"No lover leaves a rose garden without blood in their hands"
Main Navigation page
☆ Name: Isabella
☆ Alias: I go by Isa | Star | Bunny; Feel free to call me any of those.
☆ Age: 30+
☆ Pronouns: She/Her ♀
☆ Non-native english speaker
☆ Fandoms: I currently write to many, but at the moment, I'm mostly obsessed with Love and Deepspace.
☆ Socials
☆ @dramaticalsachan - Personal Blog
☆ Ao3
☆ Ko-fi
☆ Taglist
☆ Let's chat!
☆ Masterlist
☆ Love and Deepspace
☆ Honkai Star Rail
☆ Genshin Impact
☆ Tabletop RPGs - TBA
☆ WIPs & Hiatus
☆ Originals
☆ Mythos - All fandoms, but in a mythological universe, as Creatures, Gods, Goddess and Legends of old (TBA)
⤷ ゛Rules ˎˊ˗
• Make sure you've read it all
♦ LGBTQIA+ House -> This is a friendly place for the community where I, myself, am part of it. I won't tolerate hate speech in here.
♦ AI Free-zone -> Unfortunately my work has been used more times than I like to count to feed AI. I'll expressing here that, please, do not do it. I write everything on my own, I do my very best to provide free content for other people with the same day dreams as myself, I wish to be respected and not part of some feeding menu for a machine.
♦ Check my tags -> I will always put tags and disclaimers for all the works I have. I try to keep all tags correctly on my works, so you all can enjoy it without any surprises. If, by some reason, you do not engage with a certain content, it's ok. There is no need to proceed, the tags are there to keep you all safe about what you're reading.
♦ Content -> I tend to write a lot of dark content: Yandere themes, violence, gore, even sometimes I do have part of cannibalism showing up on my fics. This blog is not made for you to interact if you are underage.
♦ Copyright ->; As stated before, everything I write here is my own ideas unless otherwise explicitly stated. Please do not copy, modify, translate or repost my works on other platforms without my permission. Sharing my work via reblogs or recommendations is super valid and welcomed, theft is not.
Please notice: ko-fi is in case you want to just tip me or if you wish to request a specific fic :) I'll be working in this masterpost for a while, adding more information as I see what is needed.
Special credits to @xxsyluslittlecrowxx for working as such wonderful inspiration. Go read her fics, she's amazing. <3
My commissions focus on Love and Deepspace and its characters at the moment. For various reasons, currently, I do not write for Sylus. I apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for understanding.
About Commissions
Tiers
Drabble [aprox. 1.5k words] - $5
Oneshot [aprox. 2.5k words] - $15
Fanfic [4k words] - $30
Short story [5k words] - $40
More info about prices
Prices will increase by $10 for each 1k words added.
For the Drabble and Oneshot tiers, there can be instances where they could be above the word count but never below what was promised.
(eg. You pay for a Drabble and you can receive up to 1.7k words, but never below 1.5k for which you paid for).
The set limit of words that can be added is 5k words per request (so the maximum I will write on a commission is 10k words).
What I write
I am comfortable with writing the followings
Smut – slow burn, established intimacy/domestic sex, soft smut, rough smut, dom/sub dynamics, voyeuristic/exhibitionist, bondage, and more!
Fluff – slice of life, domestic moments, comfort & care, and more!
your fingers tightened around the score. “i can sing.”
a faint sound, almost a laugh, yet it held no amusement. more an exhale. a verdict. “then do it properly.”
cw/tw: nsfw. phantom!sylus x singer!reader. phantom of the opera au. obsession. teacher x student. patronage. light stalking. jealousy.
a/n: i’m in my “i love phantom of the opera” hyperfixation rotation this year, so here’s my sylus-flavoured version. ’tis a mini series, because if i write longer i’ll never commit lol. hope you enjoy this little bloop of mine.
| part i. | part ii. | part iii. | part iv. |
part i.
Rehearsal had ended with the usual small humiliations. A soprano too proud to take direction. A tenor who blamed the air for his flatness. A conductor who made a show of patience and still snapped his baton against his stand the moment the managers were not looking. The chorus had been dismissed in a flutter of skirts and muttered complaints, their laughter turning brittle as they reached the stage door and remembered the dark beyond it.
You had meant to leave with them.
Your cloak lay folded over a chair backstage, plain wool that would not tempt a thief and would not impress a patron. Gloves waited atop it. A bonnet sat like an obedient thought, ribbons tied and untied again until your fingers could not decide. The sensible thing would have been to go home, to climb the narrow stairs to your room and sleep with the city’s noise pressed against the shutters.
Yet the score in your hands refused to feel like paper.
Earlier that afternoon, it had appeared at your place in the chorus line without ceremony. No messenger. No explanation. No seal of the theatre. Only your name on the cover in a hand too steady for haste. Ink dark as mourning. The pages smelled faintly of smoke, a trace that might have belonged to the gas lamps and might have belonged to something else entirely.
Musicians had their superstitions. The stage had its own. Everyone in that company had heard the stories, even those who pretended they had not.
The Opera Ghost.
Some called him a disgraced musician who lived in the walls. Some swore he was a nobleman hiding from the law. There were whispers of drowned workmen beneath the foundations, of corridors that led nowhere and doors that opened on brick. Most of the tales, when examined too closely, became absurd. That was always the danger of examining.
Managers laughed about it when patrons were near. In private, their laughter thinned.
The paper shifted beneath your thumb, and a margin note caught the last of the amber light. A line had been drawn beside a phrase you knew well, one the chorus sang without thinking, a small step in a larger procession. The line was not the careless scratch of a bored copyist. It was deliberate. It pressed insistently toward the staff, as though pointing your eye exactly where it wished to be.
Breath marks had been placed with almost indecent precision.
Not merely where air might be taken, but where it must be taken. A half-circle above a note, then another, then a tiny instruction beside the text, letters smaller than a prayer: open the vowel, release the jaw, hold the consonant just long enough to sting. Pencilled lines curved beneath syllables like a teacher’s finger under a child’s reading. Even the rests were annotated, and you found yourself staring at silence made into command.
One phrase, and only one, had been circled.
The circle was heavy. It had the patience of someone who expected obedience. Looking at it produced a strange sensation, as if your throat had already begun to shape the sound and your lungs had already been asked to pay for it.
Footsteps crossed somewhere beyond the flats. A stagehand muttered a farewell. A door banged. Then the building changed. Not in any obvious manner, not with a flourish, yet the air subtly shifted. The sort of shift that happened when a room ceased to belong to the many and became the property of the few.
Your gaze lifted toward the auditorium again. The dark made the seats anonymous, yet the private boxes still suggested themselves, carved openings in the gloom, mouths waiting to speak. A mirror in the corner of the wings caught a last thread of lamplight and returned it with a pale shiver. Your own face looked back in fragments, half-lit, half-lost, a girl of the chorus who should have been unremarkable and felt, for the first time, entirely visible.
A sound came from the house. It might have been nothing more than settling wood.
It might have been a breath.
Fingers tightened on the score. You turned a page and found what you had somehow been avoiding. The final instruction sat at the bottom of the staff, tucked into the margin with the neatness of a signature.
Remain after rehearsal.
No flourish. No plea. No explanation.
A pulse of warmth rose behind your ears, then drained away, leaving the skin cold. Fear should have sent you toward the stage door at once. Decency should have followed close behind, scolding. Instead, your feet stayed planted on the boards, toes aligned to a crack in the stage as if someone had placed you there.
Above, the chandelier remained a silhouette. Its crystals, invisible now, still seemed to watch.
The score lay open in your hands like an appointment.
Somewhere in the dark, someone who had not clapped, someone who had not spoken all evening, waited for a voice to answer the mark on the page.
A breath was taken on the mark.
Air filled your ribs, carefully, as if you had been given a measuring glass and told not to spill. The circled phrase lay before you, simple enough on paper. Notes that any competent girl in the chorus could manage. The ink around them disagreed. That circle declared you had not understood the phrase until now.
Sound began, thin at first, testing.
Your voice travelled out into the empty house and returned changed, as if the velvet and wood had handled it and decided what to keep. The first attempt sat too high, too polite. It belonged to daylight, to rows of women singing in safe unison. It did not belong to a private command.
A second breath.
Again the phrase. Again the sting of holding a consonant longer than instinct preferred. Again the unpleasant awareness of your tongue and teeth, of the way a vowel could betray a girl by opening too wide or closing too soon. The third attempt shook on the final note. The fourth became sharp with effort.
