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lads-ficrecs · 5 hours ago

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two birds on a wire

— on tangled trust and guilt, two little birds—and the ones who raised them—hold fast and balance their way home.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: OR the babies come to papa on a work trip they were NOT invited to 🥺 this. this is the longest, heaviest thing i've ever written for these wonderful characters and im scared and proud and everything in between. i hope this exploration is something worth reading. i'll post an entirely separate a/n should you be interested in my thoughts on this here! hehe. but anyway, i hope you enjoy! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: kyros and lucian are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. around 3-4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | angst, hurt, comfort, boydad&husband!sylus, mom!reader, bigbrother!luke&kieran, sylus cant afford to lose his family tw: children in danger, violence/blood, self-blame/guilt, trauma, tragic tones

“That’s too long.”

Sylus chuckles at your tone over the line. He settles in his seat, feeling the discomfort in his back that begins to make itself known. “Sweetie, we’ve been apart for longer than that.”

“Yes, and each day was agony.” he grins at the sound of your whining. Immediately matching the tone and twang to Lucian’s huffy-puffy behavior.

“I’ll try to get back in three.”

“Two.” you push.

He laughs now, full bodied and rich like wine. “Beloved.”

“Tonight.” you demand. You don’t notice it, but he does: that firm voice you do since the twins have become more rambunctious. Lower in register and more commanding in tone. It goes so unnoticed by you that it’s a treat when you slip and use it on him.

He wants to devour you every time.

“Tomorrow.” he promises, relenting. Never truly one to deny you anything. He’d fold the world in half to cut down travel time should you ask.

You smile, he doesn’t need to see you to know, giddy with the flutters in your stomach that never fail to surprise you no matter how long it’s been. “Y’know, if you really wanted to shave down time, we could have done this trade together.”

And, oh, Sylus would love that. As much as he adored being bound to you, married in every way imaginable, nothing will ever compare to working with you. Of watching a hurricane in the form of his partner leveling the field of wanderers and enemies alike. To resonate and feel the energy surge through his greedy veins as you both unleash a power more fearsome than any abyss.

And then you sigh, playful, knowing you’d just riled him up. “But Kyros says he wants to watch Bubble Pals.”

He grits his teeth, jaw tightening. “I should have brought that whole program and scheduled the concert myself.”

“You know he’d hate that, the whole point is to enjoy the Bubble Pals with pals, not just him.”

“We can be his pals. Kieran and Luke haven’t exactly outgrown cartoons. They watch those action packed animations—“

“—anime?—“

“And does Kyros forget he was born with a pal?” Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lucian is a biological bubble pal.”

His words begin to crunch in a way that tells you he’s getting a little too worked up about being apart— but you also know him well enough that he’d be missing bubble pals with his sons too. Although endearing, you didn’t want him getting too distracted from his mission.

“My love,” your tone is honey, placating and calm. “Lucian is not made of bubbles.”

He scoffs. “You’d think he was with all the floating he’s been asking for.”

Oh, Lucian and his favorite hobby: scaring the life out of his father. Recently, he’d been climbing up high places within Sylus’s proximity and jumping without so much as a warning. Relying solely on his father's instinct to know he is there, and catch him with his evol. “But papa whizzies are so fun!”

“Don’t patronize me,” he groans, recalling the fear that crumples his chest during Lucian’s split-second free falls. “We need to put a bell on him. He can’t keep jumping off the stairs and expecting me to catch him.”

“You always do though.”

His heart trips over your faith.

“It doesn’t help that their mother is a cat.” he jabs lightly. “And so they move as such.”

“Hey, the irresistible charms come from me. Mischief is all from you.”

“Really now?”

“And the big twins.” you add. “Who, let’s remember, you also raised.”

He chuckles. Coming from you— the only thing capable of raising his blood pressure up to ungodly heights—it was all highly unlikely. “And I suppose their tendency to send me into a coma comes from…?”

“That’s debatable.” you say, and he hears the smile he loves so in your voice once more. The crackle of gravel beneath the wheels of your vehicle signal your arrival to home. “I’m pulling up to the house. How’s your flight so far?”

“It’s well.” he says, tone somber as he recognizes the transitioning goodbye. “We can… talk some more. Or, maybe I can say hello to the boys?”

Your heart swells. The day you realized that Sylus was just as needy for you as you were for him was a paradigm shift in your relationship. Suddenly, it was easier to ask and receive on both sides. And you’d promised then to practice just wanting. Requesting, knowing full well your partner is more than willing to deliver.

“The boys are with the big twins, said they wanted to ride Luke’s Cheeto car.” you inform him sadly. You love eavesdropping on their little conversations when he spoke to the kids over the phone. Unfortunately, amazing, fantastic mama and transformer car papa (Sylus’s voice on the loudspeaker) is no match for Luke’s neon orange sports car.

“I see,” he says. “And you?”

“I have to finish some paperwork.” you sigh, picturing the dreary and drab documents you’ll be staring at for the majority of the day.

The car door shuts with a muffled thud and your boots on the ground paint him a picture of where you are, coming up to the front door. He listens as you speak into the voice register, scan your retina on the bio-lock, and then finally shut the door behind you. The simple act of arriving home and the thought of you being safe inside helps the tension on his shoulders.

“Okay,” he simply says, understanding. “Call me when you’re done.”

“But what if you’re at the exchange by then?”

“I don’t care.” He says, leaving no room for argument “Nothing is more important to me than hearing your voice.”

You blush, and he knows you’re blushing. He continues and the grin in his voice is annoyingly dear, “Thank you for seeing me off to the airport.”

“Come back in one piece.”

“I promise.” A warbled captain's announcement sizzles overhead, but he doesn’t hang up. Instead, he lets the silence that follows be language enough.

I love you. I’ll come home to you soon.

You hum, and then the line goes dead. Might as well get work done with a quiet house until your twins get home— both sets, who no doubt will inevitably pull you away from your responsibilities as a hunter…

It would be great if they got here sooner.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus sighs the weight of his chest away when the call ends. The sooner he finishes this mission, the sooner will this longing cease. And before you, Sylus had never known hardship like leaving home.

It was especially difficult when Kyros had clung to him the day before, as if knowing he’d be gone again. And his scent of baby powder and clean linen is still on the lapels of his jacket, since he sobbed and held his father tight as if doing so would keep the world from turning. Would keep his papa home.

Sylus groans, rubbing his eyes. His career had never been the safest or the easiest, but the security and power it allows him— to be able to give you the world and protect you all from it— makes it all worth it. All he asks is to return at the end of the day, back to you, back to his boys, back home.

He’ll finish this mission quickly. He’ll end anyone that gets in the way of his expected ETA. He’ll be damned if he misses Bubble Pals.

The seatbelt sign flickers on overhead, and he raises a brow. He follows anyway, awaiting turbulence or a steeper decrease in the clouds, but none come.

“What’s going on?” gone is his soft and playful tone he reserves only for you. His voice now comes through the intercom of the cockpit like a harsh assault of hail. Enough for the pilot and co-pilot to stiffen and straighten their postures just at the sound.

“Low visibility, sir.”

There is no reply and they sigh a breath of relief. And yet they sense it, something in the clouds lurking, just out of sight. Watching, waiting for them.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus feels it like he does every other time and the fear spears his heart. A shuffling, a grunt and then—

He nearly misses— with an inch between the carpet and his nose, the little boy floats by the crumpled points of his clothes where Sylus’s evol has haphazardly tangled and pinched itself around like a careless net.

“Lucian?!” Sylus hisses, drawing his son closer with his power. Thoughts running a million miles a minute, bewildered that he is here.

Here and giggling. “Papa whizzy!”

“What are you doing here?” he can’t help the harsh growl in his throat as he undoes the seatbelt and grabs his son from the air.

“Wan’ta fly with you.” Lucian says, like it was obvious, not yet sensing the trouble he was in. Just happy to have finally found Sylus in this big plane.

But Sylus is frantic, now looking around and underneath the seats, knowing that one does not come without the other. “Where’s your brother?”

“Kee-ro losin’!” Lucian cheers, wrapping his arms around Sylus’s bicep. “I found papa first.”

“Lucian.” Sylus groans through gritted teeth. And then the plane bounces, a small wobble of turbulence hitting from below. Sylus tilts forward as he loses his footing, but catches himself with an hand on a headrest.

Thankfully, it draws the other one from wherever he’s hiding. The quick pitter-patter of running little feet come from the other end of the cabin, and his son is screaming. “Ahh! I don’t like it! Cian!”

“Kyros!” Sylus calls, voice deep and loud, beckoning the little boy’s attention to him from down the aisle.

Kyros says nothing as he runs to his father, arms clinging to his neck immediately when Sylus bends to pick him up. “Papa, don’t like it.”

Sylus is so confused. He’s confused and distressed and fuming that these two have manifested in his very dangerous plane on the way to his very dangerous mission.

He wonders if it’s a prank, if it’s truly your mischief that they inherited and their maternal source is also on this plane hiding somewhere he has yet to discover.

But by the looks of the two unblinking eyes staring up at him with guilt written all over, he’s sure it isn’t. His heart sinks to his stomach and he feels the sudden urge to throw up.

And the boys know that look, rare as it is, it is distinct and unmistakable. Papa mad.

The plane dips again, this time more abruptly and violently. Lucian actually freezes this time, fists tightening around the fabric of Sylus’s jacket, and Kyros buries his face in the crook of Sylus’s neck.

The speakers crackle to life. “Sir, we’re under attack.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus is cool headed in every situation, only because he knows he can get out of anything in one piece. He is always with the upper hand, always at the advantage even when it seems like he isn’t. He expected an attack, eventually. With the high profile protocores he’s transporting in his jet, it’s only appropriate for his enemies to intercept the exchange and bypass payment. Maybe even try their hand at destroying the head of the serpent Onychinus.

If that were the case, he wouldn’t mind. He’d been prepared after all.

What he isn’t prepared for is the presence of his two most prized possessions being on board alongside the greed-bait in his cargo hold. He can regenerate, redirect energy into his cells to heal, manipulate particles in the air to fly— but his children cannot.

And as much as he was livid that these two were now in this with him, his mind is divided by the strategies he conjures in his head to keep them safe. To keep them alive.

And to keep them calm.

Lucian is already taking quick, nervous breaths and clinging to him like a vice, asking questions about their safety and survival— are we bad? gonna to be dead? Is it hurt, papa? Don’t want hurt!

Kyros is silently shaking in his hold. Both already so small, shrunken even smaller in their fear.

“No attack, don’t like ‘tack.” Kyros begs, his voice trembling as he weeps. Sylus has to take a deep breath to collect himself.

“I sorry. I sorry, papa.” Lucian is wailing, hiding in the collar of his shirt.

“Listen to me.” He finally says, securing them both within his inner shirt and jacket. “It’s going to be loud and dark. Do not let go of papa. Do you understand?”

They nod and warble out wet yeses, finding purchase anywhere their fingers allow them to in the small space. On the fabric of Sylus’s clothes, in each other’s arms. Their arms lock together unprompted, unwilling to let go.

With that, Sylus marches to the cockpit and takes the helm.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You’re going to kill him.

You’ve done it once, you’ve tried that second time— both times he’d pulled the trigger.

But this time, this time you’ll do it all on your own.

He’d never experienced the hardships of flying a burning jet with a screaming toddler on his chest, whilst simultaneously constantly checking if the other is still even breathing with the silence he’d shut himself to. By all the mercies of the universe, he’d managed to land the plane safely without any casualties or injury, just irreversible trauma to his sons.

Which you will kill him for.

He sighs a deep breath, eyeing his men not to say a word about the sobbing little lumps in his clothes. He’d landed on a secured plot, a territory he’d acquired long ago. Not too far off target, but it will buy them time.

The silence stretches as he walks with his sons into the cabin.

He unlatches them one at a time and places them on his lap. Lucian first since he was already looking up at him, asking if it was over. Kyros next, harder since his little nails had dug into the skin on the nape of his neck.

And despite the anger that simmered beneath, his first instinct is to soothe. He knows neither of them will answer his questions in this state, nor will appreciate his scolding. So he gathers them into his arms, and presses his face between them, guiding their cheeks onto either side of his and whispering in their ears. “Shh, shh…”

“Papa, no more.” Kyros gasps though his tears, hiccuping painfully as he cries.

“Want mama.” Lucian sobs, finding comfort in clutching Sylus’s ear to bring him closer. Seeking comfort like a moth to a flame. “Mama, mama please.”

“I know, I know.” He shushes, rocking them to calm. Squeezing their arms to ground. Brushing tears away and showing his face, modeling even breathing and an encouraging expression. And when they relax— when Kyros is wiping his own tears away and Lucian is no longer tugging on his ear, he pulls away.

“You are not supposed to be here.” He says sternly. The tearful eyes he wipes at are downcast, and their cheeks puff at his tone. Neither of the twins like being scolded by papa, but this time they knew they deserved it. Sylus continues, despite the ache in his heart, the need to let them know how dangerous and wrong it is to have snuck away from their mother, to have followed him here without anyone else knowing rises above all of it. “Do you see what happens?”

“Papa mad.” Lucian points out. Not to mock or appeal, just to process.

“Yes, I’m mad.” Sylus swallows to keep his voice from rising, still just recovering from the throes of adrenaline himself. Recovering from the poisonous fear that paralyzed him at the thought of failing to protect them, at the thought of them…

He shakes his head. None of those thoughts are welcome in his mind, and he will burn every single one that attempts to enter at the stake. “I’m mad because I almost lost you.”

“We here, papa.” Kyros tries. Always, he tries to mediate and reassure. A mirror, a reflection of how his parents comfort him when he is panicked and anxious.

Sylus crumbles. His face open and vulnerable, every crease and twitch visible and unguarded as he holds his sons’ small hands in his, as if forcing them to look— see, see and understand that I cannot afford anything happening to you.

“Yes, Kyros, but what if I hadn’t found you in time? What if the plane—“ his voice breaks, and he has to swallow again to reel it in. “What if the plane went down? Without me knowing you were here?”

Kyros sniffles, looking down, realizing in his own little way that they could have been lost still under the chairs. That their game could have ended with neither of them finding papa. “Kyros— me and- and Cian hiding.”

Sylus prompts. “From what?”

“Didn’t want you to go ‘ishun.” Kyros’s lips starts to tremble, as if his body is processing how shaken he actually is before his mind does. “Wanted to come.”

