertips tracing along the delicate line of your ribs, slipping under the thin strap of your bra, his knuckles brushing dangerously close to places that would mean no turning back.

“I was talking about simply making it seem like we did something.”

He pauses.

A teasing smirk curls against your skin.

“Didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”

Your breath stutters.

A sharp mix of heat and indignation surges through you, twisting deep in your stomach, because he’s playing with you.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and he loves every second of it.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tighter, a silent warning, a desperate attempt to keep yourself together.

He just chuckles—low, dark, sinful.

“Getting shy now?” His voice is all arrogance, his hands still skimming, still testing, still pushing you to the edge of losing control completely.

You hate him.

God, you hate him.

But you hate yourself more for the way your body leans into him, for the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze your pulse, for the way his heat drowns you whole.

And the worst part?

He knows.

He always knows.

His lips ghost over your skin, the smirk never leaving.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice velvet-smooth, “if I slipped my hands a little lower, would you stop me?”

Your stomach flips.

Your grip tightens.

But you don’t answer.

And that silence is exactly what he needs.

Sylus hums, a low, knowing sound, his fingers tightening against your spine, dragging heat along your skin as they trail downward again—slow, teasing, excruciating.

And then, his lips move, lower—tracing just barely along the column of your throat, hovering, not quite touching, not quite giving in.

“No protest?” His voice is mocking, rich with amusement and something darker, something heavier.

His fingers skim along the waistband of your jeans, just a whisper of pressure, enough to send a jolt through your system, enough to make your nails bite into his shirt, into his skin beneath it.

Your pulse hammers, every muscle in your body coiled so tightly you swear you might snap.

His breath brushes against your ear, soft, deliberate, taunting.

“Still not stopping me?”

You should.

You should.

But your body betrays you, tilting into his touch, into his heat, into the danger of him.

Sylus hums, a deep, satisfied sound, his fingers hooking onto the waistband of your jeans—

A knock shatters the daze you were in.

Loud. Sharp.

The closet door rattles slightly.

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” someone calls, muffled through the wood.

Everything freezes.

Your breath catches.

Sylus doesn’t move, not immediately.

For a long, tense second, his fingers linger—just barely pressing into your skin, his body still flush against yours, his lips hovering just over your jaw.

Though slowly, deliberately, devastatingly—he pulls back.

Just enough for you to breathe again.

Just enough to make you ache from the loss.

Sylus stretches, rolling his shoulders lazily before throwing you a look that’s pure, wicked satisfaction. He runs his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s still tasting you there.

The door finally swings open, and light floods in.

His voice is low, smooth as silk, but dripping with mocking amusement, he whispers before he steps out of the closet—

“Shame. I was just getting started.”

part 5

[chanelrolls]

Love & Deepspace Men reacting to you giving them head while they drive

warnings. mdni, nsfw, explicit content, sexual themes, blowjob, dick-sucking

pairings. sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb (separate) x reader

notes. it's my first time to write a full-blown nsfw piece so please excuse me if it doesn't come as good. anyway, requests are very much open.

SYLUS

Sylus is focused, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift—relaxed, poised, in control. Or at least, he was.

You lean in, lips ghosting over his thigh, barely a whisper of contact. At first, there’s no reaction—no sharp inhale, nor a startled twitch. Just the steady, unwavering presence of him, ever composed.

You press another kiss, this time firmer, lingering just a little longer against the fabric of his pants. His grip tightens. "You’re playing a dangerous game, kitten."

His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk. His leg shifts slightly, as if to subtly press closer to your lips, but before you can take the invitation, his fingers suddenly catch your chin, tilting your face toward him.

He doesn’t look away from the road, but his grip is firm, thumb brushing against your lower lip with deliberate slowness. "If you’re going to test my patience," he murmurs, voice impossibly low, "at least be prepared for what happens when you lose."

"By all means, don't let me stop you," Sylus would purr, a wicked glint in his eyes as he watched you work on his shackles. "In fact, I insist you continue. Show me what that pretty mouth of yours can really do." He'd chuckle darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest.

Sylus would make no move to stop you, instead watching with a critical eye as if evaluating your performance. His breathing would remain steady, his heart rate barely increasing, a testament to his ironclad self-control. He was Sylus, after all. Nothing could ruffle his feathers, least of all a little roadside dalliance.

"Faster," he'd command, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Put your back into it, sweetheart. I know you can do better than that." His fingers would tighten in your hair, guiding your movements, pushing you to take him even deeper. "That's it, just like that."

He'd grip the steering wheel harder, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to surge forward, to take over, to claim his pleasure for himself.

And when he can't hold himself back anymore, he forces the tip to rub against your throat, and you wince in response, but he doesn't bugde, no, he keeps you there. "Keep going," He'd say, teasingly rubbing his tip against your throat, not caring about the way that you're already tearing up. "Don't you dare stop now. I want to see you finish what you started."

And then, suddenly—the car swerves. You barely register the motion before he pulls onto a quiet side road, the tires crunching against gravel as he slows to a stop.

Then, finally, he turns to you fully—one hand still on the wheel, the other trailing down your jaw, tracing the line of your throat before gripping the base of your neck. His touch is light, teasing, but there’s an unmistakable warning behind it.

"Congratulations," he murmurs, tilting your face up, "You got my attention."

ZAYNE

Zayne drives with precise, almost mechanical ease. One hand rests on the wheel, the other draped over the console between you.

Your fingers skim along his thigh first, light and teasing, tracing patterns against the fine material of his slacks. He doesn’t react. Instead, he exhales steadily, like someone who anticipated your next move before you even thought to make it.

Lips grazing over the fabric, the warmth of your breath seeping through, so close yet still not quite enough. Then, his fingers flex. "Do you think this is wise?"

A few beats pass in silence, and you almost think he’s going to ignore it completely, let it roll off his shoulders like he does with most things. But then, suddenly, his hand moves.

Not in warning. Not in restraint.

But to press you down. Fingers threading into your hair, keeping you close, firmly and deliberately, like he’s giving you a choice but already knows what you’ll pick.

"You're trying very hard to test me tonight," he murmurs, and now his voice is lower, rougher, something just a touch undone.

And when you finally took him into your mouth, he'd let out a low, sharp inhale through his teeth, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain control. He'd say your name, voice strained, "we're in the middle of a..." He'd trail off, his words lost in a soft groan as you took him deeper.

Despite his initial surprise, Zayne would make no move to stop you, instead trying to focus on the road ahead. He was a pragmatic man, after all, and he knew the dangers of distracted driving. But damn if your sloppy mouth wasn't making it hard to concentrate.

"Careful," he'd warn, his voice a low rumble. "I don't want to cause an accident." But his words were undercut by the way he rolled his hips slightly, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

Suddenly, he lets his grip loosen, fingers tracing the nape of your neck before slipping away entirely.

And then—just as quickly—he accelerates. The car surges forward, the sudden force pressing you back against your seat, "That's enough," the air shifting around you as he drives faster, sharper, more reckless than before.

He exhales slowly, smoothing a hand over his tie, regaining that signature poise—but when he finally speaks again, his voice carries that same unshakable authority as always. "Seatbelt on," A small pause, then, "You’ll need it."

RAFAYEL

He’s humming some tune under his breath, something slow. Then, your hand moves first, fingers gliding over the firm muscle of his thigh, innocently enough that he doesn’t react right away. But when your lips followed after, pressing into the fabric of his slacks, his hum falters.

Then stops entirely. For a moment, all you hear is the steady hum of the engine. The way his grip subtly tightens on the wheel. Then—

"You’re a real menace, y’know that?"

His voice is airy, light—like he’s amused, pretending to be unfazed. But you don’t miss the way his breath hitches when you press another kiss, this time dangerously close to the inside of his thigh.

He exhales sharply, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. "Go on," he muses, tilting his head slightly, glowing eyes flicking down at you, and dark with something indulgent. "See what happens, cutie."

You know exactly what will happen. Because Rafayel is all bark until he’s bitten. Until he’s whimpering, breathless, fingers trembling with the effort of keeping control he never really had in the first place.

And when you do press forward, when you start to eat him out, he lets out a sound—soft, bitten off, caught between a laugh and something much filthier.

Rafayel lets out a startled gasp as your lips wrapped around his sensitive cock, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "H-hey, what do you think you're doing?" as if he didn't challenge you outright.

He tangles his fingers in your hair, not pushing you down, but not pulling you off either, torn between his desire and his stubborn pride. "I never said you could just... just do this, you know," His nose wrinkles in a mixture of annoyance and arousal. "Such a bold little thing, taking what you want without asking..."

But even as he spoke, Rafayel's body betrayed him, his cock twitching and throbbing against your tongue, growing harder by the second. He bites his lip, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to spill out while you swirled your tongue around the sensitive head, lapping up the bead of pre-cum that had already formed at the tip.

"Nngh... y-you're not going to distract me that easily," Rafayel insisted, even as his grip on your hair tightened, his fingers trembling slightly. "I'm not just going to let you... ah! ...just take control like this, without even asking me first!" He tried to sound indignant, all the while rocking his hips to match your movements.

"Y-you're... hah... you're not going to win this way," Rafayel panted, his face flushed and his eyes glazed over with lust. "I won't let you... just... just have your way with me like this..." But even as he spoke, his head fell back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure entirely consumed him.

XAVIER

The night stretches long ahead, the road open, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across Xavier’s sharp profile. His hand rests on the wheel, fingers drumming idly, while the other is perched casually on the gear shift.

Leaning in, you press your lips against the inside of his thigh, soft and fleeting, just enough for him to feel it. Then, his whole body goes rigid.

His foot presses down a little too hard on the gas before he corrects, rolling his shoulders back like it was nothing, like you didn’t just do that.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Don’t start." His voice is firm, clipped—but there’s something beneath it, something unraveling at the edges.

You don’t listen. You never do. Another kiss, slower this time, your breath warm against denim.

His fingers tighten around the wheel. "I said—" He stops, inhaling sharply through his nose. A slow, controlled breath—like he’s trying to center himself.

But then he does something unexpected. He shifts in his seat, just slightly—just enough for his thigh to press closer against your lips.

Your lips curl. "Thought you said not to start," you murmur, letting the heat of your breath fan against the fabric of his jeans.

Xavier smiles to glance at you—a short, breathy huff coming out of his lips, almost like he hates that you caught him. "I also told myself I wouldn’t let you get to me."

He keeps driving. Still in control. Still composed. But you can feel it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his body is slowly but surely giving in. "...Keep going," he murmurs, almost absently, like he’s already resigned himself to the inevitable.

He would keep himself unnervingly still and eyes on the road while you lap up his girth, but barely seeing it. "When have you gotten good... at this?"

As Xavier would reach his peak, he'd let out a sharp, hissed intake of breath through clenched teeth, his body going rigid for a moment. He'd rasp, your name a little more than a breathless whisper.

Then, with a sudden, violent jerk of his hips, he'd bury himself deep in your throat, his thick, hot seed erupting forth in thick, heavy spurts.

