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yvilonion · 2 days ago

Text

mhm i know thats right

might redraw this i hate the colors.. actually i hate everything about it but we'll see

beautiful fic btw go read it!!

if no one's watching.

[ Sylus x Zayne ] (Art made by @yvilonion )

a/n : This fic was born out of pure, unfiltered pettiness. After getting hate for writing one SnowCrow fic (yes, one), I thought to myself: you know what would be fun? Being a petty little bitch and writing another one—except this time, let’s make it soft, slow, and devastatingly intimate. So here you go. Two men. No shame. No apologies. Just love written in silence and breath. To everyone who sent kindness: thank you. i love you! To the rest? I hope this fic ruins your whole afternoon. 💋

summary : On a rain-soaked night heavy with everything unspoken, two longtime roommates tiptoe around the truth they’ve buried for years. In the hush between words and touch, desire unfolds—not as confession, but as instinct. What begins as silence ends in something unmistakably real: love finally allowed to breathe. cw/tw : Repression and emotional denial, slowburn queer intimacy, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged). archive of our own : [ Press Here! ]

IT WAS RAINING...again.

Not the kind of rain that fell in orderly vertical lines, but the slanted, disoriented kind—like even gravity had grown tired of holding everything together. It clung to the windows in thin streaks, barely audible, yet inescapable. The kind of sound that doesn’t fill a room so much as echo inside your own head.

Rain against glass. And the occasional creak of floorboards expanding into silence.

Sylus stood in the kitchen, barefoot, cradling a mug of lukewarm water he hadn’t meant to drink. The stove light above him buzzed softly, flickered once, then held steady. He didn’t look up.

His gaze hovered somewhere past the sink, out through the narrow window where the city melted into a thousand wet halos—orange, white, indistinct. Cars ghosted by like memories. People didn’t.

In the living room, Zayne hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He lay curled at the far end of the couch, a book splayed open across his chest. Not asleep, not awake. Limbo. One leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched half-heartedly toward the edge of the rug, like he might get up—but never did. His socks didn’t match. One was black. The other had a hole near the toe.

Sylus had noticed it earlier. When Zayne arrived soaked and shivering, shaking his umbrella out over the entryway like a man trying to purge more than just water.

They hadn’t spoken much since dinner. Not out of anger—they rarely fought. But silence could belong to a hundred different things. Some of them gentle. Some of them not. And on nights like this, the silence felt braided: part fear, part distance, and something else entirely.

Sylus finally moved.

He set the mug beside the sink without drinking from it. The ceramic met the countertop with a soft clink. Rain swallowed the sound.

He walked toward the couch—slowly, as though unsure where his body was carrying him. Not directly to Zayne. Just... in that direction.

As he passed, Zayne’s eyes flicked up, then down again. The page didn’t turn.

Sylus didn’t sit. Instead, he drifted to the window, folded his arms, and leaned one shoulder against the cold pane.

"The streetlight's out again," he said.

Zayne didn’t answer.

Sylus hadn’t expected him to.

He watched the space where the streetlight used to glow. It had once cast a soft gold puddle onto the balcony, breaking gently against the railing. Now, it was nothing. Just darkness—a patch darker than the rest. A silence nested within another silence.

Then: Zayne’s voice, from behind, quiet enough to be mistaken for thought.

"You think it'll flood?"

Sylus turned his head, just enough to catch Zayne’s reflection in the glass. Dimly lit by the oven’s glow. Unreadable.

"No," he said. "Not enough rain for that."

Zayne nodded, slowly. His eyes weren’t on Sylus. Not on the window either. They lingered somewhere just beyond the book’s spine. Toward the untouched mug on the coffee table.

And there it was again. That third presence.

Not quite tension. Not quite emptiness. Something unnamed—but heavy enough to warp the air.

He used to call it loneliness. That aching inertia of sharing space with someone without actually reaching them.

But this—this wasn’t clean like loneliness. This was messier. Wetter.

He didn’t know what Zayne thought about during silences like this. Did he feel the same static between them? Did his shoulder graze Sylus’s in the kitchen by accident or design Did the pause before “goodnight” mean nothing? Or everything?

Sylus pressed his fingertips to the glass. The chill made his skin ache.

"I think it's supposed to rain all night," he said.

A hum from behind him. Low. Unbothered. Almost tender.

Something shifted inside Sylus’s chest.

But he didn’t turn around.

He let his hand fall from the windowpane. It dropped without ceremony, curling against his side like it no longer belonged to him. His fingers were colder than they should’ve been—forgotten by the rest of his body. Behind him, the kitchen light hummed on, painting everything in soft amber. He didn’t move.

Then: fabric rustled.

Nothing urgent. Just the sound a body makes when it forgets it’s being heard. A shift of weight. A sigh whispered into cotton.

"You didn't each much," Zayne said.

His voice held no judgment. No edge. Just a note of observation, soft and bare, like dust in a shaft of light.

"I wasn't hungry," Sylus replied.

A pause followed—not the kind that asks for anything, but the kind that simply is.

Zayne exhaled again, slower this time. "You always say that."

Sylus didn’t answer. There was no lie, and no truth, to offer.

The room pulsed with presence. Two gravitational fields that didn’t quite orbit—just drifted. And yet, something subtle pulled at them. Not intention. Not desire. Just that unspoken tilt toward closeness.

Sylus stepped away from the window. Not toward Zayne. Not toward the kitchen. Just into the hollow between both.

He hovered there—arms loosely folded, eyes unfocused.

Behind him, the couch gave a soft creak. Zayne’s weight shifting again.

"You don't have to stand like that," Zayne said, quieter now. "It's weird."

Sylus glanced over his shoulder. Just enough to see a partial view: Zayne reclined, head resting against the couch arm, knees bent loosely. The book lay beside him, discarded. His gaze rested on Sylus. Not piercing. Not demanding. Just... watching.

With a breath that barely moved his chest, Sylus crossed the final space and sat—opposite end of the couch.

Not far. But not close.

Between them: a cushion and years of practiced restraint.

The silence returned, but this time it ticked. It breathed. Something alive, with a pulse.

Zayne bent one leg, letting the other dangle over the edge, toes brushing the worn fringe of the rug. Sylus leaned his jaw into the cradle of one hand, elbow perched on the armrest. In the corner of his eye: Zayne’s outline. Familiar. Too familiar.

The television murmured low across the room—something dubbed, unintelligible. No one was watching. But it filled the air enough to explain the silence. Enough to pretend neither of them noticed how loudly the other breathed.

Outside, the rain shifted. Not heavier—just different. A gust swept through the alley, lifting metal. It clattered. Neither of them flinched.

Zayne’s voice again, casual but strange. "You ever notice how this place always smells like something's burning?"

Sylus blinked. "No."

"Huh." A shrug lived in the syllables. "Maybe it's just me."

They fell quiet again.

Eventually, Zayne adjusted the throw blanket over his legs. The motion displaced a pocket of warmth, spilling it subtly across the cushion beside Sylus. Not contact. Not quite. Just the ghost of presence.

Without knowing why, Sylus shifted. An inch. Maybe two. Not toward Zayne. Just… into the warmth.

The television flickered on the far wall, casting pale, intermittent light over their faces.

"You okay?"

The question floated between them, steady but delicate.

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. His eyes found the spine of a book on the coffee table. One they’d both read, but never talked about. Its corners were bent. A receipt stuck out halfway, curling at the edge. Not his.

He swallowed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Zayne didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, his head tilted, eyes now on Sylus—open, unguarded. Always too bright, too knowing. But in that moment, soft.

Sylus felt it—not the gaze itself, but the change in weight. The difference between being seen and being looked at.

And he made the mistake of glancing up.

Their eyes met. And held.

Only for a second. Less.

But long enough.

Something sparked. Dry paper. Too close.

Zayne looked away first. Not ashamed. Not afraid. Just—gentle. As if maintaining the look had cost something, and he wasn’t sure what was left to spend.

Sylus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders dropped, barely. His fingers curled tighter against the seam of the couch—small, invisible. A warning to himself: Don't.

The air between them warmed, subtly. Like the room had shifted one degree toward something dangerous.

Then Zayne moved again.

Just slightly. His knee angled inward, brushing—soft, accidental—against Sylus’s thigh.

Neither of them moved.

The contact was nothing. Less than nothing. A graze of fabric. A shared inch of cushion.

But it lingered. Not by force—by stillness.

Sylus didn’t breathe differently. Not on the outside. But something internal gave way. Quietly. Not a shatter. A slackening.

Zayne hadn’t looked at him again. He was facing the screen now—or pretending to. His features calm, unreadable. Like that accidental touch hadn’t shifted the atmosphere.

Like the air wasn’t denser now.

Sylus’s fingers—resting idle on the armrest—shifted by a fraction. Not a reach. Not a retreat. Just a quiet twitch. A reflex of awareness.

The space between them wasn’t space anymore.

It was a membrane.

Thin. Breathable. One motion away from dissolving.

Zayne adjusted, slower this time. The blanket slipped lower, revealing the cut of his ankle. His foot tapped once against the rug. Aimless. Then he stilled.

Sylus became hyper-aware of his own body. The way his shirt clung where it brushed his ribs. The curvature of his spine against the couch. The weight of one shoulder slouched slightly behind the other.

The heat near his hip—Zayne’s warmth—barely there, but impossible to ignore.

He didn’t look.

Even a glance felt like trespassing.

Time passed like breath held underwater. A minute. Then another.

Outside, a car passed. Tires whispered over shallow puddles. Headlights crawled across the ceiling like a slow breath. Touching nothing. Leaving everything changed.

The room returned to silence.

Zayne’s breathing had shifted. Not louder. Just steadier. Controlled. Held too carefully.

Like someone hiding their own heartbeat.

Sylus closed his eyes. Not in retreat. Not in surrender. Just to listen.

And in the darkness behind his eyelids, the touch became clearer. Not sharper—just more real. The press of a knee, the hum of nearness. Not touching, but felt. His whole body attuned to the parts of Zayne that hovered at the edge of contact.

When he opened his eyes, Zayne hadn’t moved.

It rested now on the cushion between them, fingers relaxed, as if forgotten there. Not a gesture. Not a question. Just… placed.

Sylus let his gaze linger on it. He didn’t trace it upward. Not to the wrist, or the arm, or the line of Zayne’s jaw he sometimes dreamed about.

Just the hand. Still. Breathing its own silent, trembling invitation.

He didn’t answer it.

Not out loud.

Instead, his own hand moved—drifting downward, slow, unintentional. His knuckles brushed fabric. Near. Not on. Just near.

No skin. No contact. Just the awareness of how little distance remained.

Zayne didn’t move.

The silence thickened again.

Not heavy. Not oppressive. Just warm.

Like the breath that lingers between two people who aren’t speaking because they know.

A flicker moved through Zayne’s shoulders. Barely a ripple. The faint tremor of someone swallowing a thought too large to name.

He exhaled—softly. Not out of weariness. But uncertainty.

