Duck’s Arts

Because I’m too embarrassed to show them on my main 29, she/her Currently having LaDS brainrot

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Sylus x MC: No Way Out

Literally just realized I never cross-posted my first fic, lol. Sorry for the repeat if you follow me on AO3, I promise I've got a grassland romance fic coming soon.

Summary: A rewrite of my absolute favorite Sylus card. I really enjoy just how hurt his VA made him sound, and I wanted to reflect that in this.

Contains: AFAB MC, hurt/comfort, kinds enemies to lovers (ish??), Sylus in Pain, blood and injury, like a lot of talk about blood, an MC who swears constantly (she's earned it ok), SFW

AO3

-*-*-*-

I'm going to fucking strangle him, she thinks.

She's standing there, in a public park, on a gorgeous day. It should be the perfect sort of afternoon to relax after a hunting shift, and that had been exactly her plan. But Sylus, sitting relaxed and carefree in front of the fountain, has apparently seen fit to obliterate any chance of that. She's still breathless from sprinting to the coordinates her hunter's watch had specified. Sure, it was a relatively short run, but it was enough to have her adrenaline running high and her mind racing in preparation for dealing with a wanderer. She can feel a prickling sensation under her skin as she pants for air; a sensation which is not helped by the prickling of embarrassment as a middle-aged passerby gives her a judgemental look and makes a point of walking a wider distance from her than is strictly necessary.

She throws him a glare that tells him to mind his own damn business before turning the glare back to the true source of her ire.

He's wearing sunglasses, making him even harder to read than usual, but the slight smirk on his face is all too familiar.

No, he's too damn tall for strangling. Bastard hot man. Maybe I'll drown him in that damn fountain. That could work, she muses.

Despite the warmth of the day, Sylus's jacket is still hung around his shoulders, making his silhouette even sharper, more striking. The fountain spreading out behind him gives the whole picture a strangely artistic look, a statuesque man before a sculpture of angels and cranes, a slight mist hanging in the air as the water crashes back into the pool behind him. And somehow, that makes the whole situation even more irritating.

"Did you send a request to be rescued?"

She tries to make her voice cold, icy even. Unfortunately, the effect is slightly undercut by her puffing from the recent exertion.

His one shoulder rises and falls in a careless gesture, expression inscrutable. "I encountered a wanderer, and needed some help."

The words come out in a way that strikes her as odd; almost choked, perhaps?

Even in sarcasm he can barely lower himself to ask for help. What an ass.

"Well," She makes a show of looking around, spreading her arms wide, "Where's the wanderer?"

"I made it run away."

Her eye twitches. She can't start swearing here, in the middle of a public park. She doesn't need to go through that particular bit of remedial training with her superiors again. So instead she forces a slow breath out through her nose and asks, "How did you know I'd be the one to show up?"

Sylus lifts his phone, and her own smiling face looks back at her behind a pair of rainbow, heart-shaped sunglasses. Underneath the picture is a geotag.

Didn't I disable geotags last week...? I thought for sure I did so that Zayne wouldn't see that I got takeout at 1 a.m. again. Shit, does that mean he knows? Ugh, i don't want that nutrition lecture again-

"Let's flip a coin," Sylus's voice halts her train of thought. He tosses a coin from who-knows-where up into the air and catches it with the same hand. "The outcome will determine many people's fates tonight."

What the hell is he talking about? Is he going to blow up a building or something? Ugh, no, he wouldn't have called me if that's what he was up to. I don't need this right now. I'd like to enjoy my afternoon without a hail of bullets, thanks.

She rolls her eyes, opening the watch's interface, scrolling through to cancel the assistance flare, marking it as resolved. There's the tiny splish of a coin landing in the fountain.

He's damn lucky no one else responded. Or maybe I'm unlucky. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, probably.

"I'm busy with work, Sylus, stop messing around. Today, you-"

She's not sure when he stood up, but suddenly his strong arm is around her neck, pulling her close to him. Her heart, much to her irritation, skips a beat. Just like it always does when he's close, damn the man. And he's certainly close now. Close enough to feel the heat of him, to catch the smell of metal polish, oiled leather, and…

...blood?

What the hell...?

Her eyes dart across the dark material of his shirt, underneath the cover of his jacket. She's grown familiar with the streaks of dark red that swirl across the fabric, since it seems to be one of his favorites. And the large, dark splotch that she spies spreading across his sleeve and side is definitely not part of the usual pattern. And the streams of blood leaking from two punctures on his arm are certainly not typical.

"Sylus, you're bleeding!?" She stammers out in shock, trying to process the strange turn in the situation. The last time she'd see blood on his shirt she'd been...

Well. She'd been the one who had opened that wound, hadn't she? A shot to the heart, point-blank range-

No. Focus on the problem at hand.

"What happened-"

Just as the words start to fall out of her mouth, a single long digit is pressed against her lips, startling her into silence.

"Shh," He drops his finger from her lips. It's somehow both a relief and a disappointment, though she refuses to think about why she would be disappointed by the lack of contact. "Let's go. If we don't, we'll be stuck here."

She isn't sure what he means by that. But she reasons that it's probably not wise to argue with a bleeding man. Not that he gives her time to; his arm is already tucking her to his side and guiding her to walk with him away from the park and all its potential onlookers.

As a hunter, she's seen a lot of injured people. Civilians and other hunters alike. For civilians, the reactions vary wildly. Some cry, some scream, some are in the complete silence of shock. Hunters, on the other hand, tend to have more predictable reactions. Barking out succinct updates on their status and position to their partners, maybe requests for backup teams. In the worst cases, calling for assistance to retreat.

Sylus isn't like either of those. This doesn't surprise her, of course. Sylus isn't like anyone in any way she can think of. She barely even counts him as human most of the time. The current situation seems to support this, as well. Looking at him now, as they duck into an alley across from the park, she would never guess anything was amiss, except maybe for the lack of movement from his left shoulder, slightly stiffening his gait. His head is held high, his steps are sure, and he carries himself with the same usual air of arrogant nonchalance.

At least, he does at first.

The minutes roll by as he guides her through a labyrinth of narrow side streets, so quiet the sound of their steps on the cobblestones echo off the walls, and dark even at the height of midday. Side streets like these would normally have her at least a bit on guard, but the man at her side is an entirely different class of threat than whatever petty criminal she'd find here. At least, he would be, under usual circumstances. But with the passing of time, she notices his bearing begins to change, albeit minutely. His steps drag just slightly more against the rough path. His posture sags, just a fraction of an inch, but enough that she can tell. There's a slight labor to his breathing that she's never heard from him before.

And damn her, it's fucking terrifying.

This is a man that she's seen tear another person asunder. A man she's seen stop bullets in midair. A man she's seen take a gunshot to the chest, and then look her in the eye with a cold smile. A man who stood with her in a building as it went up in a blaze around the pair of them. And now, in this strange, wrong moment, he is a man struggling to walk down a street and stand tall.

Idiot, use your head, she chastises herself, you know how to help someone who is wounded. The fact that it's the leader of fucking Onychinus, and maybe the most terrifying person you know, is beside the point right now. For right now, he's a person who is hurt. And you're all he's got.

She curves around him, pressing her shoulder to his side for support, her hand settling just above the stiff leather of his belt. She shifts herself closer, trying to help distribute some of the weight onto herself. Given the height difference, it isn't terribly effective; but she does feel a decent amount of pressure settle across her shoulders, as well as feeling a slight lean to his spine against her arm. And a twitch of a muscle in his side relaxing slightly under her palm. The strength of his arm, even loose as it is across the back of her neck. A surprisingly tight grip of his fingers on her waist. And warmth, radiating from his core. Trapped against her, where their sides meet. Bleeding through her vest, her shirt. An uncomfortable, restless warmth, spreading through her body; collecting in her cheeks, her chest, her stomach.

"You really like helping others."

The slight rumble of his voice, a bit hoarse from effort, startles her. He seems almost surprised, though she can’t imagine why. Helping others is her entire career, after all.

Right. Wounded crime boss. Focus.

"Well," she starts, affecting an irritated tone to cover her distraction, "if I didn't take you with me, you wouldn't have let me go."

"How are you so sure?"

The amusement in his comment is almost lost under the strain. He's getting worse, she realizes. She should've been putting pressure on the wound ages ago. But how to do it while still supporting him with her left arm? She tries crossing her right arm over his front, but again his height proves problematic.

Dammit.

"Lean down a little." She commands. The deep, throaty chuckle it earns her would tempt her to swat him, were it not for how breathless it sounds. To her surprise, he replies without further comment, allowing her hand to make contact with the wound. It’s hot, wet and tacky under her palm with a mix of old and new blood. Underneath the layer of blood and cloth, she can feel a deceptively small hole. A puncture, then. And a deep one, if the amount of blood is any indication. Even the relatively light touch makes Sylus inhale sharply. She feels the muscles across his torso tense, though he doesn’t recoil.

What the fuck? How did a wanderer do this?

A small growl of frustration escapes her as she realizes there's no way to apply an appropriate amount of pressure from the current angle. "Lean down a little more."

He looks down at her, a single gray eyebrow arched. "When hunters accept a rescue mission, do they always tend to the wounded?" Despite the light tone of the question, she notices some of his consonants are starting to drag.

You'd have a lot easier time catching your breath if you stopped fucking talking.

She’s startled by the strength of her own irritation, the thought jumping unbidden into her mind. Ugh. Calm down. I guess if he’s still asking questions, he’s not about to pass out or something. I don’t know how I’d carry him if he did…

"No, we just escort them to the hospital." She puts some pressure to his back, reminding him to lean. To her surprise, he responds without resistance. "We only care for them when they're troublesome, like you."

That barb earns her a slight smirk. She doesn't expect it to be such a reassuring sight. Usually it makes her want to punch him.

They manage to start walking again. It's quite awkward, he's bent almost double and she's moving sort of sideways.

"So what happened exactly?" She asks, then notes with frustration, "You're still bleeding."

Why hasn't he healed himself? I've done worse to him than this. Hell, half the wanderers we've fought have.

"It's nothing. The sun's too bright," he says, like that explains anything at all.

She glances up. The sun is, indeed, glaringly bright today. Not a cloud in the sky, either. She's rarely seen him in Linkon himself, but on those rare occasions, she supposes they have all happened at night. Or maybe he’s just being facetious, she can never completely tell with him.

"Oh good," she teases, "I discovered another one of your weaknesses."

She could swear he intentionally leans more weight on her at that, and she swallows a grunt.

Two turns later, she finds herself looking at a, frankly, aggressively average-looking motel. Maybe a bit smaller than average, but certainly not what she'd pictured their destination to be. She hesitates slightly, checking to see if there's another turn to take. But Sylus continues ahead, seeming to know where he's headed, and she goes along with him. Fortunately, there seems to be a lack of visitors at the moment, there’s a single car pulled up next to the motel, and no one outside. Nevertheless, her eyes don't stop scanning their surroundings for potential dangers, even as they come up to the door underneath a neon sign reading OFF CE, the ‘I’ occasionally blinking to life.

They enter the office, and she vaguely realizes what an odd picture the two of them must make as they enter. Sylus is half bent-over her, now obviously bleeding and breathing heavily. She's wrapped around him, in her hunter's uniform, with his blood covering her hand and beginning to dye her sleeve.

An inconspicuous sight, they are not.

Fortunately, the only person in the small office room is a pre-teen boy, who is deeply engrossed in a mobile game. She's pretty sure she recognizes the sound effects to be from Light and Dark Raiders: Dragon Team Descent.

She briefly wonders what level he is, before Sylus raps sharply on the desk with his free hand.

"I want room 503."

The boy starts, guiltily putting his phone into his pants pocket. As he does, she notes the abandoned textbook and scratch paper on the desk beside Sylus's hand. Her nose wrinkles slightly of its own accord.

Algebra. No wonder he was playing on his phone.

The boy blinks at the two of them, and for a moment, she thinks she'll have to explain that they're not criminals (well, she isn't), or victims of a mugging, or something. But, to her surprise, the kid asks no questions. Just pulls out a key card from a drawer, and a first-aid kit from a side table, putting them both on the desk before immediately returning to his game. She wonders how often this happens, that Sylus shows up here bloodied and half-conscious. Surely it can't be that often? But then, why does she care in the first place? This is Sylus. The man who kidnapped her, regularly kills those who upset or betray him, and rules over the N109 zone like a tiger over jackals.

