hi!! <3 I'm Alicia, and I will mostly be posting fanfic here (nsfw & sfw) but occasionally I will post some of my art from my twitter
Currently, Resident Evil (mostly Leon and Chris x Leon) is what I'm most interested in to create for. I might still create for LADS on occasion, but it's definitely taken the backseat in my mind after...everything.
This is a very kink positive space. "Ship and Let Ship" and "Don't like. Don't Read" as they say. I will do my best to tag my posts appropriately, but if I make a mistake, please let me know!
Synopsis: You insist jewelry isn’t your thing. Until Sylus decides to spend an entire week proving that you were always meant to wear it.
Characters: Sylus x Non-MC!reader
Warnings: fluff, slightly suggestive at the end
A/N: I actually had the time today, yay. Soo this is on a shorter side, haha. Maybe I'll finally learn how not to write several pages for the simplest idea.
You were never into jewelry your whole life.
The most you ever did was pierce your ears and wear earrings for a whole month before taking them off for reasons you could no longer remember. After that, you never wore earrings again.
So when Sylus gifted you the first set of jewelry (out of many more he would give you later) you had to get your ears pierced again.
But even then, you only wore the set for a few days before putting it back in your jewelry box, claiming it was too much for everyday wear, especially since you preferred dressing casually.
Sylus, however, was stubborn. His draconic instincts screamed at him to adorn you in the most luxurious jewelry known to humankind. So he kept gifting you more and more pieces in hopes that something would finally catch your interest.
And you really were happy to receive them. After all, you were drawn to everything shiny. But after a few days, each piece inevitably ended up in the box. Sometimes you would take them out just to admire them, turning them over in your hands and watching them glimmer in the light.
One quiet evening, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch. Your jewelry box was beside you, and you were going through the pieces inside, taking them out one by one and admiring the sparkle.
“Why aren’t you wearing them?”
You practically jumped out of your skin at the sound of Sylus’s voice.
You looked up to see him standing there.
“I told you,” you said with a sheepish, slightly defensive smile. “It’s too fancy for me. You know I mostly wear jeans and a T-shirt. This…” You gestured toward the contents of the box. “It’s just too much. It doesn’t match the things I usually wear.”
Sylus clicked his tongue and quickly closed the distance between you. Then he reached for the pendant in your box and carefully slipped it around your neck. You heard the clasp click into place, and the pendant settled perfectly against your collarbone. Immediately, a strange heaviness seemed to settle over you.
“Stand up.”
Sylus tugged at you, and when you were on your feet, he guided you to the large floor-to-ceiling mirror. He stood behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and nuzzling into your neck, peppering your skin with small, heated kisses.
“Look at you,” he murmured between kisses.
You looked at your reflection, and that heavy feeling only grew stronger. You shifted uncomfortably, studying yourself in the mirror. Your hair was a mess, you were barefoot, and you were wearing one of Sylus’s favorite shirts, the one you had stolen from him, claiming it was more comfortable than anything else. The pendant, which probably cost more than the average person would see in their entire life, rested against your collarbone and looked very much out of place.
“I told you it would look wrong,” you muttered quietly. “It’s too much.”
You felt his warm breath against your neck before Sylus leaned back. In the mirror, you watched as he took out his phone with one hand and called someone. With the other, he tugged impatiently, maybe even a little irritably, at your shirt. Meanwhile, red mist gathered behind him and your jewelry box floated closer.
“Write a sick note… for a week,” Sylus told the person on the other end, barely listening to whatever response he got before ending the call and tossing the phone onto the couch. Now with both hands free, he quickly took off your shirt. Then he began rummaging through the box, putting every piece on you.
“I’ll show you,” he practically purred, “that even if you put everything in this box on yourself, it still won’t be too much.”
And soon, you were adorned in every piece of jewelry from the box. You rolled your eyes at his antics, but the dragon inside him was clearly very pleased with his work.
“I look ridiculous,” you complained weakly.
Sylus had pressed himself against your back, his fingers digging into your hips.
“You look gorgeous, little dragon,” he murmured breathlessly. “And I’ll use this week to show you just how true that is.”
And so you spent the entire week in Sylus’s bedroom, adorned in jewelry from head to toe.
Your ‘sick’ leave had to be extended, because Sylus really did like seeing you in nothing but jewelry.
synopsis: who wouldn’t get lost in the fathomless gemstones that are his eyes?
tags: LADS, lads fluff, sylus x reader, sylus x you
content warnings: none! pure poetic fluff, romantic drivel about his beautiful eyes
word count: 242 (drabble)
note: probably my final submission for @aliciascanvas sylus’s birthday week prompt list! april 17th- prompt: jewels
p.s. shoutout to @nevefioresnotworking for editing this banner for me because i have zero photoshop skills <3
garnets. maybe his eyes were garnets…
deep, glimmering, crimson stones that were often interpreted in ancient times as symbols of protection, vitality, and grounding.
you often beheld them in the dark of night, sliding over you with with an air of fierce protection. they were framed by thick lashes and narrowed eyelids, illuminated in the moonlight or flickering neon signs.
they often greeted you after a long day, softened and shining and so intensely dark that the only way you knew them to have color was when the faint lights of his dimmed lamps reflected in them like stars in in a pool of blood.
or… were they rubies?
intensely gleaming a dazzling red, ablaze with a passion and opulence that was reserved for you alone. they invited you. enticed you. seduced you. challenged you. they were like flashing red lights, a warning and a dare all at once. accompanied often by a quirked brow and a mischievous tilt of lips, they sparkled like the flames they often mirrored. aglow with indulgence, they burned brighter and brighter as desires were surrendered to.
no, maybe they were both… or neither at all.
you couldn’t be certain, because you had fallen under their spell the moment you stared into them.
what you were certain of, however, was that these jewels were more precious to you than real gemstones.
and that you would gladly spend the rest of your shared existence getting lost in them.
❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
❥ summary: “For one night you wanted to be in charge. He gave it to you without hesitation. And somewhere between the music and the handcuffs and his patient, devastating composure — you ended up exactly where you belong. Exactly where you always end up. His.”
❥ genre: smut with a bit of fluff (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 8,1K <3
❥ my submission: for @aliciascanvas sylus’s birthday week prompts - april 12: bondage and april 15: sugar daddy
❥ warnings/tags: established relationship, same universe as this fic but can be read on its own tbh, pxrn with barely no plot, sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, sylus is 39-40 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, emotional/sensitive!reader, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. lingerie, lap dance, use of handcuffs, dancing for the birthday man (sylus of course hehe), grinding, dry humping, sylus is soft for reader, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, face sitting, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s part of the sugar daddy au. so… <3, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetheart etc.), doggy/prone bone, pleasure dom!sylus, lots of cuddles as aftercare.
⟶ a/n: I took a bit of a break but here I am! I am sharing another part of my sugar daddy au in celebration of sylus his birthday! (I wanted to create something for @aliciascanvas event so this is how this part came to be) you can read this as a standalone but it’s more fun reading the whole story ngl! anyways what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. also this is kinda a similar plot to my logan/wolverine one shot. I just felt like rewriting it but then for sylus hihi 🤭. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this one shot! 🥺💖 (+ this story and any of my stories are plus size / curvy friendly and frankly I always write curvy reader/mc in mind but honestly anyone can read it. it's written in a way that anyone can read it) for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💖 anyways HAPPY BIRTHDAY SYLUS 🥰💕💕💕
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed you share with Sylus, and your heart is racing, almost beating out of your chest.
Which is — embarrassing, honestly. You’ve been intimate with Sylus more times than you can count now. You know the warmth of his hands and the specific patience of him and the way he always, always makes sure you’re okay. You know him. You are known by him, completely and in every possible way.