Then his fingers curled. Not toward Sylus. Just inward.

Like something small and vulnerable folding back into itself.

Sylus felt it. Not in his chest. Lower. A shift in the stomach. Not hunger.

Recognition.

As if something inside him had just pointed at the shape of the moment and said: This. This is what it's been.

He let himself glance—just once—toward Zayne’s face.

Zayne didn’t look back. His gaze was still on the screen. But his eyes weren’t tracking anything. His expression was still. But not serene.

There was tension there. Just beneath the cheekbone. Like he was listening for a line that hadn’t yet been spoken. Like he didn’t know what came next.

Sylus turned his hand. Slightly. Palm-up. Resting beside Zayne’s.

Not touching. Just waiting.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

That Zayne wouldn’t notice.

That the night would pass, and sleep would come, and no one would speak of it in the morning.

But then—

Zayne’s pinky twitched.

And didn’t move away.

The motion was so small it could’ve meant nothing. A twitch. A balance shift. The ghost of sleep passing through a limb.

But it wasn’t.

Sylus knew. In the way the hairs on his forearm lifted. In the way his heartbeat caught, then stumbled like a misstep in the dark.

He didn’t move. Not from fear.

But because movement would mean belief. And he wasn’t ready to believe. Not yet.

The space between their hands felt different now. Not in distance, but in intention. An unfinished sentence. A question, unsaid.

Zayne shifted, almost imperceptibly. Shoulder dipping, head tilting—like the couch had betrayed its shape, or like his own skin had turned unfamiliar.

His hand didn’t move.

That smallest finger—barely bent, still close—held the gravity of a thousand silences.

Sylus let his own finger drift nearer. Not touching. Just enough to echo the closeness. A breath’s worth of nearness.

Zayne inhaled.

Not a gasp. Not surprise.

Just a breath turned over in the body, like a page in a quiet room.

The sound of it passed across Sylus’s cheek like mist. When he realized what it meant, he almost stopped breathing.

Zayne had turned his face toward him. Not all the way. Just enough to abandon pretense.

The television murmured in another language—meaningless. The rain had thinned to a whisper, dissolving into fog.

The world outside had vanished.

All that remained was the air between two men. And the charge that neither could name.

Sylus looked. Not at Zayne’s hand.

At his face.

Zayne wasn’t looking back. His eyes rested somewhere near Sylus’s collar. Not bold enough to hold his gaze. Not distant enough to claim indifference.

The flicker from the television lit the ridge of his nose, caught on the curve of his lip. His mouth wasn’t tense. Wasn’t relaxed either.

It looked— careful.

Sylus shifted. A small rotation of his hips. One knee brushing lightly against Zayne’s.

No words. No contact, not really.

But the room felt closer now. As though even the air had begun to fold inward.

Zayne wasn’t breathing evenly.

Sylus could feel it in the shape of his silence. The way his chest rose—not with the weightless drift of sleep, but with the careful breath of someone standing at the edge.

Ready to fall. Or run.

Zayne’s hand curled inward again. Then relaxed.

It stayed close. Sylus’s hand stayed open.

The tension between them wasn’t sharp. It was unbearable in its gentleness.

No urgency. No heat.

Only the slow gravity of two bodies fluent in a language they'd never been allowed to speak.

Sylus didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe neither of them did. Maybe it was just the couch collapsing under the weight of unsaid things.

Their heads tilted—forward.

Not far. Not enough to kiss.

Just close enough that their breath mingled. That the space between their mouths fogged like glass.

Zayne’s eyes were half-lidded. Lips parted—not in invitation, not in refusal. Suspended.

Sylus didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His voice had abandoned him somewhere between intention and ache.

Zayne blinked, slow.

And for a moment—there was no history. No room. No rules.

Just this.

This strange, reverent quiet pressed between them like folded hands.

Sylus leaned in again. An inch. Maybe less.

Zayne didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Their foreheads touched. Soft. Weightless.

A contact so restrained it felt like apology.

Zayne exhaled.

And that was the betrayal.

Because in that breath—all the denial unraveled.

It was too tender to fake. Too vulnerable to disguise.

Sylus’s hand turned.

Palm-up.

Beside Zayne’s. Not touching. Just waiting.

Their lips hovered—still inches apart. Eyes half-closed, fragile with questions.

But the silence had changed.

It was no longer still. No longer safe.

It trembled now— on the cusp of becoming.

Sylus’s breath hitched—caught between ribs like a thought that should’ve stayed unsaid. The air in his chest wasn’t air anymore. It was weight.

Zayne didn’t move back.

Didn’t move forward either.

He just stayed—face hovering close, not with purpose but with gravity. The kind that forms when silence stretches too long and begins to collapse under its own density.

The space between them had turned unbearable. Not emotionally. Not metaphorically.

Viscerally.

Zayne’s eyes lifted—just enough to find Sylus’s. And then—

A breath. Barely shaped.

"...Sylus."

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a confession.

It was a name—spoken like it had been kept behind clenched teeth for years.

Sylus closed his eyes. His throat worked once—dry.

Then: "...Zayne."

Soft. Like surrender.

There was nothing else to say. They had lived too long in the pause between names.

His mind flickered—uninvited—through moments he had long buried:

The time they’d brushed shoulders on the fire escape, too tired for words. Sylus had felt Zayne’s thigh press against his and hadn’t moved for the entire length of a cigarette. The stars had seemed unreal that night. As if even they were holding their breath.

Or the day Zayne returned from a funeral, tie askew, jaw tight with grief. Sylus had set a glass of water in front of him. Zayne had looked at him—really looked. Like if Sylus left, he might fall apart. Sylus hadn’t left. Zayne’s pinky had brushed his then, too. Just once.

Another night—winter-bitten and brittle—when the power had gone out. They’d shared a blanket. Nothing had happened. But Zayne had dozed off against Sylus’s shoulder. And Sylus hadn’t slept at all. Couldn’t. His body had burned in stillness, every nerve awake with fear. Not fear of Zayne. Fear of being seen—by himself.

At the time, those moments had seemed small. Incidental. Forgettable.

But now they came back—not as memories. As debts. Unpaid, and suddenly due.

Zayne moved.

Not boldly. Just enough for their foreheads to brush.

No lightning. No soundtrack. No sweeping cinematic blaze.

Just skin against skin—a contact so fragile it echoed louder than sound.

Sylus didn’t know if his eyes were open. Didn’t know if it mattered.

He could feel the shape of Zayne’s mouth—without even touching it. The warmth of breath. The nearness of something long withheld.

Zayne moved again. Slower this time. The tip of his nose grazed Sylus’s.

Their lips hovered. A breath apart.

Then—

Zayne tilted his head. Not much. Just enough.

Sylus didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in.

They met somewhere in the middle.

The kiss wasn’t sudden. Wasn’t wild.

It was quiet.

As if their mouths had been waiting—patiently, stubbornly—for a moment like this to finally exist.

Their lips met like an answer. Soft. Known.

Zayne’s mouth trembled slightly against his—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Sylus pressed forward—just a breath’s worth—and that was enough.

Zayne exhaled. It shivered between them.

They kissed again. Deeper. But still unhurried.

No hunger. Only release.

Years of restraint peeling back, like wallpaper in an empty room.

Sylus’s hand rose—tentative—until it found the side of Zayne’s neck. His thumb grazed the hollow beneath his ear.

Zayne’s hand lifted in turn, curling into Sylus’s t-shirt—clinging like someone grounding themselves.

The kiss lingered.

Not out of fear. Not out of desperation.

But because stopping would require naming this. Would mean admitting what it had always been.

What it could no longer pretend not to be.

Zayne moved first.

Barely.

His hand tightened at Sylus’s waist—not to pull, not to possess. Just to be there.

His knuckles grazed the hem of Sylus’s shirt, where cotton met skin. They stayed. That was all it took.

Sylus’s breath shifted—shallower now, uncertain.

The room felt smaller. Not claustrophobic. Just... full. Every inch humming with the gravity of permission.

Zayne kissed him again. Softer. Then firmer. Not rushed.

Searching.

His mouth moved like he was tracing the edges of a dream—one he’d visited often, but never dared touch.

Sylus’s hand slid along Zayne’s back, open, exploratory. He didn’t guide. He followed. Every breath. Every held tremor beneath fabric.

They still hadn’t spoken. But everything in them was speaking.

Zayne’s thumb found a bare patch of skin just under the hem of Sylus’s shirt.

He paused there. Didn’t press. Just rested.

That single point of contact unraveled something inside Sylus—something ancient and aching.

He lifted his arms—slow, unsure. And Zayne understood.

He tugged the shirt upward, careful not to shatter the rhythm they’d slipped into. It caught briefly at Sylus’s shoulders, then came free.

Cool air. Bare skin. Goosebumps bloomed.

Zayne didn’t gawk. Didn’t freeze.

He looked.

Not with hunger, but with reverence. The kind of look you give the edge of a cliff you’ve stood at for years—never daring to jump, never quite walking away.

Sylus didn’t speak. He leaned in instead, mouth brushing Zayne’s jaw, then his throat.

It was part instinct, part apology.

His lips parted against skin, and the sound Zayne made wasn’t loud. It was close. A breath caught in the hollow between want and awe.

Zayne’s hand pressed lightly to Sylus’s chest. His thumb swept over bone and muscle like he was tracing something half-remembered—something sacred.

The tension didn’t break. It deepened.

Sylus reached for Zayne’s shirt. Fingers slipping under the hem, the fabric warm, worn.

He lifted it slowly, watching Zayne’s face for any flicker of hesitation. There wasn’t one.

The shirt joined Sylus’s on the floor.

Zayne’s skin was warm beneath his palms—solid and soft all at once. Sylus traced his side, his hand resting against the curve of his ribs. Zayne’s breath caught—but he didn’t pull away.

Then—closer.

Their bare torsos pressed, breath moving between them like tidewater—gentle, rhythmic, necessary.

Zayne’s hands slid to Sylus’s back, wide and open, not pulling with desperation but certainty. Sylus folded into him—arms around his shoulders, lips finding his again, deeper now.

They kissed like men who had denied themselves too long.

Not from shame. From necessity.

And now— that necessity was gone.

The couch groaned softly beneath them as they shifted.

Zayne parted his legs slightly, and Sylus moved with him—slotting into the space like something inevitable.

Their foreheads met again. No sweat yet, but the heat was rising. Their skin slick with anticipation.

Zayne’s fingers followed the line of Sylus’s spine—tentative, slow. His mouth moved lower, to his jaw, then down—to the hollow of his collarbone.

The kiss there was open-mouthed. Unsteady. Aching.

Sylus gasped. Not from surprise.

From the sheer weight of finally.

Zayne paused. Let the breath settle. Let his lips stay.

Sylus’s hands, trembling now, found the waistband of Zayne’s pants.

He didn’t undo them. Not yet.

His knuckles brushed fabric—careful, reverent. He looked up.

Zayne was already watching him.

No smile. No hesitation.

Just yes.