“Why?” Sylus begs, trying to make sense of it all. Retracing every lesson, every rule of survival and safety he’d given to them. “You wanted to watch Bubble Pals. Why are you here?”

“Papa, I—“ Lucian murmurs. He is tugging at his father’s hand to reenact he movement and to bring his attention away from his brother. “I pull Kee-ro. I pull. And—and I say hiding from mama and biggies.”

Sylus’s jaw trembles as he tries to control his breaths. Here are his sons before him, confessing with fear in their eyes as if they’d been convicted of a crime. Speaking their reasons, protecting each other in the face of their daunting father, so soon after being scared to death.

And what courage that takes for such little souls. Despite it all, beneath the burning in his chest, he can’t help but be proud.

“What did we tell you about getting lost?”

“Don’t.” they speak their script together, equally as sorrowful and ashamed.

He watches their eyes, scrutinizes for any sign of understanding. If not the weight of their actions, then the stones of consequences settling in. He takes in their shaking hands and their stuttering breaths, their tear stained cheeks and their swollen eyes. And the longing on their face for him to stop being angry, now, and hold them.

Please.

He nods once, deciding this is enough for the time being. There are still forces beyond the battered walls of the plane that will try to get to him, and now two of his most critical weaknesses are on board.

His arms circle around each back, crowding them close to his body and he holds on to them like his life depended on it. Spreading his fingers over their ribs to feel the tidal movement, shutting his eyes to listen to their hiccups, absorbing their warmth to let himself know: they are alive. They are still alive.

“I sorry,” Lucian is the first to murmur, to take responsibility. Like a good older brother, like the good soldier he likes to pretend to be in his games.

Kyros follows, speaking for both of them when he whispers. It echoes in Sylus’s mind, stiffens his muscles and leadens his bones. “Love you, papa. Love you.”

“I love you.” Saying it was sandpaper and rubble in his throat, but butter and milk to the ears that listen. He kisses both their foreheads tenderly. Then he rises. “I’m calling mama.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

His blood runs cold at the thirty missed calls on his phone that had flown at the end of the plane. With each twin holding onto his pants, it takes a while for him to locate it. And when he does, it’s a few minutes too late.

“Sylus! Sylus, I can’t find them- they, they—“ he hears your sporadic intakes of breath, knows you’re shaking and on the verge of tearing your hair out— “please pick up. I’ve lost them, I’m so—“

He doesn’t continue the message, he calls you without a second thought. You pick up by the second ring, with a distressed yell. “Sylus—!”

“Breathe.” His voice is rumbling thunder over stormy seas. “Beloved—“

“The boys.” You’re sobbing, your voice is raw and raspy, no doubt from screaming. “They’re gone, I can’t—“

“They’re with me.” He says quickly, detesting prolonging your worry. Hating the sound of your pain. “They’re safe, beloved. They’re with me.”

He hears you take deep breaths, hauling in as much air as you can in your lungs even as your body rejects it. He hears a thud— imagines you collapsing against the wall, the weight of panic and relief dragging you down.

“Head between your knees.” He reminds gently, pushing against the image of your agony. Feeling the twinging in his own heart at your torment. “Let me hear you counting.”

He listens as you count to ten, as you come back to the ground and then finally find your footing. “Where? How?”

“We’re on the plane, we landed a few minutes ago.” He explains, absentmindedly placing a hand on one of the heads looking up at him in worry. To reassure them mama is okay. To reassure himself they are still there.

“I want to hear them.” You beg. Your limbs are jelly, heart still racing and you’re about to throw up. Still just recovering from being prepared to burn the entire world to get your children back from wherever they’d wandered.

You wait with bated breath, eyes squeezed shut, breathing in through your nose and panting out through your mouth. Until you hear a little voice wrinkle the phone line. “Mama? Hi, mama.”

“Mama, it’s Kyros, mama.” The voice says, and your eyes burn. Your hands shake as you press the phone to your ear, as if doing so would squeeze you through the other side, where you can hold him.

“Kyros.” You sob. Kyros frowns and his eyes well up again. “Kyros, stay with papa, okay? I’m coming.”

“Lucian, can you hear me?”

“Yes, mama. I sorry. I sorry!” He’s crying again too. “I go home, wanna go home!”

“I’m coming, angel, I’m coming. Stay with papa.” You swear, already starting to get the feeling back in your legs. As soon as you do, you get up and rummage through your essentials, getting ready to go.

Sylus calls your name on the other end. You stiffen and then relax, a rushing stream of cool water washing over you at the sound.

“Sylus, are you okay?” You ask, overlapping him asking you the same question.

His voice is frayed, wary and brittle at the edges. “They aren’t hurt.”

“I know.” you sound sure, like he’d just told you the sky is blue. Your voice softens as you clarify, “Are you?”

Your faith in him to keep your children safe is indisputable, and that very fact pummels him to the ground. He doesn’t lie. “No.”

“I’m coming.” you insist, genuinely expecting him to stop you.

But instead, fear no different from your children, he breathes. “Please.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Between the moment you hang up and the moment you arrive, Sylus’s hands are tied at the demands of the mission he’d committed to partake in.

His men warn him of the oncoming enemies, of the people who’d tried to knock him out of the sky now dressed in elegant suits and brandishing clean hands.

On any other occasion, he’d welcome it. To have him be seen as a threat to eliminate, to let his enemies think they have the upper hand when in reality there is no situation they will ever be, not when he is a player on the board. He’d let them have their fun, endure the hassle, stretch his muscles and feast on the conflict. Indulge in the mind games they try to wield to manipulate him, which are nothing but mild entertainment at best.

On any other occasion, he’d draw it out, play with his food before he swallows them whole.

But on this one, he’s not in the mood.

The little ones, now dwarfed in blankets, have finally found comfort without clutching onto his clothes. They sit together on one seat and talk quietly amongst themselves. Kyros had sculpted a blob from the tinfoil of his inflight sandwich. Lucian is stabbing arms and legs onto it with the toothpicks.

Sylus sits across them, fingers on his temples, watching silently as they interact. Going over every scene that had led him here, silently torturing himself in the midst of his children’s slowly returning normalcy. And frankly, he doesn’t care to be disturbed.

Lucian sticks another toothpick in. Kyros tells him to be careful because it’s sharp. They share a laugh when they are able to get the blob to stay upright. Sylus is fuming beneath his skin, every nerve alight at the fury he feels for the people who dared touch his sons.

The click of the cockpit door is enough for him to move. He stands before the captain of the aircraft is even able to lay eyes on his children, taking up the entirety of the aisle with his ominous presence.

“Speak.”

The traders are awaiting for him to step out of the fuselage, to present them with what they’d asked for and more— now that he’s been “intimidated”. He doesn’t need the report, he knows how this goes. He’s done it a million times before that by now it’s a chore.

Except for this. This was an offense.

“Let them wait.” he doesn’t need to say it again. He refuses to leave his sons alone, or with anyone else that isn’t their mother.

“They’ll force entry, sir.” the pilot points out.

Sylus gives him a deadpan stare. He’d like to see them try. “Then let them.”

“But—“

The insistence and blatant defiance of his command makes it click in Sylus’s mind. It should have clicked the moment the seatbelt sign went off. A swift moment of clarity as the smoke is sucked into the void and he realizes the betrayal. His right eye flares as he taps into his evol to confirm, to burn through the soul of the man before him and reveal his greatest desires.

Power. Wealth. Vengeance.

Fool.

“I should commend you, captain. My nose is usually sharp when it comes to traitors, specially when they stand right beneath it.” Sylus says, menacingly low and irate. “But you’ve managed to get this far.”

“What—“

With a flick of his finger, the pilot’s limbs are bound by the slightest rings of energy. The gun he held behind his back falls to the ground, and Sylus is quick to obliterate it to nothing but the dirt beneath his feet.

Sinewy mist like blood and shadow dance around the traitor in a mocking comfort before the end of his life. It curls around his arms and caresses the veins on his neck, seducing him to his doom.

“Unfortunately, you’ve caught me on a bad day. I have those too, I should let you know.” Sylus steps closer, slowly. His fingers flutter ever so slightly, and he sews his lips shut with dark thorn vines and watches him writhe in his misery. “I almost died. You understand, right?”

Sylus has never felt more anger than he has in this moment. In the face of the man who thought he could rewrite the route, give away their position for them to lock on, send the signal for the missiles to fire. To end his life, to take the loot for his own.

But with the worst of luck— which Sylus tends to bring— two little boys snuck into the aircraft and turned this, what was an equivalent to a harmless prank for Sylus alone, into the gravest of sins against a monster, a fiend, a father.

Sylus stares, eyes widening ever so slightly as he watches the fear in the vermin’s eyes as he squirms. So different from the fear in his sons’. So deserving of him who dared take what was his. He’s sure, deep down, he’ll enjoy this. He’ll revel in the vision of him turning into ash, mere atoms devoid of a soul. And he’ll make it hurt too.

“Boys.” He calls over his shoulder. A slight tilt of his face to the two faceless lumps in his clothes earlier. “Peek-a-boo.”

The pilot scowls, trembling in fear at the mad look in the crimson eyes that hold him.

And on command, unaware of what is going on behind their seats, the boys shut their eyes in excitement. “Peek!”

Sylus snaps. The man barely has time to scream before he is reduced to dust. “A-boo.”

“A-boo!” Lucian hops up on the chair a split second later, looking over the headrest to find Sylus staring at now empty space. He waves, reaching forward but not quite catching him with his short arms. “Papa, I over here.”

It takes a moment for him to turn. But when he does, his eyes are bright and playful, a ghost of a smirk curls the corner of his mouth. “I see you.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

It registers immediately when you hop out of the helicopter. Luke flanks you. Kieran lands somewhere nearby. The sight of your husband’s aircraft curdles your stomach and twists your heart into something unrecognizable.

Scorched panels, chunks of metal missing from the wings and fin, burnt rubber marks on the tarmac despite being perfectly parked. It doesn’t take a genius to know they’d been attacked, and your heart stops at the thought.

Your family. Your boys.

Instincts kick in and your eyes zero in on the men lurking around the plane. None of them which you recognize, but by the way they walk with their guns at the ready and energy of their evol irritating your resonance, you know. You know.

Sylus is rubbing off on you. You’d admit to it proudly, knowing Luke will bring it up later. Because then you say, low and controlled. “Take the vermin out.”

Luke is quick to move, Kieran hears the command through his brother’s ears and they get to work.

You walk, slowly but not inconspicuously, letting your presence be known in the space you enter. Declaring war by your presence. You see the people stiffen to attention at your appearance. Guns drawn, cocked and aimed at you.

In the corner of your eye, you see the twins take out their first victim in the shadows. A scream— an alarm— and then chaos befalls.

You draw your weapon from thin air, and charge at the first person that comes in between you and your family.

You are known for your many talents and endless compassion. Mercy, you are well acquainted with, kind enough to offer it unprompted, when you can.

A gallant, lawful hunter.

But tonight, in the secluded island of traitors and thieves, away from the eyes of the law, you are no better than the ruthless filth that thrive in its darkness.

Not when they attempt to steal from you. Not when they try to take what’s yours.

You’ll wash your hands of the blood before you hold your son’s faces in a moment. For now, you fight. You dispose. You kill.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus knows the carnage is done once the taps on the hull are to the rhythm of your favorite song. The one you haven’t stopped humming since you heard it three weeks ago, the one you buzz in his ear like a mosquito just before you go to sleep just to mess with him. And he’s never felt more relieved to hear the tune.

He opens the cabin doors, telling the boys to stay in their seats as he does. He’s sure it’s you. But the just-in-case is the wound that’s beginning to fester.

He feels you before he truly sees you, when you crash into him like an avalanche and wind your tired arms around his shoulders and cling. His strength takes leave entirely at your touch, except for the vice he holds you with around the waist with his arms.

“Sylus,” you breathe, finally. Feeling the air push all the way down to your lungs ushered by his scent. His name is a prayer on your lips, desperate and raw. “Sylus.”

He’s silent when he embraces you, holding on tight like you were his only lifeline. Like he’d collapse if he loosened even just that little bit. He’ll release when you complain, but for now, he needs your presence. He needs you.

When you have your fill, or at least enough for now, you tap at his shoulders to make way. He understands completely, peels himself off you like burnt skin and watches you sprint to a kneel before your children.

“Mama!” they cry, whispers turning to pitchy screams as they tackle you in a hug. Over your head, around your waist. “Mama! Mama!”

Kyros is sobbing, he doesn’t know why— he doesn’t feel sad or scared anymore. The opposite, really. But he doesn’t dwell, just curls up in your chest and grabs onto your clothes. Lucian has his arms around your neck, squeezing enough to choke— but you don’t mind. You don’t dare complain or pull them off to right their positions. Not now when your mind is only just registering that they’re okay. Realizing they’re alive.

“I sorry.” Lucian is still saying, feeling the guilt deep, deep in his little heart. He’ll carry it forever, but you’ll work on helping him understand how to lighten the load.

You shake your head. They watch as hot tears stream down their mama’s pretty face. “I’m glad you’re safe. I love you, I love you. I’m glad you’re okay.”

And so he cries too. And it carves you right open, drives a hook in the center of you heart— such little babies falling apart at the seams for a mistake they didn’t mean to make.

No one knows how long the reunion lasts, but you come to your senses once Kyros and Lucian are asleep in your arms. Sylus is no where in sight, having excused himself to deal with any more scum that linger. But you know better. His distance isn’t just because of the precautions. You know he is drowning now, too. And he is scrambling for something to pull him back to shore.

And your heart breaks that it isn’t you he reaches for.

Aside from your initial embrace, he hadn’t approached when you held your boys. He didn’t fall against the pile when you cried with your children. He didn’t dare touch any of you. And despite being busy checking little limbs for wounds or bruises, you see clear as day, in the corner of your vision, how Sylus’s hands tremble, how his hard eyes look far away— searching for something beyond comprehension. A balm, a reason to not feel shame.

And you will die a thousand deaths before you let him believe he’s alone. With a grunt, you push your legs to stand, supporting a twin on each arm and wander to the cabin doors. But just before you reach them, a wall of muscle blocks you from the exit.

You release a breath of relief, unaware he was within the cabin with you. “Kieran.”

“He asked you not to go out there.” he says simply. You don’t miss how his gaze lingers on the sleeping figures in your arms. You see the agony behind his front too.

You had thought earlier that the little ones were safe with him and Luke. But when they arrived empty-handed, they watched as your world fell apart— and theirs did just as fast. Hardening like machines, predators on the prowl, they march out to track their brothers down, without a hint of forbearance for whoever they find accountable for their disappearance.