And yet your hands are smoothing over your thighs for the fourth time in two minutes and the flutter in your stomach refuses to settle and you think: This was a terrible idea. this was an amazing idea. The best idea. This is absolutely a terrible idea.
You look down at yourself.
The lingerie had seemed so much more straightforward in the shop. Black lace with red embroidered flowers — delicate and deliberate, the balconette bra barely containing you, the transparent cups revealing more than they cover except for the floral details sitting just over your nipples. The suspender belt at your waist, the same lace pattern, the garter straps hanging against your body. The thong — barely there, the elastic sitting just below the suspenders, the material doing very little for coverage and everything for effect. The sheer black robe you are wearing, with its similar lacy trim hanging loose off your shoulders, more suggestion than garment.
You look good. You know you look good. Sylus has told you, in explicit details and with very sincere words on multiple occasions, exactly what you do to him.
And yet.
He’s going to raise that eyebrow, the small voice says. And smile that smile and you’re going to dissolve immediately and the whole plan will just—
You take a breath.
The handcuffs are in the nightstand drawer. Vivid pink and silky, bought at the same time as the lingerie on a Tuesday afternoon while Leah, your best friend, sent you increasingly chaotic encouragement texts. You’ve been not-looking at them all week.
Tonight, you tell yourself firmly. Tonight is his birthday. Tonight you are doing this.
Sylus always takes control.
This is simply how things are between you two — the way you both love it, the way his hands at your hips and his voice low in your ear can reduce you to a submissive puddle and entirely his within seconds. You love it. You love being his. You love the specific safety of it.
But you’ve been thinking — for weeks now, quietly and privately — about what it would feel like to change that. Just once. Just tonight. To be the one watching him come undone. To have him, even briefly, even knowing he could end it whenever he chose.
The thought has been making you warm in ways that are entirely counterproductive to your daily functioning.
You then hear his key in the front door.
The sound of it pulls you back from your thoughts immediately — the soft click of the lock, the quiet of him moving through the apartment, familiar and unhurried and entirely his. He’d sent you home earlier, after a long day that had stretched longer than either of you planned, with that particular composed certainty that means the conversation is settled. I can handle the rest, he’d said. Go home. You’d protested — more than once, with increasing creativity — and he’d looked at you with those red eyes and the corner of his mouth had moved up and you had gone home, because you always go home eventually when he uses that expression.
And so you’ve been waiting.
In this lingerie. On the edge of the bed. With extreme anticipation and excitement.
You hear him move through the apartment toward the bedroom.
Your heart rate doubles.
Okay, you think. Okay. You can do this.
Then, the bedroom door opens.
Sylus steps in — and stops in his tracks.
His eyes find you immediately, the way they always find you, and what happens in his expression in the next few seconds is — a lot. The stillness first, the specific kind that means something has genuinely caught him off guard. Then his gaze moves — slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail — the bra, the suspender belt, the thong doing very little to cover anything at all, the robe hanging loose at your shoulders — and his jaw tightens very slightly and his throat moves as he swallows.
He looks at you for a long, unhurried moment.
“Hello, pretty kitty,” he says, and his voice has gone somewhere low and warm that tells you that he is really trying to stay composed.
His eyes travel again — thorough and unhurried — from the transparent cups of the bra all the way down to the garter straps and back up, taking his time, being extremely deliberate about it — and you feel the heat of his gaze like something physical moving across your skin.
“Hi,” you manage.
Softer than intended. Slightly breathless. Your cheeks are warm and the flutters in your stomach are overwhelming and the instinctive pull is already there — that deep familiar pull toward letting him take over, toward sinking into the comfortable dynamic of how things usually go — and you press your lips together and hold your ground.
You clear your throat.
“Could you—” you start, and then immediately abandon that because the way you say could you is not the way you want the tone to sound, and try again. “C-could you sit in the armchair?”
Sylus raises one eyebrow.
The amusement in his expression is warm and genuine and deeply fond — not mocking, never mocking with you, just very much him finding you completely and helplessly endearing — and he tilts his head slightly.
“Are you asking,” he says, smooth and patient and threaded through with something that is very definitely a smile trying to stay behind composure, “or telling?”
The playful tone sends a shiver through you, momentarily shaking your confidence. You know he’s testing you, waiting to see if you’ll follow through. Swallowing the nervousness building inside you, you take a slow, deep breath, determined to stick to your plan, no matter how intimidating his presence feels right now.
You square your shoulders.
Meet his eyes.
“I said,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel, “sit down, Sylus.”
A beat.
Something sparks in his expression at your words — warm and bright and privately, genuinely delighted — and you can see it, the way he finds this side of you entirely endearing without finding it funny, the way he is taking you seriously even as the corner of his mouth threatens to curve. It is very Sylus — that specific combination of amusement and attentiveness, of being charmed by you while also being entirely, genuinely present with you.
The thrill of his reaction pushes you forward.
He holds your gaze for one more moment — steady and warm — and then, without another word, he moves towards the armchair.
He settles into it with that unhurried ease of his — leaning back, one ankle crossing over his knee — and looks at you. His posture is relaxed. Entirely, genuinely relaxed, the posture of someone who has decided to give you this completely and means it. His gaze, though, is something else — sharp and warm and so attentive that it makes you feel like the only thing in the room, which you always are, to him.
He is not fighting you for control. He is letting you have this.
He is doing it entirely willingly. Because he loves you. Because he finds you fascinating. Because the sight of you standing in front of him in black and red lace trying very hard to be in charge is doing things to him that the composure is working very hard to conceal.
He is simply — watching. Waiting. Giving you the space to take the lead while making it very, very clear that he is enjoying every second of it, and that he is here, and that he is yours for the evening in whatever way you need him to be.
“Go on then,” he says softly.
Sylus watches you as you walk to your nightstand.
And immediately remember that the handcuffs are at the back of the drawer which means you have to kneel down on the soft carpet and reach for them which means your back is to him and you are wearing a thong and the robe has moved, your ass on display for him.
You are very aware of this.
You hear him.
Not words — just a groan, low and quiet and very much involuntary, quickly contained.
You take your time finding the handcuffs.
When you stand — slowly, rolling through your spine with the specific deliberateness of someone who has thought about this movement — you move the pink silky handcuffs behind your back as you turn around.
His expression is very composed.
The tips of his ears are not.
“Did you buy this set with my credit card?” he says, with complete equanimity.
“Mhm,” you say. “Yes.”
“Good girl,” he says, entirely sincere, and the praise does something entirely counterproductive to your attempts at dominance that you choose to ignore.
Keeping the handcuffs tucked behind your back, you slowly walk toward him, not quite ready to reveal your little secret yet.
You are nervous. You are — more nervous than you expected, standing here in the lamplight with his eyes on you and your hands slightly unsteady and the small voice saying this is Sylus, he always takes control, he finds you sweet and he’s going to be so kind about it when he ends this in thirty seconds—
You lean down.
And press your lips to his.
Soft. Brief. A suggestion rather than a conclusion. You feel him lean fractionally into it as you pull back and the quiet sound of protest that escapes him — low and genuine and immediate — sends a thrill through you that temporarily quiets everything else entirely.
Your hand trails from his shoulder across his chest — fingertips barely grazing the fabric — and you feel the tension in him beneath your touch, the very specific quality of a man holding very still while his body would prefer to be doing something considerably different.
You trail your fingers slowly to his other shoulder.
“Kitten,” he says, low.
“Mm?” you say.
You can feel the tension radiating off of him, his body almost trembling from the contact, as you circle behind him. You know he could moan from just a simple touch, and the thought of having him on edge excites you even more.
