you left missouri with two duffel bags and a busted car. you didn’t ask for a summer in nantucket. and you definitely didn’t ask for a lazy-eyed boy with tan skin, a sharp mouth, and a trust fund in his back pocket. but now you’re stuck with both.
pairing: rintaro suna x f!reader
synopsis: you were supposed to spend the summer working double shifts and saving for college—not moving in with your rich cousins on the east coast. but after one too many late bills and one too many fights, you ended up here: nantucket. old money lawns, salted air, strangers with boats. and him.
content: super slow-burn, smut, drug use + addiction, casual sex, poverty/class divide, low-income protagonist, family dysfunction, brief matsu x reader.
status: incomplete (3/??)
chapter one: ashtrays.
chapter two: pizookies.
chapter three: coastal cousins.
hi guys, new series alert! this is gonna be a looooong one and it starts off a ‘lil slow but i’m really happy w/ it so far! please comment below if you’d like to be added to a taglist :)
the illusion of sipping hawaiian cocktails as you bask under the sun was soon shattered when miya atsumu tells (surprises) you that his best pal, suna rintarou, will be helping you make the finishing touches to his and your cousin’s wedding. the problem? you firmly believe that suna is a cold, inattentive, detached a-grade a-hole, making him the worst wedding planner to ever exist.
alternatively, in which your ex-boyfriend tries to win you over again as the both of you try to plan a wedding together in hawaii.
ex!suna rintarou x fem!reader
genre exes au, timeskip!haikyuu (but not manga accurate), romcom, angst, humour, maybe slowburn
extras like if 50 first dates and mamma mia had a baby, light hearted profanity and death jokes bc they’re effective coping mechanisms for planning a wedding with your ex, forced proximity, swear words, a lil suggestive (wink), yearning, sakuatsu!, google also helps with the wedding planning, i use aespa karina’s pics for yn
playlist baby, i love your way by big mountain | gimme! gimme! gimme! (a man after midnight) by abba | voulez-vous by abba | bahama by aespa | amber by 311 | please please please by sabrina carpenter | another day by paul mccartney | sad girl by lana del rey | slow dancing in a burning room by john mayer | us. by gracie abrams (ft. taylor swift) | 21 by gracie abrams | we can’t be friends (wait for your love) by ariana grande | love song by 311 | video games by lana del rey | i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys | so high school by taylor swift
notes HERE IT ISSSS the first smau series on this blog and it’s only right that i do it w my man suna rintarou ◡̈ hope you guys are gonna enjoy this just as much as i do aaaaa
the illusion of sipping hawaiian cocktails as you bask under the sun was soon shattered when miya atsumu tells (surprises) you that his best pal, suna rintarou, will be helping you make the finishing touches to his and your cousin’s wedding. the problem? you firmly believe that suna is a cold, inattentive, detached a-grade a-hole, making him the worst wedding planner to ever exist.
alternatively, in which your ex-boyfriend tries to win you over again as the both of you try to plan a wedding together in hawaii.
ex!suna rintarou x fem!reader
genre exes au, timeskip!haikyuu (but not manga accurate), romcom, angst, humour, maybe slowburn
extras like if 50 first dates and mamma mia had a baby, light hearted profanity and death jokes bc they’re effective coping mechanisms for planning a wedding with your ex, forced proximity, swear words, a lil suggestive (wink), yearning, sakuatsu!, google also helps with the wedding planning, i use aespa karina’s pics for yn
playlist baby, i love your way by big mountain | gimme! gimme! gimme! (a man after midnight) by abba | voulez-vous by abba | bahama by aespa | amber by 311 | please please please by sabrina carpenter | another day by paul mccartney | sad girl by lana del rey | slow dancing in a burning room by john mayer | us. by gracie abrams (ft. taylor swift) | 21 by gracie abrams | we can’t be friends (wait for your love) by ariana grande | love song by 311 | video games by lana del rey | i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys | so high school by taylor swift
notes HERE IT ISSSS the first smau series on this blog and it’s only right that i do it w my man suna rintarou ◡̈ hope you guys are gonna enjoy this just as much as i do aaaaa
໒꒱ ⋆ﾟworking at the movies is a real good time when your favourite coworker’s on set
cw: crude humour, language, swearing, kys jokes
want more coworker suna? i hear he also works at the tattoo parlour…
masterlist
a/n: THAT ONE COWORKER THAT JUST BE FUCKING TALKING😭 also those were 100% abt atsumu. my phone updated mid texts can u tell. yes i had to sing for that vm. goodnight.
Your vision focuses and unfocuses on a random poster on the wall as you try to come back to your senses.
Part of you feels weird being alone and drunk. One or the other is fine, but combined just made you feel off.
You would lay down to try and sleep this feeling away, but a wave of nausea hits you everytime. So you sat with a hunched back, letting the seconds pass.
You’re forced out of your daze as the door creaks open.
“Keiji— oh,” you can feel your figure relax with disappointment, “you,”
Your eyes drift back to their original place as the man replies, “Oh, you,” Suna mocks.
Suna makes his way to the empty spot on the bed by you, huffing as he flops down onto his back
“Ew, can’t you go somewhere else?” your face scrunches up with disdain as you scoot closer to the pillows, putting a gap between the two of you.
“No, because people are fucking in them, Y/N. Unless you want to go and join them,” his tone has a tinge of sarcasm.
“What?” you laugh as you turn your head to peer down at him, “Are you trying to get at me right now?”
