Lawd what in the world happened on X during my drive...
Let me start by saying that there is a lot of mixed information floating around. It's very difficult to determine what is legitimate, I won't lie to you. People have differing opinions, there is a TON of conflicting information, and far too much speculation.
You all know by now that I want to avoid giving you any kind of misinformation. I do my fair share of speculating, but I don't want to lead you astray. So, with that being said, let's see what's going on.
7/10/2026 PM
The Current Protest
As you all know, we've pivoted to challenging the false information in the CN media. However, we seem to be shifting once again. Players have generally agreed that #ValkoWasFramed insinuates that we are challenging or placing blame—which we want to avoid for the sake of not causing any controversy. Now, we want to avoid directly confronting Chinese media.
I know the constant changes are frustrating. I'm trying to keep up with everything too. So, here's everything I know:
We are focusing on promoting how much we love Valko. Here are the new set of hashtags:
#Valko #WeLoveValko #ValkoIsLoved #JusticeForValko #恋与深空 #敖尹 #LoveAndDeepspace #LADS #BringValkoBack #SaveValko #BringBackValko #LADSValkoReturn #ValkoMustDebut #ValkoIsInnocent
I think this post in particular explains it well:
This is also a very important post that I would like for all of you (especially my fellow Americans) to read.
This is a post from a Chinese user that I read through and found quite interesting. I think it's well worth the read.
Looking Forward
SPECULATION: I'm going to be frank with you—we're probably looking at getting Rafayel's 4th myth on July 17th. Infold is likely desperate to see a jump in revenue. Here's how the revenue chart is looking:
Basically, not good. This is only over the span of a month.
Once again, I'm going to be honest with you—if we want Valko back, we have to hit Infold where it hurts: revenue. That means absolutely no spending. As a myth collector, this is extremely frustrating to me, so believe me when I say that I understand how many of you feel.
However, you can absolutely choose for yourself. If you want to pull for it, don't let anyone shame you into feeling guilty.
But this post explains it well. "If spending spikes back to normal, headlines will write 'the boycott collapsed' and our leverage evaporates exactly when the company is deciding how much our waiting matters." This boycott does not have a deadline. It ends when we get Valko back.
Remember, banners always rerun. There will always be another chance to get it. I'm okay with missing out if it means making this protest stronger.
I very much encourage you to continue boycotting. Money is the universal language. Personally, I will not be touching the game until Infold releases an official statement.
Remember
Question everything, believe nothing. I am BEGGING all of you to use your common sense and critical thinking skills. I don't care if someone says they have "insider information" or they spoke to a CN player or whatever the hell. Unless they come with concrete, verifiable proof, keep scrolling.
Our end goal, no matter how we go about it, is the same: getting Valko back. Keep posting, keep talking, keep being loud. Make your voices heard.
Once again, the universal language is money. Even logging in puts money in Infold's pocket. Boycotting is ultimately your decision, but I ask you to think long term.
Hopium
You know I'm never going to leave you without some hopium. :)
Valko's code is HAUNTING 6.0. From Caleb having his nose to Sylus sniffing furniture (posts linked). I've seen all I need to see from this version update, quite honestly. Limbs flying everywhere, heads are either huge or missing, eyes are popping out of their sockets—this is what happens when you don't release the tech guy.
I fear hopium is hard to come by these days on X. I'm doing my absolute best to find some for you all. Since I can't offer very much today, take these links of edits, fanart, and pictures of Valko. Remember who we're fighting for!!
Edit 😼
Some gorg pics
Wolf form Valko clip
Suggestive!! fanart
Valko as Jinu for my KDH people
More edit
His SEXY ass laugh
just a masterpiece tbh
DISCLAIMER: I cannot say with 100% certainty that this is true. However, there is enough credible evidence for me to believe it.
To put it in short, we're not just battling Infold. We're fighting the Chinese media.
Here is the post. I will outline the timeline here as well. This is directly from the thread:
As confirmed by a CN native.
"state media commentary acts as a direct warning of incoming government bans."
So, that's it, then. This is what caused it. Valko was being recognized by the state media.
So why did Pro Valko ppl not go after the media for false reporting? On their socials? Why were we not instructed to?
Timeline:
June 22nd, Valko is announced. Fan Rioting pursues for 6 days straight. Company doesn't budge, continues to post normally.
June 28, 1 AM: Apology, 20-pull compensation, and a promise: every male lead's story "will not change for any reason."
It tops the overnight hot search marked 爆.
Then watch the state media pressure.
June 28, 9:08 AM: Beijing News "Six Questions" rejects that apology in print. It was 8 hours old.
June 28, night: the Women's Federation's magazine — enters hours after the PV airs
June 29: China Women's News named editorial
June 29: China Women's News AGAIN, on the 0731 defense: "fails to convince"
June 29, 8:20 PM: Guangming Daily. A central party paper.
June 30: Ban Yue Tan. Xinhua-run.
June 30, evening: Valko is cancelled. Permanently. With a promise to never add a male lead again.
And still, to this day, they are STILL going after him, with Beijing News posting ANOTHER smear article on him JUST TODAY!
Now look at PPG's attitude change. Anti's beginning riot? Didn't budge. Business as usual. Once the state media got involved? Silence. And knowing this... it makes sense. The marketing numbers didn't add up, a large portion of CN population really liked Valko. Obviously the rest of the world liked Valko.
Here is another post. I will include the screenshots from it below.
Here is a news clip posted to Weibo. THIS IS NOT FROM A GOVERNMENT ACCOUNT. On Weibo, the red V is a standard verified account. A gold V is for news, government and verified companies. This is just a random news channel, no government affiliation.
Here is a screenshot from a user on RedNote explaining the situation:
Here is a screenshot of every news outlet that has been running Anti-Valko campaigns (via this post):
So, what do we do?
Not to worry, friends! I never give info without a plan!
GET LOUD about false media in China. I mean LOUD. We have to change the narrative. Everything they are spreading is complete slander. This is where the sexual assault and predator allegations against Valko are stemming from. They're taking clips of his trailer fully out of context and changing the story entirely.
Infold is fully capable of bringing a lawsuit against these media outlets. "Under the PRC Civil Code, companies have a legally protected reputation. If a news outlet, blogger, influencer, or another company publishes false statements that damage a company's reputation, the company can file a civil lawsuit." I am hoping that their current silence is because they are taking legal action. I'm not sure how likely that is, but my fingers are crossed.
Be louder than the media. Fight back. Change the narrative. This is vital if we want to bring Valko back.
This does not mean stop the boycott. We do not need to give any money or support to Infold. We're still posting #bringbackvalko, we're still going after them, and we are still NOT logging in.
Posting under #ValkoWasFramed, as far as I know. As soon as I have more information, you will be the first to know.
Okay, every take a breath. I know shit seems terrible right now. I know we're angry and upset. But let's take a minute and look at the facts. Bear with me.
Wander In Wonder was NOT the next multibanner on the schedule. They skipped over No Defense Zone AND Misty Invasion. Wander In Wonder has tie-ins to Chinese tradition. Rerunning this banner was a deliberate choice to improve their image in China.
They released TWO new crates in Xspace Echo—this is ONLY done when a new LI is introduced.
There is no mention of the main story in the 6.0 update summary. They are likely having to revise it to comply with government demands.
JP Discord still has the banner that includes Valko, and his channel and roles still exist as well.
All Valko content remains available on Twitter.
All Valko videos remain available (but unlisted) on YouTube.
X, RedNote, Instagram, and Weibo are still talking about him. We're still trending on X, which is where I check for most of my info.
I'm waiting for the update to fully go live, then I will be asking as many people as I can find if "coming soon," the texts, and the Eoncore WU story are still in the game. This will be a major tell.
We still do not have an official statement. Until we do, I'm holding onto hope. Infold is dealing with extremists, the government, and various other issues—this update is likely a way for them to buy some time.
DO NOT GIVE UP! If we don't fight, who will? If we don't speak up, who will? We've come this far. We've raised thousands for charity, we've gotten hundreds of thousands of signatures on petitions, we've kept Valko trending for eight days straight—this is not the end.
As always, I will update you as soon as I have more information. Sending love to all of you. Take care of yourselves—eat, rest, hydrate, cry if you need to. I know this is stressful, but we cannot stop here.
Massive thank you to @avananabread for bringing this to my attention and giving me some info! You're an angel!!
Find all other reports here!
BREAKING NEWS
I fear my smear campaign theory might've been right on the nose. Here's what I know from researching:
In 2024, Papergames (Infold) filed a lawsuit against Archosaur Games, the owner of Silent Whispers, for trademark infringement. Archosaur had used registered trademarks like Shining Nikki, Infinity Nikki, and Miracle Nikki as search keywords in WeChat ads to promote their game Life Makeover. Papergames won in 2025.
During the trial, it was found that a company called Tencent is the second largest stockholder of SW.
Tencent is a MASSIVE company that has been known to sink its competitors using vile tactics like smear campaigns, hiring bots, paying off the media, and undermining the public opinion. The current situation is far too similar for it to be a coincidence.
Shanghai originally stepped in to support Ppg, as they contribute a large amount of taxes to the city, but this wasn't enough to stop the campaign
However, Tencent didn't (and couldn't) expect this level of global support. We are quite literally acting as Infold's shield. WE are the only reason this campaign is starting to crumble.
Remember, SW has a Sylus clone and they recently released a werewolf character as well. In recent posts that I've seen, his eye color has changed from green to yellow, and his skin is lighter.
This perfectly explains why the police and Infold's legal department are so involved. This was never just about a group of online bullies, these are PAID TROLLS. Their job was to spread misinformation and try to change the public opinion about LADS.
There is substantial evidence to suggest that SW has also been purchasing likes and views. Here's a post to support this.
The smear campaign is crumbling FAST. Posts and comments are being deleted, police are investigating, and RedNote is actively taking action against those who spread misinformation. Here's a post.
This has always been bigger than a vocal minority disliking Valko. Valko was the scapegoat. This was a full-blown attempt to sink Infold as a company.
DO NOT STOP POSTING! The more we can show our support for Valko, the more this smear campaign crumbles.
And that's the part that's making me lose my fucking mind.
We lost an entire section of the MAIN STORY.
The livestream literally told us Valko's release was going to reveal more about the Aethercore—one of the biggest mysteries in Love and Deepspace and something that's been central to the plot from the very beginning.
So now what?
You think they can just delete him and nothing changes?
Do people genuinely think you can rip out an entire story arc without consequences?
Everything that was supposed to be revealed through Valko now has to be rewritten, redistributed, or outright cut. The main story is going to have to be retconned. Future updates are going to have to be reworked. Characters may have to be rewritten just to fill the gap he leaves.
If you're celebrating this because you "won," I sincerely hope you understand what you've actually cheered for.
here’s a cute lil sumn sumn about remembering small things, getting sweets, and making each other grin like idiots 🫶 (and sebastian definitely overhears and judges, as one does)
main masterlist!
edit: ominis masterlist!
Hogsmeade is loud in the particular way it always is on weekends, a pleasant chaos of voices and boots on stone and laughter that echoes just a little too brightly between the buildings. The cold has teeth today, nipping at your fingers even through your gloves, and you tuck your hands deeper into the pockets of your coat as you walk.
Ominis stays close without needing to think about it. He always does.
Not close in the way people assume, not hovering or cautious, but aligned. His shoulder drifts near yours as if pulled there by habit, by memory, by six years of learning the exact rhythm of your steps. When the crowd thickens, his hand brushes your sleeve in a quiet, wordless check-in. When the path clears again, he lets the space return, trusting you to keep pace.
It still makes something warm bloom in your chest, even now. Even after months of this being allowed.
“You’re smiling,” he says lightly, head angled toward you.
You huff. “I am not.”
“You are,” he replies, calm and certain. “Your breathing changed.”
You hate—fondly, hopelessly—that he’s right.
You’ve been together for nearly a year now, officially, though it still feels new in the places that matter. The confession last spring hadn’t rewritten who you were to each other. It had only shifted the weight of things, moved what was once unsaid into the open where it could be held carefully between you.
Still friends. Still familiar. Just… warmer. More deliberate.
“Maybe I just like Hogsmeade,” you say, nudging his arm with your elbow as you walk.
“Mm,” Ominis hums. “You like Honeydukes.”
You do, admittedly. The smell alone is enough to soften you, even from halfway down the street, sugar and chocolate and something rich and buttery curling through the cold air. The shop windows glow invitingly, stacked with boxes and jars and absurdly coloured sweets, and you slow without meaning to.
He notices immediately.
“You don’t have to stop,” you say, already stopping.
“I wasn’t planning on not stopping,” he replies, dry.
The bell over the door rings as you step inside, and warmth rushes to meet you, melting the chill from your cheeks. The shop is crowded, as always, voices overlapping in excited bursts. Somewhere to your left, a child laughs too loudly; somewhere to your right, someone drops a box with a clatter.
Ominis’s wand is already in his hand, relaxed, familiar. You don’t watch him navigate anymore; you’ve learned not to. He knows where he’s going, and he knows where you are, and that’s enough.
You drift together past shelves of Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Whizzbees, past jars of sugared quills and jewel-bright sweets that glitter under the lights. You pause at a display near the centre, eyeing a stack of chocolate bars wrapped in gold foil.
“These are new,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything. “Caramel-filled, apparently.”
“Apparently,” Ominis echoes, amused.
You pick one up, turn it over in your hands, then put it back with a small sigh. “I always think I want chocolate, but really, it’s the caramel I like. Chocolate with caramel is just—” You gesture vaguely, searching.
“Better,” he supplies.
You laugh softly. “Yeah. Better.”
The word better settles somewhere deep and quiet.
It reminds you—dimly, without warning—of last year. Fifth year. A different Hogsmeade visit, colder somehow, both of you still circling something unnamed. You’d been standing near the window then, nursing a mug of butterbeer gone lukewarm, complaining idly about sweets you liked but never bought.
Caramel cobwebs are my favourite, you’d said, distracted, watching snow collect on the sill. But they’re always sold out. I never remember to get them early.
You’re not sure why that memory surfaces now. It’s harmless. Forgettable. Just a fact said aloud and released into the air, never meant to be kept.
You move on without giving it a thought.
You don’t notice when Ominis slips away.
It’s only when you turn back toward him, fingers brushing empty air, that you realise he isn’t at your side. You glance around, momentarily startled, then spot him a few steps off, standing near one of the smaller displays closer to the counter.
He hasn’t gone far. You let him be, content to wander a little on your own, fingers tracing the edges of boxes, reading labels you’ve long since memorised. The noise of the shop wraps around you, familiar and comforting, and you find yourself smiling again without thinking about it.
When Ominis returns, he doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps back into your space with the easy confidence of someone who belongs there, something small and paper-wrapped pressed into your hands.