You take the handcuffs from behind your back and the soft clink of metal makes him tense up — entirely involuntary — and you bite your lip to keep the smile contained.
You secure one cuff around his wrist. Pause. He says nothing. His hands stay exactly where they are. You secure the other — you are nervous, your hands are not entirely steady, you are trying very hard not to think about whether you’ve closed them properly — and lean down to press your lips to the pulse point at his neck, warm and slow and deliberate.
His breath hitches at that.
You press another kiss, just below the first, and feel his pulse jump against your lips.
You come back around to face him.
He is looking at you with a smile that makes your heart race and your confidence waver simultaneously.
“What?” you say.
“Nothing, kitten,” he says, pleasant and warm, his grin widening.
“You’re amused,” you say, and the self-consciousness arrives — warm and unwelcome — because he’s Sylus and you are standing in front of him in pink handcuffs trying to be in charge and the small voice is having a field day—
“I’m not amused,” he says, and his voice shifts — softer, more deliberate. “I think you’re extraordinary.” His eyes hold yours, completely sincere. “I think what you’re doing right now takes considerable courage. And I think—” his gaze moves over you, warm and specific, “—you look more beautiful and are more powerful than you know.” A pause. “Keep going.”
The self-consciousness recedes a little bit at that.
Just enough.
You lean down — lips to his ear, your breath warm against his skin — and say softly: “Sit back and watch. Let me take care of you.”
A pause.
“Happy birthday,” you whisper.
He makes a sound — low and warm and deeply, privately pleased.
“Happy birthday to me indeed,” he murmurs, and the specific quality of his voice saying it makes warmth flood through you from your ears all the way down.
With that, you glide toward the nightstand, feeling the thrill of anticipation coursing through you as you search for the perfect song to dance to.
A smile spreads across your face as you finally settle on a track that feels just right. Pressing play, the smooth beats of “Kiss It Better” by Rihanna fill the room, setting the mood with its sultry rhythm. As the music envelops you, you can sense Sylus his eyes on you, filled with a mix of curiosity and desire. The moment feels electric, and you know it's time to give him a show he won't forget.
You position yourself in the centre of the room, directly in front of him, and let the music settle into your bones.
For a moment you just — stand there. Feeling the bass of it. As the singer begins to croon the lyrics, you let the robe slide down your shoulders, pausing just at your elbows, deliberately teasing him with each movement. You sway your hips slowly to the beat of the song, licking your lips, feeling the heat of his gaze on you.
Your hips soon find the rhythm — a slow, rolling sway that comes more naturally than you expected — and your hands follow, gliding up your sides, along your waist, tracing the curve of your chest with a deliberateness that makes the air between you feel significantly thicker. You keep your eyes on his. You don’t look away. The music carries you and his gaze carries you and somewhere between the two the nervousness recedes another degree and something warmer and bolder takes its place.
“Kitten,” he breathes, and his voice has gone somewhere considerably lower than usual. His eyes move over you — from your face to your waist to the sway of your hips and back again, like he can’t quite decide where to settle — “you are so beautiful.”
The words land warm and immediate and you feel them in your whole body.
You move closer — not all the way, keeping the distance deliberate, keeping the tension — and circle your hips slowly to the beat and watch his jaw tighten. Then, you turn around, still swaying your hips to the song, hypnotizing him. Your hands wander from your waist to the curve of your ass and you squeeze softly, watching his face — and the low moan that escapes him is immediate and entirely involuntary and the most satisfying sound you have heard in recent memory.
You bite your lip.
His eyes go dark.
“Kitten,” he says, low and strained.
“Mm?” you say, still dancing.
He says nothing else. Just watches — with that specific quality of attention that has always made you feel like the most important thing in any room — and you feel it like warmth moving across your skin, fueling something that is steadily, confidently replacing the nerves entirely.
The pleasure of his gaze fuels your confidence, making you feel even more desirable. You relish the way he watches, captivated and hungry for more, as you continue to tease him, lost in the thrill of the moment.
You then turn around.
Slowly, seductively and deliberately, giving him the view — and then you sink to your knees and begin to crawl toward him.
Slow. Purposeful. Eyes finding his over your shoulder first and then holding his gaze as you close the distance — and you watch the specific thing that happens to his composure as you get closer, the way it stays in place by effort rather than ease, and feel quietly triumphant.
You reach him.
Rise onto your knees between his legs.
Your hands find his ankles — warm and certain — and slide upward. His calves. His knees. His thighs, where you spread his legs gently to make room for yourself, and you feel his breath hitch at the deliberateness of it.
“Bold,” he says, very softly.
You look up at him from between his knees and smile sweetly.
“Is it working?” you ask becoming a bit bashful.
“Devastatingly,” he responds.
You look up at him from between his knees and hold his gaze and smile.
His expression — warm and dark and so entirely, helplessly devoted — does something specific to your chest that has nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with love.
Your hands continue — sliding from his thighs to his hips, his waist — and then you rise in front of him, slowly, one continuous unhurried motion, until you are standing between his legs and his face is tilted up toward yours and his eyes are very warm and very dark and very specifically focused on you.
Your lips hover over his.
Not quite touching.
You hear him exhale.
You feel him shift — his wrists pulling against the handcuffs, wanting to reach for you, his whole body leaning fractionally forward — and he holds himself still with what is clearly considerable effort.
“You’re breathtaking,” he says, and says your name after it like it needed somewhere to land. “Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“Tell me,” you say softly, surprising yourself.
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, immediately and completely. “Every time. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing or what you’re doing—” his eyes move over your face, “—you are always the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
Your chest aches at his words.
You hover your hips over his lap.
And slowly lower yourself.
The moment you make contact — the heat of him through his trousers, hard, thick and throbbing unmistakably against your core — you whimper before you can stop it. Your eyes flutter. You press down slightly and feel his breath leave him in a rush and his wrists shift against the cuffs and he holds himself very still.
“Kitten,” he says.
“Mm,” you say, and roll your hips.
The sound that comes from him is low and genuine and makes your whole body warm.
You begin to move — slowly, to the music, your hips rolling against his in long deliberate circles — and the friction is building something immediately insistent that your attempt at control is already losing ground against. You grip his shoulders. Move again. Feel him shift beneath you.
“That’s it,” he breathes, watching your face with that completely focused attention of his. “There she is.”
“Don’t be smug,” you whimper, slightly breathlessly, rolling your hips.
“I’m not smug,” he counters. “I’m—” you grind forward and his breath stutters, “—paying very close attention.”
“Mm,” you hum.
“Kitten,” he says, lower.
“Daddy,” you breathe, because it slips out and you let it, and you feel him respond immediately — the shift beneath you, the low sound he makes — and it thrills you every time, knowing it affects him just as much as it affects you.
You lean down — lips hovering over his, not quite kissing, your breath warm against his mouth — and feel him lean toward you, straining for the contact, his wrists testing the cuffs.
“Kitten,” he groans against your lips. “You are—”
“Shh,” you whisper, and kiss him.
He kisses you back immediately — deep and hungry and with considerable feeling — and you feel him pull against the cuffs and the groan he makes into your mouth when they hold him is deeply, thoroughly satisfying.
You roll your hips against him as you kiss and feel him buck up to meet you and break the kiss to breathe and look at him — at the very specific state of his composure, which is not what it usually is — and feel like the most powerful woman in any room in New York City.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says, slightly strained.
“Very much,” you agree.
“Kitten—”
You reach down and push the fabric of your thong aside.
The sound he makes when your bare heat meets the fabric of his trousers is — you will think about that sound for a very long time.
“Oh, kitten,” he breathes. “Look at you.” His eyes drop between you and then come back to your face with an expression that is warm and dark and very specifically focused. “Look at how wet you are.”