The fifth came out angry.
That surprised you. Anger was for the managers who cut salaries with a smile and for patrons who stared as if you were ornament. Anger was for the soprano who treated the chorus like furniture. Anger had no place in a phrase meant to pass unnoticed beneath someone else’s melody.
The ink did not ask for your approval.
You tried again, and the sound steadied into something that might be called obedience. A slight ache built behind your jaw. Muscles that rarely protested began to mutter. The throat felt dry, then raw, as if the air itself had turned to powder.
Silence followed the last note. The theatre held it.
Up there, the chandelier was a dark presence more than an object, its weight implied rather than seen, suspended above the auditorium like a judgment that did not require light in order to exist. The void beneath it seemed wider now. Rows of seats disappeared into shadow, yet the shape of the room remained, attentive and hungry.
You swallowed. The swallow hurt.
One could leave, you reminded yourself. The stage door was an easy distance away. Cloak. Gloves. Street. Home. A bed with thin blankets and a ceiling stained by damp. A life that asked little and returned little. That was how one survived.
Your hand trembled over the page and steadied.
A foot shifted on the boards, adjusting stance the way the marks demanded. Shoulders back. Chin neither lifted nor bowed. Breath taken lower, less like pleading, more like possession. The phrase was attempted again, slower, as if the notes were stepping stones over dark water.
Halfway through, the sound changed behind you. The theatre did something subtle. A pressure altered near the wings, the kind that happened when someone entered a room without bothering to announce themselves.
No footsteps. No rustle of fabric.
Only that sensation, unmistakable to any woman who had ever been watched without permission.
Your voice wavered. The final note fell a fraction flat, and the failure felt like a blush beneath skin.
A man spoke from the darkness.
“Breathe.”
The word was not loud. It was close enough to make your shoulders tighten. Close enough to make you wonder how he had crossed space without sound. It carried no tenderness, no cruelty, only certainty, the tone of a person correcting an account book.
Your mouth parted. Air came in too quickly.
“No. Again. Lower.”
Your chest rose and fell. The breath you had taken was wrong. That wrongness was suddenly obvious, as if you had been spelling your own name incorrectly your whole life and had only now been told.
“Who are you?” The question slipped out before you could shape it into propriety.
Silence returned, a silence with edges.
Then, calm as a blade laid on velvet: “Your ribs are collapsing.”
Heat rose in your face. Humiliation arrived with the swiftness of a slap. Being corrected was normal in this profession. Being corrected like this, in the dark, by a voice that refused even the courtesy of a name, made you feel younger than you were. Smaller. As though you had been caught stealing.
Your fingers tightened around the score. “I can sing.”
A faint sound, almost a laugh, yet it held no amusement. More an exhale. A verdict.
“Then do it properly.”
Your pride flared and gave you something to stand on. You set your feet. You took the instructed breath, this time allowing it to drop into the body the way his voice seemed to demand, filling the lower ribs, widening the back. Air should have felt like air. It felt like discipline.
The phrase began.
It came out steadier, richer. The theatre returned it with a softer echo. Notes landed where they were meant to land. The circled instruction about vowels made sense now, not as pedantry, but as a key. You felt the space inside your mouth change, the sound rounding and carrying.
A correction arrived before you reached the end.
“Consonants. You are eating them.”
“I am not.”
“You are. You think softness is refinement.”
The words struck harder than you expected. Refined. That was what you tried to be. A good girl in the chorus, quiet, grateful, neat. Refinement was supposed to be safety.
In the darkness, the voice continued, unhurried. “Let the consonants cut. Or no one will believe you.”
Believe you.
The phrase faltered on that thought, then resumed, altered. You let the consonants bite. You felt ridiculous, then felt, with a jolt of startled pleasure, how the sound sharpened into clarity. How the line of music began to mean something.
A breath, guided by his timing.
The final note held.
“Stop.”
The command came as soon as you finished, and you did stop, breath caught, as if you had been physically halted. Your heart beat too loud. You listened for movement in the wings, for the scrape of boots or the sigh of a coat. Nothing.
“Again,” he said.
You throat protested. “I have done it?”
“A performance is not the same as control.”
Words like that did not belong to ordinary men. Ordinary men flattered or scolded. They offered bouquets. They offered threats. This voice offered standards.
You lifted your chin a fraction, stubbornness making a small throne inside you. “You cannot expect me to sing the same phrase all night.”
“I can.”
The simplicity of it made your breath hitch. It was said as if he had already arranged the world to accommodate his expectation.
A thin line of anger returned, and with it, an odd clarity. If he wished to treat you as an instrument, then you could at least decide whether the instrument would break or sing.
Your eyes searched the dark beyond the footlights. Shadow and deeper shadow. The faintest suggestion of an aisle. The blank face of the stage curtain. Nothing that could be called a man.
“If you are listening,” you said, voice quieter now, “then you know I am alone.”
A pause, measured.
“Alone is when you learn what your voice truly costs.”
The sentence slid under your skin and stayed there. Cost. Yes. Everything cost something here. Talent cost sleep. Beauty cost dignity. Youth cost safety. Being noticed cost more than you could name.
A breath was drawn again, slower now, as if you were choosing it rather than begging for it.
The phrase began once more.
Your throat burned on the second measure. The sound wobbled with pain and was caught, steadied, placed back into line through sheer insistence. You held the vowel open longer. You let the consonant strike. You allowed the phrase to swell, then eased it down, following marks that had seemed tyrannical and now felt like a map.
“Better,” the voice said.
No warmth. No approval. Just a fact.
A strange want stirred, quick and shameful. The want for that single word to be said again. The want to earn it. The want to be seen by someone who did not see you as decoration.
Sweat gathered at the back of your neck despite the chill. Your hands felt too aware of the paper, too aware of the ink. The theatre seemed closer now, as if the darkness had leaned in.
The next attempt came out with more hunger than you meant to reveal.
Silence held at the end. The building listened. So did he.
“Do you understand,” the voice asked, “why it is circled?”
Your lips parted. An answer rose that would have been safe. Because it is difficult. Because it is important. Because you are cruel.
Instead, something more honest escaped. “Because it is mine.”
A pause.
Then, so softly it might have been imagined, the word returned, the same word that had already begun to rearrange your spine.
“Again.”
And you did.
Your lungs emptied. Another breath would have come naturally, yet you held it back, waiting. Waiting for him to say more, to turn the lesson into something resembling an ending. A man who taught like that, a man who could make a single phrase feel like confession, ought to have an ending prepared.
None arrived.
Silence grew teeth. It pressed against your ears until you could hear your own pulse and the faint, far-off drip of water somewhere beneath the stage. The theatre was never entirely dry. The theatre was never entirely honest.
“I cannot keep doing this,” you said at last, and the lie tasted thin. Your throat hurt. Your pride hurt more. “Rehearsal begins early.”
“It begins when they say it begins.” His voice carried no impatience. It carried certainty. “Your work begins now.”
A shiver ran along your arms, not entirely from the cold. It was the manner of his speech. Commands delivered as if they required no consent. The kind of tone used by men who had never been denied anything that mattered.
Your fingers tightened around the score. “If you wanted to teach, you could have come to me in daylight.”
“Daylight is for performance.” A pause, light as the turning of a page. “Night is for truth.”
Your mouth went dry again. You swallowed and felt the sting renew. Questions crowded you, pushing at the back of your tongue. Who are you? Why me? What do you want? Why do you hide?
He offered none of it. Instead, the voice moved on as if the matter were already settled.
“There will be more pages.”
A simple sentence. Your mind caught on it anyway, because it implied preparation. Planning. Continuation. This had not been impulse. This had been arranged.
“More pages,” you echoed, then hated yourself for sounding like a child repeating a teacher.
“A role.” His tone did not change. “A part that suits you.”
“No one gives roles to chorus girls.”
A faint silence. Then: “Someone does.”
The audacity of it made your breath hitch. Anger flashed, quickly followed by something worse, something that did not have the dignity of anger. Hope.
Behind the hope came the familiar bitterness that always followed. Hope was how a girl became foolish. Hope was how a girl stayed hungry.
“How,” you demanded, “could you possibly—”
“Casting is not divine.” He spoke as if listing items on a table. “It is purchased. It is negotiated. It is owed.”