“For you,” he says simply.
You look down.
The packaging is warm from his touch, the lettering cheerful and looping: Caramel Cobwebs — caramel-flavoured bites.
Your breath stutters.
“Oh,” you say, very softly.
His mouth curves, just slightly.
“You mentioned it once.”
Your fingers curl around the sweets as if they might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough. The memory clicks into place, sharp and sudden, and your chest feels too full for something so small.
“And you remembered?” you ask, trying—and failing—not to smile.
There’s a pause. Not a long one. Just enough.
“I did,” Ominis says gently. “You’re… not being subtle, by the way.”
You blink. “What?”
He turns fully toward you now, expression fond in that quiet, devastating way of his. “Your voice,” he explains. “And your breathing.”
Then, softer still:
“You’re smiling.”
You don’t bother hiding it anymore.
You don’t realise you’ve stopped walking until Ominis does.
He slows first, naturally, the way he always adjusts to you, and when you don’t match the shift, he turns his head slightly, attention sharpening. The shop noise presses in around you, but the space between the two of you feels strangely hushed, as though something delicate has been placed there and neither of you wants to jostle it.
“You all right?” he asks, low.
You nod, then realise he can’t see it and murmur, “Yeah. Just—”
Just what?
You don’t finish the thought. You don’t need to. The sweets are still warm in your hands, the paper crinkling faintly as your fingers flex. You’re suddenly aware of how close he is, how his sleeve brushes your wrist when you shift, how easily you could lean into him if you let yourself.
You do let yourself.
Not fully. Just enough that your shoulder finds his arm, light, tentative. A familiar question wrapped in a familiar gesture. Are you still here? Is this still okay?
Ominis doesn’t hesitate. His arm moves, slow and certain, settling behind you, his hand resting at your back with gentle intent. Not possessive. Not public enough to draw attention. Just present.
“Better?” he murmurs.
You exhale, the breath leaving you in a way that feels like surrender. “Yeah.”
He hums quietly, satisfied, and guides you a step closer to the edge of the display, out of the worst of the foot traffic. The shop smells sweeter here, thick with caramel and sugar, and you let your head tip slightly toward him, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his shoulder through your coat.
You tilt your head, looking up at him. “Not… like that. I remember liking them. I don’t remember thinking it mattered.”
His thumb shifts at your back, a small movement you feel more than see. Thoughtful. Careful.
“It mattered to me,” he says.
The words aren’t heavy. He doesn’t give them weight on purpose. They land anyway.
You swallow, throat tight, and glance back down at the sweets in your hands. “It was such a stupid thing,” you say quietly. “I was just rambling.”
“You usually are,” he agrees, fondly.
You laugh under your breath, the sound curling in on itself. “Rude.”
“Accurate,” he corrects, then pauses. His voice changes, just a fraction. “You were talking about how everyone assumes you like chocolate because it’s… obvious. But caramel feels like it’s hiding. You said it’s warmer. Less sharp.”
Your breath catches.
“I remember thinking,” he continues, eyes unfocused in that way they get when he’s looking somewhere else entirely, “that you sounded very certain about it. Like you’d already decided what you wanted, even if you didn’t think it was worth asking for.”
You don’t know what to do with that, so you lean into him properly this time. Your forehead rests briefly against his shoulder, a quiet, instinctive retreat. His hand at your back tightens just enough to acknowledge it, to keep you there.
“You remembered that,” you whisper.
“I remember most things you say,” he replies, just as quietly. Then, after a beat, “Especially when you don’t think anyone’s listening.”
The shop feels too bright all of a sudden. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him anchor you, letting the noise blur into background static. Somewhere nearby, someone laughs; somewhere else, the bell over the door rings again. None of it touches you.
“I didn’t think—” You stop, then try again. “I didn’t realise you were… holding onto things like that. Even before.”
Ominis’s head dips, just slightly, until his temple rests against yours. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice. You do.
“I’ve been holding onto things about you for years,” he says. “I just didn’t always know what to do with them.”
Your hand slips from the sweets to his sleeve, fingers curling there, grounding yourself in the familiar fabric. “And now?”
A pause. Not uncertain. Considered.
“Now,” he says, “I get to give them back to you.”
You pull away just enough to look at him, your smile small and unguarded and entirely yours. He tilts his head, listening, and the corner of his mouth lifts in response.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“That sound,” he says. “You do it when you’re happy.”
You laugh, this time openly, unable to stop it. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he replies, thumb brushing a gentle arc at your back, “you’re still here.”
You lean in again, closer than before, your voice barely more than breath. “I always am.”
His hand settles more firmly at your waist, grounding, sure. The world doesn’t end. Nothing dramatic happens. You just stand there together, sharing warmth and sugar and a memory that has finally found its way home.
When you pull back, you tuck the caramel cobwebs carefully into your coat, right over your heart.
Ominis notices, but he doesn’t comment; he just smiles.
—
The castle is quieter by the time you return.
Night has settled properly now, the corridors dim and echoing, torchlight sliding in slow gold bands across the stone. Your footsteps sound too loud at first, then soften as you unconsciously fall back into step with Ominis, your shoulders nearly brushing.
The cold from Hogsmeade still lingers in your bones, but the warmth from Honeydukes stays with you, sugar and caramel tucked into your coat, pressed close to your chest. You keep thinking about it—about him—and every time you do, your mouth threatens to curve into a smile again.
You make it as far as the Slytherin common room before you break.
“You really remembered,” you say suddenly.
Ominis slows, head turning slightly toward you. “You’ve mentioned that.”
“Yes, but—” You huff out a quiet laugh. “You remembered from last year. I barely remember what I ate yesterday.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” he replies mildly.
You grin, unabashed now. “You went out of your way.”
“I was already in Honeydukes.”
“You bought the exact thing I said I liked,” you press, clearly enjoying this far too much.
There’s a pause. You can almost hear him deciding whether to indulge you.
“…Yes.”
You beam. “You’re very sweet.”
“I bought you sweets,” he says dryly. “That was the point.”
“That is not what I meant,” you laugh.
The entrance to the common room opens, and you step inside together, the cool, green-lit space wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. The fire crackles low, casting soft shadows across the walls. A few students linger at the tables, murmuring, but it’s late enough that no one pays you much attention.
You drop down onto the rug near the fire without ceremony, back resting against the sofa. Ominis follows without hesitation, settling beside you, close enough that your knees brush.
You pull the caramel cobwebs back out, holding them up triumphantly. “I still can’t believe this.”
“I can,” he says. “You’re being very loud about it.”
“I am not being loud,” you protest, tearing open the packet. “I’m being appreciative.”
He hums, amused, as you offer him another one. He takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, deliberately.
“You know,” you say casually, far too casually, “this sets a dangerous precedent.”
“Oh?” he replies.
“Yes. Now I’m going to start mentioning things I like just to see if you remember them a year later.”
“That seems inefficient.”
“Floral-scented parchment,” you continue, ignoring him. “That tea from Hogsmeade with the weird aftertaste. When you tuck my hand into your sleeve when it’s cold.”
His head tilts toward you. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Smiling,” he says, fondly.
You lean closer, shoulder pressing into his arm. “You love it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Be careful,” he murmurs instead. “I might remember all of it.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Oh Merlin, there it is.”
Sebastian’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade, far too amused.
You freeze.
“So that’s why you two disappeared in Honeydukes,” he continues, clearly closer than you realised. “I was wondering why Gaunt looked like he’d just committed a premeditated act of romance.”
You groan, dropping your head back against the sofa. “Sebastian.”
Ominis sighs. “We were not—”
“You absolutely were,” Sebastian interrupts, plopping down onto the arm of the sofa behind you. “Buying specific sweets based on a single offhand comment from last year? That’s criminally soft.”
You peek up at him. “You heard that?”
“I heard everything,” he says cheerfully. “Including the part where you threatened to emotionally manipulate him via future snack preferences.”
“That is not what I said!”
Ominis turns his head slightly toward Sebastian. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” Sebastian replies. “I survived dark curses and near-death experiences for this exact reward.”
You laugh despite yourself, warmth bubbling up again, and without thinking, you lean fully into Ominis’s side, your head tipping against his shoulder. His arm comes around you naturally, fingers resting against your sleeve, grounding and familiar.
Sebastian squints at the sight. “Disgusting,” he says, fondly. “Truly revolting.”
“You’re welcome to leave,” you tell him.
“And miss this?” He grins. “Never.”
Ominis’s thumb brushes a small, absent-minded arc against your arm, slow and steady. The sweets taste like caramel. The fire crackles softly.
You close your eyes, still smiling, still giddy, still warm all the way through.
♥︎ modern au Diluc who is insanely rich but you are completely unaware for awhile - he's rather quiet, sweetly intentional, a gentleman and of course pays for all of your dates, drives a nice but modest enough car, nothing that really starts to raise your suspicions about his financial situation...
You'd met him at a bar — Angels Share, a classic and classy style establishment where you enjoyed a drink but nothing too frivolous, hopping off the bar stool and headed to the bathroom when a patron who was singing too loudly had accidentally knocked into you, and you fell against a sturdy figure that caught you at the shoulders. Diluc on his name tag and his hair a firey mane of red tied up in a ponytail that only accentuated his sharp jawline and gentle eyes. You'd only thought him an employee, black dress shirt sleeves rolled up past his forearms and a white vest that pulled at his waist, the uniform for the other workers there that was familiar. You apologized for such an embarrassing run in to the man, and in time you found that you had caught his attention, and he caught yours in return.
You weren't much of a bar person to be honest, and not really a drinker, so your visits to the establishment where Diluc worked was really to see him. He'd lean over the bar and hand you something new he'd been working on, glittering drinks of blue with fresh sunsettia slices on the rim, to a creamy pink smoothie with a dazzling swirl of whipped cream piled on top that left a mustache on your top lip, and Diluc swallowing softly when you'd licked it away in delight with your tongue. You murmured in curiosity if his boss would add the drinks to the menu, not catching Dilucs hum and the slight lift to the corners of his lips when he replied,
"I'm sure he wont mind at all."
But in any case, you and this man that you met at a bar, Diluc Ragnvindr, had exchanged phone numbers and now dates were being had (ones that he planned and always picked you up, much to your surprise) bouquets of your favorite flowers were being brought up to your tiny apartment just outside of town (because it's all you could afford), and your hand had grown familiar with the feeling of holding his bicep as he escorted you to yet another dinner at some cozy restaurant where you watched him across the candlelight on your table. His eyes would flicker like the flame before you when he reached out to hold your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles.
"I'm very, very fond of you. Do you know that?" he admitted. Lowering his gaze to where your fingers squeezed his. You tried to fight a wider grin than the one you were already sporting.
"I really like you too, Diluc." you replied softly, and you saw a bigger smile from him than you had ever seen before. It made your heart race wildly and before your entrees were brought out, he lifted your hand to his lips and placed a kiss there, and you couldn't move for a second. As if you were a little rabbit caught under the stare of a falcon, but still, your blood grew hot under the heat of his lips on your skin, and you smiled again.
After walking you to his car, and before he opened the door for you to get in he slid an arm around your waist and pressed his forehead to yours. You felt his breath on your face you felt the elation in your chest, knowing that your first kiss with him was coming. Yet after a moment, Diluc took a small step back.
"If we are going to be together, I must admit something to you." he uttered almost woefully, taking your hand and giving you a long glance.
Your heart still thundered at the fact he wanted to be with you, wanted it to be official, but the way he spoke did give you a slight wobble. You nodded and he helped you into the car.
"Would you like to come home with me?" Diluc asked quietly, a flush on his cheeks that you were so endeared by any time he was being a sweetheart to you (which was often) and placed his wide, warm palm on your thigh. You chewed your bottom lip while placing your hand atop of his, and told him yes.
The car ride was long, taking you outside of town and under the stars, the wind making the trees dance and your senses heightened the longer Diluc drove. His hand stayed on your thigh, the other driving and his face set in a neutral line.
He wasn't an axe murderer, right?
Your heart roared in your ears as you peered ahead to what could only be described as a dream. A mansion came into view, surrounded by endless rows of vineyards. The property was vast, the home itself a picture of class and deep wealth, the high peaks of the building giving the illusion of it almost being castle - like. Something fit for royalty. Getting closer to the entrance of the great home, your eyes sparkled at the fat grapes hanging on the vines to the sight of the glimmering lake only a short ways away, to the cobblestone that made up the walkway.
The car came to a stop, and as Diluc came around to retrieve you, your lips pulled into a curious pout.
"What was your big secret, that you were taking me to a vineyard? How romantic Diluc." you swooned and curled yourself into his side. You knew Diluc did not favor drinking, but also was keen on his inherent romantic side that wanted to spoil you. So a place like this felt natural to enjoy with him for a surprise.
He laughed softly at that, shaking his head.
"This...is my home." he replied. He glanced up at the grand house before you and you exhaled, face falling.
"Diluc...you can't be serious. You work at a bar, and not even full time!" you say with a laugh of disbelief.
"To tell you the truth, I own that bar. The Angels Share." he corrects, clearing his throat when your eyes widen and your mouth gapes. Here you are, in a shoebox apartment that has barely working heat, and the guy you're falling in love with is what? A millionaire?
"Are you a millionaire?" the question slips out before you can stop yourself and your palm flies to your mouth. You sound like a gold digger. Diluc chuckles softly, pulling you to him and your heels clack on the cobblestone as you blink up at him.
"I am, well I'm very comfortable." he nods.
"In short, I run my late father's business and it's very successful. We have clients that run 50 years with our wines and spirits. All over the place."
Your head feels hot and your knees nearly buckle. He sounds so...elegant as he speaks. Moreso than his usual manner of speaking that makes you think of the victorian era movies you like so much. He's rich rich. You also gave pause to the fact he'd mentioned his late father. It made your chest hurt. Your eyes waver from his gaze and he cranes his neck, leaning down to make you look at him.
"You're frightened." he murmurs. Letting you go. Giving you space.
"I'm not. I'm just.....scared." you breathe.
"Is that not the same as frightened?" Diluc laughs.
You press a cool hand to your cheek. He places his hands in his pockets. You wonder how much his watch is worth.
"Tell me what you're thinking." he asks, voice low.
After a breath -
"I don't want you to think I'm a gold digger. Or that I'm insincere about you." you all but whine. Shuffling your feet a little and coming closer to the redhead who exhales through his nose, giving you a humored look.
"I could never think that about you. Ever." he promises.
"But..?"
"But, I would hope you could understand why I withheld this.....information. If I can be honest, I'm quite nervous myself. I don't want to lose you." he replies. Honest, shoulders straight and he almost looks....businesslike. You snort.
