Error 404: Spin-off – Pt. 6
Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized, what a chad. (That’s it, that’s the plot.) Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, sickfic chapter, lil smut, fuck it ok service dom!sylus, i know shut up aslkfja A/N: This wasn’t originally meant to be Pt 6 😂 I was actually planning a gym/boxing segment for this chapter lol but then Passionate Appraisal happened, so now… *gestures vaguely* ‘s alright, I wasn’t sure where to slot it anyway. P.S. This is embarrassingly self-indulgent, like. To a borderline disgusting degree LMAO don’t look at me.
(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6
The day winds down later than either of you had anticipated. What began as what you’d promised would be “just a couple of things, Sy-Sy!” somehow turned into half a dozen detours across the city—meeting strangers from Facebook Marketplace (god forbid) to collect the odd bits and pieces you insisted would look perfect on the balcony.
By the end of it, you find yourself the proud owner of a copper candleholder shaped like a mouse, a set of Capiz shell wind chimes, and two (...three) flowerpot holders. Oh, and a small wicker hassock Sylus had to strap to the back of the bike.
The man in question has sighed about being demoted to a glorified courier. You retaliate with an indignant nip to his shoulder, only to nestle smugly against him as the engine roars back to life.
And then, finally, your last pitstop. You spot the harbor and point it out before Sylus can speed past, refusing to let the day end just yet.
The boardwalk’s relatively free of any stragglers during this time of night, and the stars are just beginning to glint through the clear blue. So you wander, happy to let the salt air sting your cheeks, pausing every so often to lean over the balustrade.
“Oooh, there! There, did you see it?” you exclaim, pointing down at a spot where you swear you saw a glimpse of something, as you hang almost halfway down in your stubborn search for fish in the dark waters.
Before you can tip any further, a firm hand closes around your elbow and pulls you back a step.
“If you’re that determined to go swimming, at least take the jacket off first,” Sylus says dryly, steadying you as he squints at the spot to where you’re pointing. He… doesn't see anything.
You giggle, rubbing your arms against the cold. Truth be told, you’ve been shivering for the better part of an hour, but you’re dead set on spotting a—what was it? A bream? Whichever aquatic creature Stardew Valley claimed could be seen at night, anyway.
Or maybe you just need an excuse to keep loitering.
You’re about to jeer at your geriatric lover and his failing eyesight, only for a sneeze to wrench itself out first.
“Bless you,” Sylus murmurs absently, still tracking the murky surface for any signs of life. His hand doesn’t leave your arm.
“Thanks,” you mumble, rubbing your sleeve against your nose.
It’s only when you sniffle again—followed by another loud achoo!—that his gaze finally snaps to you, concerned.
“Perhaps we should head back,” he suggests, tugging the zipper of your satin bomber jacket all the way to the top. Fashionable, maybe. Warm, well. Not in the slightest.
“Not yet,” you refuse, leaning stubbornly against the top rail. “Besides, if you can’t even see the fish, maybe I should be the one driving us home.”
He exhales through his nose, affronted despite himself, and for a moment you think he’ll push, just to call out the obvious attempt at being a brat.
But instead, he simply pulls you into his arms, tucking you under his chin as you both stare into the dark beyond. The harbor lights scatter gold and silver across the water like coins tossed to the sea; a long-drawn foghorn at a distance.
And so the night stretches on.
___
You're drifting in and out of sleep when something soft brushes the top of your head.
There's a voice—although muffled by your half-dreaming state, like you’re hearing it from underwater.
“–morning, sweetheart.” Something about breakfast on the table follows, but you’re already slipping back under before you could catch the tail end of that sentence.
The next time you rouse, it’s to the feeling of being gently shaken. Your eyes twitch open, slow and sandy, and you register the steady pressure of a hand rubbing circles against your ankle.
