...Dragon!Sylus whose tongue is so very long and forked and lined with rows of tiny backwards-facing spines, same as a cat's, except several times larger. Useful for stripping every scrap of meat off the bones of his prey. Absolutely not so good when he gets the constant, irresistible urge to use it on you at all hours of the day.
He's able to manipulate the spines, somewhat, to lay them a bit flatter, but it still feels like coarse sandpaper being scraped against your skin.
In the mornings you wake up to his generous grooming, licking your face and neck thoroughly to clean every bit of dirt and grime off of you, making sure not to leave anywhere untouched, unmarked.
In the afternoons, after a successful hunt, he beelines to you with the singular intent to give you his affectionate greeting-licks—you fight him each time, hollering things like please kindly wash your mouth of that bison's blood before you do that—and the abrasions leave you feeling rather tenderised.
And in the evenings, when you're tangled up with him in your shared nest, little more than a mess of limbs, wings, claws, fangs, and that tongue of his, well...
Zayne is a man with a plan. dragon!sylus x healer!zayne. messing around with snowcrow myth concept. part one here
He's abandoned sleep before to see if Stayrus would come.
Nights in Philos' forests are a noisy affair. He'd be surrounded by life on all sides while he waited, listening to the summer winds muttering through waves of grass, warm-blooded creatures foraging messily in the brush, the drone of lanternflies clamouring around him. Yes, there was life everywhere, except for the one wild creature he wished to meet. The darkness beyond the clearing remained undisturbed on these sleepless nights. Clearly enough, Stayrus would not come if he was around to witness it.
But on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon, mere days before he woke covered in its spit, an unexpected glimmer of inspiration arrived in the form of a small, long-legged bird that hopped by while he was sat on a rock to enjoy his midday snack. The bird didn't acknowledge his presence as it went about its business, which was fussing over the elevated patch of grass in front of him.
Any stray weeds were first uprooted and discarded out of sight. Over a half dozen trips it brought an array of colourful trinkets: seasonal flowers, curly twigs, insect wings and clusters of ripe berries, and arranged them into a loose mosaic, a rough circular formation lining what he realised was a platform. The adornments were plucked in its small beak, repositioned and replaced with meticulous care. Zayne watched on, intrigued by the sight, his snack long gone and his journey forgotten as the sun trekked its steady path across the sky.
Hours passed until the little bird appeared satisfied at last. Then, most unexpectedly, it hopped toward him and pecked at his cloth shoes. If it possessed the ability to glare at him he suspected it would. He stared down at it, an odd standoff occurring between man and avian as he tried to determine its intentions.
A series of melodious chirp-chirp-chirps sung from the high branches of a nearby tree answered him. Craning his neck skyward he spotted a bird of the same kind, only of smaller stature and darker in plumage, peering at him from its perch. Its head was tilted inquisitively toward the grand display in front of him and especially the rock on which he sat.
It appeared he was occupying a reserved seat.
He gathered his belongings, hurriedly clearing the way and lingering a few paces back, curious as he was to know the conclusion of the little bird's efforts. Once it was centered on the grass platform and its intended audience member settled in, the bird puffed its plumage to appear larger, wings outstretched to further impress its size, and the dance begun. It swayed and hopped and strutted across its stage with great pomp, a move here or there accentuated by a grand flourish of its feathers, the air filled with enthusiastic warbles and chirps. Zayne was deeply moved by the performance, but his favour wasn't the one being sought. He was encouraged to hear the occasional approving trill from the other bird.
After a handful of minutes, some hidden signal passed between the two, for the little bird let out a triumphant cry and mounted the other in a flurry; that was when he averted his eyes and left the amorous pair, bewildered by what was already unfolding in his overactive mind.
Skies forbid, he had no inclinations whatsoever to entice the dragon through an elaborate mating dance or anything of the like. He didn't suspect such a union between their species was even possible; but it was true that the elaborate display had been successful in attracting the other bird's attention in the first place. And that was all he wanted, to sate his curiosity, lay eyes on his unlikely travelling companion. Maybe even learn from it what he could not glean from either the manuscripts written by Justitia-sanctioned scholars in their vaulted archives or the dubious claims of rogue texts in the secret, moth-eaten libraries he'd visited. Staryus was also the only being that's accompanied him anywhere for this long, and he felt that counted for something.