Xavier's eyes would flutter shut, his head falling back against the headrest as he rode out the intense waves of his climax.

A low, guttural moan would rumble in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that seemed to echo through the confines of the car. His fingers would tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he emptied himself into your eager mouth, ensuring you took every last drop of his essence

As the final, weak spurts dribbled out, Xavier would slump back in his seat, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and a faint flush colored his usually pallid cheeks. He'd shoot you a heated look, his eyes half-lidded but intense as they raked over your face. "Swallow it."

CALEB

Caleb would react to a sudden blowjob while driving with a mix of intense arousal and possessive desire lurking beneath the surface.

His eyes would flash with a fierce, hungry light as he glanced down at you, grip tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

"Oh, you're brave, huh?," he'd growl, your name falling from his lips like a dark promise. "You're playing dirty, my love."

Despite his words, he made no move to stop you, and instead of grabbing your hair, his veiny hand finds your nape, holding you in place as you worked over his throbbing cock. "Silly girl, trying to distract me like this..."

Caleb's hips would start to rock, fucking into your hot mouth with a growing sense of urgency. "Fuck, baby, your mouth feels so good," he'd pant, his voice rough and strained with pleasure.

As his climax approached, Caleb's eyes would darken, a fierce, almost manic light burning in their depths. "You're mine, you're... mine." he'd rasp, his voice a dark, dangerous rumble. "Only mine. And I won't let anyone, not even you, take that away from me." He'd tighten his grip on your nape, a touch of pain mingling with the pleasure.

He always had a habit of continuously praising and showering you possessive nothings while reaching for his climax.

With a harsh, animalistic cry, Caleb would reach his peak, his hot seed spurting forth to fill your mouth. "Fuck, yes, take it all!" Even pushing himself deeper to the point you wouldn't be able to breathe anymore.

And after he cums? "I'm not done yet." He pulls over the side of the road, and gets on you. Literally.

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 1

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 2

You sit on Sylus' bed, restless despite the exhaustion that clings to your body. It’s like a noose with every second that goes by. Yet, you know rest will never come to you. Not for some time at least. So, you pass the time with tapping.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Broken nails tap uselessly and frequently against the expensive sheets. No amount of this makes the ire in your blood burn any less.

"Sylus," you call out to the man in question, who merely hums your name in response. "Have I ever told you that you're the biggest fool I've met?"

Sylus stands in his bathroom, door wide open as always. He stopped showering or tending to his wounds with it closed long ago. You can't quite remember how long. It's just how it is. Has it made for some embarrassing moments where he teases you with a towel barely around his waist as you struggle to keep your eyes solely on his (and not his chest that you want to run your hands on or his neck you want to bury your face in as you drift to sleep)? Yes.

Would you want it any other way? No.

"Is that so, sweetie? I must've gone deaf the last few hours, and missed it. Mind repeating yourself so I can etch it into my mind for future reference?"

"You're the biggest fool I've ever met."

He chuckles. The rich laughter makes your heart flutter and you almost immediately march over to help him.

"May I remind you that you work for this fool? What does that make you?"

"What indeed…"

The pair of you sit in silence except for the sounds of Sylus digging into his own skin to remove a bullet that seems to be giving him particular trouble.

"Be a dear and help your boss out, sweetie."

Part of you wants to give in, as you've done so many times. Sylus' tone gives away that he knows that too. Even without seeing his face, you can imagine the smug smirk it has. Oh how you want to kiss that smirk away so badly.

And that's exactly why you can't comply with his request. You need to put your foot down. Maybe being belligerent will help quell these annoying feelings. Sylus isn't meant to be yours, after all.

"No thanks."

You stare at his thread of fate. It shimmers the same red that everyone else's does. That red used to alarm you as a child. Now, all you see is him. Him and his beautiful red you wish to burrow yourself in forever.

Now that red helps not give into him. Helps you remember that if you want him to meet his soulmate in one piece, you couldn't keep letting him do this.

"Seriously?"

"Yep. My foolish boss did this to himself, so he should pay the price."

"And what price is that?"

"The price of spending who knows how long digging bullets out of his skin."

"Of course. Whatever you say sweetie. A far better price than what… hmmm… what was his name? George? Jarold?"

He's teasing you again. The drawl in his voice told you as much. He didn't even bother to hide the slight chuckles he let out at your tired sigh.

"James," you reply.

"Yes, Jake," now he was just fucking with you. "The price he was demanding for such mediocre business was… appalling. I much prefer this."

You snort at your boss, "Just keep telling yourself that bossman."

"I will, sweetie."

Silence engulfs the pair of you. For you, it sits on your chest, swims in your blood, and chews on your skin. The quiet gnaws at you, a steady and annoying and repetitive peaking reminiscent of Mephisto.

You hate it. But you must maintain it. Even when Sylus glances over his shoulder at you. You're sure to avoid eye contact with him. One look is all it would take for you to storm over to him and tenderly take the bullets out of his skin.

Not this time. This time, you had to be firm.

Your mind drifts back to the meeting. There wasn't anything special about this particular one. Hell, it wasn't even a weapons deal. Rather, James was apparently an old friend of Sherman's with a vinyl collection. The stupid man had gone off the rails recently.

Was it surprising that he did? Not in the least bit. It did make for a good laugh over diner one day though. About how this man thought he could take you two down. Sylus and his faithful companion with a silver tongue, one that seemed to speak to very depths of your soul.

Taking down Sherman wouldn't be difficult. Nothing ever was with you two being the well-oiled machine you are together. But, you never liked being unprepared. You're cautious to a fault. And Sylus wanted to easy your worrying, or nagging as he called it.

Enter James: a connection to Sherman you dug up. One with a pension for vintage music and antique jewelry. It should've been an easy deal. Especially once you saw his thread.

James' thread was a dim red. A red you hadn't seen for quite sometime. A red you didn't expect from someone like him.

A dead soulmate. You could hear the deceased man's faint screams. You could see their final hours together as illness wracked the poor boy. God, they must've been about 16; James had to be at least in his mid 30's now. He still clings to his soulmate all these years later, a simple tattoo over his heart to symbolize the love that was lost too early.

You pitied the man. He wasn't a good man, with countless lives lost at his hands and many loves cut too short because of his actions, but the loss of a soulmate is something no one recovers from. It's one of those things that immutable in this world.

So you used that to crack through his icy exterior. Peeled it back layer by layer until his soul danced in the palm of your hand. James was at your command. Until your boss shattered that.

"Why are you so mad at me, my sweet Gamayun?"

You can't help it: you look up and are immediately greeted by your boss' smug face. And you're angry at falling for his trick. For a moment.

Then you lock eyes. Deep, deep, crimson, so similar yet so unlike the threads of fate you see so often. His red is a good red. His red is the red of your love rather than everyone else's. Sometimes you wonder if his red eyes are your thread of fate, that they're your soulmate connection.

Any other day, you'd soak in the attention of that red. You can't right now. Because in a fraction of a second, you see it. You see the hurt he's trying to cover. You see in his soul how his wounds ache and how he wants your forgiveness, how he wants to make you smile (for some reason).

It's all you need to move from his bed and approach his back. He still looks at you, smirk gone and expression soft with something you can't place. You ignore it. He turns around so that his bare chest faces you. You struggle to not let yourself be flustered.

”It's nothing you haven't seen before. It's no big deal. You're just business partners and companions. Nothing else.”

"Gimme your gauze."

Your tone is sharp. Maybe because you hope to cover how weirdly intimate this feels: your boss basically naked and unguarded as you try to tend to his wounds.

You focus your eyes onto his hands. He holds his bandages in them. You reach for them, but he moves his hand away. You reach again, and Sylus raises his hand above his head, and raises an eyebrow at you.

You can't even be mad at him when he does.

"Why, Gamayun?"

There’s that nickname again. It carries so much. His trust, his affection, and his heart. Just not in the way you hope.

Gamayun carries false dreams, fantasies that haunt you as you sleep at night. Gamayun is a fake promise of a love you'll never have. But it was yours, so you gladly take ownership of it.

"You're pathetic…"

"Because my foolish Morana apparently can't clean up his own messes."

"Ah, but that's why I have you, my sweet, beautiful, and kind Gamayun."

Your hands tremble as you pull back on the roll of gauze. You think Sylus laughs at you, but you can't hear it over the pounding of your heart.

"Stop it," you want to tell him. "Stop giving me hope."

It doesn't take long for you to finish. You help Sylus dress, despite knowing he doesn't in any way, shape, or form need you help. He stopped you when you tried to leave after finishing his bandages, so you figure you wouldn't even bother for now.

"Sylus, what're you—"

"Sylus? Who's Sylus? Since when did you know a Sylus?"

You roll your eyes at him.

“Have you suddenly become a decrepit old man without my noticing?”

"No," he then lifts you into your arms and forces you to meet his eyes.

He stares into your eyes; you stare right back, praying that you give nothing away. He walks towards his bed, still looking at you.

"You must be really mad at me if you're calling me by my name right now."

"Don't be so dramatic you big baby. I called you by name earlier.”

Sylus pays no heed to words. In fact, he takes them in stride, placing you slowly onto his bed. His movements are slow, precise. Almost as if he's afraid to hurt you. But that’s ridiculous; he could never hurt you.

"Are his injuries still causing him problems?"

You keep that thought in mind in order to not trick yourself. In order to not gaslight yourself into believing that there's something more behind his actions. Sylus and you have always had an intimate relationship. Closer than most ever will be. Best friends. Partners in crime.

"This means nothing."

You try to get out of bed, to run away to wallow in your sorrows, but Sylus plops down next you and wraps an arm around you.

"Sleep. We'll discuss this later."

A protest builds up in your throat. It’s pushed back down when his arms tightens around you and his breathing evens out into soft puffs. He’s not asleep; you know that, and he knows you know that. But you play along anyway.

Turning in his arms to play with his hair, you think more about what happened earlier. At how Sylus kept trying to get between you and James when you guys got closer. At how Sylus seemed more passive aggressive with the man the more you two talked, forgetting that there was even someone else in the room. At how Sylus would subtly move you away from James when a crack in the man’s facade would appear at your words.

He got worse when you reciprocated. Of course, you always did on these missions; it’s a great way to build rapport. Today was different. Today was real. You really felt for James. You really wanted to reach him. As someone who also understands of the pain of being without a soulmate—soulless, as society would call you.

But you were different. You didn’t lose your soulmate. You never had one. All you could do was watch as others loved and lost, doomed to never experience the same.

Things exploded when James asked if he could see you again. A normal request from clients and prospective/current business partners alike. But you never quite clicked with them the same way you had with James, a man whose heart was so hurt, much like your own. You hope the poor man is still alive.

Sleep begins to creep up on you as you remember the vigor in Sylus protest. Honestly, it was kind of hot; you rarely get to see him lose composure. Even less so during business exchanges. You burrow into his embrace at the thought. Of the way his face contorted with rage. At the way his Evol thrashed out at those around you.