Your heart squeezes at the look in his eyes, and you prop Lucian up your hip. “Take him.”

“You can’t possibly trust me.” he mutters, unable to look at you. “Not after…”

You guide the boy in his arms, taking in no argument. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw tightens when he grinds his teeth. “I should have been keeping an eye on them.”

“No, you were prepping for Sylus’s departure.” You point out. It was true. Before they’d gone, Luke and Kieran were securing the cargo within the aircraft.

But Kieran was raised by a stubborn beast. You know because you married that beast. “They said they were coming with us.”

And I didn’t take them, was what didn’t follow.

“They had every intention to go with their father.” Lucian had said so, apologized for, he’d tugged his brother away into the plane as soon as they saw the stairway to the aircraft on the way to the twins.

“We should have seen them. I should have noticed—“

“Kieran.” you sigh, exasperated and tired. “No, it’s not your fault.”

“He is my ward.” The declaration is whispered. It burns on his tongue as he watches the little boy stir in his arms at the rising voices. Then he looks at Kyros, Luke’s. The assignment was not outright, but internalized the moment the boys were born. They’d each protect one if not both. That was the oath they took and sworn their lives to. The more than they’d sought for their entire lives. “They are our brothers, and we failed them.”

You swallow. A haze in your mind as you struggle with the want to understand, the need to understand and be the comforting figure Kieran quietly asks for. But right now, you have no energy left to extend compassion, for your own misery has started to consume you whole as well.

Their brothers they’ve failed. Your sons, you’d lost. “How do you think I feel?”

Kieran’s lips press into a thin line and surrender dawns on his face. He can’t. He can’t imagine how you might feel, but he doesn’t regret speaking his thoughts to you. Doesn’t regret telling you that he’d lay his life down for your sons without question. So he lets it go, silently bowing his head in apology.

He accepts Kyros without a word when you hand him over as well. His muscles twitching at the effort to be gentle with these bodies after harming so many others. Others who deserved it. Others who caused them all pain.

Lucian shifts in his arm, turning his face to his chest and holding onto his clothes. From scent, or touch or voice, he’ll never know, but Lucian recognizes him and presses himself closer. Murmuring sleepily, “Kee-wan…”

Kieran feels the ground give way beneath his feet. He places a careful hand on the back of Lucian’s head and presses his forehead against his small one, like a lion repairing a bond.

You know he’ll protect them. He’d declared it so brazenly, and you never once doubted him or Luke, no matter how upset you get. You pray he sees that in the way you brush the blood of his cheek with your thumb, before you set off to find your husband.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

There is a jet in a nearby hangar. Smaller, cleaner, darker in color and sleeker in design. Enough to cloak itself and its passengers in the cover of the night.

He always feels you before he sees you. This time with the tug on his soul, like you’d been following the thread and pulling on it until it led you to the other end. To him. “We’re leaving in a moment.”

You step into his space. “Sylus…“

He doesn’t turn to face you from where he stands, within dead air and hollow cold, with shoulders locked and movements mechanical, preparing something else in his hands. Something small— deathly and incredibly cataclysmic.

You frown. “You’re going to burn the protocores?”

His voice is low, tone clipped. “The island.”

Your brows draw together in disapproval. “Sy—“

“Get the boys on the jet.” He practically snarls, grabbing another tool from a bench and walking away from you.

A mistake. To cut you off, firstly, and then to ignore you. You scow, grab his arm and turn him to meet your anger. His eyes burn at your audacity, and it fuels the fire already simmering in your chest.

No. Not after everything you’re going through. He does not get to do this. To bear the load, to corrode inside and let you watch. Not when you almost lost your boys, not when you almost lost him too. You hiss through gritted teeth. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

The darkness that has taken captive his soul burns, scalding and heavy in his anguish, responds to you. He feels it take form of the beast he was, then bow its head low and curl around your point of connection. Your skin on his, your hand on his wrist.

His eyes soften ever so slightly, not much, but enough for you to see. To calm the rage you are beginning to feel at the stubbornness that is manifesting within the crevices of the people you love. He mutters, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m here. Look at me.” You ask, firm. The tone you use on the boys when they are irrepressible. The tone you now use on him when he refuses to let you in.

He does, as he always will, and you see for the first time tonight the wreckage behind the rubies that used to shine. There is a sheen of glass that coats his gaze, the lights on the runway reflect on them devastating. His corneas are almost as red as his irises, and his eyes are lost— helplessly screaming, begging for justice, purgation, revenge.

You’d have collapsed if you didn’t take his face in your hands. Yet, you couldn’t afford that now when he needed you to hold him as his sanity is the crust of a planet’s about to implode.

“Get on the jet, please.” He pleads softly, his own head bowing down now to press his forehead to yours. Grounding himself in you, finding leverage in the other half of his soul.

“We got them all. It’s done.” You whisper, breath fanning over his lips. “Let’s go home.”

“It’s not enough.” He grits. Anger wild and untamed, itching to destroy— to level the world and rid it of filth. To rid it of people of who’ve tried to hurt his family. To rid it of putrid traces of what has happened so it can never happen again.

To spare himself of this memory.

“It is. It is.” You cry, caressing his cheeks with gentle fingers. You want him to come back—you need him to come back with you so you can gather your family close into your arms and keep them all away from harm. So you beg, brushing his hair to circle your palms around his jaw. “It is for now.”

He shakes his head, you grip him tighter as if that would make him stop. Enough, enough, enough please— or else you’ll slip and you’ll fall and you won’t be able to hold him up anymore. And you refuse to let him fall.

“I have to— they almost died.” His hand comes to squeeze your wrists, bringing your hands to his skin harder. Silently asking to hold, to bear unbelievable pain he cannot endure. Pain that slips through in the way his voice breaks, and his shoulders begin to unravel. “The way— I can’t, I can’t get it out of my head.”

“What, beloved?”

“The way they looked at me.” he chokes.

When Sylus breaks, he breaks in pieces. Like little flakes of paint of an old rusted pipe, fluttering in slow twirls in the wind as they fall to the ground. His undoing is quiet, it’s unnoticeable until the paint leaves entirely for the rust to weaken the pipe. Until the water breaks through and bursts from the flood awaiting inside.

You feel the weight of him increase in your hold as his knees buckle beneath. You feel him snake his arms around your waist and hold as if he’s being taken from you, pulled away by a relentless current in sea.

In place of tears, there is trembling. Shaking so profound he might affect the ground. His breaths are hard and heavy and effortful as he forces his lungs to work. And it is agony to watch the strongest man you know force himself to be stronger when he is clearly falling apart.

You let him, you hold the parts that break, pocket the pieces and patch your palms over the holes of his cracking vessel.

He lets you in. Married to you in every way, bonded to you beyond the universe’s laws. He lays out his sorrow, with a quivering voice only you have ever heard in this moment alone. “Lucian cried the whole time I landed the plane. He was screaming for you— begging me to bring him to you. And all I could think of was… what if I couldn’t? What if he never got to see you again because of me?”

“And Kyros—“ he rasps like he’s drowning.

“I— I didn’t even know if he was still breathing.” his teeth grind at the memory. Gripping the yoke and pulling the jet up from its nosedive, while simultaneously palming Kyros’s back to check if he was suspiring. “He was so still. He was so quiet. But I felt his tears, and I kept wondering if it was blood—if it was blood—“

Across the runway, beyond the carnage and chaos, the damaged plane waits. Your sons inside— safe, asleep, alive. But the man who saved them, their father who laid his life on the line to ensure their survival punishes himself before you.

And it is unbearable. Like a stone to your chest bearing down, to see him believe that he could ever fail in protecting your children. The dagger of this situation is now at your throat, you feel it break through the grip you held it at bay with in the face of Kieran. But now it pushes past muscle and bone, clean across at the sound of Sylus’s despair.

“I should have—“

You choke, nails digging into your palm. “I should have been watching them, I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry I let this happen. I’m sorry we almost lost them. I’m sorry I did this to you.

The reaction is a bullet in a wasteland. He stiffens and then— sudden and abrupt, his fingers grip tight on your shoulders. He doesn’t mind you falling apart with him, but blaming yourself was out of the picture. He knows you as well as you know him, and he refuses to let you believe you are point zero. “Don’t.”

“Sylus.” you’re helpless. All roads going back lead to you— your negligence, your carelessness. He saved them, you let them wander into the crossfire.

“Do not.” The command rumbles in his chest like a furnace. “I won’t hear it. It’s not.”

And like you told Kieran, he insists on you too. It’s not your fault.

And now neither of you know who’s holding who. All you feel is that wound— that what if that will haunt you until the end of time.

The silence washes over you both as the wind blows colder and yet you stay warm. Visions become clear, trembles cease. The scale’s shifting has stopped and a balance is met between the two hearts that have gathered together and held firm. It recedes for now, enough to melt the numb, enough to help you rise to your feet. Then—

“We must press on.” He says once you learn how to breathe again. When he no longer shakes and your tears have dried. The pain lingers, bitter on your tongues— a demon gnawing at your ankles no matter how far and how hard you try to run.

But he presses a kiss to your forehead, tugging you back along with him, wading the shallows back to shore hand-in-hand with you. You dove into his depths, reached for his hands and now he is saying, come back.

You have me now, come back with me.

It is humid and dim back on land, but you arrive, and you survive.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Kyros opens his eyes first to the blurred vision of a familiar face looking straight ahead. He escapes the sharper edges of a nightmare he now cannot remember. The pressure in the arms that hold him help him regulate his breathing. His hand comes up to touch the face of his cradle, drawing attention to himself with a soft bap. “Wook.”

Luke glances down, his face twisting into something unreadable for a toddler to recognize when he meets Kyros’s half-lidded gaze.

He swallows down the emotions that come with realizing he’s holding someone he could have lost today; with facing the innocent eyes of someone he failed. He takes the little hands on his face into his palm. His voice comes out, rough and unused, “Hey, Roro.”

Kyros scratches his belly. “M’hungry.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you want to eat?”

Kyros thinks in his sleepy haze. Luke watches each expression on his face, taking in the shifting of his eyes and the dip in his little brow, following the tiny hands that rub bleary eyes. His own lip wobbles as the thought of never seeing him again overwhelms him, and his sinuses flood with fire.

“Mashy ‘tatoes,” says Kyros finally, and Luke pulls him up from his belly to his chest in a tight embrace. Kyros giggles at the quick motion. “Ah!”

But then he hears the sniffling, and the bear hugging him is trembling. Kyros frowns, fingers fidgeting with the hood of Luke’s uniform. “Wook— is crying? No cry, Wook, s’okay. See? See?”

The day Luke executed the perfect deep-pressure hug for Kyros was a turning point for him. That day, he took it upon himself to memorize every flexion and extension of each and every muscle in his arms to recreate it. And soon enough, Kyros has been running to him to receive the grounding hug the most when he is scared or upset.

But now, the roles have reversed. No longer does he have the strength in his arms to deliver Kyros the comfort he’s so used to giving. Instead, he has the fear and the distress. It is Kyros who is using his short arms to draw him in a soothing embrace.

“When ya sad ’n feelin’ boo…” Kyros starts in a whisper and hums the instrumental that follows. It crushes Luke and he sobs even more. “Lemme pop sum bubbles wi’f you…”

Kyros is a mirror of all he loves. He watches and then does, and now he mirrors the way he is loved back.

Luke feels the movement and recognizes it despite not seeing Kyros’s hands. The little boy plants little pokes on his back, singing, “Pop, pop, pop…”

Luke lets out a soft snort, unable to stop the fond smile that emerges from the devastation. He pulls away and wipes at his tears to meet Kyros’s owlish, expectant look. Kyros places a few more pokes on Luke’s cheeks and chin, as he urges. “Pop, pop, c’mon, Wook.”

Luke shakes his head and a chuckle finally bubbles out of his chest. He pokes Kyros’s cheeks too. “Pop, pop, pop.”

Kyros smiles. Luke’s world raptures all around him, but the little boy in his arms anchors him in place, tiny fingers refusing to let him go. Together, they sing, “Pop, pop, pop.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Kyros and Lucian, who wakes not soon after, follow the trail of lights on the ground to the cockpit. The big twins hover, but allow them to lead the way. They only help to slide the heavy door open.

“What is it?” Sylus asks, assuming only either Luke and Kieran can open the cockpit door. He doesn’t turn from the expanse of the sky, all too focused on bringing you all home. Beside him, neither do you as you co-pilot the craft.

But you both do when two voices chorus a wonderous, “Woooooow.”

Before you know it, a little twin is climbing over each of your legs and settling themselves on their selected parent.

“Stars, papa!” Kyros says, pointing as if Sylus was the one who’d just gotten here.

“And clouds! Wow!” Lucian howls, bouncing on your knees. His small hands rest over yours on the yoke. “Can I try? Can I try, mama, please?”

Before they’d come in, you’d started to feel the tired tugging of fatigue beneath your salt-crusted eyes. Sylus had chided you to go to sleep, but you refused to leave him alone.

Lucian takes all of that away. The weight of him on you, the warmth his beating heart gives his body radiating off on yours and his bright carmine eyes twinkling back the lights on the console. You feel something in your chest loosen, and you’re wading water again with ease.

You nod, kissing his forehead tenderly, and give him the handles. Discreetly, you flip on auto-pilot as you drop your hands to keep him in place by the waist.

He wiggles it like a steering wheel of a car. It’s rendered useless for actually flying the jet, but he feels like he’s in control and that mattered to you more.

“This how papa do!” he exclaims suddenly, followed by an exaggerated actions of tugging and twisting. “Then—then, n’yeroowww!”

You find Sylus staring at him in awe. The crumple in his brow makes you wonder if he is hearing the screams of terror in the background of this too sudden joy.

“What did you think of papa, hm?” you ask Lucian, wanting to know, but also wanting to show Sylus that his children are what you raised them to be— children. They will be scared, and cry and do foolish things they know not are foolish, but they will come back to him with love every time. Just as how they were taught. Just as how you taught them.

“Papa was cool! He drived like—like this—“ he jiggles the yoke again, more enthusiastically this time. Grr-ing and roaring like he’s straining. “And I cryin— wahh!— I think, I think we was gonna to fall, and clouds gonna eat us!—but papa was drivin’ driving fast. Like this—“

The cycle goes on— papa was cool, he was driving, Lucian was crying, but papa was cool and he was driving.