He's kept every one of its gifts since the very first, despite how laden his pack has become with the sheer number of them. It's denied none of their trades so far. A piece of me for a piece of you. Always reciprocating with something of equal or greater value.
He wondered what would happen if he offered himself; his entire self, not a mere lock of hair or other scraps from his body or material possessions.
If he did that, would it also respond in kind?
The vision manifested in his imagination, unprompted, of recreating the little bird's courting platform, minus the dance and minus anything else that could be misconstrued as a seduction attempt, surrounded by his own gathering of trinkets.
It was ridiculous, wholly ridiculous.
He crumpled the thought without hestitation and imagined it joining the cloud-drifts above him, far away, never to pierce his mind again.
To ensure it was thoroughly banished, Zayne buried himself a little deeper than necessary into his herbal studies that night...
...but on this day, with the transpiring of a certain wet and sticky situation at dawn, following his bath, the idea crawls back to the forefront as if it's been trailing alongside the dragon the whole time.
In the absence of any better ideas, it stays and spins inside his head, around and around, through the numerous steep and winding trails he traverses. Crystallises in the conspiratorial whispers of birdsong from the surrounding forest. Silently guides his hand when the light wanes and he selects a particularly spacious field for tonight's camp.
Moonrise. Stars spill boundless across the dark sky, and the endless paths of his future converge into one truly ridiculous plan.
Zayne finishes his dinner, sheds his shoes, and walks a distance from the fire.
From his pack he retrieves Staryus' gifts, its scales and bone-charms and burnished treasures. He places them in a generous circle around him, even intervals from one another. When he is satisfied with the arrangement, he sits in the center, legs folded underneath him. He pulls his hair band loose and lets it flow free in the night wind.
He is clean, nourished, belly full. Spirit calm. If it ever intended to harm him, it would have surely done so a long time ago. Instead he hopes his little display isn't a misconduct in the customs of dragons to further provoke its ire, given his suspicions about the bath he took after the cleaning it gave him. That would make for two transgressions in a day, and an experiment with the limits of its forgiveness seemed unwise.
With his hands neatly entwined in his lap, Zayne waits. Tonight is his greediest offering to the dragon yet—
All of me for all of you.
tags 4 @thechaoticarchivist @carmelves @blessdunrest @yvilonion had to scroll through my reblogs to find the first bit and just about died when i saw "43 days ago",,,,, i will be writing the rest of this as an embarrassed ghost
this is gonna go swimmingly for zayne mhm yes! special thanks to bowerbirds for their cool mating rituals
Some things he simply can't let go of.
soft!sylus x gn!reader, dragon tendencies, sfw; 500wc
By nature, dragons must have a hoard to call their own, and old habits die hard for Sylus.
A poorly kept secret is housed in the bottom drawer of his desk. Filled to the brim, each and every item in it is more priceless than all the artifacts and paintings he owns combined. As far as he's concerned, they are—and will always be—incomparable in value.
There are stashed receipts from dates with you, enumerating coffees and pastries bought from cafes; theater tickets for two; bills for suits and outfits purchased in Linkon's boutiques. He's accumulated almost a year's worth by now, organised them into neat bundles, tucked into one corner.
Under them are a stack of wrinkled papers filled with your idle scribbles, of clouds and flowers and ritual curses for your annoying coworkers. After you finish working you crumple and toss them into the bin he keeps by his desk. He recovers them when you aren't around. Unfurls each one at a time with care, pressing his hands down to soothe the creases—and into the drawer they go. At the very top is the frustrated sketch you'd created when you first met, depicting him with horns and a devil's tail.
The rest of his collection is a jumbled mess that clatters when he pulls it open, which is more often than he'll ever admit. Keychains adorned with charms roll around with piles of hard won coupons from the arcade. However useless they may be, he holds onto every single prize: matching candy rings, toy harmonicas, tacky plastic gems.
Your personal accessories have also migrated to the drawer over time. Sylus tells himself he's not stealing. He simply notices a misplaced piece of yours on occasion—perhaps in the crevices of the couch, under the bed, or in one of the cars, and they're simply spirited away and remain missing. Even the wrappers of the candy and chocolate you snack on around the base are preserved here.
There's an ancient greed that roots in his mind, demanding to possess and gather all that it desires, and you are its singular focus. You, and everything within your orbit. Everything you touch.