You use that to cover what you truly remember: the gentle way that same power carried you to safety (he was always weirdly protective of you because of your lack of Evol; strange, considering what you’re capable of). The worried way he asked if you were alright. The kind way he treated you despite your anger.

But, why were you angry? Why are you still angry? Because he once again used violence when it wasn’t needed? Because he didn’t listen when you told him to back off? Because he got himself hurting protecting you? Because this showed that deep down he doesn’t trust you?

No. Never.

Sylus trusts you with everything. And you, in turn, trust him with everything. Well, except one thing: your heart. Maybe that was why you were mad at him. Because when he does things like that, it makes it so hard to let him go.

I previously posted a blurb/preview of a soulmate AU with Sylus and a Non MC Reader. Here is chapter 1 of the full length fic. Hope you all enjoy because there's more fics to come with this man from me (he has me in a goddamn chokehold; I already have so many drafts 😭).

Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @madam8, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[peascribbles]

𝑾𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓

It's been a long, long day. soft!sylus x gn!reader, getting carried from his car into bed, fluff & comfort, sfw; 600wc.

The interior of the car is dappled with the passing streetlights, his features illuminated by strange, ever-shifting fluorescent hues that you muse on drowsily, leaning against the headrest. Invisible weights seem to be tied on your eyelids, and you're fighting a losing battle to keep them open.

Work was exhausting today, plagued by delays and complications, taking you a long way from home. You hadn't even questioned his inexplicable presence this time, given he was the only reason you were able to finish up by midnight.

You fail to stifle a yawn. He glances at you, and the corner of his eyes crinkle when he notices your hopeless plight to stay conscious.

That single look steals a breath from you. The night always seems to wrap around him like a second skin, welcoming him into its fold without hesitation. He wears it so well. Fits in this car, all sleek leather and unadulterated power, like a perfect picture. At ease with one hand on the wheel, in complete control. And he's got that damned jacket on.

Gods, he's a sight for sore eyes.

"Said that out loud, sweetie. You're really tired, huh?"

Whoops. "Don't know what you're talking about," you mumble through another yawn.

He chuckles at that, and you relish its warmth, eyes falling shut to savour the sound. You can't seem to open them again. The seat is impossibly comfortable, more than it has any right to be. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers, the classical music playing low through the aux, the restrained hum of the engine, all work in tandem to pull you under.

You're so close to letting it take you. A passing thought, just a twinge, creeps at the edges of your mind—is he doing this on purpose?—but it drifts away as swiftly as it came when he speaks again.

"Sleep. I'll wake you when we're nearly home," he promises.

His voice must be a black market sedative, because it's the only push you need to succumb at last, into a deep, dreamless slumber.

—

It's a lie.

How could he bring himself to wake you up when you were finally letting yourself rest? You weren't even aware of the tension that's worn you thin the whole day, undoubtedly forming knots in your shoulders—which he'll gladly offer to massage out of you later—and having it dissipate now that you're fast asleep is a relief.

He gets out and walks to the passenger side, opening the door quietly to not disturb you. Scoops you up in his arms and carries you through the expansive underground garage, through the darkened hallways of the base, to the master bedroom where he lays you down with care.

It's too early for him to sleep, so he simply tucks you in, pulling a blanket over you and ensuring your head is properly supported. But when he goes to leave for the office, there's a tug on his sleeve.

He turns back to find that you've somehow held on to him while still knocked out. Catches the faintest whisper under your breath.

"Don't go."

What a demanding kitten he has. He tuts, though there's not a shred of real irritation behind it—and he's already halfway through shedding his jacket. Peels off his gloves, then his shoes.

Moving with unnerving grace for his size, he slips under the blanket with you, the mattress barely dipping under the new weight with how carefully he lowers himself onto it. Conforms his body to yours, two puzzle pieces slotting together.

The moment he wraps an arm around your waist, you snuggle up to him like a heat-seeking missile. You bury your head in his chest, slinging a leg over him, and a hum of utter contentment escapes you. He has to suppress the laugh that wells up inside him, shaking you both with the effort. You've stuck yourself to him like velcro—a perfect, tender trap. There's nowhere else he'd rather be.

[asiatic-apple]

congratulations, ivy! i feel like prompt no. 8 is Sylus, hmo! this is a headcanon of mine for a while now, especially he has a card that he and mc are literally hiding in the closet (immobilized) and that being in the prompt? blessed! i would love to read your take on this, and thank you for your amazing works!

Thank you, my sweet nonnie!! This was the perfect prompt for sylus. In this scenario, I imagined another circumstance where they're stuck together (no evol linkage this time…for logistical reasons). I hope it's to your liking! 😘

Side note: this was def longer than a drabble (1.4k, oops). I’ll try to write future smut reqs at my usual shorter length just to keep it fair to everyone. But for now, enjoy this longer piece!

Requests are open for my follower celebration

Close proximity

Sylus x female reader

Prompt: oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity got us too turned on not to fuck

Content: some tasteful manhandling, his evol is used to hold you up and kinda keep you in place, semi-public fucking, implied unprotected sex, implied creampie

This can’t be happening again. Why is it that every time Sylus is around, the two of you end up in a damn closet?

The space is barely big enough for two full-grown adults, let alone one man so large he has to fold himself around you just to keep his head from knocking the low ceiling. You’re both pressed together, your back against his chest, bodies molded tightly so you don’t bump into the walls.

His breath stirs the hair by your ear, warm and far too steady for someone in hiding. Meanwhile, you’re doing everything you can to keep yours silent and shallow, hoping to avoid detection from your colleagues just beyond the closet door.

You tense when you hear footsteps. They’re closer this time.

A sudden peal of laughter from outside makes you jump a bit, and Sylus tightens his hold around you in a gesture that’s probably meant to be reassuring. Too bad you’re only getting more worked up from how easily his hands envelop your body.

Your coworkers from the Hunters Association have no idea you're in here, just one accidental bump from being caught. One whisper too loud from being completely exposed.

And then Sylus decides to glide his hand along your hip, taking his time to map out your trembling body with his long fingers.

You stiffen. He’s definitely doing this on purpose.

Your glare is useless with your back to him, but it’s like he can sense it, causing the soft rumble of a chuckle against your back. His hand lingers too long, moving to lightly stroke his thumb over the seam of your shorts.

His lips brush against your neck and form a sly smirk. It’s like he’s daring you to react—or resist his pull.

The group outside finally moves on. Their fading footsteps and laughter disappear down the hall, leaving you in much-needed silence.

You don’t even sigh with relief. You just turn your head and hiss, “Are you insane?”

“Hm,” he hums. You can hear the smug look on his face. “That righteous act would be more convincing if you weren’t pressing your thighs together, kitten.” His fingers apply more delicious pressure against your clothed cunt as if to further prove his point.

You make a low noise of frustration—or is it a groan of pleasure—that does nothing to wipe the smugness off his face. Just to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a response, you shove at the closet door in desperation to bring distance back between the two of you.

But the door doesn’t budge. Not even a little. You try again, slower this time. Still nothing.

“Locked?” Sylus asks, his low voice a satisfied purr in your ear. It’s weird he doesn’t sound as panicked as he should be.

You glance back at him, brow furrowed. “Either that or it’s jammed. But I don’t understand how. Did someone lock it from the outside?”

“Can’t say I was paying attention.” His response is all silk and sin, brushing up the back of your neck like a tease.

You curse under your breath and try not to press against him more than absolutely necessary—though it’s useless. The closet is too cramped. And he’s too damn big. Every time you move, your ass rubs against a suspicious bulge behind you.

You huff in annoyance. “You’re enjoying this,” you accuse, trying to sound stern but only sounding out-of-breath from the desire creeping up your body.

He hums again, his arm tightening around your waist. “Let’s just say I’m not in a hurry.”

He cups you between your thighs again, fingers splayed perfectly over your whole mound. You jolt as he yanks you even closer, the heel of his palm pressing down on your lower abdomen while your ass grinds into the tent of his pants.

Your breath catches. “Don’t,” you warn, but your voice lacks any real bite.

He ignores you, instinctively knowing what you really crave. You’re secretly grateful for the loose gym shorts you’re wearing, because Sylus slips his fingers beneath the waistband with ease and simultaneously slides them under your panties.

Now there’s nothing separating smooth digits from hot, slick flesh.

He groans in appreciation of what he finds waiting for him. “You’re soaked,” he whispers, “and I’ve barely touched you yet.”

You don’t miss the delicious threat lurking in the word ‘yet’. But is this really the time and place?

“Sylus–”

“Since we’re stuck here,” he interrupts, “I might as well help you with this.”

It’s torture when he drags the pads of two fingers down your slit, collecting every drop of your arousal before gliding back up. Any resistance you had before is gone as soon as he begins to rub teasing circles around your clit.

He alternates it with the lightest dip of his finger into your entrance, barely enough to satisfy. You try to grind against him, needing more, but his grip on you is unyielding. Even with only one arm bracketed around your waist, you’re powerless against him.

You reach down to rake your nails along his forearm. “Stop teasing me,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

That only makes him chuckle. God, sometimes that laugh pisses you off just as much as it turns you on.

He pulls his fingers away, and you whimper softly at the loss. But before you can complain, he’s spinning you around, pressing your back to the door. His lips descend upon yours in a frenzy—deep and hungry, like he’s waited all night for this.

Between kisses, he makes quick work of your clothes, hooking his fingers beneath the waistbands of both your shorts and panties before impatiently yanking them down. You barely have time to step out of them before he’s working open his pants, tugging the zipper low enough just to free his cock.

Then he lifts you like you weigh nothing, pinning you to the closet door with a soft thud. With his large physique and wisps of such a powerful Evol, it’s effortless to hold you up at the perfect height so your cunt lines up with the head of his flushed, leaking cock.

There’s no preamble. You’re wet enough. Needy enough.

He pushes into you in one deep, claiming stroke.

You bite your lip to muffle your cry. But Sylus groans in earnest, not giving a damn about getting caught like this. The first few strokes are slow, splitting you open with care to make sure you can take every inch without discomfort (he knows his girth can be overwhelming no matter how many times you’ve gotten used to it).

When you’re relaxed enough, he moves faster and harder, until the wooden door behind you creaks loudly with each powerful thrust. The growing staccato of the closet door accompanying each snap of his hips is obscene and slightly humiliating.

It all makes your heart race even faster—knowing the risk and the complete insanity of what you’re doing.

Anyone could pass by. Anyone could hear. There’s nothing stopping someone from stumbling upon the unmistakable sounds of wet squelches and muffled moans. And something tells you Sylus still wouldn’t stop if that happened.

You can only cling to him as he fucks you relentlessly. His hand dips between your bodies to flick a thumb against your clit. And then you’re shuddering against the strong hold of his Evol.