“Still drowsy, little one?” Sylus asks quietly, sitting on the left of the bed. He’s already dressed to go out—boots laced up, black leather jacket draped across his shoulders. Oh, right. He’d mentioned being out today, some errand you can’t quite recall right at the moment.
You fumble blindly beneath your pillow for your phone, only to have Sylus place it in your palm before you can find it. Quarter past midday.
“You can sleep in if you’d like,” he says, thumb brushing once more over your bare skin before it falls away. “It’s your day off.”
You groan, rolling over onto your stomach before forcing yourself upright with a half-hearted grumble. “No, I wanted to get started on th–”
The words die in your throat as a sneeze wracks through you.
And again.
You sneeze one more time, the third tearing rougher through your pharynx. A prickly, clogged tickle lingers there, sharp enough to make you wince.
When your eyes refocus, Sylus is watching you appraisingly.
“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” he remarks in a deceptively mild tone.
You wave him off, sniffling, “‘s fine. Morning allergies.” The congestion in your voice sounds… thick.
He doesn’t look convinced. His fingers push your bangs back, palm resting briefly against your forehead.
The feel of his skin against yours makes you melt without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re running a bit warm, kitten,” Sylus murmurs. “Sure you’re alright?”
“Mhm. Just a li’l tired,” you mumble. “‘M not fully awake yet.”
The look on his face tells you that he isn’t buying it in the slightest. Still, he doesn’t press.
Instead, he rises without a word, returning a moment later with a glass of water.
He sets it in your hands, watching until you take a sip. “Drink. Then lie back down.”
You huff a weak laugh, obedient all the same. “I’m fine, Sy.”
“Mm.” A finger plays with a loose cowlick, the faint smile on his face not quite masking the worry underneath. “Indulge me.”
“You don’t need to ‘over. You’ve got things to do.”
“And you can hardly sit upright without being driven into another sneezing fit by that allergy of yours,” he points out.
“I’ll live,” you assure him, sinking back against the pillows. “Go.”
He doesn’t move. The silence stretches; the conflict in his eyes mirroring his reluctance to leave you alone in your current condition.
After a long moment, he sighs, bending down to kiss your hair. “I won’t be long,” he promises, almost stern. “Rest.”
“’kay,” you breathe, curling back onto your side.
He gets up, only to return with a mug of ginger citron and another glass of water, placing both within close reach. Maru jumps on the comforter, and Sylus tells him seriously, “Watch over your mother. I’ll be back soon.”
Your son apparently takes this to heart, settling squarely on your chest like a sack of bricks right after his father has finally left. You wheeze a laugh, pinned beneath his furry bulk until you finally have to shove him off (lovingly) to pee.
Naturally, he trots after you to the bathroom, tail high, as if escort duty extends to the hall.
“Since when do you take orders from him?” you tease, glancing down at the orange feline as he pauses mid-groom to fix you with a withering stare, clearly offended by the insinuation.
You hold up your hands. “Sorry, sorry. My bad, g.”
By the time you make it to the living room, you’re flushed warmer than you’d like and feeling a bit weak at the knees (literally). The spread on the dining table waits for you, and on any other day you’d already be inhaling everything in sight. Today, though, your usual voracious appetite seems to desert you.
You snag a lone apple slice before heading out past the sliding glass door, determined to work over your new planters and put out the things you bought yesterday.
The balcony is finally starting to resemble the sanctuary you’d fantasized about when you first moved in. Small pots of herbs hang in a metal rack along the railing, while the heavier ceramic ones sit scattered about – not before you’d made Sylus haul them back and forth across the space more times than either of you could count.
“Here?” he’d asked, lowering one with careful precision.
You’d tilted your head, pursing your lips. “…Maybe a little more to the left?”
His mouth had quirked up at the indecision, but he did as instructed. “Here?”
“Um. More.” He followed suit.
You eyed it critically. With a sigh, you shook your head. “Actually, the first spot was better.”