"Thanks." The slight mirth in his voice surprises her, and she just notices the slight traces of a warm smile leaving his face as she turns her gaze to him. The contrast between her most recent though and his soft expression is jarring. Whatever the situation is here, Sylus clearly knows this child and vice-versa. The thought that this child, who is playing games, doing schoolwork, and occasionally checking in the odd customer, is wrapped up in the chaos and lawlessness of the N109 zone settles uneasily in her stomach.

But, before she has much time to think about it, Sylus is moving forward again, and she's bound to go along with him. The odd pair walk down a narrow, carpeted hallway, toward the elevator doors at the end. Her arm is beginning to ache from holding pressure in this position, but she does her best to hold steady as Sylus uses his free hand to push the button, still holding the kit and card. She tries to think of something, anything to say, as they step into the elevator together. But she can’t stop listening to the short breaths he takes, and trying to calculate the amount of time he’s spent bleeding. When did she begin to worry over this man like a mother hen? He was the last person alive who she would consider needing any sort of care from another person.

And yet, he does. So she will give it. Because no one else will, right now.

Her sleeve is now soaked, and as they exit the elevator, she can’t help but note the trail of dark red droplets staining the carpet in their wake.

Sylus slides the key card through the reader, and despite the worries about his current state, she can’t help leaning forward to get a glimpse of where the leader of Onychinus makes space to lick his wounds on occasion. However, perhaps to her slight disappointment, it’s as seemingly average as the rest of the motel. Although, once inside the room, she does note that there’s an extra half-room sized space that houses a kitchenette and some cupboards. Sylus gives a slight shrug of his uninjured shoulder, and she realizes that she is still holding onto him as she studies the new space. Her hands leap from him as though burnt.

Rather than face his infuriating smugness at her distraction, she busies herself with opening a side drawer with her clean hand, slightly hoping there will be an object of interest to redirect her thoughts. Unfortunately, it’s completely empty. It seems silly to be disappointed, considering the current situation, but she had half-expected to find a secret arsenal hidden in the room. It certainly wouldn’t surprise her given Sylus’s usual business. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anything for her to ‘borrow’ from her charge.

“Is this your safe house in Linkon?” She wonders aloud, heading over to the sink to clean the blood from her hand before it has a chance to completely dry. She rolls up her soaked sleeve (the shirt is definitely ruined, she’ll have to get a replacement), trying to prevent it from continuing to drip. She really doesn't want the poor kid at the front desk, or whoever the cleaning person is, to have to clean up more blood than is strictly necessary. The cool water sluicing over her hands and washing away the stickiness is calming, grounding in this unreal situation.

Deep breaths, that's what Jenna said at that training. Although that was about not telling rude onlookers to go fuck themselves in the ass… I think that still applies to this situation? The purpose is still to calm down.

“Can I get some help?” Despite the breathlessness, his tone stays airy, perhaps slightly irritated.

She turns from the sink, towards the sound of his voice. He's sitting on the floor of the shower, having apparently already dropped the jacket from his shoulders and discarded the sunglasses. The sleeve and abdomen of his shirt are soaked through, dark and heavy on his frame. The puncture- no, punctures, there's another she hadn't noticed, and a graze across his ribs -are clearly visible, the fabric frayed and partially plastered into the wounds. A small stream of blood is already starting to reach past the open first-aid box on the tile and slither lazily towards the drain. He pulls at his shirt collar on the injured side, unable to manage the buttons on his own.

She could never, before this very moment, have imagined Onychinus's Sylus ever looking like this. Like a wounded, wild animal; stubbornly refusing to die, but unable to continue on under its own power alone. And yet, still assessing her with those crimson eyes, seeing if she will balk or break or abandon; wash her hands of the whole thing and let him fend for himself. Perhaps daring her to do so.

But that isn’t who she is.

She turns off the faucet and walks over to him, muttering, “At least have the decency to say ‘please’ next time you ask.” Another jibe, meant to pull out their usual banter.

Instead, he exhales a ‘sorry’, as though he was holding his breath.

She doesn't expect the pang of disappointment or the accompanying anxiety that comes with the apology where a teasing quip should be. This is, quite simply, not the Sylus she is used to dealing with.

When did I start becoming used to him?

Probably somewhere in between Sylus threatening to take her hand off to get rid of the energy linkage, and Sylus easing her nerves over text the night before a banquet, or maybe Sylus helping her pick out a pair of sunglasses, or sending his stupid bird to check on her all the time.

In between dozens of small moments, it seems

She kneels down, squeezing into the uncomfortably small space between his outstretched leg and the shower wall, and begins undoing the buttons. It's easy to imagine, with his panting breaths as she uncovers more and more of the toned body underneath his shirt, what this might be like in another situation. Far too easy.

No, no no no no. Do not imagine that right now. Professionalism. I'm a model of professionalism. I am not going to imagine fucking the shot-up sexy man.

The sound he makes when she brushes the skin over his sternum makes her resolve considerably weaker.

“Does it hurt?”

His slight grimace and narrowed eyes, at least, help dismiss any untoward thoughts of hers. “Your hands are cold.”

“I just washed them. Bear with it.”

She gingerly begins to tug at his left sleeve with one hand, her other maneuvering the collar of the shirt so that removing it takes as little movement from him as possible. Fortunately, his shirt (and her sleeve) seem to have soaked up a decent amount of the blood, so it isn’t terribly difficult to examine. She’s never seen wanderer marks like this. But she has seen Sylus with a nearly identical wound before, just slightly left of his sternum instead of on his arm.

A flare of anger rises in her chest. The fucking bastard lied. And, worse, she took him at his fucking word .

Idiot. This is still Sylus. Of course he lies, it’s his whole deal. He’s a black market arms dealer, murderer, and smuggler.

“A gunshot wound?” She seethes, even as she leans around to look for an exit wound. Two gunshot wounds, really, both in his upper arm. Three if she counts the graze streaking across his ribs, which has opened up slightly after removing the shirt. And no exit wounds. She hopes they haven’t hit the bone.

Of course the bullets are still in him. It’s probably the only reason he didn’t fucking bleed out.

She sits back to glare at him, trying to ignore that his face is even paler than usual. For his part, Sylus unflinchingly meets her gaze, which is even more infuriating. He could at least have the decency to try and fake an ashamed expression, rather than having this… curious impassivity. “Wanderers don’t shoot guns. Is this an old grudge or a new one?”

He gives a small, humorless huff. Which is, decidedly, not an answer.

“You always cause trouble,” she growls, refusing to back down from his stare, “but you’re never honest about it.”

He doesn’t bat an eye at her fury. He’s eerily calm, actually, even lacking his usual air of arrogance as he keeps his gaze.

“If you’d like to keep your involvement with the N109 zone to a minimum, then you shouldn’t care too much.”

There’s no condescension in his words. It’s a straightforwardness that is foreign to her interactions with Sylus before now. She’d think it was sincerity, were it not for the recent lie.

She gives a sharp snort, “But I thought you liked my ‘excessive’ concern.”

A strange, small smile pulls at the corner of his lips at that, along with a small hum that she can’t quite interpret the meaning of. It disarms her once more, leaves her reeling, the angry wind taken out of her sails. She wishes, not for the first time, that she could read desires like he can, just to be able to piece out all the thoughts he doesn’t say.

He finally breaks the staring contest between them, reaching over to retrieve a pair of tweezers from the first aid box.

“Turn around.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t need to see this.” He mutters, still wearing that strange not-quite-a-smile, “I’d rather not give you nightmares about me.”

That would be a first for him, she’s never gotten the idea that he much cared if he was fit for her nightmares or not. But he’s fixed her with that same oddly pretensionless look. So what can she do but heed him?

She turns her head to the side, and tries not to flinch at the quiet, pained noises he makes. Even worse is the slight squelching noises of the damaged flesh, which is nauseating to hear (though she’d never admit it). She’s had numerous injuries over the years, from wanderers, accidents, and her own lack of grace; but she finds herself currently grateful she’s never had to try and dig bullets out of herself.

“Is there local anesthetic in the first aid box? I can administer it for you.”

“No need,” he grunts, as something metallic clinks to the tile, rolling before coming to rest against her foot. A 9mm hollowpoint bullet, the top blooming out like a bloody flower. A few more moments and pained noises, and its twin joins it. She takes this as her cue to be able to turn around.

The sight twists her heart with worry once more.

Sylus is leaning back against the tiled wall of the shower, face ghostly in color, chin tipped up slightly. Though he’s still conscious, his eyes are unfocused, and lacking their usual vividness. His mouth is hanging open as he forces himself through steady breaths. His injured arm is limp at his side, with fresh blood streaming from the wounds down his arm and dripping steadily onto the tile.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She mutters to herself through her teeth. Enough is enough. He called for her help, and he’s damn well going to get it.

She steps carefully around him, trying to find space for herself in the close quarters. It’s certainly not an easy feat, with him being nearly as broad in the shoulders as the wall he’s leaning against. She finally manages to squeeze herself in by squatting down in front of him, her knees between his. She’s pleasantly surprised to find hemostatic gauze in the first aid kit, though she supposes she shouldn’t be; the kit is probably specifically put together for Sylus’s needs.

He grunts as she packs the wounds. Though she’s doing her best to be gentle, there’s only so much she can do at this stage. She knows it isn’t a permanent fix, but it should be enough to get him back to the N109 zone, and whatever passes for his version of safety. She does manage to staunch the bleeding as well, and that is a relief in and of itself right now. She takes out the alcohol wipes and begins cleaning the area surrounding the graze.

“You’re skilled.” His words are slurred slightly. If she’s being honest, she’s impressed he can still manage coherent speech. Maybe, now that he’s out of the sun, his healing is returning to normal speed. She hopes so. “I thought you were the type who usually comes out unscathed.”

She gives an affirmative hum as she concentrates on cleaning the area. Then adds, “but, because you keep messing around, all of my time lately has been spent on you.”

She waits for a response, but there is none. So she continues, “I don’t often get to take on very difficult missions.” In her periphery, she can see his face tip slightly towards her, watching. “My marksmanship skills are getting rusty.”

“I see, you’re not exactly pleased.” He says quietly. Almost regretfully, though perhaps that is just her imagination. His head lolls back to center as he continues in a more airy tone, “I’ll find a few dangerous wanderers for you to use as training dummies later.”

She rolls her eyes as she discards the wipe, and reaches for the bandages. She's about to ask Sylus to lean forward, so she can pass the bandage more easily around his ribcage, but he beats her to the punch; closing the small distance between them to rest his forehead heavily on her shoulder.

“Give me a few minutes,” he murmurs.

And God, she tries to do that, she does try. But she isn't properly balanced for his weight, and it isn't more than a few moments before she falls backward, flat on her ass. Sylus doesn't seem to be fazed. He simply shifts to a kneeling position, head remaining in place. She can feel his heavy breaths, puffing through her shirt, just below her collarbone.

“Does it hurt?” She murmurs. He gives a grunt in response.

Her mind wanders as she begins winding the bandage around his chest as gently as she can. She hates this. Hates how seeing a force of nature brought low fills her veins with an icy dread. Hates seeing him pale and shaky and damn vulnerable. She knows he can stop bullets. She knows he can tear a man’s very atoms apart on a whim. Hell, he can look a giant fucking bird wanderer in the eye as it drops giant stone feathers on him without a second thought. It’s unnatural, to see such a power reduced to the same level of humanity as everyone else.

But in the next breath, she realizes that she likes this. Not the hurt, or the exhaustion, of course. She isn't a sadist, even if she sometimes thinks he is. But so often he seems more like a weapon than a person. Something to be pointed in the direction of what you want obliterated, and released like a bullet from a gun; cold, unyielding, unfeeling. But, maybe, not all of the time. She's heard concern in his voice in the heat of a fight. Playfulness radiating out of a simple text. Gentleness, in the grip of his hand as he leads you through a dance. And now, right now, he's a person in pain, vulnerable and reaching out for help.

The two sides of a coin, the Leader of Onychinus and Sylus. Equal and opposite and baffling. They can't both exist on the same side together, and yet, a coin can't only have one face.