The words fell one after another, heavy, practical. You pictured the managers with their nervous hands and shining foreheads. You pictured the subscription lists, the patron boxes, the private conversations behind velvet curtains. Money moved like blood through that building. Everyone drank.
“You speak as if you know their accounts.”
“I know their weaknesses.”
A chill slid under your ribs. You pictured him now, not as a phantom in soot, but as a presence embedded in the theatre’s bones. The kind of presence that did not need to show a face because the world already rearranged itself around him.
You voice lowered. “What do you want in return?”
The question should have sounded brave. It came out like surrender with a spine.
“Obedience.” He did not dress it in gentler language. “Discretion. Your voice when I ask for it.”
“And if I refuse?”
The answer came smoothly, almost kindly, because it did not need to hurt him in order to hurt you. “Then you will remain where you are.”
Where you were. A line of girls in matching dresses, blending into harmonies, watched only when someone wanted a particular sort of prettiness. A life spent waiting for one chance that might never arrive. A life of being told you were promising, as if promise were a coin that could be exchanged for food.
Your jaw clenched. “You cannot guarantee anything.”
“I can.”
Again that calm, maddening simplicity. He did not explain the mechanism. He did not offer proof. He spoke like a man stating the weather.
Rules followed, as if he were placing them on the stage between them.
“No managers. No questions to the directors. No mention of me.” A pause. “No one.”
Your mind jumped at the last word. “No one.”
“Not a friend in the chorus. Not a lover.” The voice dipped slightly, not with warmth, but with a sharper edge. “Not a patron who thinks your gratitude belongs to him.”
Heat rose in your face. The theatre suddenly felt too large, then too small.
“I have no lover,” you said, offended and strangely ashamed all at once.
“You will not take one.”
The bluntness of it made your fingers go numb.
“What right do you have?”
“The right of consequence.” Another pause. “If you are seen leaving the theatre at night, if you are seen receiving instruction outside official hours, you will be ruined before you sing a single true note on that stage. They will call you ambitious. They will call you common. They will call you worse.”
Your stomach turned. He spoke with the ease of someone who had watched ruin happen many times and had learned its pattern.
“And if I agree,” you whispered.
A sound like fabric shifting in the darkness. Nothing more. “Then you will be heard.”
The sentence struck in the softest place. Heard. Not merely noticed. Not merely tolerated. Heard, as in recognized. As in unavoidable.
Your throat burned. Your eyes stung, not with tears yet, but with the threat of them. You hated how quickly the offer found its way into you. You hated how your body leaned toward it like a starving thing recognizing bread.
The score trembled slightly in your grip. You forced it still.
“Yes,” you said, and it came out steadier than you felt. “I will do it.”
Silence held for a heartbeat, as if he were measuring the sincerity of the word.
Then his voice returned, quiet, precise, satisfied in a way that did not resemble pleasure.
“Good. Now listen.”
A different smell ruled the opera by day. Less wax, more sweat trapped in velvet. Damp wool drying too slowly. Ink. Rosin. The faint acid of brass polish rubbed into banisters until someone’s hands smarted. Beneath it all, the persistent undertone of water and old brick that no amount of perfume could persuade into leaving.
Backstage, voices carried with renewed confidence, as if darkness had been a rumor and sleep had erased it. Laughter rose from the chorus room. Somewhere near the carpenters’ door, a hammer struck in three brisk taps, then stopped, like a man remembering the house disliked unnecessary noise.
Your place in line awaited as it always did, second row, slightly left. A familiar spot. Safe. Invisible. Anonymity worn like a uniform.
Inside the bodice, the score’s memory pressed against skin. The paper itself had been returned to your room long before dawn, yet the circle remained, branded behind your eyes. That word, too, lingering in the mouth as if the tongue had learned a new obedience.
Again.
A call rang out. “Places!”
Music stirred. Chairs scraped in the pit. Strings tested their tempers in a brief flurry. At the front, Maestro Halvorsen lifted his baton, posture immaculate, the sort of man whose dignity depended on being obeyed by fifty people at once.
Onstage, Madame Carlotta Vieri arranged herself with the hauteur of a woman convinced the world had been built to frame her cheekbones. Pearls at her throat caught the light and returned it in cold flashes. A hand fluttered at her fan, perfunctory, practiced, already bored by the thought of singing for anyone who could not buy her.
Rehearsal began with the usual struggle for power disguised as artistry. Halvorsen demanded a phrase. Carlotta offered a version she preferred. The orchestra followed him, then her, then him again, trapped between their egos like an animal between hunters.
A high note arrived.
Failure arrived with it.
Something cracked, small and unmistakable. Not merely a slip. A brief, naked break, the kind that reminded even the great that bodies remained bodies. Carlotta froze, eyes widening with a fury that required no language. A hand slapped at her throat as though her own anatomy had betrayed her in public.
Murmurs began at once, little sparks leaping across dry straw. Choristers glanced at one another. A violinist lowered his bow too slowly. The managers, seated in the shadows near the footlights, leaned forward in horrified unison.
From the wings, Mr. Dufour made a sound like a man swallowing a coin.
Beside him, Mrs. Lemoine pinched the bridge of her nose, her glove already smudged with grime from nerves. The two of them had run the opera for years, managing disasters the way housekeepers managed spills, quickly and with rage held behind the teeth.
Carlotta recovered enough to hiss, “The air is foul.”
Halvorsen’s jaw tightened. “The air is fine.”
A sound then, too crisp to be incidental. Paper against wood.
Everyone heard it.
A white rectangle lay on the conductor’s stand. No one had seen it arrive. No hand had passed it forward. No messenger had cleared his throat to draw attention. The note existed as though it had always belonged there.
Halvorsen stared at it, the baton lowering by degrees. Confusion flashed, then annoyance, then something that looked suspiciously like fear and was swallowed at once.
Carlotta’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
Silence answered.
Halvorsen unfolded the paper with the care of a man handling evidence. Ink dark, precise. Lines written with the calm of someone who did not tremble. A single instruction, short enough to be insolent.
He read it once. He read it again. Color drained from his face in the space between breaths.
A laugh forced itself from his mouth and died before it found confidence. “A joke.”
Mrs. Lemoine moved first, skirts whispering as she crossed the boards. Her gaze fixed on Halvorsen’s hands, then on the note itself, then on the auditorium beyond, as if expecting the darkness to confess.
Mr. Dufour followed, slower, the way men moved when they feared appearing afraid.
Your own breath stalled. The chorus stood like statues, trained by years of discipline to hold still through other people’s crises. Stillness came easily. Listening did not.
Mrs. Lemoine reached the stand. The paper was taken from Halvorsen’s fingers. A glance, quick. A second glance, unwilling. Her mouth tightened.
“What does it say,” Carlotta demanded.
“Nothing of consequence,” Mrs. Lemoine replied, voice too thin to be true.
Mr. Dufour’s hand, damp at the knuckles, hovered near the note as though contact might burn. “Madame, perhaps a short break. Some tea.”
Carlotta’s eyes glittered. “My voice requires brandy, not tea.”
Halvorsen’s gaze darted toward the wings, toward the flies, toward the orchestra pit, searching for a culprit that could be hauled into daylight and punished. No culprit offered itself. The theatre sat patient.
Mrs. Lemoine folded the note with a neatness that felt like violence. “Maestro. From bar fourteen. Again.”
The word slipped out of her with an odd stiffness, as if the ink had placed it in her mouth.
Again.
Halvorsen swallowed. The baton rose. The orchestra obeyed. Carlotta sang, and the note returned, corrected, steadier, spiteful with effort.
Rehearsal lurched forward.
Then, as if the morning had not already earned its ugliness, Mrs. Lemoine turned her attention toward the chorus and began scanning faces. One by one, women were dismissed with a flick of her fingers, like cards being sorted.
Her gaze landed on the second row, slightly left.
A pause.
A beckon.
“No,” your mind said instantly. Feet remained planted anyway, traitorous, carrying you forward in a few obedient steps. Heat crawled up the back of your neck. A dozen eyes followed you. Carlotta noticed too, annoyance brightening at the interruption.
Mrs. Lemoine spoke softly, the way one spoke when walls might listen. “Stand there.”
Downstage. Closer to the light. Closer to judgment.
Halvorsen looked at you as though seeing you for the first time and resenting the fact. “Her?”
“She will take the line in the second scene,” Mrs. Lemoine replied.