“Daddy,” you whimper, because the direct contact is — a lot, the friction of his clothed cock against your bare clit making your hips stutter forward on pure instinct.
“I see you,” he says, soft and warm. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” His eyes hold yours. “Keep going.”
You move — grinding slowly, the wet heat of you dragging against the fabric — and your sounds are getting less controlled with every roll of your hips. You can feel how thoroughly, helplessly ruined your thong is. The wanting is building into something enormous and specific and your attempt at control is making its last stand.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he says, watching your face. “Flushed and warm and moving on my lap.” His voice is low and private. “My beautiful girl.” A pause, softer still. “How does it feel? Being in charge?”
“Good,” you breathe. “Really good.” You roll your hips.
“While it lasts,” he says, warm, teasing and entirely fond, and you hear the while it lasts very clearly and choose to ignore it because you are still in charge and you have plans.
Eventually you stand.
And undress slowly — watching his expression shift from warm to something considerably more heated as each piece falls away, his jaw tightening and his eyes darkening with every revealed inch of skin — until you are entirely bare in the low golden light of the room and his eyes are moving over you with that reverent, specific hunger that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and entirely, helplessly his.
You look at him.
He looks back at you.
“Go ahead, kitten,” he says, very quietly. “Let me taste you.”
The words are soft. Entirely his. And just like that — the last of your dominance simply, willingly, gratefully steps aside, because it was never really a contest and you both know it and that’s perfectly fine.
You hook one leg over his shoulder.
His mouth finds you immediately — warm and deliberate, his tongue parting your folds in one slow thorough stroke that makes you gasp and whimper and your fingers dive into his silver hair — and the sounds that fill the room are entirely yours.
He hums against you.
The vibration moves through your whole body.
He takes his time. Of course he takes his time — this is Sylus, who brings the same focused patient attention to this as he brings to everything that matters to him — learning you all over again, returning to the places that make you whimper, the places that make your thighs shake, the places that make you forget how to form words. His lips close over your clit and he sucks — gently, then with more intent — and your hips push forward instinctively and your fingers tighten in his hair.
“Daddy—” you whine.
“Mm,” he says against you, and the vibration of it sends sparks across your skin.
“Please—” you breathe. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” he says softly, and his tongue returns — tracing your entrance, exploring, learning — and you are grinding against his mouth now without any particular decision to do so, your body simply moving toward what it wants.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”
His tongue presses inside you — warm and deliberate — and you cry out and your inner walls clench around it and he groans against you and the vibration of that goes everywhere at once. His nose brushes your clit as he works and the combination of it is entirely too much and not remotely enough simultaneously.
“Daddy—” you sob. “Daddy I’m going to — please — please don’t stop—”
He doesn’t stop.
He works you with the specific devoted patience of someone who loves you and has all the time in the world and intends to use it — his tongue and his mouth and occasionally the soft graze of his lips — until you are shaking and desperate and entirely beyond managing yourself.
You come with his name on your lips, your fingers tight in his hair, your whole body shaking through long shuddering waves — and he stays with you through every trembling second of it, his mouth gentle, working you through the aftershocks until you are whimpering with oversensitivity and trying weakly to pull back.
He presses one last warm kiss to your inner thigh.
And looks up at you.
“Good girl,” he says softly. “My good girl.”
You are still breathing through the haze of it — warm and boneless and thoroughly undone — when you feel his hands. Both of them. Moving to your hips with the warm certainty of hands that are no longer restrained.
You look down.
The handcuffs are hanging open at his wrists — loose and entirely unlocked, swinging gently — and have apparently been this way for some time.
“Sylus,” you say.
“Mm,” he murmurs, entirely calm.
“The handcuffs—”
“Were never quite closed,” he says. “I know.”
“You knew?!”
“Since the beginning,” he says, with the specific warm unbothered quality of someone who has been sitting with unlocked handcuffs for twenty minutes and found every single second of it completely worth it. He looks at you with those red eyes — warm and steady and so full of love — and his expression does something very soft. “You were nervous when you put them on. Your hands were shaking a little.” His thumb moves along your hip. “It was the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I was trying to be intimidating,” you say.
“You were,” he says. “You were extraordinary.” He reaches up and brushes a piece of hair from your face with the back of his hand — gentle and deliberate. “The lingerie, the dance, all of it.” A pause. “You did beautifully, kitten. Every single moment.”
Your eyes sting.
“I wanted to do something special for you,” you say quietly.
“It was,” he says. Simply and completely. “The most special birthday I’ve ever had.” He looks at you for a long moment. “You are the most special thing I’ve ever had.”
You yelp in surprise as he stands — lifting you with the effortless ease that never fails to make you warm, your trembling legs wrapping instinctively around his body, your arms going around his neck — and carries you to the bed. His arms are warm and entirely steady around you, and you press your face into his throat and feel his heartbeat and think that you love him so much it sits in you like a permanent condition.
He lays you on the sheets.
With the same specific care he always brings to you — gentle and deliberate, setting you down like something worth being careful with — and you look up at him from the pillows and feel a whine building in your throat because you are warm and wanting and your body is already asking for more with considerable insistence.
He steps back.
And begins to undress.
Slowly — unhurriedly, one thing at a time — with the calm ease of a man who knows exactly what watching him do this does to you and has made his peace with weaponizing it. His shirt first, falling from his shoulders, and your eyes move over the broad line of him, the specific lines of his chest, and you feel your mouth go slightly dry. His trousers next, and then — entirely bare in front of you, in the low warm light of the room — and you stare.
He is — a lot. Every time. The specific, substantial, entirely unfair reality of him — broad and warm and beautiful in the way of something that doesn’t know it is — and your eyes travel down his chest, his stomach, the happy trail disappearing downward — and then his cock, thick and heavy and hard and already flushed with wanting, a bead of pre-cum at the tip — and your pussy clenches immediately and insistently.
That, you think, as you always think. That is going inside me.
The thought is thrilling and slightly terrifying in the way it always is, every time, even now.
He moves back to the bed.
Settles between your legs with the unhurried ease of someone who has all the time in the world — and looks at you. At your face. At all of you. With that expression that is so warm and so patient and so entirely devoted that it sits in you like something you want to keep forever.
“Turn around for me, kitten,” he says quietly. “I want you on hands and knees.”
Your face floods with warmth and you turn — settling onto your hands and knees, face toward the mattress, back arching instinctively, your whole body trembling slightly with anticipation — and you hear the sound he makes when he sees you and feel it low in your stomach.
“Beautiful,” he says softly. “So beautiful, kitten. Every part of you.”
You bite your lip and think about finally having him inside and immediately become considerably more aroused than you already were.
His hands find your hips — warm and steadying — and then his fingers slide slowly up your slit, parting your folds gently, and you gasp at the contact.
“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, low and warm. “All dripping wet for daddy.” His fingers move — slowly, exploring, spreading your slickness — and you whimper and push back toward his hand. “So ready. So perfect.”
You wanted to tell him that he is the only one who does this to you, that you love him, that you have loved him since before you had permission to — but then his hands grip your ass cheeks and part them and he leans down and licks a long slow stripe up your pussy and you almost fall on the mattress entirely, your arms nearly giving out.
“Da—daddy—” you gasp.
He does it again.
His tongue traces your entrance, circles your clit, returns — slow and thorough and devastatingly patient — and your inner walls clench around nothing and your thighs shake and you press back toward him shamelessly.
“F-fuck—” you whimper. “So sensitive — daddy please — please—”
He pulls back.
You whimper loudly at the loss.