The sound of a zipper echoed in the room—slow. Deliberate.

It filled the silence like punctuation.

Not a beginning. Not an end.

Just the natural sound of two bodies, long kept apart, finally allowed to want in the open.

No rush.

Only inevitability.

Zayne shifted—hips lifting slightly—as Sylus eased the fabric down, careful not to shatter the fragile stillness between them.

The denim gave way with quiet resistance. The weight of it slipped from skin that had never been touched like this.

Not by him. Not like this.

Not with meaning.

Zayne leaned back into the cushions, one arm resting loosely behind his head. His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t scan. Didn’t retreat.

He simply watched. And waited.

Sylus paused. Not from hesitation—but reverence.

His hand lingered at the hem of Zayne’s last layer, thumb grazing the edge. His fingers trembled—not from nerves, but care.

That rare, trembling awareness that the person before you is no longer theoretical. No longer a question.

But real. Breathing. Letting you in.

"Okay?" Sylus asked—his voice low, roughened by the weight in his chest.

Zayne nodded. "Yeah." A beat. "More than okay."

Sylus exhaled—quiet and uneven. Relieved. Unsteady.

He leaned in and kissed just above the fabric, at the curve of Zayne’s stomach.

It wasn’t practiced. Wasn’t precise.

Just lips to skin, tentative and real.

Zayne exhaled. Slow. Measured.

His hand rose, resting on Sylus’s shoulder like punctuation.

When the final layer was pulled away, Zayne lay bare beneath the dim, flickering light. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover himself.

But his chest paused mid-breath—as though his body hadn’t caught up with what was happening.

Sylus sat back.

He looked.

Not with hunger. Not with claim.

But with awe.

Then came the shedding of his own clothes. Fabric pulled over limbs in quiet, untheatrical motions.

Not display. Not seduction.

Just the removal of armor. Layer by layer.

When he was fully bare, he didn’t reach for Zayne. He simply let himself be seen.

Let fear sit beside him in silence, naked and shared.

Zayne looked at him—not with appraisal.

With reverence. As though he hadn’t believed this moment would ever truly arrive.

Sylus moved back over him slowly, skin meeting skin in scattered points—thigh, hip, rib, forearm.

Each touch unfolding like a sentence too long held in the throat.

When their chests met, bare and warm, Zayne made a sound that lived somewhere between sigh and prayer.

His hand slid to the back of Sylus’s neck, fingers threading through heat-damp hair.

They kissed again—deeper now.

Teeth brushed. Mouths parted slowly. Tongues moved with precision born of restraint.

It tasted like release.

Zayne broke it first, forehead resting against Sylus’s. Breathing shallow.

["I don't know how to do this," he said, almost smiling.

Sylus swallowed. "Me either."

Zayne met his eyes—lit softly by the television’s glow, raw with something gentler than fear. "Then let's not do it right."

A quiet laugh slipped from Sylus—unguarded, small.

He kissed him again.

This time, their hips moved together—slow, uncertain, but aligned. Zayne arched into him, the motion wordless, instinctual, and full of ache.

No one led. No one followed.

They moved.

Sylus’s hand drifted down Zayne’s side, fingers grazing hip, then lower—finding want where it lived, where it waited.

Zayne gasped. Not from surprise.

From awe.

He met the touch with his own. Mirroring. Learning.

Their hands became language. Their mouths the reply.

And through it all—

No words. None needed.

Only breath.

Only sound.

Only two men, no longer pretending they didn’t ache.

Zayne’s forehead rested against Sylus’s temple, sweat gathering between them like truth surfacing—slow, undeniable.

His breath was broken now. Staggered. Shallow.

The sound of someone losing a battle they hadn’t meant to fight.

Sylus’s hand stayed steady. Not coaxing. Not claiming. Just present.

Their bodies rocked together in a rhythm that hadn’t been taught— slow, uneven, unchoreographed.

It wasn’t performance. It was discovery.

Each movement answering a question neither had dared speak aloud.

Zayne’s voice cracked. Just one syllable—unformed, unintelligible—spilled into the hollow above Sylus’s collarbone.

His arms were wrapped tight around Sylus’s back now, as though letting go would unmake the moment.

As if there were still something outside this they might fall back into.

But there wasn’t.

This was the room. This was the world.

Breath shared.

Nothing else existed.

Sylus moved with him, building pressure not with friction, but with closeness.

His pleasure rose not from sensation alone— but from Zayne’s sounds, the tremble in his spine, the small betrayals of control.

Every signal whispered, I see you. I feel you. I want you still.

He wasn’t used to being this seen. To wanting and being wanted in the same breath.

It overwhelmed him.

Still—he didn’t stop.

Zayne clawed gently at Sylus’s shoulder as his body arched, mouth falling open into something raw, unnamed.

Sylus felt it crest—not just physically, but in the way Zayne’s silence cracked open—every breath a breaking point.

And when Zayne came, buried against his neck, shaking but silent—

It felt like truth rising from where it had been buried too long. Gasping for light.

Sylus followed— a quake through the center of him.

No sound. No flourish.

Just breath— deep, shaking, endless.

A letting go.

They collapsed inward. Not apart.

Arms still wrapped. Bodies still suspended.

There was no sound, only the hum of their bodies settling. Heartbeats. The hush of skin cooling where sweat had once tethered them.

Zayne’s eyes were closed, his face pressed against Sylus’s chest, cheek resting just above the sternum—as if he’d always belonged there.

Sylus stared at the ceiling, breath slowing, every muscle gradually relinquishing the weight it had carried for years.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The world hadn’t.

But here— in this room, in this breathless corner of dim light and tangled limbs— time had fractured.

Zayne’s fingers trailed along Sylus’s ribs. Not with purpose.

Just to stay.

Just to remind them both this had happened. That it wasn’t a dream.

Sylus turned his head and pressed a kiss to Zayne’s temple. Barely.

More intention than contact. A punctuation mark. A promise.

"I didn't know," Zayne whispered—his voice rough, like it had traveled too far to reach him.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. Words felt too fragile. Too small for the moment.

"Me neither," he said at last.

It wasn’t a confession.

It was a fact.

Zayne hummed. The sound frayed and quiet.

"I thought if I let it in... it'd ruin everything."

Sylus closed his eyes.

"It didn't."

Zayne exhaled. Something like a laugh buried beneath exhaustion.

"No. Just... changed it."

They lay there. Not gripping. Just close.

Legs tangled. Skin cooling.

The silence now wide enough to hold them both. Without crowding either.

Eventually, Sylus shifted, reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch.

He pulled it over them—fabric worn, scentless.

Familiar.

Zayne turned his face into Sylus’s chest. Not to hide.

To rest.

"You cold?" Sylus asked softly.

"No."

A pause.

"I just want to stay here."

"You can."

Zayne found his hand beneath the blanket. Their fingers laced.

No trembling. No question.

Just warmth. Just presence.

Nothing about the evening. Nothing about what this would become.

Only this.

Two men— no longer half-alive— finally learning what it means to be touched, and known.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

#snowcrow #love and deepspace

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yvilonion · 3 days ago

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Is there a particular reason snowcrow is mote popular than the other bl ships in lads?

not a definite answer but

n jus look at them ewiwiwi

in all seriousness, idk. its probably bc theyre both buff daddies who plays the mom and dad role in the lads friend group like namjoon and seokjin or yone and k'sante yk

#snowcrow

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yvilonion · 3 days ago

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tips for making it easier to draw sy’s hair??? i have the good days where i can manage it fine but most days it’s so difficult for me and idk ,,,

im probably not the best person to ask this bc 1. i suck at teaching 2. i draw sy's hair SUPER inaccurate bc i've stylized it to make it easier.... but here's a breakdown on how i do it

uhhhh idk if its understandable but yeah.. like i said its inaccurate but if it makes him recognizable it should be fine

one thing that helps tho is that i never draw hair fully attached yk? as in i dont do clean lines so it's the i l l u s i o n that makes it look feasible lol. it took me a while to get comfortable drawing him and now since i draw him daily i just wing it. good luck have fun!

stupid doo doo haircut

#love and deepspace #sylus

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yvilonion · 4 days ago

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Do u think that Sylus's nipple piercings (which you drew SO YUMMY MAY I ADD) would close because of his fast healing factor and so Zayne would need to re-do them on Sylus like once a week? Because I do think about it and just imagine Zayne doing his piercings with surgical precision with his heart beating at 140bpm and Sylus grinning at him.

ive never actually thought of that but considering the fact sylus is a masochist i wouldnt be surprised if he purposely used his evol to heal fast for this very reason. he likes the sting on his nips aerjflekrjgearijv whats his problem man hes a FREAK

zayne probably at one point figures out wtf hes doing and freezes his nips since he wants that tingle sensation so bad

snowcrow ice sex when

#love and deepspace #snowcrow

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yvilonion · 4 days ago

Text

onychinus filed for bankruptcy, we turning to onlyfans now

#fanart #illustration #love and deepspace #sylus #lads #qin che #sylus cam boy era #manwhore #selling favors on myspace 50 bucks a minute #dick hairs sold separately

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yvilonion · 4 days ago

Text

he wants dat cookie so effing bad

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yvilonion · 5 days ago

Text

kitty butler zayne

sylus x cat!zayne // hybrid au // fluff // 4k words

sylus saved a cat and he got a butler in return.

the rain came down like silver needles on the black hood of sylus qin’s custom-engineered car. the city lights blurred in his windshield, refracted through the downpour. his hands rested lazily on the steering wheel, one ringed thumb tapping the leather in rhythm with the jazz record playing softly through his speakers.

he hated driving himself. it was boring.

but it was one of those nights where even a man like him didn’t want to go home just yet. not to silence. not to marble and shadows.

then he saw it.

a dark shape slumped on the sidewalk just ahead, nearly blending into the wet concrete. at first, sylus thought it was trash—or roadkill. but then the headlights caught the glint of greenish-gold eyes. bleeding. breathing.

a cat.

sylus should’ve kept driving. he didn’t like being interrupted. especially not by strays. but something in the way it looked at him—like it knew something—made him slow down.

minutes later, the injured maine coon was nestled in a blanket in the backseat, and sylus was already muttering about how ridiculous this was.

/ᐠ-˕-マⳊ

a week went by, sylus didn’t expect to keep the thing. he called a private vet the next morning, had it checked over, stitched, cleaned, and dosed with enough sedatives to knock out a horse. then he set up a small bed by the fireplace. he even left out fancy gourmet cat food from the organic pet boutique down the street.

but the cat didn’t touch it.

instead, it waited until sylus left the room and raided his fridge. half his tiramisu vanished one night. another evening, a delicate rose-shaped tart he’d imported from the old district in france had mysteriously disappeared.

it wasn’t just that. the cat watched him. it would sit near the study and observe him reading reports. it followed him into the piano room. and once—just once—sylus woke up to find it curled up on the far corner of his bed, tail flicking, half-lidded eyes glowing in the dark.

then one morning, the cat was gone.

no broken windows. no doors left open. it had simply vanished.

sylus stood at the foot of the empty fireplace, one hand in his pocket, the other nursing a cup of bitter black coffee. the house felt...silent again. not peaceful. just hollow.

