#subdragon!sylus

[lenamoore]

He’s not asking for love—he’s begging to be ruined by it.——Sylus

“Do you know how long I’ve watched you?” he interrupts, his voice dropping to a whisper. “How long I’ve stood in the shadows, letting you breathe, letting you live, while I choked on every moment you weren’t mine?”

Your breath catches. This isn’t the Sylus you know—the cold strategist, the man who calculates every move. This is something raw, something broken.

“I’ve tried,” he continues, his hands fisting at his sides. “I’ve tried to be what you need. A leader. A friend. Anything but—” His voice cracks, and he stops, his eyes closing briefly before he meets yours again. “But I can’t anymore. I can’t watch you give pieces of yourself to someone else.”

You stand, your legs trembling. “Sylus, I—”

“No.” He steps closer, his hand reaching out, but stopping short of touching you. “Don’t. Just… look at me. Tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me you don’t burn when I’m near.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve spent years denying it, years burying the way your pulse quickens when he enters a room, the way his voice haunts your dreams. “I—”

“Liar.” His hand finally connects, his fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you closer. “You’re a terrible liar, my constant.”

The nickname sends a shiver through you. He’s only ever called you that in private moments, moments you’ve pretended didn’t matter. “Sylus—”

“Shh.” His other hand presses against your jaw, his thumb brushing your lips. “Don’t speak. Not yet.”

His touch is firm, possessive, and your body betrays you, leaning into him despite your resolve. His eyes search yours, dark and endless, like the void between stars.

“I’ve planned every move,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Every mission, every strategy. But you—you’re the one variable I can’t control. The one I don’t want to.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs. “Sylus, this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” His lips brush yours, a fleeting touch that leaves you trembling. “Isn’t right? Isn’t safe? Isn’t smart?”

You try to pull back, but his grip tightens, his body a wall of heat and tension. “You’re my commander. My leader. This—”

“This is a mistake?"...

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[lenamoore]

A kiss turns into chaos when years of restraint finally snap.——Sylus

His eyes darken, his control snapping like a thread. He kisses you then, hard and hungry, his hands gripping you tight enough to bruise. It’s not gentle, not careful—it’s a storm, a release, years of restraint shattered in a single moment.

You moan into his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tastes like smoke and desperation, and you’ve never wanted anything more. His kisses are demanding, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him, until you’re gasping for breath.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough against your skin. “Do you understand? Mine.”

You nod, unable to speak, as he trails kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. Your skin feels electric, every touch sending sparks through your veins. You’re trembling, your body arching into his, and he presses you against the wall, his hands roaming over you like he’s branding you as his.

“Sylus,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Please—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Let me.”

And you do. You let him. You let him undo the buttons of your shirt, let him trace the curves of your body with reverent fingers. His touch is both gentle and fierce, a man starved for something he’s denied himself for too long.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You close your eyes, your head falling back as he kisses his way down your chest, his tongue tracing patterns that leave you shivering. Your thoughts are a mess, your body on fire, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can only feel.

“Sylus,” you moan, your hands gripping his hair. “I need—”

“I know,” he interrupts, his voice thick with need. “I know what you need.”

He lifts you then, his arms strong and sure, and carries you to the bed. The world outside feels distant, the chaos muted as he lays you down, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice soft, almost vulnerable.

You reach for him, your fingers brushing his cheek. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, his lips tender against yours. But the tenderness doesn’t last. His hands are everywhere, his mouth devouring yours, and you’re lost in him, drowning in the heat and the want and the sheer force of him.

[lenamoore]

"He tells you to stop. You don’t."——Sylus

You reach out, your hand hovering in the air between you.

“Sylus—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, pulling back. “Don’t touch me.”

But you do. Your hand lands on his arm, your fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his sleeve.

He freezes, his breath hitching.

“You’re cold,” you say, your voice gentle.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, but he doesn’t pull away.

You slide your hand up his arm, your fingers tracing the line of his shoulder.

“You’re not,” you murmur. “Let me—”

“Stop,” he says, his voice cracking. “Please.”

But you don’t. You lean forward, your lips brushing against his jaw, your breath warm against his skin.

He shudders, his hands fisting in the fabric of your shirt.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“I think I do,” you whisper, your lips moving to his ear.

He pulls you closer, his grip tight, desperate.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warns, his breath hot against your neck.

“And you’re the one who’s burning,” you reply, your hands sliding up his chest.

He groans, his control fracturing.

“Say my name,” he demands, his voice raw.

“Sylus,” you whisper, your lips brushing his.

He kisses you then, hard and hungry, his hands tangling in your hair. The world narrows to the feel of his lips on yours, the taste of his breath, the heat of his body pressed against yours.

You pull back slightly, your hands resting on his chest.

“Why me?” you ask, your voice unsteady.

He hesitates, his gaze searching yours.

“Because you’re—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Because you’re my signal.”

You frown, confused. “Your signal?”

He nods, his voice soft.

“The one thing I can’t ignore. The one thing I can’t—” He stops, his eyes closing. “The one thing I can’t control.”

You cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks.

“You’re not supposed to control everything,” you murmur.

He opens his eyes, his gaze intense.

“And what if I can’t stop?” he asks, his voice trembling.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you closer. The cot creaks under your weight as he shifts, his body pressing you into the mattress.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, his voice dark.

“And you’re ruthless,” you reply, your hands sliding down his back.

He laughs, a low, rough sound.

“You have no idea,” he says, his lips moving to your neck.

You gasp as his teeth graze your skin, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt.

“Sylus—”

“Quiet,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.