These ephemera, unremarkable to anybody else, serve as crucial reminders to him that you're truly here. They embody the life he strives to nurture using this unthinkable second chance he's been gifted with you.
The promise of a kinder, gentler story resides in the scraps he collects; one shaped not by grandiose games of fate, but sweet drinks and cakes, idle pastimes, and quiet evenings steeped with your presence. Desolate spaces transformed into somewhere comfortable, safe. A place he regards as a home—for you both.
And so these tangible traces of you are infinitely more precious to him than any material thing could be in this universe. Forget the mountains of gold and dragonslaying weaponry from long gone days. This unassuming drawer of junk, entwined with your memories, is a treasure unlike anything he's ever known.
soft!sylus x gn!reader, menstruating reader, quick drabble about him preparing for your period cause I'm dying from cramps right now
In the days before you move into the Onychinus base, Sylus prepares everything he can possibly think of to make it as accommodating as it can be.
He's thorough when it comes to counterintelligence operations in his deals—and really, this is no different, this task of researching, understanding, and catering to your every need. There's not much left to do with how much this place has melded around your presence already, but he runs a final inventory anyway: it's of particular importance to Sylus that everything is in place for your period.
In the bathrooms—all six of them—the cabinets are filled as if they're stockpiles for an apocalypse. Every possible kind of product is available: pads, winged, wingless, overnights and liners, tampons, period underwear, menstrual cups. An assortment of heat packs next to them, to help ease your cramps.
In the kitchens—all four of them—the fridges and cupboards are filled with your favourite snacks. Tea canisters topped up with your favourite blends from the various kinds he's shown you over the months, the pantry restocked with honey and ginger. His chef has been instructed on a special menu for your period, consisting of your ultimate comfort meals—but since you like his cooking too, he's got some ingredients ready to make a hearty, warm soup from scratch, if you want it.
In the home cinemas—both of them—pre-loaded with your go-to movies and shows. He's replaced the individual chairs with a bed, suspecting you might want to cuddle instead of being sequestered from him. As a finishing touch, he's put an assortment of plushies and fuzzy blankets on it.
And, finally, Sylus himself—filled with restless anticipation for the moment you'll walk through his front door, with the intention of staying for good this time. He can't wait.
fake dating your local fruit seller
sylus x gn!reader, fake relationship, pure fluff, sfw
"I can't believe you finally went for it!" Tara vibrates with excitement across the table, her eyes darting from you to him, unable to settle on either of you. A frigid smile is pasted on your face. "Thought I'd die from old age before it happened. You two look so good together. It was adorable how Skye waited outside for you every day, and everyone thought you totally should give him a chance, but you acted like it was the worst idea for some reason!"
She pauses, running out of oxygen to speak with, and you helplessly glance at Sylus from the corner of your eye. He doesn't acknowledge you. Instead, he settles further into the booth; slings an arm around your shoulder in an easy, practised movement, though he's never done it before.
You pinch his thigh under the table. To your chagrin, that garners no reaction either.
"I was prepared to wait my whole life if need be," he replies smoothly, "but I'm grateful that it happened sooner. We're very happy it's official. Isn't that right, sweetie?" Now he deigns to meet your eyes.
Those twin rubies of his betray the deep amusement you expected to see, but a hint of challenge swirls in them too. Curiosity, even. He wants to see how you'll handle this.
You can't read minds but you swear you can read his face saying: This is a predicament of your own design, by the way.
He wasn't wrong. Your Evol linkage had triggered at the most inopportune times. After the mortifying ordeal of the shower incident, you hastily pitched a plan to start a fake relationship with him, if only to use as a cover story for your friends and coworkers.
Yes, a fake partner to the de facto leader of the N109 zone, a man with a criminal record at least as long as your late night shopping spree receipts, and your employer's number one target.
No, you hadn't been sober. It took a few shotgunned glasses of exorbitantly expensive wine while he watched you, bemused, before you could utter the words.
He'd agreed without a second of hesitation.
All that aside—his challenge would not go unanswered. His opponent was a top-performing hunter after all; you fought tooth and nail to keep the number one spot in the rankings and it forged a fierce competitive spirit in you.
You relax, the tension in your expression melting into one resembling adoration.
"I guess I couldn't resist this humble fruit seller's charms in the end." You lean in to press a featherlight kiss to his cheek. As soon as your lips touch his skin, he twitches, eyes widening in surprise.