“Hell no,” his reply comes out slower than usual, but you don’t give it a second thought. “Don’t start, please,”
“Don’t start what, Rin?” his first name slips out but you don’t care to correct yourself.
At your words, Suna shoots up into a sitting position, eyes meeting yours. “Don’t fucking call me that,”
“You literally call me Y/N, don’t be a baby,” you roll your eyes before beginning to taunt him, “what are you going to do if I keep calling you Rin? Huh, Rin?”
“Maybe kill you,” his tone is pure sarcasm as the two of you continue to escalate the argument.
“Aw,” you fake blush, the alcohol pushes you to keep speaking, “Why don’t you kiss me after to make it better?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe I fucking would, you asshole!”
Neither of you realize how in-each-other’s-faces you were until it happens.
His hands, which were weirdly soft, come to cup at your cheeks and pull you into a kiss. It’s warm, and messy, and tastes strongly of alcohol.
And the worst part is that you have the full strength to pull away, and you don’t. In fact, you can feel your body melting into his.
Knock, knock.
“Y/N?”
The two of you instantly jump to opposite ends, you already getting on your feet. You're both wide-eyed but in silence.
It’s Keiji when the door opens, his eyes widened as he looks at the two of you. His eyes then lock onto you.
“What happened?”
“Just arguing with this dick again,” you see from the corner of your eyes as Suna rolls his eyes.
“Oh, well are you ready?”
The speed in which you walk towards Keiji and out the door is an answer for itself.
Maybe you should take Suna up on his offer of killing you.
Thinking about Sylus who loves a particular kind of gentle skinship: pressing his nose on your skin.
Waiting in line for your sudden milk tea craving and he’s behind you nosing into your hair (he claims it makes the waiting better)
You’re preparing some food on the counter and he’s there behind you pressing his nose on your shoulders as he watches your hands move
You just wanna feed him some fries but he’s grabbing your wrist to press his nose there then playfully nip the side of your thumb instead of the fries
When he’s in a bad mood, just holding you and pressing his nose on your chest and he’s instantly cooled down
You wear an off-shoulder top and you bet he’s gonna be perching his nose there as if he’s Mephisto
Or nuzzling into the crook of your neck when he wants a cuddle
Or catching you right after a shower and he’s running his nose down your arm and giving little pecks
Maybe it’s the feel of your skin, maybe it’s your scent he wants to inhale all the time
Maybe it’s his dragon’s way of showing affection
You’re lying down on one side relaxing and he’d playfully rub his nose on your waist to tickle you and hear you laugh
And when your scent changes he knows you’re ovulating, it’s sweeter he says, with that hungry look in his eyes, because his very favorite place to bury his nose in is—
Wait am i ovulating? (ignores my empty period tracking app, opens Lads instead to consult his notes)
“mm.” sylus practically growls into the column of your neck, nose buried so impossibly deep into your skin it begins to tickle.
“sylus,” you groan. any effort made in pushing him away is futile. he’s latched onto you like a vine, twisted and coiled around the crevices of his favorite lattice. “sy—.”
“smell so good.” he murmurs. mostly to himself, like he’d devoured something so delectable his tongue refuses to keep it a secret. it’s almost painful, the way he asks, “what have you done?”
you laugh, his senses explode. the smell, and now the sound of you— he’s afraid of rapture the moment he looks up at you. too much, too good to be real.
“new perfume?” you giggle as he sniffs you some more, more creature than husband at this point. you swear a purr rumbles in his chest. “i saw it in the store, the packaging reminded me of you.”
you look silly. fond but nonchalantly standing there and letting your husband inhale your scent like a bloodhound.
his voice shakes the earth when he inquires, “packaging?”
“it was all dark and red like a gemstone,” you lift your chin to avoid hitting the top of his head when he moves around you and nuzzles into your throat. “with the teeniest little dragon wrapped around it.”
“what’s it called?”
“uh.” you look up, digging through recent receipts and credit card statements. “dragon…”
he draws in another breath of you.
“fire…” you gasp when he nips at your skin with his teeth, unable to hold back any longer. “…kiss?”
he freezes, then chuckles. “ah.”
“ah?” you frown when he lifts his head. his lips land on your hair. “what do you mean, ah?”
“ah, this makes sense.” he grins, planting more possessive pecks onto your forehead. even up here your sweet scent drives him into a frenzy. “how much did you get it for?”
you purse your lips and suddenly you’re bashful. never once in your relationship has he asked you about prices, having said at the very beginning that it would take decades for you to even make a dent into his fortune no matter how much you consume.
it shouldn’t be a point of shame either, because he actively asks you to use his card for anything you might need. yet, confronted with it now… it’s harder to admit that you’d thought a luxurious bottle justified such a price for a few drops of product.
and like he reads each thought you just had, he bends to kiss your lips gently, to coax you out of the spell. “i don’t mean to pry.”
“i think i spent too much.”
“no,” he drawls, utterly entertained by you. “not at all, sweetie.”
you pout. “then, why…?”
“you don’t have to buy this again,” he’s like a bird, pecking at the skin of your blushing face with butterfly kisses.
you open your mouth— to bite, to complain, to express the frustrating confusion he’s wringing you into.
he barely gives you a chance to when he presses a lingering and most tender kiss on your mouth. leaving no room for argument or doubt. “i own the brand, after all.”
Synopsis: You spent a yeah, trying to make something grow in N109.