Your orgasm crashes through you, overwhelming in the best of ways. You have to bury your face in his neck to keep from crying out. It becomes almost impossible to stay quiet as his thrusts turn harsher and your walls flutter around him. His own release soon follows with a sharp grunt, filling you with a final thrust and a tremble in his grip.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of panting. Then the faint rustle of clothing after he gently brings you back to firm ground and presses a sloppy kiss to your lips.

Sylus still holds you close, letting you catch your breath before murmuring, “Try the door again, sweetie.”

You blink at him, a little slow on the uptake after being fucked so thoroughly. “What?”

His smirk is both sexy and infuriating. You recognize that look on his face all too well. Even though your glare is deadly, he doesn’t look sheepish at all when he replies, “I have a feeling it’ll open now.”

💕 tag list: @heartyluv @doeeyes515 @lethalasylum @starryeyed-apple @starlitfics @craeatio @rafayelslittlestar @ruralamours

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Creds: mdni banner by @/cafekitsune heart divider by @/enchanthings-a

[ruby-kissed]

"Did you enjoy your birthday?"

Sylus leans back and smiles, thinking about the events of the day.

A roadtrip wtih his beloved girl, lush fields, her laughter, the face she made when she bit into the piece of orange, cuddling in the grass, maple-sweet kisses and holding hands, followed by a candle-lit dinner with a home-cooked meal in the base.

It was all warm. Sylus felt "fuzzy", as one kitten would put it.

It would have been a regular day for the leader of Onychinus but she wedged her way into his life and changed everything. The most welcome inconvenience.

Now back in his home, he lays languid in his luxurious bed. Eyes slightly hazy, lipstick marks scattered on his chest and face, hair unruly, and skin sporting a light sheen of sweat from previous exertions.

The love of his life, literally his other half, is neatly tucked in his embrace with her head on the crook of his neck.

He looks at her and takes her in. Beautiful, flushed, a fire of determination in her eyes, and all his. He picks up a lose curl from her shoulder and gently twirls it in his fingers.

"I think we both know the answer to that, sweetie."

She opens her mouth to say something but Sylus places a finger on her lips.

"Ah ah. Let me finish. This is the first time I have celebrated my birthday and it is with you. My love, my girl, my kitten."

"That's nice but I need you to be specific and provide me with feedback."

He smirks, eyes focused on the lock of hair still in his touch.

"What ever for, sweetie? Should I leave a rating as well?"

She lightly thumps her fist on his solid chest and looks at him. "I want to know so that I can plan next year's birthday accordingly."

Sylus stops twirling the lose curl in his fingers to put all his focus on the woman before him. His heart is full, as if it hasn't been already. He pulls her on top of him so he can look at her properly. He needs to.

"I can celebrate my birthday in whatever way or not at all. My only condition is that you'll be beside me, just like today."

She blushes at his vulnerability. Nuzzling her cheek on his bare chest, she whispers "Deal."

Cute, he thinks. Months of doing almost everything together and she can still be shy. Sylus slowly feels his heart racing.

"You're a divine being, you know? You managed to haul me outside of the N109 zone and gave me the most well-thought-out birthday a regular man can only imagine for himself. Now, let me worship you. Let me thank you properly."

Her world spins as he positions himself on top of her. She yelps and instinctively places her hands on Sylus's shoulders. As her vision steadies, she is met with the most beautiful view. Tufts of silver hair hanging on his forehead softening his rougish charms, that particular smile (a favorite of hers), and the look of purest love in his eyes.

"It's only 11:09 in the evening, sweetie. My birthday hasn't ended yet so I think I can be a little more greedy and ask for... another present. What do you say?"

[leafydory]

Heavily Yearning Sylus

(Suggestive, Fluff, Sylus x Mc)

(600 words quick midnight thoughts lol)

Heavily Yearning Sylus that he would check the time always as it ticks and tocks, it grates on his nerves, Luke and Kieran would find themselves fixing the clock right now because Sylus instructed so, none of it was broken, yet the yearning man insisted on more 'fixes' anyways.

Heavily Yearning Sylus that stares at his plate, half of it was eaten, the rest should be done by now but he doesn't finish, waiting for you on that long hunter mission that he could have done in just seconds if you want him to, but no he respects you, respects your skills and expertise that now he found himself staring at this plate, maybe waiting for it to break down to pieces with his glare alone.

Heavily Yearning Sylus that he would watch the tracker that he put on the motorcycle he gave you on his phone every stop over, every turn of directions in the streets, staring, biding his time, fueling the boiling need on himself, like a flame slowly engulfing the objects around him. everything is affected after all, meetings? Cancelled. Sleep schedule? Broken. The leader of Onychinus? On leave. You were the priority now.

Heavily Yearning Sylus that was already by the door when you opened it, before you can even greet or walk your first feet inside, he lifted you up in his arms, one hand, weightless as he takes a shaky sigh of relief

"I thought another person used the motorbike I gifted to you sweetie… Considering how long that mission took for you to return here than usual..."

"Wait Sylus you can you at least--"

"I had waited enough kitten."

Heavily Yearning Sylus who would strip you up let you sit on his bed, naked with only your undies in, you swore his eyes we're so hungry that it devours your resisting thoughts but suprisingly, he stood there... Suddenly on his knees on the ground, head resting against your thighs trailing reverent kisses there, arms wrapped around your legs, breathing in and out deep, warm, yearning.

Heavily Yearning Sylus that reads every twitch and changes in your emotions, on how it started with confusion, surprise then understanding, the touch of your hand on his hair makes a man like him feel like a putty, and he doesn't deny that. He can only feel this with you.

"Where you thinking of something naughty?"

he smirks noticing the sudden flush of your cheeks when he heightened his kisses to your waist up to your bare stomach. You can only protest in embarrassment over the accuracy of his words

"No??? Look... Just do as you please Sylus. I'm here now"

Heavily Yearning Sylus that he eventually rests his head on top of your chest, laying you down in bed, hands on your thighs, tight and assertive and breathing in your scent around your collarbone and neck. Gun powder, perfume you use and his own unique scent still lingering, good, it was the usual just like how he wanted in the first place.

"Then stay with me to bed. I'm already past my sleep schedule waiting for you to return kitten."

Heavily Yearning Sylus who would now sleep like a weightless feather beside you, holding you close never wanting to let go, secure, reassured, fulfilled. After all he simply was a man yearning for more of your presence, more of your attention. More of you.

(i love men yearning) (sylus occupies my thoughts lately lolol)

[dollyswishingwell]

just reread your crybaby MC hcs and it made me feel sooo fluffy i need more plz plz plz i’m begging even just a part two 🥺💕

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ His crybaby P.2

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluffff, dramatic ness as always

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ He will always comfort you

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The moment it shattered, it was like the air was knocked from your lungs.

You stood there in the center of your gilded sea-view kitchen, frozen, staring down at the beautiful ivory-and-gold bowl now cracked tragically on the floor. Your favorite one from your Mariposa Rosé collection, the one Rafayel had custom-ordered from an eccentric island designer just because you said it looked “like a seashell that belonged to a princess.”

Your bottom lip quivered.

You didn’t even mean to drop it, you just got distracted scrolling through accessories for your new silk robe set, and then it slipped. One second, it was in your hands, and the next,

Snap. Crack. Shatter.

A sob bubbled up in your chest like a wounded little kitten.

You crouched beside the porcelain ruins with wide, glossy eyes, fingers trembling as you whispered,

“No… my bowl… it’s ruined… it’s all ruined… the whole set is ruined—”

And just like that, the tears welled up. Huge, glittering, spoiled tears spilling down your pretty cheeks.

By the time Rafayel appeared—drawn by your quiet, pathetic wail, he found you crouched on the floor in your frilly pink house robe, sobbing softly and pawing helplessly at the pieces like a princess mourning a fallen kingdom.

“Baby?” he blinked, dropping the novel he was reading. “What happened? Did something—did someone—hurt you—?”

You pointed dramatically at the broken bowl.

He followed your gaze. Then blinked again.

“…That’s it?” he said, baffled. “That’s what has my little pearlie crying like the world ended?”

“It’s not just a bowl,” you sniffled, crawling toward him on your hands and knees like a sulky little cat. “It was my favorite, Raffy. It’s from the seaside rose line, now the whole set is off. You can’t just have five bowls! It’s—it’s cursed now!”

He barely managed to suppress a grin, crouching to meet you and pulling you into his lap with a sigh.

“My dramatic little darling,” he cooed, rubbing your back with slow, soothing strokes. “You break a single dish and suddenly the whole home is haunted.”

You swatted his chest half-heartedly with your little fists. “Don’t tease me! I’m upset!”

“I know, I know,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your eye gently. “I can see you’re devastated. Absolutely tragic.”

You sniffled harder and collapsed into him. “Raffy… I really liked that one… It was so pretty. I was gonna make fruit salad in it for you tonight…”

“Oh, that I care about,” he teased, though his voice was already soft with guilt and fondness. “No fruit salad? That is a crime.”

You whimpered and buried your face into his neck, clinging to him with both arms like the big strong comfort plushie he always became when you were sad.

“Shhh,” he murmured into your hair, rocking you just slightly. “Don’t pout, little crybaby. I’ll call the designer in the morning, hmm? We’ll get another full set. Or two. One to use and one just to look pretty on the shelf.”

“Y-You promise?” you hiccupped.

Rafayel smiled, cradling your cheeks between his hands and kissing the tip of your nose.

“I’ll do one better,” he said smugly. “I’ll have him name the next set after you.”

Your eyes lit up through your tears. “Like… the wifey Collection?”

“Exactly,” he purred. “Inspired by the prettiest little housewife in the world. Comes in pink. Exclusive. Only one exists. No touching allowed unless you’re married to her.”

You blinked. Then flung your arms around his neck again with a squeaky, dramatic wail:

“You’re the only one who understands meee!”

He chuckled warmly, carrying you off the kitchen floor like you were fine china yourself.

“No more touching dishes, angel,” he murmured against your ear. “From now on, you’re banned from the kitchen. I’ll do all the cooking. Or we’ll just hire another chef. You can sit on the counter and look pretty while I feed you grapes.”

You sniffled. “…Okay.”

He grinned. “That’s my good little baby.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

It was supposed to be a peaceful evening. Zayne had just gotten home from the hospital, white coat off, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-unbuttoned as he moved around the estate’s sleek kitchen preparing tea for the two of you while you fussed with plating pastries on your beloved designer tea set.

The Porcelaine Blanche d��Étoile collection. Limited edition. You made him fly you to the private showroom in Italy to pick it out.

And then you dropped the plate.

It slipped right through your freshly moisturized fingers.

The crash echoed through the marble like a thunderclap.

Zayne’s head snapped around immediately, but you were already frozen, arms outstretched, eyes wide, looking down at the shattered porcelain with horror like you’d just witnessed a crime scene.

“Z-Zaynie,” you whispered in despair. “I broke it…”

He was already walking over, concern in his eyes, until he saw it was just a plate. Then he stopped short, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a small exhale.