Your satisfaction with catching him off guard morphs into wicked delight when his cheeks and ears bloom a dusty, rosy pink.
Sylus is blushing.
Tara squeals. "Oh my gosh, look, Skye's turning red. He's so cute!"
You turn your head to whisper in his ear. "Too bad. Looks like I win this round."
sylus x gn!reader, menstruating reader, domestic fluff, sfw
Operation: defend your ice cream stash from Sylus begins today.
You've had enough of finding a barren desert in the freezer, devoid of sweet treats. He always leaves the evidence of his crimes for you to uncover. Bowl and spoon in the sink, slick with the melting remnants. Discarded tub peeking out the trash bin. The occasional note with a devilish winky face on the countertop. Each a cruel twist of the knife.
Your grief is doubly felt when he deprives you of life's one joy during your period. No, it doesn't matter that he always restocks the freezer til it struggles to close right after. It's the principle of the robbery in the first place that incenses you.
Luke and Kieran sneak in a clandestine package under the cover of morning, while he's still asleep. Inside is a world class, custom built, state-of-the-art safe you've commissioned for this express purpose; constructed using antimatter coated steel to dissuade him from blasting it open with his Evol.
You have no doubts about his ability to break into things the normal way, so you've designed the safe to have multiple doors which protect its contents.
For appearances only, the outer door is a mundane dial lock. He'll crack it in maybe two seconds flat. What it should do is ping your phone and alert you to the imminent break in attempt. Behind it are a series of increasingly difficult cryptographic puzzles that must be solved within a minute to proceed.
The safe's final bulwark is a stroke of genius, if you say so yourself; a singing test with an inbuilt microphone where he must stay reasonably in pitch. An assuredly insurmountable trial for him, and therefore, an impenetrable defense for your precious desserts from his bottomless gluttony.
With the twins' help, you manoeuvre the safe into the freezer. You place your last tub of ice cream into it and perform the necessary double- and triple checks. Bolts are secured. Puzzles are set and ready to go. Microphone tested to ensure it's functional.
You leave for work daring to hope for the best.
—
Hours teetering on the edge of your seat. Paranoia mounting with the radio silence. You should be happy. It could be he's decided to leave your treat alone, but it can't be that easy. You're well aware of just how tenacious and greedy he can be.
Your phone pings during your lunch break.
Determined to catch Sylus red handed, you leap into action, pulling it out of your pocket. Your finger is a millimetre away from pressing the speed dial when you notice that the notification isn't from the safe's alarm system.
It's a message from him.
The food you just ate lurches in your stomach. That can't be good. You tap to view it, the stirrings of trepidation and resignation joining your barely-digested meal.
He's sent an image of the safe. The dial lock is busted open, all the cryptographic puzzles solved. Both outcomes within the realm of possibilities you considered. Your piece de resistance, the singing challenge, is still intact, so why..?
Ah. A perfect circle has been cut into the side of the safe. Its contents empty. You spot the tub in the foreground, also empty.
Cut off in the corner of the picture is a perplexing device you don't quite recognise. From what you can tell, it looks like a gun without a barrel or a trigger.
His accompanying voice message plays.
Nice try, sweetie. He sounds breathless, as if he's been laughing too hard. The mirth that brightens his voice is infectious, and though you want to be mad right now, a pleasant warmth and the beginnings of a smile tugs at your cheeks. I do wonder where you found a manufacturer willing to do antimatter coating for a... personal project such as this. Flipping through his business contacts while he was away, of course. That thing is a gold mine.
Ringing sharp through your speaker, two solid objects clink together. Teeth against a spoon. However, the microphone you installed must not be working. No matter how well I performed, it never let me in. A pleased noise from the back of his throat. This flavour's delicious, by the way.
How shameless of him to eat your ice cream while he recorded this—this declaration of victory, you realise. He's gloating. Feasting on his bounty. Oh, when you get home, you're going to—
Before you plan your revenge, let me propose a moratorium, his voice message continues, reading your mind. Why does he always do that? I've seen your sincere efforts to protect what's valuable to you. So, I won't touch your ice cream for a month. Use it to refine your defenses.
I'll give you a few hints to start: find better quality antimatter next time. And you did forget about the extensive tools in the workshop.
You finally recognise the object on the counter.