His lips find your lower back instead — pressing warm kisses there — and then moves upward along your spine, his hands sliding slow and warm up your sides.
“Please,” you whine into the pillow. “Please daddy please—”
He is smiling — you cannot see it but you know it, you know the specific quality of his silence when he’s pleased with himself — and his lips continue their slow path up your spine, unhurried and deliberate and enormously, specifically cruel.
“What happened, kitten?” he says, very softly. “Mm? A little while ago you were very much in charge.” His lips press to the back of your shoulder. “And now you’re asking so nicely.”
“I changed my mind,” you whimper into the mattress, without dignity.
“Did you?” he asks warmly.
“Please,” you whine. “Please daddy. Please please please—”
“Please what?” he questions, gentle and patient. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”
“You,” you whimper. “Need you — need daddy — please—”
“There she is,” he says softly. “My good girl. My sweet kitten.” His thumb presses to your clit — warm and steady, not moving, just there — and you whine at the specific torment of the pressure without the movement. “You need daddy, don’t you?”
“Yes—” you gasp. “Yes daddy — please — please I need you so bad—”
“I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve always got you.”
His cock presses against your entrance.
The warmth of him, the specific weight and heat — and your breath leaves you entirely even before he’s begun.
He pushes forward.
Just the tip.
And the stretch of it — even just that, even just the very beginning of him — makes you gasp and your hands fist in the sheets because he is always, always so much. Your body knows him and wants him and still finds him enormous every single time and the specific difficulty of adjusting, of your walls stretching to accommodate him, is something that never quite goes away.
“Daddy—” you breathe. “You’re so — always so big—”
“I know,” he says, patient and warm. “Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
You breathe.
He holds perfectly still — one hand warm and steadying at your hip, the other moving in slow soothing circles at your lower back — giving you every second you need.
Your pussy clenches around the tip of him — helplessly, insistently, those involuntary rhythmic pulses — and he exhales quietly above you.
“More,” you whimper. “Please — I want more — I want all of you—”
He gives you more.
Inch by devastating inch — slow and deliberate, your walls stretching around him — and you feel every single moment of it. Your pussy struggling to accommodate the specific thickness of him, the fullness of it pressing against places that make your vision blur — and the sounds coming from you are continuous and entirely beyond your control.
“Daddy—” you whimper. “So big — daddy you’re always so big — I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it—”
“You will,” he says, soft and certain. “You always do. You take me so perfectly, kitten. Every single time.” His hand strokes up your spine. “You’re doing so well. So perfectly well.”
“Please—” you whimper. “All of it — please daddy — need all of you inside me—”
He keeps going — slow and careful, inch by inch, your pussy clenching around each new depth of him with those helpless desperate squeezes — until you are shaking and gripping the sheets and making sounds that would be embarrassing if you had any capacity for embarrassment left.
“Almost, kitten,” he says softly. “Almost.”
“Please—” you sob. “Please daddy, need all of you, please— please I need it so bad—”
His resolve breaks then and there.
He pushes forward — the last slow devastating press — until his hips are flush against your bottom and he is entirely, completely buried inside you. Bottoming out inside you.
Tears have gathered at the corners of your eyes — not from pain, not exactly, but from the specific overwhelming fullness of him, the way your body strains and pulses to accommodate him, the way you can feel every inch of his cock pressed deep inside you — and he reaches up and brushes them gently from your cheek with his thumb.
“I’ve got you, my sweet kitten,” he says again, very quietly. “I’m right here. Take your time.”
You breathe.
You feel your pussy adjusting around him — those helpless clenching pulses — and slowly, the overwhelmed softens but you still feels so full, but it shifts to more warmth, and the warmth gradually shifts towards wanting. You desperately and urgently want more.
“Move,” you breathe. “Please. Please daddy — I need you to move—”
“Are you sure?” he asks, soft. All caring.
“Yes—” immediately, without hesitation. “Please please—”
He moves.
Pulls back — slowly, almost entirely, making you whimper at the drag of the withdrawal — and then slides forward again. Deep and deliberate. Filling you completely. Pressing against that spot inside you that makes your eyes flutter and your toes curl and your pussy clench immediately and helplessly.
You mewl.
“Oh, my sweet kitten,” he breathes above you, low and warm. “I’ve got you.”
He sets a rhythm — deep and unhurried at first, each thrust slow and thorough, his cock pressing against that spot with the focused accuracy of someone who has memorized exactly where it is — and the sounds filling the room are continuous and entirely yours. Whimpers and mewls with every forward press, a broken cry when he fills you completely and stays there for just a moment before pulling back.
“Feel good?” he murmurs.
“So good—” you sob. “Daddy it feels so good — you feel so good inside me — please don’t stop—”
“I’m not stopping,” he says. “Never stopping, kitten. How could I ever stop when you feel like this? So incredible.”
He reaches under you.
Finds your clit.
You cry out at his touch.
Your hips buckle forward instinctively, chasing the contact, your pussy clenching around him in a helpless squeeze that makes him groan above you.
“There she is,” he breathes, warm and low. “There’s my good girl.”
His fingers begin to move — slow circles at first, patient and deliberate, learning the specific pressure that makes you whimper loudest — and his hips maintain that deep unhurried rhythm, his cock pressing against that spot inside you on every stroke with the focused accuracy of someone who has memorized exactly where it is and intends to give you all the pleasure you need and deserve.
The combination of it all is a lot.
His fingers at your clit and his cock buried deep and hitting that specific spot and your pussy clenching around him constantly in those helpless involuntary pulses — it builds something enormous and specific that starts at the very centre of you and spreads outward, warm and insistent and impossible to ignore.
“Daddy—” you whimper. “Daddy it feels — it’s so good… please don’t stop—”
“I’m not gonna stop,” he moans. “I am going to give you everything.”
“Feels so good,” you sob into the pillow. “You feel so good — daddy your cock feels so good inside me — please — please—”
“I know,” he says, low and warm. “I know it does, sweetheart.” His fingers circle tighter and you cry out and clench around him and he exhales sharply above you. “You’re squeezing me so well. Every time I move.” Another deep thrust and your whole body trembles. “You feel incredible, kitten. So warm. So perfect.”
“More,” you whimper. “Please — harder — please daddy—”
His pace deepens — not rough, but more purposeful — each thrust driving deeper and longer, his hips snapping forward with the specific intent of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and intends to do it comprehensively. His fingers match the new rhythm — tighter circles, more pressure — and the sounds coming from you are continuous and entirely helpless. Whimpers and mewls and broken cries that fill the bedroom which you have entirely stopped trying to manage.
“Daddy—” you cry. “Daddy I’m going to — please — please don’t stop — right there — please—”
“Right there?” he says, adjusting the angle just slightly — deliberately, with the specific patience of someone making a considered decision — and the next thrust hits that spot so precisely that your vision whites at the edges and the sound you make is something new and entirely undignified.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve always got you, kitten.”
He keeps the angle. Keeps the rhythm. Keeps his fingers working your clit with steady, unwavering patience — and the pleasure builds and builds into something that your body can barely contain, your pussy clenching around him in those helpless rhythmic pulses that seem only to intensify the harder he moves, your whole body trembling with the accumulation of it.
“Daddy—” you whimper. “Daddy I love your cock — feels so good — so deep — please please please—”
“Such a good girl,” he breathes above you, rough and warm and so full of lust and love it barely sounds rough at all. “My perfect little kitten. Taking daddy so well.” His fingers press firmer against your clit. “So responsive. So warm.” Another deep thrust and you cry out. “Made for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes—” you sob. “Yes daddy — only you — only ever you—”
“I know,” he groans. “Only me. Always only me.”
Your mind goes somewhere it has no business going in the middle of all this.