"I'm just glad you're not an axe murderer."
"I beg your pardon?" he raises an eyebrow and you laugh, letting him pull you close once again. "Diluc, you won't lose me. I am of course...very surprised by all this. But I'm really happy that...well that you trust me. I like you so much." you smile up at him and he sighs with relief. The glow from his mansion casts a gentle light across his face as he lowers his head, easily finding your lips.
You hand comes up to cup his jaw, the warmth of his mouth engulfing yours as you make a soft noise of delight as he kisses you gently, and then like he was afraid you would disappear from his grasp. The petal softness of your lips dissolved Dilucs heart, and he wound his arms tighter around you as you melted into each other. He kissed you and you ached for him, parting for a moment to catch his half lidded eyes like a flame, and the spit slick pale pink of his lips and he groaned your name, pulling you to him again for another fierce kiss that you nearly collapsed into.
He let you catch your breath, squeezing your waist and kissing at your heated cheeks while the pale moon beamed down at you as he held your hand and led you around the property for a special tour. You were in wonder, laughing in loud disbelief when you rounded a corner with him to an impressive garage, a few of the vehicles parked there putting to shame his little sedan he tends to pick you up in.
He'd led you into the vineyards where you ate a grape from his fingers that he plucked for you, kissing away the juicy purple from your bottom lip. Then to the stables, Diluc promising to let you ride his favorite stallion on another day (and also promising that his horse would adore you as much as he does), and finally your shoes were kicked off on the shore as you waded in the clear waters of the lake that resided on the vast property, heart still racing at how unreal all of this felt.
"I think I'm in a dream." you sigh, glancing back at Diluc who had rolled his pants up and was slowly walking towards you, the water around you gently lapping at your legs.
"Are you now?" he asks with a bemused lilt, hugging your waist from behind. He kissed your neck under the moon and you shivered, leaning back into his touch.
"I am. But not necessarily because of....all of this. I hope you believe me." you say thoughtfully, hopefully. Diluc kisses your neck again, before pressing his cheek to yours.
"I do. I can assure you. However, I am curious as to know why you would think you're in a dream. I would not want to wake up from such a moment with you if I can be so bold." Diluc murmurs beside you.
"I guess it feels like a dream because of you, Diluc.
It's simple. Someone like you, falling for me? When you clearly could have anything, anyone that you want." you turn in his hold and you're nose to nose.
He kisses it, and then tilts his head to kiss your lips.
"Well arent I lucky then? That in all the world of anything and anyone, I found you?" he whispered, his voice husky. Your eyes then stung, lips parting with a gasp at his words, and he kissed you again with opportunity, squeezing you tightly against his chest.
The water lapped at your ankles as you stood with him under the stars, promising to take you home soon but wanting to hold you just a bit longer. Your eyes fluttered shut and your head rested against his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of his figure in contrast to the cool breeze. You felt his lips on your temple and hummed. Perhaps it felt like a dream but you were truly glad it wasn't.
I wasn't planning on writing anything for today, but I woke up this morning and decided to bang out a quick little V-Day drabble.
Not proof-read, barely edited, and based off the silliest little last minute idea.
I just picture Sebastian and MC interacting like:
Sebastian: You're incredible, I love you so much.
MC: Haha omg thanks ily too bestie
And Seb is convinced they are in love and MC thinks he's just the bees knees best friend she's ever had.
Roughly ~2,700 words
Summary: Sebastian and MC skip class and the chaos of Valentine's Day to enjoy the relaxation of Hogsmeade. MC believes it to be another normal day with her best friend, but Sebastian views the situation quite a bit differently...
Never Any Doubt
Valentine's Day at Hogwarts was always synonymous with chaos - even more so for its most famous student.
The very worst day, very worst several months, actually, of her life had been viewed through the scope of achievement heroism by the rest of the wizarding world. Rather than the most traumatic event in all her years, she received sparse few sympathetic words and instead suffered through congratulations.
Worse still were the marriage proposals.
Letter after letter poured in regularly each and every meal without fail, her peers always casting a curious glance to see which family was requesting a new daughter-in-law that day.
It was mortifying and insulting and exhausting.
Her poor owl had even long since grown weary of sending rejection replies.
Her initially polite responses of -
I'd simply like to focus on my studies for now, no thank you, but I am flattered by your consideration.
Eventually morphed into increasingly curt answers, like -
No.
And finally -
Respectfully, I would sooner lick troll dung than sign my name to your family registry.
Replies in the latter manner generally received Howlers in response, and no one was more gleeful about those incidents than the only boy who was not a perpetual thorn in her side.
At least not in the romantic sense, because he was still a pain in the ass.
Sebastian Sallow, presently seated across from her at a back table inside Mrs. Steepley's tea shop was making a poor attempt at stifling his snickers at her unending plight. The infamous day of romance had grown so unbearable that morning, what with her being ceaselessly badgered with compliments and candies and frivolous adoration, that Sebastian had taken pity on her and dragged her into Hogsmeade in a flurry to escape it all.
The inevitable detention for skipping an entire day of classes in favor of their excursion would be well worth it, and she had been grateful for his ability to perceive her discomfort with all the fuss.
Until they took their seats, and he'd started laughing at her.
"Really, Sebastian. I don't think it's all that funny. I'm genuinely suffering." She said, disapproving.
Again, Sebastian snorted in his attempts to not laugh quite so blatantly. "Oh, yes, how terrible it must be for you to drown in affection and gifts. I could almost shed a tear for you, poor thing."
She rolled her eyes, but smiled.
"You're only so happy about it because you know I'll give you all those chocolates to gorge yourself on."
Shamelessly, Sebastian nodded and took a bite of his cookie, excited at the prospect of a future filled with chocolate frogs and ill-gotten sweets. "Always. Sometimes I wonder when they'll learn you don't even like candy, but at the same time, I hope they never do as I will continue reaping the rewards."
"You expect this to continue? Merlin, I hope not. Maybe I really should get married to drive home the point once and for all that I'm not interested." She replied simply.
Sebastian choked, crumbs flying out of his mouth across the table. Despite her disgust at having spittle and chewed cookie land in her tea, she swiftly stood and rounded the table to pat his back.
"Swallowing your food is generally accepted as best practice when eating, rather than inhaling your solids." She soothed, voice saccharine while rubbing circles on his back.
Tears formed in Sebastian's eyes while he tried simultaneously to yell at her, breathe, and not laugh and risk death by pastry once again. Before he could speak, however, a voice cut through over his gasps and her teasing remarks.
"Young romance is so sweet to see. You two lovebirds stay the day, if you like. I won't tell your Headmaster you snuck away together. Such a cute couple..." Mrs. Steepley crooned wistfully from her counter, watching them with sickening affection before one of her kettles whistled, and she busied herself with that instead of prying.
"A cute couple? I think I'd rather she rat us out to Black than continue spewing sap. I'll lose my appetite at this rate." MC said, resting her hand on Sebastian's shoulder now that he'd calmed down.
Touch wasn't something unfamiliar between the two, but heat rose to her cheeks when he placed his hand on top of hers and looked up with a slight smile that was not at all teasing.
It was... fond?
The moment felt far more intimate than their usual touches somehow, and the rosy hue blossoming uncontained on her cheeks only made her more flustered because surely he saw it just as plainly as she felt it.
It must have just been the romantic atmosphere and all the absurd talk of courtship because there was no way this moment was anything besides platonic -
"What's so wrong with being called a cute couple? I happen to think we're a perfect pair, but I'm curious what descriptor you prefer be used for us." He said, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
"...us?" She asked blankly.
"What's got you all flustered? Yes, of course, us. I know you're not much for public sentimentality, but it's been nearly two years as a couple? You have to admit we're at least cute sneaking out of the castle together like this on Valentine's Day." Sebastian answered, amused, and gave her hand an affectionate little squeeze.
She blinked, rooted to the spot and nothing in her head but panic.
Two years? A couple? When had he asked? When had she said yes? They hadn't even kissed, for Merlin's sake! Was this a fever dream? Perhaps his tea had been spiked. Or hers.
What in the hell was happening?
Sebastian's expression contorted into concern, and he reached up to brush the back of his hand against her cheek.
"You're pale. What's wrong? Do you need to sit down?" He fussed, not hesitating to get out of his seat and plop her into it.
She simply let him guide her there, still raking through every interaction they'd ever had since they'd met in fifth year, trying to discern where this incredible disconnect took place. He remained kneeling beside her, searching her face for any hint of what was wrong.
Always so doting - it's why she appreciated having him by her side. He was always such a lovely friend.
Or more? The lines had blurred somewhere, surely.
After coming up empty on precisely when that had happened, she blurted out, "Are we dating, Sebastian?"
Now, it was his turn to freeze, stunned speechless.
He recovered much faster, however, brows furrowed and lips slightly downturned. "Is this... a trick question, darling?"
Darling. He did always call her that. When did it start, though?
"No, I'm asking you outright. Are we dating?" She insisted firmly, holding his gaze and trying to ignore the way her heart hammered against her ribcage.
"Y-yes?" He replied, voice cracking with uncertainty.
"Is that a question?"
"It shouldn't be, but I must admit you've got me a bit concerned. You've been my girlfriend since fifth year -"
"Since fifth year?! Have I really?!" She exclaimed, cutting him off and feeling faint.
"What in the hell do you mean have you really? Of course you have. Where is this all coming from? If you're breaking up with me, feigning amnesia is an awfully strange way to -"
She cut him off again, voice raising an octave. "I can't break up with someone I didn't even know I was seeing! When did this even start? Sebastian, I'm not feigning anything, I genuinely don't remember you asking."
They locked eyes, both wholly flabbergasted by the other. Sebastian looked offended while she was utterly mortified.
"... Perhaps I've been inexplicably and wildly presumptuous, but I had assumed it was more of an unspoken, mutually understood arrangement. Holding hands in the halls, always having my arm around you in the library, weekly dates to Hogsmeade, how you've rejected every other person without so much as batting an eye?" He spoke to her slowly, like he was explaining a very basic concept to a toddler.
She felt like a toddler, with how positively mystified she was by what had just been unveiled.
"Well, assumptions abound, I suppose, because I assumed you were just, I don't know, affectionate with all your friends." The words felt dumb leaving her mouth, and reality began setting in.
She'd never been in a relationship before. Or maybe she had? For well over a year, apparently. Gods, was she really that brainless?
Sebastian let out a strangled laugh, looking a bit pale now himself. "Well, I'm not exactly going around kissing Ominis on the cheek and holding his hand through the village. Did you really not know?"
"A kiss on the cheek and some hand-holding can easily be misconstrued as platonic! I-I kiss Poppy on the cheek all the time!" She defended weakly, increasingly unsure of how the world even worked anymore at this point.
It was like the entire floor opened beneath her feet, and she continued on in disbelief. "I am clearly not the expert, but aren't couples supposed to do quite a bit more than that? We've never even properly kissed!"
Now it was Sebastian's turn to go on the defensive, freckled cheeks burning brightly. "I just thought you were an especially chaste girl! You've always wanted to focus on your studies, I figured I'd take what I could get for now, and we'd get to the rest when you were ready. I could wait until the wedding to kiss you if I absolutely had to."
"The wedding?!" This was it. The most unholy, bizarre day of her entire life.
Goblins, curses, certain death? Easy. She could manage that with her eyes closed. Whatever the hell this was? She wanted to rip her hair out and scream.
Nothing made sense.
"You're honestly telling me that someone who's capable of spotting a snidget nest in a thicket can't even see when someone's in love with her? Either you need your head examined by Blainey, or I'm the greatest failure of a boyfriend there's ever been." Exasperated, Sebastian looked equally ready to throttle her.
They stared at each other in disbelief, mouths agape and faces bright red trying to reconcile how unimaginably fucked up this had all been.
And then, Sebastian snorted out another laugh.
She followed suit.
Before long, they were both slumped over each other at the little table in tears and gasping for air as they devolved into a shared fit of hysterical laughter at how absurd it all was. Both dense as ever, on opposite ends of the spectrum of idiocy.
Tea and snacks long forgotten during the conversation, Sebastian calmed himself first and remained knelt on the ground beside her chair. He took her hands and brought them to her lap, where he gave another affection squeeze, looking up at her with that boyish grin she enjoyed so much.
His face was still flushed, and his shaking hands in her own betrayed just how nervous he was despite the confidence he tried exuding.
"Let me ask you very clearly, and trust me when I say I intend to leave absolutely no room for misunderstanding. I'm not asking you to simply go on a date or be my Valentine." He started, lips still turned up in that crooked smile. "I need to know if you're mine."
Sharply exhaling through her nose, she regarded him for a long moment, considering.
Dating Sebastian wasn't such a ridiculous notion, she realized. He was safety and warmth personified, a perpetual source of joy in her life, and when she truly, truly thought about the future - he was the only person she could picture.
There'd always been love there in every little interaction.
Catching each other's eyes in the corridors and smiling, almost instinctively. How their hands always found each other's when they walked together. Late nights propped against each other, comfortably reading and feeling like he was simply a natural extension of herself. How his touch and presence always felt far more comfortable than the absence of it - he really was home to her.
Even today, when Sebastian simply saw her in distress and whisked her away to town without a care for the consequences. How even the most baffling misunderstandings never ended in arguments, but laughter.
"Well, I think you were correct, actually. I've been yours this whole time, haven't I?" She replied eventually, the words feeling perfectly right as they left her. "Shall we just consider today a lapse in judgment on my part? Maybe temporary insanity?"
Sebastian smiled brightly, letting his head fall to her lap to kiss her hands gently before looking back up at her with a grin.
"Temporary? You've always had a few screws loose - it's how you caught my eye in the first place." He teased. "Tell me something, though. Now that you are aware of me, my observant witch, has anything changed?"
That was certainly something to consider.
Sebastian, considerate as he was, never once questioned or pushed her preconceived boundaries, simply accepting she wasn't ready for anything beyond the most innocent of gestures.
But knowing what she knew now...
"I... feel inclined to reward you for your, frankly, inhuman patience. You are my first boyfriend, after all. I think that sort of love comes with a few benefits beyond mere hand-holding." She replied softly.
Sebastian's grin broadened, and he released one of her hands, reaching up to tug playfully at a loose strand of her hair.
"First? Maybe. But also last. And only." He pulled her hair with gentle insistence, coaxing her head down toward him, craning his own neck upward, until they were a breath apart. "Now, care to explore another first with me? If you're rewarding me, I already have something in mind."
Her reply, which was going to be a resounding and enthusiastic yes, was muffled when Sebastian very impatiently released that lock of her hair to slip his hand around the back of her head so that he could simply hold her in place when his lips finally met hers without warning.