The incredulous chuckle that left him was filled with mirth, not quite imagining himself in the position of being commanded to ‘interior decorate’ in his life. But his new handler, endearing as she was in her yellow sunhat, made the demand tolerable that he obliged with no protest.
The memory makes you grin. Who would’ve thought you’d ever be bossing the former leader of Onychinus around? He’s been your muscle through every rearrangement, chiming in with his own suggestions here and there. And bit by bit, his touches bleed into the space too, not just yours. Proof that what you’ve got going on is something you two are building together.
You set to work on the plants first, lining up the grower pots and watering seedlings. The midday sun beats down, clouds sparse overhead and offering no shade.
The breeze carries just enough coolness to keep it tolerable; it feels good against your skin—maybe too good, considering how hot your body already feels.
Then you move on to arranging a few pieces from yesterday’s haul. You drag the low coffee table aside to unroll the medium-sized carpet, while setting the (whimsical!) rodent candleholder carefully on top of the reclaimed timber. You hum as you go, pushing away the annoying strands of hair sticking to your face, pleased with how the outside deck’s slowly shaping into how you had pictured it in your mind.
But enthusiasm only carries you so far. It doesn’t take long for the fatigue to creep in.
A sudden heaviness drags at your limbs, leaving you pausing mid-step, and you suddenly notice how shallow you're breathing. When you tilt your head up, the sun is still high—surely not much time has passed at all?
Your body seems dead set on disagreeing. Your throat feels raw. Rawer than how it felt earlier, almost like sandpaper; your skin prickles with sweat while gooseflesh rises on your arms from an inside chill.
Shit. Probably need to sit down a bit.
You collapse into the two-seater sectional up against the brick wall, its woven rattan frame warm from the sun, the cushions soft and welcoming beneath you. Just for a minute. Just long enough to let the wind cool you off, to hide in the shade.
Your eyes flutter closed. The noise of the city blurs into the background, and before long, you’re half-asleep.
…
The scrape of glass sliding open alerts you.
“Why are you out here, sweetie?”
A shadow looms over you, right before Sylus crouches in front of where you’re now lying fetal, expression carved in heavy disapproval.
You blink up at him, disoriented. The sun has visibly shifted westward, yet it barely feels like a minute has passed. You feel worse for it—head full of staticky cotton, and the simple act of lifting it already feels dizzying.
“I told you to rest,” he says, clipped.
“I–I am,” you stammer, fumbling for an excuse under the weight of his stare. “I did! And I felt okay, so I thought I could, you know, tend to the plants and–”
“At noon?” His voice cuts sharp. His grey eyes sweep over you, taking in your flushed cheeks, the damp hair clinging to your sweat-slicked face. “Do you want to drive yourself into a fever?”
Your throat bobs. “N-no, I just… I thought—”
Whatever excuse you’re scrambling for is lost when he lifts you clean off the sofa, cradling you against his chest.
“Wait—! I can walk–”
“Hush,” he tells you, carrying you inside with ease. His eyes flick to the untouched food on the table. “You didn’t eat.”
You bury your face into the curve of his neck, breath hot against his skin. “I’m not hungry.”
He exhales through his nose. “You have to eat. I bought you medicine, and you can’t take it on an empty stomach.”
“I ate an apple slice.”
“One slice?” He mocks. “You’re just as stubborn as when you sulked through that hangover.”
“That’s different,” you argue mulishly, too miserable to give ground. “That was a hangover.”
“Ah, of course.” Sylus nuzzles the top of your head, the gesture tender even as his words drip with saccharine condescension. “Entirely different. My mistake.”
You whimper a soft “mmmh,” too tired to muster anything more.
He moves to set you down on the living room sofa, but you cling to him tighter.
“Nooo. Stay.”
A smile tugs at his mouth, his resolve slipping. “I’ll only be a minute. I’m preparing you a plate, and making you tea.”
You release him begrudgingly. He rewards you with a kiss between your brows.