“Your tender loving care is going to last the whole night, huh,” He drawls against her shoulder.

And assholiness. Definitely assholiness, she thinks as she moves to wrapping his arm.

“Why don’t you just instantly recover and head back to the N109 zone to wreak havoc, then?” She retorts, though it’s missing her usual venom. It’s too good to hear him starting to banter again. This doesn’t stop her though, from cutting his responding chuckle a bit short with a rougher yank on the bandage. “You’re either the source of trouble or in trouble,” She pauses a moment, before a genuine question bubbles out of her mouth.

“Aren’t you tired of living like this?”

“It’s almost like you’re telling me to join you, and become a member of the hunter’s association.” There’s a slight mocking edge to his voice, and she briefly wonders if punching him in the gunshot wound will make him pass out. It almost seems worth it. But instead, she finds herself giving into the impulse to match his tone.

“Do I make hunting look easy? We’re required to memorize the hunter’s code, and take assessments during the holidays.” She finishes tying the bandage with a tug, lacing her words with teasing doubt, “Could you handle that?”

There’s only silence in response. She wishes she could see his face, get some idea of what he’s thinking. But his forehead remains on her shoulder. She becomes aware, once again, of his breath; less heavy now, and steadier, but no less warm. And now that she’s unoccupied with tending to him, she becomes terribly aware of all the other sensations. Soft hair brushing against her ear and cheek, the nudge of his nose against her collarbone, the smell of sweat and blood and something underneath that she can’t place.

A strange, visceral impulse to wrap her arms around him makes her muscles twitch.

Where the fuck did that come from? I’m not going to do that, absolutely not, I’m just helping him. He’s probably had to do this alone dozens of times and-

Her thoughts begin to swirl, out of her control.

And it should not feel like a knife to her heart (a sword to his) to think about that. To think of Sylus wounded, maybe unconscious on the floor from blood loss (so much blood) until his evol kicks in to restart the healing. Breath choked and mouth leaking red (you must press on)-

How many times, Leader of Onychinus? How many hails of bullets, stabbings, poisonings, beatings… How many more, Sylus?

She swallows down the rising lump in her throat, bottles and corks the swirling thoughts for later. But she still finds herself asking,

“Be honest with me. Why are you doing all of this? Do you not care about your own safety?”

She feels the shift in his face, feels what could be a sigh across the base of her throat. “There are shadows even in the places where the sun doesn’t shine. And it just so happens,” his voice shifts slightly, into something odd, self-mockery, maybe, “I’m a person who likes to live in the dark.”

Likes to, or must? She wonders. Before today, hell even before thirty minutes ago, she wouldn’t have considered Sylus to be a man without a choice in… well, anything. Now… now she isn’t so sure.

“If you’re curious about my world,” his whisper at her ear sends chills racing down her spine, “you’ll have to step beyond the border between light and shadow. You must be the one to make that decision.”

There’s something thick in the air, something tense. A breath being held. She looses a halfhearted laugh to try and assuage some of it.

“You act as though you’re giving me a choice.”

He draws back then, and she expects him to resume leaning against the wall. Instead, he remains within a breath of her face, crimson eyes filling most of her view. They’re focused precisely now, practically electrified intensity. It’s like staring at a paused lightning strike, and she needs to look away, break the contact.

A warm thumb touches her chin, a finger curling underneath it, and they drag her gaze back to his. There’s the curl of his smirk, ever-so-slightly narrowing his coreless eye.

“Of course,” his voice is breathy now, and gentle , in a way she’s never heard it before, “I did give you a choice. And it’s precisely because you’ve never chosen something that surprised me.”

She vaguely realizes her lungs are burning. Ah. She’s forgotten to breathe. The slight gasp of an inhale she takes seems loud, too loud in this tiny, silent space. And it carries the scent of him into her lungs, warming her chest. The thumb pressing just below her lower lip is a burning contact point, begging her to take it into her mouth. To lave her tongue over it slowly.

Insanity. This must be insanity.

A deep, throaty chuckle barely registers over the static in her mind. “Maybe someday.”

Someday what?

But he leans back, settling against the tile with a smug look on his face, and the electricity dissipates. She is left dazed, confused, and flustered, wildly trying to find some sort of grip on what just happened.

“You’re going to lose your balance like that, sweetie.”

“I… what-” a sense of dread settles low in her stomach. Then, mortification, as she realizes she was leaning closer, chasing the strange electricity that had evaporated as quickly as it had come.

I should’ve fucking punched him.

She grinds her teeth together to avoid aiming one at him now.

"Well, apparently you're beginning to feel well enough to be your usual infuriating self," She leans back to stand up, deeply grateful to not be sitting on the hard tile anymore. "So, you likely don't need my help anymore, and you can make your way back to the N109 zone."

His smile is devilish. "So quick to leave your charge behind. Unfortunately, i doubt I'm in any shape to get back to my ride with the sun still out. And the gauze will need to come out in a little while anyway, so i can heal them faster."

"And?"

"And, since you've done such an excellent job with the bandages, I can't exactly manage that myself. So, I'll be needing your further assistance. Unless, that is, you mean to leave me to me own devices."

Absolute motherfucker.

She quickly starts assessing her options, there has to be some sort of out.

"I could just leave. Luke and Kieran can help you when you get back."

He gives a little nod, "You could."

The "but you won't" hangs unsaid in the air between them. Her better nature has backed her into a corner, and they both know it.

An irritated sigh escapes through her teeth as she holds out her hand to him, "Come on, I don't want all my hard work going to waste because you pass out from the change in altitude, and you crack your head open or something."

"So very selfless, miss hunter," he grins as he takes her hand. She yanks him upright, though it takes considerable effort. He reaches out to brace his good arm on the shower wall to keep from swaying off balance, the remaining half of his sodden, ruined shirt slipping to dangle from his shoulder.

"Altitude sickness?"

He gives a small laugh as he steadies himself. She remains close by, honestly a bit worried he will end up in a heap on the floor. And God, what would she do then? He'd be too damn long and heavy to move effectively.

Better safe than unconscious.

She tucks herself back against his now-bare side, and quickly realizes that maybe, just maybe, putting the side of her face directly against him like this was a mistake. She can feel the muscle of him firm against the curve of her jaw, and his deep chuckle against her ear as it rumbles through his chest nearly makes her breath stop. Again.

"And eager to help, too. A model example of a hunter."

"I liked you better when you were bleeding out." She grumbles, vaguely aware of him shaking the last bit of his shirt off.

If I dont kill him or kiss him before sunset it will be a fucking miracle.

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Posting this preview of a grassland AU side fic so I actually come back to this fic and finish it this next weekend. Did you know there’s a fish in Mongolian rivers known as a water-wolf for its size? Because I didn’t before today. And since we know Sylus is fond of night fishing… idk. This started happening.

Also I swear I am working on an engagement fic. This was going to be part of it, but it got too big and spawned it’s own little side story.

Perhaps you should be surprised.

Rivers are few and far between over much of the grassland. Most tend to leave them alone, for various reasons. You’ve heard stories of monstrous creatures that lurk beneath rushing rapids, of the taimen fish that can eat geese or small children in a single gulp, and of fierce river demons ready to drag down careless travelers. On the rare occasion that the men do fish, it tends to be in the dead of winter, when there are precious few other options for food, and a protective layer of ice between them and whatever lurks below. Since it’s currently the height of summer, in the last few minutes of scorching sun before the short night begins, the villagers are more than content to give the rushing water a very wide berth.

Of course, you think to yourself, if there’s to be an exception to almost any rule, it would be him.

You’ve caught sight of Sylus’s white hair, dyed gold in the last rays of daylight, as you watch him stride out of your temporary settlement. Though you can’t see his face as he walks away, you do see a familiar length of smooth bamboo and a bag slung over his broad shoulder. You’ve seen the bamboo rod before, sitting among the more usual things in Sylus’s yurt. Usually, long or bulky items aren’t taken along in the nomad tribes unless they are of some significance, or are able to be quickly broken down, so it had briefly caught your curiosity. However, it wasn’t unusual enough for you to bother asking, and you’d forgotten about it completely until now.

You watch him walk for a moment, giving him a bit of distance, before you begin to follow. The sunset quickly gives way to a blue-violet twilight as you quietly wade through the shifting grasses, keeping yourself at a set distance from his back.

“You’re going to lose me in the dark if you keep so far behind, little huntress” Sylus calls. You freeze in place, and he turns his head slightly, showing a bit of his smug grin, “wouldn’t want you getting lost, now, would we?”

Damn it.

There’s no use keeping up the pretense if he’s spotted you, so you jog slightly to catch up to his pace. “You’re the one headed towards a river in the dark, worry about yourself.”

“Worried about my safety, sweetie? How magnanimous of you.”

You snort. “Of course not. I’m just curious as to what you’re doing with that stick.”

“Catching monsters, of course.”

You frown at his airy reply. What does that mean?

[scarlet-and-shadow]

I've been dreaming of Yakuza Sylus

Credit: @/seiorai on Twitter

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Ooo, the (alleged) origin story of the name 'yakuza' as a bad hand of cards, paired with Sylus having chronically horrible luck? Yes yes.

[asteroshearts]

Imprint

Sylus (Qin Che 秦彻) x Reader

Tags: Wuxia themes/AU (no specific time period, not historically accurate ;;;), established relationship, you both have long hair (Confucius principle), you're a spoiled spouse hehe

Lazy steam rolled out of the tub, curling across shiny wooden walls and creating a haze in your vision.

With the fragrance of berries and basil filling the air, you sighed heavily, eyes closed. Leaning back against the tub, your shoulders fell in sleepiness.

The water was like an embrace against your bare skin, relieving you from the ache in your head the longer you sat.

Drousy, you began to hum a tune you heard some street musicians play on your day out earlier.

Pressing your cheek against the cool rim of the tub, your melody carried gently across the room—

Until another tune, rumbly, off beat, and off key, joined you.

Your eyebrow twitched irritably, forcing your heavy eyelids to open. How could you relax with such a grating—

"Husband!" you gasped, a smile fitting on your lips. Smirking at the sight of you, face bare and shiny, radiant limbs rising out of the water, Qin Che walked toward your side. The closer he stepped into the steam, the clearer his visage became.

Kneeling at your side, you threw your arm around him, pressing your bare, wet form against his luxurious robes. An amused grin appeared on his lips when the arm that curled around his neck released his waist-length hair from its bun. Threading your wet fingers across silver, you pressed several messy kisses to his cheek.

With the last kiss, he leaned in after you as you pulled back to press against the tub, chasing after your kiss. With your eyes closed again, a small, relaxed smile lingered on your lips.

"You're home early, did training go well?" you asked.

"Hm." Dark red eyes trained on your form. He didn't want to think of work. "I couldn't miss your beautiful song. You thought you could perform without me to witness it?"

You let out an undignified snort. A nobleman once told him that the birds stopped singing at the sound of his voice, but both caught on to the underlying jab.

Waving your hand carelessly, with your eyes still closed, you gestured to the tray of hair tools and ornaments by your side.

"Che, could you brush my hair?" you requested without a glance.

"Oh?" He leaned in so close, you could feel his presence on the shell of your ear. "I'm your honorable husband, yet you want me to covet you like a servant?"

A smirk appeared on your lips as you felt large hands gather your hair.

"And a beloved wife can't ask for this simple task?" you parried back.

Taking your hair in his hands, he sat behind you on your handmaiden's stool. Taking the comb from the tray, you felt slow, languid drags across your strands. A delighted hum fell from your lips at the gentle, rhythmic sensation.

"You know what the officials have told me before?" he asked, voice rumbling, pulling your hair over his lap. "That in turn for providing, and for the husband's kindness, the wife should give respect and obedience."

He remembered barking out a laugh at them then. If only they knew. You hardly heeded his orders, and if anyone was the sun in the relationship, it was you, while he was the moon.

A huff and a pout appeared on your lips.

You heard a soft click when he placed the comb back on the tray. Carefully patting the top of your head to smooth out the flyaways, he then tossed your hair over your left shoulder, exposing the nape of your neck. Placing both hands on your biceps, you leaned in when you felt his lips on your bare neck.

"What do you have to offer me for my services, hm?" You felt the vibration of his voice on your skin.