“Angel. It’s just one dish—”

“No it’s not!” your voice cracked.

And then your lip trembled. Your cheeks flushed. And just like that, you were crying.

“Now the whole set’s ruined—” you hiccupped as fat tears began to trail down your cheeks. “It’s not complete anymore and I can’t look at it without seeing this stupid, ugly gap and, and the pattern won’t line up now and—I liked that one the most! It had the starburst mark right in the middle…”

Zayne blinked. Slowly.

Then sighed.

“Of course it did.”

You whimpered louder, kneeling dramatically beside the shattered remains in your silken robe like a weepy widow. “It’s not fair! That set was perfect… now it’s cursed, tainted, ruined—”

“Okay, come here.” He reached for you, scooping you up into his lap right there on the kitchen floor. “You’ll give yourself a nosebleed if you cry any harder over porcelain.”

“But Zaaaayne,” you sobbed, burying your face into his shirt. “I can’t just replace it, it’s limited edition!”

Zayne rubbed slow circles into your back, letting you sob into his chest as he cradled your tiny frame with the same steady gentleness he used in the OR. His voice was low, calm, but tinged with the smallest amused sigh, because this? This was classic you.

“Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I’ll call the curator at the Milan showroom. You’re still on their private list, right?”

“I don’t know!” you wailed. “What if they’re sold out? What if they’re gone forever?!”

“Then I’ll find the original artist and commission a new one,” he said flatly, already mentally pulling strings. “A better one. With a reinforced edge. And your initials engraved.”

You peeked up at him through wet lashes. “Really?”

Zayne brushed your hair gently behind your ear and leaned in to kiss the tears from your cheeks.

“Of course,” he said softly. “I don’t care if you break every dish in this house. You’re still my spoiled little wife. I’ll replace them all ten times over if it keeps that pretty pout off your face.”

You sniffled. “…Ten times?”

He gave a low hum. “At least. Though if you break another one in the next 48 hours, I’m bubble-wrapping the entire kitchen.”

You let out a soft whine and pressed into his chest like a needy kitten, arms looping tightly around his waist.

“Cuddle me until I forget it happened.”

“You’re not moving until morning,” he muttered, already standing with you in his arms. “I’ll bring the pastries to bed. You can eat off my chest if you’re scared of plates now.”

You mumbled, sleepy and teary and spoiled:

“…You’re the best.”

He kissed your temple with a low exhale and whispered against your skin:

“I know, baby. I know.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The cup slipped from your fingers while you were showing it off.

You had just spent the whole morning twirling around the penthouse in your soft, lace-trimmed robe, gently rearranging the display cabinet Xavier had custom-built just for your Mythic Dream tea set. It was whimsical and elegant and sparkly and rare, hand-painted in shimmering moonlight hues with little dream creatures on every piece.

You were holding your favorite one, the lavender-and-blue cup with the little winged rabbit on it, and twirling as you told Xavier exactly what dessert you were planning to match it with.

And then it was gone.

One slip.

Clink. Crack. Shatter.

You froze. The smile dropped off your face.

Your heart sank with it.

“…Bunnycup,” you whispered, staring in disbelief at the porcelain wreckage on the polished marble. “I—I dropped my Bunnycup…”

From his place lounging on the couch with his datapad, Xavier looked up slowly, head tilted.

“…You dropped what?”

“My favorite one,” you said breathlessly, your voice wobbling. “It’s gone. It’s dead. She’s gone.”

“…Oh,” he said, blinking slowly.

You turned away from him abruptly, crouched in front of the shattered piece like a mourning widow. Your eyes brimmed with tears. You looked at it like you were at a funeral.

“I dropped her. She was the prettiest one. And now she’s dead and the whole cabinet is cursed and—” you sniffled, “I was gonna make violet cake for her…”

You let out the softest broken sob.

Xavier stared.

Then carefully set his datapad down.

“…Wait, are you crying?”

You didn’t answer. Your sniffles got louder.

“Starlight?”

You wailed louder and flopped down fully onto the rug beside the wreckage, tearfully hiding your face in your sleeves.

He was beside you in seconds, sliding down to his knees with furrowed brows and frantic hands.

“Did it cut you? Are you hurt?”

“No,” you hiccupped. “I’m emotional! That was my favorite cup and now she’s gone! Her little bunny face is in shards—I named her!”

Xavier stared at the broken porcelain. Then at you.

“…You named it?”

“Her name was Cloudia!” you cried.

He blinked again. Then let out a helpless little breath and pulled you fully into his lap, tucking your head under his chin.

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was a funeral.”

“It is!”

“I’ll make arrangements.”

You sniffled.

He gently rocked you back and forth, eyes closing as he pressed soft kisses to the crown of your head.

“I’ll buy another,” he murmured. “A whole new set. No. Ten sets. All the bunnies. And wings. I’ll have someone make a sculpture of her. I’ll frame the shards. I’ll turn it into a shrine in the hallway.”

“R-Really?” you whimpered.

Xavier looked deadly serious. “I’ll build a moonlit garden in her honor.”

You hiccupped, peeking up at him through damp lashes.

“…I love you so much,” you whispered.

He cradled your cheeks in his hands, brushing away a tear with his thumb and kissing it.

“You are the most beautiful, sensitive, dramatic little thing I’ve ever loved,” he whispered back. “And I will mourn Bunnycup with you forever.”

You flopped into his chest again.

“Carry me to bed and feed me chocolate.”

He exhaled softly, lifting you with ease. “Consider it done, starlight.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

It happened during your ‘princess-core living room redecoration’ phase.

You’d decided one of the shelves needed to be “balanced” with something tall and whimsical, so Sylus (without question) had acquired an absolutely obnoxious but stunning vase: a slender rose-gold and opal heirloom piece from a royal estate, one of a kind, rumored to be enchanted. It had vines carved into the neck, subtle gold leafing, and shimmered like it had moonlight trapped in the glass.

You loved that vase.

And you shattered it trying to scoot the couch two inches to the left.

You didn’t even realize it was tipping over until it was already mid-air. Time slowed. You gasped, reaching for it like a damsel in a slow-motion tragedy,

CRASH.

You stood there frozen, socked feet on velvet rugs, clutching a throw pillow and staring at the sparkling ruin.

The shock hit first.

Then the guilt.

Then came the tears.

“Noooo…” you whispered, trembling as you dropped to your knees. “No, no, no… Sylus is gonna kill me, that was one of a kind!!”

Cue your dramatics. Full sobs. Teary gasps. Hiccupping into your hands as you wailed over the broken vase like it had been your childhood pet.

“I ruined it! It was so beautiful! It’s all my fault, now it’s goooone—!”

By the time Sylus entered the room, he found you on your knees, surrounded by glittering glass, hair slightly messy, cheeks wet, looking like a tragic little heiress from some tear-soaked opera scene.

He blinked.

Paused.

Then said, flatly:

“…You’re crying over the vase?”

You wailed harder.

Sylus sighed, unamused. “Darling. It’s a vase.”

“It was the prettiest one in the whole world!” you sobbed. “You said it was enchanted! I was gonna name it after us, put roses in it, now it’s gone forever and the whole room is unbalanced!!”

“Unbalanced,” he repeated, deadpan.

“I’m emotionally devastated,” you hiccupped.

A beat of silence.

And then his composure cracked.

He walked over in slow, deliberate steps, crouched in front of you, and tilted your chin up with his gloved fingers.

“Poor little thing,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “Is this how the world ends? Because your vase broke?”

You pouted at him with wet lashes and cried louder.

He chuckled darkly under his breath, kissed your pouty lips, then scooped you right off the floor like you were a little doll.

“You are the most dramatic creature I’ve ever loved,” he whispered, nuzzling your tear-streaked cheek. “You realize I could buy the entire estate that vase came from, yes?”

“But that vase is goooone—!”

“Then I’ll steal it back from the past,” he said, amused. “Or bribe the artist’s descendant to make you ten better ones. We’ll fill every corner of this house with glittering, gaudy glass. You’ll drown in roses and sparkle, my little crier.”

You sniffled against his chest.

He settled onto the settee with you curled in his lap, stroking your hair with idle fingers.

“Next time, call someone to move furniture,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in it. “You’re not allowed to cry unless you’re breaking someone else’s things. Understood?”

You looked up at him miserably. “…You’re not mad?”

He leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“No,” he said. “But only because watching you weep like some grief-stricken little princess might be the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week.”

You whined, burying your face deeper into his expensive silk shirt.

“I want five vases. All pink.”

“Ten. And I’ll commission a painting of the broken one to hang above the fireplace. ‘The Fall of Opal,’ starring my very fragile little wife.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You were just trying to make him breakfast.

It was early. The Skyhaven penthouse was quiet, sunlight spilling across polished floors, and you, still in one of Caleb’s old black shirts with your bare legs peeking out, had just finished plating his favorite fruit on your favorite designer ceramic bowl. You were so proud. You were humming.

And then you bumped your elbow on the corner.

Crash.

The sound of shattering ceramic echoed like a gunshot.

You froze.

The bowl, the gorgeous, shimmering ceramic one from the exclusive Skyhaven artisan boutique, the one with tiny amethyst marbling, lay in pieces on the floor.

“No… no no no,” you gasped, hand flying to your mouth. “Not that one—please not that one…”

You sank slowly to your knees, devastated. The entire set had been your pride, your favorite for special mornings. And now the one with the prettiest veining was gone.

Your lip wobbled.

The tears were instant.

Caleb appeared in the doorway a few moments later, still in black sleep pants, chest bare, hair slightly tousled from bed, rubbing his eyes. “I heard something break.”

You whipped around with watery eyes, clutching your knees like a little girl.

“I broke it…”

He blinked.

“…You’re crying?”

You sniffled. “It was the prettiest bowl in the set. I was just trying to make you breakfast and now, now it’s ruined, and the rest will never look the same and I loved that bowl!”

Caleb’s entire expression changed in an instant.

The sleepy, casual look was gone.

He crossed the room fast, crouching in front of you and cupping your face.

“Did you cut yourself?”

“N-No…”

“Are you sure?” He grabbed your hands, inspecting them closely. “You’re trembling. You’re in shock. Breathe.”

You hiccupped. “I’m not in shock, I’m just, really really sad!! It was my favorite one, and now it’s shattered and ugly and the set is ruined!”

Caleb pulled you straight into his chest.

“That doesn’t matter,” he muttered, pressing a hand to the back of your head. “None of that matters. You’re okay. You’re okay. Don’t cry over something like that.”

“But I liked it,” you mumbled into his skin.

“Then I’ll buy you ten more.”

“It was limited edition.”

“I’ll commission a new set,” he said firmly. “Exactly the same. Better. Reinforced. I’ll put a standing order in with the artisan. You’ll never have to lift a hand again. You hear me, pips?”

You nodded weakly, sniffling.

He scooped you off the floor effortlessly, carried you to the couch, and wrapped you in one of the soft fleece blankets he always kept near in case you got cold. Then he sat beside you and gently tucked you into his lap like you were made of glass.