He isn’t gone long. When he returns, it’s with a plate in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. The tea carries the zesty-sweet scent of ginger and lemon, permeating the room despite your stuffy nose.
“Up,” Sylus instructs, settling you in his lap as though you weigh nothing. One arm anchors you to him, the other balancing the white ceramic. “Eat.”
You make a noise halfway between a groan and a whine. “Don’t wanna.”
He looks unimpressed. “You’re in no position to negotiate, kitten.” He holds out a fork, patient, waiting until you take a reluctant bite.
The food tastes bland on your sick tongue, and you grumble as you chew.
“It's that bad?” he remarks dryly.
“I’m jush no’ hungry,” you complain around the mouthful.
“A shame. You’ll finish it,” he says, droll and impervious to your objections, although the severity is undercut by the absent-minded stroke of his thumb at your hip.
You huff, trying to tuck your face into his shoulder, but he nudges you back toward the plate. Piece by piece, sip by sip, he coaxes you along until most of the food and the contents of the mug are gone. Only then does he reach for the medicine, shaking the bottle before unscrewing the cap.
He measures the correct dosage before passing the syrup to you, watching closely to make sure you’re keeping it down.
You grimace, collapsing against him with a pitiful sigh, arms winding once more around his neck.
“I didn’t know you’d get this…” Sylus pauses, mouth twitching as he searches for the word, the worry in his chest easing into weary affection at your sulking. “Clingy, poppet.”
“I’m not clingy,” you insist, arms locked tighter around him in response.
His chest rumbles beneath your ear, his amusement shaking the both of you.
“Fussy, then,” he concedes, rocking you gently. His lips brush the crown of your head. “My fussy, fussy sweetheart.”
“I’m not being fussy!” you croak—only for a chesty cough to overtake you. Sylus’ hand moves instantly, patting your back until the fit subsides. You catch the look in his eyes when you finally settle; taut with worry, though he tries to temper it behind a smile.
“I can handle myself,” you rasp. “I’ve handled worse.”
“Poor thing,” Sylus coos, his thumb tracing the apple of your cheek, close to the same red as its namesake. “That must have been hard, being on your own, hm?”
You’re about to say something scathing in response, but your mouth trembles instead; your brows knit as your gaze drops to the hand resting on your knee.
The sting in your eyes surprises you. Blinking fast, you try to will the waterworks away, but it only makes it worse.
“You weren’t here,” you whisper, voice wobbly. “Had to tough it out alone.”
“I’m here now,” he tells you, a touch more gentle. “You don’t have to anymore.”
You don’t know why his words hit harder than they should. To your horror, a tear spills over, scalding against your cheek. You scrub at it hastily, but he catches your wrist, stopping you.
“Oh, my love,” Sylus breathes, his voice suddenly heavy with regret. He cradles your jaw in his palm, swiping a finger beneath your eye. “I’m sorry for making you wait so long.”
For needing you to be strong on your own.
The instinctive need to deny this is just there—on the tip of your tongue. To insist you’re not weak, to tell him it wasn't his fault. Of course it wasn't. That you didn’t need him, that you’ve managed to not need him for the longest time. That you’re not helpless, that this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten sick and had to nurse yourself back to health.
But his eyes on you are like an unwavering storm, stripping away the layers of pretense you hide behind. And maybe it’s the fever talking; maybe it’s the way his arms cradle you so securely in place, holding you as if you’re some brittle, breakable thing.
On a normal day, your hackles would rise from being perceived as such, the indignity of it. Yet—
The way he looks at you, delicate, runs so close to precious. Like the set of fine bone china he bought last week, simply because it caught your fancy. And something in you reacts violently; a primal, defenseless creature keening under the weight of blatant adulation.
It leaves you utterly, painfully, vulnerable. Your bravado and ego crumbling in the space of a heartbeat.
So instead, you press your face into his chest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt like a child. And what comes out is shamefully small:
“I don’t want to do it on my own again.” You don’t get to leave me.
“You won’t,” he vows. Never again.