“figures,” he muttered.

₍^. .^₎⟆

the sound of movement outside his bedroom jolted sylus from sleep.

he never had unannounced visitors. not in this house. security was airtight. his hand reached for the nearest object—a butter knife resting on the tray of leftover midnight snacks. he crept toward the door, barefoot but deadly quiet.

then he opened it.

and froze.

there, standing at the top of the grand staircase, was a man.

tall. black hair neatly combed. silver-framed glasses. wearing a crisp black butler’s suit like he belonged in a gothic manor, not in the home of a man who didn’t even like guests.

but that wasn’t the strangest part.

perched atop the man’s head were a pair of twitching feline ears—dark furred, just like the cat’s. and behind him, calm and swaying like a metronome, was a long, thick tail.

sylus’s hand went slack. the butter knife clattered to the floor.

the man turned. his face was unreadable—neutral, calm, and frankly a little judgmental.

“good morning, master,” he said, voice deep and disturbingly composed. “i’ve prepared breakfast downstairs. it’s best you eat it while it’s still hot.”

“...what.”

sylus blinked. then scowled, crossing his arms. “no, wait. hold on. who the hell are you and how did you even get in here?”

the man’s ears flicked.

“you don’t recognize me?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “i suppose this form is rather new to you.”

and then, without warning, a small puff of smoke erupted around him.

when it cleared, standing where the man had been, was the same maine coon—groomed, sitting neatly, tail flicking in subtle amusement.

sylus stared.

“…what the fuck,” he whispered.

₍^. .^₎Ⳋ

the breakfast table was lavish, though sylus hadn’t touched a thing. crisp white porcelain, an artfully arranged spread—fruits sliced with surgeon-level precision, scrambled eggs the perfect consistency, buttery croissants still steaming.

and a full pot of jasmine tea, its aroma soft and floral.

zayne stood by the table, silver-framed glasses now perched on his nose, looking every bit the refined butler. except for the ears—those velvety black tufts atop his head that flicked subtly every time sylus moved.

sylus sat, arms crossed. his red eyes locked onto zayne like crosshairs.

"talk."

zayne nodded once and poured the tea with steady hands.

“my name is zayne. i’m… well, i suppose the word ‘hybrid’ applies. some would say shapeshifter. i was part of a long-term bioengineering experiment. escaped six days ago.”

his voice was calm, disturbingly so for someone explaining how they were engineered.

“i don’t know who ran the facility. i was taken very young. i was trained to behave, to observe, to survive.” he set the teapot down gently. “i almost died at that curb. you saved me.”

sylus didn’t flinch. but he didn’t touch the tea.

“i owe you my life,” zayne continued, “so i will serve you as repayment. as your loyal servant. since you… don’t really have staff around here to take care of you.”

sylus’s brow twitched. his voice dropped into an icy flatness.

"i don’t need it. i don’t trust anyone to be here."

zayne tilted his head just slightly, ears flicking. curious. concerned, maybe. sylus didn’t like that look.

“i’ve had staff,” sylus said. “had. some tried to kill me. some tried to steal. some were spies. the only reason you’re alive right now is because you turned into a goddamn cat and didn’t stab me in my sleep.”

he stood, chair sliding back.

“there’s no debt. no owing. i helped because i wanted to. that’s all.”

he turned and started walking away.

"leave."

zayne didn't move. not immediately.

he stood still by the table, hands folded neatly in front of him. his ears drooped just slightly, and his tail stilled. his face remained neutral, but sylus—damn it—noticed the difference.

it was the smallest shift. but it gnawed at him.

ฅᨐฅ

three days later, zayne didn’t leave. technically.

he didn’t press boundaries either. he just… stayed. sometimes on the bench in the garden, watching the wind ripple through the ivy. sometimes curled under the overhang at the back of the mansion, resting like a stray that refused to go but had too much pride to beg.

sylus caught sight of him once on the security monitor.

again at 2 a.m. through the library window.

it was starting to feel like guilt.

and sylus hated feeling guilty.

so he compromised. after almost a week.

“you’re still here.”

sylus’s voice broke the silence like glass.

zayne looked up from the grass. he was in his humanoid form, kneeling to rewrap his injured hand. he stood quickly, brushing his pants off. “yes, master.”

sylus gave him a long look, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “fine. you can stay.”

zayne blinked.

“but,” sylus said, lifting a finger like a loaded gun, “ground rules.”

he stepped closer.

“you are not to enter the third floor. that includes the west hallway and especially my study. off limits.”

“yes, master.”

“you do not cook for me. i don’t eat food made by others.”

“yes, master.”

“you can make your own food. you can clean if you want to. but if you get close to any private zones—or if i suspect you’re up to anything—i will throw you out. no talking. no warning.”

zayne didn’t seem offended. he nodded with a gentle, accepting grace. “understood.”

sylus narrowed his eyes. “why are you so calm about this?”

zayne only blinked. “because i was trained to serve. and because you let me live.”

sylus’s eye twitch.

“right... and don’t call me that.” he waved his hand. "master."

“…yes,” zayne corrected softly. “ma- sylus.”

sylus muttered something under his breath—half insult, half frustration—and turned to walk back inside.

as the door clicked open, zayne quietly followed behind.

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ

later that night, sylus found the linen closets perfectly reorganized. the glass in the east wing was cleaned to a polish. the plants—neglected for months—had been watered and rotated to proper sunlight angles. a simple note was left on his bedroom door:

your robe had loose stitching on the sleeve. i repaired it. — zayne

sylus stared at the note, then at the sleeve of the robe he hadn’t even noticed was damaged.

he crushed the note in his hand and sighed.

maybe having one person in the house wouldn’t be that bad.

maybe.

ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎

the estate was, as always, immaculate.

not because sylus cared about dust or decor—he’d long grown indifferent to the echo of empty halls—but because zayne had taken to his “duties.” floors gleamed. curtains were brushed free of lint. even the antique gramophone in the corner, long forgotten, looked like it belonged in a museum.

sylus sat in his usual chair in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, absently wiping his watch with a cloth. the room smelled faintly of polish and lavender—zayne's choice, apparently. the fireplace crackled low behind him.

he wasn’t watching zayne. not really.

just... occasionally glancing in his direction as the hybrid dusted the velvet curtains, long tail swaying with absent rhythm. he'd long given up correcting zayne calling him master.

zayne worked quietly. always quietly. and efficiently. sylus had noticed that when it came to insects or vermin, zayne was instantaneous in his response—like a predator on a hair-trigger. once, sylus had turned his head to a subtle scratching sound, and before he could say a word, zayne had already pinned the rat by the tail with a fireplace poker, calm as ever.

it was amusing. strange.

and sometimes—sylus hated to admit it—entertaining.

sylus turned his wrist slightly. the glass face of his watch caught the light and sent a brief flicker of sunbeam onto the far wall.

he didn’t expect what happened next.

zayne stopped mid-motion. his hand hovered over the curtain. the cloth fluttered in his grip, forgotten.

his ears twitched.

his pupils—normally narrow and controlled—expanded suddenly into full, wide circles, sharp green irises nearly vanishing. his gaze snapped to the spot of light on the wall with a focus sylus had only ever seen in combat.

then—

the light shifted again as sylus adjusted slightly, and zayne’s head moved with it. his ears perked up, tail twitching once, twice, and—

he took a cautious step toward the light.

sylus narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “...are you seriously about to pounce on a sunbeam?”

zayne blinked, as if waking up from a trance. he looked at sylus. then at the floor. then cleared his throat. his ears quickly flattened back to composure, and he resumed wiping the curtain.

“i was simply...monitoring a potential source of reflection damage on the wall paint,” he said evenly.

sylus raised a brow, unimpressed. “you were about to chase a dot like a housecat.”

“no, master.”

“yes, you were.”

“i was not.”

“you were tracking it with your eyes like a sniper.”

a pause.

“...my instincts may have been momentarily engaged,” zayne admitted, tone as flat as ever. “it won’t happen again.”

sylus leaned back in the chair, folding his arms.

"shame. that was the most expression i’ve seen on your face since you moved in.”

zayne didn’t reply, but sylus didn’t miss the tail that flicked a little faster now.

after a beat, sylus tilted his wrist again, subtly sending another flicker of light dancing across the wall.

zayne’s head snapped toward it.

caught.

sylus smirked. “so much for instincts.”

zayne sighed, setting the duster down on the windowsill. “...permission to chase it properly, master?”

sylus blinked.

he wasn’t sure what was funnier—zayne actually asking permission, or the stone-faced delivery.

he leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand. “granted.”

what followed was absurd. a blur of limbs and grace and precision as zayne leapt lightly to the couch, then twisted mid-air to tag the light across the floor, tail lashing in perfect balance. his sleeves rolled up just slightly, glasses discarded neatly on the side table.

it lasted no more than ten seconds.

but sylus laughed. actually laughed. quietly, under his breath—but genuinely.

then zayne landed, smoothed his vest, adjusted his collar, and walked back to the curtain like nothing happened.

sylus sipped his tea, eyes glinting.

this odd creature was growing on him.

and that—

that was dangerous.

^. .^₎⟆

sylus had a strict routine: breakfast by 7, morning meetings at 9, calls until noon. every hour of his day was accounted for, calculated, and sharp. his estate reflected that precision—quiet, cold, immaculate.

but lately, some of that rigidity had...softened.

just slightly.

he noticed it on warmer days, when the sun filtered through the east-facing windows and the halls were wrapped in a golden hush. he’d do a full sweep of the mansion—habit, mostly—only to realize zayne was nowhere in sight.

not in the kitchen.

not in the garden.

not even loitering near the foyer like he usually did after cleaning.

until sylus finally walked past the library.

and saw him.

zayne, in his hybrid cat form, curled like a comma on the leather armchair by the bookshelves. limbs tucked in, tail wrapped around himself, ears twitching gently with every creak of the mansion. fast asleep. softly breathing. practically melting into the upholstery like he owned it.

sylus would stand in the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, watching him with something between confusion and reluctant amusement.

“you’ve got the entire estate and you pick my chair?” he muttered one day.

the cat twitched but didn’t stir.

sylus rolled his eyes and walked off. but he didn’t reclaim the chair for the rest of the week. not even once.

but when winter came, zayne would be in a different spot.

the cold hit early that year. snow layered the rooftop like icing, and frost webbed across the windows overnight. the mansion’s heating worked perfectly, but the air still bit in the corners of the hallways.

sylus came downstairs one morning after loading fresh laundry into the dryer the night before. he was expecting silence. maybe the faint hum of the boiler.

instead, he paused just outside the laundry room, hearing a faint rustling.

when he opened the door, he stared.

in the center of the laundry basket, nestled like royalty, was a large maine coon.

zayne, in his feline form, had buried himself deep into the mountain of freshly dried bedsheets and blankets, barely peeking out. only his ears and one wide eye were visible above the warm cotton.

the sight was so absurdly domestic that sylus actually blinked.

zayne blinked back.

they stared at each other.

