Trivial matters
Like Father, Like Daughter
A Dragon's Greed (contains very mild nsfw)
Red Flag/Green Flag
Under Stained Glass Sylus x mc. Character study-ish?
Needy Soft Sylus, mild smut (fem recieving oral)
Let Sleeping Dragons Lie snowcrowmc fluff
Yes, Miss Sub!Sylus, Dom!reader, pure smut
"tuberculosis chic" sickfic fluff
Fem!Lads headcanons
Snippets of Fics I'll Never Finishâą
part 1: bickering
part 2: a description with nowhere to go
part 3: "I'd let the world burn" type shi
part 4: Villain Power Couple Sylusmcâą
part 5: dragon Sylus as a child
I finally got my PC Emulator working, time to feast on some 4k widescreen shots from Darkbound Souls đ€€
Sylus moving us up the slab with those thrusts once again has me weakkkk
A render I did a while ago. I like that it turned out more romantic and sensual than I originally planned. I'm still trying to figure out how to use his model properly in Blender.
Anyway, this might be my last post on this side blog. Enjoy the boobs. đ€
Sometimes you log on to tumblr dot com and see your beloved mutuals thirsting over unrisen sourdough men and you have to say a very very quiet âpassâ to yourself and let it go because inevitably the flat circle of time will bring around your turn to go gaga over some butterface dude or bug eyed girl and you must know that your beloved mutuals are saying a quiet âpassâ to themselves and leaving you to your moment of insanity in peace.
No posts last week because the hot weather kept giving me nosebleeds, so I was wandering around with that debuff you get in BG3 when you let Astarion drain you dry!! Not that I would know ahaha *nervously tugs bloodstained collar*
Drabble game explained here! | Other drabbles: 1 | 2 |
âIâm closing in. Signalâs getting stronger,â you speak into thin air, orâ to anyone looking more closelyâ the comms device in your ear. âNo sign of Wanderers yet. Metaflux? Peaked. Anomaly present, but stable.â
One step at a time. Your combat boots are squashing the foliage underfoot, and your Hunterâs watch emits pulse-like beeps. Everything according to training; a no-hunt zone isnât the place to stray from rehearsals.
A tiny dot on your watchâ youâ is coming up on another dot. You squint through the forest ahead.
âStand-byâŠâ leaves your lips on a whisper. âIâm approaching signalâs source. Zero incursions spotted. Still no Wanderers. I donât know whatâsâ oh, fuck.â
Your gun is lowered. Comms disconnected.
âReally?!â you exclaim.
Sylus is stood before you, his back to a tree, a pendant dangling from his fingers. The stone is glowing with borrowed moonlight, and something innate: energy, fizzling like freshly-poured champagne. âYou sound disappointed, sweetie.â
âWell, I was sorta hoping for something I could, yâknowâŠâ You wave your gun half-heartedly.
âShoot?â he grins. âYou could try, for old times' sake. Iâll be a good sport. Promise.â
The pendant prickles your Evol, but thereâs a push-and-pull here more powerful than any fluctuating Metaflux. âWhereâd you get that, hm?â you deflect. âItâs dangerous, Sylus.â
âItâs a trinket, sweetie, relax. You arenât afraid itâll summon a Wanderer, are you? If I were you, Iâd be more afraid ofââ
The charm offensive is gone, along with Sylus himself, in a barrelling blur of white uniform and light. Heâs suddenly on the ground, pinned: âBy authorisation of the Hunters Association!â
Summary: a continuation of a cat hybrid!mc/reader x sylus story. After Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways, you follow him home without asking for permission. This part is a story about some of the consequences of that decision, and how you unintentionally returned to your human form. To be continued in part 4. 4,268 words.
Content: mass murder, sushi, eyeball licking, fluff and angst, Sylus having the time of his life.
And thus begins your life of fableâthe dread dragon, feared by all, rumored to cannibalize his enemies and scorch the territories with flames and salt the fields of anyone who dares oppose himânow always appears in public within his empire with a little black cat on his arm, who lounges in his lap as he negotiates deals in the most exclusive night spots in the N109 zone.
The dread dragon, Mr. Qin, is known to always get what he wants.
But everyone knows black cats bring bad luck.
And so, at first, rivals and begrudging business associates assume he's lost his touch. Maybe gone a little soft, or daft.
So, like sharks circling chum in the water, failing to see the wicked hook in the bloody gloom, they begin to test their luck.
Previously reliable suppliers start 'misplacing' certain parts of shipments. The best parts. Rivals begin to edge in on the dread dragon's turf, causing ruckuses at businesses he is known to ownânightclubs, casinos, and a chain of cat cafes he recently acquired. They intimidate the employees, the nearby residents, offering better 'protection' than what the dragon can offer these days, what with his true colors showing as a frivolous peacock with a weakness for literal pussy.
After all, as quickly as a king can rise, a king can fall, they say.
Mr. Qin takes it all in stride, receiving the increasing reports of insulting chaos encroaching into his domain calmly, only tapping his finger against the kitchen counter as he lounges on a stool, idly watching you eat your weight in perfectly seared wagyu beef on a delicate plate of china.
"You gotta do something, boss-man," one of the magpies, the one with the scarâKieran, says agitatedly one night. He's almost vibrating with indignation.
"We can take care of it. Just give us the wordâwe can have charges in every single one of the upstarts' bases within twenty-four hours," the other magpie, Luke, shifts from foot to foot, just as restless as his brother.
They're both clothed, nowâall black ensembles, cargo pants with as many belts and buckles and pockets as Mr. Qin seems to have on his 'casual' outfits. Unfortunately, they've have never appeared before you naked since that first night.
"And just one detonator! One click andâ" Kieran cries.
"Boom! Like the end of Fight Club!" they crow together, miming entire skyscrapers collapsing one by one, complete with sound effects.