Or maybe it has every business going there — warm and hazy and cock-drunk as you are, your pussy full of him and his fingers working your clit and the pleasure building into something enormous — because the thought arrives without warning and refuses to leave.
Him breeding you.
Not just now — though now, yes, desperately now — but the specific overwhelming fantasy of what that means. His cum inside you, warm and flooding, coating your walls, and the dizzying intoxicating possibility of what that could become. You know, somewhere in the rational part of you that is currently very far away and getting further, that you don’t want that yet — you still want to explore more before something so permanent and beautiful happens. The relationship is so precious and full of things you want to live through together first.
But your cock-drunk mind doesn’t care about any of that right now.
Your cock-drunk mind is entirely, helplessly occupied with him and his and yours and the specific fantasy of being so thoroughly, completely bred by the man you love that the evidence of it stays with you long after the night is over.
His, something deep and wanting in you thinks. Completely and permanently his.
The thought makes you clench so hard around him that you both gasp.
“Kitten—” he breathes above you, strained.
“Thinking about you,” you whimper into the pillow, barely coherent. “Can’t stop thinking about — about you filling me — about your cum — daddy please—”
His rhythm stutters.
Recovers.
Deepens.
“Yeah?” he says, low and rough and very specifically affected. “What are you thinking, sweetheart? Tell daddy.”
“Thinking about—” you whimper, your hips pushing back to meet him desperately, “—about you breeding me. About feeling you cum inside me.” Your pussy clenches hard around him at your own words and you sob at the sensation. “About what it would mean. About being — about you — daddy I want it so bad—”
The sound he makes is low and entirely undone.
“Please—” you whimper, the fantasy and the wanting and the cock-drunk haze all tangled together into something that comes out of you honest and helpless and completely real. “Please daddy… need you to breed me — please cum inside — need your cum so bad — need you to fill this pussy, please please—”
“You want daddy to breed you, kitten?” he moans, low and strained and so warm underneath it.
“Please—” you cry. “Please please — only you — need it so bad—”
“Such a good girl,” he breathes. “Begging so sweetly. My perfect little kitten.” His pace becomes something relentless — deep and hard and specifically aimed at that spot — and his fingers work your clit with the same unrelenting rhythm and you are entirely, thoroughly, helplessly undone. “Going to fill you up so full, sweetheart. Give my kitten everything she needs.”
“Daddy—” you cry. “Daddy I’m going to — please — I’m so close—”
“Come for me,” he says, low and warm and entirely certain. “Come on daddy’s cock. Let me feel you, kitten.”
You come — completely, loudly, your pussy clenching around him in long shuddering waves — and he works you through every single trembling second of it. His fingers gentle but not stopping. His rhythm keeping that deep steady pace. His voice low and warm above you saying good girl and that’s it and my perfect little kitten until the last aftershock fades.
And then he doesn’t stop.
“Daddy—” you breathe, oversensitive and warm and melting into the sheets. “I just — I can’t—”
“You can,” he says, immediately and gently. “One more, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t—” you whimper. “I’m so sensitive — daddy please—”
“I know,” he says, his hand moving from your clit to your hip — warm and steadying — giving you a moment. Just a moment. His lips find the back of your shoulder, pressing a warm soft kiss there. And then another, along your spine. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.” His hands move back to your hips. “You can, kitten. You always can.”
You breathe.
Feel your body — oversensitive and shaking — begin to settle. Begin to want again, the way it always does with him, the way your wanting for him never quite goes away.
“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay. Please — please don’t stop—”
“Never,” he says.
His pace deepens.
Harder now — still him, still warm, still the specific tenderness of a man who loves you completely — but more urgent, more driven, each thrust deeper and longer and hitting that spot with devastating consistency. The sounds filling the room are louder now, messier, more real — your face pressed into the pillow, your fingers fisted in the sheets, you moan and whimper his name over and over — like a mantra — like it’s the only word that you know and can say.
“Daddy—” you sob through the intensity of the moment. “Daddy please — cum inside — please — breed me — please please—”
“My kitten,” he breathes above you, strained and warm all at once. “My good girl. My perfect little kitten.” His hand tightens at your hip. “Going to breed this perfect little pussy. Give you everything. Going to fill you up so full, sweetheart. Always. Only ever me.”
“Only you—” you cry. “Only ever you — please daddy, I’m so close — please—”
“Come for me first,” he says. “One more time, kitten. Come on daddy’s cock.”
This orgasm arrives deeper than the first — enormous and specific, crashing through you with your whole body — and he drives forward harder, chasing it, and then buries himself entirely and comes.
He comes undone with your name on his lips — deep and flooding and entirely inside you — pulse after pulse of warmth that makes your pussy clench around him helplessly, milking every last drop while he presses his face to your shoulder and says mine and my kitten and my good girl against your skin over and over in that low broken voice that you feel everywhere.
“Yours,” you whimper weakly, trembling through the aftershocks. “Yours — always — forever—”
“Forever,” he says. “Always mine.”
He stays — inside you, hands warm at your hips — and holds you through every last trembling second of it. His hands move slowly — from your hips to your waist to your back — tracing long warm strokes up and down your spine while your body shakes and your pussy pulses around him in those soft involuntary aftershock clenches. He presses kisses to your shoulder. Your neck. The back of your ear. Warm and unhurried and so full of tenderness that your eyes sting.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve always got you, sweetheart.”
He keeps touching you — caressing you, holding you — giving you all the time you need to come back to yourself. His hands never stop moving, warm and patient, learning every inch of you all over again in the quiet aftermath.
Eventually — when your breathing has steadied and the trembling has softened — he presses one last warm kiss to the back of your shoulder and begins to carefully, slowly withdraw.
You whimper immediately.
“Please—” soft and helpless, your body clenching around him instinctively, not wanting to let him go. “Daddy—”
“I know,” he says, gentle and warm. “I know, kitten. I’ve got you.”
He slips out slowly — you whimper at the loss of him, the sudden emptiness, your pussy clenching around nothing — and then his hands are at your waist, turning you carefully, until you are facing him.
Your foreheads find each other.
Your eyes find his.
He is looking at you with everything showing — warm and open and so entirely, helplessly devoted — and his hand comes to your face immediately, cupping your cheek, his thumb moving in that slow familiar arc.
Then he kisses you.
Slow and deep and full of love — the kind of kiss that has nowhere to be and knows it, that exists purely to be felt — and you sink into it completely. His arms wrap around you as you kiss, pulling you close against his chest, and you feel the warmth of him along every inch of you and think that you never want to be anywhere else.
He pulls back just slightly.
Looks at you.
“Happy birthday to me,” he smiles, with the specific dry warmth of a man who is very, thoroughly, extremely pleased with his surprise.
You giggle — warm and entirely helpless — and press closer.
“I love you,” you whisper, full of love. “So much. So incredibly much, Sylus.”
Something in his expression goes very soft and very open and very undone.
“I love you too, kitten,” he says. “So much.” He presses his lips to your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. “More than you can imagine.”
You reconnect your lips with his again.
He kisses you back.
And you hold each other in the warm quiet bedroom — his arms around you, your face against his chest, the city glittering somewhere below — and you let the evening be exactly what it was.
APRIL 17 : Jewels .. you notice that sylus gets in a daze anytime you're covered in his jewels!
you always knew that sylus had a hoarding problem. from his countless armories to the endless records and trinkets he had scattered around his base, it was easy to mistake him for a dragon sat atop his hoard.
it was definitely easy to accuse him of such when he had you sat on his bed, trying out various jewelry. you had jokingly told him you'd do a jewelery show for him, but he could barely hide his excitement at the thought, and you would never let him down.
so you could only sit still and watch him go through boxes upon boxes of jewelry, each one shining in the light as he would flit between holding them up to you and actually putting them on you. it was clear he had his favorites, rubies and diamonds in particular appearing more than any of the others.
it was like sylus had a single-minded intent, his pupils slitted as he had you try on jewels after jewels. it was only once you were covered in necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings and anklets before you were clearing your throat, laughing as sylus snapped out of his daze.