Characters: Sylus x Non-MC!reader
Warnings: fluff
A/N: idgaf about N109 being unsuitable for plants. I want them there.
It was a quiet evening. You were curled up on Sylus’s lap, absentmindedly playing with his fingers while soft music drifted from the vinyl player.
“What are you thinking about?” Sylus asked.
“Nothing much,” you hummed. “Just thinking about spending an abysmal amount of money from your card.”
His chest rumbled beneath your ear as he chuckled.
“You? Spending an abysmal amount of money? Color me surprised. Didn’t you insist on working so you’d have your own money? I still think it’s ridiculous, by the way.”
You huffed.
“Well… yes, but I have one idea, and it’s pretty expensive, so…”
You traced random symbols over his hand with your fingertips.
“Oh?” His tone shifted, amusement giving way to curiosity. “Now I’m interested. What’s gotten into your head that you’re suddenly okay with using my money? Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“Nope, not telling you! It’s a surprise for your birthday.”
You giggled, pleased with yourself.
“Sweetie, do you realize my birthday was a week ago?”
“Hmph, duh. I’m already preparing for the next one. My idea is huge and will need a lot of time… and money. Honestly, it would’ve been easier in Lincoln, but I want to try doing it in N109.”
You kept idly playing with his fingers, pretending not to notice how attentive he had become.
“Now I’m curious,” he said slowly. “What are you planning that requires a whole year?”
“Nuh-uh. Not telling you. It’s a surprise.”
You grinned mischievously.
Sylus leaned back slightly, his arms tightening around you as if he were anchoring you in place.
“You’re planning something big,” he said after a moment, more thoughtful now. “In N109. Using my money. And refusing to tell me what it is.”
“Mhm.”
“And I’m just supposed to sit back and let it happen?”
“Exactly.”
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him.
“You’re bold.”
You smiled and settled more comfortably against his chest, your fingers finding his again.
“You love that about me.”
There was a pause.
Then, quieter:
“I do.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slower this time, more deliberate.
“Just don’t overwork yourself,” he added. “Or stress over it. Whatever it is, I’d rather have you than your ‘perfect’ idea.”
You stilled for a second, then tightened your fingers around his.
“…You’ll get both,” you promised softly. “Just don’t try to find out what it is, okay? I know that if you really wanted to, you’d figure it out in seconds.”
“I promise, sweetie.”
That was how your year of grueling work began.
You declared one of the rooms in his mansion completely off-limits to everyone, especially Sylus. The twins had tried to peek in exactly once and very quickly learned that curiosity could, in fact, be a dangerous habit. And that you can be scarier than Sylus.
Sylus, to his credit, kept his promise. He only watched the charges roll in on his bank account with a faintly amused expression and let you do your thing.
You knew N109 was no place for plants. The environment was too harsh, the sunlight was nonexistent. But you wanted to give him something soft anyway. Something alive. Something that could grow in the middle of all that steel and darkness.
You spent an absurd amount of his money, argued with suppliers, ordered special equipment, canceled it, reordered it, then spent days testing conditions and making adjustments. Slowly, painfully, you transformed the room into a technological marvel – greenhouse, packed with advanced systems to regulate temperature, humidity, light, and airflow. It still wasn’t exactly what you had first imagined. Your original idea had been much bigger. But one year simply had not been enough time to make your dream as grand as you wanted it to be. Still, you kept going after every failed attempt. Every wilted sprout. Every adjustment that made things worse before they got better.
And now, a week before his birthday, you stood in front of the door with your hand gripping the handle, heart thudding painfully against your ribs.
You took a deep breath and looked up at him with an embarrassed little smile.
“It… was supposed to be bigger,” you admitted. “But I ran out of time.”
Sylus’s expression softened almost immediately, though the corner of his mouth still hinted at amusement.
Then, remembering something, you stepped back and pulled a strip of black fabric from behind your back.
“Here. Cover your eyes.”
With an amused smirk, Sylus lowered his head so you could tie the fabric around his eyes.
“Do you trust me?” you asked quietly, trying to sound casual despite how hard your heart was beating.
“I always trust you.”
That alone made your chest ache.
Once you were sure he couldn’t see a thing, you opened the door and carefully guided him inside.
The room smelled different immediately. Not like the rest of the mansion. Not like polished metal, expensive cologne, gunpowder. And certainly not like N109. This room smelled faintly of damp earth, fresh leaves, and something floral. You led him forward, one careful step at a time, until you reached the corner of the room. Then you stopped.
Your fingers tightened around his sleeve. You exhaled slowly.
“It’s not exactly what I planned,” you admitted, suddenly painfully aware of how small your voice sounded. “But… it’s something.”
You hesitated, then added, “You can take the cloth off now.”
Sylus did so slowly.
For a moment, he said nothing.
You watched his expression carefully, dread and hope twisting together in your chest as you waited for his reaction.
The corner of the room had been turned into a tiny flower field. Not a literal field, of course, but enough to give the illusion of one. A carefully arranged patch of rich dark soil and layered planters, all stretching out in rows of deep red daturas. Their blooms opened toward the artificial light above them like small, dangerous stars.
You watched Sylus’s face carefully as he stared at it.
At first, there was only silence. Then his red eyes moved slowly across the room, taking in every detail: the flowers, the lighting, the care with which everything had been arranged, the fact that you had clearly spent months making sure this would work. His expression changed little by little. The amusement faded first. then the surprise. Then something quieter, softer, almost reverent flashed on his face. His gaze returned to the flowers, and for a moment he looked completely still.