"Only the film version,"Mr. Qin just sniffs disdainfully. "The film was completely unfaithful to the book."
"Not the point, boss! The point is, BOOM!" Luke's eyes are wide, like a little kid who thinks that if he just explains his genius plan to the grown-up slowly and loudly this time, the grown-up will eventually come around to seeing his genius vision.
Leaning forward, Mr. Qin rests both elbows on the counter. "Many bases these fools own are prime real estate. Destroying them would be a waste, when I can simply take over and lease the premises to tenants with a better sense of self-preservation than their current occupants."
The twins' shoulders slump in unison.
"However, I do have some small fish that need frying, so you're welcome to throw grenades into their ponds instead."
Immediately perking up, the magpies are so overjoyed that they'll get to blow anything up in the near future even if it's not as cool as Fight Club that they shift right out of their clothes, winging around the room in a flurry of chittering, dive-bombing Mr. Qin's head, and then zooming out of the kitchen when your back has arched enough to let them know that if they continue, there will be Consequences.
Luke had to lose a few feathers before they both understood that you mean business when it comes to protecting Mr. Qin's glorious hair.
"Did you eat your fill, Kitten?" Mr. Qin asks idly.
You answer with a satisfied purr, slinking over to him and rubbing your cheek and body along his arm and chest leaning over the counter.
Thoughtfully running a hand over your back, he scritches behind your ears. "Good. I hope your appetite is as endless as always, because it's time to kill two birds with one stone, and you're going to help me do it."
More food, and helping Mr. Qin?
A truly fabled life indeed.
Later that night, you find yourself in a familiar setting. To the average patron, it's a small place. So small that the waiting list for a reservation is known to stretch into years, and not just months. Just a few stools along a bar, a few small tables for two along the windows facing a quiet city street. The waiting list is so long because it has always been, essentially, one person operation. The art of sushi has been passed down for generations in the same family, with the parent training their child who then takes over the business and continues the family legacy. All they make is sushi, and they simply make the best sushi in the world. No wonder that the menu prices reflect such exquisite offerings.
However, to those in the know, beyond the tiny dining area, there is a back room. Larger than the dining room out front, but still small as far as rooms that serve its purpose typically are. Back here, there are no chairs.
The room itself, windowless, only narrow enough to contain the long table, still feels light, airy, with its blond wood-paneled walls lined with alcoves containing lovely vases and elegant flower arrangements. The effect is serene, a counterpoint to the blood soaked, high tension decisions that are made within its walls.
At the far end of the room, next to the door leading to the front and the kitchen, a beautifully carved liquor cabinet sits. The respective lackeys accompanying their bosses mix the drinks and serve âwarm sake. Whiskey and soju. Bourbon and scotch. Serious drinks for supposedly serious people.
The clientele sit on cushions, shoes off, socked feet whispering across the tatami mat floor when they must move around to obsequiously pour their boss's drinks or discreetly hand them documents for review.
To enter this dining room, weapons must be surrendered at the door to the restaurant's only staff aside from the chefâthe sous-chef, in training under her mother, this generation's current chef. This is a neutral location, after all, and all must walk in having surrendered their means of harm to others. That is the sacred rule of this hidden room, inviolate for years stretching back into memory.
Mr. Qin sits at the head of the long, low table. He has said nothing, simply nodding his head as the guests initially filed in and took their seats. He's relaxed as you curl into his lap, cradled between his crossed legs. The picture of indolent insouciance, his serenity sharply contrasts with the acrid stench of nervous fear wafting through the air from most of those seated around the table. All but one person reeks of guiltânot remorse, but the feeling of having done something that, if discovered, will warrant swift, horrifying punishment.
The sous-chef, tall and svelte, enters repeatedly, bringing in each round of sushi, carefully plated, one item at a time, to be savored in its individual glory before the next round is brought.
As the food arrives and empty plates depart, the guests share surface-level pleasantries, innocuous and polite.
All lies. Tigers wearing bow ties.
You don't pay attention to the particularities of meetings like thisâthey mean nothing to you, provided no one smells of violent hostility towards Mr. Qin. They can hate all they like. They can look all they like. And so long as Mr. Qin smells calm, you don't trouble yourself with his fleeting anger or amusement, with what's actually being said underneath the sheathed words.
As Mr. Qin's silence stretches, the discomfort in the room rises. But he waits, patiently, occasionally sipping some fizzy concoction that reeks of gin, as the people in the room grow increasingly restless. They desperately try to avoid staring as he hand-feeds you a portion of each priceless dish carefully prepared by the internationally-renowned chef, even as indignant disgust thickens their already foul scents.
After more than two hours of his silence, and as the meal is entering its final course, the sous-chef brings one of the highlights of the menu: fugu sashimi. Or, raw pufferfish.
A delicacy, and incredibly dangerous if prepared by inexpert hands due to the neurotoxin naturally occuring within it. You perk up, having heard of fugu before, back before, before, beforeâŠ. you shake your head, ears flapping.
It's prized as such a delicacy not only because of its taste, but because the thrill of eating something so deadly often evokes a euphoric feeling in the one eating it. Some even report an aphrodisiac quality to their experience of consuming it.
As the sous-chef places the dish before Mr. Qin, you lean over to take a lick, but for once, his large hand slips between your nose and the fish.
"Not tonight, Kitten. I'll share fugu with you another time, under more convivial circumstances."
This gentle denial, given as if you're an actual person, is the final spark that ignites the simmering, resentful ire of the gathered guests.
"How much longer must we endure this grotesque display of poor manners before we get down to business?" One of the guests demands, loud and irritated. Many others grunt or nod in accord, finally brave now that someone else has drawn a target on his own back.
Mr. Qin simply hums, not taking his eyes off you. "Would you say that bringing an emotional support kitten to an establishment that allows them is less polite than say⊠theft or extortion from your valued business partners?"
