syluriar

New York City does not care about your feelings.

This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.

You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.

What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.

The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.

You are fine.

“Good morning.”

His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.

Like he was waiting.

“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.

“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.

“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”

“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”

“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”

“You could.”

“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”

The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.

You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.

“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.

You turn back to your tablet and breathe.

Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.

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Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:

He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.

He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.

He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.

He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.

He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.

This is the problem.

This is the entire problem.

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“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”

“Clear it.”

You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”

“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”

You pause. “You want me to choose.”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”

“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”

You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.

“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.

“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”

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The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.

He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.

Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.

“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”

“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.

“You barely ate this morning.”

You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”

“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely—”

“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”

Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.

You close your mouth.

You book the table and then pick up your tea.

It is perfect.

You are in so much trouble.

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The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.

Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.

He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.

The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.

“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.

“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”

He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”

“Three years,” you say simply.

Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.

“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”

Your heart catches.

I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.

“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”

Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.

“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”

A long pause.

“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.

You blink. “I just—”

“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.

And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.

Sylus listens to every word.

When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.

“What’s the address?” he says.

You study him. “Why?”

“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”

The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.

You give him the address.

You don’t know what he’ll do with it.

You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.

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The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.

It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.

He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.

Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.

Then he sits down at his desk.

Opens his laptop.

And begins to type.

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read the rest on ao3 <3

"My treat," he said, eyes glinting. "But…there is one little condition."

"Oh?" you said, feigning innocence while your heart fluttered, familiar with this little dance.

He brushed his knuckle across your cheek. "I can only give you your gift tomorrow night, at eight. There's a new restaurant in Linkon I want to take you to."

You hummed sweetly. "I suppose I can manage that."

His smile was soft before brushing his lips against yours in a gentle kiss. "Then it's a deal.

Once that night came, and you ate a delicious dinner, he had surprised you. You had expected him to simply pick out a dress for you to wear and then gift it to you, but instead, what you received was a sleek, black credit card.

With your name on it.

You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. "I…"

He chuckled. "What's a matter? Cat got your tongue?" When you still couldn't come up with a response, only managing a half-hearted glare, he sighed. "I've been meaning to give you it awhile. I don't want you to have to ask every time you need me to pay for something."

That made you huff. "It's not like I do it that often."

His tone was surprisingly soft. "I know—that's what I mean. I'm hoping this will make it easier for you. I want you to spend my money like it's yours." He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "It's not just my heart that belongs to you, sweetie. Everything of mine is for you to claim."

Hearing words like that had made it impossible to argue with, so you had agreed. Later, buying the dress and dealing with the mission had gone smoothly, and you went back to your normal hunter routine. But the new card that weighed heavily in your wallet was now a permanent addition to your life. One that would take some getting used to.

You had planned to simply ignore its existence. To only use it in emergencies, like if your car or motorcycle got totaled.

And then you stopped at your favorite cafe, as you often did. But this time, when you opened your wallet to pay, your stomach dropped at the realization that the credit card you always used was currently sitting on the table of your kitchen back home—you had pulled it out to make a purchase online—and all that stared back at you was that black card shining with indulgence.

To be fair, this was an emergency. Just a very, very minor one.

With a sigh, you pulled it out and handed it to the cashier. Your stomach twisted as she swiped it, like somehow the computer would start blaring an alert that let everyone know that you weren't the one paying. That your morning treat was being bought by the leader of Onychinus instead. But she simply handed it back to you with a smile, letting you know it would be ready in a few minutes.

As you waited near the counter, your phone went off.

Sylus: I was starting to wonder if you had lost the card and were just too afraid to tell me.

You let out a huff, typing away at a response.

You: I just forgot my card today.

Sylus: You should do that more often, then.

You sent him a crow emoji with a deadpan facial expression and watched as three dots popped up.

Sylus: You were running low on body soap last time I was over. you should buy some more before you get home.

Sylus: The fanciest one you like.

Your name was called out, taking your attention away from your phone as you put it away. As you grabbed your order, his offer echoed in your mind. He wasn't wrong; you were low on soap, along with some other body care products. And there was a brand you had been wanting to try for ages, now, but could never justify spending that much. The temptation he had laid out for you was almost too hard to resist…

As you walked out of the store, your heart pounded. You would almost think you had stolen the egregiously expensive bottles of care products you now carried—but no, you had bought them. With a 250 dollar charge sent to Sylus' account.