You swallowed.
“I know it’s not huge,” you said quickly, suddenly afraid he would think it was too small, too much work for too little result, too humble for his birthday. “And I know it’s not like the original idea. I wanted more space, more color, more…well, everything, really. But the environment here made everything harder than I thought, and some of the plants didn’t survive the first few tries, and…”
Sylus turned to you. You stopped talking.
He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement might break the moment.
“You did this for me?” he asked quietly.
There was no teasing in his voice now. No smugness. No faint grin.
You nodded, suddenly shy.
“I wanted you to have something that belonged to you. Something alive.” Your voice wavered a little. “N109 can be so cold sometimes. I thought… maybe this would make it feel a little less cold and lonely.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then his eyes drifted back to the flowers. Something unreadable flickered across his face.
“You spent a year on this.”
You tried to shrug, though your throat felt tight.
“Yeah. More or less.”
Sylus’s hand lifted, hovering near one of the blooms.
“These are daturas,” he said softly, as if remembering a long forgotten dream.
You nodded, a little relieved that he recognized them.
“Red ones. I thought they suited you.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“They do.”
The words were so quiet you almost missed them. Then he looked back at you, and this time there was no hiding the emotion in his gaze. It was warmer than usual.
“You made a garden in my house,” he said, almost as if he still could not believe it.
“A tiny one.”
“Still a garden.”
You gave a small, helpless laugh.
“I know it’s not perfect.”
Sylus stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you.
His hand came up to your face, knuckles brushing your cheek with devastating gentleness.
“It is perfect,” he said.
Your breath caught.
“It’s mine,” he continued, voice low and full of something that made your heart skip a beat. “Because you made it for me.”
He pressed his forehead briefly to yours, hand still cradling your cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “For this… for all of it.”
And suddenly, all the exhaustion, all the failed attempts, all the long nights and stubborn frustration felt worth it. Because the look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.
Maybe it's the low lighting, the warm lamps he has scattered around his home. Maybe it is the countless little reading and napping nooks he has for you. Shelves upon shelves of books and DVDs stacked up for movie nights. Or maybe it's his leather seats that you slide your thighs onto after a hot summer day in Linkon.
No… Perhaps the thing you love most about his home is the man himself. The way he's always sitting on the sofa after you have a hard day. Glasses perched on his nose, eyes squinting softly as he reads whatever book he's decided to pick up. He's gotten more into fantasy, enjoying the action and suspense of war, fairies, and dragons.
There is always music playing. It's soft and low. Other times high and lively as you two dance around the room together. Occasionally, it garners the attention of Luke and Kieran. They'll join shyly. Luke laces his hands with yours, letting him twirl you around as Kieran catches you.
There is always laughter in his home. Serenity, serendipity.
Even when the days are long and hard, sometimes bloody. There is always joy. Whether that is Sylus awfully humming a lullaby, Mephisto curling onto your lap, or maybe even the sight of the twins playing a stupid card game they spent their allowance on.
No matter the circumstances, Sylus ensures there is always happiness in his home. For a man who believes he is nothing more than a monster, Sylus is an oxymoron. It's funny, actually. Despite his life being dangerous, despite every awful belief he has about himself, his love is anything but that. It is warm. It is safe.
Sylus makes his home safe. Despite the wounds of isolation that scar his heart and mind, he still holds space for you. Still invites you into his hoard, allowing you to mess with every little thing.
tags: drabble, sfw, fluff, drunk! sylus, clingy! sylus, love confessions, sylus cries (he’s being a little dramatic), basically you babying sylus for the entire fic
you’re not quite sure how it ended up like this.
you know that sylus’s alcohol tolerance is average (he had told you so himself), but you didn’t imagine that it’d be anything lower than yours. it had started as a joke, while the both of you were slightly tipsy; you had said something about wanting to see him drunk, curious about if he was sleepy, clingy, or whatever else while in that state.
and now, you’re here with your giant, six-foot-three boyfriend who is hanging his head over your shoulder and clinging to you like a weighted blanket.
“sy, baby, you’ve got to get up,” you rub his shoulder, “i think you need some water, honey.”
sylus grumbles in that low, frustrated tone that you only ever really hear when he fails to get a plushie for you at the claw machine.
“no,” he says, stubbornly, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as if he can avoid responsibility by hiding there.
you have seen sylus tipsy before, but not quite as drunk as he is now. he’s flushed from the tips of his ears and down to his chest, mumbling and groaning like a tired kid after a full day at the amusement park. not only has he been stubbornly sitting on your lap for the past two minutes, but he’s been leaving little wine-stained kisses all over you face.
“i’m serious, sylus. i think you’re a little too far gone.”
“ ’m right here, kitten,” he slurs. “how can i be far?”
“exactly my point, my love.”
with a heavy head, sylus looks up at you, gaze a little unfocused from the buzz. there’s an almost youthful innocence to him, his eyes round like a big cat; the complete opposite of the internationally-wanted criminal the world knows him as. you’re tempted to call him adorable.
“i could never be far away from you, ever. it’d kill me, kitten.”
you raise a brow at him, “that was quite dramatic there, sy. are you sure you don’t need the water?”
sylus frowns, “don’t.”
you laugh, “don’t what? give you water?”
he purses his lips in a way that looks like you’ve offended him. soon, unsteady, large hands come up to cup your face, staring into your eyes with a softness.