"Hmmmm..." You pretended to go in a thinking pose. "I suppose... I shall permit you to enter my marital bed tonight."

"Oh?" His red eyes flashed with further amusement. "I," he emphasized, "receive permission to enter your marital bed?"

A smug smirk crossed your face as you finally opened your eyes, turning around in the water to look at him, only to loudly gasp and let out a startled shriek.

"Husband! Your clothes!" Looking down at his chest and his lap, in the area where you pressed your wet body against him for the hug, the dye had run across multiple layers of his silk robes, bleeding black against red jacquard fabric. On the darker fabric, some of the color had lightened.

Looking down at your bare chest, you couldn't see any remnants of the dye on your skin. It must've washed away in the water.

Hurriedly, you twisted in the tub to face him, splashing soapy water over the rim. Placing both hands on his cheeks, you turned his head back and forth to try and spot any dye that stained his neck or jaw. However, instead of appearing worried, his smirk only deepened. Without his ruby eyes leaving yours, he left a kiss on your palm and nuzzled his cheek against your hand like one of the Dragon Lis you had on your grounds.

"Che!" you scolded at how lighthearted he was. "This is serious! You have a meeting within the hour! What will your officers think?!"

"Yes, tell me what will they think?" he languidly asked.

"Your reputation!" you urged. "Oh, we have to get you changed!" You didn't want him to lose face if the emperor's beloved general came to a meeting with ruined robes. "Call the servants, or we'll get the boys to get you new clothes!" Shooting out your hand, you attempted to reach the porcelain bell to summon the servants. His large hand fell over yours, easily holding you back as you tried to push or pull back.

"You know what I think they'll say?" he asked. Lacing your fingers with his, even as you tried to fight him off, he used his free hand to gesture down at the running, fading dye. Pouting like a cat, his smile only grew more bemused at your cute expressions. "Look at this form on me, look at this mark you left on my clothes." The stains were framed with your nude body.

He leaned in, and you averted your gaze out of embarrassment.

"I think my officers will see that my darling wife can't contain her happiness around her husband, that she will come and embrace me upon the mere sight of me. Even as she's relaxing in her bath, she can't help but drop what she's doing."

He took a knee at your side, looking up at you. Taking your still-dripping hand, he pressed it against his heart, and you could see under your fingertips that the dye ran even further in the imprint of your palm.

You suddenly felt warmer than when your maids freshly poured the water in.

"And for her affection, am I not willing to trade in some ruined clothes and undone hair?

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Me: oh yeah, I’ll just include making the pouch from grassland romance in the engagement story. It’ll be like, a couple paragraphs, at most.

*three hours of googling Mongolian embroidery later*

Oh no. This is going to be a whole thing. That will interest no one but me, because I’m a fiber arts nut. Fuck my life.

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Grassland Romance AU: Dark Moon Night

Summary: The night before the first moon of the new year, you find yourself grappling with loneliness while everyone else celebrates with their families. Fortunately, you're not the only one. Tooth-rotting pre-relationship fluff. This is a prequel to my fic Winter Winds, that no one asked for!

AO3

Contains: short &sweet, more tooth-rotting fluff, AFAB reader, mild emotionional hurt/comfort

Notes: Look this fic is poorly written but I needed something to cut through the writer's block mkay.

I had meant to have this done in time for the Lunar New Year. But, for a million reasons, that simply did not happen. Fair warning, I live in the midwest US, and strangers terrify me. As such, everything I know about Tsagaan Sar I have learned from google, and I’ve also adapted it a bit to better fit Sylus and MC and the fictionalized grassland culture from the card.

This is intended as a prequel to Winter Winds, and will probably make more sense if you read that first, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Also, a big thank you to everyone who commented on that fic. Every comment/reblog makes me ridiculously happy, and I appreciate them all deeply.

*-*-*-*-*-*

These hours of velvety darkness are the last hours before the dawning of the new year. There have been weeks of preparations leading up to this night. Not only for this celebration itself, but also for those of the following days, where the entire village will welcome in the new year's first moon. This is a night of joy; of feasting on steamed buns and mutton and biscuits, of playing games and laughing with your family, of toasting to new hopes and blessings with kumis until cheeks are flushed with warmth and delight. The heady smells of rich food and the mirthful noises of celebrating families are seeping out of every yurt in the village, flowing out into the well-trodden paths through the snow between them.

And yet, if this is a night of joy… why do you feel so fucking sad?

You suppose you know why. Though your adopted sister Cota has always treated you as good as blood, your adoptive parents have always treated you with a certain amount of distance. As such, this time of year always feels a bit like salt in an open wound. Cota, to her credit, does her best to fill the void. She includes you in all the cleaning, tanning, and sewing leading up to the actual celebration. She also makes a point of sharing steamed buns and biscuits with you on the Dark Moon Night, as though shoving enough food at you will fill the void where a family belongs.

You really wish it had.

In the presence of Cota's family and their happiness tonight, a strange feeling of wrongness had started to nest in your heart, scratching away moment by moment in your chest like a furiously-burrowing rodent. With each smile exchanged between them, each laugh and affectionate tease, the burrow of unease grew. Eventually the feeling had grown too great to hold in your chest, constricting your lungs and rising into your throat until it threatened to burst out of your mouth and poison the golden happiness that permeated everything. Everything but you.

And for a moment, you want to. You want to find the words that will hurt, and douse their warmth for each other.

You can't even remember what you had said through the gnawing in your mind. Perhaps an excuse about going out to check on an expecting ewe? But it seemed to have been coherent enough to allow for your unimpeded escape out of the stifling yurt. As you step out into the night, your lungs fill themselves with the bracing frigidity of the air in a gasping breath, desperate to dissipate the cloying warmth of the yurt. Another deep breath follows, and another after that, as you begin winding your way through the packed-snow paths around the yurts. The muted sounds of other families celebrating in much the same way as Cota’s makes the loneliness of the moonless night even more prominent, and your spiteful heart takes a strange sort of solace in it.

You walk without aim for a time, allowing yourself to wallow in the comfort of not having to pretend to share in the joy of others, pretend that it doesn’t gnaw at you. Eventually, you find yourself standing at the edge of the village; warmth and music and laughter heating your back, and chilled, silent blackness at your front as you gaze out into the yawning dark. You allow yourself to fill your lungs once more with that loneliness that soothes you, even as it sinks itself deeper into your soul.

“Sweetie,”

The deep voice, close enough to ruffle the fur at your collar, comes seemingly from the night itself, cutting without warning through the quiet like a blade.

The small scream that squeaks out of your throat is fucking embarrassing, and it is not helped by the strange jump-shuffle that accompanies it as you pivot to face the intruder, nearly ending with your ass is the snow.

You’re greeted by smug, sanguine eyes, set above a lazy smirk that mocks you as you recover any remaining shards of dignity. Sylus is bent over to your shoulder-height, cloaked in a black winter deel and cap that nearly blends with the moonless night, save for the fringe of silvery-white hair visible below the dark fur.

“What the fuck, Sylus?” You grind out, straightening your winter deel. Not because you really need to, but because if you don’t busy your hands with something, you will try to wring his damn neck.

Sylus straightens, his smirk even more irritating when he’s standing at full height. His ruby eyes catch the ambient light leaking from the village, making them glitter with laughter. “You should keep your wits about you. Wolves don’t take the night off for the dark moon night, you know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you grumble, fixing him with a withering glare that he is utterly unaffected by. “What are you even doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, little huntress.”

“I asked first.”

There’s a small huff of laughter from him, “I suppose you did.”

Before you can prickle at his indulgent tone, he continues airily, “The wolves don’t take the night off, and neither do I.”

You’d be more inclined to believe that if he wasn’t holding a jug of kumis in one hand. “So hardworking, drinking on the job.”

The smirk on his face deepens at your barb, “Just because I don’t have the night off doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”

You roll your eyes, finding yourself attempting to suppress a smile. This is how it’s been with Sylus, ever since your exchange over the wolf that he killed a few months ago. A strange sort of friendship that has brought you to sparring with him more than once, but just as frequently leaves you laughing or teasing each other.

“You didn’t answer my question though.”

The stare he fixes on you is strangely intense, and you fidget against your will under the scrutiny. “Hm?”

“Don’t play dumb, sweetie. It doesn’t suit you.”

You turn back to the yawning blackness, staring out into it as you search for the words to answer. Sylus doesn’t so much as shift his stance as the silent moments stretch on, waiting with a patience you wouldn’t have expected from him, though you can still feel his intense gaze as you force the sticking words out of your mouth.

“I couldn’t stand it. Just… standing there. Not really alone, but not really not-alone, either. That sounds stupid.” A small, humorless laugh bubbles up out of you, a little of the poison leaking out into the night. Sylus remains still, so you continue, “I know that I’m not really family to them, I guess. Except for Cota. And somehow, that makes it worse. That she wants me to fit, even if her parents don’t. And I see them. How happy they are. How much they love each other. The whole yurt is fucking filled with it. But. Not me. And I hate them for it. Even Cota, sometimes, for trying so hard.”

The night breeze carries the words away, and that gnawing feeling along with it. In return, only the hollow loneliness is left.

“…You envy them.” Anyone else would have pronounced it as a judgement, a conviction of your guilt for craving what had been lost to you. But from Sylus, it was merely a statement. A neutral truth, all the more freeing to have someone outside of yourself acknowledge it. See it, and see your pain in turn.

“Yeah.” The word is small, breathless as it leaves your mouth. The last of the poison excised.

Suddenly, a jug is pressed to your shoulder. You look to Sylus, finding that he is now also staring pensively into the dark. You take the jug in hand, the weight strangely comforting to hold. You take a drink, the slightly-sour flavor of the creamy alcohol a slight comfort in its familiarity.

“Do you envy them too? The others?” The question is out of your mouth before you have a chance to consider if you even should ask it or not. It's a fair question at first blush; despite his popularity with everyone in the village, when it comes to family, Sylus is even more bereft than you are. But as the moments stretch on after the question has been posed, you realize you hadn't stopped to consider if there was a reason for that solitude. As much as Sylus tests your temper, you don't want to accidentally bring up something that pains him. Especially on a day that, as you are well aware, the topic may already be sensitive.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have-”

“There is no use in wanting things I can't take for myself.” His reply kills your apology in your throat. He says it in the same airy tone as before, as though he is stating a simple, universal fact that has nothing to do with him personally.

You're left at a loss, trying to read his inscrutable expression in the dim light. You know so little about Sylus's past. Indeed, despite the growing familiarity between the two of you, you don't really know much about the man standing in front of you at all. You know that he's strong, and clever, and infuriating at times. But you know nothing about what drives him, about what causes the determined set in his eyes before a hunt, why he teases you at every given opportunity, or why he is more often alone than not, and if he is just as lonely as you are.

Although, strangely, you feel much less alone now than you did with Cota and her parents. Perhaps it's because misery loves company. Or perhaps it's his lack of judgement. Regardless of the reason, you find yourself grateful for his company, and not wanting to leave it.

His ruby eyes slide to yours, catching the slight glow of the light behind him, “Staring is rude, sweetie.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter, taking a pull from the jug. You're grateful for the cold nipping at your cheeks, doing you the favor of hiding your embarrassed blush.

The smug smirk returns to his face, “Tsk. Cursing on the Dark Moon Night. That has to be bad luck.”

“We'll see about that. I bet I'll beat you in every game of knucklebones this year!” You thrust the jug back at him, letting a cocky grin spread across your face.

He takes it from you, and you are momentarily surprised at how warm his fingers are against yours despite the chill of the night.

“Every game, hm?” He draws, quirking an eyebrow at you, though the smirk on his face looks more amused than smug now.

“Every one,” You punctuate your declaration with a decisive nod.

“I'd suggest making a different wish, little huntress. It would be a shame to pin all your hopes on that one.”

You scoff in mock offense as Sylus takes a drink, “Well, do you have a better one?”

“No.”

“What, no hopes for the new year at all? I'm pretty sure that's worse luck than cursing.”

Sylus gives a nonchalant shrug, “I'll take my chances.”

You affect a heavy sigh. “No, no. That won't do. I'll have to make up one for you.”

The amused smirk warms his eyes again, “Oh?”