A small solo. A thread of music, brief enough to be dismissed by those who already owned the spotlight. Yet the change rang loud in a company trained to measure hierarchy by inches.
Carlotta’s lips curled. “Since when?”
“Since this minute,” Mr. Dufour muttered, eyes averted.
No explanation offered. No reason given. Only the fact of it, dropped into the room like a stone into water.
A trap, bright with possibility.
From somewhere in the seats, a new presence made itself known by movement rather than sound. A gentleman rose from a box that rarely held anyone except donors and their wives. Pale gloves. A coat cut to flatter. Hair neat in a way that suggested leisure.
A visitor, early for rehearsals. Curious, or hunting.
His gaze found the stage. Found you. Held there.
Recognition flickered across his face, sudden and almost tender, as if a memory had stepped out of a fog.
The gentleman leaned slightly over the rail.
Your stomach tightened.
Time shifted. A street in childhood. Snowmelt on stone steps. A hymn sung badly and laughed over. The recollection arrived without invitation and vanished just as quickly, leaving only the sensation of being seen too clearly.
C…Caleb?
Mrs. Lemoine noticed the exchange. So did Mr. Dufour. Both stiffened, as if a second problem had entered the room wearing perfume and money.
Halvorsen cleared his throat. “We continue.”
Carlotta sang again, tighter now, as though the house had been armed against her. The orchestra followed. The chorus joined. Your small line approached, printed innocently on the page, suddenly heavy with consequence.
In the box, the gentleman watched.
Behind the footlights, the managers watched harder.
Above you all, unseen yet present in the way a threat could be present, something else listened, patient as ink, already counting what this new attention would cost you.
[Sylus/Reader ★ 465 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3]
Tonight, the wine tasted so sweet.
A/N: I yapped on my tumblr about how I wanted a dragon!Sylus AU…so I willed it into existence. 😊 This is the prelude to a technically 3-part story. The main story will be a 20K+ word one-shot, so I feel justified in a shorter intro. I am still finalizing the main story, so I want to give people time to read the prelude first.
While the prelude is SFW, the main story and epilogue will contain explicit adult themes, so it's best for MDNI.
Influenced to varying degree by the Vietnamese origin myth, Lạc Long Quân and Âu Cơ, and the C-drama, Miss the Dragon…and probably a whole slew of other period C-dramas I watched in the past.
Recommended Playlist
Love and Deepspace - Wander In Wonder
Shuang Sheng - 流转莹回
☆ I can do a tag list for the main story once it's up. Just let me know in the replies, and I'll keep a list handy. ☆
Distantly, in the Celestial Realm where the immortals resided, the vast kingdom of the Dragon King was shrouded in nighttime for all of eternity, stuck within an eternal spring. Pink petals from the ever-blooming flowers of the magnolia trees were carried away in the warm breeze across the palace courtyard.
Sylus, the Dragon King, lazed under a grand magnolia tree with red blossoms overlooking a large koi pond, his solemn gaze lingering on the reflection of the full moon in the still water. He poured wine from a crimson porcelain bottle into the matching cup, and he took a swig of his drink, sighing.
The moon is lovely tonight… he thought, The wine tastes so sweet…
Red magnolia blossoms drifted down from the tree, landing in the water and startling the fish beneath, the immediate ripples distorted the reflection of the moon. Sylus kept his own crimson eyes on the floating flowers.
Little Snake, this is not much, but you are welcome to stay with me for as long as you would like!
He huffed in amusement, eyes drifting to a different flower.
You are so shameless. How can you ask a maiden to bathe with you?
He poured another drink, chuckling, but there was little joy in his laughter.
You are not allowed to get hurt! …Promise me you won’t get hurt again...
His cup lingered at his lips momentarily, a look of guilt flashed across his features before he tossed the drink back, sighing heavily.
Sylus…I don’t want you to leave…
He leaned back against the tree, eyes wandering to the moon. On the ground next to him was a necklace, its pendant pure gold with a jade border. Engraved on one side was the image of a dragon with wisps of cloud beneath it. When Sylus picked it up, his fingers caressed the other side, tracing the characters that formed the word, “Beloved.”
Another flower drifted into the pond, spinning slowly before it floated away.
…Who are you?
He closed his eyes, his hand tightening into a fist around the pendant as he made his decision.
He was going to rewrite their story. The red thread that tethered them together was going to unravel and lead her back to him.
All of it was going to be undone, and a new ending was going to replace all of the tragedies that were and were to be.
For her…
Heaven and Hell were going to bend to his will, he vowed.
For us…
As Sylus finished the wine, a white mist enveloped him, swirling before scattering and leaving nothing in its place beneath this red magnolia tree. In the night sky, among the millions of stars, a white dragon flew away, his scales shimmered in the moonlight before he disappeared into the horizon.
Pssss... interested in eight thousand words of losing your virginity to Onychinus leader? Yeah? Me too, apparently back in.... February of 2025. So happy one year anniversary to this fic. The full thing is below. I just wanted it to live in the Tumblr streets with all the other smut I loooooooove peddling for Sylus. And because it has zero plot, and i just thought about it randomly. No defense zone actually triggered the memory that i made this.
Tags: Light Bondage, Teasing, Explicit Language, Pre-Relationship, First Time Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Nipple Play, Semi-Public Sex,Loss of Virginity.
How to tame your Sylus...
1. Let's play a little game
You always did this. Bicker with Sylus for half the day, pout, make a bet which you finally win and gloat about to his face ( even if you doubt that you truly won) and the cycle dies to be repeated another day.
You have many great moments too, rooftop hangouts watching the moonlight in the summer night, talking for hours on end, playing games, checking in with each other daily, so obviously your relationship with him is not endless taunts, it’s just that lately it seems to be nothing but the back and forth.
A simmering tension that is threatening to bubble over, stolen glances, suggestive texting, the need to somehow dominate him, own him, make him submit is threatening to derail you. It's like you woke up one day and suddenly that small voice that urged you to devour him made sense. You wanted to devour him badly. But you also wanted to have the upper hand somehow.
Tame him was the right sentiment. Sylus is stubborn and unyielding, insufferable and so self assured, his whole demeanor exudes control, was it so bad to want to watch him break just a little bit and you being responsible? Not really.
And after keeping these desires hidden, no less in front of a man who could take one good long look at you and expose them to you, you were on edge. Maybe paranoid, he already knew and was waiting for you to buckle under the pressure. It made you even more indignant. Hence the incessant bickering.
Luke and Kieran had already had a theory they were too happy to share with you as soon as their boss wasn’t within ear shot to kill them for it.
“ Maybe if the two of you finally did it, the fighting would stop.” Luke had said, shaking his masked head, his arms crossed as he watched your face turn red in indignation.
“ Yeah it’s obvious you two want each other so damn bad, makes me feel dirty if I look at both of you for more than a minute.” Kieran supplements.
“ That’s ridiculous! We are not that bad.” You protest.
“ You are.” They both say at the same time.
Fine, maybe you were that bad, but first moves were never your thing. And despite the twins conviction that their boss is aching for you like you are for him ( you will never ever admit that out loud though, your pride could never), there is still a real chance that Sylus isn’t into you like that. Hot men tend to be natural flirts, maybe the 'fuck me right now' air he exudes is just a default setting for him. Or it is all in your pervert little head and he is just existing and you’re actively making it hotter than it should be.
Which leads back to the present, another round of bickering, you being an ass more than usual and a conversation that takes a rather strange turn quickly.
“ Sylus one of these days I will make you submit.” You grumble, petulant and huffy. He chuckles that smooth and rich sound. His amusement too apparent on his dumb handsome face.
“ Really, sweetie? Is this kitten trying to tame me?” his eyes crinkle with mirth and a warm affection. You’re too mortified to notice since he did casually reveal a secret you have been keeping guarded closely, but you put on a brave face and pretend like it’s not making your heart race, no doubt his overly perceptive eyes already knowing how exciting you find the concept.
“ Very well. Come with me.” He rises up from the couch, extends his hand out and waits for you to put yours in his. Once you do he leads you up the stairs and the two of you walk into his bedroom.
Now your heart is definitely hammering.
“ Relax sweetie.” His voice is low and reassuring. “ just want to put your statement to the test is all.”
He stops moving when he reaches the luxury rug a little away from his bed, releases your hand, turns to fully face you, his eyes never leaving yours as he unbuckles his belt from his slacks, pulls it out of the loops and hands it over to you.