"you seem.. really into this." you teased, crossing your legs as the metal clinked with your movements. "did something happen?"
his eyes tracked the glimmer on your skin before snapping back to your face, his cheeks flushed in ways you hadn't seen before. "nothing's wrong, sweetie," but his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, looking away. "it's.. nice seeing you in these."
you rose a brow, looking him up and down before a small smirk slipped onto your lips. "ohh, is this your weird instincts you're always talking about?" you shook the bracelet on your wrist, giggling as his gaze zeroed in on it, "is it nice to see me in your things?"
"shush." but even as he tried to avoid your gaze, you could see his face growing even redder.
"silly dragon," you teased, standing up and sauntering over to him, running your hand down his arm and delighting in his shiver. "you know i'm all yours, right?"
to be fair, you shouldn't have been surprised by the way he had you on the bed in the blink of an eye.
summary: sylus has once again talked you into being vulnerable around him, and this time you don't even have clothes to hide behind
pairing: sylus x reader
rating: mature 🔞 (mdni; suggestive content)
word count: 480
tags: fem!reader, nudity (reader is nude; sylus is clothed), under-negotiated mirror kink (reader is slightly uncomfortable), implied D/s dynamic, use of pet names (sweetie)
note: written for day 6 of the #sylusbday2026 event hosted by @aliciascanvas (prompt: jewels); also available in my love & drabble-space collection on ao3
In the candlelit stillness of Sylus’s quarters, a tall, filigreed mirror looms before you, silver and imposing.
There are easily a dozen other things you’d rather be doing tonight—most of which involve hands and mouths and working up a healthy sweat—but Sylus has a way of talking you into activities just like this one. Activities that raise your hackles. Activities that make you wriggle like a worm on a hook. And yet, you agree almost every time.
Damn your trust in him.
An old melody crackles through the gramophone on the far side of the room, something jazzy and slow and just a touch sensual— no doubt meant to help you relax.
Hah, as if that’s a possibility.
You hold your breath as Sylus unties your robe and slides it over your shoulders. Lets it drop to the floor. You track it like a quail flushed from the underbrush, this puddle of shimmering silk that’s taken flight— or rather was brought down by a skilled hunter. Your skilled hunter.
Sylus tsks, the sound sharp against your ear. “Let me see those eyes, sweetie.” He stands behind you, close but not touching, still dressed in his suit, and you suddenly feel like a marble bust on display at a museum.
But at Sylus’s encouragement, you lift your gaze and take in the sight of yourself like this, bare save for the jewels he placed around your neck, a cast of chunky emeralds and diamonds set in white gold. It must be worth a fortune. Flawless gems for a flawless woman, he’d said. Discomfort curdles at the base of your skull, half because you’re unaccustomed to such luxury and half because you don’t make a habit of staring at your naked form. You fight off the urge to look away and instead look at him.
In the reflection, his eyes, red as ripened elderberries, light on yours. “Breathe,” he says, the order so soft it feels like a caress.
You do. One shaky exhale. Another shaky inhale.
He doesn’t give another command.
You keep breathing.
The music makes it easier. Or maybe it’s the vintage texture of the sound, like logs popping in a fire. The record turns, the needle dances over vinyl, and you breathe.
With each rise and fall of your chest, the gems wink like faraway stars. And like stars, their gravity tugs your gaze lower, to the body beneath the stones, to your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. Every part of the canvas of you bears marks of Sylus’s own design— crescent-shaped bruises made by teeth, rounded splotches from when he took you in his mouth and sucked.
Memories of nights’ past bloom hot through your veins, and your breath hitches.
“Mmm, there she is,” he says, the honeyed praise sticking to your skin in a way that makes you ache for his touch. “Beautiful.”
APRIL 16 : Thrill .. you can't help but wonder if sylus really enjoys the thrilling life he leads!
you could feel the wind blowing past as you gripped tightly onto sylus' waist, your head buried against his shoulder as you tried to calm your beating heart.
missions went awry often, at least they always did whenever you were with him. but you found you didn't mind the thrill, that trusting in him to get you both home safely was always enough.
sylus' motorcycle was faster than any you had ever been on, and you felt a bit lightheaded as he sped up even more, taking turns and dodging the men chasing you as easily as he breathed.
you worried sometimes, how easy this life was for him. but you tried not to think about it as you heard his voice over the rev of the engine.
"hold on tight, sweetie." and before you could ask, he was making a sharp turn into a side road, your scream muffled into his shoulder at the speed.
he rode for a few minutes before finally stopping, turning his engine and lights off before looking down at you. "are you alright?"
"you could've warned me first!" you huffed, playfully hitting his shoulder.
"i did warn you." he hummed, patting the top of your helmet. "you held on, didn't you?"
"i still could've fallen off!" you argued back, and he merely chuckled as he turned to look at the night sky. you followed suit, leaning against him as you both caught your breath.
it was in that silence that you let your head rest against his back, feeling the way it rose and fell with his every breath. you hesitated, before you spoke. "do you ever get tired of this? all the running away and fearing for your life?"
he took a moment to respond, but you felt his hand take yours over his waist and give it a gentle squeeze. "it's necessary. i.. don't know anything but this life." he glanced down at you over his shoulder, and even through the helmet, you could tell how gentle his gaze was on you. "but i find the thrills are worth it. after all, i don't think either of us would be happy with a boring life, do you?"
sure, you were still out of breath, and light-headed from everything. but all you could do was laugh and hug him with a sigh. "yeah, you're right. we could never do boring."
synopsis: as you and sylus get older, thrills look a little different
tags: LADS, lads fluff, sylus x reader, older!sylus/you
content warnings: teen+, suggestive fluff, brief language
word count: 685 (drabble)
note: submission for @aliciascanvas sylus’s birthday week prompts- april 16th: THRILL
the thrill of kissing him never got old.
after fighting wanderers, facing death, and crossing deepspace to find each other, nothing compared to the feeling of being in his arms.
so many years had passed. so many memories had been made. but each new one you created with him still became your favorite.
a soft laugh slipped through your smiling lips when you parted. your palms smoothed against his chest as you gazed at him affectionately.
the years had been kind to him, of course. but you loved the way faint lines now traced the corners of his eyes and his mouth.
signs of someone who smiled often.
“what is it, sweetie?” he raised a quizzical brow, hands tightening around your waist.
“I…” you glanced over his broad shoulder, double checking to make sure no one was watching.
“don’t tell me you’re getting shy on me after all these years, kitten,” he leaned in to place a soft kiss on your neck.
“my back hurts…” you finally confessed before looking away, a bit ashamed.
and it was probably because he had sat you up on the balcony while kissing you. and probably because the balcony was made of stone. and probably because you weren’t as young as you used to be, so it was a little uncomfortable.
but you didn’t want to admit that.
tenderly, he grabbed your chin and turned your face back to his. he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear as a warm smile bloomed on his face.
“kitten…” he started, words trailing off as he contemplated whether or not he should continue.
“I’m freezing,” he finally admitted with a laugh, “… and my shoulder is acting up.”
“the one you injured that time on the motorcycle?”
he nodded, helping you down as you both chuckled at the memory.
“we really did it anywhere back then,” you shook your head, hand smoothing over the aforementioned shoulder, “what were we thinking?”