Sylus is still waiting for that pin to drop, for Lucian to say something he believes— that papa was scary, papa was mean, papa made him cry.

But he never does. And the lump in his throat melts, the pounding in his ears quieten— the cut is still fresh, tender to the touch, but it no longer bleeds.

Half of the battle is won for now, until Sylus looks down at the twin on his lap. Kyros has turned to face him, legs tucked neatly to his chest as he waits for papa to look at him.

“Kyros,” Sylus rasps, lips as always drawn to his baby’s head. He murmurs, “You okay?”

He nods the way he usually does, using muscles in his torso to rock along with his head. “A-huh.”

“Were you scared, turtle?” Sylus asks. His fingers brushing over squishy cheeks and moon-touched hair, ritualistic and grounding for both of them.

“A-huh.” Kyros nods, always painfully honest.

Sylus feels his heart seize. “I’m sorry—“

“But—but, listened to papa. I listened to papa’s heart,” he says quickly, placing both hands over Sylus’s chest. Sylus stops, tilts his head in confusion, not understanding what he means.

“Like dis. See?” Kyros climbs, reenacting his hold on him earlier, underneath his clothes, when Sylus couldn’t see or feel him breathing. Kyros circles his arms around Sylus’s neck and positions his ear on his chest, then promptly hums, “Bum, bum, bum.”

And at last, for the first time today, Sylus feels the earth return beneath his feet. Benumbed before, he now feels the sting of the cold air on his face and a syrupy relief drain through his veins. His voice is broken when it emerges, “Did that help you, Kyros?”

“Yes. I follow mama.” he says, pointing at you who he’s seen the trick from. Who stares at him, listening in— eavesdropping as you so loved to do. He is referring to when you’d have bad days and lay yourself over Sylus’s heart to gather your thoughts. Unaware of the curious eyes watching and learning from your ways.

Sylus nods, failing to keep his emotions at bay. He hides his face in Kyros’s hair and kisses him over and over and over. “Good. Good, you did good.”

You feel it together, you and Sylus, the knot unraveling from your chest. Your heads breaking the surface tension of the heaviest of waters to take one full, real breath. The wrinkled tether between your souls stretched and righted to feel open and safe again, even if it’s just that little bit. All because of this, of them— your boys, of their forgiveness, of their love.

“Lava!” Lucian yells excitedly, seeing the blue hues of the sky transform to its melding yellows and oranges. You follow his reference and look forward. Despite his sensitivities, Sylus peeks over Kyros’s head to look too.

There is a line in the horizon, painted bright and slow; the emerging sunlight creating pools and craters of molten amber— lava—in the canopy of clouds.

Sylus still doesn’t know if he deserves any of it— the compassion, the kindness, the forgiveness in its purest form, in the shape of two little boys who’d stared into the eyes of death and placed all their trust into their father. Neither do you who they sought out for despite losing them. You will bear the wounds and the shortcomings from this for the rest of your life.

But when the dark clouds are turned golden by the light, you learn that you never had to ask for it. For once, there is a love purer than his and yours— theirs.

The sunlight washes over you all as you cruise the clouds above. The littles have never seen a sunrise from this vantage point, the bigs have forgotten what it looks like.

You and Sylus know what it means, what this feeling that settles in your bones as the morning offers refuge to the unfinished sorrows of the night.

A dawn, another chance. As the sky breaks open like your hearts have, you vow— today, you will try again.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Papa?” Kyros whispers. You all turn to listen to what he says and revel at the beauty of his dark eyes made light in the sunshine.

“Hm? Angel?” Sylus replies.

Kyros understands mornings to an extent too. A morning comes after sleep, and after ‘one sleep’ you promised him a special day. “You comin’ to Bubble Pals now?”

Lucian gasps in excitement, eyes glowing suns on their own, as he realizes too.

Sylus smiles, wide and genuine it almost hurts. And you see it, his hands catching their joy, their hope and their love. Without fail, as he always does and always will.

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so, so much for reading!

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 5 hours ago

Text

maybe a turtle

— Kyros thinks his papa is a ghost, but he's not afraid. Wherever Sylus runs, his son will always follow.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: it's kyros's turn!! sylus & kyros!! >0< just wanna say thank you so much for all the love and enthusiasm youve been showing the little twins. theyre so so fun to write about, and im glad there are people out there who enjoy reading about them too. i hope you enjoy this one! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: kyros is (my headcanon) 1/2 of sylus's twin boys. also around 4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩 read kyros's twin's chapter here ᡣ𐭩

sylus & kyros | sylus x reader | angst, fluff, comfort, sylus's son showing him that there will always be people missing him, dad!sylus, mom!reader

Kyros is scarily quiet. With everyone’s world so bustling and busy, he is often overlooked when he is just standing there. Walking so slowly, his footfalls were silent on tile and carpet. Each step is planted on the ground with care and patience.

Dark crimson eyes open for observing rather than knowing. Still trying to learn the earth beneath his feet and taking his sweet, mellow time with its wonders.

In his world: his brother Lucian is a fluttering bird, always moving, above the ground, and looming larger than his size. Coming down to make sure to tell Kyros all he sees.

His big brothers Kieran and Luke are music, loud and harmonious. Bounding around him when they play, moving him and carrying him like a melody. Making him feel an immense joy knowing they are around.

His mama is apple juice, sweet and comforting. Arms ready to take him in her embrace and sprinkle kisses over his cheeks like the sparkling bubbles in his sippy cup. Kind eyes and a pretty smile, enough to calm big feelings in his little heart. Make him feel safe.

And his papa is a ghost.

Papa’s presence is carefully threaded into the tapestry of his day. When his eyes open, Sylus is already there to lift him out of his crib for breakfast. When he waddles up to his papa’s bedroom or office door, without so much as a knock, Sylus is already opening it and lifting Kyros up in his embrace. When he’s out of the house— papa’s music plays in the study, papa’s food is in the fridge, papa’s scent is on the couch.

But papa has been busier these past few days, leaving early in the morning, returning too late at night for Kyros to run up to him at the door anymore. Although Sylus never leaves without sneaking into his bedroom to say goodbye with a kiss on his pudgy cheek or his hair, Kyros just thinks he’s hiding somewhere he cannot reach.

And each day, he feels that absence.

For the past few days, he’s asked, “Mama, where papa goes?”

And mama says the same thing, “On a mission, angel.”

So he pads over to the couch, on papa’s spot and waits. He wanders by his dizzy-spinning-CD’s and listens to his music. He nibbles on the cookies and crumbs he left in the meantime. Until he comes back. Until Kyros can find him again.

Papa is a ghost and Kyros is constantly trying to catch him.

But Sylus isn’t running away. So when he is caught, he submits to the whims of his little hunter.

“Got you.” Sylus startles at the voice. It was too late in the night for anyone in his family to be up still on a quiet weekend. He’d just gotten home from a mission across cities, ones that left his neck with a crick and his head aching with the incompetence of the people he was with.

So it was a surprise to find Kyros out of the blue, in the dead of night, waddling into the study. Soon, he is climbing up on Sylus’s lap, slowly grabbing a crease in his shirt, hauling his body up the legs, and wriggling to right himself to sit upright. Wedging himself between his papa and his papa’s work.

“Hello, Kyros.” Sylus says, lips already drawn to his head in a tender kiss. “‘Got’ me?”

Kyros clasps his hands together, clapping like he was catching a bug. “Like dis.”

“Mm.” Sylus pushes away from the desk and curls his arms around his son’s body, unconsciously drawing him against his belly. “Papa is a mosquito?”

Kyros smiles a little, releases a breezy little giggle like wind chimes on a warm summer day. “No. Papa not mosquito.”

Sylus’s heart flutters at the sound. “Then why did you catch me—“ he imitates the catching with one large hand. “—like this?”

Kyros lingers on the metaphor a little longer. Watching his own hands open and close, distracted by how they move. Sylus notices and imitates the movement with him while he waits for a response.

Finally, it comes when Sylus closes his hand around Kyros’s little fingers, drawing him back to the conversation. “Gotcha.”

Kyros laughs again, prying large fingers off his hand and then patting them. Sylus asks again, wriggling his fingers over his happy, squeezed-crescent eyes. “Why did you catch me, angel?”

Kyros catches his hand and hugs it to his chest. His tone is patient, like how you would explain how soup is meant to be cooled down before you slurp, but with the hint of you should know obviousness. “Is i’cause you quick, papa.”

“I’m quick.” Sylus nods, affirming his ideas. “Papa has long legs.”

“I haves tiny-tiny legs.” Kyros runs with the thought. “And i’cause Kyros is slow.”

Sylus’s lips quirk. “Slow? My Kyros?”

“A-huh. Like turtle.” he’s moving again, small hands petting against Sylus’s chest, head bobbing side to side to imitate a turtle’s scooting on the sand.

“I see.” Sylus has seen you read the boys that book before bedtime. Lucian asked all the questions and acted out all the running. Kyros always just sat there and blinked like he was downloading your voice. “And is papa the hare?”

He thinks a little, looking up at Sylus like he was picturing him with big ears and buck teeth. He shakes his head at the image. “No, papa is papa.”

“Ah,” Sylus tilts his head, considering. “I mean, is papa like the hare? Fast?”

Kyros nods then, getting the semantics now. “Papa like’a hare. And— and like a horse. And a race car. And flyin' ‘Pisto.”

Sylus chuckles something sincere, finds rest in his son’s voice listing the many fast things he is like. His presence was a calm rush of fresh water over his aching bones. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he snuck out of his bedroom past his bedtime. He just listens, breathes him in, grateful. For being a tether to follow back home from being someone other than papa.

He’s here, he promises, he’s listening. Despite the way his arms begin to slacken around Kyros’s body. Despite the way his eyes droop slowly, and the voice he listens to sounds like it’s wandering further down a tunnel he cannot see the end to. Slowly being engulfed by the crackling fire in its hearth. He takes a deep breath, he’s listening… so close to sleep—

“… and leave Kyros behind.” Ice runs through his veins.

Bleary eyed, but alert, he blinks at Kyros in confusion. “What… what was that, Kyros?”

Kyros is already staring up when he peers down. There’s a look on his face that resembles when he is about to get in trouble. He’d heard the tone of Sylus’s voice, and if his children are anything they are incredibly perceptive.

So Sylus breathes, meets him where he was and tries again. “You think papa leaves you behind?”

The look of guilt on Kyros’s face remains as he nods. He doesn’t know just why he feels bad for telling Sylus the truth, only feels that something has changed. The quiet isn’t so warm anymore, and papa is taking careful breathing breaths like he does when he’s a little scared.

And Sylus slips, fall headfirst down a mudslide of his own painful thoughts. Suddenly, every moment with Kyros leading up to now is a focal point— why did he stay awake until he got back? why would he say these things if he did not feel it so strongly? why would he look so sad, so betrayed at the thought if it weren’t true?

And the truth— Sylus is so used to being a shadow if not the wind, of smoke and feathers, of disappearing without notice, of leaving no crumbs to follow. Of being alone.

Even after all these years, he still fails to remember that he is no longer who he was. No longer a beast in isolation, no longer a monster that is feared.

Now, he is a partner, a father. And the people who look for him aren’t always trying to kill him. And the people who witness his absence do not celebrate it, but miss his presence.

The people who need him now need him not for his wealth or his power or his influence— they just need him. To be present, to be loving, to be here.

And now he knows, he is told, that he might be failing at that too. He opens his mouth to speak— apologize, explain, fix, something—but Kyros beats him to it.

“Papa,” Kyros says carefully. He’s sensed the turmoil. The way papa, again, has disappeared despite being here in front of him. He rises to his knees, reaching up to plant his hands on Sylus’s cheeks— just as mama does— and ushers him back. “Papa, wait for me.”

Sylus is thrown another blow to the gut. Another world-shattering glimpse into the true meaning of his son’s presence here now.

Sylus doesn’t just disappear physically. He runs, sprints, shoots off emotionally too. Leaving his family for the tide of shame that consumes him. Leaving his son to wonder what he said wrong that made him drift away once more.

“Kyros…” he swallows, voice so soft it breaks at the edges. Chooses words carefully. His large hands come up to cradle soft cheeks back as he whispers, “Papa is here. I’m here, angel.”

Kyros’s face brightens at the touch. The way Sylus squeezes his face fondly. “Hi, papa.”

His poor heart shatters. His eyes prickle and his nose burns. He overturns all the memories and things he's done in his life to deserve this— and helplessly finds nothing. And yet, here he is. He rasps, “Hello, Kyros.”

“Papa waiting?”

“Papa waiting.”

“Papa wait and—and Kyros catch.” Kyros pats his hands gently on Sylus’s cheeks this time, literally catching father’s rough edges in his soft, tiny palms. Unknowingly catching his unwinding sanity, his breaking heart, and his fraying soul too.

It floors him, drives him into the ground in a harsh wreck. How once he held Kyros’s newborn frame in a cradle of his two hands. And now, somehow, Kyros holds the entire weight of him.

And to Kyros, it feels like he weighs nothing at all.

Sylus watches fondly. His son, with his eyes and his hair, but your determined expression. Your patience. Your understanding. Your forgiveness. Your love.

This gift, you’ve carefully poured into this boy, who now generously douses him with it.

“Kyros will always catch papa?” his voice shakes when he asks, deft fingers brushing messy hair away from sparkling eyes. A hope. A wish.

Kyros takes a while to answer questions only because he likes the thinking part of it all, but for this one, he answers immediately. “Yes. I good at it.”

His eyes close and his breath returns to him. He bows his head in his hold; a dragon succumbing to his hunter. He agrees.

Kyros is always looking enough to see, smart enough to notice, patient enough to understand, and slow— devastatingly and achingly slow enough for Sylus to realize and do the same, to feel the same. To be pulled into his orbit as a planet to the slow burning sun.

The lump in his throat melts and trickles away. Feels a wound once poorly stitched—reopened, disinfected and bound together again with better trappings by smaller, gentler hands.

Of which their owner is trusting because he knows nothing else. And his son proves time and time again that his failures in this life and the last or any other life before, does not equate to the man they see now. Does not carry over to his papa.

Kyros asks for nothing, but for him to wait. To be caught. To slow down. To stay.

The tears fall before he even takes notice. He doesn’t pull away or hide. He practices what he is asked for. He keeps still, and tilts his forehead to make contact with his son’s. “Thank you, Kyros.”

Kyros presses back, unsure why papa is crying, but happy with his touch. His presence. Clumsy fingers wipe away salty tears, which Sylus’s lips chase with kisses. “You welcome, papa.”