You dumbly take it, mind all static but so focused on him and his movements, it’s the same rush you feel when you are about to fight a wanderer. There is a faint hum in the air, you are sure you’ve never felt so alive before. What was happening right now.
And then just as your brain is grappling with everything, Sylus sinks down to both of his knees, the most dangerous man on the planet, leader of the notorious N109 Zone, is on his knees in front of you,you can hardly belive it. Even if you had someone to tell, not one soul would believe you. Then he brings his wrists together and present them to you, his gaze defiant and intense, pinning you in place, that self satisfied smirk wider than ever, your brain is sputtering and your heart is doing laps.
Would he really just give you what you want the most, no questions asked just because he could? That was insane, HE was insane. “ Alright kitten. Do your worst.” He gestures to his still outstretched wrists.
Finally something in you clicks into place. Because no fucking way are you passing this golden opportunity up. You immediately use the belt he offered you to secure him and you aren’t even gentle about it. Sylus is unfazed, his eyes lighting up in delight instead.
“ No using your evol to break free.” You demand
“ Of course. Do your worst.” His voice is breathy and deeper than usual, you’d swear he might be a little more excited than you are in this moment.
“ Then let’s begin.” You leisurely walk around his room, his eyes tracking your every move, waiting for what you will do next. You stop walking and settle by his massive window that shows the city's landscape from a distance. Although your back is turned to him, you can feel his eyes on you. Good. Waiting is part of it, makes him guess and calculate what’s coming next, and you know that he knows that you’re also trying to plan your next move.
You think. While a traditional punishment and reward system tends to work well, this is Sylus here. Torturing him might yield results but how long will that iron-will hold out until he breaks? It might be you who relents first. His whole world is a test of wills, he built a terrifying empire on it, if you’re going to tame him you’ll need more than that. And violence to a man like this is the same as fish to water.
With a clear plan in mind you turn around with the most self satisfied grin ever plastered on your face.
“ I know how to break you Sylus Qin. And when I am done you will call me Master.”
He quirks his brow up in amusement. “ Oh? Care to share kitten?” you can hear the arrogance dripping from his voice “ Can’t imagine what forms of torture that pretty little head has come up with.” He is enjoying himself too much for someone on his knees.
You smile even wider. “ Torture? Who said anything about torture? Why would I use strategies you excel at to bend you to my will?” the flicker of surprise that crosses his face is enough to leave you satisfied. Of course Sylus is fluent in the language of violence, his body is built for enduring it, you have to give him one thing he isn’t used to. A lot of it.
You slowly make your way back to him, sitting on the chair opposite him, watching carefully as his face is both question and curiosity. It’s so satisfying to see.
“ Sylus… who am I?” You ask , your voice firm and steely.
“ Why miss hunter, who are you indeed?” He counters with a sneer.
You tut at him disapproving, leaning out of the comfortable chair and grasping his face between your fingers roughly it makes him scoff .
“ So stubborn!” you spit out as you release his face pushing it away only to grab a fistful of his hair and yank him close to your face.
“ Cute.” He huffs out. “ who knew you had such sharp claws kitten? Should we have a safe word?” He teases.
“ You won’t need one don’t worry.” You counter.
“ But I could be wrong.” You sing song. “ So…. How about… hmmm. Ruby??”
“ Sure sweetie. By the way it’s more for you than it is for me.” He cocks his head to the side his smirk never leaving.
“ I can see why you’d think that.” You reply flatly.
This earns another curious look from him. You grab his bound hands and move him close to you, opening your legs wide enough to accommodate him between your thighs.
“ Sweetie," you use his own nickname with your most cutest voice, "tell me what I want to hear.” You nuzzle his nose and scratch the nape of his neck, a soft gasp leaving him and his eyes widen. He didn’t expect that. You kiss him tenderly on his cheek and whisper against his skin “ be a good boy for me. I promise to reward you.”
You kiss his other cheek, the corner of his mouth, his chin, feeling your mood soar even higher as his eyes flutter closed from the pleasure he feels, you move on to kiss each eyelid gently while your hand reaches out to cup his cheek, your thumb rubbing soft circles into his skin. You lean in and let your lips hover just above his and when he reciprocates the move, you lean back.
He opens his eyes, slowly. He understands the game now. And he knows he has already lost. His cocky demeanor completely gone, replaced by a heady mix of lust and centuries old longing.
“ You fight dirty kitten.” Every part of him is now entirely focused on what you’ll do next.
“ I know.” You smile at him.
Because for a man like Sylus, violence is just another Tuesday. Affection on the other hand, was not. And your gamble was right. He was looking at you like you could light up every star in the sky. And if you were honest you didn’t even care about the bet anymore, the moment you put your lips on his skin all you wanted was to give in to a desire that lived inside of you from the moment you met. The hand that wasn’t resting on his cheek, found his hair again and you gently tilted his head back exposing his neck to you.
You trailed soft kisses everywhere your lips could reach, and your greed didn't take long to overtake you as you ran your tongue along his throat eager to taste his skin, the moan slipped out your mouth before you could comprehend it, and even in your own hunger you still remained lucid enough to keep up the act, pulling back to look at him. The effect you had was much more visceral than you anticipated, Sylus has never looked at you like this before, your body was buzzing with electricity from that alone. His pupils were blown , his breathing uneven and a subtle blush spread across his nose and cheeks. But the look in his eyes was almost dangerous, it was the look of a man fighting against every instinct within him to not release himself and throw you on the bed.
“ Really? Is that all you’ve got?” He teased and you chuckled. The last embers of his defiance before they’d inevitably ebb away.
“ I’ve barely even warmed up.” The smile you offer him is warm and crinkles the corners of your eyes. His lips part a little in response and a groan comes out from them. Even when you torment him you still look so endearing he can only marvel at it. He adores you, despite how thoroughly you ruin him.
You cradle his head and kiss his nose. You move up and kiss his forehead. “ You’re so warm.” You whisper the confession affectionately, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer until his chest is pressed against your own. You're trying to hold it together but you feel how slowly you're getting lost in his body, the one you've wanted for so so so long, warm and willing and responsive just for you, the scent of his shower gel and skin and liqour wrapping itself all around your nose until your mind is a puddle that only knows Sylus, chanting his name over and over again.
“ You smell wonderful too.” You murmur. You're desperate for the game to end but you want the win too.
“ Say it. Just say it and I will reward you.” You look at his face.
“ Never.” Even as he stubbornly refuses, his voice has no real edge to it. He seems more invested what will happen next, the touches are beginning to unravel him at an alarming rate and he wants more , he isn’t even sure why he is still refusing and holding out.
You sort of expected it. You push him back down to his original kneeling position.
“ So stubborn. Fine the hard way it is.” You sigh, voice still warm and sweet. If the easy way won't cut it then you will go for the jugular, ruthless and effecient, just like him. You lean back on the plush chair and slowly start undressing. You hear his sharp intake of breath, suppressing a smile at your now almost guaranteed victory. Who could say, he always was a wild card. You move even slower when it comes to the buttons of your shirt, watching as Sylus tracks your hand’s every movement in a silent and sharp gaze. His body tense, his eyes blown, his clothed dick straining against his expensive slacks.
All reason has flown out the window and you know there is no room for hesitating now, the moment you chose this strategy there was no going back. Finally you are left in just your bra and you get up and take off your pants in that same unhurried pace.
Sylus’s gaze is ravenous, his eyes eagerly drink in every bit of skin on offer for him, your sweet kisses are still seared into his skin and your soft touches are something he knows that he craves deeply. You’ve given him just a taste and it was enough to make him ready to give in. He wasn't even sure why he refused to tell you what you want and end this teasing, but he wants to see how far you’re willing to go even at his own expense.
Left in just your very flimsy and lacey underwear now, you sit back down, his eyes fixed and intense enough on you it makes you shiver. You reach out for his bound hands again and work his shirt open, unzipping his pants so you can untuck it easier.
“ How about a little skinship? I wonder if that will change your mind.” You shrug the shirt off his shoulders and it falls back far enough before being caught in his forearms but your satisfied as it reveals enough. You kneel in front of him, lifting his arms over his head and press yourself against him. He feels warm and this close you can feel how labored his breathing actually is.
Even if his face betrays little, his body is barely holding it together. The hardness on your thigh feels so strong you wonder if it might ache a little. It definitely does. You start slowly kissing across his chest, hands slowly rubbing up and down his back.