The freezer's already been refilled. See you at home, sweetie. The message ends with an indulgent chuckle.
His words don't register for a solid minute. You're reeling from this latest revelation. Just to steal your ice cream—
He used a fucking laser gun to cut a hole in the safe?
If a puny laser was able to penetrate the coating, then his Evol would have torn it like paper. Which means he went out of his way to go to the basement workshop, retrieve the laser gun, and cut a hole in it, because he could.
You're doing two things when you get home.
One, send a complaint to the manufacturer for a shoddy product.
And two, have some of that ice cream when he's not looking.
This operation has been a failure of unimaginable proportion, but no matter; you have a month to plot and plan. You'll come back stronger than ever.
It's been a long, long day.
soft!sylus x gn!reader, getting carried from his car into bed, fluff & comfort, sfw; 600wc.
The interior of the car is dappled with the passing streetlights, his features illuminated by strange, ever-shifting fluorescent hues that you muse on drowsily, leaning against the headrest. Invisible weights seem to be tied on your eyelids, and you're fighting a losing battle to keep them open.
Work was exhausting today, plagued by delays and complications, taking you a long way from home. You hadn't even questioned his inexplicable presence this time, given he was the only reason you were able to finish up by midnight.
You fail to stifle a yawn. He glances at you, and the corner of his eyes crinkle when he notices your hopeless plight to stay conscious.
That single look steals a breath from you. The night always seems to wrap around him like a second skin, welcoming him into its fold without hesitation. He wears it so well. Fits in this car, all sleek leather and unadulterated power, like a perfect picture. At ease with one hand on the wheel, in complete control. And he's got that damned jacket on.
Gods, he's a sight for sore eyes.
"Said that out loud, sweetie. You're really tired, huh?"
Whoops. "Don't know what you're talking about," you mumble through another yawn.
He chuckles at that, and you relish its warmth, eyes falling shut to savour the sound. You can't seem to open them again. The seat is impossibly comfortable, more than it has any right to be. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers, the classical music playing low through the aux, the restrained hum of the engine, all work in tandem to pull you under.
You're so close to letting it take you. A passing thought, just a twinge, creeps at the edges of your mind—is he doing this on purpose?—but it drifts away as swiftly as it came when he speaks again.
"Sleep. I'll wake you when we're nearly home," he promises.
His voice must be a black market sedative, because it's the only push you need to succumb at last, into a deep, dreamless slumber.
—
It's a lie.
How could he bring himself to wake you up when you were finally letting yourself rest? You weren't even aware of the tension that's worn you thin the whole day, undoubtedly forming knots in your shoulders—which he'll gladly offer to massage out of you later—and having it dissipate now that you're fast asleep is a relief.
He gets out and walks to the passenger side, opening the door quietly to not disturb you. Scoops you up in his arms and carries you through the expansive underground garage, through the darkened hallways of the base, to the master bedroom where he lays you down with care.
It's too early for him to sleep, so he simply tucks you in, pulling a blanket over you and ensuring your head is properly supported. But when he goes to leave for the office, there's a tug on his sleeve.
He turns back to find that you've somehow held on to him while still knocked out. Catches the faintest whisper under your breath.
"Don't go."
What a demanding kitten he has. He tuts, though there's not a shred of real irritation behind it—and he's already halfway through shedding his jacket. Peels off his gloves, then his shoes.
Moving with unnerving grace for his size, he slips under the blanket with you, the mattress barely dipping under the new weight with how carefully he lowers himself onto it. Conforms his body to yours, two puzzle pieces slotting together.
The moment he wraps an arm around your waist, you snuggle up to him like a heat-seeking missile. You bury your head in his chest, slinging a leg over him, and a hum of utter contentment escapes you. He has to suppress the laugh that wells up inside him, shaking you both with the effort. You've stuck yourself to him like velcro—a perfect, tender trap. There's nowhere else he'd rather be.
Stealing Sylus's body heat on frigid winter days, stuffing your ice-cold hands wherever you can get direct skin contact with him under all those layers. Tucking them under his cotton shirt from behind, tracing the carved ridges on his abdomen. Hooking them into the waistband of his sweatpants, warming your fingers on his hip dips. Cupping them on his cheeks, tinged with a light pink flush, and laughing when he makes a face feeling how cold they are. Yep, you're not the only handwarmer in this relationship - he is too.