And speaking of the devil, you felt a buzz in your pocket. With a sigh, you pulled out your phone.

Sylus: Was that so hard, kitten?

You: Extremely. My heart feels like it's going to explode.

Sylus: Poor thing. let me reward you for your efforts, then.

You: ……..You want to reward me for spending your money?

Sylus: Come to the base tomorrow evening. I have a few new records I want you to listen to.

Of course, you had happily accepted his invite. A nice, quiet dinner followed by him taking you up to his office. There, he played you the beautiful music while you slow danced in front of the fireplace. Which turned into a passionate exchange of kisses…Which turned into him fucking you on his leather couch.

"Sylus…" you moaned into his shoulder, clinging onto his back for dear life as he thrust into you relentlessly.

"That's it," he breathed out, lips brushing against your ear. "Come apart for me." His cock continued to rub against the spot inside you that had your eyes fluttering shut.

You thought he was just going to say more sweet nothings, but he surprised you. "You were so good for me yesterday. Spending my money like that. All I could think about was how much I wanted to have you—just like this."

Your breath hitched, both from his words of praise and the edge you were nearing.

"That's right. My good girl. Mine."

You gasped, followed by a string of moans and whines as you came on his cock, and he soon followed suit. Hips stuttering as he filled you to the brim, his orgasm forcing out a moan and a few muttered expletives.

The rest of the night was filled with only his soothing touch as he took care of you. Like you were something precious.

At the time, you hadn't realized what that night had changed for you. Had changed within you. But that didn't make it any less real, and it was now festering inside you.

You bought a few more little things here and there, and you found that the anxiety you felt before had been replaced by something else. Something a lot more terrifying.

Thrill.

And it was addicting. Especially with how Sylus encouraged it. Always praising you with a pleased smile, gently pushing you to crave for more, and those little purchases slowly grew more grand. A new TV, higher-quality shoes for going out on missions, treating yourself and Tara to extravagant lunches almost every week…

And now you were laid out on your bed, staring at your laptop screen as your skin buzzed with anticipation. You were about to go through with a purchase that was more ambitious than anything else you had bought so far.

You scrolled through a website that, a few months ago, you would have never even considered clicking on, and now all the designer dresses flew past. Every single one that caught your eye ended up in your cart which you would go through at the end and pick a few favorites. Your goal was to wear one to surprise Sylus with on one of your dates—like the time you had bought that one lingerie set that resulted in an inability to properly stand the next day.

A ruby red dress caught your eye, making you click on it. It was long and elegant, and was revealing in all the right places. You were certain it would get the exact reaction from Sylus you desired, especially considering it was in his color. But, since it was on the pricier side at fifteen thousand, you decided it would be the only one you would end up buying.

You clicked the button to buy it, which you thought had meant it would be separate from your cart. And, of course, since this was Sylus' money, you didn't bother to look at the final price before hitting the "confirm purchase" button, letting the saved credit card information auto-fill.

That familiar exhilarating feeling washed over you as you went back to the main page, and you were about to exit out before something caught your eye. A few moments ago, the red bubble over the cart icon had the number forty-nine displayed inside it…

…And now it was gone.

A chill ran through you, and with trembling fingers, you pulled out your phone to open your email. "No, no, no," you muttered under your breath. Surely it was just a glitch. A weird quirk of the website. Surely you hadn't just bought fifty dresses all well over a few grand each. But when you found the receipt, scrolling down to see the final payment, you felt your heart drop to your stomach.

557,678.87.

Half a million dollars. Spent on dresses. On a random Wednesday evening.

Maybe I can cancel it somehow, you thought, but before you could look into that idea, your phone started to vibrate. An embarrassing, frightened sound left your lips at the caller ID.

Sylus.

You couldn't just ignore him—as much as you wanted to throw your phone across the room—so, with hesitation, you swiped to accept.

"H…hello?" you said timidly.

"Kitten," you heard in response. His voice came out low, deep. Rougher than usual, and maybe even a little breathless. "Having a little fun?"

"Uh…um…" you stammered. "It was an accident?"

"Oh?" His tone took a little bit of an amused turn. "You accidentally bought a whole walk-in closet worth of dresses just now?"