“my feelings are real. i belong with you in every lifetime.”
sylus has always had a habit of confessing his love to you at the most random time of day–you like to call it his shakespearian instinct–but you didn’t think it’d stay while he was intoxicated.
“oh gosh,” you laugh, truly taken aback. “even when you’re drunk, you’re a romantic! this is so cute.”
sylus, however, does not find this situation to be cute at all and frowns at you, his brows squished in frustration. at first, you think that he’s just pouting, the way drunk people tend to. but when you see the watery shine in his eyes, you soon realize that you are completely wrong.
“oh my god, sylus, are you crying?” you panic, grabbing a small napkin from amongst the mess of half-eaten steak and sticky wine glasses and bringing it to his face.
“no… it’s the sun. it hurts my eyes,” he mumbles, despite the fact that you are, in fact, wiping away the tears running down his cheek.
“the sun, right…” he is way, way too far gone. “why are you upset, my love?”
sylus stares at you in an almost accusing way. you’re sitting there in silence for an awkward five seconds before he leans in, pressing his face into your chest.
“yudisayit.”
you blink, “say that again for me, baby?”
he sighs as he pulls back, just enough to look you straight in the eyes. there’s a very determined look on his face, though you still feel like you can’t quite figure out what’s going on in his mind.
“you didn’t say it,” he repeats, “say you belong with me.”
the serious tone of his voice makes it near impossible to stifle the laugh that comes out of you. that’s what he was so upset about? thank goodness no one has ever seen him drunk but you.
“oh, sylus,” you coo, tilting your head so that you can plant a soft kiss to his cheek. “of course i belong with you. i’m sorry i didn’t say it back quickly enough.”
“in every lifetime,” he insists, “together.”
he’s so terribly cute.
you pull him in for a hug, kissing his forehead, then nose, then lips. he stares at you in awe, like you put the stars in the sky and the ocean on earth, full of love for you, like he always is.
— he’s sorry. it happens again. you tell him to count his days. he does. every single one.
ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: part 2 to the blanket war! a lover, yes very much so, but sylus is also a formidable opponent. and a grump when you spoil his games. enjoy! ❀-urs
sylus x reader | more fluff, overdramatic!reader, overdramatic!sylus, evening grumpies & morning cuddles ++ some suggestive intimate touching
He’s sorry.
He’s sorry, he said, and like a fool, you believed it would never happen again. But he never said it wouldn’t did he? He said other things— more with his body than his words that day— but the promise of never making that mistake again was egregiously omitted from that… conversation.
You wake in his arms once more, head on his bicep, his bottom lip resting just at your hairline. His breath coming out in puffs through his nose, tickling the baby hairs on the top of your head.
You press forward, seeking more of his warmth. Preferring it today over the sun’s. He reacts accordingly, crowding you closer to his chest and relaxing against your body even more.
You remember this time. Hazy, but the resentment is there. Heavy evidence rests in his phone, awaiting his discovery, and you seethe in silence until then. Or at least you try to, specially when he starts to stir. Starts to run his fingers up and down your spine. Putty under his hands. No better than the tendrils of smoke he commands with his power.
He asks, “What did I do?” and you’re caught off guard at the heaviness in his tone. Aside from the ragged texture and the deeper than usual timbre of his voice, he sounds so disturbed that he’d upset you this early.
You almost don’t mention it. You stall, though. “How did you…?”
“You aren’t kissing me.” he murmurs, sleep laden and heavy as cold oil. Heated fingerprints leave shivering gooseflesh in their wake as they trickle down your arm to grasp your hand. Your palm is guided to his neck, across like he’s cutting through. “Your usual appetite is… suppressed. I can only assume it’s my doing.”
A kiss is placed on his adam’s apple to appease him. To prove his smartass wrong. He only chuckles and shakes his head, “Talk to me, angel.”
“I don’t remember.” you half-lie. Your midnight excursions are usually forgotten by morning, hence why you send the videos. The irritation never follows you past sunrise, and he’s left unscathed no matter how atrocious (not really) his actions against you were.
His foot glides up between your ankles, his knee between your thighs. You yelp at the contact, and his brows raise. “I get it.” he drawls.
Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “What?”
“I’ve done it again.” he sighs, though he doesn’t sound too disappointed in himself. Before you can push more, he stretches his arm back to the nightstand to grab his phone. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he scrolls to your messages and—as expected— a barrage of verbally abusive texts greet him.
Beloved:
SULUS!!!nN
I fant belive u ??
ill haev ur head!!
“See.” he murmurs against the back of your head, the sound resonating in your skull. You’ve turned to face his phone as well, back to his chest to see. The video plays when he’s blinked the sleep away.
You’re there again, of course, who else could it be. The menace that you are, a gremlin in his goddess divine’s body. Sleep mused hair, his button-up shirt hanging off one shoulder, disoriented and bleary eyed, trying your hardest to squint through the harsh flash of the front camera.
“Sylus!” you whisper through gritted teeth. Behind you, he’s splayed out on the bed, starfished with the corners of the blanket so meticulously tucked beneath his large body.
You say nothing else when your circle him with the camera facing you, too distressed to flip the point of view. The front camera would face him every few times when you’re tugging at the edges, and fully when you set it down on the nightstand to yank hard on the edge under his feet. “Are you kidding me?”
You don’t recall this part present time, but you crawl on top of him and splay out your body on his back, lips to his ear. The microphone catches the faintest of whispers of: “Sylus, the blanket.” “Sylus, sylus, please. It’s so cold.”