You obey, your hands tangling in his hair as he kisses his way down your body—

[lenamoore]

A jealous commander breaks his mask—and claims what’s his.——Sylus

The doors slide open with a hiss, and you step inside. The room is vast, dominated by a holographic map of the N109 ruins—the battlefield you’ve both fought to reclaim. Floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass overlooks the desolate landscape, a stark reminder of the war’s cost. Sylus stands by the console, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. The air is thick with tension.

“You’re late,” he says, his voice deceptively calm.

You frown. “I was given no specific time—”

“Enough.” His tone cuts you off, sharp and final. He turns to face you, and you freeze. His eyes—usually cold, calculating—are storm clouds. His control is fracturing, and you realize, with a jolt, that it’s because of you.

“Why?” he demands, taking a step forward. His voice is low, dangerous. “Why did you smile like that?”

You blink, confused. “Smile? I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His words are a whisper, but they carry the weight of a command. He takes another step, closing the distance between you. “I saw you. With him. Laughing. Leaning in. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Your heart hammers in your chest. You’ve never seen him like this—not the feared leader, not the strategist, but a man undone by jealousy. It’s terrifying, and yet, there’s something raw, something vulnerable in his desperation.

“It was nothing,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “Just a conversation.”

“Nothing?” He laughs, bitter and disbelieving. “You call that nothing? You think I don’t see how you look at me? How you are when you’re with me?”

You swallow, your throat dry. “Sylus—”

“Don’t say my name,” he snaps, his hand shooting out to grip your wrist. His touch is firm, possessive. “Not after you’ve been with him.”

You flinch, not from pain, but from the intensity of his need. “I haven’t been with anyone but you,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you see the doubt warring with the desire. Then, his grip tightens, and he pulls you closer, his body a wall of heat and muscle. “Prove it,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear.

You hesitate—Sylus doesn’t ask. He commands. But this isn’t a demand of dominance. It’s a plea.

You step into him, your hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. “I’m here, aren’t I?” you murmur, your lips brushing his jaw. “I came when you called.”

His eyes close, chest rising and falling. “Not enough,” he says, voice hoarse. “Not after tonight.”

“Then what do you want?”

His hands move to your waist...

[lenamoore]

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice a possessive rumble. “Do you understand? Mine.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because his lips are on yours again, his tongue tangling with yours, his hands moving, touching, claiming.

He tears his lips from yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I need—”

“Now,” you say, your voice a demand. “I need you now.”

He doesn’t hesitate—

[lenamoore]

"He’s supposed to be in control. So why is he falling apart for you?"——Sylus

The door seals behind you with a thud that makes your chest tighten. The lights flicker, then stabilize to a harsh white glow. You turn to face him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

His eyes are dark, his jaw clenched. “Stay calm,” he says, but his voice cracks on the last word. He’s not calm. You can see it in the way his hands twitch, in the way he avoids your gaze.

“How long?” you ask, your voice steady despite the way your pulse is racing.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and the honesty in his tone surprises you. Sylus never admits to not knowing. He’s the ruler of this lawless zone, the man who’s built an empire on control. But now, in this sealed room, he looks almost human.

The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.

“You’re trembling,” he observes, his voice soft.

You look away. “It’s cold in here.”

“It’s not the cold,” he says, taking a step closer. His voice is a whisper now, rough and raw. “You’re scared.”

You meet his eyes, defiant. “Are you?”

He pauses. Breath catches in his throat. Then: “Yes.”

The air shifts. Something unspoken snaps. You feel it in the way your skin prickles, in the way your breath shortens. Your eyes don’t leave his.

“Sylus—” you start.

“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Not here. Not now.”

But it’s too late.

You take a step toward him. “What are you afraid of?”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.

“Losing you,” he says, so low it barely exists. But it lands like a bomb in your chest.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “I already have. Every time I look at you, every time I let you out of my sight—”

“Sylus,” you say, your fingers brushing his arm. His skin is warm. His muscles tense.

He looks up, eyes searching yours. “You don’t understand,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’ve been watching you. Planning for your safety. Making sure you’re protected. But I—”

He stops.

You can feel the storm in him, just beneath the surface. Something clawing to get out. Something wild.

“What?” you press. “Say it.”

His chest rises and falls, ragged. His eyes—usually unreadable—are suddenly filled with panic. And longing.

“I want more,” he confesses. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long, and I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. “Then why haven’t you—”

“Because if I touch you,” he says, voice trembling, “I won’t be able to stop.”

[lenamoore]

His kiss wasn’t soft. It was desperate—like he’d been waiting forever and just broke.

His fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t trust this was real.

And when he pulled back, breathless, he whispered, “I’m not letting go this time.”

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[lenamoore]

He said "Say it"—and when I did, everything changed.——Sylus

"Say it." His command is a low rumble, his voice vibrating against your skin. You shake your head, your resistance waning as his fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your face up to his. "Say it, or I'll make you." His threat is a promise, his body radiating a dangerous intensity that has you trembling.

You swallow, your throat working as you struggle to find your voice. "Y-yours." The word is a whisper, torn from your lips as his mouth descends upon yours. The kiss is fierce, demanding, his tongue tangling with yours as he presses you against the wall. You moan, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your body arching into his as the tension between you snaps.

Sylus’s hands are everywhere, branding your skin with his touch, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. You're drowning in him, in the taste of his skin, the scent of his desire, the feel of his body molded to yours. The safehouse disappears, the riot a distant memory, as the world narrows to the two of you, trapped in a maelstrom of need.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged as he struggles to regain control. "Again." His voice is a hoarse whisper, his eyes burning into yours. You nod, your lips swollen and tender, and repeat the word, your voice steadier this time. "Yours."

A growl rumbles in his chest, and he lifts you—