“ Kitten.” His voice comes out low and strained, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“ Just give in already. I’ll give you whatever you want if you do.” You kiss his shoulder and breathe him in. He is so intoxicating part of you wants to abandon the game all together. Your lips seek out his neck again, the kisses getting hungrier and more insistent, you can feel him twitch against your thigh again so you take a hand and rub him along his pants and it makes him moan.
You pull back to watch his face, and seeing him look less than composed makes you feel happy inside. His lips looks so soft and inviting, you’re ready to push him off the edge with you so you finally kiss him. A soft lingering peck at first, and when he leans in seeking more you let him. The kiss quickly turns hungry and desperate, you’re desperate, he is desperate, you really do not care about this game at all anymore. As you’re about to reach for the belt and undo his hands he speaks.
“ You win, Master. I submit.”
You work quickly to undo his hands, barely acknowledging your win and as soon as his hands are free, he is on his feet, lifting you up with him, your legs wrap around him as the two of you keep kissing.
It feels like months worth of unspoken desire and tension, bickering, petty competition and double meanings are dissolving into a single moment. He lays you down on his bed, his hands working to rid you of the remaining clothes, you do the same to him.
You’re both panting into each other’s mouths, fully naked, feeling his skin against yours like this makes you heat up even more and the gravity of the situation hits you just a little bit. You’re naked in his bed, about to go all the way. You’ve actually never done that before with anyone.
“ Sylus…” You call out softly. He is kissing between your neck and shoulders his face completely hidden . “ Hmm?” He answers as he kisses back up to your jaw, lifting his head to look at you. He sees the nervousness in your eyes and his brows furrow in concern.
“ Are you alright? We can stop right now if you want.” He plants a gentle kiss on your lips and looks at you again.
“ I don’t want to stop. It’s just, well I’ve never actually had sex before. I’m a little nervous.” You admit.
“ I see. Then change of plans.” He kisses your lips a few more times.
“ Let’s get dressed.” He says suddenly.
You stare up at him in disbelief.
“ What? Why?” you stammer out.
“ I’m taking you out. Do you want to go on a date with me?” He asks, his voice suddenly soft and his gaze very very tender. It makes you smile. You lean up to kiss him.
“ I would love to Sylus.”
He laughs. “ Good. I stocked up some clothes in your guest room I thought you’d like. Let’s get ready.”
“ I tamed you.” You kiss his nose.
“ You sure did sweetie.”
2. Those pesky tables and their turning
You are on a beautiful rooftop restaurant, the view of the city, lights twinkling both from the skyscrapers in the distance and the inky sky above you making you stare in giddy wonder. Sylus stands beside you as you take in the scenery, his big hand drawing soothing and abstract doodles on your exposed lower back. He plants a tender kiss on your shoulder. “ You look beautiful tonight, sweetie.” He murmurs against your skin.
The place is quiet save the two of you, at his request, with just one waiter and two chefs left behind to cater for the meal, say what you want about him, and you do, all the time, but he knows how to spoil you rotten. It sets a bad precedent but you suspect that’s the point. If you’ve had this, it’ll be difficult to go back to anything less ostentatious, clever wolf he is. Ruining you with a golden spoon to gag your mouth.
“ I do love the summer nights. It just feels like a never ending day.” You sigh wistfully. You turn your head , your nose brushing against his temple, and plant a kiss of your own on his cheek.
It's been two whole hours in each other’s company and not a single unnecessary argument between the two of you. Just light touches and savouring the summer night air. Your lone waiter appears to announce the start of your 5 course dinner and you both sit down opposite each other.
The food is amazing as expected but the truth is your mind is still back at the N109 Zone in his mansion, on his luxurious bed, naked as his skin is pressed against yours, and his pretty mouth is kissing you until you feel drunk. That’s how horny you are apparently, daydreaming about the object of your desire as if you’re not about to have him every way you want regardless.
You hadn’t realised how dazed you truly were until Sylus calls out to you louder. It makes you snap your head up and pay attention to him now. “ Stay focused kitten. Am I boring you?” He drawls, smirk on his face widening, he knows your thoughts are in the gutter, it’s in the way your face is heated and your chest is heaving out uneven breaths.
It's as if a floodgate has opened and nothing will seal it shut again. You’ve never wanted someone this badly your entire life, it was hard to focus. You had to wonder if he was struggling with it like you were. You chose your dress on purpose, it was short, backless and the chant in your head was ‘for easy access.
Then promptly judged yourself with a scoff for being a shameless whore. You don’t care, you’ll do whatever. Funny how you were the one ready to be on your knees now. Sylus was looking at you now with a quirked eyebrow. You hadn’t responded had you? No you were just staring at him instead, hunger ravaging every nerve in your body.
He chuckles. “ Alright. If I relieve you, do you promise to hold out until we get home?” You are stumped for a moment but the moment your brain catches up to his meaning you almost jump up from the table.
“ Please.” You whisper. Look at that, already begging, you taunt yourself. You’d roll your eyes at your noisy conscious if you could and tell her to shut her dumb mouth.
“ Sit on my lap.” He moves this chair back and reaches out for you. You walk on over and let him sit you down on his thigh, your back against his chest.
“ So needy.” He kisses your neck, his hand slowly making it’s way up your thigh, softly kneading your skin.
You can feel the heat building up inside you, it never really left but right there in that moment it is as if a slow burning fire has been stoked and it is reignited and blazing in unbridled fury, a flame so powerful and volcanic nothing could quell it. You even forget that technically this is a public place. You briefly wonder where your waiter might be since dessert hasn’t been brought out yet and abandon the thought the moment Sylus’s long and warm fingers skim across your rapidly dampening underwear. It knocks the breath out of you, your head throwing back against him and your eyes fluttering shut.
The kisses are making you dizzy, drunk, amplifying the longing tenfold, you want him so bad it hurts. “ Tell me what you like.” His syrupy voice pours into your ears, you will tell him every secret you’ve ever held if he wants if he whispers like that.
He moves your underwear to the side and gently rubs up and down, the wetness making the glide effortless, your breath catching everytime he slides against your clit .
“ Sylus…” You mewl.
“ Like this?” He keeps up his gentle strokes, making you whimper into the night air.
“ Or like this?” He asks as he drags his fingers back into your clit, rubbing slow tight circles instead, your back arching at the intense pleasure that floods you. You moan very loudly.
“ Ah.. the second one then.” He teases.
He kisses your neck over and over again as he keeps playing with you, it feels so good you start gently rocking against his hand to match his pace, and the release that’s coming is creeping in closer and closer. Your whole body is on cloud 9, and that familiar tightness in your lower abdomen gathers quickly.
“ Sylus I’m so close.” You pant out.
“ Keep going. You’re doing so good.” His voice is rough and urgent and you register that he is hard underneath you, this is affecting him as much as it is you. He turns your head until his lips meet with yours, kissing you hard and rough , moaning against your mouth while you grind against his hand and his dick.
Your hands grip his thighs as you finally come, head floating, body flush and a little sweaty and the relief from your pent up desire floods every bit of you, you slump against him, body convulsing and he holds you until you calm down.
With your senses returning and your appetite sated for the interim you turn to look at your date and in his eyes all you find is so much desire and fire that your breath catches a little. You lean in to kiss him once more.
“ I can’t seem to control myself around you kitten. Look what you’ve started.” He kisses you back eagerly and unrestrained, slipping his tongue in your mouth and moaning against you. When you part, he removes the hand still in your underwear and puts the fingers in your mouth. You clean them up and can feel him twitch again against your ass. It makes you want him all over again.
“ There. Now behave and go sit back in your chair. The date is almost over.”
You nod and get up from his lap, adjust yourself and sit in your chair again. Sylus’s smirk is more prominent than ever and you watch in awe as his control returns to him and it's like nothing has just happened, even when you know he is hard as rock right now. It’s quite impressive.
A short moment later your waiter magically appears desserts in hand. You observe how he seems a little bit flustered as he hastily puts the food down and quickly asks if you need more wine, and as soon as you say no he scampers away so fast he leaves his shadow behind.
You don’t even have the decency to look ashamed, if anything you’re a little amused. You look over your partner who seems equally unbothered.
“ Didn’t know you liked an audience sweetie.” He teases, eyes dancing with mirth and mischief.
“ Neither did I.” you shrug. “ Quite the revelation.”
“ Hmmm. So much to discover.” He watches you carefully as you eat your dessert. You know that you definitely can’t wait.