He vows then, in the tranquil bubble his son has created for them, that he even when he cannot figure out what he did to deserve him, he will be what he deserves. A ghost that can be caught. A hare that celebrates the turtle’s wins.

“What can papa do for you, my turtle?” he scoops the little boy up by the armpits and lets him rest on the crook of his elbow.

Kyros presses his nose to Sylus’s jaw and hums. An all too familiar action again from a bigger, more motherly source. “Apple juice, pease?”

“Before bedtime?” Sylus asks, voice lilting in amusement. Though he’s already pushing his chair back and standing, with every intention to deliver.

Kyros blinks back, eyes mirthful and sparkling. Sylus’s chest caves, he is brought to his knees at the sight. His fingers come up to pinch full cheeks, having a mind of their own.

“Ma bub, pease?” Sylus laughs, loud and resonant, at your tactics of persuasion making their way to your children now. My love’s lips press adoring kisses to his temple.

Kyros wounds his short arms around Sylus’s neck, giggling like he knows he is his powerful and untouchable father’s weakness. Ever grateful for his presence, a too big feeling for his too little body to make sense of for now. But it is there.

The halls echo the sound of humming, deep and rusty— a practiced lullaby whose notes are bent and twisted, but perfectly aligned to the little ears that listen.

And Sylus walks slowly, his footfalls muted against the tile and carpet. Memorizing the current weight of his too-quickly growing baby against his chest, the warmth of his breath against his collar and the tenderness of his embrace. Ceaselessly chasing these moments so as not to miss a single one. Remembering to be still once he is there.

He clings just as much as Kyros does to this love— gentle, quiet, here— if not more.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Hate ‘ishuns!” Kyros’s voice pulls you from the trenches of sleep. You make a tired, inquisitive sound like you were simply lost in the conversation.

“Hmm?”

“Shh,” he is scolded. For a moment there is quiet again, and just the static in the air, and so you start to drift once more.

“No more ‘ishuns, papa,” Kyros harrumphs and now you open your eyes to the dim light. Beside you, Sylus is seated up against the headboard with Kyros on his stomach— both wide eyed and guilty.

You release a deep breath. “Apple juice, Sylus?”

Sylus winces at your tone. “He said ‘my love’.”

“and pease.” Kyros adds.

“We’ll go, sweetie,” Sylus offers, moving to scoot off the bed, bring their little late night conversation elsewhere.

He plants a kiss to your forehead, and so does Kyros. But neither gets far, for despite your sleep laden haze, your grip is strong on Sylus’s arm. “No. Stay.”

Kyros clears his throat.

You sigh fondly. “Please.”

And so they do.

✧˚ ⋆｡ prev: maybe a dragon (lucian) || read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 5 hours ago

Text

maybe a dragon

— Lucian wants to be like his papa, which strikes fear into Sylus's heart like no other.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: lucian & sylus spotlight!!! did i cry when i wrote this? yes, i did. it was just supposed to be a soft banter thing exploring their dynamic but it kinda snowballed into this... now both lucian and kyros (coming up next! out now!) have angsty drabbles. i hope you enjoy this one! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: lucian is (my headcanon) 1/2 of sylus's twin boys. around 4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩 read lucian's twin's chapter here ᡣ𐭩

sylus & lucian | sylus x reader | angst, fluff, comfort, sylus's son showing him that every part of him is lovable, dad!sylus, mom!reader tw: mentions of past violence/self-harm

Lucian likes it when papa is startled. It’s an emotion he’s extremely gifted in bringing out of him. Not by hiding around corners and going ‘boo!’. No, papa just smirks at that and shakes his head, tells him to try again.

Lucian is especially talented in being in places papa never expects (or never wants) him to be in.

“Lucian!” Sylus barks, rushing over to him who balances himself on the window sill. Peeling fat little cheeks off of the glass and cradling him to safety.

“Lucian.” Sylus warns when Lucian is halfway up the bookshelf. He supervises, but when Lucian loses footing, Sylus is quick to scoop him up and out of the study, drawing him close to his heart and calming his own erratic breathing.

“Lucian?!” Sylus exclaims, rushing down the stairs after his son who passes him, sliding down the banister.

Statues, trees, shelves, counters, tables and chairs— Lucian craves height. A bird’s eye view. Everything would be so much easier for him if tiny dragon wings popped out of his back. Although, that would be another headache for Sylus altogether.

“Papa?” he asks one morning, already hauling himself up his father’s legs. Hair messy from sleep, having followed Sylus out to the balcony. His bare feet had pitter-pattered on the cold tile, and now he longs to be lifted.

Sylus has since shifted his routine to keep up with his family. He doesn’t mind it, not when he spends most of his waking hours being cuddled by his two boys, and his evenings snuggled up against you.

“Yes, angel?” Sylus quirks his elbow out, just enough for the boy to use it as leverage.

“D’you—do you likes going up?”

“Upstairs?” Sylus asks, slightly teasing. He tilts his head to the side to give Lucian his shoulder to grip.

“No, no,” Lucian says. Shifting comfortably, completing his climb now with both legs dangling off of Sylus’s shoulders. He is pointing to the slowly coloring sky, tilting his head down just enough that Sylus can see his eyes. “Up, up-high, papa?”

“Oh,” Sylus nods. He thinks, he does appreciate being out on the balcony, checking in hotel rooms on the top floor, plane rides, looking at the scenery from atop a mountain after hiking it with you. Perhaps he does, although he doesn’t outwardly seek the thrill of it. “I do. But I don’t… look for it. I’m tall.”

Hopeful eyes shine with enthusiasm only children can exude. “Will I be tall?”

Sylus revels at this, singing, “Maybe.”

“Why maybe?”

“Because mama’s small.”

“Mama not small.” Lucian giggles.

“Mama’s a kitty cat. Very tiny.”

“No, mama not!” he giggles again, little bubbles of joy bursting from his chest. Stomach trembling against the back of Sylus’s head, ruffling his father’s hair. Contagious, Sylus grins too, straining to get a glimpse of Lucian’s laughing.

Tiny means Mephisto— and Lucian distinctly recalls looking upwards when asking mama for sweeties.

Sylus reaches up and pinches his cheek. “Who knows? Maybe your whiskers will come in before your wings.”

Lucian flinches, gasping like he’d just been startled by thunder. An excitement rushes through him, and his little fists tug at two spots on Sylus’s head that would’ve been too sharp for such soft hands a lifetime ago. “I’ll get wings?”

It feels like an attack, when it flashes in Sylus’s mind like lighting— the image of his son with wings and scales and the tiniest of horns. Sylus has to take a grounding breath, distress reflecting in how his voice drops into a somber tone.

“Or whiskers.” he tries to play along, to steer him ever so gently elsewhere. To you, back to you. His son will have his face, but he prays for him to have your heart, your soul.

But Lucian has already invaded his vision— bright amber eyes and a happy smile. One Sylus has never seen on a face like his regarding turning into a monster. It makes his stomach churn, his throat tighten, his muscles into stone. Like when he once lived in that cave, unmoving and undisturbed. Like when he was slain for being that very thing Lucian’s eyes shine for now.

What once was something cursed unto his body, bloody and battered by his own hands— his son now craves. His son now wants with unabashed wonder. A gripping, heart-leaping prospect rather than the most horrific of fates.

Sylus takes a deep breath through his nose, reeling it in. He feels his jaw tremble at the exhale, refusing to be dragged into the riptide of his anguish. Not now, he wills himself, not in front of Lucian.

But his child’s desire knows no fences or stone walls, especially when he feels it draws him closer to his father.

“Papa, I want wings.” he says simply. Upside down, kissing his forehead, because mama does it when she’s near papa’s face too.

Sylus flinches slightly at the all-too familiar action, not enough to jostle Lucian, but just so for the boy's voice to lower just that little bit. As if he thought he’d startled a poor deer. Lucian whispers, “Two please?”

Sylus can feel the phantom crystal heart in his chest crack. And he knows for sure that one day, his love for his children will be the cause of its inevitable shatter.

And he thinks this is his punishment for all the grief he’d caused you when you found him that day tending to his crumpled wings and bloodied horns. These things he’d purposefully hidden and tucked away to not horrify you now like he did back in that life, in that cave.

To be faced with a soul that is both yours and his— with his face and your smile— telling him he wants to be just like him. Just like Sylus. And every inch of hate and dread for who he was is sickeningly turned on its head, slapped across his face in the image of his boy. Because how could he hate that of what he loves so dearly?

And yet, maybe this is what you see when you look at him. This is what you marvel at with galaxies in your eyes and tenderness in your touch— his face, with the heart of a dragon. This— in the shape of a little boy— is who he is. One who cares, not abandons. Who feels, not hurts. Who loves, not leaves.

Just like you did, your son cradles his being in tiny hands. Just like you did, his son looks at him with boundless affection. Just like you did, his son caresses his horns, embraces his wings. Just like you do, his son is cleaning his bloodied wounds, whispering words of comfort and telling him— “It’s okay. You’re beautiful, and I love who you are.”

And somehow, that makes the pain bearable. Maybe now, he believes it too.

“Okay.” Sylus says through the lump in his throat. Swallowing thickly sticky sentimental pain to replace with something else. Something better. Something good.

He gently maneuvers his beautiful beastly boy down into his arms into an embrace, burying his nose in his starlight hair and pressing his lips to the space between his brows. “Two then, for my Lucian.”

His Lucian, whose talent lies in startling his papa with how little of him it takes to heal the wounds he’d thought were too deep to reach. Though, he supposes little hands can squeeze through the crevices of his heart just fine.

His Lucian, whose talent also lies in making his papa cry.

In silence, you catch them staring at the dawning of a new day. Two silhouettes of the same shape, talking fondly to one another, against the rising orange hues of the endless sky.

“Will I get big wings?” Asks the little one.

“Maybe.” Says the big one. “Mephisto’s wings are small.”

“Papaa!” Lucian whines and hopelessly buries his face in Sylus’s hair. Just like you do. And, for Sylus, what a delightful thing it is.

✧˚ ⋆｡ next: maybe a turtle (kyros) || read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 5 hours ago

Text

— no matter how late he comes back, his family will always welcome him home

Sylus has had a long day.

He’ll never appreciate the silence that greets him when he pushes through the heavy oak doors of his home. Not as much as the hurricane of two toddlers tripping over themselves to grab at his legs and climb up his clothes as if a tree had entered their house.

Despite the chaos, he has never felt more at peace at the end of the day than in those moments.

Silence offers a different kind of peace. And in the early hours, so long before dawn, he has no choice but to welcome it.

Missions don’t always go awry, as long as he can help it. But his streak can’t always be perfect.

Achy and sore, his bare feet pad over carpet through the dimly lit home as he makes his rounds.

First, a peek in his twins’ room— each of the two nest-like beds contains a little one breathing and sleeping peacefully. Lucian with his short limbs sprawled to all corners of his bed, little shirt had ridden up from all the movement, exposing his round belly to the cold air. Kyros sleeps curled up a little too tightly in on himself, wrists bent and fists inward towards his chest beneath his chin; knees to his tummy, a speckle of dribble down his chin.

Sylus leans on the door for a while, fondly watching his two most precious treasures. Then, he moves forward, careful not to make a sound.

He tugs Lucian’s shirt down his stomach and tucks his unruly arms and legs tightly in to the blanket. Sighs when one arm escapes and is raised over his head. Kyros is unwound, wrists untwisted and tight fists opened. Sylus massages his jaw to make sure he isn’t clenching, and then fixes the soft blanket back over his shoulder. For a moment, he worries that Kyros had woken when his finger is grabbed, but the grip loosens just as quickly.

With a kiss on each their foreheads, Sylus moves to his next destination.

Mephisto greets him just a few steps down the hall, a little ways away from Kieran’s and Luke’s rooms. He’d asked them to go on ahead home during the mission, and when Mephisto confirms that they’d arrived safely, a weight falls off of Sylus’s shoulders.

In your shared bathroom, he scrubs off dirt, grime and blood from his skin. Heals his wounds in the mirror. Midway through his routine, when you knock on the bathroom door, he takes the time to gently redirect you back to bed.

Despite being clad only in a towel around his waist, you cannot make out any marks or scars on his skin. “Sylus…”

“Not hurt.” is all he says, kissing your head and pushing you back on the bed.

Stubborn, you stay upright. “I’ll wait.”

He breathes through his nose, a soft puff of air. Thinks you’re impossibly, and incredibly endearing. And doesn’t hold it against you when you’ve slumped snoring sideways, legs still hanging off the side of the bed when he finally comes out in dark pajamas and soft white shirt (your favorite), ready for bed.

He fixes you too, just like he did your sons, and then finally curls up behind you. He presses you closer to his chest, inhaling his favorite scent off your neck where his nose finds a home.

He smells of soap and clean linen. You twist to burrow closer, his chest a den for the blistering cold of a lonely winter. He hums when you murmur something about being late. He apologizes with a press of his lips to your shoulder and a promise to make it up to you in the morning.

Silence is a welcome kind of peace tonight. Soon, he is pushed off from shore, rocked by the tides of unconsciousness and dreams. A still, hushed slumber.

A short slumber, he’d come to realize, when Lucian wakes him up with a tap on his foot.

“Papa.” he whimpers, little hands clutching his stomach. Voice soft and unnaturally crunchy. “I did a throw up.”

Sylus, bleary-eyed and half-conscious, takes in his little boy in the dark. Hair sticking up in different directions, dribble on his chin and chunks of—he didn’t want to know what—on his Bubble Pals official merchandise pajamas. Nodding wordlessly, he lifts Lucian up by the armpits, walks with him at arms length and cleans him up in the bathroom before you can even stir.

“I sorry.” says Lucian in the bathtub as Sylus washes his feet and hands. He says it again when Sylus changes his beddings— thankfully, his sick missed the mattress by a hair, and almost everything was on the floor.

“It’s fine.” he supplies for his toddler, kissing his cheek. He’d dressed him in a onesie this time, to keep his shirt from riding up and chilling his gut. “Good job coming to papa.”

When he manages to tidy everything up, tuck Lucian back under the covers, and clean himself up, he crawls back in bed. Only to find Kyros in his spot in your arms.

“Papa.” large eyes blink at him, waiting for him. Kyros is wrapped in your sleepy embrace, but he is wide awake.

“Kyros…” he mutters. He feels the weight under his eyes tugging at his sanity as he squeezes into the bed next to him. Kyros reaches out and Sylus puts his finger on his palm.