The room goes quiet as the clink of chopsticks against plates and everyone's breath ceases.
Finally, the mutinous guest who was brave enough to initially complain clears his throat. "That is a serious allegation, Mr. Qin." He glances around the room, as if gathering support from his counterparts. "Do you have proof?"
"Proof, hmmm," your human, ruby eyes glinting in the low light, muses. "My kitten is all the proof I need."
"Ha, yes. We've all noticed lately how your⊠behavior, has changed recently. As if you've become more⊠distracted." The leader of the mutiny, though his confidence is growing with Mr. Qin's seemingly bizarre behavior untempered by shame or concern, remains cautious in choosing his words. The scent of fear, but also derision, intensifies.
"If I were distracted, you would be free to continue your unwise flirtation with my ire without consequence," Mr. Qin slips a thin slice of the fugu into his plush mouth. His subsequent noise of pleasure elicits a purr from your own throat, as you enjoy seeing him happy as much as experiencing your own happiness.
The leader of the mutiny has the audacity to roll his eyes. "You must be confused, if you think anyone at this table would dare cross you." His fear fades as his conviction that Mr. Qin has lost his marbles rises.
"Let's find out, then." Mr. Qin runs one long, elegant finger along the top of your head, down your spine. "Kitten, could you kindly indicate everyone at this table who is currently gambling with their life?"
The noises of disbelief, confusion, and disgust shatter the otherwise quiet room as you, without hesitation, rise to your paws, tail straight up in the air, and hop lightly on the table. Winding your way around and over the plates of each guest, you stop to sniff, growl, and then turn, showing your own asshole to every single asshole in this room who reeks of the scent of smug betrayal and lies.
When you stop before the one person who now smells of fascinated curiosity, the same one who hasn't smelled guilty since the beginning, you flick your tail in satisfaction and briefly nose her palm in respect, and then trot your way back to Mr. Qin's lap. He rewards you by lifting your small body into the air and nuzzling into your furry tummy. "Thank you, sweetheart."
The leader of the mutiny scrambles to his feet rather ungracefully from a cross-legged position, and seethes over the table. "This is absurd, and exactly why we can no longer trust your grip on the N109 zone. This dinner is over!"
He turns to leave, only to stop abruptly as he almost runs into the sous-chef. She stands, relaxed, legs spread a bit, one foot in front of the other. It's almost a boxer's stance, if not for the razor-thin sushi knife held, blade down, in her fist.
A knife-fighting stance.
"The meal is not quite over," she says calmly. "I must ask you to return to your seat."
The mutineer sneers as the rest of the patrons stiffen, reaching for holsters and knife sheathes out of instinct, only to remember that they're empty. "This place's neutral status is sacred. How dare you threaten us within its walls? We'll raze you to the ground if you don't stand down this instant."
The sous-chef remains unruffled. "Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules."
The mutineer spins around, raising a finger to point at Mr. Qin, but stops, a confused look crossing his face. He lifts his fingers, now trembling, to his lips instead. As if they're already tingling as the puffer fish's neurotoxin surges through his veins. "What the fuck have you done?"
Mr. Qin ignores him, turning instead to the only person who hasn't double-crossed him in the room. "Please, continue. It would be a shame to leave this divine dish unsavored."
With wide eyes, she lifts her chopsticks and slips another slice of fugu into her mouth, as the mutineer drops to the tatami, unable to breathe another word. The remaining patrons begin to slump in turn, some straight backwards with quiet thumps, some sprawling forward onto the table, the cacophony of dishes clinking and drinks spilling rising into a crescendo until the only sound remaining is the quiet chewing of the person left alive at the table.
"Thank you for another lovely dinner, Rin-san," Mr. Qin nods to the sous-chef in appreciation. "My regards to your mother." She nods in turn and slips out of the room. Turning back to the final guest, he waves his hand. "Stay, if you'd like. But when you are done, spread the word of what happened here tonight. I'd rather focus on my Kitten, instead of fools, for the near future."
"Of course, Mr. Qin."
And that, was that.
Your days continueânights, really, drifting along at the dread dragon's side. The unrest in his domain evaporates, so much steam from screaming kettles boiling empty into silence. Now, when business partners or rivals see the black cat on his arm, the only scent in the air is terror.
Everyone knows black cats bring bad luck, after all.
To them. Not to Mr. Qin.
Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules, after all.
This makes you purr, eliciting an answering pleased rumble deep in Mr. Qin's chest. You don't question why, simply reveling in the satisfaction of enemies quivering in fear and your human's pleasure in their amenability to his desires.
One night, months later, Sylus lounges in his huge, standalone marble bathtub. It sits before a soaring window as the N109 zone's sky lightens almost imperceptibly, signaling the coming dawn that this rancid part of the world never sees.
You slink along the rounded edges of the tub, enjoying the challenge of not slipping from either side while still remaining as close to Mr. Qin as possible as he soaks in a place you will not follow, mo matter the depth of your devotion to him. He twirls a glass of wine from languid fingertips, steam rising from the warm water, rippling with every little movement of his powerful body.
"You could join me," he offers, offhandedly. He's not looking at you, instead gazing into the wine before taking a sip. In his scent, a deep interest belies his seeming indifference to any response from you. "If you wanted to change into⊠something more comfortable."
Continuing to glide along the smooth stone, you ignore him. No way you want to get wet. If you need to get clean, which you do not, thank you very much, as you are already pristine and perfect in every way at (least in terms of hygiene, even if not in temperament), that is what your tongue is for, not a death pool ready to drown you and make you look ridiculous with flattened fur if you do manage to escape.