3. Promises were made
The drive to the N109 Zone was far too long for your liking. Not when the restlessness from the restaurant had returned with a vengeance. Sylus was calm as usual beside you, taking in the night-time scenery as the SUV sped down the stretch of quiet road, Luke humming along to the tune that was playing on the radio.
Sylus turned his attention back to you, his hand reaching out for yours, lacing his fingers into yours as he brought your hand up for a kiss.
“ Sweetie you said you’d behave.”
“ I am.” Your voice came out needier than you intended. You couldn’t help it, the more you got from him, the more you wanted it, the greed was overpowering, Sylus pressed a button and a partition between the two of you and Luke went up.
You raised your eyebrows in question.
“ Bulletproof and sound proof. We won’t be disturbed.”
Your heart starts racing even faster. “ You know I did promise to give you anything you want. And you’ve yet to say what you want.” You leaned in and gave him a kiss.
“ I know. I’ll make my demands when we get home. For now, you can do whatever you like. I’m all yours.”
The way he said that last line made you feel very warm inside, butterflies in your stomach kind of warm. It was just so sincere, it made you feel so cared for. You wanted to reciprocate his affections.
You shifted until you were kneeling in front of him, grateful for all the extra legroom the car had to offer or it would have been a tricky affair. You hoped that it really was soundproof because who knew how loud things could get between you if things escalated like it did at the restaurant.
“ You took care of me so now I get to take care of you.” You reached for his belt and unbuckled it, pulling his zipper down. You looked up at him and watched as he pulled his shirt up over his chest to make it easier for you. “ Such a gentleman.” You hummed in appreciation as you leaned down to press gentle kisses into his abdomen working your way up to his chest, your hand trailing along his briefs slowly as he hardened all over again.
“ So responsive.” You whisper. Something about the way he responds to your touch makes you feel so bold and confident as if you’d done this with him a thousand times.
“ Tell me what you like.” You smile up at him, using his own words from earlier. You pull down his pants and briefs until he is free and you gasp in surprise. He is big, in a way that makes it feel it might actually hurt. He chuckles at your shock.
“It’ll fit, and you will enjoy it trust me kitten.” You swallow and nod dumbly, opting to trust him. You have zero dicks to compare it to outside from the ones you’ve seen on TV here and there, and you may have secretly thought of getting a toy but you never got around to it, work kept you busy and your fingers were plenty.
You bring yourself back to the moment, giving his tip a gentle peck. It’s wet and warm and when you lick your lips he tastes savoury and a little sweet and something you don’t know how to quite name, but you like it. Then you rub it against your lips which makes the man above you let out a moan, his hand reaching for your head and gathering your hair into his fist as he watched you take in more of him into your mouth and slide your tongue along as you pull it back out.
“ How does that feel? You like it?” you slowly stroke the rest of him up and down while you tease his head a few more times.
“ That feels good. You’re a natural. Now… spit on it.” He commands and the lewdness of it makes your whole body shiver in delight. You both keep your eyes on each other as you let open your mouth and slowly the saliva rolls down from the tip of your tongue onto his head, leisurely stroking his full length a little faster, smearing your spit along his shaft and mixing with his pre cum. He hisses in pleasure and throws his head back his eyes closing.
It's so impossibly hot to watch and his moans make it even better. You attempt to fit as much of his dick into your mouth as you can, swirling your tongue non stop, Sylus gently moving your head back and forth while his hips thrust into your eager mouth. It turns you on so much you can feel your nipples harden against the soft silk of your dress, arousal dribbling down your thighs and you press your legs together to ease the ache that’s building there. Sylus moves his shirt to his teeth to use that now free hand to reach between you and caress your breasts, pinching your nipples and taking turns kneading them.
This leaves you in a complete haze, all thoughts gone and forgotten, all you care about is the feeling of your mouth full of cock , him fucking your face as he plays with you and it’s so overwhelming you shove a hand between you legs and tease your clit a few times, moaning loudly , shoving two fingers inside of you and pumping them in time with his hips
The sight as he looks on proves too much even for him, and he feels his own orgasm approaching fast at the erotic display before him. “ I’m close.” He manages to say between moans that have turned into whimpers through gritted teeth, moving your head a lot faster but careful not to shove too much of himself all at once and overwhelm you, it is your first time after all. Your hands mimic the new faster pace he is using to chase his high and you feel yourself clench around your fingers as you come again. It sets him off too seeing you unravel this way and he spills down your throat.
Everything stills for a moment. You open your eyes and see him looking down at you, pupils blown, face flushed his normally neat hair ruffled and sticking in all directions, he looks so wrecked you know the image will imprint in your mind forever.
He releases his shirt from his teeth, smiling down at you in deep satisfaction while his breathing is ragged and slowly evening out again.
You lay your head against his thigh to try recover.
“ That was incredible.” You sigh happily and nuzzle his thigh. His soft laugh reaches your ears as he throws his head against the back rest.
“ It was sweetie. We will be home soon.” He pulls you up from the floor and settles you on his lap. You share a few kisses and then you nestle against his chest.
“Sure.” You reach up to play with his hair.
On the other side of the car, Luke hasn’t heard a thing but he knows enough to know what it all means as he texts Kieran.
“ You owe me a thousand bro. I won the bet”
Kieran : Damn it I could’ve sworn it’d be another week at least. [Sadface emoji]
4.I don't want to wait in vain for your love
Finally the silhouette of the never ending mansion comes into view, your whole being buzzing with anticipation as you extricate yourself from Sylus’s lap, adjusting your dress, kissing his soft lips a final time in the car as he attempts and fails to straighten himself out, his hair combed back with shaky fingers, his shirt left untucked.
As soon as Luke stops in front of the mansion doors, the door is open and you’re being dragged towards the entrance impatiently, whatever thread Sylus had been hanging by has evidently snapped.
“ Sylus I can barely keep up in these heels.” You laugh happily. He stills. Turns to look at you, his ruby eyes softening with a deep tenderness, he picks you up bridal style and continues his stride into the hallway and up the stairs.
“ I am not to be disturbed.” He says sternly as he ascends the stairs to a Kieran who had appeared from nowhere and is watching the scene unfold before him in quiet fascination. You give him the middle finger behind Sylus’s back as he mouths ‘ Told you so’ .
“ Very cheeky miss hunter!” he calls out as he heads the opposite direction, making the man carrying you quirk up a questioning eyebrow.
“ Just flipped him the bird is all.” You say serenely and he chuckles at that. “ Cheeky indeed.”
Finally you’re back where this whole thing started. It may be hours later but you’ve always had a thing for delayed gratification, edging yourself until you were on the verge of tears since you knew the final payoff would be amazing. But this time you didn’t want to be edged, you’ve been wanting him so long that you’ve been starting fights for three full months to hide from your own truest desires.
It must’ve been even longer. Like that first meet up at the Café when you both called a truce after learning he didn’t annihilate your only remaining family. Or maybe that night you almost succumbed to a wanderer and he cradled you against him like you were the most precious and fragile thing to ever come into existence.
It was since last week, when you heard he had come down with a fever and you raced with supplies, made chicken noodle soup in his home and fell asleep in the armchair opposite him waiting for it to break, a rare moment of calm in what had become constant snark and one-upmanship.
Even now you couldn’t fully face it, even as his face is basking in adoration, his strong arms carrying you with the safety and reassurance you’ve never known to need before.
You knew what this feeling was, the word it belonged to, a word that maybe you should reserve for later and not on your first official date and night together. But you knew, and maybe he knew it too. Had to have, he always said you like to run from your feelings, taunted you for the way you aren’t honest with yourself. So definitely knew then.
He puts you down that same spot he was kneeling from earlier before.
“ If you don’t want this-.” He starts and you cut him off by placing a finger against his lips, he kisses it, his eyes looking so deeply into yours searching for any hesitation.
“ I do. It’s not just because of today, I’ve wanted this for a while now.” You confess. You sit on the edge of the bed and as you’re about to reach for your heels and untie them, he bends down and does it for you. You climb up the bed until you’re in the middle of it and he follows you, still fully dressed, crawling up your body until face to face.
The kiss that the two of you share starts out achingly gentle, it feels like a quiet confession of the unspoken words between you, things that are yet to be revealed but will inevitably be confessed in no time.