The sensation, while new, still felt right. Sebastian's lips, soft and playful just like him, slotted against against hers perfectly. Barely a moment passed before she fell into sync with him, her hand laced through his still in her lap, while he kissed every thought in her head away.
His tongue probed hesitantly along her bottom lip, her mouth parting eagerly to accept him. He swallowed the startled squeak she let loose when he tasted her, and she could taste him in turn - all chocolate and mint tea. She loathed sweets, but the flavor was intoxicated on him. The low chuckle he offered in return had her knees weak, and she was glad to be seated.
Fingers tangling into her hair, he continued deepening the kiss, pulling her into him and seeing what other pretty noises he could draw from her.
For the briefest moment, she allowed herself a painful moment of realization that they could have been enjoying this all along instead of innocently reading together or walking through the forest gathering toadstools. She'd very much like to explore what else they could get up to alone...
But they weren't alone, as evidenced by Mrs. Steepley loudly clearing her throat and dropping her tray of fresh pastries onto to display counter with a bit more force and noise than probably necessary, but it was enough to stir her two amorous patrons out of their activities.
Red-faced and breathless, they pulled away, muttering apologies and straightening themselves, shy and lightheaded.
Sebastian stood slowly on shaking legs and offered his hand, which she readily accepted, for once noticing the way they molded together in a perfect fit.
He smirked down at her, not at all apologetic.
"I think we're due for a change of scenery before she hoses us down like a pair of dogs. I'd like to take my Valentine on a date she's actually aware of now." He said playfully, cocking a brow and pulling her up.
Again, she wondered just how many dates they'd been on and how many time she could have kissed him but didn't know it was even an option.
Standing on tiptoe, she pecked his lips once more before they left, fully intending to drag him somewhere quiet to make up for all that lost time.
Genuinely, this story is so so sweet! <3 AUGH— I can't get over how cute the characters are with their silly interaction. (ﾉ≧∇≦)ﾉ ﾐ ┻━┻
Selfish to say I need more of this prior to the valentine day event. ( ◜‿◝ )♡
[[MINOR SPOILERS OF HOGWARTS LEGACY:]]
I love the first few lines you mentioned mc's trauma from all the adventures they faced. Like— c'mon people! They literally saw someone died and eaten Infront of them on their way to school, UP IN THE AIR! It was so unexpected when I first play the game. The narrative only talk about George's death briefly and just moved on.
Speaking of death, the amount of times I died miserably in that game...
It would be fascinating to see an au where mc is aware of their multiple deaths... Having the ability to start over a major events in their lives.
I wonder if their mental capacity can handle the amount of times they died throughout their adventures, from the troll's attack in hogsmeade to the keeper trails— over and OVER again. They eventually improved their combat skills overtime while feeling numb from all of the pain and the severe injuries they received like it's nothing, don't worry guys, they had worse, but possibly they have PTSD now.
While questioning their ability as a witch/wizard, why do they even have the ability to conjure ancient magic at all when they keep on dying like a failure?? Does their achievements even count or worth praising for??? When does their real inevitable death come???!
AND that one time they made an embarrassing untimely jump that ANYONE can make across small gap between a ledge and a floating platform, unfortunately they fall through the gap and died instantly. Hopefully they can take that to their actual grave... But the possibility of another timeline of them dying from that moment will forever be a engraved in the back of their mind forever.
Sorry for the ramble! I just wish to share my thoughts on this, hehe. ♪ヽ(･ˇ∀ˇ･ゞ)
Ominis Gaunt x Reader
– A simple touch teaches Ominis that not all contact carries the weight of his past.
The Undercroft was quieter than usual. Sebastian had abandoned his usual post by the practice dummies, called away by some urgent matter involving Professor Weasley, leaving you alone with Ominis among the ancient pillars and flickering torchlight.
You'd been coming here more frequently lately, drawn by the sanctuary it offered from the chaos of school life. Ominis never seemed to mind your presence—in fact, he'd begun to seek out your company with an ease that surprised you both.
"You're thinking quite loudly," Ominis observed from where he sat on one of the stone benches, his wand idle in his lap for once. "Something troubling you?"
You glanced up from the book you'd been pretending to read. "Just... frustrated with Transfiguration. This assignment has me completely stumped."
"The animated objects essay?" His lips quirked slightly. "Sebastian complained about it for an entire hour yesterday. I've already finished mine, if you'd like to compare notes."
"You've finished it already?" You shouldn't have been surprised—Ominis had always been methodical about his studies.
"I find it easier to complete assignments when Sebastian isn't around to distract me." He stood, moving with that careful precision that always fascinated you, and crossed to where his bag rested against the wall. "Where did I put it..."
You rose to help, setting your book aside. "Here, let me—"
Your hand met his on the leather satchel at the same moment.
The contact was brief, accidental, but Ominis froze as if you'd struck him. His hand didn't immediately withdraw—instead, his fingers went very still beneath yours, and you felt the slight tremor that ran through them.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
You became acutely aware of every detail: the warmth of his skin, the elegant length of his fingers, the way his breath had caught almost imperceptibly. His clouded eyes were fixed in your direction with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
"I apologize," Ominis said quietly, finally pulling his hand back with deliberate control. His voice was measured, but something in it sounded strained. "I didn't realize you were so close."
"No, I'm sorry—I should have said something."
A complicated expression crossed his face. He turned slightly away, his jaw tightening. "You needn't apologize for... for touching me. It's not as though you've committed some grave offense."
But there was something in the way he said it, in the careful distance he'd now placed between you, that suggested it had affected him more than he wanted to admit.
"Ominis—"
"The essay should be in the front pocket," he said, his tone returning to its usual composure, though perhaps a touch more formal than before. "Feel free to reference whatever you need."
You retrieved the parchment, but your attention remained on him. He'd moved back to his bench, his posture perfect, his wand now spinning slowly between his fingers—a tell-tale sign of agitation you'd learned to recognize.
"You know," you ventured carefully, settling beside him with proper space between you, "most people don't react quite so strongly to an accidental touch."
His mouth formed a thin line. "Most people aren't Gaunts."
The bitterness in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. You waited, sensing there was more.
"Physical contact was... discouraged in my family home," he continued after a moment, his words chosen with precision. "Touch was either violent or absent entirely. So when someone touches me unexpectedly, even in kindness, I find myself..." He paused, as if searching for the right word. "...uncertain how to respond appropriately."
Your heart ached at the casual way he revealed something so painful.
"And when that someone is you," he added, so quietly you almost missed it, "the uncertainty is considerably more pronounced."
The torches flickered in the silence that followed. You looked down at his hand, still fidgeting with his wand, and made a decision.
Slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, you extended your hand and rested it gently over his.
Ominis went rigid again, but this time he didn't retreat. His wand stilled.
"Is this all right?" you asked softly.
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then, with deliberate care, his fingers shifted to loosely curl around yours. The gesture was tentative, almost experimental, as if he were navigating entirely unfamiliar territory.
"Yes," he finally said, his voice carrying a note of wonder beneath its usual control. "Yes, I believe it is."
You sat together in the gentle quiet of the Undercroft, hands intertwined, while Ominis slowly learned what it meant to be touched with tenderness instead of cruelty.
hi!! i saw you were missing syluseslittlebomb's fics and I'm here to tell you that she is back!!! as @littlebommetje now, the fics are also up in her ao3 please show her lots of love!!!
WHAAA—
Thank you bby for telling me this!! You're a real one 🫵😎
Summary: You are dragged to yet another one of your crappy boyfriend's miserable work functions only for him to abandon you to his awful colleagues, but you run into a man who helps you admit that you deserve better. You think you're having a one-night stand with a handsome stranger, but there's nothing casual about his intentions toward you.
Notes: Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV. This is not part of the Sylus series, it's just a long-ass oneshot, there is no mention of evol or magical sci-fi powers or wanderers although you are a hunter… of something? does it matter? not when sylus is here to tell you that you have shit taste in boyfriends.
This story contains: a crappy boyfriend, banter, hurt/comfort, fluff??→Sylus just being intensely sweet, a breakup, sex with Sylus [sylus penetrating, giving oral] this is not sex education, do not use it as a manual for fucking strangers (no condom, no discussion of STI or birth control), sociopolitical commentary and violence, a happy ending
You really, really don’t want to be here right now.
The twinkling fairy lights are lovely, looping in extravagant curves across the ceiling, spilling down the walls covered in pine wreaths and garlands, filling the luxurious bar with a pine scent that is incongruent to such an upscale, urban setting, here in a rooftop bar of a five star hotel in the heart of the city. In the corner opposite the band stands a huge Christmas tree, crystal ornaments twinkling in the fairy lights.
Glasses clink, a live jazz band, dressed in red and green velvet and wearing jaunty Santa hats, is playing tasteful classic holiday songs on a dais in the corner of the room. Over the music the crowd murmurs, sophisticated men and women engaged in boisterous conversation, toasting to the closing of a lucrative business year, successful client networking, the landing of the biggest cases from the most outrageous scandals of the year.
They’re friendly enough, if you consider snakes wearing bowties and dripping in haute couture friendly. The mask of civility is firmly in place, as polite laughter and faux congratulations are exchanged between colleagues whom you know would slit each other’s throats to make partner first, between partners who funnel profits from the law firm to supporting political campaigns that keep the regulations loose for the white collar criminals who make up the bread and butter of the client register, while tightening the noose around the necks of the blue collar criminals the firm represents on a pro bono basis for the sake of good public relations.
You really, really don’t want to be here right now.
You sip on your champagne. You can taste that it’s expensive, sharp on your tongue—like everyone in the room, but it does nothing for you. You’d rather be at home, in your pajamas, playing a video game on the couch or watching your latest detective series hyperfixation.
Everything is very nice, very fine, if you close your eyes and ignore everyone else in the room. If you ignore the fact that your boyfriend has once again asked you to come to one of his work functions as social currency, a pretty bauble to stand quietly, smiling pleasantly, as these birds of prey discreetly gloat about the carcasses they pick over on a daily basis to pad their bank accounts and their investment portfolios.
“Have you heard? McFayden just bagged the Benzos pharmaceutical case.”
There’s a low chuckle. “So the opposing counsel couldn’t convince the jury with the sob story of the adverse side effects on the poor children with cancer?”
“You’re terrible,” another voice purrs, not sounding upset at all—some spouse of one of the people making jokes about the failure of a class action lawsuit to secure justice for the parents of hundreds of kids who died as a result of the Benzos company intentional tampering with the results of clinical studies.
You wish you didn’t know these things. You wish you could stand here, soaking in the luxury of this beautiful, exclusive bar at the city’s pinnacle, blissfully ignorant of the absolutely gleeful depravity of the lawyers and their biggest clients swirling around you. But you’re not ignorant, or naive. Your boyfriend brings home stories of his colleagues, of the arguments he makes in briefs and before judges every day, as he fights tooth and claw to achieve partner status, along with the rest of the associates in the firm. You know all of these things, so you can’t even bring yourself to grab any of the delicious looking hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter, holding more champagne flutes and small plates aloft. You have no appetite, in this hungry, churning crowd.
It didn’t used to be like this. When you first met him, your boyfriend was a sweet, starry eyed young idealist, going to law school to change the world. You were a young hunter, fresh out of the Academy, equally full of hope and plans to save the world. You fell in love with his mirrored values, his easy affection for you despite the pressure of both of your schedules. You overlooked the fact that when you would tell him about your job, his eyes would glaze over and he rarely asked follow-up questions. So what, if he was never interested in your hobbies, the things you liked to do in your precious free time? He was so tired, from school, and then from studying for the bar, and then being ground down at various non-profit organizations, fighting the overwhelming tide of corruption and injustice. He was sweet to you. He would tell you how beautiful you are, he’d make polite, efficient love to you on the days he had the energy for it. You could tuck your own problems, your own wounds and interests into your pocket, carry them with you quietly until one day he’d have the energy and interest to ask you what you’re up to, what you’re reading, how your workday was, and actually listen to the answer. There are so many worse men out there than him, after all. You had dated a lot of them before you met him—cheaters. Toxic, jealous men who you were afraid to make angry, even if you knew you could probably put them down before they actually hit you. Your current boyfriend is kind, at least. For the most part. He only occasionally says small things that chip away at your self worth. About what you’re wearing, or your weight, how much, or how little you eat. Who are you to sometimes wish that someone would look at you and really want to know your thoughts, who would look at you and not just see a beautiful face, but a skilled, competent person? A funny, clever person. Your boyfriend never seems to get your jokes, but he does make an effort to chuckle sensibly when you tell them.
It didn’t used to be this way—you, standing abandoned in this crowd of piranhas. But somewhere along the way, your boyfriend changed. He became jaded, burnt out from his constant struggle against the unfairness of a system stacked against the vulnerable, and went to work for one of the most prestigious law firms in the country, defending insurance companies and insider trading finance moguls, pharmaceutical companies and pop stars who murdered their spouses. No longer is he too tired because he was fighting the good fight. Now he comes home, exhausted from trying to undercut his colleagues in the rat race to secure his future as a permanent partner in the firm with the nice shareholder bonuses. He says it’s for you too. That his future is your future, and that once he’s established at the firm, he’ll devote half of his time to pro bono cases. That he can have his cake and eat it too. That you just need to be patient with him, let him compromise your own values by staying by his side. He has always been (mostly) sweet to you. You feel bad every time you look at him and want more from him. He’s so busy. He says he’s doing this for you, even if you don’t want it.
You wonder when you became so passive in your private life, when you’re so assertive in your professional life. You don’t need anyone at all, after all. You aren’t actually limited to only choosing between your current boyfriend or any of the other dirtbags you’ve been with in your life. You could be alone. You are wondering more and more if maybe you wouldn’t just be happier being alone. But then your boyfriend will manage to remember your favorite drink from the cafe near your place, after forgetting it the last few times he brought something for you too (hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?), and you’d be touched and you’d feel bad for thinking that you’d rather not have anyone at all than him at your side.
Not that he’s at your side right now. He’s across the room, in an intense discussion about the latest client’s case he’s just taken on. Something big, complex. He’ll likely have to make multiple business trips for the discovery process alone. He doesn’t bother to try to help you engage in discussion with his colleagues, or to involve you in his own conversations. He just asks you to hold on a minute, he’ll be right back.
You shake your head at these thoughts, the empty feeling in your chest. You’re used to this. He promised to take you to your favorite bookstore after this function, like you used to do together before he got so busy working overtime that you rarely see him outside of bed these days. It’s unfair of you to feel treated like arm candy, a warm sex doll, a body to warm the ultramodern, stark apartment the two of you now share when he does come home before eleven at night.
You take a big gulp of the champagne, smile at the awful jokes being shared in the little group you’re standing with, and then excuse yourself to get another glass. Maybe if you get drunk, this horrible feeling in your chest will go away.