“Oh yes. You've dragged me into your bad luck now, so I have to fix it for both of us,” you press your finger to your temple in thought, earning a huff of laughter from the man beside you, “Ah, I know; I hope that in this new year, you become less sneaky! Then you'll stop scaring me every time you show up.”

“Hmm. That will make hunting difficult. Wouldn't it be more useful to hope that, in the new year, you become less oblivious?”

“I thought you liked a challenge, Sylus! Being an un-stealthy hunter would be very challenging. But fine, have it your way, I'll think of another wish.”

You aren't sure how long you spend like this with Sylus, teasing each other with ridiculous hopes and wishes for the year to come. But it's long enough to banish the hollowness in your chest, and refill it with a warmth you hadn't expected to find tonight. It's addicting enough that, when Cota turns up to drag you back to the yurt, you're reluctant to leave, even finding yourself glancing back to where Sylus stands at the edge of the village, barely visible against the moonlit night.

“So,” Cota’s voice makes you snap your gaze back to the path in front of you, “when are you going to start working on a pouch for him?”

You're pretty sure it's bad luck to shove snow down your adoptive sister's deel on Dark Moon Night. But that does not stop you from trying.

[naileadevoras]

the urge to fuck him when he starts rambling about nerdy shit i don't understand

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Ok but Sylus.

I feel like a lot of people forget that Sylus is fucking *smart*. Like, the man seems to pilot and maintain his own spaceship in his anecdote. The man seems to know every firearm/explosive inside out, forwards and backwards. And I think most tellingly, he BUILT Mephie himself. Out of a real ass bird that he made into a cyborg. And he continuously tinkers with his own original design for him to improve on it and shape Mephie to his needs (or make him bother MC more)

So like. Imagine MC hanging around bored at the base, watching Sylus as he's re-fitting one of Mephie's components. And sylus has those frameless glasses of his on, sleeves rolled up, delicately adjusting all of the tiny circuits and components. And MC is curious (and definitely not a little miffed at the lack of attention, that would be stupid), and she asks what he's doing. And Sylus goes on the most indecipherable explanation about the biotech adjustments he's doing. And MC is now sitting there fighting the urge to tear his clothes off as he smirks.

...I think about this a lot okay.

[roxynani9292]

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Sylus: Desert Flight

A short and sweet drabble that I wrote as a treat for myself during a flare up.

Summary: You and Sylus take your daughter to test out her new wings in the desert near the oasis

AO3 if you prefer

Contains: maximum levels of fluff, no editing thanks to flare up, reader is referred to as mom.

Notes: i didn't give the daughter a name or age here, feel free to imagine as you like.

The stars are just beginning to peek through the haze of sunset in the oasis, twinkling in the deep navy expanse above as the last bit of light leaches away from the sky. You've never seen the stars this clearly; the light pollution in Linkon barely allows you to see all but the brightest of stars, and the deepspace tunnel occupies a large portion of the sky anyway. But here, you can easily imagine space stretching into worlds far beyond your own.

“Mom!” A small, excited voice drags your attention back down from the heavens, “Come on! You’re taking for-ev-ver!”

You assure your daughter, who is practically vibrating with excitement, that you are coming. She's been waiting (impatiently) to try this for weeks now. Sylus had promised her that, once her little wings were strong enough, he would take her to practice real flying. However, doing so in the neon-bright nights of Linkon would be begging for a troublesome amount of attention. And despite the vast improvements of the state of affairs in the N109 zone, it still wasn't safe enough to let a child test out her brand new wings.

So, the three of you had taken a family trip to the oasis. It's relatively easy to monitor her safety here; most people you have met seem to buy the explanation that your daughter has a gene-modifying evol, so she has been able to keep her wings out. In Linkon and the N109, you are always on alert for any remaining presence of EVER, and you’re careful not to allow her wings out too frequently. With your memories now intact, you know what they did to you as a child, as well as Luke and Kieran, and you will be damned if any remaining shreds of EVER try to lay a finger on your child. Sylus, with memories of his previous life also intact, is just as cautious. Now and again, when he holds your daughter, you will see him stroking the tender, delicate membranes of her wing with an inscrutable face.

But tonight is not the night for old wounds and memories. Something new and wonderful is happening under these stars.

As it stands, the desert is peaceful. You watch as Sylus walks through the dunes ahead of you, your daughter clinging to his back, little wings fluttering instinctively as the cool night breeze fills them. She's so similar in her look to Sylus, both of their heads gleaming silver in the rising moonlight, both sets of sanguine eyes scanning the surroundings (one set with alertness, the other with boundless curiosity). He would claim, though, that your daughter is all you in spirit; courageous and determined to a fault, always wanting to help even a complete stranger on the street.

Sylus turns slightly to make sure you're still following, eyes sparking with a kind of excitement and unadulterated pride you’ve only rarely seen in him before, and always related to his little princess. It appeared first on the day she was born, and had shown up now and again afterwards, when she took her first steps, when she first said ‘dada’, and when she first dug a fang into Kieran’s hand.

“Getting distracted, sweetie?” he calls.

"The stars are gorgeous here, it's hard to not get distracted!”

“Mm,” his low, amused hum glides to you on the breeze, “and here I thought you were distracted by the handsome view in front of you.”

“Da-ad, ew.” Your daughter groans. Both of you laugh, the sound joyously loud in the quiet landscape.

Eventually the three of you come to a stop at the crest of a dune.

"The sand is soft here,” Sylus explains, as he gently returns your daughter to earth, “go ahead and try, the drop will give you some time to glide.”

Your daughter's feet shuffle restlessly in the sand, “You aren't going to show me how?”

Sylus gives her a slight smile, “My wings would cause a sandstorm here, princess. If that happened, you wouldn't be able to fly tonight.”

She gives a serious nod, the stories you've told her at bedtime of her father (though they are taken from another life) ring true to her.

“No monsters here, right, mom?” She looks to you for assurance.

You check your hunter's watch, as you always have done when she asks this. Though your daughter is unafraid of the dark and many other things children are usually terrified of, she's not immune to all fears. Wanderers, especially, seem to take the place of more traditional monsters in her mind. However, when she was three, you comforted her with your tales of being a hunter, and having a watch that could detect when they are near.

“All normal,” you report, giving her a thumbs-up, “perimeter secure.”

She gives you a bright smile. Soon, she will be too old for these sorts of platitudes to work. But for now, they give her comfort as she faces a new challenge.

“Okay,” she mutters to herself, wings stretching in preparation, sinewy young muscles testing their own strength

Sylus gives her some reminders as he crouches next to her on one knee; let the drop fill your wings first, then flap to catch some air, angle them up as you come to land. She listens attentively, wings mimicking the movements to help her remember.

“What if I fall?”

“You probably will,” Sylus says somberly, and you can see the confidence in your daughter waver slightly, “are you going to let that stop you?”

You know he would accept it if she does want to stop. Sylus always gives her a choice when she faces something that intimidates her, or tests her limits. He never pushes, trusting your daughter to know herself. It’s one of the myriad things you admire about your husband.

Your daughter thinks hard for a moment, eyes narrowing, “No. I want to fly. Even if I fall a little.”

“That's my princess,” Sylus grins at her, eyes shining with pride once more as he stands.

You move to his side as your daughter stands at the crest, wings stretching once more. You take his arm as she backs up slowly, face set with determination, and then sprints to the edge. Your fingertips dig into Sylus's arm as you hold your breath, watching this insane, wonderful child you both created fling herself into the air.

She waits a moment too long to open her wings fully, and nearly crashes to the ground. But in the end, she does manage to catch a little air, and glides to a tumbling landing at the base of the dune.

Before you quite know what you are doing, you're hurtling down the slope too, losing victorious shouts as you slide down to your daughter. You help her up from the little pile she's landed in, showering her with praise for her glide.

She giggles, still young enough to be deeply pleased rather than embarrassed by all of your fussing (not that it will make you stop, regardless).

“Did you see, dad?” She calls to the top of the dune.

“Of course, Princess.” He calls back, and you feel the delighted flutters of your daughter's wings against your arms.

"I want to go again!” She exclaims, pushing against you, so that she can run back.

You set her down, “I bet I'll beat you to the top!” she crows, and immediately begins running.

She’s every inch as competitive as you are, sprinting and pumping her little legs for everything she's worth. Even her wings beat against the air as she goes, granting a little lift to her steps. Most of the time, you let your daughter win these little races. Every once in a while, though, a prize catches your eye, and you simply have to win. This is one of those times. So the two of you race across the cooling sand, little puffs of it flying up in your wake under the newly-darkened sky. You round the corner of the dune where Sylus is still standing, racing up the incline, hunter-trained muscles giving you the lead over your daughter. You make it to the crest, but do not slow; instead you push yourself just a little harder in the final stretch. You can't see your husband's face well in the dark, but you can imagine it well enough. You have seen his look of affectionate amusement so often by now that it may as well be the back of your own hand. You collide with his chest in a rush, flinging the pair of you over the edge of the dune. Sylus, though, is just as familiar with you as you are with him. As your bodies meet, the misty tendrils of his evol are already wrapping around the pair of you, slowing the fall into a weightless sensation that may as well be flight.

You feel his arms wrap around you, strong and warm, and his deep chuckle rumbles through his chest to your ear.

“I didn't know you were trying to fly today, sweetie. You could have just asked.”

“What's the fun in that?”

He chuckles again as the pair of you land in the soft sand, giving you a dazzling view of the universe in the clear sky above. Though it becomes difficult to appreciate, as most of Sylus's weight settles on top of your body.

“Sy,” you grunt, wriggling to give yourself more room to breathe, “off, please!”

“I thought you liked me on top of you, kitten.”

“Sylus! She's-”

“At the top of the dune. She can't hear me.”

He presses a quick kiss to the shell of your ear, a promise of what will come after your daughter is deep asleep in her own room, before relenting and beginning to move off of you.

A large shadow blots out the sky above, and for a heart-stopping moment, your mind screams at you to prepare for a wanderer. However, when the shadow lands (heavily) on the pair of you with a squeals and a giggle, your fears quickly subside.

“Got you!” She yells triumphantly, and you can't help but laugh.

“Well done, princess,” Sylus says, tucking back the hair that's fallen out of your daughter's braid, “You saw your opportunity and seized it.”

Your daughter beams, again delighted at the praise.

The three of you remain for a time, until the chill in the air turns to a cold bite. You carry your exhausted daughter alongside Sylus as you walk back to the oasis town, your free hand entwined in his, under the watch of the stars.

[alyssarodriiii]

NOOOO THIS IS SO CUTE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[oddwalkerduckarts]

I’ll probably never actually finish this, but yes. There needs to be more baby dragon content.

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Didn’t manage to finish it before the drop tomorrow, so here’s a WIP

Is anyone else obsessed with girldad!Sylus teaching his daughter how to fly? Just me? Ok.

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Wanted to do a lil drawing to go along with my Winter Winds fic. I am a better writer than artist, but I just had to.

[oddwalkerduckarts]

Grassland Romance AU: Winter Winds

Summary: You've been slowly falling in love with Sylus, a strange outsider who joined your tribe some time ago. You haven't been able to pluck up the courage to say anything. However, when you are caught alone in the fiercest blizzard anyone can remember, it might not be up to you anymore.

AO3

CW: AFAB reader, no use of y/n, pet names (sweetie, little huntress), blizzard, hypothermia, hunting, nude spooning, 90% fluff by volume, sexual themes (but no sex), not proofread, melodrama (god so much melodrama).

Word count: 8k

Notes: poor Luke and Kieran have to be dogs in this AU.

“Don’t be stupid,” you scoff, “how can lemmings foretell the weather? Their brains are the size of grass seeds!” The bay mare you’re sitting astride shakes her head, before pawing through the watery, heavy snow on the ground to reach the hidden grasses underneath.

Today, as with most days, you are minding the herds with your friend Cota. The two of you are practically sisters, as her family had raised you after your parents perished when you were a young child.

“I’m not the one who said it!” She protests, leaning back to aim a kick at your foot succeeding at knocking it out of your stirrup. “I’m just telling you what Elder Shikigur said, and he said, ‘There’s too many lemmings moving, there will be a large storm coming.’”