"Shame." His gaze, which you are pointedly ignoring, is so heavy behind you that it slightly raises the fur along your spine. It remains on you for a beat before he sighs and casts it toward the window and the glittering city below. "Perhaps I am losing my mind, after all," he murmurs, but there is no conviction in this assertion in his scent. Whatever is puzzling him, he is sure he knows the truth of it.
More months pass. You don't know how long you've been with him. Only that he has never stopped showing you the kindness, the care, and the companionship that he offered you from that very first night.
Perhaps you should have seen it coming. Perhaps you should have run long before it was even a possibility.
But how could you know to run, if you didn't think it were possible?
One can't return to the past, after all. Time doesn't flow backwards, no matter how much you throw yourself against the bars of the cage.
What's done is done. Caleb is dead. And with Caleb, your old self died too.
You are a cat, with a dragon-like human who needs to be protected, and cherished, and adored, as he does for his cat.
That is all there is. That is all you need.
Mr. Qin reads aloud to you every dawn before bed, as the morning sun spills over everywhere that is not here, signaling his night, and yours as well.
Whatever he happens to be reading, he reads out loud, with his rimless, gold accented reading glasses glinting in the light of the lamp on the nightstand, some kind of stained glass, Tiffany-style thing, designed to look like a crimson flower with wicked points. His words are the lullubies to your dreamless, peaceful nights curled at his side. By the dawning of the night, you often wake, curled up on his chest instead.
One such night, you wake to find that he is already awake too, staring at you with calm, curious eyes. You have the strange sense that he has been awake for awhile, but for some reason has made no effort to move you aside all the while, no effort to get up and start his version of the day. You've trained him well.
It's as if he's waiting to see what you'll do, now that you're awake too.
You roll a little, crouching on your belly like you're on the hunt for a mouse and want to remain as low as possible. The corners of his full lips lift slightly, the interest sharpening in his ember-eyes. Creeping forward, you brush your nose against his.
He doesn't move, just continues to watch you. There is something about his eyes that is so maddening, if you look into them for too long. Especially his right eye, the same one that glowed so bright, almost blinding, when he took you to the mall. You haven't seen it glow like that since, but you have the urge, all at once toâ
you surge forward, as if pouncing on a mouse, and lick his right eyeball.
Both his face and scent reveal shock, fading to surprise, and then amused disgust.
"I don't know what I expected," he laments, a low laugh rumbling through his chest and through your body still crouched on him.
He lifts you into his arms and swings out of bed, and thus your day begins.
That night, he reads The Traveling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa as you're falling asleep.
"As we count up the memories from one journey, we head off on another." His rich voice is a soothing bass rhythm as he reads. "Remembering those who went ahead. Remembering those who will follow after. And someday, we will meet all those people again, out beyond the horizon.â
The words melt into you, fusing into the marrow of your brittle bones, seeping into spidering fractures you hadn't realized were there. Somehow, these words are comforting. Deep lilac, shot with sunset orange and pink, fills your half-asleep consciousness. But for once, that strange mewling is nowhere to be heard.
All the while, Mr. Qin's voice cradles you, a steady vessel carrying you safely on an endless river free from memory as you drift into dreamless sleep.
The waking is easy.
The waking has been easy, for months now. Maybe over a year?
You don't know how long you've been with him.
You should have seen it coming.
The waking is easy.
Warmth. Smooth skin, soft silver fur under your cheek. Long legs, entwined with yours. Your body rises and falls with his breath as you're draped over his soft, firm, pillowy steel-muscled chest.
The waking is easy.
You should have seen it coming.
The past can't be undone, nor can a leopard change its spots.
A cat who is not only a cat can't stay a cat forever.
The waking is easy.
Red eyes meet yours, crinkling at the corners with such genuine, unguarded joy that they are briefly rendered unfamiliar to you. You've never seen him smile so fully.
"There you are, sweetheart."
You can only live your head, chin resting against his chest, gazing placidly at him, easy in your waking, not suspecting anything amiss. Yet his handsome face with its severe contours, his long nose and the regal profileâit all seems ⊠smaller. Everything about him seems smaller, somehow.
He's still huge, but he's less⊠giant, somehow.
He's gorgeous, actually. He's gorgeous not just as a sculpture in a museum, but attractive in a way that is physically painful, not just in your chest from your heart squeezing in the face of such artistic, divine beauty, but painful everywhere. His bulk under the entire length of your body. The soft hair along his legs brushing along your own legs. His heart jack-hammering in his chest underneath yours, matching your own jack-rabbiting beat. His skin against yours, silk and electricity.
His skin against your skin.
Not your fur.
You should have seen it coming.
He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb along your cheek. "I knew you'd be magnificent, if I were right." His voice is soft, steeped in awe. "But I hadn't realized just how truly breathtaking reality would be."
You should be able to smell the truth of his words, not just hear it in his voice.
But your nose, the scents in itâmuted, and yet more colorful. He still smells delicious, musk and sleep, warmth and citrus, clean sweat. But all the layers of his feelingsâ
You can't feel his feelings from the way he smells anymore. He's an opaque polaroid instead of a neon mural, and you can only fumble for the clues of his feelings by the crinkling of his eyes, the timbre of his voice, the slowly tightening lines of his full lips as his smile fades into concern.
His soft silver eyebrows draw together, the furrow between them deepening.
"Kitten," he says, cautious. "I'm still me."
You wonder why he's saying this until his other hand joins his first, both palms now cupping your cheeks.
"And you're still you."
Oh.
You're shaking. Rolling tremors, an earthquake under your skin.
He thumbs along the sensitive skin under your eyes soothingly. "Breathe with me." Taking a deep breath, expanding his big chest where its pressed under yours, he coaxes your breath from your body.
After all this time, under his shelter, in his care, sheltering him, caring for himâwhat can you do but follow where he leads?
He's still him.
Even if you don't know what you are, anymore.