You glance around discreetly, locate one of the floating waiters, are about to ask for another flute, when you suddenly feel a warm presence behind you. The hair along your bare arms stands on end, static electricity washing over your skin. You turn and find a man standing closer to you than is polite. You take in his wide chest, because it’s at eye level, he’s so tall. Defined pectorals, even under a black dress shirt and vest that look impossibly soft, slick, expensive. Under the strong scent of pine in the room, you smell something delicious. Dark, clean musk. Your mouth starts to water. You lift your eyes, savoring the pale skin exposed under the casually unbuttoned shirt, so incongruent with the clear quality and sophistication of his clothing, as if he has studied how to appear artfully dishevelled. You admire the dip of his clavicle, the strength clearly visible in his broad shoulders, his neck, until you have to hold in a gasp when you reach the beauty of his face.
Sharp jaw, wide, generous mouth. His nose. You want to die, his nose. Long, nostrils flaring as if he too can smell whatever is making your saliva glands flood your mouth, a noticeable bump along the bridge of it. He has the nose of a Roman emperor, a god carved in stone. You have a fleeting impression of soft, silver hair, premature graying in contrast to his youthful face, but when you meet his eyes, everything else fades away.
The warm glow of lava over the rim of an active volcano. Tempting, beautiful, but you know if you try to touch it, you’ll lose yourself, melt—it will be over for you before you even know it. The red of banked, burning coals. They’re familiar to you, in the way that your own reflection in the mirror is familiar on your best days. When you look in the mirror and love yourself, which is often the only time these days that you feel loved at all, despite having a boyfriend.
At the thought of your boyfriend, you sever the connection, looking away from the beautiful stranger who has simply stood there and let you look your fill without saying a word, as if you didn’t just devour him with your hungry gaze, having to swallow the extra saliva the sight of him sent flowing through your mouth.
Your boyfriend isn’t jealous like other men you’ve been with. He never acts possessive in public, doesn’t worry if other men and women look at you, admire you. But he is always worried that if he’s not there, someone will try to poach what’s his. That they’ll hit on you, and you’ll fall under their spell and cheat on him. You sometimes wonder why he would even care, considering how little he touches you these days, but out of respect for him you never act in a way that could cause him to feel insecure, whether he’s around or not. And even if you didn’t respect him, there’s no way you would throw away the peaceful, if unfulfilling stability you have with him right now, not for a man like the one in front of you, who is dripping in sex appeal, who is gorgeous and knows it, who could snap his fingers and have most of the people in this room on their knees for him. Why would he ever look at you? A pretty bauble, yes, but someone who would rather be at home, replaying Stardew Valley for the 47th time. Not someone exciting, exotic. Just a person who doesn’t dress quite right, with humble hobbies and a hard job to do, trying not to be an asshole.
You look away and try to take a step to the side, to allow this man to pass by you. You’ll remember his eyes until the day you die, you think, and he’ll never even know you existed.
But as you take a step, so does he. You find yourself still eyes-to-chest with him.
“Oh, sorry,” you murmur, and try to step to the other side. Sometimes when you’re trying to scurry out of someone’s way, you just make yourself more of a nuisance.
But as you take the step to the side, so does he. You two could almost be dancing, with how close you are, with how in sync he’s matching your movements.
You laugh, a little breathlessly, embarrassed that you’re fucking this up so badly. You’re trying to let him pass, and you keep getting in his way.
“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, and his voice sinks into your chest, filling the void that you realize you’ve been carrying for months now. Maybe even years. You feel it keenly now, as if in the filling, the emptiness is exaggerated. Like after being ill, when the fever and the vomiting have passed, you suddenly realize how healthy you feel, how grateful you are to be feeling well again. With his voice filling the hole inside you, you’re so grateful to remember what it is like to feel whole again.
Impossible, crazy thoughts.
You look up again, get caught in the vice of his gaze again. His uncanny red eyes are soft as they look down into yours. He has a frown line between his dark silver eyebrows, as if he spends a lot of time thinking deeply. He’s not smiling at you, but you get the delusional feeling that he’s happy to be looking at you. But his face is blank, an impassive mask, quietly observing you. Why on earth would he be happy to see you?
“Oh, sorry,” you say again, apologizing for apologizing, unintentionally defying his command.
He snorts softly through his big, beautiful nose. “Not very obedient, are we, kitten?” he asks.
You scowl at him. Okay, so he’s beautiful, but as you suspected, he’s beautiful and he knows it, and he thinks he can get away with speaking to you so disrespectfully without even having properly met, simply because he’s the most attractive man in the room no matter where he goes.
“Not for douchebags, no,” you say smoothly. But you’re actually polite, so you tack on, “Excuse me. If you stay put, I’ll step to the left, and you can continue to where you want to go.” You wait for him to acknowledge your suggestion, to avoid another accidental dance with him.
“No need to lie, sweetheart.” He flicks his gaze across the room, and you have the strange, impossible feeling that he’s looking at your boyfriend. “And I’m probably the least douchey person in this room, besides you.”
You take in his expensive clothes, the soft sweep of his beautiful hair. He’s wearing a tight black vest over his black silk shirt, perfectly tailored to reveal his huge chest, his narrow waist, the proportions of a cartoon superhero, not a real man. His long, thick legs, wrapped in tight black trousers. Monk strap shoes, their attractiveness ruined by stupid fucking chains around the heels. He looks like the wealthy, spoiled adult son of a mob boss. You wonder if he is one of the law firm’s soulless clients.
“Doubtful,” you clip out, because you learned long ago that the more you engage with egotistical pricks, the more likely you’ll end up in trouble with your boyfriend for embarrassing him. That is why you just stand around at events like this, smiling vacantly, trying to get through the evening without causing a scene and either punching someone or drenching their expensive clothing in wine.
“Oh, I like a challenge.” His eyes, already bright, sharp, light up. “Allow me the opportunity to disprove your doubt.” He ignores your clear dismissal, your request for him to pass you by. Your breath catches again. How can one man be so magnetic? Why are you so attracted to such terrible men? You think of your boyfriend, how sweet he used to be capable of being.
“I think you’ll be just fine if one person doesn’t fall for your charms,” you say, suddenly exhausted. You really, really, don’t want to be here. You turn your head, look for your boyfriend. He’s still in deep, serious conversation with colleagues. You wonder why he wanted you to come at all, when he never had any intention of spending any part of this evening with you.
“And what if I don’t care if the entire world falls for my charms, but I won’t survive the one person who resists?” he asks, drawing your attention back to him.
“Typical rich bastard problems,” you snort. “Wanting only what you can’t have.”
“There's nothing typical about me.” He laughs softly, and even his laugh is dripping with money. “And there's nothing I can't have, because I don’t give up when going after what I want. It’s not a matter of if, but when.”
You give in to the urge to roll your eyes so hard you probably look like you’re having a seizure. “I’m not even sorry for being the one who shatters your delusion. Thank you for your interest, if that’s what you’re implying, but the feeling is not mutual.” Maybe you were tempted, or impressed, before he opened his mouth, but with every word since he opened it, he reveals himself to be exactly the same as all the other assholes in this bar.
“Who says I’m implying anything?” he asks, his strange wine-bright eyes shimmering with amusement at your blunt rejection. “I prefer a straightforward approach. I’m interested. Tell me how to make it mutual.”
You can’t help but admire the audacity of this guy—he seems completely unfazed by your clear disgust. You wish you could have half his entitlement on a daily basis.
You fix him with an unimpressed look. “I doubt there’s anything you could do to make it mutual.”
“Again, with your doubt,” he tsks. “How are you so sure that you could never return my interest? You stand there, judging me without even knowing me, just as guilty of dismissing people based on their appearance as all of the shallow, hypocritical animals in this bar.”
You laugh in his face. “Oh yes, I’m just as terrible as these lying, defrauding, malicious fucks. You got me.” You turn to walk away.
“If you recognize these parasites for what they are, then why are you here?” he taunts.
His bait is successful—you turn your head and look at him again, once again struck by his beauty, the intelligence in his eyes, the soft fall of his light hair.
“The main reason you don’t have a chance tonight. I’m here with my boyfriend.”
He steps closer to you, and you have to tilt your head back to look into his entrancing eyes. “If you’re willing to settle for one of these cretins, and you think I’m of the same ilk, then why am I the exception in not being able to catch your interest? I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”
You stare at him, suddenly struck by the absurdity of this conversation. With just a few words, he has held up a mirror, forcing you to look at what your life has become. Cold, empty, and hollowly attached to a man who is everything you just accused this man of being. Why are you here? Why do you continue to look the other way as your boyfriend sinks ever more deeply into his new identity of a lying, defrauding, malicious fuck?
And yet part of you can’t help but defend him, despite what he has become. Despite the fact that even from the beginning, he was (mostly) sweet but uninterested in who you really are.
“He used to be sweet,” you say, at a loss as to why you’re telling this stranger this, revealing so much to him in those few words.
“I can be sweet,” he says, lifting his hand, taking a lock of your hair between his long fingers, fiddling with it in a surprisingly endearing way. “For you.”
“I can’t imagine a man like you and ‘sweet’ in the same breath,” you smile, despite yourself.
“Your imagination is terribly limited, then. We’ll work on expanding it,” he says, as if the matter is settled. “What else does he offer you?”
You hesitate. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the gloating, disgusting conversations you have had to endure tonight, again, and you’re just finally reaching the end of your rope. Or maybe it’s this man, teasing, baiting the truth out of you with his intense focus, an incubus tempting you not with his sexuality, although he is carnally appealing to you, but with his apparently sincere interest in your answers. You don’t think your boyfriend has ever looked at, listened to you with such intense focus before. Maybe it’s the fact that this man is someone you’ll never see again. You find yourself answering. “Despite all his flaws, he never cheated—that I know of. He didn’t ever want to hit me.” Your voice trails off, as you draw a blank as what your boyfriend still has to offer you.
His dark silver brows draw together as you go quiet, as he realizes that you have nothing else to say. “That’s all? It’s not even a challenge.” He sounds disgusted.
You look away, suddenly feeling pathetic, as if his disgust is aimed at you. And in a way, it is. What does it say about you, that these meager offerings from your boyfriend have been enough to keep you by his side for so long?
“Look at me,” the stranger says, in his low, deep voice. It’s a command, but soft, like a crowbar wrapped in the velvet that the jazz musicians are wearing.
You obey him this time, your resistance pried open.
You look into his beautiful eyes again. He’s closer now, like he took another step forward while you weren’t looking. You can feel the warmth of his body. If he leaned down, he could kiss you with his soft looking lips without having to step closer.
“Why?” you ask, but you don’t even know what you’re asking. Why does he want to disprove your doubt about him? Why is he asking you questions that tear off the blinders you’ve been intentionally wearing for so long, in an effort to maintain, what? An easy, but unsatisfactory status quo? Why does he want you to look at him? Why is he still talking to you at all, when he’s so terribly handsome, so unreachable for someone like you, who can’t even get your boyfriend to stand this close to you these days, after compromising so much of yourself to keep him happy, to keep from rocking the boat, from hurting his feelings, when he has given so little in return?
“Indulge me. What man wouldn’t want a beautiful, clever, sharp-tongued woman to look at him, and only him?”
You smile, a little helplessly. For some reason, you want to cry, hearing these affirming words from a total stranger. Even though you know they're probably just a line he says to everyone who catches his briefly attention.
Still fingering the lock of your hair, he gently strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, and then lets it drop again before anyone else would notice. “Your smile is so sad,” he breathes, almost to himself. “I don’t like it.”
“What do you want from me?” you ask, a little desperate, resisting everything in you that suddenly, painfully, despite your earlier disgust with him, is whispering for you to lean forward, to chase his hand, to put it back on your face, to rub against him like a cat, to beg for more of his kind words and touch. It’s as if his touch on your cheek unlocked something in you that you didn’t even know was there. Have you been so hungry for affection, that even these sparse crumbs are enough to have you salivating for a man who is likely much worse than your current boyfriend?
He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his trousers, bends down so that he’s speaking into your ear, softly, but still over the holiday music, the susurration of the crowd. His breath is warm over your skin. “I want to see a genuine smile from you.” He turns his head, runs his nose down your temple, along your cheek, and breathes deeply. “I want you to look at me, and only me.” He lifts a hand and trails the backs of his fingers along your bare arm. “I want you to come with me, instead of staying here, drinking champagne you don’t like, surrounded by people you despise.”
You shiver. You suddenly want that too. You want to go with him so badly, despite the fact that you have already decided that if he’s here, he’s probably one of the people you despise. Despite the fact that if he’s here, he probably sprays this abhorrently expensive champagne all over fawning sycophants every weekend at the same clubs your boyfriend now has “meetings with clients” at on a regular basis, not coming home until four in the morning, stinking of alcohol and cigarettes, rubbing his nose strangely, almost compulsively before passing out. Despite the fact that you know the moment you give in, and give him what he wants—whatever it may be—is the beginning of the end of his interest in you.
“Who are you?” you ask, resisting the wild, reckless urge rising in you to simply listen to him, to follow where he leads. You lean back, give yourself space to breathe, to regain your composure.
He lifts one corner of his mouth, a sketch of a smile, and it feels like dark petals whispering along your skin. “Tell me what you would do, if you could do anything at all right now, and I’ll tell you who I am.”
You consider him, trying to figure out what his angle is. Wondering how honest you should be. Wondering how he’ll exploit your honesty if you tell him the truth. Perhaps it’s the champagne on an empty stomach. Perhaps it’s the way the gaping hole in your heart feels filled every time this stranger opens his mouth. You tell him the truth.
“I want to go somewhere warm and quiet, curl up, and watch something silly on television.”
He takes one of your hands in both of his, cradling it as he looks down at your palm thoughtfully. “That’s all? You could be a little greedier. Why not go on a midnight cruise on a luxury yacht?” He strokes his thumbs along your palm, so softly. “Why not try to earn your fortune at the casino downstairs, or party in the VIP booth of an exclusive nightclub?” His eyes flick back to yours, as if gauging your reaction, as if to see if anything he’s saying triggers desire in you. “Or we could go shopping with my black card, and you can buy anything you want.”
You sigh. You were right. You’re too boring for this bright, pretty man. You gave him your truth, and he asks why you don’t want all the things you hate, that your boyfriend is clawing his way to achieve over the burnt-out careers of his colleagues, over the broken lives of the victims he ensures continue to suffer with each lawsuit dropped, each client walking free.