And that was that. - -
At some point, Sylus must have untangled himself from your grip. You don’t remember letting go, only the sensation of something cool pressing against your forehead, the softness of pillows surrounding you until you’ve gone back to slumber.
By the time you wake again, the apartment is filled with the rich, mouthwatering scent of garlic and soy sauce. Faint to your busted olfactory, but enough to make your stomach growl all the same.
Sylus returns from the kitchen carrying a bowl of chicken adobo. He sits beside you, drawing you easily into the crook of his arm, almost as if resuming your arrangement from earlier.
He lifts the first spoonful toward your mouth without a word. You part your lips obediently.
“You too,” you tell him after two more bites, glancing up at him. “Eat too.”
Without protest, he scoops up a portion and brings it to his mouth. You watch him swallow, oddly satisfied, before he offers the next bite back to yours.
And so it goes. A bite for you, another bite for him, until the bowl is half gone and the warmth in your belly settles deeper than the fever ever could.
_
After dinner, you insist on helping—or at least to mill nearby—while Sylus clears up.
The familiar stirrings of guilt return; he’s been the one doing everything, and it feels wrong to just sit there. So you carefully stack plates into the dishwasher, sleeves shoved up to your elbows. Trying to ignore the pulsing in your temples.
The sudden sneeze catches you off guard. The cough that follows digs deeper, rattling in your chest, and you grip the counter for balance.
The sound of glass clinking reaches you a second later.
“Sweetheart.” His voice is already closer, somewhere behind.
You wave a hand without turning. “I’m fine–” The word sputters into another cough, leaving you feeling winded.
Sylus is at your side in two strides, steadying you with a hand at your waist. “Enough. Let me handle it.”
You protest weakly, reaching for another plate. “I can finish this.”
His palm closes over yours, firm but gentle, easing the dish from your grip. “No.” And the tone makes you shiver. Distantly you wonder whether it’s the same voice he once used to inspire subservience into weaker men. “Sit before you fall over.”
You’re poised to argue, but the sharpness in his gaze undercuts you.
The words die in your throat. His sigh abates the air between you, and he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear in apology. “Please. I’ll manage a few plates.”
Reluctantly, you let him guide you back toward the couch, toward the little nest of pillows he’d made for you earlier. You try for levity, weakly muttering, “bossy.”
He huffs, rolling his sleeves higher as he turns back to the sink. “Concerned,” he corrects. Then, over his shoulder, his voice drops into something less severe. Softer this time. “Always, when it comes to you.”
You give him a bashful smile before sinking into the cushions. The sound of clinking dishes fades behind you, your eyelids growing heavier by the second.
Are you actually falling asleep again?
Apparently so, because the next thing you know, you’re being gently roused, coaxed upright with little effort. His voice is a murmur against your ear: “Come now, my love. Bath, then bed.”
You prattle on about being perfectly fine, but he ignores it, picking you up without further ado and carrying you towards the bathroom.
Inside, you see steam rise from the tub, fragrant with the heady scent of ylang-ylang and bamboo. Sylus undresses you with quiet efficiency, easing you into the water. His hands are careful as he lathers soap over your skin in soothing, relaxing motions. When he tips your head back to wet your hair, his palm cradles your nape, his fingers massaging your scalp until your eyes drift shut.
You feel nearly weightless, floating among the bubbles.
By the time he wraps you in a thick towel, you’re pliant, shivering softly. He lifts you again, carrying you bridal-style through the hallway.
“You don’t have to go this far,” you murmur, timid. “I can still walk, you know.”
He shushes you as he steps into the bedroom. “I’d rather carry you, if you’ll allow me.”
There’s a trace of amusement in his tone, and you latch onto it, uncertain. “You’re enjoying this?”
“Immensely,” he tells you, smirking softly. “Do you think this is a terrible chore for me, caring for you?”
“But I’m being too… needy.”