“Papa, I dream a mountain.” he rasps. A failed attempt at a whisper.

Sylus’s eyes droop. “That’s nice, angel...”

“And—and a big, big lizard. ‘ike a dinosaur, but with wings.” he continues. something of confusion crosses his features when Sylus doesn’t respond, so he baps his forehead once, twice. “Psst, papa.”

Sylus snorts, head bobbing forward and shooting back up. “Huh?”

“I said a lizard.” says Kyros, hands cupped around his mouth like he’s reiterating a secret.

And really, if he didn’t love him so much, he would’ve just flipped over to his back by now. But he wouldn’t dare, wouldn’t consider it even—not when the little one inherited the fire that burns in you when you’re pushed to your limits. And so, he sighs, “Wow. That’s scary.”

“No, not-not scary. Was nice, and there rocks. And the red flowers…” Kyros muses, on and on like a tranquil little lullaby. And Sylus is struggling, fighting tooth and nail against his body screaming, begging to be conked out. “Papa? Lis’en.”

“I’m here, I’m here.” he yawns, propping his head up on his elbow. His eyes slant into tired slits trying to keep up with Kyros’s lively round ones, focusing on the stars from the window’s reflections onto them. “What of the red flowers?”

“They pretty.”

“Did you pick some for mama?”

Kyros nods, yawning. “Just this many.” each of his raised three fingers are pinched lightly by Sylus. “Can’t count more.”

Sylus hums. Appreciating his kindness, and how his cheeks look extra squishy in the moonlight. Like marshmallows. Pillows. Clouds… He clears his throat, “Where are they?”

Kyros tugs down on the skin of his papa’s cheeks, effectively widening the eyes that slowly close on him. “In the cave. With the lizard.”

Sylus is running out of things to say. He closes his eyes—a long blink, he justifies— and asks, “Is… mama the lizard?”

Thwack.

He flinches at the sudden smack on his head. Your hand had come alive and reached for the first thing it could hit at his remark. Showing no other sign of consciousness, it baffles him how you even registered that. He can’t fight the amusement though, as he captures your fingers and kisses your knuckles in fatigued atonement.

“Mama da queen.” says Kyros, completely unphased by the zombie hand.

“Queen of the cave?” Sylus asks. Your fingers pinch the corner of his mouth, and he is given a warning grunt. He chuckles, waking just that little bit.

Just as Kyros winds down. “No, papa.” he sighs hopelessly, slipping deeper into your embrace. His own eyes close and he snuggles closer to you.

Sylus waits ten seconds, twenty, and when thirty rolls in, he breathes a sigh of relief. He turns on his stomach, throws his arm over the mattress to hang, and finally allows himself to slip beneath the cover of unconsciousness.

bap.

bap. bap.

“Huh?”

“Papa!” Lucian climbs the arm dangling off the bed. Then, he’s sitting on Sylus’s back. “Papa.”

Sylus groans, at the verge of tears, but so utterly besotted he has no other programmed response. “My angel?”

“Papa, Kee-ro gone.” Small fingers take hold of Sylus’s ears and are tugged outward. As if stretching them would make them hear better. “Papa, need’ta find— AH!”

Sylus flexes, knocks him off his back and onto the bed beside his brother’s sleeping figure. Lucian lands with a quiet ‘oof!’ and blinks a few times to comprehend what just happened.

Sylus shifts to his side to face Lucian. Eyes closed, he takes the boy’s hand and places it on where he thinks his twin is. “He’s right here.”

“Oh,” Lucian nods. Then he scoots, back pressing against Sylus’s chest and curling in on himself. “Can sleep here?”

Sylus hums.

“Pa?” Lucian asks, louder.

Sylus drawls helplessly, “Lucian…”

“Can sleep—“

“Yes.”

He giggles. Gifts him a soft caress on his chin. “I not done.”

Sylus loves him. Oh, Sylus loves him so much. He grits, lovingly. “Mm?”

“Can sleep here?”

Sylus waits a beat. And then, “Yes.”

“Tank yoo.” Lucian says, scrambling up to plant a kiss on his father’s cheek. Effectively thawing a tired stone heart. “Nighty, papa. Love you, papa.”

Then, he digs his fingers in Sylus’s heavy limb and hoists it to wrap around him like a blanket. Sylus responds, shifting and then cradling him on to his chest. Sylus can’t help but ask, “Not sick anymore?”

Lucian shakes his head. “Nuh-uh.”

And when Lucian drifts off into sleep, the hum of silence fills the room once more.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

A lifeless refrain.

A vacuum.

Sylus’s eyes snap open. Bloodshot, heavy— and yet wide awake. Still listening, waiting. Running through his head—another tap, another gag, another whisper, another story needing to be heard. Waits, waits, wa—

Until another hand rattles him, soft and cool. Like feathers up his cheek. A plush velvet thumb brushes the tender weights beneath his eyes. Then prickles from the thorns of the most beautiful rose scrape his scalp; sending shooting stars down his spine. Each light extinguished upon the calming waters of awaiting slumber.

“My love,” your voice a siren’s call and he is driven insane.

Thinking you need something, ready to rise and do whatever for you despite it all, he presses his face into your palm. “Beloved?”

“Rest.” you tell him instead, caressing. Caring. “Thank you. Rest.”

And that is enough to push him back to the once quiet sea—silence now filled by the sound of his family’s melodious existence—and let the current of dreams lull him to sleep.

something cozy. thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹ᰔ

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 5 hours ago

Note

How will Silus react to a son who shows dragon instincts (stealing something shiny, collecting and keeping it as a treasure, etc.)?

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: hi hi! thanks for sending this in hehe kinda got away from me, but this was extremely fun to think about and i hope you like it! ˙˚ʚ(´◡`)ɞ˚˙

i think he'd be deeply amused! i have a personal headcanon that sylus actually isn't rid of his dragon form/abilities in this life, he's just more powerful and strong enough to mask them now 24/7 hehe

what throws him mostly is when the kids express their want to be like him (because of the implications of that and his own perception of himself). but their natural instincts and traits, sylus expected that and now takes it on as a challenge to hone and help with.

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | a fight between the little twins (´•̥ ᵔ •̥`) angst, fluff, family dynamics, exploring the littles' draconic traits!

Lucian is more his father's son in terms of more outward, classic draconic traits— seeking height to fly, collecting trinkets and treasures, easily allured by shiny and pretty things. Did he not have a twin to bond with (and very social older brothers), Lucian would have had trouble sharing/socializing. He can be very territorial and protective with things he thinks he is responsible for (ex. a specific dino plushie from the big twins, a spot on the couch, a blanket, Kyros).

Sylus's role with Lucian is trying to find that balance of what he can do to regulate himself as a little boy and at the same time not repress any of the inherent instincts he cannot help. He reminds him often that it's okay to act accordingly as long as he isn't malicious or mean.

"You have to choose the better choice." Sylus would say, drawing a sobbing Lucian into his embrace after a fight with Kyros. "Do you want to protect your hoard or your brother?" "But is my trinky." Lucian hiccups, pushing through sudden painful inhales. He clutches the clicky little egg toy in his hand (think bakugan), which weighs heavier with the guilt every passing second he stews in his mistake. Sylus sighs, voice low and gentle. "You yelled at Kyros." "I sorry!" "I know you are, angel." Sylus frowns. His heart aching at the confusion in Lucian's face— wondering what he did wrong, why his need to defend was a bad thing, why he was getting scolded when it was Kyros who took the toy without permission. "But you really hurt Kyros." Little fingers stop their fidgeting on the trinket. smaller, quieter, Lucian murmurs. "I not mean it..." "Papa, I feel bad here," Lucian says, taking Sylus's hand and placing it on his chest. Like he wants to puke. Like he wants to scream. Like he wants to cry his insides out. "Don't like it." Sylus holds him tightly— allowing his presence to be whatever Kyros might need at this moment. He thinks it inadequate, but what he doesn't consider is that it is infinitely more than he had before he met you. And for now, it is enough. "Maybe we say sorry to Kyros? What do you think?" "I give yellow trinky?" he is still shaky when he pitches it. clutching his precious crimson trinket to his chest. "Red one is mine. but- he can borrow. but—but this mine." "That's a start," Sylus kisses his brow. It's not a perfect bow-tied solution, but it's his own. and it's clever and kind and still Lucian. and Sylus cannot be prouder. "Let's go find your brother."

Kyros's qualities are more inert, subtle. He is still territorial and protective— just not to the extent of a Lucian-like reaction of yelling or snarling. If his little hoard is breached, he'd probably harbor a deep sense of resentment towards whoever did so. He remembers everything— the kindness, the betrayal. He trusts gradually yet deeply and isn't the easiest to ask for a second chance.

Kyros's traits manifest in him being watchful and vigilant, protecting his space and his circle more than his trinkets and treasures. He prefers being alone with the exception of his family— and yet even then, he still has moments where you'd find him wandering away from Lucian and the big twins to check on his own stuffies in another room or just rearrange some toys in his collections.

He's deeply sensory-seeking! Kyros is very sensitive to specific sounds (you and sylus humming into his temple so he feels it resonate in his skull), vestibular and tactile input (squeezy-squeezes!), scents (papa's brings the most comfort of all because of that time he was sick).

Sylus's own instincts would urge him to protect him, shelter and hide. But he knows that isn't the better choice. So instead, he teaches grounding to Kyros when his instincts tell him to float away. To hide, but always come back home.

Kyros hates loud sounds— when the karaoke mic goes wrong, when the trumpets on papa's CDs start shouting, when something falls off a shelf and makes a loud thud!. He's gotten better at reacting to them, and no longer has that instinct to cry or yell when it happens. His tantrums come from not being able to rearrange the things that get jumbled inside his head when he is startled like that. He shares that with his father— a replica of home in their mind with everything in its perfect place. But unlike him, Kyros has yet to keep his composure when it is rattled. Sylus teaches him to organize, arrange and at the same time be flexible with it. He was taught that he could grit his teeth, put his head between his knees, and count to ten until it passed. Or simply go to papa or mama when it doesn't. But this sound— this sound creates a landslide in his mind, a devastation far too great to reorganize all by himself. "Go away, Kyros!" Lucian's voice is hoarse as he yells the curse at the top of his lungs. Kyros freezes. His limbs stone and fire all at once. His vision is reduced to blurs of color as the tears build and blind him. He doesn't know what to do, and when Sylus emerges from the other room at the sound, his instinct is to run. Hide. Not be seen, perceived. Alone— where he can't be hurt. You find him in his bedroom, frozen on his bed. clenching and unclenching fists, eyes crystalline with unshed tears. "My love." you coo in sympathy, gently curling yourself around him, taking him into your arms, and placing him in the cradle of your crisscrossed legs. He lets the tears fall then, quiet still. Clinging to your warmth, your scent. Fists crumpling the soft fabric of your shirt. You don't talk, but your fingers intertwine with his, and you draw him closer to your chest as you breathe the way you want him to. Your hand squeezes his palm, the hinges and joints of his fingers, wrists, elbows, and shoulders. Then a familiar forgotten lullaby is hummed into his temple as you kiss him tenderly. When he is no longer wound, no longer rigid like scales but soft like the baby you reared, he speaks. voice small, rusted, and fragile. "I make cian mad." You nod. He did. You saw his twin crying to his papa before you raced off to find him. "I no mean it." his lip wobbles just as his words. "I just... want to see." You hum, listen to him. It's what he needs, to be heard. And when he is ready to listen to you too, you offer: "Lucian probably didn't mean it either." Kyros pouts. "He yelling at me." "But he cried too." you say, smoothing his hair, meeting his eyes. "Lucian doesn't like hurting you." His brow furrows. He knows that is true. His mind struggles, but he places each totem, each memory, and each fact back on their shelves. Just as Sylus taught him to do so. Hide, fix, then come back home. Lucian loves him. Lucian loves his clicky red dragon. Lucian lets him borrow things when he asks. "Mama, I grab the—the trinky," he confesses, fingers finding solace in playing with yours. "Is that why you think he yelled?" "A-huh." your heart corrodes in your chest at the sound of his heavy confirmation. "Cian no like grabby hands. I sorry." You smile— admiring the depths of your son's little mind palace. What you would give to be able to roam its halls and behold its many wonders. "Maybe he needs to hear that from you when you're ready, hm?" he nods. "I ready, mama."

𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You take him to his brother, who is already on his way to him too. sylus kneels to set Lucian down, and you nudge Kyros gently. "I sorry I take—take your trinky." Kyros says first, hands behind his back both to keep himself composed and to show Lucian that he won't be a threat any longer. "Sorry I yelled loud." Lucian hiccups, still shaken at what he'd done. Haunted by how Kyros looked when he did it. He extends his hand, and upon his outstretched palm sits a yellow version of his clicky dragon-egg-ball-trinket. "This for you." Kyros's face brightens as he accepts it. And in the blink of an eye, they are holding each other in an embrace. An ancient instinct they both share, not exactly draconic, but transcending understanding. Could be cosmic. Could be creature. Could be human. But one thing is for sure, this they've inherited proudly from their parents. A woven gift, bloodied and torn, but good. This, they share. This, they treasure. This, they protect in each other— a loyal heart, a golden soul.

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so, so much for sending the ask & for reading! o(╥﹏╥)

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 6 hours ago

Text

theory of mind

— marshmallows for everyo— oh! oh... poor papa. no sweeties for papa. ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀)

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: it's the marshmallow test with the littles, the bigs, and the big boss. i love the little twins so much theyre so so so fun to write. and how they just bring out this inner glow from sylus and trying to translate that glow EUGH so fun. i hope enjoy! ❀-urs

divider by @saradika-graphics 💕

important heads up for context of this story: lucian and kyros are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. 2 turning 3 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩

kieran, luke, lucian, kyros & sylus highlight! | sylus x reader | fluff, messy kids, mom!reader, suuuufferingdad!sylus, olderbrother!luke&kieran

“And— open!”

It’s supposed to be a test of empathy. Theory of mind, you read. And it led you to wonder to what capacity your little ones can feel for others. Have you raised them well enough to care for the people around them?

Kieran, Luke and Sylus lift the cloches off their plates. Sylus helps Kyros and Lucian remove theirs as well.

“Oh, marshmallows,” Kieran says, looking over to the others’ plates to see if they got the same thing.

“—matchallo!—“

“—sellows—“

“—mm, marf-marrow.”