“you are not sleeping in my sheets,” sylus said flatly.

a soft, lazy chirp came from zayne’s throat, muffled by fluff.

“i just cleaned those.”

another blink. a tail flick.

sylus pinched the bridge of his nose. “you’re lucky i have no guests. or shame.”

he left the room.

he came back with a heated pad ten minutes later. no explanation.

/ᐠ. .ᐟ\ Ⳋ

sylus didn’t say it aloud. he never would. but it happened slowly, like water wearing down stone.

he started ordering extra blankets.

replaced the reading chair in the library with one that had a deeper cushion.

adjusted the mansion’s thermostat when he noticed zayne tucked his tail tighter at night.

and zayne never said thank you.

never called attention to it.

just quietly adapted.

sometimes sylus would glance up from his reports and catch zayne in human form, his tail swaying as he wiped down the windowpane. the reflection of snow behind him. his profile lit softly by morning sun.

or find him curled up in a patch of warmth, dead to the world, his breathing slow and steady, ears twitching as if chasing something in his dreams.

it was ridiculous.

he was a powerful man. someone feared, respected, untouchable.

and yet, somehow—

he found himself making excuses to pass by the library.

or to start laundry earlier in the week.

he told himself it was routine.

he didn’t call it care.

not yet.

but deep down, in the quiet hours of the mansion, he was beginning to realize—

zayne didn’t just live here now.

he belonged here.

/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\

the afternoon light stretched long shadows across the marble floors of the estate. sylus stepped through the front door with the usual chill of control in his stride, the quiet click of his shoes echoing across the entry hall.

he paused.

no sound.

no soft clink of porcelain from the kitchen.

no gentle sweeping noises.

no footsteps approaching to greet him.

no zayne.

odd.

zayne always knew his schedule. hell, the cat probably memorized it down to the minute. on normal days, he’d be standing a few paces from the door, hands folded behind his back, ears perked, offering a stiff but polite, “welcome home, master.”

today?

nothing.

sylus loosened his tie with a growing knot in his chest and walked briskly to the library.

empty.

he tried the kitchen.

the sunroom. (which sylus didn't even know exists until zayne cleaned it up because he takes offense at how dark the house was.)

even the laundry room.

still nothing.

he stood at the bottom of the staircase, tension prickling in his jaw. his mansion was large—but it was never hard to find zayne. the hybrid moved like a shadow, but he never truly hid.

something was off.

sylus ascended the stairs two steps at a time.

then, rounding the second-floor corridor—he stopped cold.

there, slumped on the floor just outside the linen closet, was zayne.

his long limbs were tangled awkwardly, his back against the wall, one gloved hand gripping weakly at the hem of his vest. his glasses were slightly askew, cheeks flushed deep pink, and his breath came in shallow, uneven pants. even in his unconscious state, his ears twitched faintly, tail limp and curled near his legs.

“zayne.”

the word came out sharper than intended.

sylus dropped to his knees in front of him and reached out without thinking, pulling zayne upright by the shoulders, slow and steady. the moment his hand touched fabric, heat slammed into his palm.

“shit.”

sylus rarely cursed.

he pressed the back of his hand to zayne’s cheek—burning.

his fingers tightened slightly as he felt the way zayne leaned into the touch unconsciously, a soft, muffled sound leaving his lips.

fever.

severe.

sylus’s mind clicked into cold, efficient gear. no use calling doctors—zayne wouldn’t react well to strangers. hospital? not happening. he’d likely bolt in panic or shift into a cat and disappear into the snow.

he needed warmth. hydration. bed.

and the most secure, private, well-equipped room in the entire house... was on the third floor.

sylus hesitated for a second.

then exhaled.

“to hell with the rules.”

zayne barely stirred as sylus lifted him—he was light, deceptively so—and carried him up the staircase. his body was radiating heat, his breath ragged against sylus’s neck.

the third floor was a fortress of solitude. no one had entered it since sylus built the estate. it was where he worked, rested, lived when the rest of the world became too suffocating.

and now, it was where zayne would recover.

sylus kicked open the door to the master bedroom, carried him to the bed, and laid him down against the silken sheets. he stripped off zayne’s gloves and vest, careful not to jostle him too much. then he grabbed a cool cloth from the bathroom and pressed it to zayne’s forehead.

for a moment, he just stood there.

watching.

zayne, usually so composed and stoic, looked... small. vulnerable. his black ears twitched weakly in his sleep, and his tail curled closer like a child trying to hold himself together.

sylus clenched his jaw. “you idiot,” he muttered. “you kept working yourself stupid again, didn’t you?”

there was no answer—just a soft, hoarse exhale.

sylus turned and left the room. fifteen minutes later, he came back with a tray: water, warm broth, and fever meds crushed into honey for easier swallowing. he sat on the edge of the bed and carefully helped zayne sit up, half-conscious and blinking slowly.

zayne’s voice was little more than a rasp.

“...master…?”

“you passed out in the hallway.” sylus kept his tone neutral, but his grip didn’t leave zayne’s back. “don’t talk. just drink.”

zayne obeyed, sipping slowly. his body trembled under the weight of fever, but he didn’t resist.

when sylus moved to adjust the blankets, zayne’s gloved fingers caught weakly at his sleeve.

“...sorry,” he murmured, barely audible. “didn’t mean to—break protocol.”

sylus paused.

for once, he didn’t have a cold retort.

didn’t have a lecture ready.

he looked at the flushed face, the sweat-dampened hair, the ears twitching in half-conscious guilt.

“rest. that’s an order.”

≽^- ˕ -^≼

zayne recovered fast. unnaturally fast.

the fever had burned hot for a day and a half, but by the end of the third day, he was already back on his feet, dressed and polished like the collapse in the hallway had never happened.

“hybrid biology,” he’d explained quietly, as he changed the sheets of sylus’s bed, already resetting the space with practiced ease. “fever burns fast, heals faster.”

sylus hadn’t said much. he’d stood in the doorway watching him, arms crossed, trying to justify the fact that zayne hadn’t been banished back downstairs.

and then never did.

because he didn’t want to.

the third floor was no longer off-limits. there was no talk of boundaries. no new rules, no updated contract—hell, zayne had signed the last one with a paw print, and sylus hadn’t even laughed at it. now the whole damn thing might as well be shredded.

letting zayne into this space—his private floors, his world, his routines—wasn’t just about territory.

it was letting him in.

into the stillness. the silence. the real pieces of sylus’s life no one else had ever seen.

and it should’ve set off every warning bell in his head.

but it didn’t.

it felt right.

it was his mornings that changed first.

sylus used to wake to cold light filtering through blinds, the soft ping of updates from his tablet, and silence. now, he woke to the low clink of ceramic, the faint smell of jasmine or dark roast, and the quiet rustle of someone moving through his space.

and when he opened his eyes, it was zayne’s face he saw.

neatly dressed, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, ears twitching at the smallest sounds. sometimes human. sometimes feline, curled up near the pillow, blinking at him with those wide, calm green eyes.

sylus would grumble something incoherent and roll over. zayne never commented.

but internally, sylus was—unsettlingly—pleased.

waking up alone was normal. waking up to zayne?

that was contentment.

then, it was the study room.

zayne never spoke unless necessary in the study. he moved in silence, a ghost in tailored black and silver, setting down a cup of coffee or a tray of pastries with an elegance sylus hadn’t realized he liked so much.

sometimes, zayne would sort the bookshelves, tail swaying idly. other times he’d be perched on the second ladder tier, dusting the upper spines, ears perked and alert. sylus would pretend not to watch him.

but on days where business bled into irritation—when reports came in botched, when meetings dragged, or when one of his men made a move without his say-so—sylus would glance up from his desk…

…and there zayne would be. adjusting a frame. rearranging the cups. tasting a pastry as if testing for poison.

one look at those ears twitching ever so slightly or the way zayne flicked dust off the shelves like it offended him personally—and sylus could feel the tension in his spine loosen, bit by bit.

the stress didn’t melt. it evaporated.

this is dangerous, he thought, once more. comfort is dangerous.

but the truth was—he liked it.

he liked it too much.

/ᐠ. .ᐟ\ฅ

sylus sat back in his chair, rubbing his temple, the firelight painting long shadows across the dark wooden shelves. zayne entered silently with a fresh pot of tea, and sylus glanced up, eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“you’re supposed to be off-duty,” sylus said. his tone lacked bite.

“i noticed your tea was cold.”

zayne set the tray down, his motions precise. as he turned to leave, sylus surprised himself by saying, “stay.”

zayne paused. blinked. tilted his head.

“just… stay.”

zayne didn’t speak.

he simply pulled the second chair closer, sat down, and began calmly flipping through the latest books sylus had left scattered on the coffee table.

the room was silent. but not empty.

sylus leaned back and looked at the faint reflection of the two of them in the window.

one cold, sharp man in a pressed suit.

and a hybrid—cat ears twitching, tail curled near the leg of the chair, eyes gently focused on a book he’d probably already read a dozen times.

it was stupid.

it was healing.

and sylus, powerful and feared as he was, finally understood something mundane.

this is why people keep cats, he thought. they don’t do much. but they make it better just by being there.

he didn’t say thank you.

but the next morning, zayne found a new blanket folded on the library chair.

tailored. heated. monogrammed.

with a single stitched letter in the corner.

≽^-˕ -^≼

the door creaked shut behind him with a dull thud that echoed too loud in the stillness of the estate.

sylus exhaled. or maybe groaned. it was hard to tell.

he didn’t even make it two full steps before his polished shoes tangled with each other and he collapsed, graceless, against the cool marble wall. his back hit the surface with a quiet thud, and he slowly slid down, the buttons of his blazer pressing into his ribs.

his vision spun just slightly. his head felt heavy. his body, sluggish.

he’d lost track of how many glasses they poured after the second hour. he’d intended to leave early—he always did—but every time he turned, someone was refilling his drink with forced laughter and an insistence he couldn’t be rude. company loyalty, they said. toast after toast.

for someone who rarely drank, he held his own longer than he should’ve.

but now, it caught up to him.

footsteps padded softly across the foyer, light and quick. sylus knew who it was before the voice even came.

“master?”

zayne’s tone was even, but tinged with concern. “you’re home quite late.”

sylus tilted his head lazily, looking up. his eyes met zayne’s—sharp green, framed by silver-framed glasses and topped with two very twitchy black cat ears.

right. no phone. zayne didn’t own one. all their communication at home relied on scribbled notes on the kitchen counter.

sylus frowned faintly. something about that fact settled wrong in his chest.

“i’ll get you a phone,” he mumbled, the words slurring slightly. “you should have one. in case.”

zayne blinked once. “...you smell like alcohol.”

sylus grinned lopsidedly. “tell your nose to mind its own business.”

zayne scrunched his nose. just slightly. a minuscule expression. but it was there. sylus caught it and chuckled low in his throat.