His gaze softens, though his tone remains matter-of-fact. “I prefer needy.” I like when you need me. “At least this way, I can actually do something for you, instead of just standing useless while your symptoms run haywire.”
That pulls a weak laugh from you. “I can’t picture you being… useless.”
“Exactly,” he says smoothly. “So let’s spare us both the indignity of my supposed disinterest for your well-being and let me take care of you.”
You open your mouth, half out of reflex. “I’m not completely helpless.”
Sylus tuts, lowering you onto the bed. “Nobody said you were.”
The towel is replaced by blankets, less damp and more insulating. Right by the pillows is a strewn oversized shirt—his—that he slips carefully over your head, leaving you dressed down in nothing but that and the fuzzy socks you keep at the foot of the mattress. He presses a kiss to your temple before stepping away, only to return a moment later with a glass of water in one hand and the syrup bottle in the other.
He waits until you’ve swallowed every last drop, before murmuring, “good girl.” You're already burrowing deeper into the covers. Sylus only smiles faintly, tugging the blanket tighter around you, tucking the edges until you’re snug.
“There. My little burrito,” he teases under his breath, planting one last kiss on top of your head before slipping under the covers himself.
The bedside lamp burns a low amber against the four walls, the humidifier running steady somewhere in the room, misting the air with a lavender-smelling vapor. On the nightstand is a bowl of ice water, along with a microfiber towel beside it – something to use in case your fever spikes up.
Your eyes drop shut, but your mind drifts.
Every minor detail he’s thought of. So natural in the way he slips into the role of caretaker, as if he’s always known how to tend to you. And in your sick-addled mind, you wonder: has he ever cared for anyone this way before? Or is this tenderness something he’s only learned for you?
Wrapped in thick cotton, you’re warm in a way that feels comforting. And… fervent.
Something hotter than what ails you boils beneath your skin; an intense sort of heat born of his attention, by the complete regard for your welfare. Maybe it’s delirium or just the sickness itself eating away what’s left of your mind, but the electric feel of being so thoroughly cared for leaves you restless.
Has he—you don’t recall, back then, if he ever did this for—
Sylus settles beside you, his hand carding through your hair to lull you to sleep.
He starts humming an off-key melody. And under his touch, under the sound of his voice, you should be nodding off. Instead, your hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, resting against his bare stomach where the fabric has ridden up.
Your palm drifts lower, pressing against the soft outline of him through his sweats.
He goes still.
“Kitten,” he warns, voice low. His fingers close around your wrist, halting you from squeezing. “Not now.”
“Please?” You whimper, knowing you’re asking for too much. That you’ve already asked for too much.
But you want more. You always want more from him.
A sharp breath escapes him. “You’re sick,” he murmurs, as though that should be enough to stop you.
You lift your face, tear-stained and wet. Your bottom lip bitten red. “I–I just want you close to me.”
Something in him breaks at that. His jaw tightens, the fight instantly making way for a softer kind of defeat.
He can’t help but let out a strained chuckle, equal parts exasperation and fondness. “Oh, sweetie…” You hide your red face against the crook of his neck, ashamed of how needy you’re being, but his arms only gather you tighter. Sylus presses a kiss into your hair. “Does my sweet girl want me inside? Mm?”
You nod shyly, fingers flexing in their grip on the front of his shirt.
He sighs in surrender. “I can never say no to you.”
Pressing closer, he slots his body to yours with painstaking care, as though you might rupture beneath him if handled rougher than this. His kisses are soft and sweet, trailing over the expanse of your face, the bridge of your nose, before his mouth finally captures yours—slow, engulfing. Tasting faintly of artificial cherries and the addicting tang of something that’s entirely him.
When he pushes inside, your breath stutters. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the stretch, the way he fills you. The way he feels.
Your body takes him greedily, clinging like it’s been waiting all day, and he groans low in his throat from the almost overwhelming, maddening heat of your feverish core. “Shit, sweetheart.”