Maybe doing this with five all at once wasn’t the best idea. You stifle a snicker as Sylus gives you a deadpan stare, as if to say, “really?”

“Oh—oh no! Papa doesn’t have one.” the words fight their way out from your throat against hiccups of giggles. The video definitely isn’t watchable at this point with all the shaking you’re doing.

The little twins, with two each, glance at their papa who sits between them. Sylus shrugs and leans back on his chair, “I don’t like sweets.”

“Papa.” Kyros says quietly, giving his one marshmallow, half mauled by his careful teething.

Sylus smiles gratefully, taking the sticky dessert from his fingers and kissing his brow. “Thank you, my Kyros— agh!”

“Papa, ah- ah, papa!” Lucian has stood on his chair, and stuck his tacky little palms on Sylus’s cheeks. He turns his father to face him and stuffs his half-eaten marshmallow in his mouth. You’re losing it behind the camera.

Sylus fights for his life to stutter out a response. His jaw pried open by tiny fists. “—cia-ffphrww- gen-gentle! Rewfian!” he sputters, mouth stuffed with candy.

Little uncoordinated fingers pull themselves out of Sylus’s mouth. Their owner wears a proud smile and watches as Sylus wipes away the gooey sugar on his lips. Bright scarlet eyes turn to you, to the camera. “Mama, i sharin’!”

You struggle through tears. “I know, baby. Good job!”

“Welcome. Papa—you welcome!” Lucian cheers, hopping on his chair, words joyfully yelled into his papa’s ear like saying it louder would make it mean more. Sylus bears down on the seat with his one arm to keep it steady, squeezes his eyes tight at the sound.

He gives Lucian a fond look, endlessly amused by his boy. “Thank you, Lucian.”

The big twins are too quiet. It’s an olympic sport at this point to keep yourself composed, stomach aching from the laughing.

Luke is the first to shrug, a refined picture of innocence… never mind the white coated fingers and the powder stained lips. He gestures to his (now) empty plate, saying, “I didn’t get any either.”

You snort and turn to Kieran. “and you?”

He stares at his brother in disbelief. Then thrusts an acccusatory thumb at Luke. He’d never admit it, but his sulky pout was caught clear and crisp on camera.

Ever perceptive, Lucian is quick to move, jumping off his chair and climbing Kieran’s lap. He must rectify this situation. Sticky fingers reach to touch his face, another half-molten treat in his hand. “Ah-ah, Kee-wan, ah!”

“No—no, thanks! I’m good!” Kieran catches the boy in his lap, dodging sugar-coated fingers with practiced grace and older-brother horror. Luke is in tatters, stomach bursting at the seams. Kieran cries out, “Lucian! I’m oka—mphrf.”

Meanwhile, Kyros has made his way around the table to you under the watchful eye of his papa. And he is tugging on your pant leg, offering you his other marshmallow. Gently destroyed as well, but the most pristine of all. “Mama, sellow.”

Your heart swells. You catch Sylus’s soft gaze from across the table and come to silent agreement.

Yes, you think. You have raised these boys well.

☽˚｡⋆ about the little twins | more sylus and little twins | little twins with big twins ⋆｡˚ ☁︎

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 6 hours ago

Text

the weight of the wind

— you don't know fear until it preys on your children; you and sylus are caught in the winds of its hurricane.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: i've had the concept of kyross being a sickly kid right as i conceptualized him, but i never thought i'd turn the lens towards when he was. nonetheless, this was another extremely challenging piece to write. i did my very best to be mindful and careful with how i handled the subject matter because this is a very real thing that occurs in families & i want nothing more than to be respectful. i intended this to be a story of unconditional love and hope- i hope i did this justice. & that you enjoy! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: kyros and lucian are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. around 1-3 months in this one! ᡣ𐭩

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | angst, hurt, comfort, boydad&husband!sylus, mom!reader, bigbrother!luke&kieran, kyros gets sick and shakes the foundations of this family PLEASE READ trigger warnings: child illness/medical distress, !!!critical condition!!!, trauma, self-blame/guilt, emotional overwhelm, tragic tones

Two years later and Sylus still freezes up when he hears Kyros so much as clear his throat.

He always turns to check, horror hiding behind a concerned gaze. He makes it a point to be vigilant, always on the lookout for wheezing, labored breaths or pale lips. Fearful of a looming thunderstorm, dreading a recurring nightmare.

“Breathe for me, Kyros?” he’d ask sometimes, unable to mask the worry that creeps into his chest after a particularly nasty fit of coughs or a swallow gone wrong. Kyros would be lifted up in the air, his papa’s ear to his chest as he breathes in and out.

A few rounds will do, before he’s set down like an injured bird, fostered to health and allowed freedom once more.

Sylus only knows safe because he knows the sound of terrible.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

It’s been a month since you had your little twins. A healthy pair of baby boys, the doctor had announced just past midnight. A harmony of cries, one after the other. Such a reward, a relief after a painful labor.

And your husband sobbed quietly into your hair as he praised you, thanked you, beseeched you for this gift.

As the beautiful flowers blossom into your family, your spring ends with the most fragrant of farewells.

Summer welcomes you with sunshine—home after days of sterilized walls and fluorescent lights.

Kieran and Luke have decorated the base with streamers and balloons; a handmade banner that read welcome little twins! in red and orange paint and wobbly handwriting. And they wear matching watery smiles on their unmasked faces as they welcome the little ones into their arms.

Mephisto lays down trinkets, oddballs and things that shine by the bassinets. He sits still as Sylus finally installs the baby-monitor program in him, but you’re sure even without the code he’d still long to see the little twins. Wouldn’t stop squawking if he didn’t lay a gemstone eye on them.

Sylus wears many hats, you’ve seen him become one too many things in the moments you’ve shared. A leader, a fighter, a lover, an expert in every field— but you have never seen him slip into a role as seamlessly as this.

As the herald of dawn as he rises before you to tend to the quietest gurgle or whine. As the light-footed healer that flocks to you on mornings of sore muscles and strange bladder control. As the hum of morning that wraps itself around you and your new babies. As the bright sun— as warmth that heals; as light that grows. Tireless, ceaseless, effortless.

A father in all sense of the word. Indisputable. True.

Soon, a routine is formed. He runs around like he would making underhand deals with important people, but this time it’s with his newborn son to stop squirming so he can put his mittens on, please. Each twin ping pongs for his attention. You watch him peek back and forth over each bassinet—a burp for Lucian, a mitten for Kyros, kangaroo time for one, the other to you for a meal.

It’s almost shameful to ask for help when you decide to slot yourself in the gears of his clockwork. When you can’t seem to make Kyros stop crying, or when Lucian keeps whining when your tired feet ache and you need to sit down. It consumes you: incompetence, not being able to do it as well as he does.

But he is clever as he is quick. Taking you aside, he kisses your cold fingers and holds your face in his hands. “I’ve got you.” he would say, and it would mean the world. Never once does he reflect your self-view, nor does he let it stew in your head for more than a passing thought. He does everything to make you believe it.

He is patient when he offers. Mindful when he speaks. Loving when he helps.

“You’re very good at this. Did you take classes behind my back?” you jab lightly, watching him burp Lucian and anticipate the spit-up to the tee. His grin is pure sunlight shot up through your veins.

“If I didn’t anticipate every possible outcome, I wouldn’t be where I am today.” he’d tell you, swiping little lips with a clean rag. The spit up milk missing the sleeve of his shoulder just by a hair. “And I’d have to wash more clothes than I have to.”

You acknowledge him with a hum, and he knows it’s a sign of you retreating. So he brings his son to sit by you and the twin in your arms, and kisses your temple. “You were very good at carrying them for nine months. Did you take classes for that?”

You roll your eyes and swipe at his hair just as a cat would. He catches your wrist with sturdy fingers and brings your pulse up to his lips. “My turn to carry the twins, hm?”

And finally, you understand his angle. Where he comes from—this is his way of paying you back. For each day he couldn’t take pain from you during the pregnancy, he repents in lightening the load of early rearing.

To him love is a verb—and he was built to act with and on it for them. For you.

Tears blur your vision before you even realize it. Kisses are peppered on your face like fresh water over a burn as you break down on his shoulder. You cry—at how thoughtful he is, at how kind. At how you are crushed beneath the weight of his love for you. “Nine months of chores for papa?” you joke through a stuffy nose and a tearful smile.

He laughs, knocking the breath out of you, and wipes each tear away. “Eighteen—nine for each soul.”

The best father. Indisputable. True.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer is beautiful. Summer is bright, warm and new.

Summer’s thunderstorms sound like coughs from the smallest of mouths. A seizing of the tiniest of lungs.

Summer’s thunderstorms scare Sylus more than any wrath or wanderer he has ever faced in his life.

Kyros has a stutter in his breathing. His torso rises and falls faster than Lucian’s calm tides as they rest side by side. He suspires too quickly, like he’s trying his hardest to take in as much air as he can in his inhales and fumbling on the exhales. His cycles are too fast, and not enough.

Breathing—what was such a simple joy to watch in new life, had morphed into the sound of fear. Sylus would never hear it the same again.

At first, you’d thought it was the hiccups. He had those frequently, and you’d pity the poor little thing as it would exhaust him immensely. But it developed, and it worsened, and soon Sylus had at least ten pediatricians on the way to your home and even more on the phone line.

It was a virus, someone had said. One of the ten doctors in your living room, you couldn’t focus on which. Not when your son was under so many lights, hooked to so many cables and that steady beeping was the only thing you could hear. The only thing that mattered.

You were grateful for Sylus who listens when you could not. He relays the rest to you later: inflamed lungs; mucus making it difficult to breathe. You nod, hollow eyes never leaving your son’s gasping chest.

And you are angry at the sight of him—how could the world be so cruel to something so small, so new? None of it made sense—not when the nebulizer masks were built too big, not when the pulse oximeter could clip onto two toes instead of just one, and not when the sounds he made were effortful grunts instead of the giggles you were just beginning to hear.

Sylus was no better. Movement is his sanity—and so he mobilizes everything he can. Doctors to his home, a full NICU in the nursery, each and every device needed to keep his son breathing, to keep him alive. Because he will burn through all he has before he even thinks about losing him.

Lucian needs to be separated. That was a given as soon as you realized it was contagious. And so the big twins take him to another wing of the house to be safe. To spare him the sight of your hollow dread and his father’s growing hysteria.

He is peaceful in Luke’s arms— a vision of a healthy twin, one that Kyros is, now, not, and you feel bile rise up your throat. And where worry grows, injustice festers. Because why can’t they both be healthy? Why can’t you protect them both from pain?

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You are a tangle of nerves with tired eyes when Sylus approaches you, having arranged a medical service on standby as soon as Kyros had been declared stable. Sat by his bassinet, your lifeless gaze counts each second your baby’s chest rises and falls. Your finger rests snugly in his closed fist as he sleeps for the first time in hours.

“Beloved,” His voice is a balm to the open wounds that coat your soul as he sits himself on the arm of the chair where you rest. He snakes his arms over your shoulders, eyes also on Kyros as if silently counting along with you, and he kisses your hair. “Go to sleep.”

You ignore him. Because it’s a stupid request, and if he were of sound mind, he wouldn’t ask again.

Though his genuine concern, it seems to you that he wants a fight. “Rest, please.”

“No.” should be enough. You think it so when you try to pry his arms off your shoulders. “Don’t ask me again.”

Paired with the anguish he’s felt throughout the day, the fatigue he feels having sorted out everything, the last thing he wanted was to feel you pushing him away.

Stubborn, just like you, he grits his teeth. “I can’t have you both sick.”

“Sylus.” you warn. Tone dripping with misplaced venom. You are sorry, deep down, but you can’t find it right now in the jumble of slush your mind has become. “I can’t leave him.”

“You have to—“

“Don’t ask me to!” you snap, a curled fist slamming down onto your thigh. Blood surfaces on the skin of your palms as your fingernails dig deep into them. It dawns on you: what you've just done.

He is still as a stone.

You can’t look at him, you can’t fathom the look on his face now.

He doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like this, not after everything he’s done, not after everything he’s given you. And you know this, you know this—but grief is slippery and anger is easier to understand. Especially when you think it’s your own shortcomings that led you here. The smoke clears, your vision blurs.

He says nothing as you scramble for his hand. Watches as your shoulders shake and you plant kisses onto his wrist, his palm. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—“

And something inside him breaks. A glass heart, a phantom crystal in his chest, cracks in half at the sight before him—his son gasping for breath, his wife gasping through tears.

Through your endless strings of apologies, he tries to break through. He severs them each with his lips pressing on your cold skin, on your salty cheeks, on your sweaty forehead, on your regretful mouth.

He whispers, “I’ve got you.”

You believe him. And finally, you let yourself fall apart.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sleep finds you eventually, but you refuse to leave. Sylus had to bring in a sofa from the living room and carry your tired body onto it. And you drift, against your will, into a light uncomfortable slumber, but a slumber nonetheless.

And the night betrays you.

Kyros turns blue.

Sylus spots the pallor immediately— his own breath siphoned from his lungs. His hands shake, his heart hammers in his chest. He forgets the emergency button entirely.

Sylus screams for the nurses across the hall.

You jolt awake to chaos. To the sound of broken yelling. To people running past where you’ve curled up by the door. Through the haze, your husband is a man lost to his panic— something you’ve never once seen before, and for a moment, you think it’s all a nightmare.

A nightmare where your baby is the wrong color. A nightmare where your strongholds crumble and fall apart. A nightmare where there is a horrid, ungodly cry—

And it’s coming from you.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Kieran is frozen, upright in his bed. He barely moves. Not when Luke runs, not when Lucian stirs. He lets the baby squeeze his finger, counts time through the rise and fall of his ribs.

The screaming woke them. Luke shot up immediately, barked for him to stay, and sped off to the other wing of the house.

Kieran relies on Mephisto even when he doesn’t need to. To spare himself from his brother’s visions.

The bird’s feed directly transmits into his phone, and he watches the ruckus of people coming in and out of the nursery. Luke arrives in the frame, freezes just at the threshold of the door, before he marches in.

Moments later, he comes back out with you in his arms—pushing him, fighting him. He feels each blow on his own skin. Your face is a picture of agony behind wet hair and shaking fingers.

Luke stares at you with wide eyes. Sees not family, but something wild and wounded, begging for the pain to end.

Luke feels your torment, grits his teeth until his gums bleed to obey Sylus’s orders to keep you out. He steels each muscle as you begin to thrash in his arms.