"Mr. Qin," you croak, helpless. Your cheeks are hot, and wet. Moisture slicks the paths his thumbs take, back and forth. The air is thick with its salt.
The furrow between his brow fades, his lips curving in pleasure again. "Surely we're on a first-name basis by now, Kitten, what with you watching me bathe and piss for over a year, and now waking up naked in my bed. Call me Sylus."
You look down, see the truth in the swell of your chest pressed against his own, feel the truth in the silk sheets along your bare back and ass.
Of course. It's not like you can take your clothes with you when shifting from human to animal, animal to human . Any movies or games that depict such idiocy are just censored nonsense.
But that's unimportant. You frown back up at him, the inexplicable tears fading as indignation rises. "If you didn't want company while you were on the toilet, you should have locked the door, Sylus."
He blinks in shock, eyes widening ever so slightly, but recovers quickly. "It took you long enough, but oh, were you worth the wait," he laughsâhearty, breathless, excited.
You don't need his scent to know that he's delighted.
Thank you for reading! there will be a part four with you learning how to human (or trying) and Sylus courting his kitten. I'm having a great time writing this. I'd love to hear what you think in tags or comments! People asked to be tagged so I'm going to try to do that in the comments.
Also, please note that for dramatic effect, everyone was affected by the pufferfish neurotoxin at the same time. This is not realistic at all, so Rin-san convinced her mother to add a little extra 'seasoning' to the sashimi to ensure the dramatic end that Mr. Qin was aiming for. So don't come at me if you're some kind of marine biologist or pufferfish connoisseur. Or actually do, I love all feedback. Okay bye!
Oh I forgot to add đđđ be it fluff like jelly sylus but fluff maybe he trying to make the mc jelly too ? Iâm going wild with ideas, I will be quiet
(Part 1 of ask)
FINALLY finished this fic oh my goshhh I've loved it so much but writer's block was my constant companion for this one đ« Thanks for your patience!!
Sy is jealous but I'm still pushing my 'Sylus is the softest man alive and would die before hurting MC' agenda, so I had to get a lil creative! Hope I've pulled it off idk đđ
Summary: Sylus is getting a little tired of sharing you with the other men in your life (and he doesn't mean Luke and Kieran đ)
Genre: lil bit of angst, comfort and fluff
Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, jealousy, other LIs mentioned, brief allusion to Raf's self-harm tendencies, cheating mentioned, some intimacy & kisses-- more soft than spicy!
| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
Sylus has spent centuries waiting for you, so heâs going to give you another minute.
Patience is not a virtue; itâs an old acquaintance he greets with a false smile whenever heâs forced to pass it on the street. Sometimes outside your building, whilst youâre chatting with a neighbour from the apartment above yours. Sometimes when youâre running late from a doctorâs appointment.
Patience has been cropping up a lot these days and gods, heâs sick of its face. Even now, it sits with him at this table for two as he sips at a glass thatâs almost empty. Thereâs poetry in stalling, in savouring whatâs left, especially as a waiter hovers anxiously nearby, anticipating the need for yet another refill (it would be the third).
Dregs of blood-red wine swirl with solemnity. Sylus is a patient man, a man who waits, but he doesnât want to be. He wants the reward of it: the pot of gold at the end of that insipid rainbow. Hasnât he waited enough?
He lifts his drink to his lips again.
âSylus!â
They curve as he swallows the final drop.
âIâm so sorry,â you stammer, flinging yourself into the seat across from him so quickly that heâs cheated of the chance to rise and help you with your chair. âSit back down,â you usher, because he had made a start on it, âreally, Sy, Iâm so, so sorry. Things at work just got crazy, and Iââ
âYou donât have to explain, sweetie,â he smiles as he signals the waiter. Heâll have that refill, now, and he orders your favourite drink as you shrug off your coat and fumble with your bag, looking for something. âIâm more than familiar with the Associationâs⊠dedication to a cause.â
You glance up with an amused smile. âWeâre keeping you on your toes, huh?â
âMmm. There is one hunter whoâs proving to be a real thorn in my side.â
âYou on top of that?â
âMost evenings, yes. Some mornings, too.â
You poke your tongue out at him. Youâve retrieved a compact mirror and you use it to study your dishevelled reflection. âIs everything all right at work?â he asks as you fuss over your hair.
âYeah,â you puff. âLong story.â
âWe have time.â
With a warmer smile, you stash your mirror away and sequester your bag by your feet. âYou sure?â He gives you a look. âFine,â you chuckle. âBasically, Xavier forgot to write up some reports. Heâs been away on an ultra-secret, special mission or whateverââ you tap your nose conspiratoriallyâ âwhich I didnât just tell you, okay? But yeah, the reports werenât done, and they were due tonight, soâŠâ
Sylus raises an apathetic eyebrow. âHe asked you to help?â
âBegged me, more like.â
Of course he did. The waiter arrives with your drinks and Sylus has never been gladder for a distraction. His mouth is full of pettiness, bitterness, so he drowns it with wine. You could have called. Texted. âSo kittenâs been playing secretary, hmm?â he goads instead.
âThat would imply kitten could keep track of time,â you pout, âso no. And speaking of playing a partââ you poke his noseâ âyouâre allowed to be mad at me. I should have called you. Texted. So let me have it, yeah? I feel bad enough already without you being all⊠perfect.â
Youâre only teasing, but Sylus doesnât feel perfect. Heâs thinking about you working late with your partner, laughing at his jokes, poking him with your pen to keep him from falling asleep on his paperwork. He smirks, regardless. âWhat if I want you to feel bad?â
âOh, gods,â you slump forwards, face-down on the table. âHow long were you waiting?â
âYears.â
You fake cry into the tablecloth. âDonât, Sy. Just tell me the truth. How bad was it?â
âReally, years,â he insists again, folding his arms on the table and sliding forwards, too. His chin is resting on his hands, and he blows at the top of your head. âLook.â Your face lifts so you can peer at him. He pinches his hair. âIâve even gone grey, see?â
You sit up the tiniest bit more and your noses are almost brushing. âIt looks nice,â you whisper.