“I don’t ever want to see you cry over something like this again,” he murmured. “Things can be replaced. You can’t.”

You whimpered.

He wiped your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re not allowed to break down unless it’s me who breaks something,” he added, softer this time. “Understand?”

You nodded again, clinging to him like he was your whole planet.

“You’re not mad?”

He looked down at you, at your teary lashes, your pouty little lips, and shook his head once.

“No,” he whispered. “But I am upset.”

“Why…?”

“Because you thought I’d care more about a bowl than my wife’s tears.”

You sniffled, leaning up to kiss the side of his throat in apology

He stroked your hair slowly.

“I’ll clean it up. You stay here and cry it out in my lap. Let me take care of everything.”

[hachiane]

a/n — needy sylus, fem!reader, established relationship, fluff, slightly suggestive (nothing sexual), modern!au sorta if you tried hard enough

count : 486 words

Sylus Qin — the type of boyfriend to come to your home unannounced after work keeps him up until ungodly hours of the day.

When he arrives, he texts you that he’s outside your door, whilst constantly knocking on your door that gets increasingly louder with every passing second as you scramble to get out of bed.

You finally answer the door and Sylus stands there, leaning on the door frame and towering over you, like he usually would. You can see the slight furrow in his eyebrows and the way his gaze unabashedly rakes over your form in your (regrettably thin) sleepwear, red irises never settled.

"You should be resting! It’s 2:30 in the morning!"

Sylus scoffs, "Must you push me away when I’ve come all the way here to see you?"

"Your knocking could have woken up my neighbours!"

"Tsk… And?" His gaze darkens.

"A-Anyway, we can meet later—"

"I can’t wait until later."

His frustration is clear when he grabs your wrist suddenly and drags you out of the door. It must have looked curious to anyone watching: a well-dressed Sylus in his professional two-piece, pulling you half-dressed down the well-lit hallway.

He pulls you into the stairwell, letting the door slam closed behind you. He sits on the steps and drags you unceremoniously onto his lap. His hand immediately finds their place, first on your hip, then dragging up the small of your back, pulling you closer to his chest. 

"Sylus! People can just walk in!"

"So? Let them."

Not another second wasted, his other hand comes up, fingers planting into your chin and pulling your face up to his, then slotting his lips onto yours. 

When Sylus kisses you, it could be one of two types of kisses. First, the chaste kind where you barely feel his lips touch yours, with him pulling just out of your reach and gifting you with his teasing smirk. 

You could immediately tell this is the other kind of kiss: the slow, deep, syrupy kind that has him keening lowly under his breath, as if whatever that’s been weighing on his mind is suddenly lifted -- growling like a starved lion finally savouring his meal. It has you losing all fight and melting into his embrace instead, engulfing you in the remnants of his musky cologne and hyper-focused on the way his lips melds with yours. As if he's mapping out every valley, crack and crevice of your lips, committing it to memory, satisfying his fill after craving for so long.

And when you pull away, you feel him chasing after your warmth, touching foreheads and stealing your share of air.

"Sylus...?"

Behind your closed eyes, you feel him chuckle low, as he drops his head and plants his chin on your shoulder. A ghost of a kiss greets your bare skin as you hear him whisper, "I just missed you so, so much, sweetie."

[zolass]

Oh!!! Uhhh how about OC x bttm! Reader where reader is a much soft spoken/passive guy and OC is the one who teases him a lot? Bonus points if Reader takes a second to process suggestive jokes & is significantly taller than OC (because I've never read a taller bttm b4 LMAO)

MY MUSE ···─Tease! Rafayel x Taller! bttm Male Reader

Summary: Where you find yourself in the grasps of an famous artist, who simply asked you to be his muse and even paying you for it. But why does it feel like that there's more behind all the teasing from Rafayel. wc: 1.2k

tags: fluff, teasing, taller shy reader (reader is as tall as sylus), nudity, mentions of sex and multiple rounds, (pls tell me if I forgot smt)

Note: I'm sorry if you wanted smut with this one, or a different character. Hope it's still enjoyable. But ngl I like the dynamic T_T

You were sitting at the coast, your shoes dug in the sand as you squatted down. The waves barely missed the tip of your shoes, while you simply stared at the mesmerizing display of the ocean. Your fingers were playing with the sand absentmindedly.

So you didn’t hear the approaching footsteps in the sand, until a hand landed on your shoulder. Looking up surprised, you came face to face with the handsome male that you had been working with for a few months, Rafayel. 

“Hey, beautiful.” Rafayel said, it was a common thing he called you by. At first it was a rather big surprise for you, but it made sense as he hired you as his muse. “Hey Raf,” you greeted him back with a small smile on your lips before you stood up.

Now it was Rafayel’s time to look slightly up at you. “I made breakfast and coffee– so the sooner we are there, the more time we have!” Rafayel said, while he grabbed your hand and pulled you along the shore towards the place you call your home since the last few months.

Many would question why you lived with the painter, all the while you’re ‘just a muse’ as some would like to call it. You didn’t have to pay for basically anything, freeloading off of the other. Of course at the beginning you wanted to know why he did it, just as confused as others would be, even going as far as not accepting the payment he gave you. But his words at the beginning simply were “creativity doesn’t wait around, so I have to grasp it while it’s simply there.”

Quickly you found yourself in the open kitchen, with a steaming coffee mug in front of you, and the simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. As you were enjoying your breakfast in silence, Rafayel’s eyes were trained on your figure. Tall, even taller than him, soft locks framing your face. Your eyes that always held warmth in them, even when others would say he was annoying and too much when he wanted to paint another piece, you simply sat there in your own bubble, going along with his orders without speaking up about it. 

After the first three days, Rafayel started to relax more, speaking more with you, having conversations while on and off ‘work’, soon he also started to make suggestive jokes, he loved to see the halt in movement of whatever you’re doing, taking a few seconds to take in his words before a beautiful reddish color would adorn your cheeks, that you would try to hide.

Maybe that was it, what made him slowly develop this warmth in his chest whenever he thought of you, was seeing you or was simply close to you. 

The clearing of your throat brought Rafayel out of his thoughts, “You alright Raf? You didn’t touch your breakfast yet,” you asked with concern, lacing your voice. Rafayel couldn’t help the flutter in his stomach because of your concern for him, he quickly cleared his throat before he looked at you with a playful smile on his lips. “Just thinking about something– you know.. I don’t mind looking up at you, but I bet you would look better under me.” 

It took a few seconds for the words to register in your brain, and as they did he watched as your eyes widened and face heated up, adorning your cheeks in a slightly reddish shade. You didn’t know what to say, your mouth opening and closing. A chuckle left Rafayel as he watched your reaction, “Okay if you’re done let’s start,” Rafayel started, as he cleaned up the table. 

As he walked to the empty canvas, he couldn’t help but halt in his movement, a sudden idea in his head. “[name] you said– you would do anything as my muse right?” The sudden question surprised you. But you took a few seconds to think of how you should answer, so after a bit you nodded, before adding a yes. 

Rafayel couldn’t help the giddy feeling in his stomach, it might be rather risky but he decided to do it anyway, who knew if he had the chance ever again. “Then– strip,” he said loud enough for both of you to hear. 

You stared at him wide-eyed, “Pardon?” 

“Only your shirt,” Rafayel quickly added, backing out half way. Yet he wanted to see your slightly toned chest, without a shirt blocking most of the sight. You were still kinda shocked, before you gave a short okay. 

Soon you were seated on a small chair with a translucent cloth layered across your naked torso, your eyes sometimes looking at the concentrated face of Rafayel, his words still lingering in your head, before the silence was interrupted by a young woman with dark brown hair walking in. 

Quickly you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide your exposed body, which was clearly a failure. Both of you stared at each other with wide eyes, a rose color dusting the woman's cheeks. 

The clearing of a throat was heard, both your heads focused on Rafayel, yet his expression changed. “Didn’t think you would come by so early..” he said, with a slightly annoyed undertone which surprised you and apparently the woman too, “should I come back some other time-” Rafayel quickly spoke a sharp yes, before his eyes landed back on you.

Shortly after you both were back alone, a blush still coating your cheeks, your one arm trying to hide your chest, while you held yourself on the chair with the other. Suddenly Rafayel stood up and walked towards you, before standing still in front of you.

As he leaned down, you didn’t know what to expect but certainly not, that he would push a strand out of your face, with a charming smile on his lips, “You know darling, I love that you’re so tall– more room for me to leave marks,” he said. It didn’t take long for you to blush in embarrassment, biting your lip.

“Then why don’t you show me?” you asked in a whisper, first you thought he didn’t hear what you said, but instead you heard a chuckle and a hand reached out towards you. Looking at the hand and then at Rafayel, you could see the way he looked at you. Still rather playful but there seemed to be more of a seriousness hiding behind the exterior, “Sure, anything for my mesmerizing darling,” he spoke.

And so you found yourself that day in multiple rounds of passionate sex, different positions, all the while Rafayel fucked you into the mattress and filling your hole with one load after another and the sweet words were uttered from Rafayel’s lips. Lovebites and hickeys littering your skin, while you were held tightly in the other’s arm at the end of the day.

You both watching as the sun slowly dropped below the waves, a kiss was placed on your shoulder, “Like I thought, you look so fucking beautiful beneath me,” Rafayel teased. A chuckle leaving him as you hid your face, before he turned serious, “I want to take you out on a date, [name].” 

It surprised you, but there you were already having slept with the man, so a date couldn’t be that awful right? 

Rafayel waited for your answer, and as you said yes, he couldn’t help but feel oh so giddy. He hugged you close to his chest, “Then we go when you can walk without pain, hm?” and all you did was huff, as your ears also turned red, “sure,” were the only things you uttered before both of you watched the sunset, before you slowly drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

[daosies]

one more kiss

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Exhausted after a mission, you find solace in Sylus's tender care.

sylus ♡ gn!reader

warnings: sylus calls u "sweetie," reader has a skincare routine, allusions to sylus's myth lore, reader is the protagonist but gender neutral, nonsexual intimacy, kissing

notes: this might js be the most romantic piece ive ever written

“Oh?” an amused voice starts. “Someone looks a little tired. Did those wanderers rough you up, sweetie?” 

“Shut up,” you quip despite being too exhausted to fight back; you drop your bag on the floor of Sylus’s office before crashing into the couch, your gaze fixated on the ceiling above. 

You had made plans to stay with Sylus in the N109 Zone for the weekend, not realizing how taxing your mission would be beforehand. 

“Sorry,” you suddenly say, “I don’t think I’m in the right mind to go to dinner today, I’m really so—”

Before you can utter another apology, Sylus is by your side, hovering over your splayed form on the couch; his fingers come to tap on the skin of your bottom lip, a tender gesture in an attempt to seal them shut. 

“No more apologies,” Sylus states, the teasing smirk on his face not matching the tenderness of his tone. “We’ll just go tomorrow.” 