You groan. Blizzards are a continual hazard of grassland winters. Harsh winds are able to scream across the treeless landscape with terrifying fury, tearing through even thick winter deels, and whirling snow into a blinding haze. Preparing for one means rounding up the flocks, reinforcing yurts to hold against wind and snowfall, and digging out of the yurts once the storm is through. They’re critical jobs that need to be done. That is, when the weather actually calls for it.

“It’s practically spring!” You argue, gesturing wildly to the half-melted pasture around the two of you, “It’s so damn warm, that I couldn’t even wear my thickest deel today! I would’ve been covered in sweat!”

Cota shrugs, “I’m just telling you what the elders were gossiping about.”

“Well, regardless of what they say, I’m not taking out my winter deel again until next winter.”

“I bet you would if Sylus asked you to.”

You feel the color rise in your cheeks at the sing-song tease, and the mention of his name.

You aim a return kick at Cota’s leg, but she reins her mare to the side in time to evade you. “I would not! And besides, he’s out with some of the others hunting pheasant, anyway.”

Cota’s smile grows wider, “Oh ho, so you’ve been keeping track of which hunting parties he goes with, huh?”

An irritated groan leaves your throat as your friend laughs. “Aren't you supposed to be heading back about now? I'll tell the elders you've been slacking to sit around and gossip.”

“Aw, don't pout! It's cute, all your pining. You're going to have to do something soon though, otherwise some other girl is going to catch his eye at a festival, and then what will you do?”

“I’m pretty sure you're supposed to be helping with cooking right now, aren't you?”

Cota makes her own irritated groan, “No one likes when I cook anyway!”

“Better that than you sitting here and teasing me.”

She makes a rude gesture at you, and you return it.

"Fine,” she grumbles, “but keep an eye on the weather, okay?”

“Of course, I'll let you know if the lemmings are oracles or not.”

Cota rolls her eyes with a scoff, before reining her horse around and trotting back to the village. It’s good timing, you notice the right side of the herd has started to splinter a bit, and needs to be rounded back in.

As you go about your job, you can’t stop your mind from pondering over your relationship with the strange man.

Sylus had come to the tribe as an outsider a few years ago. Strong and skilled in both riding and archery, he’d been welcomed into the fold immediately, seemingly to his own surprise. His striking appearance had immediately caught many eyes; tall, broad and strong in the chest, with eyes the color of freshly-spilled blood set in a devastatingly handsome face. The one criticism you heard of him was of his curt, reticent nature, that meant he constantly had a severe expression on his face.

Well, almost-constantly.

Within a month after joining the tribe, there had begun to be problems with a particular wolf picking off sheep in the night. It had always seemed to know where to attack, far enough away from any of the herders that it was impossible to reach him in time. It even managed to evade the vigilant Bankhar dogs, who kept constant watch on their flock, and rarely let a wolf’s presence go unpunished. The predator managed to evade everyone. Everyone except Sylus.

It had only taken two nights of Sylus on guard, before he returned in the early morning light, with the giant, tawny corpse of the wolf thrown over one shoulder. He’d managed to kill it, in the dark, with a single arrow to its skull. The entire tribe had celebrated that night; an end to the nights of doubled watches in the dark and lost sheep. Wine and kumis had run freely that night, along with music and dancing in the center of the temporary village.

The wolf’s body had been set aside, to be skinned for the fur and used as linings and blankets to guard against the frigid winter months. Even in death, it still looked fierce, its fur sleek and body corded with lean muscle that reminded you of its killer. You had bent down to examine the bared teeth, sharp and white against the pale flesh of the gums. You reached out to draw your finger over one of the fangs, curious to see if it would be sharp like a knife, or blunt like one of the Bankhar dogs.

“Disturbing the dead?”

The deep voice, close enough to feel against the back of your neck, had you stumbling backwards, and gracelessly falling on your ass. A throaty chuckle came from above your head, and you had looked up to see Sylus, his face smug and scarlet eyes dancing with laughter.

“It doesn’t count if it’s a wolf,” You grumbled, pulling yourself off the ground, “ass.”

His head was cocked to the side as you rose, finger tapping his cheek in mock-thought, “I thought a wolf was supposed to be the father of the first herdsmen? Wouldn’t that make this creature here your cousin?”

“That’s an old story, no one believes that.”

His answering smile was sharp, eyes darkening into a sneer. “Is that so?” He drew closer, close enough that you could feel his breath on your face, and feel the fabric of his deel brushing against yours. The gaze he cast down made you realize what a cornered sheep must feel like in the moments before jaws close around its throat. “I think there’s more of wolves in people than you realize.” His growl was just as deep as the dogs when they scented a threat.

A part of you wanted to shrink down in your boots, make your excuses, and flee. But, a much larger, louder part of you was indignant. How dare this man sneak up on you in the dark, make you fall over in surprise, then have the audacity to growl at you like a beast?

So you had tipped your chin up defiantly, “Better be careful. Apparently even the cleverest wolves get arrows in their heads.”

He had stared at you for a moment. Made a single blink. Then a strange, amused smile curled across his face. “Are you going to be the one to fire it, little huntress?”

“If you don’t back up, maybe I will.”

Sylus chuckled then, backing up a few steps. You released a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, body thrumming with… anxiety? Excitement? Both? You couldn’t tell. To distract yourself, you turned your attention back to the kill.

“It’s kind of a shame, really. It’s a pretty creature.”

His head cocked to the side again, though the curiosity in his eyes seemed to be genuine this time. “Feeling bad for the predator?”

“He was just trying to live.”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose. “You’re cute.”

“Excuse me?” You look at him, deeply irritated at his patronizing tone.

“Most animals that steal livestock are weak. They’re sick, or injured. Otherwise it just isn’t worth risking the tangle with dogs or people. This one,” he gives the corpse a nudge, “was perfectly healthy. Strong. But instead of using its smarts to take on saiga, or capercaille, it decided to take the easy way out. It never would have stopped, once it knew that it could fool the shepherds.”

You had sighed a little, knowing that in this instance, he was right. “I know. It still seems like a shame. But at least we’ll stop losing so many sheep.”

You had looked up then to find Sylus staring at you with such intensity that you had taken a step backwards. “What?”

He blinked, the intensity dissipating as quickly as a strike of lightning. “Nothing, sweetie.”

“Sweetie?” Your nose wrinkled at the childish nickname.

He gave a small laugh, a mischievous glint coming to his blood red eye, “You feel pity for a predator that would have snapped you up in an instant. It’s very sweet, if maybe a bit naïve.”

“It sounds like something you’d call a toddler.”

“I suppose it does,” the glint was quickly accompanied by an equally mischievous curl to his smirk, “I suppose I’ll have to call you that when you’re acting like a toddler, sweetie.”

“Ugh. Ass.” You’d turned on your heel to return to the fire, trailed by the sound of deep, smug chuckling.

Since then, Sylus always seemed to show up near you, whether you wanted him there or not. And, at least at first, you certainly leaned more towards the former. He had a talent for approaching silently, getting that smugly pleased look from startling you into stumbling or squeaking. He also began to challenge you, goading you into contests or archery, or riding, or throwing knuckle bones. He was nearly impossible to beat, and even on the rare occasions that you won, he had the gall to look completely unbothered by your triumph.

Really, after a few months, you should have hated him.

But in between all of the needling and teasing and challenges, you began to learn more about Sylus. You learned that he enjoyed being out hunting or riding far more than he enjoyed being surrounded by people, even if they were praising him. You learned the long-limbed black stallion he rode when he first encountered your tribe had been declared untamable before Sylus had taken him. When one of the livestock dogs died shortly after having two pups, you even learned that (if he wanted to be) he could be downright gentle. He’d done so well in helping care for the pair, that as they grew, they followed him everywhere and obeyed his every command. All of this new familiarity, so at odds with your first impression of him, had cultivated a quiet companionship between the two of you.

Even more surprising were the moments of softness, startlingly close to affection. When Sylus had sat drinking kumis with you on the new year, and you’d excitedly shared your hopes for what was to come, he listened with a quiet smile. He’d brought you the furs from the wolf he’d killed when you caught a particularly nasty winter cold, and had even insisted you keep it after you recovered. When you met other tribes for trade, he often found you afterwards, giving you some ornament or silk from beyond the grasslands. Despite the fact he’d never admitted to it, you knew that when his two dogs accompanied you out into the grasses to watch the flocks, he’d commanded them to do so.

Maybe most importantly, he’d specifically sought you out to show you a den where wolf cubs were playing in the summer, knowing you’d like to see them tussle.

They’d been adorable, large paws and ears far too big for their fluffy bodies. The two of you had left your horses some yards away and sat down a bit distant from the pups, down wind and silent so as not to give your presence away. For a while you couldn't take your eyes off their energetic forms, tussling in the dust in front of the den, chewing on each others’ ears, yelping and licking when it became too rough. Eventually you'd looked to Sylus to ask him something, but your eyes had fallen on the short, recurve bow at his side.

“You're not going to kill them, are you?” You'd whispered

He raised an eyebrow at you in a wordless question.

You checked quickly to make sure the pups hadn't heard you. Fortunately, they still seemed to be involved in their own games.

“I mean. I know they're wolves. They might eat our flocks when they get older. But, they're just babies.”

He blinked at you, with an odd, expression you couldn't place. He rose soon after, walking silently away from the den. You'd followed him, confused.

“Hey,” you hissed, “What are you doing now?”

“Leaving. One parent or the other would've been back soon to feed them. Then I would've actually had to use this.” He tapped the bow that was now slung over his shoulder.

“Oh.” You murmured, realization dawning, “Is that what you brought it for? If one of the parents came back?”

“I certainly wouldn't have needed it to kill a fragile little pup.” He scoffed. “Besides, there's no use in killing something weak and defenseless. Though it's nice to know just how highly you think of me, sweetie.”

“That's not-” a frustrated noise had escaped you as you struggled for words, “I don't think that of you. It just… others would have done that. To make sure they didn't grow up to prey on our animals.”

He turned to you then, with a gaze that seemed to be searching you, trying to find the truth of something. “And I'm ‘others’ to you?”

“Of course not!”

He arched an eyebrow for the second time that day at the vehemence in your voice.

"You're the strongest warrior we have. And an infuriating opponent. But you're also the person who protects orphaned dogs. And brings me extra furs when I'm sick. And-” you stopped yourself before you could incriminate yourself further, taking a small breath to collect yourself. “You're Sylus. Not… Others.”

There was a small silence between the two of you for a moment, as you walked over the flowing grasses together. The only sound was the occasional waves of wind across the landscape.

It was broken, only slightly, by Sylus repeating those words. “Not others.” He said them quietly, slowly, as though testing out strange words in a new language. When you turned to look at him, you caught a glimpse of a small, soft smile on his face. A look so deeply genuine, and beautifully content, it made your breath catch in your chest.

Things had begun to change after the day with the wolves. You were beginning to come familiar with the slight curve of his smile, his real smile. Instead of your usual irritation, the glint that so often came to his eye when he was planning mischief fanned a wave of warmth in you. You began craving the slight huff of breath he gave when amused with something you’d done. The deep chuckle he sometimes gave when his body drew close to yours made something strange and molten coil in your gut. When he was out hunting saiga, you found yourself unusually sullen and snappish. And when you heard people whooping and clamoring at the return of the hunting parties, you’d be jostling to the front of the small crowd to see him.

You’d started to notice things though, in this time. The gossip among the elders as they cooked about when Sylus would marry, and whose granddaughter would be the lucky catch. The gaggles of women that followed him when he’d practice archery or spectate his races, giggling and blushing. Some of the bolder women would even bring him wine at the fireside and try to curl against him (you wished sometimes that he’d respond with more than amused chuckles at their ridiculousness, though it did produce a gratifying amount of insult in the rejected ladies). Last year at the games, you noticed he’d received pouches from women of every tribe. The smug look he gave you when he’d noticed you glaring at them had been insufferable, and you couldn’t quite force yourself to congratulate him on the numerous offers.

And yet, Sylus remained alone. You didn’t even notice other women entering his yurt (though you’d die before you admitted to watching for such). You didn’t know what you’d do if he did take an interest in someone. The thought of someone else being transfixed by that soft smile in the quiet hours of the night made bile rise in your throat. But there was always the chance that he simply valued his freedom; and being rejected in favor of an ideal you could never match seemed just as nauseating.