âYou think so?â
âMmm. Suits you.â
Your eyes are every gemâ every jewel in an illicit auction Sylus has to steal away from the rest of the world, because something that pretty just has to be his; it will find no worthier home than his hands. His devotion fills vaults. Arenât they spilling with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamondsâ those reckless imitations of your gaze? No-one else could deserve them, adore them like he does.
And theyâve nothing on the real thing.
Someone clears their throat and Sylus tracks the noise begrudgingly. The anxious waiter is back, clutching menus this time. You sit up fully, laughing to break the tension, and sure enough, Sylus feels less like hurling the man through the nearest window.
Heâs still thinking about it though. He tells the waiter as much with a smile, and the menus are passed over with shaking hands. When Sylus says, âthank you,â it sounds like a bomb, ticking.
âPlay nice,â you tut, once the waiterâs cleared the blast radius.
âSweetie, when do I ever not play nice?â
You blink back at him disbelievingly. This should be good. âHow about the time that youâ?â
A familiar ringtone interrupts you, and your eyes widen in apology as you grab at your bag, rifling around for your phone. You find itâ check the call and decline itâ but relief is hiding, refusing to set foot on stage. Not yet, it confers to Sylus darkly, because it knows what comes next.
âDo you need toâŠ?â he asks anyway.
âNah, it was just Rafayel. Thanks, though.â You set the phone down. âWhere was I?â
âYou were about to tell me what a terribly bad man I am, sweetie.â
âRight!â you giggle. No, not yet. âSo how about the time that youâŠâ The phone rings again. You check it. Decline it. âHow about the time that youâugh!â Itâs ringing again.
Sylus taps a finger on the table, impatiently patient. You canât mute the wretched thing: the next call you miss would be a Wanderer, tearing through an orphanage or the like. Itâs the reason you check, even when thereâre no orphans at stakeâ just a pest of an artist with too much time on his hands.
Except⊠âOh,â you say, glancing downwards, âitâs Zayne. I should probablyââ Sylus gives a half-smile of blessing, but you werenât waiting around for itâ âhey, Zayne! I canât talk right now, unlessâ Raf? What the hell? How did you get Zayneâs phone?â
You pull yours away from your ear as a string of whines come through:
ââ ignore my calls, donât even text me to ask whatâs up, and then pick up his call right away? You hate me, right? Just say that you hate me, cutie.â
âI donât hate you, Raf.â The phone is back to your ear. âIâm busy. Now seriously, how did you getâ oh, hi, Zayne. Why is RafâŠ?â Sylus can hear a deeper voice answering your questions. âHeâs at theâ? Shit, is he okay? Ugh, tell him I can hear him. Tell him I know heâs not dying.â
You meet Sylusâs eyes as conflict erupts on the other end of the call. Sorry, you mouth as static filters through, interspersed with broken words and curses. The doctorâs voice prevails. âYeah, Zayne,â you speak back to it. âIâll call Thomas, get him to pick him up. Mmhmm? Oh!â You pinch the bridge of your nose. âI forgot, heâs at that stupid art thing. Look, maybe later, I canâŠâ
The artistâs shrill tone is protesting.
âI know itâs my job, Raf!â you counter. âBut gimme a break, please. If it was any other night, you know Iâd be there. Of course I wanna be there! But I canâtââ
Itâs just a slip of the tongueâ words you donât even realise youâre sayingâ but Sylus still feels his heart sink. He hates it. A heart is so difficult to argue with: itâs long gone before you can talk any sense into it. He stands from the table, those priceless eyes of yours pursuing him. When you tilt your head, he musters a smile, then a weak excuse: âIâm just stepping outside for a moment.â
You nod, a follow-up question on the tip of your tongue, but then thereâs a voice in your ear againâ two voicesâ and youâre you, so of course you listen.
âŠ
Sylus waits on a bench outside the restaurant, closing his eyes as he waits for his heart to come back.
Itâs only been a few minutes. Heâs thinking about your eyes, your nose and lipsâ an inch from hisâ and how he should have closed that gap before it grew treacherous. Shouldnât he be done with this? This⊠longing? Youâre his. Youâve told him youâre his, over and over again, but he finds himself needing to hear it once more; the ghost of your voice is starting to lack persuasion.
He is yours without exception, but you? Thereâs always a caveat. Iâm yours, Sylus. But only so long as the city is quiet. Iâm yours, Sylus. Until someone else calls. The door to the restaurant opensâ he can hear itâ but he doesnât open his eyes. He wants to pretend.
Iâm yours, Sylus. No caveats. No exceptions.
âSylus.â
He swallows the dread in his throat.
âIâm sorry,â you entreat softly. His eyes open, and youâre wearing your coat, holding your bag. âI have to run to the hospitalâ itâs this whole thing. Raf, like, passed out or something. Heâs not been eating again. Zayne said when something like this keeps happening, itâs a sign that⊠yeah. He just⊠needs someone. And he hasnât got anyone else, you know?â
âI understand.â Youâre worried about your friend. Thatâs all it is.
Why canât he believe thatâs all it is? Â
You come over and sink down on the bench beside him, looping your arm through his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Donât you know that heâs afraid? That a selfish, spiteful part of him wants to hide youâ with the rest of his treasuresâ away from the light, so he can love you in the dark?
Thereâs a sigh as you lean against him, savouring his touch like the wine one swirls in a glass when their thoughts are elsewhere. Itâs gone in a mouthful; you check your watch, and he hopes itâs bitter.
âAre you okay?â you ask.