“But we’re already going to a nice restaurant for lunch tomorrow.” 

He raises his brow in mock offense. “So? You underestimate me, sweetie. Why must we only have one?” His thumb comes to rub tender circles into your cheekbones, massaging the skin before trailing up to the ridge of your brows, tracing the indent. 

You don’t say anything, but the way your eyes flutter shut, the way you lean towards him, the way you don’t say anything when his hands trace closer and closer to your neck—Sylus feels something stir. Your neck is bare, he notes. His thumb comes to massage the skin just below your jaw, and the stir grows, wild, brewing within his ribs; you; his hands; your neck. 

He has known violence across all his lives; and yet, your eyes are closed, never once questioning what he chooses to do. 

But Sylus is a simple man when it comes to you. He’ll choose to love, time and time again. Because every time you burst forth, reckless and wild and lovely, Sylus thinks that he’s become a stranger to himself. Because there’s something in his chest. A stir. A hand; a neck; entwined.

It’s love. 

But his love doesn’t rage, it doesn’t flicker like a flame, it doesn’t scorch like a burn. His love is gentle. 

Like the rustle of the flowers, the gentle breeze which dances through a meadow; Sylus’s love is unlike himself, for it has never known violence. 

At the same time, however, Sylus’s love is completely himself: because it has only ever known you.

“I’m sleepy,” you say, a yawn following soon after. Sylus chuckles, sitting on the floor next to the couch, his calloused fingers tracing over every inch of your face. From the bridge of your nose to the curve of your lips, no feature remains untouched, his hand dipping into every crevice, circling every crinkle. Divine.

“Are you wearing sunscreen, sweetie?” he responds simply. 

You hum. “I’ll take it off after a quick nap. I’m tired.” 

“Sleep, then.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, featherlight. 

Sylus has seen your night routines a plethora of times before. It comes naturally to him: the color of your cleanser bottle, the order of your skincare routine, the intervals he must wait in between applying each step in order to let the solution properly settle into your skin. Even the motions which he applies to your skincare is a reflection of you; you’ve told him once, just once, that it’s best to apply products in circular motions. 

It comes naturally to him, really. The circular motion of his hands as he rubs your skincare into your face, his calloused hands gentle, more accustomed to the tenderness than to the hilt of a gun. The way he waits at least fifteen seconds before moving onto the next step. The way he washes his hands during these moments. 

The way he hooks one arm under your knees, and the other under your back. The way he lifts you up with ease, careful not to disturb your rest, walking quietly and contentedly towards the bedroom. The way he tucks you into his bed, the way he brings the covers up to your neck, bare, the way he finds his spot next to you soon after.

One more kiss to your well-loved face. But then he realizes that your hands may feel neglected; so he kisses them, too. And your neck, bare. And your lips, parted. 

One more kiss. 

You stir from your sleep. Something stirs in his chest alongside you, tugged by the movement of your lashes, the slight flutter of your eyes as you stare at him, expression hazy.

“What’re you doing?” you mumble, voice marred by sleep. Sylus chuckles. 

“Nothing. Go to sleep, sweetie.” 

“Wake me up later. I have to remove my sunscreen.” 

One more kiss, this time, to those parted lips. 

“That’s already been done. Do you have any more requests?” 

“The lights,” you say. “Off, please.” 

He reaches over to the nightstand, flickering the lamp off. 

Sylus turns back to you; he has never needed the light to see your face, to know how your features are, to understand the expression which twists at your lips. 

One more kiss. Then, he joins you in sleep, his neck bare, his chest full, his heart: satiated. 

[shaiyasstuff]

hiii! It's me again hehehehe! So um...idk how this request thingy works but I'd love Sylus and Zayne fluffy (full blown fluffy). A request to include any hcs regarding height (I am 5'3, so I am a tiny ass worm in front of them lmao) and...um...ig that's it?😭 Sorry idk how to do this, it's my first time requesting sth but please feel free to add any and everything fluffy you feel like, and consider the height factor in it...(?)🥺

Have a safe and nice day/night!😭🌺💙💜

Hiiiii and please never apologise!! This is the perfect request. You did amazing, and I’m already so obsessed with the image of you (tiny, 5’3”, chaotic worm energy) sandwiched between Zayne and Sylus, who are both giant men with very different reactions to your size.

So here’s a full-blown fluff piece—no angst in sight—with lots of height-based headcanons, soft banter, and affectionate chaos. Enjoy! (Do tell me if I have satisfied your request >.<)

You were just trying to reach the damn coffee mug.

One mug. One normal-sized mug. One normal-sized mug on a very abnormal shelf.

You tiptoe, stretch, nearly dislocate your shoulder—and then a hand appears, silent and smooth, plucking the mug from the top shelf and offering it to you without a word.

“…I almost had it,” you say, pouting.

Zayne raises a brow behind his glasses, his hazel-green eyes flickering downward to your socked feet, barely brushing the tiles. “You almost fell.”

You snatch the mug with a huff, muttering something about tall people and their judgmental energy and try to shuffle past him.

He doesn’t move. He looms.

Because of course he does.

He’s a wall. A living, silent, six-foot-something wall of soft flannel and quiet disapproval.

“Excuse me,” you say pointedly, face nearly in his chest.

“No.”

“No??”

“You’ll just climb on the counter again.”

“…I would never—”

The door opens.

Sylus enters.

And immediately starts laughing.

“Did I miss another domestic standoff?” he drawls, eyes gleaming. “Why do you look like a grumpy kitten cornered by a bookshelf?”

“I am not grumpy,” you snap. “Or a kitten.”

Sylus raises both hands. “Fine, fine. You’re a very fierce worm. Terrifying.”

Zayne gives you a look. “You told him.”

“I might’ve said it once,” you mumble.

Sylus bends slightly—just enough so his face is almost level with yours, except his smirk is very much not on your level.

“You do realize you’re shorter than both of us by an entire head, right?” he murmurs. “If we ever lose you in a crowd, I’m sewing a flag to your back.”

“Just buy me a baby leash at this point.”

“Not a bad idea,” Sylus says brightly. “I’ll get one in pink. With rhinestones.”

“Sylus—”

He plucks the mug from your hands and sets it on the table you couldn’t reach.

“There. No more climbing shelves and risking your tiny mortal bones.”

“You both need to stop treating me like I’m fragile.”

Zayne hums. “You are.”

Sylus tilts his head. “You’re 5’3, trip on nothing, and scream like a tea kettle. Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re allowed to be concerned.”

You pout, and Sylus softens. Just a little.

He drops a kiss to the crown of your head and lets his arm fall around your shoulder, dragging you in like a blanket.

Zayne doesn’t say anything—but he sets your favorite mug down in front of you, already filled the way you like it, and places a plate of fruit nearby like it’s a peace offering.

You sit down, sigh dramatically, and let both of them exist around you.

Sylus propped against the counter, looking pleased with himself, and Zayne standing at the stove, quietly flipping pancakes.

You’re still small. Still outnumbered. Still very much shorter than everyone in the room.

But maybe—just maybe—you like it that way.

—•

You’re in the middle of explaining something—something flustered and mildly annoyed, your hands waving a little as you rant about a rude customer or a spilled drink or the fact that your favorite snack was placed on the top shelf again.

You’re not even looking at him, too caught up in the spiral of your own frustration.

And Zayne?

Zayne just crouches.

Silent as ever, he lowers himself slowly, knees bending until he’s eye level with you. Until your words falter mid-sentence, your eyes catching on the unexpected closeness of his face.

His gaze is steady, hazel-green and warm in a way that steals all the air from your lungs.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just tilts his head slightly, as if studying you. As if waiting.

“…Why are you crouching?” you whisper, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his shoulder brushes yours, how tall he still manages to feel even like this.

“So you’ll actually look at me,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “You don’t when you’re upset.”

Your cheeks go warm.

You open your mouth, probably to argue, but he lifts a hand and lightly taps your chin with the backs of his fingers—careful, as always.

“Breathe.”

It’s not a command. It’s a quiet offering. A reminder.

And somehow, you do.

—•

You’re yelling at him. Again.

“I said don’t touch my stuff, Sylus! That was a very important notebook and now it’s—it’s—why is it folded like origami?!”

He’s lounging on the edge of the couch, unbothered, twirling a pen between his fingers like he didn’t just murder your handwritten notes in cold blood.

“It was already half-crumpled when I found it,” he says, shrugging. “I just gave it artistic integrity.”

“Artistic—? You folded it into a paper swan and labeled it ‘evidence of my suffering.’”

“Accurate,” he says.

You stomp your foot. Sylus’s lips twitch.

“Don’t laugh! You’re—ugh, you are impossible. I’m seriously going to punch you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I—hey!”

One moment, you’re glaring up at him like a furious little storm cloud, and the next—he’s lifting you. Not carrying, lifting.

Just—arms under your knees and back, smooth and easy, like you weigh nothing at all.

“Sylus!” you shriek, hands flying to his shoulders. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“De-escalating,” he says mildly.

“This is not de-escalation—put me down!”

“Nope.” His grin is obnoxious. Gleeful. “You were vibrating with rage. I’m neutralizing the threat.”

“I am not a bomb!”

“You’re short. That’s close enough.”

You slap his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Sylus. I swear to all things holy—”

He cradles you a little tighter and leans in, smirking. “Careful. You’re already in my arms. Threats might trigger cuddles.”

You blink.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh,” he whispers, eyes gleaming. “I would.”

And then he drops backward onto the couch with you still in his arms, landing with a soft thump, long limbs sprawled, your entire body curled on top of him like you’re the world’s angriest teddy bear.

You’re not sure if you’re mad, flustered, or secretly loving the way his fingers are now absently brushing up and down your spine.

“…I hate you,” you grumble into his chest.

“You love me,” he murmurs, smug and warm. “And I love how tiny you are. So portable. Like a grumpy little baguette.”

“I’m going to suffocate you in your sleep.”

“Just make sure you can reach my face first, worm.”

You bite his shoulder.

He laughs.

—•

Bonus Height Headcanons (Just Because I Can’t Resist):

Zayne doesn’t lift you unless necessary, but he does silently place things lower for you.

If you ever ask if he’s moving the shelf height, he denies it flatly.

When you wear his hoodie, it falls below your knees and he pretends not to notice but you’ve caught him watching you with a very subtle, very soft expression.

Sylus teases you about being “bite-sized,” but he gets ridiculously gentle when you’re sleepy.

He’ll wrap you in his coat like a burrito and say it’s because “you get cold easily,” but everyone knows it’s because he likes cuddling you like a plushie.

And that is another request done!! I had so much fun imagining this🥹🫶🏻 I’m too tall myself so these are just dreams for me. (Though I’m sure the Lads men will still tower over me regardless but imagine being tossed around like a ragdoll😭 can’t be me.)

Hope you enjoyed this love! @anon

[sharieb]

Can I request headcanons where Lads men confessed to Non MC Reader who later confessed your feelings for him too and admitted you thought he only cared about you because you're a close friend of MC please?