You mull over these thoughts as you and your mare round the goats back to the group. Or, at least, attempt to. One of the damn things stubbornly refuses to rejoin the group. You can swear you see defiance in its eyes when it looks at you. Challenging you. Mocking, even. Every time you have it going the right direction, it turns and bolts in a random direction, leaving you and your bay sliding in the slush. You then have to catch back up to it, and start herding it back once more.

You’re an excellent shepherdess, with a keen eye and a skilled hand with a bow. You've rarely lost an animal on your watch, and certainly never on purpose. But at this point, even you are beginning to think that losing one goat would really not be all that bad if it means this one wouldn’t be part of the herd anymore. Besides, a wind is beginning to rise, a cold one that cuts through the previously-warm day like a freshly-sharpened knife. You’re beginning to wonder if maybe the lemmings were smarter than you’d thought.

After one more, particularly long chase, you give in.

“Fine then!” You yell at the animal, which stood watching you with unaffected eyes as it chewed grass, “you want to deal with a blizzard alone? Go ahead! I’ll laugh when you end up as a goat-cicle! Laugh!”

With a huff, you turn your horse about, ready to gallop back to the herd, and start moving them to a more sheltered part of the pasture. The animals, however, have moved further away on their own. You can see the large dark mass of them in the distance, and you feel a slight unease in your gut. You're not sure how much you believe about oracle lemmings, but you know livestock well; They instinctively group up close when bad weather is imminent, and it seems that they are bracing for a storm now.

Even more worrying is the wall of iron-gray clouds you see blowing in. They're advancing rapidly, overtaking the sky at a pace you've rarely seen before. The wind, too, is beginning to blow so furiously it all but screams, whipping any unmelted snow up into the air.

You again feel that unease in your gut. The village is even further than the herd from where you are at the moment. Thanks to the previously warm weather, you're woefully unprepared to weather a blizzard alone. But both your other options are bleak; either try to make it to the village and hope there's not enough falling snow to make you lose your way, or try your luck with the herd and hope their bodies keep you warm enough to make it through. At least if you make it to the village, your survival is guaranteed. The same can't be said of the herd.

You rein your mare toward the direction of the village, just as the first volley of fresh snowflakes batter your face and hands. And despite your own dire situation, you can't help but think of Sylus, out with the other hunters. They may have arrived home already, and even if they haven’t, their chances are good; the men should be able to find protection from the wind and cold in a group. Nevertheless, your gut twists with anxiety. Hunters rarely stay completely together. And even in the few minutes you’ve been galloping towards the village, visibility is worsening. The gusts of wind have turned into blasts, ripping through your deel and chilling you to your bones. The blasts are also heaving the already-fallen snowflakes up to rejoin the fresh ones in the air, and creating moments where the landscape is inscrutable.

Between the moments of furious wind, you can see the outline of the village. Even as your heart pounds with hope at the sight, a needling numbness begins to take hold in your hands, making it difficult to keep hold of the reins. You try to switch hands; tucking one into the overlapping fold of your deel in an effort to keep it warm, before switching to the other. The biting wind, though, is so vicious and unforgiving, that it takes a mere few seconds for whatever warmth one hand has gained to be lost. At the same time, the numbness has taken hold in your feet, making it impossible to distribute your weight properly. The violent shivers as your body tries to warm itself are a further complication.

It only takes one misstep from your mare. One hoof landing on some uneven ground, causing her to stumble. And despite the high-backed saddle, and your best efforts, it’s impossible to keep your seat. You land hard in the snow. It’s soft enough, at least, that you’re pretty sure nothing is broken. Not that it matters much. Lost and alone in the screaming wind, and featureless white storm, you are as good as dead.

It feels like an eternity that you lie there in the snow, body wracked by violent shivers in a last-ditch attempt to survive. Logically you know it can’t have been more than a handful of minutes, since you are still alive and conscious, but time loses its meaning in a situation like this. Everything ceases to exist, save for the horrible wind and the bone-deep, soul-leaching cold. The snow is falling fast, fast enough that it’s already covered you as you try to huddle for a semblance of warmth. You’ve been buried alive, waiting to die as the world around you slowly quiets and darkens.

A morbid part of you wonders if the tribe will find you, once the snow begins to melt. You imagine Cota will insist they stay long enough to find your remains. You hope she doesn’t feel guilty; neither of you could’ve known the storm would come on so fast. Your mind wanders to Sylus, too. Did the hunters make it back home before the storm hit? You pray they did; or at least they were together when the snow began to fall. The thought of Sylus in the same situation as yourself seems impossible. You have to believe it’s impossible. Entertaining any other idea strikes a dread into your heart as cold as your little tomb. You pray instead that he’s made it back, that he is safe, and warm. And, if you’re able to be a little idealistic, perhaps wondering where you are.

Quite suddenly, a sound shatters your quiet morbidity. Stark against the background of shrieking wind, there is a deep bark. Then another, closer. Soon, there is a constant barrage of the noises.

Hope burns bright in your heart. Maybe, just maybe, all is not yet lost.

You try to shift under the snow, trying to claw your way out of your icy grave. But your limbs are trembling so hard, so frequently, that controlling them is near impossible. Worse, your muscles are becoming weak. Soon they’ll be too exhausted to even shiver, much less move the heavy snow that entombs you. Nevertheless, you have to try. You must try. Because if you don’t, your last hope of warmth will move on, and then you will truly be as good as dead.

Your efforts come to a halt when a startlingly loud crunching begins in the snow above and around you. It doesn’t take long before the blanket of snow is lifted from your head, and a warm puff of air greets your face.

You open your eyes. And instead of a blinding white storm, your vision is filled with deep brown eyes set in a furry face as black as night. The same face that Sylus has sent to accompany you on night watches and sunny days alike. You smile at the familiar creature, despite the chattering of your teeth.

“H-hey, boy.” You whisper, your numb hand reaching up to sink into the dog’s deep fur. You can still hear his brother nearby, barking furiously above the wind.

Though Sylus knows them at a glance, you've never been particularly good at telling the two dogs apart by looks. They're both black, with intelligent eyes and powerful frames. In behavior though, they are slightly different. Gerel is louder, and more playful. Khar, though quieter, is definitely the smarter of the two. He's likely the one blocking your body from the worst of the wind, now.

You try to call Gerel over as his brother curls himself around your quivering body, but it’s too hard to draw a deep breath. Instead, you lean against the one lying on you, burying your face and hands against the one reprieve from the cold. You can think of nothing else but how good the slight amount of warmth feels, even as your fingers begin to burn slightly from the frostbite. It is a promising pain, one that feels of returning life rather than looming nothingness. You doubt it will be enough to truly save you, but at least you have some source of comfort now.

Eventually Gerel goes quiet, and you begin to worry he's become lost in the storm as well. You lift your face from Khar's fur, and try again to call his brother, but fail. Khar perks up, though, his massive tail wagging a fan-shaped dent in the snow. Perhaps he can smell his brother on the fierce wind?

A few moments later, you hear it. A deep, commanding voice that cuts through the shrieking wind like a blade, calling your name.

Sylus.

You don’t know why he’s here, or if he’s even real. It may be an illusion conjured by your failing mind and body. It does not matter. Real or not, you must go to him.

You try to draw yourself up, try to call his name, but Khar remains a dead weight on you. You try to shove him, but your muscles are still shaking uncontrollably, making any efforts to dislodge Khar useless.

Please, you think desperately, please, I need to go to him. I need him, I need Sylus.

In the midst of your struggle with the animal laying on you, you very nearly miss the crunching of snow approaching you. Gerel soon appears, fur nearly white with the coating of heavy, wet snow that clings to him. And directly behind him is a sight that would make you weep if you had the breath for it.

It's Sylus. He's battered by the wind and ice as he wades through the fresh snow, only a step behind Gerel. His face bears a sharp, unwavering determination and ferocity that puts even this storm to shame as he wades through the drifts. His eyes, bright scarlet amidst the daunting white, lock onto yours. Only when his master is a single step away from you does Khar finally wiggle himself off of you. The wind immediately rips away all the warmth the dog has lent you. But you feel the loss only for a moment, as in the next breath, Sylus has yanked you bodily out of the snow and crushed you against himself.

“Found you,” his deep voice is quiet, heavy with an emotion you can’t name. And oh, oh, even if this is a dream sent to ease your last moments, you do not care. There is no one you’d rather imagine at your side right now.

He releases you, only slightly, to tug off his own gloves and put them on your trembling hands. The heat that envelopes them makes your skin burn, and a whine that is half-choked by shivers bubble out of your throat.

“Bear with it,” he murmurs, wrapping a thicker, warm deel over your current one, “You won’t be able to beat me at archery if you lose your fingers, little huntress.”

Normally, you would call him an ass, berate him for worrying about losing his archery competitor as he gave you a smug smile for taking his bait. But you can’t. Your mind is foggy, and all you can do is curl into him as he sweeps you up into his arms. You notice briefly that his eyes have narrowed again. He looks… irritated maybe? Angry? You aren’t sure. Before you can think about it for very long, though, you are distracted by a sharp whistle from Sylus, shrill and sharp even over the unending wind. It’s followed by a whinny, as his tall, powerful horse wades through the snow with a determination identical to his master’s.

Sylus walks to meet the horse halfway. He says something, and then suddenly his arm drops out from under your legs. You stumble slightly, knees buckling under your own weight as your boots drop through the knee-high snow. You are strangely surprised when you don't hit the ground, and it takes you a moment to realize that Sylus has a hold on your waist, steadying you.

Oh. He was going to set you down. That's what he had said. Of course.

You look up at him, and find a hard expression on his face. Why does he look angry now? You don’t understand.

His bright eyes bore into your own, cutting through the confusion for a moment. When his voice comes, it is a command, not a request.

“Stay with me.”

You're not sure why he's saying this. It's not like you're going anywhere. All you want right now is to just curl up and sleep, back in his arms, if possible. But you nod anyway.

Sylus swings himself up onto his horse, settling himself behind the canticle. This again confuses you. You're supposed to sit on the seat. Not behind it. But before you can continue puzzling over this, Sylus has bent half-over, wrapped an arm around you once more, and hauled you up against the side of the horse. The pressure of it is uncomfortable, and you try to squirm out of the grasp. Sylus's hold is sure, though, and before you can break it, he's hooked the other arm under your knee, and lifted you up into the seat of the saddle.

You try to brace your legs, to keep your seat as the stallion begins to move beneath you, but your vicious shivers make it difficult to control your limbs, even for an action as instinctive to you as walking. Before you can falter though, Sylus’s arm wraps around you, holding you safe and steady against him.

You do your best to keep your eyes open against the biting wind and freezing snow. But the scant amount of warmth you can feel through the thickness of both your clothes, paired with the movements of the stallion slowed by the snow, is almost hypnotic. And you are tired, oh, so tired.

“You lost this game,” he says, in that damn smug voice that always makes you want to punch his arm.

“Game?”

He gives an affirmative hum. “Hide and seek. I found you, didn't I? That's another victory for me.”

You give a grunt of disgust, still not sure what he's talking about, but irritated by the condescension in his voice all the same.

“Don't be such a sore loser, sweetie.”

You don't know why you're even sitting on the same horse as him.

“A-ass,” you hiss around the waves of shivers. “Sh-should. P-push off.”

The dark chuckle behind you is as alluring as it is infuriating. “I'd love to see you try.”

You do try, for a moment, pushing against his hold. But you are soon frustrated by how clumsy your movements are, and exhausted by the effort. Sylus's tight grip is immovable anyway.

“Seems I'm still on the horse, sweetie.” Comes the singsong mocking from behind you.

You give a grunt in response. You can't be bothered to be angry. All you can feel is the heavy tiredness dulling all your senses.

Sylus says your name, sharply. There's an odd tone to it. You don't care enough to think about why.

You're vaguely aware of being jostled. And then, for a while, you are senseless.

The damn shivering is what wakes you. It's so violent and pervasive that it drives the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping between the waves of trembling to try and regain it. On instinct, you try to curl into yourself, but are unable to. In fact, apart from the tremors, you can’t move your body at all. You seem to be surrounded by some sort of heavy mass, pressing on every inch of you. You struggle, pushing against the weight near your face to get some breathing room. The mass grunts, then moves away for a moment, freeing your head and upper body. You have only a moment of reprieve from the claustrophobia before…

Something warm, wet, and slimy drags across your face.