No, he would rather be sweet for you, but look at youâ making him lie. âIâm okay,â he says, and it doesnât have a drop of conviction. Heâs tired of philanthropy.
âŠ
âWhat are you gonna do? Come on, tell us. Tell us! What are you gonna do?â
âI donât know, Luke. Give me a second, okay? Jeez.â
You literally just got here. Your pace is brisk and the night air still clings to youâ you shed a layer of it by peeling your arms out of your coat. Luke and Kieran are close behind, keeping to your heels like terriers hoping youâll trip with a plateful of food. Theyâll take even a crumb at this point.
âYou gonna fight him?â Kieran nudges, but your lips stay tight.
âOh, youâre so gonna fight him,â Luke takes away from the silence.
You donât know what youâre going to do. Youâve reached a decadent lounge, lavished with black and gold, and you throw your coat over the arm of a chair before starting to wrestle off your combat boots. Youâve been off work for hours, but it doesnât feel like it. One call-to-duty after another; first the hospital, now this.
Mephisto caws in greeting from a nearby perch. âIâm not gonna fight him,â you say as your second boot drops with a clunk. âI just need toââ
âSay no more,â Luke cuts you off. âWe want in.â
With a tired sigh, you gaze up at the twins at last. Kieran is readying a fist: punching his hand softly, the beak of his mask low and threatening. Beside him, Luke swings a baseball bat over his shoulder. He didnât have it a second ago. Where did he evenâ?
You put your hands on your hips. âYou guys got a death wish or something?â
âYes!â they enthuse together, nodding excitedly.
You havenât got time to ask. Your focus drifts to Sylusâs bedroom door, where music is leaking with honeylike light. You canât count the number of times youâve fallen over that threshold, exhaustedâ always slightly broken. You want to crawl into cool silk sheets and a warmer embrace, but thereâs one small problem.
The text that had brought you here, anxious and out of breath:
Boss is with someone.
âWhatâre you thinking?â
Youâre closer to the door, now, and Lukeâs whisper makes you jump. You spin, twisting the bat from his fingers and pushing him back until the tip is pressed to his throat. âGet back,â you hiss, before levelling the weapon at an encroaching Kieran, âboth of you.â
Luke leaps behind his brotherâ swinging him between you for protection. The baseball bat stays hovering, and Luke peeks over Kieranâs shoulder, swatting at it like an indignant kitten.
âStop it,â you scold, poking back at his hand and his masked face. âBegone!â
âYes, boss!â Kieran goes to move, but Luke is holding him in place. Heâs dragged backwards: a human shield until they can both scurry around the turn of a corridor.
You smile fondly. You forget, for just a moment, that youâre alone and full of uncertainty. The song in the next room lulls, at its inevitable end, and then you canât forget. Youâre stood in silence, staring at a door youâve never had to knock before. Another song starts up.
Whatever this is, you can handle it.
You use the baseball bat to tap against the dark wood. âSylus?â you call.
He makes you wait. You can hear him, moving aroundâ unmistakably taking his timeâ but you donât mind. Youâre running scenarios through your head. Is he in on this, too? OrâŠ?
He opens the door and oh, he definitely is. His silk robe hangs haphazardly over his figure, one side threatening to slip from his shoulder and the belt dangerously loose at the middle. A flush is tinting his face, spreading down through his neck, past his collarbone and lower, you think, but youâre trying not to look.
âSweetie,â he purrs in the way that tells you heâs up to no good, âwhat a pleasant surprise.â His eyes flit downwards. âAnd youâre armed, too.â
Thereâs a breathlessness to the observation, and your ability to breathe briefly eludes you as well. His hair is damp and unkempt, his skin warm, his gaze hot. Is this a test? It feels like a test.
âAre you alone?â you snap, because heâs clearly put some thought into whatever it is, and youâre a good sport, so youâll play along.
âNo,â he says, but then: âYou know youâre always with me in spirit, kitten. Even if not inââ another downwards glanceâ âbody.â
âSylus.â
âMmm?â
âIâm going to ask you one more time.â You catch his chin with your free hand, forcing his gaze back to your face. âAnd I want a real answer.â He swallows thickly. âAre you alone?â
His submission is fragile. He lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around your wrist like a reminder of the fact. âCareful, sweetie.â His grip tightens as his voice drops. âThink about what youâre asking.â
âI know what Iâm asking.â You snatch your hand free and step closer. âGet out of my way.â
Sylus narrows his eyes, but soon relaxes. He sweeps a hand through his hair, chuckling as he obeysâ moving aside to let you past. You storm through, looking over every visible inch of his room. Thereâs nothing to see, of course. No clothes that arenât yours pooled over the floor. No lover wrapped up in his bedsheets.
âJust what exactly are you looking for?â he asks smugly behind you.
âSave it, Sylus.â Your pretend patience is gone. âThe twins told me everything.â
So you start searching more strenuously. You make your way over to his bed, baseball bat slung over your shoulder as you check behind the far sideâ even stooping to peek under it. You open the wardrobe. Nothing. Use the baseball bat to push back the curtains, letting in more blood-red moonlight. Nothing. You huff in frustration.
âYou know, donât you?â Sylus says quietly.
Heâs leant against the doorway, arms crossed, and you spare him a glance. âKnow what?â Â
âThat thereâs no-one here.â
It sounds like defeat. âIâm taking this very seriously, actually,â you dismiss as you roll open the drawer of his bedside table, where no-one is hiding. You move on to even more absurd places: lifting flowers out of their vase to glance about inside it, peering into the horn of his vintage gramophone.
Youâd hoped your antics would elicit at least a short laugh, or a scoff of amusement. Thereâs nothing, though, so you plonk onto the bedâ defeated, yourselfâ and look to the man as you set your weapon down.