You try to take a step back, but he’s still holding your hand like it’s something precious, and he follows you again. You’re suddenly so tired, you don’t even have the energy to lie to him. “Because those things sound terrible to me. I don’t want your black card, when I’d rather just know who you are. I don’t want a super yacht with an exhausted crew, when I’d rather just sit with you in a canoe. I hate casinos—people feverishly wasting money—it feels like a slap in the face to people who are working their asses off just to survive." You shake your head. "I’m tired, and I want to take these stupid fucking shoes off.” There. Maybe with that little tirade, he’ll give up on tormenting you with his mysterious, intense focus and leave you alone. Alone to sort out how to fix your life. Alone to finally gather the energy, the backbone, to leave your shitty boyfriend. To stop drifting from one unworthy man to another. To stop compromising yourself, your self worth, and your values, for companionship, cold comfort, crumbs. You don’t know if you’re ready yet. But looking into the mirror this man has held up is a start.
Instead of dropping your hand, carrying on with whatever business he was on his way to do before you created an obstacle in his path, he squeezes it gently in his, and his thumbs begin to massage the meat of your palm. “Allow me to give you what you want, then.”
You laugh, disbelieving. What is his game? “I answered your question. Now it’s your turn to tell me who you are.”
He keeps rubbing your hand, and for some reason you keep letting him. It feels so good. There’s no one else in the world, now. Just him, your hand in his, that unidentifiable delicious scent in the air, mixed with pine.
“My name is Sylus,” he says, simply.
You stare at his face, but he’s still looking down at your palm.
“It’s a beautiful name,” you say, honestly. You’ve never thought about the name Sylus. It was just a name before, like so many others. But bizarrely, because it’s his, you suddenly think it matches him. It’s beautiful, just like the rest of him. “But that doesn’t answer my question. It doesn’t tell me who you are.”
“It tells you everything. It was a gift, given by someone precious to me.” He draws you closer, pulling you nearer to the garland-filled wall, turning so his big body is blocking the rest of the room. “I can tell you that I own this hotel. I can tell you that I’m an entrepreneur, and make my living buying and selling all sorts of things.” He lowers his voice even further, meeting your eyes again. “I can tell you that I’m very good at it, and it has made me very rich.” He slowly, gently, backs you up into the pine scented wall, until you have nowhere else to go. “And I can tell you that I despise everyone in this room, because they represent the worst of humanity—for all the reasons you hate them too.” He lets go of your hands, but then runs his own up your bare arms, trailing his fingertips along the sensitive skin of your inner forearms, elbows. “But those things are only parts of me, just like your clever mind, your sad, lovely eyes, your sharp tongue calling me a douchebag, are only parts of you. They’re not the heart of you.” He pauses, ember-glow eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, back to your eyes again. “I’m Sylus, and I’d like to give you what you want tonight. Say yes.”
You feel like you’re in a dream. The thoughtfulness of his answer, all of the surprising things he just revealed about himself—hotel owner, very rich man, pale in comparison to the shared feeling of hating everyone in this room. Of his having looked at you for less than ten minutes and being able to tell more about you than you think your boyfriend could tell after years of being together. Your sadness, your biting sense of humor, your intelligence.
You wonder if one night with him is worth immediately trading years of the relationship you share with your boyfriend.
You remember just minutes ago thinking that you’d remember this man’s eyes for the rest of your life, even as he passed you by without even noting your existence.
You force yourself to look away from him. You let your head tilt, so that you can see past his big bicep to look over the crowd. The flashing white veneers of so many mouths talking, drinking, smiling, all belonging to people who don’t deserve the nourishing food in the canapés they’re biting into with their vicious teeth, the quality of the alcohol now sloshing in their stomachs. Your eyes find your boyfriend, and for the first time tonight he’s not trading strategy with his colleagues, oblivious to your existence. He’s staring at you, your body mostly hidden now by Sylus, from across the room with a funny look on his face.
You feel one of Sylus’s hands slip from your elbow, drifting down. He palms your waist, sliding around your back, low, pinky and ring finger brushing your ass, before coming to rest on your other hip. He draws you gently into him, hips flush with your stomach, his arm an anchor behind your back, his hand an anchor at your hip. You feel small, protected, warm. You stare past Sylus’s arm at your boyfriend, who is now gaping at you.
You straighten again, look back up into Sylus’s lovely face. He’s smiling now, with such warmth. You allow yourself to be honest with yourself—you want him to kiss you. You think that a night with this man will be worth the trade of all the years with your boyfriend, who you suspect is now starting to try to shoulder his way to you, with a look on his face that telegraphs that he has something to say and you’re going to fucking listen, dammit, how dare you embarrass him like this in front of all of his colleagues, the firm’s partners, cucking him like he always knew you eventually would, even though you’ve only ever been faithful to him, respectful of his insecurity, loving in the face of his benevolent neglect of you and all of your needs.
Sylus must see your yearning written all over your face. Your silent acquiescence to his request to give you what you want, just for tonight. He leans down, pauses, his warm breath the only thing separating his lips from yours. He looks into your eyes, a warm glow under his long, sweeping lashes. You nod, just a little, to his unvoiced question. Yes, please kiss me. Yes, you have my permission. Yes, please give me what I want tonight. It will be worth all the cold tomorrows. The silent treatment from your boyfriend as you pack up your things in a few boxes, because you’ve never been one to carry too much baggage—you’ve never really had a home, not really. Your blank memories, then your Gran’s house, not yours. Then student housing, then small, temporary places as you moved around for your job, as you roomed with various colleagues before moving in with your boyfriend. You let him choose the decor of the apartment, because he was so vocal about being forced to accept your own unique taste that wasn't to his. Easier to just give him what he wants. You didn’t mind, since the overpriced apartment, filled with cold furniture and his absence, never felt like home anyway, after he got the job at this awful firm and wanted to upgrade from your cozy, cramped little apartment above your favorite bakery that always smelled like fresh bread.
Sylus searches your face for a moment longer before leaning down the rest of the way. He presses his soft, full lips to yours.
Kissing Sylus feels like coming home. Like how his voice feels in your ears—the constant, aching emptiness in your chest, filled. You don’t know how this stranger can already feel so familiar. You don’t know how just the chaste press of his soft lips to yours is making your body light up like the Christmas tree in this fancy bar, in this fancy hotel, like the fairy lights draped above and around you. You feel desire rise in you, a slow, steady wave of anticipation, the wanting a pleasure in itself, even unmet and unsatisfied. He pulls you closer, his arm an inexorable force at your back, gentle yet firm. He flicks his tongue out, sweeps it across your lower lip, then little licks, asking a question, a big jungle cat lapping at the pool of your mouth, and you open for him. He sinks his tongue in. He’s making soft little noises of pleasure, a low vibration in his chest.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Your boyfriend has reached you, has the audacity to stand just off to Sylus’s side, confront you with such a stupid, obvious question that you want to laugh. You feel the tethers of the years between you snapping, and you feel wild, reckless, a little mean. Because fuck him, and his cheerful neglect of you. Fuck yourself, for having accepted it. Sylus may want to give you what you want for tonight only, but just kissing him, being seen by him, makes you want to give yourself what you should have been giving yourself all along. Freedom, self respect, acceptance that the love you feel when you look at yourself in the mirror is worth more than the crumbs you receive from a boyfriend who you let treat you like a pretty, ultimately worthless trinket. Sylus may only be offering you a dream for tonight, but the feeling that filled you just from his kind, validating words to you is not a dream. You want to give that feeling to yourself, from now on. And dumping your hypocritical, morally bankrupt, shallow boyfriend is how you’re going to start the process.
Sylus slowly pulls away, not taking his eyes off you. He licks you a few more times, presses a few more quick kisses to your lips, like he can’t help himself, just a little sustenance before having to deprive himself for a moment.
“What does it look like?” you ask, turning your head, still pressed against the wall by Sylus’s big body. He’s so warm. His pecs are so pillowy. You want to knead them like the kitten he called you earlier.
Your boyfriend grimaces at you. “Who the fuck is this guy? I knew you were fucking cheating on me,” he bites out, voice rising.
Before you can answer, Sylus rests his cheek on top of your head. “I’m the largest shareholder of your law firm. And your replacement. Your services, such as they are, are no longer required in the boyfriend department.”
There’s a moment where your boyfriend just stares at Sylus blankly, as if his brain is having difficulty processing everything that he just said. And then he gasps. “Sylus Qin?” His eyes go wide.
“Yes. If you want to keep your current professional position, walk away now and forget everything you know about your ex instead of causing a scene.”
Your boyfriend’s jaw is a little slack as his eyes ping pong between your face and Sylus’s. For a split second, he looks like he wants to say something to you, a calculating, mean look in his eyes, that you’ve only ever seen directed at other people before. But then he startles, eyes jerking back to Sylus, and he suddenly looks terrified.
And then he simply turns and walks away, slipping back between the high top tables surrounded by human-shaped sharks, effectively showing you that it was never you, but his job, the wealth and power that he’s chasing, that has always been the main focus of his heart and mind. And that’s fine. You already knew that. It’s just that now, if you had any doubt about your sudden, insane decision to accept Sylus’s insistent request to give you what you want, it is now gone. You’re not willing to remain in a relationship like that, anymore. You’d rather be alone. You turn your attention back to the man currently cocooning you with his big body. He hasn’t moved, as if he’s waiting patiently for you to make the next move.
You ease back as much as you can into the wall, and he lifts his head, looks down into your face.
“Boyfriend replacement, huh?” you ask drily.
He shrugs his big shoulders. “If I’m lucky, with immediate effect. If I’m unlucky, eventually, but inevitably.” One sharp canine, peeking from between his soft lips, gleams under the fairy lights.
You want to laugh. What is even happening? Why go to such lengths to pretend like he’s somehow committed to you, to this insane demand to give you what you want? You just watched your boyfriend walk away without giving you a second glance. You feel entitled to a big, sexy rebound as a treat. You don’t even care what tricks this man is trying to pull to get you into the sack. You’re already convinced. But you are bothered by one thing.
“You’re the largest shareholder in this law firm?”
“Does it bother you?” he answers with a non-answer.
You take in his pretty mouth, his intense eyes. The humor glinting in the curve of his lips.
“I hate what they do. I hate what they stand for. I think I’ve been wanting to leave my boyfriend for a long time, after he started working for your firm. I want to see them go under.” You answer him with a non-answer of your own. Why should he care if it bothers you that he basically owns the firm? He offered to give you what you want for tonight, and then you’ll never see him again. You think that just for one night, it’s your turn to be a little cutthroat, a little malicious, to take what you can get from a shitty world. Maybe that makes you a hypocrite, the same type of person your now ex-boyfriend is. But for tonight, you’re willing to give yourself over to this terrible man. You will wake up tomorrow and self-flagellate to make up for it. You’ll then carry on, trying to do good in the world.
He tilts his head. “If you destroy them, people like them will just fill the crater left behind, if you don’t dismantle the system that allows them to flourish.”
You’re in such danger. With everything this gorgeous, rich man says, he reveals himself to be thoughtful, clever. You don’t want him to be thoughtful and clever. It would be enough if he were simply kind to get what he wants, as he was when describing you, and pretty, so that it feels good to kiss him. You don’t need him to have depth for tonight.
“Why wait to destroy them until the system comes crashing down? Why not actively want the destruction of both?” you ask, only half-joking. You don’t want to talk about this with him. You want him to do as he promised and take you somewhere quiet, warm. But you don’t want to watch television anymore. You want to kiss him instead.
“Then you shall have both,” he says, strangely, before squeezing the hand still holding yours and leading you from the bar.
You follow, focusing on his broad back narrowing to his strong waist, his incredibly thick ass underneath his fancy trousers. Your mouth is watering again. You want to unbuckle the clasp at the back of his vest. You want to slip your fingers under the waistband of his pants and squeeze.
It should be illegal for one man to be rich, powerful, smart, thoughtful, and drop-dead gorgeous.
Your hand is warm in his, as he leads you past the bank of elevators that you stepped out of on your way to the bar, instead going down a short hallway that ends in a discrete black door. He leans forward, lets the retina scanner do its thing, and the door clicks open. You find yourself in what looks like a service passage. Bare, dark walls, the same quiet carpet as the rest of the hotel’s hallways. He leads you further in, until you’re at another door, another retina scan. This door opens into the kitchen of what can only be the hotel’s penthouse. Soaring windows offer a view of the city’s nocturnal skyline below. You have an impression of dark, heavy furniture, sophisticated ultramodern technology and design mixed with more baroque, vintage accents. Potted plants offer a little verdant pop of green in the very rich, urban atmosphere of the space. A big, open floor plan with a full kitchen, a sunken den area with a huge screen over a glassed-in fireplace, pretty stained glass chandeliers and lamps. Hallways leading from the den further into the penthouse must go to the bedroom, the bathroom.
“No wonder you were so willing to fulfill my desire. A short trip down the hall, and here we are,” you laugh a little, half teasing, half serious, after Sylus patiently waits for you to finish gawking at the spacious, expensive room.
He gives you that mysterious little half smile. “I told you that you could be greedy.” He leads you to the large marble-topped kitchen island, slides his hands around your waist and lifts. He sets you on the counter and nudges your legs open with a big hand, fits himself between them. He takes your hands in his and just holds them, thumbs stroking over your skin. “If you had asked to go to a three-star Michelin restaurant, I would have cleared the place and taken you.” He leans forward, kisses you lightly on the lips, pulls back. “If you had asked to go deep sea fishing on one of my yachts, I would have asked what type of fish you were interested in catching.” His eyes flick to yours, then back to your mouth. “If you had wanted to go shopping, I would have—”
You lift your hands and his, pressing them to his lips. “Okay, okay. I get the idea, Sylus. Thank you. Although I don’t understand why you’re doing anything for me at all.”
He turns your joined hands and rubs his cheek against the back of one of yours. “Is it really so incomprehensible that a man would see someone stunning across the room and want to get to know her better?”
“You offering me your black card and to close out a Michelin star restaurant seems a little extreme for just wanting to get to know me better,” you retort, not even touching the fact that he just called you stunning. There were plenty of beautiful people in that room. “Is that really all there is? If you thought I was pretty, you could have just offered to buy me a drink like a normal person.”
“I didn’t think you were pretty,” he says, and your heart sinks a little. He just called you stunning, but maybe he was just…going through the script. The script he doesn’t even need with you, since you’re here, in his nice hotel room, with him between your legs already. But he continues. “I thought you were magnificent. And why would I offer to buy you a drink like we’re two normal people, when we're kindred spirits, and you deserve so much more?”
Okay, so that’s intense. Maybe he’s a little psycho—one of those yandere guys that sees a person and decides, based on an accidental look, that she is their ideal, their possession, their obsession. Guys who place a random person on a pedestal before locking them in their basement. You tilt your head. “How would you even know?” you ask. You don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re thankful for his strange kindness tonight, the feeling of being the sole focus of his attention, the reminder that you deserve better out of a partner than what you’ve settled for, for years. But you can’t understand why he would have chosen you, out of everyone there tonight, out of what is surely a multitude of options for him. Now you’re worried, possibly a little too late, that he’s a little nuts.