Which he answers with: “I love you.” and “Come here” but he makes no movement to let you in.
Your final action on him is to ruffle his hair and slap his shoulder— he groans, “oww.”
You take the camera again, furious now, and point to it— to him. “Count your days!”
And he’s chuckling again. You should be proud that you make him laugh so easily, the cynic he is.
The pillow you grip to throw at his head is pinned to the bed with his hand, preventing the attack from happening. “Ah-ah,” he chides. “We’ve done that before.”
“Oh, so you’re not a fan of reruns?” you scoff.
He beams, fully awake now. Admiring your fire that rivals the sky’s so early in his day. “I’m a fan of these videos, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s like a morning report.”
A different tactic then, you aim your fingers to his sides and he twitches as if he’d been electrocuted.
“Not enough riches to take for yourself, so you take—” You bite back a grin as he yelps, a delightful sound. “—my half!”
He’s giggly again. And you love it, you love him so much, he’s just so annoying. Fingers intertwine with yours in an effort to sedate your poking, hating this more than the pillow whacking. “How else am I going to get my favorite show on?”
“My suffering is entertainment?!” you shriek, climbing him to get leverage— he loves this part, really— and wrestling his arms back with all your might.
“Everything you do is amusing to me,” he grins, a challenge. A push towards the edge. He finds the satisfaction at the twisted emotion on your face, and slackens his arms. The force of your own strength snaps you to his chest while your arms are incapacitated by his own pinning them to your sides in a bear hug.
And again, because he is, he kisses your bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”
But this time, you hmph indignantly and he is forced (delighted) to make it up to you in more convincing ways.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
The flash is your friend at this point. Pupils dilated in the dark shrink as the light emerges from your phone. If you were on the same side, you’d say you’d look like a cave diver. He’d say, “What’s a cave diver?”
“Night three.” You mutter tiredly, in bed this time, on your side. Like you’d just reached out to your nightstand without a second thought.
You are shivering, curled in on yourself like a helpless animal in the throes of winter. Your back is pressed against the hunk of a man that is Sylus, warm inside his insulated cannoli.
You sigh, turning to face the giant worm the love of your life has metamorphosed into overnight. “Your promises are empty, your love isn’t real.” You spit, but the tone in your voice doesn’t match the venom of your words.
“I—“ you gasp, mid-monologue and the camera is jostled. The creature bests you, and in an instant you are engulfed by more than just the warmth of your missing blanket.
The camera falls conveniently on you pillow, at an angle that catches you in the corner of the video in a headlock. Sylus’s bicep secure around your chest, your chin rests in the crook of his elbow and his hair overwhelms half your face.
His lips brush your neck when he speaks, low and half-conscious. “M’sorry.”
And you’re gone.
The phone falls. The video auto-sends as soon as the time limit is up, and it catches you drifting off to sleep in his embrace.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
It’s a game when on the morning of night three, you receive a video at work.
Sy (Fruit Ltd. Co. Intl.):
Whats this now…?
Glancing around, you stuff your ear pieces in to watch it. The contact name change from "my love" to what popped up on your phone in broad daylight is handy when he does this. Annoying, but you can't stop the flutter of your heart when he sends you texts out of the blue to remind you he thinks about you.
When the coast is clear, the video plays.
“Morning three hundred seventy-nine.” his voice like burning gravel rings in your ears. His one eye is open while the right still struggles to in the dim light.
He extends his arm, zooming out of his face and ushering in the image of your own sleeping figure, slope of your nose pressed into the muscles of his neck and fingers clasped on his shirt.
“Consorting with the enemy, sweetie? That’s not very righteous of you.” cocky. he sounds so cocky you want to punch him in the mouth (with your mouth).
He brushes the hair from your face and kisses your forehead. “I am counting my days.”
The video ends just as you hear yourself say, “huh?”
You text back,
Beloved:
BLOCKED.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
Footsteps around his bedroom are as melodic as the vinyls on his record player. Sylus listens as they keep a steady beat, stutter, shuffle and go fast, hesitate and go slow. Your soft voice talking yourself through your routine accompanies the beat as a soft melody.
His eyes skim over the book he reads, but his senses are attuned to you. Finally, when you finish your pre-bed routine, you return to his side. Where you belong.
Captivated by the narrative he was reading, he trusts you to slip into your place under his arm on your own so he can feel your weight on his side and follow the cycle of your breathing with his own.
But this time you take an extra step at fixing something by your pillow. And he is a creature of habit. Curious, he peeks, and scowls at what he sees. “What is that?”
You startle at the harsh tone. “It’s for emergencies.”
The book slams shut. He’s turning to face you fully now. Disgust drips off the word. “Emergencies?”
“I can’t keep waking you when you hog,” your shrug. it wasnt practical at all, to keep blowing up such a non-issue.
“Yes you can.” he says. And when you don’t look at him, he bends at the waist to reach you. He takes your chin in his fingers and turns your face to him— to see him being sincere. Softly, he states, “Beloved, you can.”
But you cant. He’s just getting into the groove of a normal circadian rhythm and thats all youve ever wanted from him. Already, the darkness beneath his eyes have reduced thanks to… well, you. “It’s okay, Sylus.”
And like a child, like a cat, like a grumpy, spoiled, crime syndicate, he grabs the blanket and throws it behind him. Off the bed. Away from you. You blink at his petulance.
“Sylus!”