“i was out drinking with the company,” he admitted, head tipping back against the wall. “they were persistent. didn’t let my glass stay empty. bunch of bastards.”

“you’re drunk.”

“obviously. that’s what happens when people drink.”

zayne sighed—not annoyed, but resigned—and crouched down beside him. “let’s get you upstairs.”

sylus allowed himself to be hauled upright with the kind of reluctant compliance only the intoxicated could pull off. he was taller than zayne, heavier too, but zayne was surprisingly strong. he moved with purpose, hand braced under sylus’s arm as they made their slow, careful way toward the stairs.

each step up the marble staircase felt like it took an eternity. the walls pulsed with shadows. the mansion was quiet enough to hear every breath, every shift of fabric, every soft tap of zayne’s shoes on the floor.

and at this proximity…

sylus noticed.

zayne’s hair was soft at the ends, brushing against his cheek. his posture was strong, but his ears—those cat ears perched on his head—twitched nervously every time sylus so much as exhaled near them.

up this close, they really were expressive. the kind of thing sylus could read if he paid attention long enough.

he smiled to himself.

“such a good kitten you are…” he murmured, voice low, just above a whisper—deep, lazy, husky from both alcohol and sleepiness.

zayne froze.

sylus felt it instantly—the way the hybrid’s body tensed under his grip, how his ears twitched violently and folded flat against his head in a sudden, instinctual movement. his tail, usually calm and slow, flicked with quick, defensive agitation.

zayne cleared his throat, ears still down. “...please watch your step.”

sylus laughed again, quieter this time. “sensitive to sound?”

zayne didn’t respond.

but sylus could feel the way zayne’s heart rate had subtly increased. he wasn’t embarrassed. he was rattled. or flustered. something between the two.

they reached the third floor landing. zayne moved with extra care now, keeping sylus upright with an even firmer grip. not a word passed between them as they entered the master bedroom.

zayne helped him out of his blazer, steady and methodical, unbuttoning the cuffs and sliding it from his arms. he draped it over the chair by the fireplace, straightened it, and only then said:

“i’ll bring water.”

but as he turned, sylus reached out.

fingers caught zayne’s wrist gently.

“you don’t have to act like this is just duty, zayne.”

zayne blinked. his tail twitched.

“...i don’t understand what you mean.”

sylus’s gaze softened, the drunken fog in his eyes briefly parting. “you get flustered. you worry. you stay even when i don’t ask you to. don’t pretend you’re just here to work.”

zayne looked down, unreadable.

then he smiled. barely there. a slight curve of the lips. “...you’re very drunk,” he whispered, "sylus."

sylus released his wrist. “you’re dodging.”

“i’m making sure you don’t choke in your sleep,” zayne said, voice flat again, though his ears remained suspiciously twitchy. “i’ll be back with the water.”

he turned and left.

sylus collapsed onto the bed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “good kitten,” he whispered again to himself.

from the hallway, he swore he heard the faintest exasperated sigh.

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yvilonion · 5 days ago

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yep

Listen I personally dont think sylus is much of a bottom but I KNOW this man moans like one

#its not clocking to you #op standing on business #sylus #sylus loud in bed #that guy has issues

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yvilonion · 5 days ago

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oh mootie i love u THIS IS AMAZEBALLS SNSJJDNANJWKE

js a little add on bc ive also been wanting to refine this au, snowcrow vamp is inspired by "forever and ever more" mv by nothing but thieves, letting yk if u wanna get a lil more inspo!! and also vamp sy concept i posted on twitter months ago

honestly the only reason i did this was cuz i wanted an emo li and sy is the closest since hes goth technically but even then he's not goth enough, so i turned him into trashy unhinged emo

more snowcrow vamp au soon! KEEP BRAINROTTING PEA WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER NOW

confession. for the last week I have been listening to certain songs on repeat and maladaptively daydreaming about a few snowcrow fic ideas... honestly I'm not confident enough in my understanding of Zayne to commit but to jot the loose thoughts down here, the concept that's been terrorising me the most - I've been plotting this one out on my morning and afternoon commutes,,

Vampire snowcrow, because @yvilonion's dia delicia art still has me foaming at the mouth. Sylus is Zayne's first and only thrall. Found him almost dead in a ditch somewhere. Zayne's still a doctor in this AU (steals bloodbags from the hospital) and felt like he'd be committing medical malpractice if he left the guy alone.

(explicit 18+ mdni, rough housing, tw blood)

-Fast forward a bit and they're constantly at each other's throats, in a literal sense too, because Sylus tries to get a rise out of Zayne every chance he gets and irritates the hell out of him. Sylus's mission is threefold: fighting, fucking, or feeding, ideally a combination of those or (his personal nirvana) all three. He loves to get drained and provokes Zayne into doing it, reluctant as he is to nourish himself using a real person after so long drinking from the bag.

-Zayne refuses to use any of the authority that he possesses over Sylus. He could manipulate his mind and body, force him to do or say anything he wanted, but the idea is so reprehensible it makes him want to vomit. No matter how much Sylus pisses him off, that's a line he will never, ever cross.

-Sylus experiences periods of intense thirst that leave him parched and gasping to feed. One of the consequences of being a thrall. Bloodbags don't work, they've found. He needs to sink his fangs into a warm body. Zayne schedules his annual leave around this, taking the day off. Dims the lights in the house, closes the curtains - a thrall is sensitive during this time - and gives himself over, temporarily, just out of necessity he tells himself.

-He waits on the couch, shirt already off (it'd just get ruined anyway) and watches as the other man emerges from the dark, eyes ablaze with want and hunger. Sylus looks every bit the vampire here. Like he came straight out of a book about them.

-There's no lead up, no ceremony. In an instant, Sylus is straddled on top of him, one hand pulling painfully at Zayne's hair, the other mapping its way all over his naked chest, as if he hasn't charted this territory hundreds of times before. Neck tugged back. Lathing his tongue over Zayne's throat, not that it does anything - Sylus just wants to taste the salt on his skin. Feel the fading scars of his teeth from the other times he's fed.

-He sinks his engorged fangs in, groaning as Zayne's blood gushes down his throat. A man who's found an oasis in the desert, he gulps down great mouthfuls, not bothering to pace himself, uncaring of whether his meal will make it. Because he always does, and cuffs Sylus across the head for all the fuss and mess he's caused again. They really need to invest in a cleaner.

#snowcrow #sylus #love and deepspace #vampire sylus

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yvilonion · 6 days ago

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save a cow ride a boy or what um save a uh ride a horse no its save a uhh guys who we saving

#illustration #love and deepspace #fanart #lads #sylus #qin che #cowboy #country boy i love u mngeehhwee

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yvilonion · 6 days ago

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author knows 1082378137804740 ways to kill me

into me you see

sylus x zayne // ghost au // 5k words

after a failed hit leaves the underworld kingpin in a coma, his spirit lingers—trapped in a limbo where no one can see or hear him. three years pass in silence, drifting, watching the world move on without him… until one night, the new doctor came in.

cw: blood, violence, mention of child abuse

sylus has a good memory. great, even.

he remembers things others forget—names, numbers, scars, smirks. the way someone taps their finger when they lie. the way a man’s voice tightens before he kills. he catalogues it all, stores it away, pulls it out when it serves him. that’s why people fear him. it’s not just what he knows. it’s that he never forgets.

he remembers his own beginning too, clear as day.

long before he was the man, the myth, the nightmare in a black blazer.

he was just a child. unwanted. resented by the one who gave birth to him. his earliest memory wasn’t a mother’s smile or lullaby. it was floating in darkness, hearing muffled voices wishing he hadn’t existed.

his first birthday? silence. no cake. no candles. not even a name whispered fondly. just a cold room and two figures that looked through him like he was a ghost long before he became one.

violence came naturally to him.

he won his first fight at eight. three boys, all older, all bigger. they called him names. he didn’t argue. he let his fists speak. when it was over, he bled from the eyebrow and one knuckle was split to the bone.

but the other three didn’t stand back up.

he smiled through the bruises.

at ten, he saw his first corpse. two, actually. his parents.

they were laid out on the floor of their cramped apartment, blood pooling under them like shadows. his father’s hand was twisted awkwardly, frozen in death. sylus stared at it, waiting for it to twitch—for the slap to come. it didn’t. he looked at his mother’s face, expecting a sneer, a snarl, the familiar contempt to crack her lips. nothing.

silence. peaceful, for once.

that’s when he looked up.

a man stood there, tall, dressed in a long coat, wiping his knife clean with a handkerchief like it was part of a routine. a cigarette burned between his fingers, smoke curling upward like lazy ghosts. around him, men moved in practiced motion—dragging the bodies by the ankles, stuffing them into thick black bags.

the man stepped closer.

he knelt in front of sylus, level with him, eye to eye. he took a drag, then exhaled smoke straight into the boy’s face.

"your pa and ma owed me a lot of money, son," he said, like he was commenting on the weather.

"too bad they're not here to meet their dues."

he smiled, warm like poison. in the background, a thud echoed—one of the bodies tossed into the van.

"so." another puff of smoke. "that leaves the heir to pay up their mistake. what will you give me, hm?"

he expected crying. pleading. fear. something.

what he got was a grin.

a slow, crooked grin splitting across sylus’ young face like a crack in ice. his eyes didn’t shine with innocence. they burned with something older, something feral. he stood without a word, walked past his parents’ blood without flinching, and stood toe-to-toe with the man.

"let me join you."

the room stilled. even the man's crew paused, unsure if they heard right.

the man blinked. then laughed—a short, sharp laugh.

"you wanna work for the devil, kid?"

sylus shrugged.

"not much difference between him and my folks."

and that was the beginning.

from then on, sylus was trained.

not to play catch. not to ride a bike.

he was trained to kill, to steal, to lie, to manipulate, to disappear without leaving a single trace.

he learned how to cut a throat silently.

how to make a deal without showing a twitch of emotion.

how to read a room, sense weakness, exploit it.

most kids his age were worried about school uniforms and test scores. sylus was learning which arteries bled fastest. he could disassemble a handgun blindfolded before he hit eleven. by twelve, he was speaking three languages fluently—all of them useful for bargaining, bribing, and blackmailing.

and the thing was—he was good. too good.

smarter than the rest. quicker. more precise. he didn’t just follow orders—he understood why the orders were given, and how to get better results with less mess. some of the older trainees hated him for it. didn’t matter. they didn’t last long anyway.

when he turned thirteen, the man—the same one who wiped the blood of sylus' parents off a blade years ago—called him into his office.

it was night. always night. the city outside was still breathing, neon lights flickering against rain-wet windows. inside, the room smelled like tobacco, leather, and expensive bourbon.

the man sat behind a desk, flipping through a dossier with one hand, cigarette in the other. his eyes flicked up as sylus entered.

"happy birthday, kid," he said, not looking particularly celebratory.

he slid a folder across the desk. thick. bound with a rubber band.