He looks back with an insincere smile. âHow did you know?â
âThat you werenât really with someone? Because youâre you, Sylus. The key to a good prank?â Your fingers twinkle in the air beside your head. âBelievability. Besidesââ now a forefinger taps at your templeâ ânothing gets past this.â
âYour ego?â he guesses with a smirk that is sincere, if nothing else.
âMy brain, Sy.â
âAh.â
Your egoâ tsk. Your feet are dangling from the bed, playing with a slipper theyâve fished out from underneath it, and you have half a mind to launch it at him. This doesnât feel like one of your usual games, though, and youâve had a whole ride through the N109 Zone to figure out why.
âI really hurt you, didnât I?â you speak like a confession, staring down at the floor so you donât have to meet his eyes. âThatâs what all this is about, right? You wanted to get back at me for dinner?â
âNo, Iââ
âI get it.â Your feet find the second slipper. âI do. I mean, it was a really shitty thing to doâ walking out on you like that. Especially after you waited for me. You went to all that effort, and Iâ ah.â Youâve toed one of the slippers out of reach.
âAllow me,â comes a voice thatâs suddenly close. Sylusâs figure looms over you before heâs crouching, kneeling by your feet. He still looks like a mess of sin, but heâs gentle as he retrieves the slipper for you. Removes your socks for you. Slides a slipper onto each of your cold feet. âYou didnât do anything wrong,â he mutters.
You let out a sigh. âSylus.â Youâre scolding him, and he gazes up at you, his eyes garnets of adoration only you could afford. âYou can tell me anything, you know.â
âI know, sweetie.â
âSo why wonât you tell me how you feel?â
He sits back on his knees, his thumb drawing circles on the inside of your ankle. The ministrations are mindless, and so are his words: âHow I feel is not important.â
âOf course it is!â You pull away from him. âDonât say things like that.â
âBut I thought I could tell you anything, kitten.â
Itâs a nick from a blade that could do much worse; he wants you to feel how sharp it is. His smile is a warning and heâs waiting for the hunter in you to strike back, because violence is what youâre good at. What youâre both good at. It hurts, but itâs easy.
You shift forward on the bed. âSylus⊠you donât need to protect me. Not from you. Not from anything you feel. I want you to be happy, to tell me if youâre unhappy. I donât need you toââ your fingers skirt over his chest and you falter inexplicablyâ âto sacrifice yourself for me.â
Sylus looks down to where youâre tracing the shape of his heart on his skin. He lets out a long, beleaguered breath, then leans closer to you, his head turning away as he settles it on your lap. Your hands find his hair instinctually, threading through it in slow, meandering motions.
âI want you to be mine,â he admits on another sigh.
He canât see you smile, but heâll hear it in your voice: âI am yours, Syââ
âNoâ just mine.â
He wonât make it a demand. Even asking you nicely has him breathless and still, like the drawn-out pause of a finished symphony. Your hands stop moving, out of respect for the quiet. Youâre remembering the times youâve been late out of your building because youâd stumbled into Xavier in the lobby. The doctorâs appointments that always overrun, and Rafayelâs âemergencyâ phone calls.
âCome and sit with me,â you mumble, patting the bed beside you.
When Sylus does, itâs with the same reluctance a cat surrenders a sliver of sun. Lazy and listlessâ still warm from the light. The bed sinks under his weight and you turn to face him. His robeâs collar has fallen further, so you hook a finger under it to draw it back up to his neck. Then you straighten the lapels, smoothing them over distractedly.
Heâs watching your face, not the movements of your hands. Your cheeks feel warm. âI was speaking to Rafayel earlier, and weââ
A groan, and Sylus is no longer at your fingertips; heâs flopped down backwards on the bed, his hand over his face. You canât help gigglingâ youâve broken the big, bad boss of Onychinus, it seems. Is that all it takes? You grin as you lie down with him, settling on your side, propped up on an elbow. He doesnât stir when you fix a few stray strands of his hair.
âWe talked about boundaries,â you continue. âHow I canât be on call twenty-four seven, and how heâs going to take better care of himself, so I donât have to be.â
Sylus has moved his hand, ever so slightly.
Thereâs more: âIâm gonna call in sick to work tomorrow. I made a deal with Xavier, thatâs why I stayed late today. Heâll cover for me.â You shift closer. âI wanted it to be a surprise. I know I canât always be with you, but I am always thinking of you, I promise. Youâre always with me in spirit, Sy, even if not inââ you press a quick kiss to his chestâ âbody.â
He chuckles at the words, or maybe the touch tickled.
You grin down at him. âIâm yours. Say it.â
âIâm yours.â
âNo! Ugh, justââ Smart-ass! You flick his forehead as he laughs quietly. âNot the words âIâm yoursâ, say that Iâmââ
His hand is at your face, pulling you in so he can kiss you. Itâs slow and itâs patient; heâs taking his time, and you wonât slip away. You can feel his smile. âYouâre mine,â he murmurs when he finally withdraws. One more kiss, lighter, on the tip of your nose. âJust mine.â
Always. You let him pull you into an embrace, snuggling into his warmth like youâve been wanting to from the moment you last left it. You can hear his heartbeat beneath the lullaby of his breath. âSy?â you whisper.
âHmm?â
âYou look really hot when youâre pretending to cheat on me.â
He scoffs, but a yawn comes before his response. âDonât get any ideas, kitten.â
Your quiet is pensive. âI have this lunch with Zayne later this week. I really should text him to find outââ
The grip around you constricts, and a voice is in your ear, soft and possessive:
Normal middle school au in which Zayne âPrince of darknessâ Li thinks heâs the most goth emo kid on campus UNTIL the new kid Sylus shows up with a whole ass crow perched on his shoulder. Caleb dies laughing.
Itâs so funny to imagine Zayne just being so pissed and he comes back home all bitchy and grandma asks Caleb what happened and he says âbro got out-gothed by the new kidđ€Łđ«”â