Arms tackle you to the bed, one hand supporting your head and neck— careful of being too rough. He grumbles something incoherent, loose sounds of disapproval and irritation seeping through. “Separate blankets— on my bed? our bed?— don’t need that— what’s wrong with your head?”
Half of his body is enough to render you motionless as he pulls the covers over you both and shuts the lights off with his evol. He presumes his position as big spoon, burying his nose behind your ear and murmuring a grumpy “Goodnight.”
You giggle in the silence when all is said and done, and turn to kiss whatever part of him you can reach from your benumbed state.
He doesn’t hog that night. In fact, doesn’t even let go.
A warm furnace in his own right. You drown in affection… and your own sweat. Who would have guessed that contingency measures would finally bring an end your cold wars— at least for the foreseeable future.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
— a cold war brews between you and sylus in the trenches of the night; mornings are for making amends.
ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: so the dragon's hoard photo album on sylus's phone drabble has been running in my mind since i wrote it, and now that post might just be another masterlist. magnum opus is a godsend and i just love his laugh, i wanna hear him giggle and laugh forever okay ( ;´ - `;) a little origin story of some videos that are saved in his "sleeping 📂" album. this is part one. enjoy! ❀-urs
sylus x reader | fluff, comfort, giggly!sylus, overdramatic!reader (we love them), banter, morning cuddles
You rise with the sun. It has always been this way. Whether it’s tendrils seeping in through the curtains just as the planet turns to face Helios caressing you gently or it blasting you the heat of its full concentration by noon, you will rise in the day.
Sylus rises with the moon. Something you’ve envied. A more tranquil beginning to wake underneath the gentle caress of a radiant pearl, to the silence of the world. He acts accordingly as well, unhurried and unperturbed by the bustle of life. Calm and collected, a sharp contrast to your energetic and flurried morning body. A more peaceful existence.
And yet, he insists on rising with you.
Heat wakes you this morning, but not from the angry ball of gas in the sky. No, this is warmth. An internal, direct sensation that radiates from behind, from another body, another soul.
Your eyes open slowly to the gradience of the emerging sun. Darkened values of the world edging carefully with its celestial hue. A reflexive worry grips at you. Hammer to a tendon, your muscles twitch to stand— toward the curtains. To draw them closed before it all becomes blinding.
But the vice-like grip around your waist keeps you in place. An indignant grumble tickles the hairs on the nape of your neck and sends shivers down your spine. Sleepy, raspy, deep. “Stop.”
Still tangled in the webs of your own fatigue, you respond. “The windows—“
“Leave them.” he sighs, like a formidable ancient creature, and strengthens his hold around you. In one smooth motion, he flips you both from your spot. Now, his back is to the light and you are shielded from it. An instinct-driven movement, to keep you from something that he cannot stand.
Then comes the realization that you bask in this, and so he flattens himself to the mattress ever so slightly so that the light touches your features just so. Through his half-lidded gaze, he takes pride in the decision, watching your majesty glow like molten gold.
Sylus has sensitive eyes. You know this, you’ve seen it before, when you idled too much after waking to watch him sleep. Meanwhile, the light had slithered in through the windowed walls. Silken features scrunch, a deep crease formed between his brows, and a sizzling wince escaped his lips.
You were quick to kiss the pain away, thinking it was nightmares that plagued him. But when his lips curled and he met you with squinted eyes that smiled just as divinely at the corners, you realize the transgressor was more luminescent than haunting.
You stay, then, in his arms. Cocooned perfectly like he was made for you. Like you were two halves of the same whole.
And he holds you. Like you were made for him to. Quietly, stubbornly— unwilling to let the morning steal you from him just yet.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
Waking is a slow process on the rare days when the world does not call upon you. A collection of soft kisses and gentle whispers; quiet intentions and passionate touches. You are never angry, never troubled, not when the soul—yours and his—is complete.
He mourns you when you draw away from him— “gotta pee”. After his dramatic protests, your efforts of being free from his fly-paper grasp and your cat-like fists pushing at his chest to “let me go! or i’ll go right here!”, he eventually relents and you waddle over the cold marble floors to your throne.
Alone, he sits up in bed and takes in the light that consumes the room with an irritated scowl. It urges him to catch the duvet that had fallen to his bare waist and pull it over his head. Under the covers, he checks his phone.
Messages from the twins reporting on a finished mission (to which he replies a clipped ‘ok’). Offers from business partners he had little to no interest in. Invitations to auctions and galas. Updates on the available plushies at your favorite arcade this week. Incident reports.
Trivial. Unnecessary. Boring.
Until he finds one— buried amongst them all— so glaringly different and alarming. A text message, sent four hours ago— from you.
Curious, he opens your thread of messages.
Beloved:
How could you do this to me
You will pay. This is unforgivable
And before he even has the time to panic, he scrolls to see the video attached to it. Its obscure darkness and suspicious angle does nothing to deter him.
And as it plays, he cannot hold back his smile.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
The mound on your bed is laughing. Jostled wine, spilling at the edges of glass. Breathy, rich and smooth; rare and familiar all at once. Signature exhale, fond and effortful, clear as the giggling ends.
You crawl over the covers, towards the trembling hump and poke at where his head should be. The veil comes off, and mirthful rubies meet your inquisitive gaze. You take in his grin, and then the phone in his hand, “What’s so funny? Can I see?”
Air meets your hand where the phone should be after your attempt at a grab. He looks annoying, looking at you like that: like he knows something you don’t. Dopey heart-eyes with an edge. Unconsciously, you pout, which fuels his mischievous fire. “What’s is it?”