You were lucky he wasn't here to see how your face flushed. "Well, I…I thought I was only buying one, but…I ended up buying the whole cart?"

His chuckle sent a shiver down your spine. "I see. Easy mistake."

"I can return it—!"

"No," he cut you off, and you wondered if you imagined the desperate edge. "I want to see you in all of them—and I want to be the one that takes them off of you."

His voice had become sensual, and as always, the lower part of your body responded, growing warm. Then, with a startling realization, you said, "When you say you like me doing this…you mean you like it."

He let out an actual laugh this time. "Took you this long to figure it out, sweetie? Maybe I should have been more obvious." A few moments later, he asked softly, "Do you like it?"

You buried your face in your free hand, mumbling.

"What was that, kitten?"

You let out a long sigh. "…Maybe."

"Then why stop at just dresses?"

"…What?"

"Surely you need some new shoes to go with them."

You swallowed as your mouth went dry. "Right now?"

"Mmhm," he hummed. "Buy whatever piques your interest. No hesitation."

As you started to navigated to the website that had the brand of shoes you had longed for for years—you heard it. So faint over the phone you almost missed it. But it was undeniable: the sound of a zipper being undone.

Your breath hitched, and suddenly, you were aware of the way your cunt was aching, desperate for relief. But despite that, you tried to stay focused on the task at hand.

As you sifted through the selection, picking out whatever caught your eye, you rambled to Sylus with a shaky voice about the things you were selecting. Telling him about the finely cut diamonds encrusted in them. And he hummed along, as if he was drinking in every word. And finally, once you selected everything you wished for, your body was flushed all over with need pooling in your gut.

"Now, go on and buy them, kitten," he breathed out. "Be a good girl for me."

You couldn't stop the whimper that escaped you, and your self-restraint finally snapped; one hand slipped into your underwear while the other clicked to complete the purchase.

Only a few moments after the payment went through, you heard Sylus let out a low moan. "Yes," he whispered. "Just like that."

"Sylus," you whined, fingers easily slipping into your entrance with how wet you were.

He took a shaky breath. "You also need some new things to wear underneath, right? Another layer for me to spend my time undoing?"

You nodded even though he couldn't see you while opening a new tab. "Y…yes. I need…" you trailed off, body shuddering as you rubbed over a sensitive spot inside you. "I need you," you whined.

"Fuck," he muttered before moaning. His voice was strained as he continued to speak in between harsh breaths. "Next week. After your new things arrive. I'll give you what you desire, kitten. I promise."

Those words intensified the needy haze in your mind. You were no longer truly thinking as you selected various lingerie. Your decisions were based solely on how much you wanted to see Sylus take them off you. Then, you stumbled upon a piece that had a hole in the underwear—made to be worn while he fucked you—and you let out a surprised, needy moan.

"What—fuck—what is it, sweetie?"

Through words that you weren't sure were all that coherent, you explained what you found. And you could easily imagine the way his head tipped back as he let out a deep, desperate sound that rumbled through his chest. That was all the encouragement you needed to make it the final thing you added to your cart, and you purchased it all without a second thought.

Sylus' reaction through the phone settled deep in your chest, making you thrust helplessly into your own hand. "Oh, kitten, yes. Good girl. Doing so good for me."

"Sy…Sylus. I'm…" You had started rubbing your clit with your palm as you fucked yourself with your fingers, and you could feel your climax approaching soon.

Based on how he sounded, he wasn't fairing much better. "Just…just hold on a little longer for me, sweetie. You need jewelry, don't you?"

You let out a whimper as you obeyed. Ruby necklaces, emerald encrusted chokers, diamond earrings, 18-karat gold rings—you added them all. It didn't take long for the total to reach the millions. The cost of a modest mansion sitting in your cart.

With your orgasm approaching, any hesitation that would have normally been there was absent as you clicked to purchase everything. Once you did, you whined out, "Sylus."

A string of noises were forced out of him, tumbling past his lips as the dam broke. "Oh, fuck. Fuck—ah, ah, good girl, my good girl…"

You let his words of pleasure wash over you, basking in the praise. And that was all it took to join him with your own climax.

As you both took time to catch your breath, all you could think about was how much you couldn't wait for next week to come. To see all the ways he would indulge you—and how you would indulge him.