"this one's yours."

sylus took it. opened it. inside—a photo. a name. details.

a target.

his first official kill.

not training. not theory. not clean-up. not a test.

real blood. real consequences.

the man watched him closely, like he expected hesitation. maybe even hoped for it.

but sylus didn’t flinch.

he studied the folder, flipped through every page with calm eyes, then looked back up.

"alive or dead?"

the man grinned, smoke curling between his teeth.

"dead. make it clean. make it quiet."

sylus nodded once.

"understood."

no questions. no trembling hands. no dramatic pause.

that night, sylus walked out of that office not as a boy, but as a blade honed and ready.

he found the target within two days. tracked his habits, his routes, his flaws. waited until the man was alone, drunk, vulnerable.

the hit was silent. efficient.

the body wasn’t found for weeks.

back at the base, no one said anything, but everyone knew.

thirteen years old. first solo kill. perfect execution.

the man poured sylus a drink the next time he saw him—not alcohol, but a high-end apple soda, chilled and fizzing in a crystal glass.

"you’ve got a good head on you, son," he said, raising his own glass.

"you're going to build an empire one day. just don’t forget who gave you the first brick."

sylus clinked glasses with him. took a sip. smiled faintly.

he wouldn’t forget.

but he wouldn’t owe, either.

not forever.

because by the time sylus turned eighteen, he had outgrown the leash they thought he’d never reach.

he wasn’t just another enforcer. he wasn’t muscle. wasn’t a blunt instrument to be pointed and thrown at problems.

he was smarter. sharper. he thought faster, struck cleaner, built deeper connections in the underground than the man who once claimed to own him.

and that man knew it.

sylus could see it in the way things shifted.

missions started getting messy. not because of sylus—no, he handled them all flawlessly, as always—but because someone wanted them messy. more risks. more exposure. information leaked. locations sabotaged. hits that should’ve taken minutes stretched into hours of cleanup.

then there were the “coincidental” ambushes. the sniper that missed. the poisoned wine that tasted just a little too bitter. the men who looked a little too nervous handing him sealed envelopes.

they were trying to get rid of him.

they were scared.

good.

so when the summons came—“the boss wants a word. just a drink, to talk, you know how he is”—sylus knew what it was.

he dressed sharp, as always. red accents. clean gloves.

the guards at the door stepped aside for him. they knew better. or maybe they were just tired of gambling with their lives.

inside, the man waited — that same smug calm, like nothing had changed. he poured two drinks, slow and deliberate, like old friends meeting over a shared past.

"you’ve come a long way," he said, offering one glass to sylus. "almost makes me proud."

sylus smiled — faint, polite. he took the drink, sat, and crossed one leg over the other with the poise of someone who no longer needed permission to be here.

"almost?" he echoed.

the man smirked. "don’t let it get to your head. i made you."

sylus lifted the glass, letting the deep red liquid catch the light. he stared through it — and through the man sitting across from him.

"no," he said softly, voice like silk over wire. "you just gave me a reason."

bang.

the sound was muffled, but final. a single shot, straight through the chest. the man’s smile cracked before his body hit the back of the chair, lifeless. the glass in his hand slid from his fingers and shattered against the floor.

sylus took a sip of his wine. smooth. slightly metallic.

he let out a small huff of amusement, placing his still-warm pistol gently on the table. like it belonged there.

“should’ve aimed better,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

a knock at the door.

it creaked open, revealing luke and kieran, the twins—sharp, quiet, loyal. they owed sylus their lives. he'd pulled them from the wreckage of their childhood and never asked for thanks. only results.

they stepped in, unflinching at the sight of the body.

“boss,” luke said calmly, “shall we clean up the place for you?”

sylus swirled the remaining wine in his glass, watching it whirl like blood in water. he stood slowly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

“no need,” he said, voice smooth as the drink. “it’s about time we move our business elsewhere.”

“to where, sir?” kieran asked.

sylus placed the glass down beside the cooling corpse. he adjusted his coat, already moving toward the door.

“n109 zone,” he said simply.

he paused.

then smiled.

“and perhaps a rename is due. onychinus. fitting for something built to survive in the dark.”

the twins exchanged a glance. they didn’t ask what it meant. they didn’t need to. sylus had spoken—and the world was about to bend around it.

he was eighteen. the youngest to ever take the throne of the underworld.

not inherited. not handed. claimed.

with blood, brains, and an empire ready to follow.

and by twenty-five, sylus had it all.

an empire that bent the city’s shadows to his will. wealth that didn’t blink at blood. influence that kept even the most powerful at a respectful distance. his name was enough to halt conversations. his glare could silence a room.

everything was in the palm of his hand.

and then, someone gave him his death.

it came quiet. clean. not with bullets or bombs or betrayal from a rival. but a knife—small, old, probably from a kitchen. lodged in his lower abdomen, sharp and precise. not a professional’s weapon. but it got the job done.

he didn’t scream. didn’t make a sound.

the first thing he saw was her—the girl.

young. too young. maybe sixteen. maybe less. her hands were trembling, her mouth tight with rage, her chest heaving like she couldn’t believe she’d done it. her eyes, though—they weren’t shaking. they were solid. steady. burning with revenge.

sylus looked down at her and saw himself. not in appearance, but in fury. in purpose.

he could guess. she was someone’s sister. someone’s daughter. someone connected to one of the bodies he’d left in his wake—a ghost of one of his old sins, clawing back up from the grave to take what the world wouldn’t give her.

she didn’t run. she just stared. waiting for him to say something, maybe. or curse her. or scream.

he didn’t.

he looked her in the eyes and exhaled through his nose, almost like a sigh.

then smiled.

because maybe… this was fair.

he stumbled back, hand over the wound, fingers hot and wet. collapsed into a growing puddle of blood that crept across marble tile like ink. his body was losing heat, fast. but the silence around him was louder than anything he'd ever heard. no sound. no shouting. no heartbeat.

his mind drifted.

sylus wasn’t a man of faith. never prayed. never believed in karma or redemption. but he had wondered, in quiet, sleepless moments.

how much longer?

how many more ghosts would crawl up from the darkness to collect what they were owed?

maybe this was the answer.

maybe this was the bill, finally due.

he closed his eyes, listening to nothing. then, somewhere in the distance—sirens. the wail of an ambulance. the thunder of footsteps. his men. late. always late for the things that mattered.

this was probably where his life should’ve flashed before his eyes.

but sylus didn’t have good memories.

no birthdays. no holidays. no warm hugs. just violence and shadows and voices giving orders.

except—

there was one thing.

a flash. a glimpse. a faint echo in the void.

a boy. small, quiet.

big glasses perched on his nose. hair always falling into his eyes. always hunched over a book too large for his frame, scribbling notes or muttering anatomy terms under his breath like a mantra. a stiff expression, serious even when the world around them laughed. someone so painfully out of place in that orphanage full of chaos.

what was his name?

sylus frowned, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. he tried to picture the boy’s face, but it kept slipping through his mind like water through his fingers.

who was he?

he tried to hold on to it, tried to remember. but the darkness crept in faster.

and then there was nothing.

just silence.

just black.

and sylus qin—the feared, the untouchable, the ruler of the n109 zone—was gone.

when sylus opened his eyes, he was staring at a white ceiling.

sterile. too clean. too still.

a soft beep... beep... beep echoed in the distance—mechanical, rhythmic. somewhere nearby, he heard the faint drip of liquid hitting plastic, drop by drop, steady as time.

his head felt light. not aching, not sharp. just... wrong. off.

he blinked, slowly, trying to place the feeling in his chest—not pain, not numbness. something in-between.

he turned his head.

he wasn’t in a bed.

he was sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway—one of those uncomfortable waiting seats bolted to the floor, facing white walls and flickering fluorescent lights. the kind made to outlast grief and long hours.

footsteps echoed in the corridor. nurses passed by, clipboards in hand. a doctor wheeled a cart. someone laughed—tired, low, like it belonged to a night shift nurse running on bad coffee and worse sleep.

no one looked at him. no one noticed.

sylus frowned.

something was wrong.

his hand instinctively went to his stomach—to where he knew the blade had gone in, where blood should’ve soaked through his shirt. but when he pulled up his coat—

nothing.

no blood. no scar. not even a wrinkle.

he stood quickly, his chair screeching quietly against the floor—yet no one turned. not a single glance.

his voice was low at first.

"hey."

no response.

"hey." louder now, stepping toward a nurse walking past. "you—what the hell is going on? where the hell am i?"

she didn’t stop. just walked past him, like he wasn’t there.

he reached out—a hand on her shoulder.

but his fingers didn’t land.

they passed through.

cleanly. without resistance.

like he was swiping through smoke.

he staggered back, staring at his hand. perfect. untouched. real. but not real enough.

his breathing slowed, deepened—not from panic. sylus didn’t panic. but this was unfamiliar territory. and sylus hated unfamiliar.

a nurse down the hall murmured something.

then another voice replied, quieter, sharper.

his name. he heard it.

“qin, sylus. room 407.”

he turned sharply.

down the corridor, two nurses stood outside a door. one flipped through a chart. the other sighed and muttered something about his condition not improving. they moved on quickly, professional and detached.

sylus didn’t wait.

he moved toward the room.

and what he saw inside stopped him cold.

there. on the bed. laid him.

hooked to wires, machines humming softly. pale, still, bandaged. like a puppet someone forgot to animate. the monitors pulsed in time with his heart, but it looked fake. like the body was trying to pretend it still belonged to someone.

sylus stood there, frozen.

"what the fuck..."

he tried again. reached toward the bed, trying to place a hand on the edge, trying to shake himself awake, or maybe just feel something.

but again—nothing.

his palm passed through the railing like mist.

he stared at his body, expression unreadable. not quite horror. not quite anger. but something heavy. sinking.