You tighten instinctively, and his breath catches. “Don’t squeeze like that, baby,” he admonishes, voice frayed as he braces himself above you, his forehead dropping to yours.
“I can’t help it,” you rasp, hoarse against his lips.
Sylus hushes you, slow kisses broken by the quiet sounds of your gasps. His rhythm stays languid; a steady rocking that keeps you cocooned in him. Every thrust soothes the ache as much as it inflames it.
One hand hitches your thigh high against his hip, the other cups the back of your head, so your lips stay entwined with his. Heat coils tight inside you, fever tangled with arousal, until your whines rise in pitch.
He’s murmuring praises in your ear. “My sweet girl, taking me so well.”
You whimper, teetering close to the edge.
“That’s it. Easy, my love. Cum for me.”
The air is thick, every sound magnified—from the slick slide of each push and pull to the soft moans shared between you. He moves like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, every motion threaded with a devout focus on your pleasure.
When you finally come apart around him, Sylus rocks you through it until the last shivers from your body wane away. He pulls you into another consuming kiss before slowing to a stop.
He eases out carefully, drawing the blankets back over you; one large hand cups your cheek, brushing the flyaway hairs from your face.
His thumb stays there, still colder than your skin. “Still with me, poppet?”
You blink up at him, brow furrowing. “Did you… You didn’t cum?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“Ah, ah,” his tone is firm, but lacks any real heat. “No buts. That was more than enough excitement for both of us tonight.” He taps your nose with a finger. “Plenty of time to make up for it when you’re better.”
Your lips purse, but one look at his eyes tells you you’re not winning this one. So you sigh, muttering, “Okay. Next time.” A pause. “Um– thank you.”
He snorts softly. “Anytime.” Then, pointedly, “Not tonight.”
You giggle, and he nuzzles you, rolling his eyes. “Are you ready to sleep?”
“Mhm. Tired now.”
“I know.” His mouth presses to your brow, lingering there. “Just needed to tucker my baby out.”
You push weakly at his chest, trying to mask the embarrassment, but you don’t have any fight left in you.
Sylus only chuckles. “No need to be shy. That’s what I’m here for.”
He reaches for the towel on the bedside table. Dipping the cloth into the cold water—squeezing out the excess—he presses it gently to your forehead, tracing along your hairline. The chill makes you twitch. “Just a moment, honey.”
“Cold,” you whisper.
“I’ll be quick,” he promises. “Just making sure we keep your temperature down.”
He works slowly along your throat, the sides of your face. With each careful pass, he follows the chill with a kiss, as if to seal each one with his own brand of warmth.
By the time he’s done, you’re barely keeping up, eyelids drooping shut of their own accord.
“You don’t have to…” One more flimsy protest, the last bit of pride you have left to show. “Fuss so much about me.”
His smile ghosts against your cheek. “You don’t like it?”
“I…” You falter before exhaling the truth from your lungs. “…I like it. Don’t stop.”
He takes the admission in stride. He already knew. “Good.”
He adjusts the pillow beneath your head, a hand trailing down your arm, warm under the blanket as his fingers lace with yours.
The mattress dips as Maru hops up, padding his way to you. He works his paws in biscuits for a minute or two before curling into a ball against your belly. You pat him in thanks.
Sylus observes the short interaction with quiet amusement before leaning down to pull the blanket higher up your chin. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Rest now, little dove.”
You hum in reply. Just before sleep claims you, you whisper, “I love you.” He answers in kind, his hand tightening briefly as yours falls slack.
The room settles into a quiet kind of harmony: your slow breaths, Maru’s steady purring, and Sylus’ soft sigh as he keeps watch, grey eyes never straying far from you.
End A/N: For everyone who turns into a total babey the minute they get sick: you are seen, you are heard, you are valid. Personally, I just throw in the towel and let my partner take over, feminism be damned. Hence..... (*Rodrick Heffley voice* Sorry, women.) lol i jest
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