He sets your joined hands back in your lap and gently withdraws his. “How much champagne have you had?” he asks as he turns to the refrigerator and pulls out two glass bottles of fancy looking water.
He twists the cap off of one and holds it to your lips. “Drink.”
You obey him without thought, watching him watch your drink, his eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, to your throat swallowing the chilled, refreshing water.
You lean back when you’ve had your fill. “I only managed one glass of champagne,” you say. “And you?”
“I haven’t had anything to drink at all,” he answers, lifting the half-empty bottle to his own lips and taking a few long pulls, never taking his eyes off of you. You return his gaze, enjoying the strong line of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple.
After he empties the bottle, he sets it on the counter next to your thigh. “Are you hungry?”
You know that he hasn’t answered your question yet. That he may never answer. Despite all of the possible red flags he’s throwing up, you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. Perhaps you’re just repeating old patterns, allowing a handsome man to lull you into settling into another toxic relationship. But as of tonight, you’re done with all that. After tonight, you’ll never see this man again, whether he turns out to be a good man or not. “I don’t know.”
And you really don’t know. You think you’re in shock. You just broke up with your boyfriend in public after kissing a man you just met, a man you’re now alone with in the penthouse of the hotel he owns. Are you hungry? What the hell are you going to do after tonight? Who can you stay with? How are you going to arrange to get your things from your now ex boyfriend, your now former apartment?
Sylus, inexplicably—considering your boyfriend never managed this feat after years of being together—must see your anxiety spiral, because he lifts you again, sets you on your feet. He leads you past the den, down one of the hallways, until he opens a door into a bedroom. Again, you just have impressions because you are so focused on the man leading you by the hand. Gigantic bed, dark, cloud-soft puffy blankets and pillows, a little sitting area, the city’s skyline glittering below the wall of windows. A door to the right leads to an ensuite bathroom—marble floors and counters, huge tub, walk-in shower.
Sylus leads you to the bed, urges you to sit on it. You sink into the covers, legs dangling off the end. He kneels before you without a word and begins to remove your uncomfortable, modest, discreetly formal shoes that you wore for this occasion, and only wear when you’re forced to attend your boyfriend’s—your ex-boyfriend work functions like the one tonight. Nothing like what you’d wear for yourself, if you were to go out on the town, nor what you wear when you simply want to be comfortable.
You just stare at the top of Sylus’s head, shoving thoughts of your ex out of your mind. His hair is so fluffy, you can’t resist reaching forward and gently running your fingers through its silver strands.
He neatly sets your shoes aside and then grows still, remaining on his knees at your feet. He leans forward and rests his head in your lap, cheek against your thigh. He encourages you to keep petting him by lifting his hand and nudging yours to keep moving.
You stroke his hair quietly for a while, chalking up your inability to question anything, to think too hard about how you found yourself here, the enjoyment you feel running your hands through his soft hair, to the shock of tonight’s unexpected turn of events, the recklessness and despair that led you to being alone in this stranger’s penthouse bedroom.
However, after a while, you force yourself to speak. “What are we doing, Sylus?
He lifts his head and meets your gaze, the electric zing of his otherworldly eyes coursing through you. He places one big palm on each of your thighs.
“You said you wanted to go somewhere quiet, and warm, to watch something silly on television. The remote is in one of the nightstands. The screen can be lowered from the ceiling with the remote. I’ll make you something to eat while you find something you want to watch. Deal?”
“You can cook?” you ask, because it strikes you as odd that a man with everything at his fingertips would spend any amount of time in the kitchen.
“I can watch online tutorials,” he says, shrugging. “It’s not hard to follow directions.”
“What if I don’t want you to go?” you ask. You should be afraid of how reluctant you already are to be separated from him, all while not knowing if he’s a little unhinged, all while knowing this is temporary.
His eyes widen a little, as if surprised at your question that reveals how much you don’t want him to leave. “I can order something from the hotel kitchen. Would you prefer that?” He sounds pleased.
You nod, not trusting your voice. You’ve only just met him, and yet his presence is so comforting, despite the strange intensity of his answers to your questions, of his eyes following your every move.
He removes his own shoes, lines them up next to yours.
“Come,” he says, nudging you to climb further up on the bed, to lean against and rest your head on the soft padded headboard. He opens one of the nightstands, hands you the remote control to the television, and then calls the kitchen on his mobile phone, ordering what sounds like an entire banquet’s worth of food in a low voice.
When he’s done, he joins you in leaning against the headboard. You haven’t turned on the television yet.
“Do you think you ordered enough food?” you ask.
His eyes soften in a not-quite smile as he turns his head and meets your teasing gaze. “Do you think I ordered enough food?” he counters.
“If I were an army, you still would have ordered too much,” you say, smiling now.
He reaches over, runs his fingers up your arm, slides his arm over your shoulders and pulls you close to his side. “With the way you’ve already conquered me, an army isn’t such a far-fetched comparison for you.”
You groan. “Who knew such a good-looking guy would resort to such cheesy lines?”
He laughs softly. “You think I’m good looking?”
You look up at him from your cozy position of being cocooned in him again, your face so close to his that you can see the dark striations in his ruby irises. “You know you’re good looking,” you whisper.
He lifts his other hand to poke you gently in the forehead. “I don’t care if I’m good looking to anyone else. But I like knowing I’m good looking to you.”
You have no idea why he’s trying so hard to make you sound special to him. You’re already here. You already dumped your boyfriend as a result of less than ten minutes of talking to him.
“Then yes, I think you’re good looking.” You stare into his eyes, bathe in his warmth. The scent you were salivating over in the bar is simply Sylus’s scent. Not cologne, or laundry detergent. Just his skin. Something clean and primal. You want to lick him.
He returns your stare. “Why haven’t you turned on the television?”
You swallow, increasingly aware of being in his arms, on this big bed, alone with him, in a warm, quiet place. His scent, the beauty of his face. The way he touches you so gently. The way he knelt at your feet, like a large, powerful beast quietly asking for the affection of your hands in his fur.
“What if I changed my mind?” you ask him, biting your lip.
He lifts his hand, pulls your lip from your teeth with his thumb. Presses against your lip, gently, with its calloused pad.
“You can always change your mind, kitten,” he murmurs. “But what do you want to do instead of watching television?”
“I think you know,” you say, letting your tongue brush against his thumb.
“Do I? Why don’t you tell me?” He’s teasing you. Daring you to say what you want out loud.
“I want you to kiss me again,” you admit. He looks pleased with your honesty.
“And if I want to do more than kiss you?” he asks, sliding his thumb into your mouth. You suck on it, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Please,” you say. What else is there to say?
“Tell me what you like,” he says, pressing his thumb deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, before withdrawing it so that you can answer him. Your mouth feels empty without him in it.
“What I like?” you ask, buying time. What do you like? Feeling loved. Being praised. Reassurance that you’re fine, just the way you are. But you know that’s not what he’s asking. What you like in bed will likely sound very boring to someone like him, with the world at his feet, money to buy all the pleasures he could dream of.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says. “If you could have me do anything for you right now, without restrictions, what would you want?”
It’s like the question he posed in the bar. If you could be anywhere else, doing anything else, what would you choose?
What does it matter if he knows that you’re boring? If you want someone to say something kind to you. That you want to be touched in a way that your boyfriend hasn’t touched you in a long time, if ever.
You take his big hand, place his palm on your cheek, nuzzle it. “I want you to say nice things to me, but only if they’re true. I want you to take the lead and make me feel good, and I want you to feel good too. I don’t want you to hurt me.” You tell him your most basic desires, as boring as they may be. If he laughs at you, if he pities you for your unsophisticated wants, then you can always get up and walk away. You walked away once tonight. You can do it again, and again. If nothing else, meeting Sylus has given you back the freedom that somewhere along the way you forgot you even had.
He leans toward you, running his nose alongside yours, breathing deeply. He kisses your cheek that isn’t covered by his palm, a soft brush of his lips. He kisses the side of your mouth, right at the corner. He turns your face towards his own, and he kisses you softly on the lips again. Leisurely, again and again. He smells so good. “I knew we were kindred spirits, because I watched you in the bar, listening to those assholes, and you were terrible at hiding your feelings. Your disgust, frustration, boredom. Clear, for anyone who cared to look. The same feelings I was experiencing in that room full of unrepentant, self-righteous bastards,” he says softly against your lips. “When you called me a douchebag, and tried to dismiss me with such arrogant disdain.” He kisses you again, hard, as if excited by the thought. “It was like looking at the truest version of you—principled, an empress dismissing a worm. I could tell that you were wasted on that cretin you dumped tonight. You’ve been wasted on everyone in your life who has failed to recognize your value. I was willing to offer you so much instead of just a simple drink, because I’ve been looking for an empress for my empire and not just another beautiful face.”
You can’t help it. You laugh. “I’m nobody’s empress.” You shake your head a little, bathing in his pretty words. You realize that he’s doing what you asked—saying nice things to you. In this moment, it doesn’t even matter if they’re true or not. The fact that he listened to what you wanted and is trying to give it to you, is enough. Tonight, you can pretend, for a little while, that his nice words are true. “I’m off-putting, too blunt. People don’t know what to do with me. I’d never be able to manage the diplomacy required for running an empire, especially one based on snake-charming like yours.”
“I don’t want you to run my empire. Leave the work and the worry to me. I just want your unvarnished company.” He kisses you again, slides his palm from your cheek to your hair, takes a fistfull of it, gently tugs your head back so your throat is exposed to him. “Be your off-putting, terribly honest self with me, and you will have given me everything I could want.”
You can’t help the little noise that comes out of your throat. He kisses your lips again, licking into your mouth. With your hair firmly in his grip, he tilts your head as he wishes, his tongue big, pressing deeper, slick against your own. He kisses you like this for what could be hours. Your body reacts, you can feel your heartbeat between your legs, the wetness pooling in your underwear.
He does what you asked of him. He takes the lead, slowly undressing you, still kissing you, his long, clever fingers working your top off your shoulders, freeing your breasts from your bra. He tosses them over the edge of the bed. You grow impatient, begin unbuttoning his vest, slide it off his shoulders. Repeat with his dress shirt. Once you are both bare from the waist up, he presses his chest against yours, rolling you underneath him, sinking into the covers on top of you. He palms the back of your neck, and you arch your back, pressing your breasts harder against his chest. The soft silver hair on his chest feels so good against your sensitive nipples.
He grunts, licking out of your mouth, kissing your cheek, your chin. You turn your head, sliding your hands into his hair, dragging your fingertips across his scalp. He shivers. You lick the shell of his ear and he grunts softly again. You drag your teeth along his earlobe, bite down gently on the soft flesh. He whimpers a little. You continue lapping at his ear for a few minutes, until the demands of your body let you know that this is no longer enough. You want more of him. You turn your head again, look back into his now flushed face, watch as he pants through his slightly open mouth.
“And you looked offended when I called you kitten the first time.” His smug smirk is undermined by his obvious excitement. “But here you are, lapping at my ear with your tongue.”
“And yet you’re the one mewling like a kitten as I lap your ear with my tongue,” you counter, reaching up and gently pinching his earlobe, still wet with your saliva.
His smirk takes on a feral edge. “Touché. But now it’s my turn to make you mewl. May I continue?”
You nod, and he wastes no more time, dragging open-mouthed kisses down your neck, between your breasts. He licks, nips, little bright flares of pain, sharp and quick, that you hope will leave marks for you to carry into the next few weeks. He drags the rest of your clothing off, your underwear, with his long, thick fingers, throws them over his shoulder. He hovers on all fours over you, trousers still on, his large dick clearly visible underneath.
“What would you like now? Do you want me to eat your pussy?” he asks, pearl-sheened hair falling over his forehead, messy from your hands in it.
You tense up a little. Your boyfriend hasn’t given you oral since the early days of your relationship. It always felt obligatory, perfunctory foreplay to ensure that you were wet enough for what he was really interested in. The idea of Sylus between your legs like that, his face so far away, not being able to tell if he’s actually enjoying it or just following a script, fills you with anxiety.
You shake your head no.
“No, you don’t want it, or no, you don’t think I want it?” he asks, reaching for the waistband of his trousers, unzipping his fly, all while not taking his eyes off of yours.
“Both,” you say, honestly. “I don’t want you so far away.”
He hums thoughtfully as he efficiently removes his pants, his black boxer briefs, and tosses them aside. He grunts softly as his dick, his heavy balls are freed from his clothing. They’re big, pretty, just like the rest of him. “Okay. We do what you want, sweetheart. If you change your mind, tell me.” He lifts his index and middle finger to his mouth, sucks on them slowly, working them in and out of his mouth while letting his gaze drift from your face, down to your breasts, lower, and then up again. When he removes them from his mouth, they’re soaked with his saliva. “I would love to lick you until you come on my face, but I can be patient till you're ready.” The image of you riding his face at his request sends another jolt of desire through you, layers into the want you already feel for him, throbbing between your legs. But before you can respond, he lowers himself on one elbow, settling a little bit on his side, and lets the wet fingers of his other hand dip between your legs. He slips them easily inside you. He watches your face as he leisurely pumps in and out of you, as his thumb presses down on your clit, as you start to move your body restlessly, because you want more than his fingers. There are only the sounds of your breaths mingled with his, the wet slide of his fingers inside you. You watch, mesmerized by the long, pale line of his strong forearm flexing in the light from the city spilling through the windows, his big hand twisting, thrusting, as he ensures that you’re wet enough, soft enough to take more of him.
“May I continue?” he asks, leaning down, kissing your lips, again just soft presses of his mouth against yours, little flicks of his tongue in between.
“Yes,” you breathe. He lifts his hand from between your legs and then palms his cock with it, slicking it with the combination of your own wetness and his saliva. He leans over you, nudges you between your knees with his wet hand, and you widen them for him. He kneels between your now open legs and lowers his hips until he’s nudging you, pressing in, the slide slick, slow. He watches your face for any signs of discomfort, but even though he’s big, you just feel full. Full in the way his voice fills your chest. Full in the way his sweet nothings fill your heart, despite knowing that they’re just empty, pretty words. He bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, and leans down. He kisses you again, this time opening his mouth wide, fucking into yours with his tongue in the same way that he begins to fuck into your body with his cock. Slow, deep, firm strokes. There is only the sound of his body moving in yours, his panting breath, the soft noises in your throat that you can’t stop with each of his thrusts. The only scents—clean sheets, clean sweat, the musk of his precum and your slick combined.