“am i dead?”

the silence didn’t answer.

and sylus wasn’t sure what scared him more—the fact that he might be dead...

or the fact that this didn’t feel like death.

it felt like waiting.

like being stuck in a place between worlds, where even the walls couldn’t decide if they remembered him.

he turned away, jaw clenched, mind racing.

sylus qin—king of n109—couldn’t touch a damn thing.

~~~

time passed.

slowly, yet cruelly fast.

sylus stopped counting the days. the first few weeks, he tried everything. logic, force, fury. he tried screaming, even though no one heard him. tried touching his body, slipping into it—lying down, sitting upright, hovering over it like some soul attempting possession.

nothing worked.

he stood beneath fluorescent lights until the buzzing became a part of his thoughts.

he waited for the light, or the darkness.

whichever one had the guts to take him.

but neither came.

the days blurred. nights bled into each other. no sleep. no hunger. just stillness. constant presence, without weight. without warmth.

he watched as luke and kieran came by. regularly at first. their movements sharp, careful. loyal even now. they never brought flowers—sylus would’ve hated that—but sometimes they'd bring his favorite vinyls, leave them in the corner like offerings to a god that wouldn’t wake.

they talked quietly.

one day, he stood beside them, unseen as always.

“we’ve kept it under wraps,” kieran whispered, checking the hallway as if someone might listen. “only the inner circle knows. we told the rest he’s on extended leave overseas.”

“how long are we supposed to wait?” luke murmured, staring at his boss—at sylus’ body, pale and still beneath the sterile white sheets.

“he’s been like this for almost six months.”

sylus said nothing.

he couldn’t.

he’d said everything in his head already. every curse, every plea. now it was just silence.

time bled out again.

six months turned to a year.

then two.

three.

he was 25 years old for the third time.

the restlessness had turned to numbness.

the fury faded into something dull.

not peace. not quite. but a resignation.

maybe this was his punishment.

to remain stuck. between life and death. between redemption and damnation. between every wrong he’d ever done and the forgiveness he never bothered to ask for.

he watched himself—that body on the bed—like a stranger. a replica. skin too pale, hair slightly longer, eyes sunken from years of nonexistence. machines beeped to remind everyone he was technically alive. but no one really believed it anymore.

he’d seen dozens of doctors. neurologists. sleep specialists. spiritual advisors. some brought in discreetly under the radar, others flown in from across the globe. all of them whispered theories like prayers.

brain trauma. delayed neural regeneration. psychosomatic lock-in.

a coma with no explanation, no exit.

none of their tests yielded anything.

none of their machines measured what sylus had become.

and so, he remained.

anchored.

tethered to that room like a ghost with unfinished business—except the business wasn’t revenge anymore. that had passed. it had been burned through, used up. all that was left now was silence.

he couldn’t leave.

any time he tried, he would simply blink—and find himself right back where he started. in that same chair. in that same goddamn hallway. watching himself.

"fitting," he muttered, scoffing as he looked at the husk of the man he used to be.

a king, reduced to an echo.

what a cruel punishment.

but one he’d earned.

~~~

sylus leaned back against the sofa again—or at least, the ghost of him did.

the fabric didn’t shift. no creak. no warmth.

no dent.

he sighed, eyes closed, counting the seconds like he always did when boredom threatened to rot his mind.

three... two... one—

“hey there, mr. boss! we’re here again!”

luke’s voice crashed through the sterile quiet, cheerful as ever. the door slammed open without a knock — standard.

“and i brought something for you!”

“luke, tone down your voice,” kieran muttered, walking in behind him with a far more composed air. he shut the door with a soft click, already checking the iv monitor like he could actually understand it.

sylus exhaled again. a quiet huff.

they were here again.

his loyal dogs. his headaches. his damn family, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

it was always strange—seeing them like this, speaking to his still body like he was just sleeping. like it was any other day.

it was pathetic. it was comforting. it was maddening.

luke and kieran had taken to these visits like clockwork. every other day. sometimes more when things were tense in the outside world. they brought books, music, sometimes the news. anything to keep the illusion going. maybe part of them still believed he'd suddenly blink awake and snap at them to stop fussing.

"we’re keeping things smooth," luke continued, dropping a black case on the small table and opening it with a satisfied grin. “business is steady. that bastard from sector e tried to sneak product past the border. we handled it.”

he pulled out one of sylus’ favorite handguns and began methodically wiping it clean, humming under his breath like a mechanic tuning a car.

“heard from the nurse a new doc’s coming in soon,” he added, voice lighter now. “some cardiac surgeon. big shot. maybe you’ll like this one. try to be cooperative, alright, boss man? he might just be able to wake you up this time.” he chuckled.

sylus scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.

“as if i could do anything about it.”

kieran, meanwhile, had taken up his usual place by the calendar pinned to the wall. a clean black marker in hand, he crossed off another day.

sylus watched him do it, eyes following the motion.

the days were bleeding fast.

april. again.

his birthday was coming. not that it mattered. he never told anyone the exact day. the only one who knew was long dead, a bitter corpse left behind in that old office chair.

but luke and kieran, annoying bastards that they were, had made it a mission to celebrate every day of april. they'd bring cake, candles, even cheap party hats, pretending not to notice when the hospital staff gave them wary looks. every year.

twenty-nine, technically.

still twenty-five, spiritually.

frozen.

nearly three years since he was stabbed and everything stopped.

he forced the thought away.

he had grown used to pushing things out of his mind. restlessness had dulled. resentment hollowed. there was no vengeance here. no action. just the waiting. just the observation. like a king bound to a throne no one could see.

he drifted toward his body again. looked down at it.

still pale. still alive. barely. breathing with the help of machines he never asked for. the bed never moved. nothing changed.

and yet—the outside world didn’t stop.

he heard whispers, sometimes. conversations beyond the door. murmurs of pulling the plug. of “reallocating resources.” the language of the medical system always found a way to sound clinical, never cruel. but sylus knew what they meant.

it wasn’t about the cost. his money could keep this room running for the next decade without blinking. luke and kieran handled that, made sure the hospital was well-fed and tight-lipped.

but it was the fear.

the aura of his presence, even comatose. the guards. the armed men who rotated shifts outside his door. the locked-down floor. the whispers among the staff—who the hell is in room 407?

they knew enough to know they didn’t want to know more.

and now, apparently, some cardiac surgeon was coming in.

another white coat. another expert.

sylus raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze to luke.

“cardiac surgeon?” he muttered to himself.

interesting choice, considering it wasn’t his heart that had been stabbed.

or maybe it was, in some metaphoric way.

the universe loved irony like that.

still, this one must’ve been important if the hospital agreed to it. luke and kieran wouldn’t allow just anyone through.

"let’s hope he’s not a talker," sylus mused, turning his attention back toward the ceiling.

sylus had zoned out again.

luke was still rambling—something about new suppliers, border routes, and how kieran needed to stop eating the pastries from the third-floor bakery because “they’re definitely laced with sedatives.”

kieran rolled his eyes.

sylus did, too. from the sofa he couldn’t actually sit on.

he rubbed at his temples. not that it helped. the headache wasn’t physical. it was this gnawing ache, deep and sharp, like pressure building behind his eyes. familiar, yet foreign. like a forgotten name on the tip of the tongue.

then came a knock.

the door slid open with a soft click of the security override—the guards outside had allowed it. so, someone important.

sylus opened his eyes.

he expected another aging professor or white-haired consultant. another tired face with a clipboard and a sigh.

but instead, in walked a man.

young. sharp. dressed in a dark coat over surgical formality. silver-framed glasses perched perfectly. his black hair was neatly parted, and his expression was unreadable—cut from stone, controlled. following just behind him was someone with brown hair, bangs brushed aside, and round glasses—younger, more expressive.

“oh! are you—?” luke stood up quickly, the usual confidence in his voice tempered just slightly by curiosity. kieran joined him with a nod.

the man spoke, calm and measured.

“dr. zayne li. chief of cardiovascular department. this is dr. greyson guan, my assistant.”

he gestured subtly to the younger doctor beside him, then turned his focus to the patient—to sylus.

“we’re here to see the patient.”

sylus leaned forward slightly, watching. something about that voice scratched at a wall in his head.

the four of them talked. greyson asked questions, clipboard in hand, and luke answered while carefully dodging details that could raise alarms. kieran kept his responses short, factual, but respectful.

nothing about weapons. nothing about empires.

just enough to sound like concerned family.

zayne stood mostly quiet, reading through vitals, eyes narrowed as he scanned the monitor. his fingers tapped once, lightly, on the screen. reading. calculating.

sylus moved in closer, studying him now.

there was something wrong about this. not bad, just... unsettling.

this man—zayne—felt familiar. not from the streets. not from the empire.

from somewhere before.

but every time sylus tried to reach for it, his head ached. a pulsing pressure built behind his eyes—a tight, blinding throb like something buried deep refusing to come forward.

“tch—” he winced, clutching his forehead. the ghost of him stumbling back.

the pain wasn’t imagined.

and it did something strange.

on the monitor, where sylus’ heart rate had been steady for nearly three years—always a metronome, never deviating—it spiked.

just for a moment.

zayne’s head snapped toward the screen.

greyson kept talking. something about possible somatic causes and neural echo theory—background noise to zayne now.

zayne leaned in, double-checked the rhythm, pressed two keys, and scrolled back through the data.

yes. there it was.

a blip. a response.

not normal.

not expected.

and not explainable.

zayne’s eyes moved to sylus' body—perfectly still. no change in breathing. no sign of movement.

but something had changed.

he said nothing for now.

but he didn’t look away.

~~~

it was late.

the halls of the hospital were muted now—lights dimmed, staff thinned. the nighttime quiet had settled over the building like a fog, soft and dense.

sylus had been wandering again.

a slow, aimless stroll through empty corridors and sterile silence. he’d memorized every hallway by now, every flickering ceiling light and every vending machine that still hadn’t been refilled in weeks.

it was his routine. had to be. staying in his room too long, staring at his own unmoving body, started to gnaw at something in him. made the walls feel tighter.

so he wandered. for hours sometimes.

but now he was back.

and what he didn’t expect was him—the new doctor—still in his room.

alone.

sylus blinked.

dr. zayne stood beside his bedside, head bowed slightly as he scribbled something onto a clipboard. his long coat was draped neatly over the arm of the chair, sleeves rolled up. he looked composed, focused—even this late at night, when most of the other staff had already clocked out or passed their shifts off to night nurses.

still working.

sylus hovered near the doorway at first, watching him.

"you’re still here?” he muttered under his breath, eyebrows lifting slightly. "don’t you have someone else to fix?"

he stepped closer.

there was something amusing about it—how serious this man looked, completely absorbed in a case that had already stumped half the world’s medical elite. sylus tilted his head. he almost respected the tenacity.

almost.

and then, like he'd done many times before with other doctors, he decided to mess with him. just a little. just to break the monotony. not that they could ever hear him—at most they might shiver or pause and brush it off.

he crept up behind him, leaning in.

the smell of ink and faint antiseptic lingered off the doctor’s clothes.

sylus smirked, low and quiet.

"boo," he whispered near his ear, barely a breath of sound.

he was already turning away, expecting nothing. maybe a brief shiver at best.

but instead—

the clipboard clattered against the floor.

zayne flinched. sharp. sudden.

his hand instinctively rose to his ear—the one sylus had whispered near.

and then he turned. fast.

their eyes locked.

sylus froze.

zayne’s stare was sharp, alert—not vague or unfocused like the others. he wasn’t looking through him.

he was looking at him.

right into his eyes.

sylus felt the weight of it. the shock didn’t show on his face—he was too trained for that—but inside, something coiled tight. the air between them shifted. no longer passive. no longer silent.

oh.

he straightened slowly, curiosity sharpening.

"you can see me," sylus said quietly. not a question—an observation.

a pause stretched between them — long, electric. no words. just the sound of the heart monitor beeping in the background, as if to remind them both the body in the bed was still there. still waiting.

zayne didn’t move. didn’t speak.

he simply studied sylus the same way he studied charts and anomalies — like a puzzle that shouldn’t exist, but did.

finally.

for the first time in three years...

he was seen.

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