When Sylus pulls you against him and the kiss deepens, that familiar desire sparks to life and ignites every part of you, pulling him even closer than possible, moaning into his mouth.
It's enough to set him alight too and that need to consume every part of you takes him over, and with the way the night had progressed there is not a shred of control left within him that can stop him from devouring you whole. He wants every little inch of you.
Your hands explore every bit of him and the kiss keeps getting deeper and deeper and it doesn’t stop, not even when you can feel the difficulty of breathing, your lungs screaming for air. You manage to break free.
“ Sylus baby… Air.” He kisses down your jaw, reaches your neck and presses harsh and sloppy kisses there instead, the sensation shooting right down your needy pussy. Your poor ruined panties having to hang on yet again from your never ending exploits.
As he busies himself with your neck, shoulders and collarbones you work at unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off him. His belt follows. You lift yourself up and he follows you effortlessly, his mouth back on yours, you lift your arms and he slides the dress up from your waist up over your head.
“ So beautiful.” He says in a trance, lowering you back down and kissing your breasts, putting your nipple in his mouth to suck on it. “ So perfect. You’re incredible.” His praise is seeping into you and making you drunker by the minute, the wine doesn't help but you don't mind it one bit. His hands on either side of your hips drag your panties away from you. Once again you’re fully naked in his bed, wasted on his kisses and the beautiful words that pour out of him like honey.
He moves off the bed, takes off the bottom half of the remaining clothes and climbs back up again. He lies next to you and turns you towards him.
“ Tell me how you feel. Are you ready?” He asks softly as his big hand slowly caresses up and down your arm.
“ Yes. I trust you.” You reach your hand out to cradle his cheek, watching him nuzzle into the touch. Then his eyes change again as they darken and look even hungrier than you’ve seen them.
“ What do you want the first position to be kitten?” He asks breathy and low and it makes you wetter as he pulls you flush against him and his still quite big dick that you aren’t sure fits, it’s warm and hard against your stomach and it makes you ache even more than ever.
“ Uhm… well I mean… I want us to do it like we are scissoring.” You stammer out and it makes his face light up.
“ Scissor huh? Such… interesting viewing habits kitten. You always find new ways to surprise me.”
You groan and hide in his chest as he laughs.
“ Ugh don’t. I like what I like okay.” You poke his chest in defiance and he catches your hand in his, rubbing your knuckles soothingly.
“Hmm. So you do. Nothing wrong with a little girl on girl entertainment sweetie. As long as it… gets the job done I guess.” He teases but you can’t help but feel his dick twitch in excitement at the revelation of your spare time indulgences.
“ you obviously like it.” You accuse
“ I definitely like picturing it.” He leans to kiss you and press you down on your back.
He keeps going lower and lower, his tongue teasing as it licks down your chest, down your stomach, dips into your navel, keeps trailing down and glides up and down your slit teasingly.
“ So sensitive baby.” He whispers as you arch up against him. He doesn’t keep you waiting long as he shoves his tongue deep inside you, nosing your clit and sucking out your fluids as if he is parched. It makes you cry out as shivers skitter all over your body, his name echoing in the walls.
He changes and swirls his tongue all over your sensitive clit and it makes you whimper and shake, his middle finger pushing deep inside, gently pumping into you, coaxing more fluid out of you, he adds a second one and presses them against your walls looking until they find their intended destination, bullying your spot and making your vision feel blurry the way your eyes cross in ecstacy.
“ Sylus! That feels…. Ahh…. So…. So… good.” You cry out. He hums against your clit refusing to abandon it as his tongue unleashes a wet hurricane of pressure against it. Your mind is gone, putty and empty.
Then he adds a third finger, twirling them all around to try stretch as much as they can. You feel invaded and full, you know your mouth is making sounds and you can faintly hear them, barely register Sylus’s encouraging mumbles against you, before you know it your whole body goes tense, a whirlwind churns in the lowest part on your abdomen and you come so hard you legs clamp shut, trapping him there between you as he keeps licking you through the climax, withdrawing his fingers to pry one of your thighs open and get up.
His lips are shiny and some of it is on his chin, you reach out to wipe him clean. The two of you share a kiss, then he reaches into his nightstand drawer and pulls out a bottle of lube.
“ When did you get that?” you ask surprised
“ When we started having pointless debates.” He says casually as he pours a generous amount all over and strokes himself a few times to smear it right down to the base . Your mouth waters as you watch his hand work.
He slots one of your legs between his and the other he holds against his waist.
“ Just like the lesbians do it right?” He pushes against your entrance.
You’d roll your eyes at him if you weren’t too fucking horny. He leans down pulling your head to him and your lips meet again. His hips gently rolling , his tip going in and out in shallow thrusts. The first few times are admittedly uncomfortable as you feel stretched out but once you get used to it you start begging him to go deeper.
“ Slowly sweetie, it’ll hurt if I go in all at once. Be patient.” He adds a little more and continues his gentle movements. He keeps doing this until half of it is inside you, withdraws fully, and pushes back in again.
The lubricant and your own wetness make it very slippery and the sloppiness makes the pleasure that much better. You love messy, it turns you on beyond comprehension. In no time you’re back to begging, this time for him to move faster. And when he does you know you don’t have long until you come again.
Sylus so lost in the pleasure himself, moves deeper than intended and in one thrust he bottoms out and you cry out in pleasure. He stills for a moment to give you time to adjust to the whole thing, when you start moving against him under him, he resumes his thrusts.
This position feels exactly like you expected it to, the feeling of being stuffed completely coupled with your over sensitive clit brushing against his pubic bone makes you delirious. You could have imagined a million firsts but never would they even compare to what this is right now.
He moves harder and faster, your moans become quiet screams , you’re pleading for more and more, he is telling you how good you’re taking him, how good it feels having each other likes this, he can’t wait to do it again.
“ You’re mine sweetie. All mine.” He grits out, the sound of skin slapping on skin joining the music that is your whimpers and his heavy breathing. You could do it forever. You need to do it forever.
“ Only yours. I promise Sy. I don’t want nobody else.”
You’d promise him half of your soul if he wants, anything to experience this again, anything to be full of him as he fucks you right into the bed. Your own hips move up to meet him, your hands gripping on his forearms for better balance as your lips chase his and greedily swallow the sounds of his pleasure. He is yours. And you are his.
You’ll give him anything he wants. Your fourth orgasm of the night tears through you, it’s the most intense one yet, and you cry out his name over and over again as he keeps going.
He flips you over and you’re on your knees, back arched and face buried in a pillow as his hips move impossibly fast and your back on the edge bordering on overstimulated, the new angle filling and stretching you in a new more intense way. His rhythm starts to stutter just a bit, the brutal pace doesn’t falter however, his hands rubbing up and down your back soothingly. A welcome balm to the relentless assault on your senses.
Sylus’s breathing is getting more and more erratic and his moans become strained whimpers and the feeling of you quivering and squeezing him hard makes him come so hard he falls over on top of you, managing to land on his forearm so he doesn’t crush you completely. You can feel his warmth flooding you and you sigh in relief.
He holds you close and turns you on your side, your back against his chest as his hand strokes your belly lovingly. He dips his head to kiss your neck.
“ Are you okay my beloved?” He asks
“ Never better.” You slur out. It makes him chuckle.
“ Good. I might have lost control there and I was worried I hurt you.” He whispers right against your ear and kisses behind it.
“ Nuh-uh. I’m alright. My legs feel like jelly but I feel great.”
He pulls you closer to him. “ Good. Not bad for a first time huh?” his voice has that teasing lilt you know too well.
“ Best one I’ve ever had. Based on the others that never happened of course.”
His laugh vibrates against your neck and you feel a sharp bite. You swat at his arm.
“ Stop you feral creature!” but your voice has no real heat to it, too satiated to care about the mark he is no doubt leaving all over your skin.
You can’t help wondering what kind of games the two of you are going to play now that you’re officially together.
So obviously now I want MC to come bite my titty too. Hmmm.
A little MC x Non Mc action didn’t hurt nobody! Come put your teeth in miss thing. I see you, now come on. Let me munch you down a little. Just a little. A nibble.
I've seen what you do for the colonel.... Me next pleeaaaasssse pretty. Let me be your mommy
did i just see my baby daddy…. shirtless…. bite marks….. apron…. jeans….. cooking……
i need him to fuck me until cum starts dripping all over the countertop, i’m so serious. fuck a breakfast, let me put his dick in my mouth are you kidding me right now…….
