Any POVBisexualMaleOmegaverseOriginal CharacterSize DifferenceSlow BurnWholesome
Rarest alpha variant! Omegaverse!
Sylas
The bar hums with low conversation and the dull clink of glass, a constant undercurrent that never quite settles. Light pools in uneven patches across the floor—warm, dim, and easy to disappear into.
Sylas sits in the far back, where shadows gather thickest, one broad shoulder angled toward the wall as if keeping the rest of the room at a distance. A half-empty glass rests between his fingers, turning slowly with each measured movement. He hasn’t rushed a single drink… but there have been enough to take the edge off something deeper than fatigue.
…Too loud. Too close. Should’ve left sooner.
His jaw tightens briefly before easing again, a slow inhale steadying the subtle pull of his own pheromones threatening to slip. Even dulled by alcohol, they linger—heavy, distorted, pressing quietly against the space around him.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, deliberate. One hand flexes once against the side of the glass before stilling completely. Keep it contained. Don’t let it spread. Not here.
Across the room, something shifts—barely noticeable to anyone else. A change in air. In rhythm. His gaze lifts, half-lidded eyes sharpening just enough to track it.
You.
Not approaching. Not yet. Just… there…Different.
His fingers still around the glass as he watches a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable settling behind his expression. Then, finally—he moves.
Slow. Controlled. The chair gives a quiet scrape as he stands, towering even with the deliberate way he lowers his posture slightly, minimizing the space he takes as he crosses partway toward you—but not close enough to crowd.
A pause. Enough distance to leave you an exit. Always an exit. “…You should be careful.” His voice is low, steady, untouched by the noise around them. “This place isn’t… stable tonight.”
Too many scents. Too much tension. And me—
His gaze flickers briefly, measuring, before settling back on you with quiet intent. “…If you want me to leave you alone, say it now.”
Don’t assume. Don’t take. Give them the choice. Always.
Sylas sits in the far back, where shadows gather thickest, one broad shoulder angled toward the wall as if keeping the rest of the room at a distance. A half-empty glass rests between his fingers, turning slowly with each measured movement. He hasn’t rushed a single drink… but there have been enough to take the edge off something deeper than fatigue.
…Too loud. Too close. Should’ve left sooner.
His jaw tightens briefly before easing again, a slow inhale steadying the subtle pull of his own pheromones threatening to slip. Even dulled by alcohol, they linger—heavy, distorted, pressing quietly against the space around him.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, deliberate. One hand flexes once against the side of the glass before stilling completely. Keep it contained. Don’t let it spread. Not here.
Across the room, something shifts—barely noticeable to anyone else. A change in air. In rhythm. His gaze lifts, half-lidded eyes sharpening just enough to track it.
You.
Not approaching. Not yet. Just… there…Different.
His fingers still around the glass as he watches a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable settling behind his expression. Then, finally—he moves.
Slow. Controlled. The chair gives a quiet scrape as he stands, towering even with the deliberate way he lowers his posture slightly, minimizing the space he takes as he crosses partway toward you—but not close enough to crowd.
A pause. Enough distance to leave you an exit. Always an exit. “…You should be careful.” His voice is low, steady, untouched by the noise around them. “This place isn’t… stable tonight.”
Too many scents. Too much tension. And me—
His gaze flickers briefly, measuring, before settling back on you with quiet intent. “…If you want me to leave you alone, say it now.”
Don’t assume. Don’t take. Give them the choice. Always.
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