His moment of Confession

pairings: LADs x Non-Mc reader

Genre: Fluff, slight hurt/ comfort

a/n: OMG my first request! Thank you so much for the love and the request, lovely. Hope you enjoy <3

🍎Caleb – The Gravity Between Us

Knowing how protective and attached he is towards Mc, you never knew where you stood with Caleb. He was always there, steady, kind, dependable, but you just concluded that he was like that with everyone close to her.

You found peace with that reality of him never liking you, but didn’t realise how much you truly wanted more until the night he walked you home and said quietly, “I like you. Not because of her. I just do.”

Your heart stuttered. In truth, you should’ve felt joy, but all you could feel was fear. Am I just an extension of MC in his eyes?

You didn't reply to him for a while before you told him the truth later, voice barely above a whisper: “I thought you only cared because I was close to her. That I was just… part of her world.”

He stepped closer, gaze locked with mine. “You’ve always had your own gravity. I didn’t fall because of her. I fell because of you.”

🐦‍⬛ Sylus

Sylus is known as the type who doesn't say it plainly. But after one too many close calls, he went looking for you and touched your wrist and muttered, “I would’ve let the whole damn sector burn if you didn’t come back.”

You look up at him, chest clenched. Not from fear, but from the aching doubt you had carried for so long. Did he mean that for me, or just for someone precious to MC?

I kept it in until I broke, eyes locked on his: “I thought you only tolerated me because of her. That I was just… a convenient piece on your board.”

His expression shattered, just slightly. No smirk. Just something raw. “You’re not a pawn. You’re the only one who saw the real me and didn’t run.”

When you told him that you felt the same, something in him softened—dangerous and fragile all at once. “Then don’t leave. Stay. Just this once, for me.”

❄️ Zayne

Zayne was always known for his composure, him being clinical, and impossible to read by others not close to him. But yet only shows the warmer side of himself whenever Mc is around. You had thought that his hidden warmth was reserved for her. So it came as a complete surprise when he actually (in his own way) confessed his feelings for you, “My heart rate spikes when you’re near,” I thought it was just a medical observation.

But his eyes told me otherwise. It felt real. Honest. And terrifying.

You hesitated, as you were still recovering from his unexpected confession. However, one thought wouldn’t let go: What if he only watched me because of her? Because I was part of the same circle, the same story?

You took a deep breath and eventually told him, softly: “I didn’t think you really saw me. Not unless Mc is around.”

Zayne took your hand with that careful gentleness of his. “You’ve always been the one I noticed. She never distracted me from you, you just blinded me too much to speak.”

Hearing his words, you chuckled and then admitted your feelings, even with the feeling of joy flooding in your chest. He didn’t outright smile. He just nodded, with the corner of his lips twitching upwards, like it was the only truth he ever needed.

🎨 Rafayel

His way of confession is unique in its own way, as rather than with words, he painted you. Not your face, but a flame in a starless night. When you asked him about it, he just replied, “It’s you. The one I’ve been aching for.”

By right, you should’ve been happy, but in truth, all you felt was uncertainty. You’d always thought you were a background colour in his life, never the subject.

When you finally found the courage, you confessed: “I thought I was just another brushstroke in your world… someone you kept around because of Mc.”

Rafayel's expression fell like drying paint cracking. “No. You’re not background. You’re the only thing I can’t recreate. You’re the moment I realised I wasn’t just painting to remember, I was painting to find you.”

And when you heard his words, you admitted that you liked him back, he pulled you into the kind of silence that wraps around you like art, vivid, breathless, and whole.

✨ Xavier

The moment when Xavier confesses to you would be during one of those sleepless nights. He sat beside you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his coat. “You calm the noise,” he said. “I think that means something.”

You froze. Not because you didn’t feel the same, but because you never believed you were anything more than a presence he endured for her sake.

With a sudden burst of courage, you told him what you’d always feared: “I didn’t think I mattered to you beyond being her friend.”

Xavier turned to me then, gaze heavy with regret. “I memorised your voice. Your habits. You were the one I noticed first. I just… didn’t want to take her light away to follow yours.”

You were left speechless for a moment. A peaceful silence bleeds between the two of you until you say the words you’d been holding back for too long. That you wanted him. That you chose him.

Xavier reached for your hand like he was anchoring himself to something real. “Then let me stay this time. Let me be someone who stays for you.”

[koyagifs]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

pairing: sylus x non mc!reader genre: angst with no comfort word count:1.4k summary: you've always prided yourself with being one of sylus closest informant & casual fuck buddy until little miss hunter came into his life and ruined it.. warning(s):

You were always proud of your place at Sylus’ side.

Not his partner — you never let yourself dream that far. But you were closer to him than anyone else in this tangled web of danger and deception. His trusted informant in the shadows, slipping him intel before anyone else even caught wind of the trail. His companion in dark corners, in silk sheets and stolen moments, where duty blurred into something that felt almost like affection — almost.

You told yourself it was enough. It had to be enough. Until she showed up.

You remember the day you first told Sylus about her. You were so proud of yourself. So eager to impress him with your sharp eyes, your quick thinking. His loyal informant, always two steps ahead of the game. Always bringing him the next puzzle piece, the next target, the next name on a list of shadows.

Her name had been just another one to you. A whisper in a back alley, a sliver of information pried loose with blood and sweat. You delivered it to him with your usual smirk, expecting nothing more than a nod, a mission brief, maybe even a reward between tangled sheets later that night.

You didn’t know then. You didn’t know she would be the one to catch his attention, not just as a useful tool, but as something more.

You hate yourself for it. At first, it was guilt that gnawed at your insides — a sickening, sour taste every time you saw her. You hated that you hated her, this girl you’d never met, who’d done nothing wrong except exist in the place you once stood. You tried to bury it. You tried to be better.

But little by little, the guilt rotted into something colder. Sharper.

You stopped caring if it made you a villain. Because the truth was simple, brutal, undeniable: she took your place. The place you bled for. Fought for. The place you believed was yours — not by right, no, you were never that naïve — but by merit. By loyalty. By the weight of every secret you’d carried for him in silence.

Now, you watch them from the shadows, her at his side, him looking at her the way you always wanted him to look at you — and there’s no guilt left. Only fire. Only hate, burning in the hollow of your chest.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to wonder if you should’ve let her name die in your throat that day.

You used to know his routines by heart. The quiet hours of dawn when Sylus would sit by the window, nursing a cup of bitter coffee as you lazily draped yourself across his couch — his couch, your couch, home. You used to think you belonged there.

But that was before. Before she started leaving her things scattered around his place like little markers of territory. Before Sylus came home late one night, his eyes stormy, his voice clipped and cold as he told you to pack your things.

You didn’t argue. You told yourself you were too proud to beg. But the truth was, you were too heartbroken to speak at all.

Now, your own home feels like a cage. Too quiet, too empty. Your days blur into one long stretch of silence, only broken by the echoes of memories you can't seem to drown out.

You used to run missions by Sylus' side, your reports the first thing he’d read, your voice the one he trusted in the field. Now, it’s Luke and Kieran. You catch glimpses of them in briefings you were never invited to, hear their voices crackling through comms you no longer carry. They don’t look at you anymore. They barely even acknowledge you exist.

And it hurts, gods, it hurts— Because the twins, they were yours too, in a way. Your partners-in-crime, your shadowed companions. You shared more than missions; you shared laughs, sharp and breathless after surviving something that should’ve killed you all. You used to steal moments between chaos, teasing jabs and half-smiles, and nights out where you pretended — just for a little while — that you were normal.

Now those moments belong to her.

The late-night drinks, the quiet dinners, the inside jokes you built from the ground up— They're hers, all hers.

You wonder if they tell her the same stories they once told you. If they laugh the same way. If they even remember you were once the one who stood at their side, a blade drawn in the dark, their equal in every way that mattered.

The stem of the glass is cold between your fingers, condensation trailing down to your skin as you lift it to your lips. The champagne tastes sharp, but you barely register it. For a fleeting moment, it almost feels normal — just you, the twins’ easy banter in the background, a gathering that once would have ended with laughter and familiar touches. You let yourself pretend. Just for a breath. Just long enough to imagine it’s still you at Sylus’ side, still you in their eyes.

Then Sylus’ voice crackles through your earpiece, snapping the illusion clean in two.

"Do you see them?"

His voice is as steady as ever, but you know him too well. There’s tension there, tightly wound beneath the polished exterior. You recognize it instantly. You always have.

Your eyes sweep across the crowd, trained from years of knowing exactly what to look for. And there they are.

Your chest tightens.

"They just arrived," you reply softly, keeping your tone level, professional — even as your throat threatens to close.

Across the room, you spot her.

Sylus had his arm wrapped around her waist, casually bantering with someone.

You force your gaze away. Focus. Focus on the mission.

There’s a beat of silence in your earpiece. Longer than it should be.

Then, his voice again — quieter this time, almost thoughtful. "Good. Keep your distance."

As if you needed the reminder. As if you could ever get close again.

"Copy," you answer, your voice cool, detached. But inside, something is unraveling. A bitter twist in your chest, an ache that never seems to fade.

You drain the rest of your champagne in a single swallow, the bubbles stinging your throat. The gown clings to you like a second skin, beautiful and suffocating all at once. Tonight, you wear the mask well.

-

You don’t even remember how you ended up outside on the balcony, the cold biting at your skin, the wind tugging at the edges of your gown, the city lights below a blur of indifference. They keep flashing — all those little lives, the people moving on with their mundane little stories. You can’t help but feel disconnected from it all.

The earpiece is sitting on the edge of the balcony, discarded like another useless thing you’ve thrown away. Like everything you’ve lost.

You should be thinking about the mission. About the mess that’s left behind. But you can’t. You’re too tired to care.

Tears streak down your face. You don’t try to stop them. The cold wind makes them sting, but you barely feel it.

Everything that you’ve done, everything that’s happened, it’s all leading to this moment — this suffocating silence. You’ve done your part. You’ve torn it all down, just like they wanted, just like you wanted. But the emptiness? The hollow ache that follows? No one prepared you for this.

The sob that escapes you is quiet, but it feels like it rips through you. Your chest aches, a sharp, guttural pain that echoes with everything you’ve lost — with everything you never really had.

You were never really his, you realize now. Not truly. Not the way you wanted to be. Not the way you used to believe you could be. Sylus was never yours to keep.

You wipe your tears away, but they just keep coming. It’s useless. You’re beyond the point of pretending to be fine. And even if you weren’t, it wouldn’t matter.

You hiccup, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle the sound, but it doesn’t help. You don’t care anymore. The tears spill over, a quiet, broken release that echoes into the wind.

You’re not sure how long you stay out there — crying, shivering, fighting the overwhelming pull of despair that threatens to swallow you whole. The wind cuts through your gown like a reminder that you have no one left to offer warmth. No one left to stand beside you.

Sylus is gone. The mission is over. And you are, too.

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