He feels so good. He watches your face, and when you do truly start to whimper as he promised, he adjusts the angle of his hips, the angle of his dick inside you, and you begin to openly moan, the pleasure filling you. You lift your arms, run your hands down his broad back, his muscles undulating under your fingers, palms, as he rocks both of your bodies.
“I love your hands on me,” he says, not stopping the sinuous roll of his hips. “One of the first things I noticed about you was your beautiful hands, holding the champagne flute.”
“They’re rough from lifting weights. I use them too much when I’m telling a story.”
Sylus leans down, kisses you hard, just shy of punishing.“I don’t want to hear your ex’s bullshit from your mouth while I’m inside you,” he commands. “You deserve more than what you’ve been allowing yourself.”
You’re shocked at the sincerity, the earnestness in his eyes. His defense of you against the voice in your head, your boyfriend’s occasionally demeaning voice, makes you want to cry.
“Allow me to give you what you deserve,” he orders, but it sounds like a plea in his strained murmur.
You know that he’s only doing as you asked. That he’s saying nice things to you, because you said that’s what you wanted of him tonight. Even though you asked for him to mean them, it’s okay that he doesn’t. You’re just so grateful for the way he’s asking you at every step what you want, asking if he can continue, telling you what you think you’ve needed to hear for a long, long time now—so grateful that you can’t help but play along, to indulge in the fantasy that this powerful, gorgeous man really does think you’re beautiful and deserving of a feast when you’ve been living a life of famine for so long.
“Okay, Sylus,” you say, and when you say his name, you feel him jerk inside you, and he begins to pump harder, faster. His body pressed against yours, the angle of his hips hitting you just right—you begin to feel close to coming. He seals your fate when he leans down and bites your shoulder, hard, a low pitched whine coming from his throat as he comes, as his hips stutter, as you come yourself, so turned on by the peak of his pleasure derived from your body that his pleasure cascades into and amplifies your own.
Slowly, the movement of his big hips slows and he melts into you, pressing you into the mattress, licking where he bit you. He makes no move to pull out of you—he simply continues to gently roll his hips, the wet sound loud in your ears, the warmth of his cum squelching between your bodies, pooling in the sheets underneath you.
He lifts his head, smiles at you. Nudges his nose against yours. “Was that okay?”
You sigh, body pleasantly heavy yet weightless. He feels so good blanketing you, still filling you. “It was passable,” you tease, smiling at him lazily.
He laughs low, smug, clearly not believing your obvious lie. “Room for improvement? Challenge accepted,” he murmurs, kissing you again, and you can feel his smile against your mouth.
He thrusts into you again, once, hard. You gasp. “Already ready to go again?” you ask in wonder.
“I should be thanking your ex for the low bar, but I’m pissed that you sound so surprised. What kind of absolute wretch wouldn’t want to worship you over and over again, all night, every night?” he demands.
You laugh. “No need to exaggerate.” You wrap your arms around his neck, run your hands up into his hair. “You’ve already done more than enough to make me feel good for a long time after tonight.”
“Oh, I’m not even close to being done,” he says, pumping into you again. “The question is, do you want me to fuck you like this again, or do you want to ride me?” he looks thoughtful for a moment, and then asks eagerly, “Are you ready to sit on my face yet?”
You stare at him, wide-eyed. “You’d let me sit on your face while I’m still dripping with your cum?” You think of your own boyfriend, how he always seemed slightly disgusted by the wetness from your body on his face anytime he did bother to give you oral.
“Stop thinking about him,” he orders. “Think about me. Unlike weaker men, I don't have a problem with eating you out when you’re filled with the combination of me and you. What could be more delicious?”
You find your body rousing again at the obvious sincerity of his words, his irritation that this is even a question.
“I’ll lick you clean till you’re screaming, and then make a mess in you again,” he promises, rolling both of your bodies so that he’s on his back, pulling out of you, already lifting you by the hips, encouraging you to drip your way up his chest, settle over his mouth. He looks up at you, a smile crinkling the corners of his gorgeous, bright eyes.
You learn that night that if nothing else, Sylus Qin is a man of his word. He worships you, over and over again. While you're regaining your breath after one round, he brings food from the banquet he ordered and feeds you with his hands. He then fucks you again, and again, until you’re both too tired to move. After, he gently wipes the combination of you and him from your body, he brings a bottle of water to your lips and tells you to drink, he buries his head in your neck and you fall asleep, held tightly in his arms.
In the morning, you wake slowly, feeling pleasantly exhausted, your muscles tired and aching from last night’s efforts. Where Sylus bit you and sucked bruises into your skin, pain throbs dully, but you enjoy the reminder that you’ll have something of his on you for the next few days, maybe weeks. You turn your head, take in his lovely face, relaxed in sleep, the dark sweep of his eyelashes across his pale cheeks. He looks younger while asleep, without the frown line revealing his maturity as it does while he’s awake.
He made you feel so loved last night. He reminded you of the possibility of what love can be. That you don’t have to settle for anything less than how he treated you for one special moment in time. You’d rather be alone, than be with someone who doesn’t make you feel how Sylus Qin made you feel for one night. You’re so grateful to this beautiful man for reminding you that you don’t have to settle. For being the impetus in making the decision to never settle again.
You lean down and press a kiss, soft as a feather, to his temple. He doesn’t stir.
You don’t want to be here when he wakes up. You don’t want to watch as the illusion fades, now that he’s conquered the challenge your initial resistance to his charms presented. You don’t want the polite distance, the subtle urging to get you out of his bed and out of his life again. You’d rather carry his strange, unexpected kindness with you as an unspoiled memory, a ruler with which to measure all future potential lovers.
You quietly slip out of bed, collect your clothing and shoes from last night. You dress in the hallway, slip into your shoes. You walk to the private elevator that opens directly into a little foyer off the kitchen that you hadn’t noticed last night. You feel at peace on the long ride down to the ground floor, as you step into the cold, white winter morning.
You are certain now. You’ll never forget Sylus’s eyes, until the day you die.
Sylus wakes up all at once, jerked awake by a feeling of wrongness. He pats the bed next to him, finds only cold sheets, where he should be feeling your warm, soft skin. He cracks an eye open and scowls when he confirms what his hands have already informed him.
You’re gone. You didn’t believe him, when he said he wanted to give you everything, not just last night, but for all the rest of your nights. He huffs a little. Of course you didn’t. The finest things in life are never easy to obtain, let alone keep. Your fuck-up of an ex didn’t understand that until it was too late.
Sylus would rather have woken up to your warm body, to have pressed himself back into your wet, soft spaces, made love to you over and over again until you passed out again.
But this is okay too. He has finally found you. In one night, he got rid of your poor excuse for a boyfriend, tasted the pleasure of your mind and your body, and placed a tracking app in your phone.
You may think that last night was all there is. You couldn’t be more mistaken. Sylus always did enjoy a good hunt.
Over the weeks that follow, you hear news that your ex-boyfriend’s law firm has come under intense fire for financial mismanagement of client funds. That some of the partners will be going to trial for tax fraud and other white collar crimes. Some have been disbarred and forbidden from practicing law for the foreseeable future. In the end, the firm can’t survive the reputational and financial blows, and it goes under.
You don’t even have to go to your ex’s place to pick up your belongings. Before you muster the energy to call him, to arrange for a time for you to come get them, they are inexplicably delivered to your temporary place by two intensely handsome delivery men, obviously twins, although one has an intensely scarred face. They wear matching crow tattoos that peek out from under their tight black t-shirts, winding around their big biceps and the back of their necks. When you ask if it was your ex who hired them, they laugh, make cryptic comments about your ex not having the financial resources to do much at all these days, and then leave, their chatter regarding a bet about how long it will take their boss to confess to his crush echoing down the hallway of your friend’s apartment building.
More weeks pass and you hear rumors of a new resistance movement called Onychinus by its proponents and critics alike. They sabotage banking networks, hack credit card companies, expose predatory insurance practices. They publish the banking information of prominent politicians, following the money to highlight the corruption from lobbying efforts by the worst industries in the country, in the world.
Onychinus’s disruption of the system intensifies, until one day, the first insurance CEO is shot in broad daylight. And then it’s like the killer, or killers, go down the list, and executives of all sorts of multinational companies are ending up dead.
All the while, despite your firm belief that you’d never see him again, you start bumping into Sylus Qin at the strangest, most random places. The grocery store. Going for a jog in the park. Out at the club, dancing with friends. It’s almost as if he knows where you’ll be, and then arranges to bump into you.
The world is changing around you. A quiet revolution occurs, where ordinary people demand better of their leaders, of the businesses they support. You think about what you asked him the night you met him, Why wait to destroy them until the system comes crashing down? —and his strange response: Then you shall have both.
The next time you ‘happen’ to run into him, you’re alone, going for a night walk along the bank of the river winding through your city. The city lights glitter in the water, thousands of stars blinking in the velvet dark.
He’s wearing a thick winter coat, but his neck is bare. You want to thread your own scarf around his throat, protect him against the biting, late winter wind.
“Funny seeing you here,” you say, smiling up at him.
“Very funny,” he agrees serenely. “Have you figured it out yet?” he asks, wine-dark eyes fixed on your face.
You furrow your brow, pretend to think. “You weren’t lucky, were you?” you ask.
He smiles. “No. My kitten wasn’t there when I woke up. I knew then that it would take more than just my words to convince her that I fully intended to replace her boyfriend after she finally had the good sense to dump him.”
You still don’t understand why this man first approached you. Why he treated you with such sincere, loving passion during the only night you spent with him. But you remember your words to him, and his answer implying that he would give you what you wanted. You’ve watched the world change faster than you could have imagined on the night you found yourself abandoned, once again, in the shark tank of your ex’s colleagues and employers.
“It’s you,” you say, stepping forward, taking the lapels of his coat in your hands.
“What’s me, kitten?” he asks, sly, unbuttoning his coat, opening it for you.
“The demise of my ex’s law firm. Onychinus. The new legislation, the quiet revolution.” You accept his invitation, let him pull you into his chest, let him wrap his coat around you.
“No, beloved, it’s you,” he says on a contented sigh. “I told you, I don’t need you to help run my empire. You are simply the reason for its existence.”
“Why?” you ask, resting your head against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat.
“Would you believe me if I said that I met you in another life, and you gave me my name, taught me how to love, and how to be loved in return?”
You shake your head. “Of course not. This is the real world. This life is the only one we’ve got. That’s why it’s so important that we do it right, and don’t be assholes, and try not to leave the world worse than we found it.”
“An idealist,” he says in mock disgust. “I guess you’ll want to teach me about how to be a better person,” he says glumly. “But I’m not selling my yachts. I’ll buy you as many canoes as you want, though.”
You snort, remembering the night you met him, his offers to take you on a midnight yacht cruise, the use of his black card.
“What’s the real reason, Sylus?” you ask, hugging him tightly, savoring the warmth of his big body against the cold breeze off the water.
He rests his cheek on the top of your head. “Kitten wants a bedtime story?”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” you whisper.
“It’ll cost you. Sure you want to hear it?”
You nod, and Sylus begins to speak.
“It all began the night I was checking in with the hotel’s security team, and saw the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in an elevator on one of the security feeds. She was telling a story, gesturing with her hands, her face so lively, eyes so bright. I had to listen in. I had to hear what she was saying. She was funny, sharp-tongued. Her voice was beautiful. Compelling. She was clearly intelligent, and deeply angry at the world.” As Sylus speaks, snow begins to fall, big fat flakes swirling in the night. “I knew, immediately, that we were kindred spirits.” His arms tighten around you, almost taking your breath away. “And then I heard the tepid response of her date. His subtly demeaning remarks. As if he needed to put her down to make himself feel better, and to keep her from realizing how much better she could do than him.” He shrugs. “I knew that he didn’t deserve her, and that I had to have her. That I needed to pull out all the stops in order to make her mine. But just my luck, she didn’t believe me when I told her that.”
You turn your head, rest your chin on his chest as you look up into his red, red eyes. “So quick? Just that, and it was enough for you to decide you wanted to keep me?” It’s so hard to believe. How could he tell so much about you, from just a short, accidental encounter?
“I have an appraiser’s eye, darling. I can recognize the priceless, the one-of-a-kind, when I see it.” His self-satisfaction is palpable. Who are you to argue with him? If he thinks you’re worth it, then you will choose to believe him. He reminded you that you deserve it, the night you met, after all.
“Do you still want the job? Boyfriend replacement?”
“No,” he says, but before your heart can sink, he continues. “The cost of this bedtime story is high, I’m afraid. I’m too greedy to settle for boyfriend. I like the sound of husband. Soulmate.”
He leans down, stops a breath away from your lips. Relief floods through you. You smile at him, echo his words. “Then you shall have both.”
Then you kiss him.
You kiss him, and you spend the rest of your life kissing him. You never do forget his eyes, through all the long years, as the world continues to change around you, as Sylus spends every day trying to give you what he insists that you deserve, and you try to do the same for him, until the day you die.
End note: I'm a lying liar and said I was taking a break, but apparently Sylus won't leave me alone.
I've been searching for this sylus fic for months. MONTHS. Thanks to this lovely @peachylynnie for reblonging with other multiple sylus fics they were able to saved them from deactivation accounts. Check out their blog as they also write sylus fics! :>>
contrary to popular belief, diluc ragnvindr enjoys teasing his s/o.
one of the things he’s particularly fond of is flexing his bicep just as you’re resting your head on the muscle. you thought nothing of it at first, simply thinking he was getting comfortable, until the action became just a bit too blatant.
“you stop that,” was all you said that night, giving his arm a weak slap.
diluc merely snickered.
another irksome thing he developed was a penchant for was brushing his hand against your body whenever he wanted to walk past you in a tight space, such as during the tavern’s peak hour, under the guise of simply moving you aside.
“apologies, darling,” diluc whispered one time, a hand gliding over your back. “you’re blocking the exit.”
you shot him a deadpan look. “mind explaining why you’re pulling me towards you, then?”
but his favourite thing to do is openly shower you with affection— something that doesn’t happen very often with a man so proper as he.
diluc finds that this way was by far the best to rile you up. it works like a charm, if he dare be so honest with himself.
it’s at the tavern’s back exit, figures obscured behind crates of wine, where you’re pinned between the wall and your lover— hands gripping at his shoulder for purchase after a long make-out session.
diluc’s chest heaves as he comes back down to earth. his hands rest on your hips, a warm comfort despite the chill of midnight.
“you were awfully handsy today,” you manage. it’s awfully difficult to keep yourself composed with how dizzy the kiss made you. it feels as if you’re floating, really. “what’s gotten into you?”
“was i?” diluc breathes all too carelessly. the young master places a chaste kiss to your nose, a tender action that never fails to warm your heart. “i merely wished to convey my affections for you.”