“Ur-rgh!” You bring a quivering arm up to rub away the slime.

A deep chuckle rumbles behind you, the breath of it close enough to make warmth fan across the back of your skull, “Is that how you thank Khar for helping to save your life, sweetie?”

Your eyes snap open at the familiar voice; although instead of the carmine eyes and seductive smirk you expect, your vision is filled (for the second time today) by pitch-dark fur and smiling brown eyes set in a distinctly canine face. Right as that same face applies another sloppy lick to yours.

“Kh-khar!” You squeak, bringing your now-free arms up to protect your face from the onslaught of affection. “Th-thanks, but s-stop!”

Khar obediently jumps down from where you’re laying, though he gives you a pathetic whine. A further weight is removed from your lower half when Gerel reluctantly hefts himself off of you to join his brother on the floor, giving you a similarly dejected look.

Without Khar laying on you, you can see more of your surroundings. It’s clear that you’re in a yurt, one that is unfamiliar to you. The only light source is the barely-visible fire crackling complacently in the small stove at the center, leaving much of the place in shadow. Is it night, then? Why are you here? And why do your hands and feet feel like they are burning?

You flex your hands between shivers in an attempt to stop the strange, tingling heat. If anything, that seems to make the feeling sharper, more biting in its ferocity. Shifting them out from underneath a heavy woolen blanket and furs to inspect them gives no answers, given the dim light.

“Can you still feel them?” Sylus’s voice, humorless this time, cuts through the slowly-lifting fog of unconsciousness and confusion.

“H-hurts.”

“Good, that means there’s still life in them. Better than losing such pretty fingers to frostbite.” Memories come to you at the word ‘frostbite’. They are hazy, as though recalling a dream several hours after waking; the dogs finding you in the snow, warming you and guiding Sylus to you through the blinding storm, Sylus carrying you in his arms, and keeping you upright in the saddle before you drifted into unconsciousness.

“Syl-” Your words are cut short. In trying to turn to face him, you realize that his powerful arm is curled around your waist.

Your naked waist. And at your back, you do not feel the rough texture of clothes; but instead the heated, sticky kind of softness of skin on bare skin.

Your body stills in shock; suddenly, you are horribly, wonderfully conscious of every inch Sylus has pressed against you: The firmness of his chest, the sharp jut of his hips, the tangle of his legs around and between yours, and (both the most enticing and mortifying of all) the warm, heavy weight of what must be his cock nestled against your ass.

That damned smug chuckle comes again, “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice. It took you a while; maybe I should be more worried about your head than your fingers, hm?”

You stutter a few times, as your mind comes to terms with your situation, before blurting in a rush, “Where are my clothes, Sylus!? Where are yours!?”

“Ah, you mean our freezing, sopping wet clothes?” His tone is almost sing-song in its blithe news, and bereft of any shame, “I took the liberty of removing them so that you didn't continue freezing to death.”

Somehow, his complete lack of any embarrassment heightens your own, as though your mind has determined to make up the difference between the pair of you. The heated panic in combination with exhaustion, confusion, and desire collide in a nerve-wracking swirl. You scramble wildly to get up, get away from this source of searing, tumultuous emotions. But the movement of your hands makes them burn as you try to gain purchase In the blankets and furs, and his arm around you is immovable as stone. “You- I- Couldn’t you have just thrown a blanket on me or- or something!? Gods, let go!”

He gives a derisive snort. “You would have just frozen to death under a blanket instead of snow. You didn’t have any heat left to trap, so I lent you some of mine. And no.”

“No what?”

“I just risked my life in a blizzard hunting for you, and I’m not about to let all my effort go to waste when I’ve already caught my prize. So, no, I will not be letting you go.”

“This isn’t- Can’t you just put on some damned pants, at least?”

“Hm, I could… but are you sure you want me to?”

“Sylus!!”

He gives a full laugh at your flustered squeak, “Once I’m sure that you’ve completely warmed up, I will. Until then, I suggest you stay still. Unless you’d like me to warm you up a different way. But I’d suggest waiting until your hands have healed.”

He must be teasing, surely. Delighting in your embarrassment as always. Still, a tiny, idiotically hopeful part of you can’t help but wonder… if you were able to see his face right now, would you see a small glimmer of want for you underneath the inscrutable mask? You dismiss the thought quickly. Even if you were able to see his face, you’d only see that damn self-satisfied smirk that makes your stomach twist.

“The elders are going to be insufferable about this,” You mutter, desperate you lay those thoughts to rest. Well, as best as you can, considering Sylus is curled around you.

“So what? Let them talk.”

“Easy for you to say. They won’t say anything to you; you’re the one half of them are looking to marry their daughters off to.” You’re only aware of the venom in your last few words after they’ve already left your mouth. You pray Sylus doesn’t notice.

But of course he does.

“Jealous, little huntress?” You can hear the smile in his voice

“You’re an ass, do you know that?”

“I’m hurt sweetie. I run out into a storm to find my poor, lost huntress, and in return she calls me an ass.”

He gives a mock-sigh, but something in his words raises a question in your mind. Sylus had been out with the other hunters just before the storm hit. You hadn’t even been sure he would make it back to the village in time, but somehow he managed to find you?

“How did you even know I was out there?”

Sylus pauses for a moment. His voice, once he does speak, is startlingly somber. “Some of the hunting group saw the cloud wall rolling in. We rode back as fast as possible. Even so, if we’d had further to go, the wind would’ve outpaced us. I’ve never seen clouds that heavy and fast, outside of summer storms.”

“I tried to ride back too, when I saw them. But with the cold, I couldn’t feel my hands, and the rough ground…” You trail off, fully prepared to be teased about your riding skills. Instead, you feel an ever-so-slight tightening of his arm around you. You wonder if he’s even aware of his own movement.

Sylus continues, “When we arrived, people came out to greet us and help get everything secured before the worst of the storm. I didn’t see you throwing people out of the way like usual.”

“I do not throw people out of the way,” You mutter.

“If you say so, little huntress.” You can hear the smile in his voice for a moment, though it disappears when he continues, “I found Cota, and asked where you were. When she said you were out shepherding, I knew you wouldn’t make it back before the snow came. So, I took Khar and Gerel, and had them track you.”

“Was anyone else missing?”

“We’ll find out after the storm.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment, as you process his response. He didn’t notice anyone else was gone. He didn’t ask to see if any others were lost. He didn’t bother to try and search for anyone else in the snow.

He noticed you were missing.

He asked where you were.

He went into the storm for you.

“You… Sylus, were you out in that storm, just to find me?”

A small, humorless huff of laughter fans across the back of your skull again. “I wasn’t out there just taking a stroll, sweetie.”

“You could’ve lost Gerel and Khar. And your horse. And your life.”

“Worried about me, hm?”

Of course you were. Sylus is a strong, clever man. Perhaps the greatest warrior and hunter your tribe has known; but even the greatest of mortals are brought to their knees by the forces of nature and the whims of chance. You want to tell him all this, tell him that the thought of him standing alone amidst the howling winds, searching for the path to safety… even just thinking about it makes your chest feel as empty and cold as the storm still raging outside. Your breath catches, and you cannot force the words, glutted with feelings as they are, out of your throat.

So instead you reply, “It’s a big risk to take.”

“Maybe.” His tone is nonchalant, as though he is talking about what he’d brought home from hunting, rather than the act of risking his dearest possessions and life trying to save you in near-hopeless conditions. “But I don’t gamble unless the prize is worth the risk.”

It takes you a moment to digest the words, heart caught in your throat, hardly daring to believe that you’ve understood him correctly. A fragile but brilliant hope lights in your chest. You had been aware of the friendship that had begun to form between you and Sylus, and you had been aware of your desire to be something more to him, to be someone he wanted. But you hadn’t dared to imagine occupying a position of such value to him.

“You think I’m worth all that…?”

You don’t mean to say the words aloud, but the exhaustion loosens your lips just enough for them to spill out. Immediately your stomach lurches at a strange, shifting fear. Perhaps speaking the thought aloud has crossed some sort of line, daring the universe to snuff out your hope just as it had been lit.

A soft, teasing lilt returns to his voice as he speaks, “I believe that’s what I just said, little huntress. Hm, maybe I should be more concerned about your head.” The hand that isn’t curled around your middle gives the top of your head a soft tap, tap, tap.

A small, breathless laugh bubbles up out of your chest, the hope within you flaring bright and making your heart race. You don’t know how he manages to do it; to convey something as heartfelt as ‘you are worth risking my life and all I hold dear’, while simultaneously sounding like it’s the most simple thing in the world. Something that should be obvious even to a small child.

It’s a special talent you’ve noticed in Sylus ever since that day with the wolf pups; he makes you want to throttle him one moment, and in the next breath he’ll speak with such sincere simplicity that it utterly disarms you. He somehow manages to walk that fine line between keeping you on your toes with bantering, and keeping you grounded with his forthrightness. It's addictive. It's comforting. You're not even sure if it's something he tries to do, or if his natural state of being is just something that draws your soul in effortlessly.

You need to face him.

You turn in his grasp to look at him, trying to ignore the burst of prickling heat in your hands. It's worth the pain. Sylus is a striking picture in the low light; all silvery tousled hair, gold skin, and sanguine eyes, graced by a rare look of surprise for just a moment.

And then his face relaxes into a soft look, one you've started to see more and more, but never fails to make your heart race faster than a horse galloping over the grass sea.

“There you are,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. And you simply cannot help it. Frostbite be damned. You might die if you don't kiss him, and you've come close enough to that today already. You have to kiss him.

The press of your lips against his is insistent, but chaste. At least, at first. Sylus takes in a sharp breath, and for a fraction of a second you wonder if you've misread, if you've pushed too far. And then, his mouth becomes soft, and pliant, and something in your chest melts when the arm he has around you slides up your spine to press at the nape of your neck, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. A pleased sigh escapes you, unbidden. Before you are quite aware of your own movements, your hand is at his jaw, cupping his face, trying to pull him closer.

A new flare of pain sears your hand at the pressure, and you reflexively pull away with a hiss.

You open your eyes (when did they close?) to see Sylus, pupils blown wide, looking at you with that same sort of ferocity and determination you saw in him earlier, when your eyes met his in the storm. And for a moment, caught in that unwavering intensity, you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

His eyes remain fixed on your own as he takes your wrist and gently (too gently) moves it away from his face, which has settled back into its usual near-arrogant smirk. Reality crashes in on you then. You are in Sylus's yurt, kissing him, sharing a bed, naked. The realization is followed by a disorienting mix of embarrassment, pride, shame, and excitement. You've just kissed him for the first time, and you know if it weren't for the pain in your hands you would have taken as much as he would give you. Begged for it, maybe. What does he think of you now? How much would he let you take? What would you tell everyone once you left here?

But as usual, when your mind threatens to whirl itself into chaos, Sylus cuts through it.

“I'll have to collect on that part of my prize later, little huntress,” He murmurs, and you wonder if it is merely your imagination, or if he is actually as breathless as you are. His thumb strokes across the soft skin at the underside of your wrist, across the vein where your pulse is thrumming like a caught hare's. “I want to see what those pretty hands can do to me when they're all healed.”

Hearing him say it out loud makes the embarrassment resurface with a vengeance, and the barely-leashed heat in Sylus's gaze makes it unbearable. Breaking the stare, you take your hand back and shuffle under the blankets once more, until the hem falls across your cheek.

Sylus's amused chuckle earns him a glare from you, but your indignation is quickly soothed over as he drags his fingers through your hair, across your scalp, gently untangling the strands. After a few minutes, the gentle scratching opens the door for a wave of exhaustion, heightened by the warm darkness and the muffled howling of the winter winds outside.

You wonder, vaguely, if the touch was meant in apology, or to make you drowsy. You're not sure it matters. Sylus is here, looking at you with that affectionate, soft smile, as your lips begin to flutter.

“Sleep, shevonica,” is the last thing you hear before drifting into unconsciousness. This time, in the safety and warmth of Sylus’s hold.

[oddwalkerduckarts]

From back when this trend was making the rounds on TikTok. Thought it would be cute to use the custom plushie from that one text conversation. I spent far too much time on these tbh.