“that we wanted someone to see us fucking on a motorcycle.”
you both burst into laughter.
“right, and you weren’t secretly hoping for some voyeur to catch us on the balcony this time either, sy?” you waved a finger in his face.
he gave you that signature, all-knowing smirk.
“this time… that time on the windowsill, those multiple times at auctions-“
you smacked his chest to cut him off.
“alright! alright… gosh, we were really chasing thrills back then, weren’t we?”
he wrapped his arms around your waist.
“I still am.”
your heart warmed. how did he still manage to make you melt after all this time together?
“yeah, but… sometimes I feel like we’re not as adventurous as we used to be.”
his brows furrowed.
“beloved, when I say I’m still chasing thrills, I mean like this…”
strong arms pulled you into his embrace. the sound of two heartbeats filled your ears as you were pressed close together.
“… holding you, just like this, will forever be the greatest thrill I’ve ever experienced.”
you pulled back to meet his gaze.
“greater than doing it on the balcony?”
he let out a laugh that rumbled through his chest.
“our warm, comfortable bed sounds even more thrilling than that, if I’m being honest.”
“the bed? after all these years? doesn’t that seem boring-“
he took your hand and started leading you back into the house.
“a nice hot shower after, a cup of tea, and our favorite show has a new episode to watch…”
he stopped in front of your bedroom door, turning to wink at you.
“… and we can be asleep by 9.”
your eyes widened at him.
“mr. qin, you’ve never been sexier than right now.”
he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, tapping his temple as he smiled down at you.
then you were being swept off your feet- literally.
turning the handle of the door, he kicked it open, carrying you with one arm like he’d always done.
“don’t get used to it, mrs. qin,” he plopped you onto the bed.
“I’ll never be done chasing thrills as long as I’m with you.”
Synopsis: You only wanted to try something new now that you had him by your side.
Characters: Sylus x Non-MC!reader
Warnings: fluff
A/N: purely self-indulgent. I do believe that if Sylus was real, I would've been fine with trying out everything that frightens me.
“Sylus, let me go!” you squirmed in his hold as he pinned you to the bed.
“Only after you tell me what is happening in that pretty little head of yours.” His grip on your wrists tightened.
“What? What did I do this time?” you asked, feigning innocence, even though you already knew exactly what had gotten you into this situation.
“Don’t play dumb,” Sylus hissed through his teeth.
That gave you pause.
You looked at him more closely and finally noticed how tense he was. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle jumping there, and there was something strange flickering in his eyes. Then your gaze dropped lower. Scales were appearing and disappearing across his face in quick, uneven flashes. He had never lost control over his dragon form before.
“You’re… actually upset,” you murmured hesitantly.
Sylus let out a sharp huff and clicked his tongue.
“I am not just upset,” he said darkly. “I am furious.”
That made you stop struggling. You stilled beneath him, the weight of his anger sinking in all at once.
“Why are you furious?” you asked, your voice smaller now.
Before he could answer, a swishing sound cut through the room, followed by a loud crash. Your head turned slowly to the right. Your bedside table had been completely wrecked, scattered across the floor in pieces, while Sylus’s tail flicked sharply behind him, the movement agitated and restless.
You fell quiet. This was not like Sylus at all. You had never seen him like this before. For the first time, a ripple of guilt went through you. You forced yourself to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Sylus exhaled sharply and dropped his head onto your shoulder. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, in a low, strained voice, he muttered, “I just don’t understand.”
His words were quieter now, but somehow that made them hit harder.
“When we started dating, you told me that just being with me gave you more thrill than anything else in your life ever had.” He drew in a breath, clearly trying to keep his temper under control. “And now you are booking every extreme sport you can find. Ziplining. Wave surfing. Anything you can get your hands on.”
His fingers flexed against your wrists.
“And I know for a fact that you were never interested in any of that.”
You swallowed.
“Your ideal evening is being curled up in an armchair with your books,” he continued, voice roughening with every word, “or that stupid game of yours.”
There was the faintest edge of disdain in his tone when he said it, but beneath it you could hear something far worse than irritation.
Fear.
“And now you’re doing all of that.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “And I just found out you booked base jumping. Base jumping, sweetie. From the tallest building in N109, no less.”
He closed his eyes for a second, as though even saying it out loud hurt.
“If you are doing all of this because you think you need to match me, because you think I want you to be more reckless, more daring, more like me… then stop.”
His voice broke just slightly at the end.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me. You don’t have to force yourself into things you hate just because I enjoy adrenaline. I am perfectly fine with quiet evenings with you. I am perfectly fine with books, and games, and doing absolutely nothing if it means you stay with me and look at me like I’m enough.”
His hold on your wrists loosened a little, though he still did not let go completely.
“Even if,” he admitted in a quieter voice, “a part of me is undeniably pleased that we have been doing all these extreme things together.”
You blinked. That little confession nearly made your chest ache.
He had been angry, yes, but underneath it all he had been terrified.
Terrified that you were pushing yourself too far.
Terrified that you were changing yourself for him.
Terrified that someday you would realize you had become someone you did not recognize just to stay at his side.
Your heart twisted painfully. You tugged gently at your wrists, silently asking him to let you go.
After a heavy pause, Sylus relented and released your right wrist first, then the other.You immediately reached up and touched his face, your fingers brushing the scales still flickering there. He was still partially shifted, his control frayed just enough to make the dragon beneath his skin show through. You slipped your hand to the back of his head and threaded your fingers through his hair, gently grounding him.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, quieter this time, and much more sincerely. “I didn’t want to worry you so much.”
Sylus stayed still, leaning into the touch despite himself.
“It’s just… you know I’m a scaredy cat,” you admitted with a weak, shaky smile. “Thrills and I are basically opposites. I’ve always liked the idea of trying all of that, but I’ve always been scared of getting hurt.”
Your fingers stroked slowly through his hair.
“But now I have you.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And I know you won’t let anything happen to me. So I guess I… got too excited.”
Sylus let out a long breath, his shoulders easing by a fraction. You could feel the tension in him start to unwind, little by little, as your hand kept moving through his hair.
“I wasn’t trying to change myself for you,” you said softly. “I just thought… maybe, since I had you with me, I could finally try the things I was too scared to do before.”
You hesitated, then added in a smaller voice, “I thought it would be fun if I got to be reckless for once.”
Sylus looked at you for a long moment. Then his forehead lowered until it rested lightly against your shoulder, the last of his anger bleeding away with a shaky exhale.
“You could have just told me that,” he muttered.
“I know.”
One hand settled at your waist, holding you there with less force now and more warmth.
“I don’t need you to chase danger,” he said more quietly. “I just need you to be honest with me.”
Your chest tightened.
“I will be,” you promised.
Then, in the smallest, most vulnerable voice you had heard from him yet, he added, “You scared me.”
That did it. Your expression softened completely.You pulled him closer and pressed a kiss to the side of his face.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m really sorry.”
Sylus closed his eyes for a moment and let himself lean into you. This time, when his tail moved, it curled around your leg instead of smashing furniture. You kissed his temple again and smiled softly.
The tension in him finally broke. Not all at once, but enough that you could feel it in the way his shoulders sank, the way his hand at your waist eased, the way the last of the dragon scales faded from his face. He looked at you for a long moment, still worried, but no longer furious. Then he sighed and pulled you closer.
“Good,” he muttered. “I already made plans for a quiet evening today.”
You blinked.
“What?”
His mouth curved faintly.
“I was planning to pretend I was still angry and keep you in bed all night.”
That pulled a laugh out of you at last.
Typical Sylus.
You leaned in and kissed him gently, smiling against his mouth.
“That’s not quiet evening at all.”
He finally grinned.
“I know.”