Buttering him up is a sight for him to behold. You curl around him, fitting yourself under the weight of his arm and kissing his jaw to convince him to give it up. A cat seeking comfort. A snake strangling its prey. “Tell me.”
And the melody starts again, hitching in his chest and shaking you whose cheek rests on his shoulder. He cannot fathom how you could be everything he’s ever wished for— how could you be quick-witted, clever, strong, courageous and hilarious? You’re adorable and so, so funny.
“Aren’t you fuming with anger?” he’s breathless. You’ve never seen him so. “Aren’t I just evil? Vile?”
You pause. What? Why would he say that? Why is he saying it in a way that implies you should know what it means? “Sylus, I don’t…”
At the hesitant look on your face, complete with twinkling puppy-dog eyes and a slightly jutted lip, he can’t help but lean in and kiss your forehead. White flag raised, because he is helpless to a power like you. He pulls you close, and finally shows you the video.
Brightness is all the way up and, on the edge, you see him toggle with the volume too. The video starts with you being attacked by the front facing flash. You wince, but then go straight into your very serious, very important lamenting.
“Look at you,” you murmur, the sound scratching against your throat as if still crawling away from the grasp of a dream. The focus shifts to Sylus, fast asleep, burrito-ed in the large comforter. Love of your life, tether to the world; giant larvae. “Evil… vile.”
The last word you grate through your teeth with so much venom, one would assume he’d betrayed you.
It crosses your mind though, as you watch, how deeply he was sleeping. How untroubled and peaceful he looked, no matter how much you shook him around in your own frenzied irritation. When usually, he’d wake fully at the sound of your breath hitching from a nightmare.
In the video, you continue: face close to his own, pressing your lips to his cheek because it was mandatory. His lips twitch but he shows no signs of waking. “Tsk. I’m mad. I’m cold? I’m cold and I’m mad. Count your days.”
The video ends. Beneath it, you read your equally vehement text messages. Sent 2:43 AM.
Sylus is laughing again, subtly pulling you closer to apologize while the memory comes back to you in vague waves of annoyance.
Waking up shivering, feeling for the blanket, feeling for him— finding both out of reach. You prying the edge from under his large body— how the hell did he manage to roll in it at least twice?— settling for pressing your cold feet underneath his warm calves and praying your torso doesn’t freeze overnight as sleep captures your ire and douses the flames for then.
But this is now.
“Darling—“ he wheezes at your bewilderment. Lips pressing to your hair fondly, over and over. Likely getting that thing he feels he’d just learned the term for— aggression. Cuteness aggression.
Unfortunately for him, it all rushes back. The fire is blazing, scalding. “Oh, I’m mad.”
And he fears for his life behind the imprints of crowfeet on the corners of his teary eyes. Ever one to play with his own life, he still pushes. “Are you?”
“You hog!” A quick attack. You whack his face with a pillow and he’s cackling. The thought of stopping and relishing in his bellyaching, carefree laughter crosses your mind for a split second, before you’re climbing his waist and squeezing the smooth skin of his hollow cheeks. “You left me to freeze!”
“I didn’t know, sweetie.” He’s gorgeous when he speaks between chuckles. Speech bursting like hiccups of devotion.
“What are you, a rock? I was pulling so much and— nothing!”
He takes another blow. “You should’ve woken me up.”
“I tried.” You pause. You did. A little. But you couldn’t bring yourself to, not fully. Not when he sleeps terribly. Not when you’re the only rest he’s ever known.
And he knows this, reads it in the way you falter. That look on your face that tells him you’re thinking about him, his wellbeing. Putting him first, still, through the haze of exhaustion; despite the blistering cold. Considering him and how he would feel to wake up in the sunlight you bathe in, sunlight he cannot stand if it were not for you.
He doesn’t understand how you do this to him by just being. He fears how much you know him, how much he allows himself to be lured in and be exposed by you. When in the same breath, he’d lay his heart bare to you and hand you a dagger to do with it as you please.
He falls— deeply, effortlessly. Rolls in your affection twice over and more like he did in the blanket he stole in his sleep. Because just as easily as he did that with his eyes closed, he can so easily love you.
Fast, the pillow swings up by your arm, you strain to gain momentum to smack it down on his chest once more. Faster, his large hand catches your wrists in a vice, then he is pulling your face down to his.
Laughter, both youthful and deep, bursts from his chest. His radiance ghosts over your cheek, weightless and warm.
Just as you swoon in his joy, his heart aches at yours. It is the sun giving the moon light. The way you barely notice the wide smile on your face despite your desperate need to silence him in awkwardness. The way you try to reign in your strength with each strike despite knowing he can take the brunt of it. The way you look on top of him. The way the weight of you grounds him to this earth. The way you are so shamelessly you in this moment— he can’t help but reflect you, revere you.
Meanwhile, you’re lovestruck and dumb. So beautiful, you think, about the hollowed dimples on his cheeks, about the curve of his relaxed smile— about the enemy. He is the enemy.
And the enemy has soulful eyes, sorrowful as they are loving. The enemy tastes the sweetest when he is kissing your embarrassment to silence, when he is whispering, “I’m sorry.”
You hum in defeat, melting in his affection, utterly human. Flawed and weak in the face of love.
“I’m sorry.” He says again, slower. The words sighed against your lips. Mouth embracing yours tenderly to let you know he means it.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
part two: where shadows rest
⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