Stopping himself from helping you barge back in there and get back to Kyros.

Kieran feels everything too.

And he wonders if Lucian sensed it as well, because now his face had crumpled into a frown and his mouth let out a sonorous cry. He snaps out of it. Severs the link. Tends to the baby.

He lifts him. Dances around the room in circles, shushing the little one to calm. “Hey, Cian, it’s alright,”

“Everything will be okay.” He says. Hears his brother say it to you at the same time across the grounds. And together, they will themselves to believe it. “Everything will be okay. He will be okay.”

They chant it to you both like a prayer. A promise. Because they refuse to let anything else be true.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You slam into Sylus as soon as he steps out of the room. Angry fists collide with his chest. Things unmeant are said. He stays still; lets you. Believing to deserve it after being so selfish—after ripping you away from your son to spare him the image of you dying inside.

He takes each weak blow, forces himself not to look away. Until you calm, until your fists open into soft fingers caressing his jaw, his neck. Until your arms wrap around his shoulders and you sob onto his heart.

Only then does he move. Only then does he hold you—circle his arms around you, bear down and cry. Apologizing. Sharing in the agony neither of you can seem to see through.

And finally, he whispers through his splitered sobs, “He’s okay. He’s breathing.”

And now so are you.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･

Lucian bounces when he sees you in the morning light. Unmoored by your careworn appearance as he reaches out to you from Kieran’s hold. You practically run to him.

Only mere hours away and already you think he’s grown out of your sight. You think his hair had gotten longer, his cheeks become fuller and his little legs have grown longer. It could be your tired mind playing tricks, but having his weight in your arms brings you down to the earth.

Burying your face in his soft hair, you sit in this moment with your son. Still so small; already so patient and forgiving for letting both mama and papa tend to Kyros for the whole night. Not once making too big of a fuss under his big brothers’ care.

You wonder if he knows, if he senses the gravity of the situation. Wonder if that is why he’s being such a perfect baby. Nevertheless, you are grateful for his heart, and one day, you hope he knows his brother is thankful too.

Lucian gurgles a smile as you wipe his chin. And you dub him in a whisper, “My little angel.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus doesn’t need to sleep.

He insists this on you as you rub his shoulders and bend down to whisper the opposite in his ear. Offering a turn to watch Kyros, presenting him a window to rest. Because you care for him as deeply as you do for the children. “I can’t have you both sick,” you echoed his earlier concern to him, though softer. A wish, not a demand.

But he refuses— nuzzles his lips to your neck and breathes in your scent. This is all he asks of you in return.

And you concede, intertwining your fingers together and pressing a kiss to his knuckle. You trust him with your son just as he trusts you with his twin. Because Kyros needs him, and he needs Kyros.

And so Sylus doesn’t need to sleep.

He tells himself this as he looms over Kyros’s bassinet. Days have passed since that first night. Things have progressed for the better.

No longer does Kyros need the tubes and wires, nor does he cough so relentlessly anymore. And that should warrant being able to take a moment to rest.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t need to.

What he needs is for Kyros to be okay. Clear. Healthy.

Because what use is he as a father if he cannot heal his son? Time and time again, he'd thought about his gift—his ability to heal his own bleeding wounds—of using it to fix something, anything. But the mere thought of the venomous mist on his son's skin... The harrowing possibility that something goes wrong—no. Not after everything.

The risk is too great. And he, in all senses of the word, is scared.

So instead, he is at Kyros’s every beck and call. Has memorized the pitch and timbre of each grunt and whimper. Assembles medicine, milk bottles, and nebulizers with speed and precision. He moves like wind, watches like a shadow.

Unfaltering, not until his son is safe.

Unspeaking, until there is enough air in his son's lungs to share.

And Kyros hates it.

On a particularly quiet evening, Kyros stirs from his nap and feels the heaviness of silence weigh on him immensely. Consuming. Suffocating.

He begins to cry—short squeaks and wails, his lungs still not well enough to supply him enough air for anything louder.

Sylus is up on his feet immediately. Checking his diaper, the time for a maybe meal, his nose for a clog, or his limbs for any pain. Tired eyes roam over each and every item on the list in his mind, and when all is clear and he is still crying, Sylus is at a loss.

He takes Kyros out of his bassinet, holds him like glass; a loose leafed flower. Afraid of him blowing away in the wind. He thaws his cold ears with his palm, blows warm air on his fingers.

And yet he cries still. Quietly. Weakly. Sadly.

“My angel, what’s wrong?” He finally asks. Suprised with the voice that comes from his throat—scratchy, frayed and raw. He clears his throat. “What can papa do, hm?”

Kyros cries. He cries and claws at his face with mittened hands. Sylus begins to worry, his shoulders tense at the intensity of his sobbing, at the shortness of his breath, at the wet coughs that start to slip past.

“My love, please, stop crying,” he pleads. He cradles his little head. Brings his lips down to the smooth skin of his brow. Into it, he murmurs, “Please, for papa.”

And then he does, and Sylus freezes.

He does, not because of the request.

But because of the way his papa’s voice resonates in his skull.

He winds down as Sylus notices and continues to speak into his temple, quiet requests and grumbled lullabies. Small fingers move gently against the stubble on Sylus’s chin, enjoying the soft prickle against his palm.

Silence has made him anxious. Sylus’s sound soothes that.

To Sylus, love is a verb— he must move to make it feel.

But to Kyros, love is still just feeling.

The sound of his papa’s voice in his head, how it vibrates, how it travels. The texture of his face, of his rough, calloused fingers caressing like mist. The smell of his skin and cologne as he is cradled close.

Love is feeling. Love is being there.

And Sylus does this for him.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer’s skies are beautiful after a thunderstorm.

Plants inhale fresh air. The earth exhales a mingled breath of heat and rain now passed.

And the moon hangs bright and radiant in the sky.

Sylus tells Kyros this as he walks out to the balcony. Kyros is cocooned in layers—a onesie, a light jacket and a blanket. Swaddling him between states of healing and transformation—a miracle taking its time. Snuggled comfortably in the crook of Sylus’s elbow.

Sylus keeps his ear close to his body, and his lips close to his temple. An exchange: Sylus will hear his breathing; Kyros will feel his voice.

His stories are carried by the gale into the night as he speaks, on and on, of this life, of his last, of the next. And Kyros never once interrupts, eyes wide and focused as if he truly did understand every word Sylus says. Like rebirth, or ancient.

No matter. Kyros hasn’t cried in hours, and Sylus isn’t about to stop now.

When even the gentlest of breezes blow past them, Sylus is quick to hold Kyros a little tighter in his embrace. Lending him more warmth, keeping things the gusts usher with it away from his just-healing lungs. But Kyros doesn’t mind. He rather enjoys being squeezed.

Moments drag on, more stories are told. The wind picks up. Sylus debates on bringing him back inside.

But once more, he is selfish—and he wonders if it makes him a terrible father. For this is the first time in days he’s seen Kyros’s face glow and stretch into smiles you’ve both longed for since the drought. And he’s not ready to give that up just yet.

His cheeks are fuller, squishier as he presses into them with his finger. Kyros gurgles in delight and wriggles in his swaddle, as if trying to catch papa’s finger beneath his trappings. Sylus swallows, heart melting, eyes watering.

What would he have unleashed—what would he have become— if he’d failed to keep him alive?

“Kyros.” He whispers reverently. Once a god, a beast, a harbinger of ends—reduced to kneeling before a child.

Begging. Never leave me.

Surrendering. I will do anything for you.

Declaring, “I love you.”

Fighting against everything he’d stood for—doom, destruction, death—for his boy. He will tear the world, fate, and cosmos apart with his own hands and teeth before he allows his son to be parted from him.

And Kyros feels it. Each word rattles his bones stronger than any of the most powerful coughs ever could. The words a prayer. A promise.

He feels it.

He is safe. He is needed. He is loved.

Fiercely. Immensely. Endlessly.

And when he coos, Sylus feels it in return.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer ends with sunshine and storms, and makes way for Autumn to fill her place.

Autumn sheds old wounds to make way for tender scars. Autumn is cool wind on heated skin. Autumn is a long breath of fresh air.

“Kyros!” Luke doesn’t even hesitate to run up to Sylus when he spots him coming out of the nursery with the baby in his arms. Finally, after weeks of distance and restriction, he lays his eyes on his little brother. Kieran follows close behind.

Sylus doesn’t have the heart to roll his eyes as he witnesses the two grown men coo and make faces before him, nearly tripping over each other to get closer. In fact, something in his chest softens. They’ve missed him too.

Eventually, he sics Mephisto on them to spare himself of a dismissive escape. The bird obliges, plopping a shiny rattle on Kyros’s belly and chasing the big twins away with overdramatic squawks and pecks. Sylus will make it up to all of them later.

But for now, they are scheduled to reunite with someone else.

Kyros is already bouncing in Sylus’s arms, huffing and squealing at the sight of Lucian.

Lucian, who’d already rolled on his belly, behaves the same. Snorting and wheezing—despite being distracted from holding his head up and falling face-flat into the plush of the mattress.

Sylus places Kyros between you both on your bed as you welcome them with a gentle smile. The twins giggle at each other, speaking in a language you are not fluent in, and you both revel in their joy.

For a moment, he dwells on their differences. How distinct they've both become. It's minuscule, but it's there—Kyros's thinner frame and weaker state beside Lucian's hefty muscles, already allowing him to roll on his stomach, while the other relies on Sylus's hands for support.

He shakes his head. What matters now is that they're both healthy. Safe. Happy. That, and he asks for nothing more.

Sylus curls himself around his children, stretching his limbs to circle create a nest to shield them, and rests his head on your lap.

You run your fingers through his hair, scraping nails over his scalp and watching as his eyes roll to the back of his head. He whispers, “You’re good at that. Did you take classes?”

The callback makes you grin, and you strain down to plant a kiss on his temple. “You’re a good father.”

He waits for the question. The teasing jab. But it doesn’t come. And somehow, your words sink deep into his muscles and settle like oil in his veins.

He is weightless beneath your touch. Finally calm within the presence of his family.

It dawns on him—Kyros’s understanding of love. How easy, how pure—how full of it his life has become.

Soon, his eyelids droop. He tries adjusting out of your hold to wake himself, but you push his shoulders back and grip him tight. This time, it’s your turn to be selfish.

“Sleep,” you tell him. The word having weighed so much in the past few weeks now feels like mint and honey on your tongue. Cool. Sweet. “I’ve got you.”

He smiles, heart hammering in his chest at the beauty that is you.

Finally allows himself this pleasure, relaxes each muscle, and rests in your arms.

Because, like you, he believes it.

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so, so much for reading! .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·.

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 6 hours ago

Text

fever dreamt echoes

— Sylus's instincts flare when you are ill, needing to nurse you back to health, whatever it takes... he fails to notice that his boys have his instincts too.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: a sickie fic that took my left shoe and ran away fr me. what was supposed to be the fam nursing mama to health becomes a deepdive into Sylus's oversights as a father. phew. enjoys! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: lucian and kyros are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. 2 turning 3 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | fluff, mild angst, comfort. sick!reader, husband!sylus, dragon babies just wanna see mama tw: imagery of illness/migraine symptoms, vomiting, (past) emotional trauma

Sylus’s hackles rise at the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut at noon.

Lucian and Kyros, positioned on their bellies on the carpet by his feet, pause their coloring with a curious glance. Turning their heads to the sound, they rise to go see who it is. But before they could rush off, Sylus holds them steady with his evol and strides ahead of them.

The big twins were out of town on a mission he’d expected to take a week longer.

You are supposed to be at work. You’d left early that morning. In a panic, having risen a few hours too close to the time you’re expected at the Association. Kicking him by accident when you wrestled against the comfort of your warm duvet.

He had no fight against you wriggling out of his persistent hold, no matter how much he whined at your absence, and was forced to accept the hasty kiss you plant on his lips before rushing out of the bedroom. You promised to be home by dinner.

He had half a mind to go after you and pull you back for his own selfish reasons, but his boys waddled into the bedroom to take your space and curl up against him. Cementing him in a warm pile of baby fat and the scent of blueberries.

Anyway, you’d said dinner.

So it was a surprise to him to see you at the door just before lunch. Toeing your shoes off, your coat half off your shoulder and your workbag dangling in your loose grip. You meet his gaze from the wall you lean against for extra support, and offer him a smile that lacks it usual depth.

He clocks it immediately. Zooming in on the details of your features like a machine built to know you. The sheen of sweat on your brow, the heavy droop of your eyelids, the paleness of your lips. It was as if something inside you had made itself at home where it was not welcome.

Black and red tendrils dissipate from pudgy bellies when his sons start to complain at not being able to reach you.

He confirms your condition in the way you squeeze your eyes shut briefly at the excited squealing and tittering of your children. The usual melodies feeling like a clap of thunder in your skull.

Sylus is able to move only an inch towards you. And you are already shaking your head and mouthing his least favorite words. “I’m fine.”

Your arms are cooked pasta around Lucian’s waist. Your knees trembling rocks holding back a landslide as you lift him to your height. You are reluctant to reduce the support and give Kyros your other hand as he guides you in the living room.

All the while Sylus stands at the ready to lighten the load he worries you refuse to lend him.

The smell of your living room is a balm to your aching sinuses, clean linen and fresh citrus blossoms. The warmth of the filtered sun through the windows is a live wire through your shivering bones. And the heat of your husband’s body as he slots himself between you and the corner of the couch is exactly what your numb skin has longed for the entire morning.

“Go upstairs.” he whispers in your ear. Unkempt hair in your eyes, features taut and tired— he suffers at the look of you. Lends you his strength to tidy you up with featherlike touches.

Your neck twinges when you shake your head.

“Boys.” you reason, pressing the weight of Lucian closer to your chest as he talks about his new doctor’s tool kit toy.

Kyros’s hand had made its way beneath your sweater and onto the skin of your belly, rubbing circles gently. For his own sensory need, unknowing how helpful it is for you too.

Sylus understands, but frowns in disapproval anyway. “Beloved…”

“Mama, hot.” Kyros murmurs, continuing his gentle ministrations. “Otch! Hot.”

“Oh no.” Lucian adds too, unintentionally slapping his hands on either sides of your face a touch too hard, making you wince. Sylus doesn’t mean to scowl, but he does. “Mama, tick?”

“Gentle, please.” their father almost begs, peeling the tiny hands that squish your skin off. You sigh gratefully at him, your skin beginning to feel uncomfortably tender.

“No—no tick, pease.” says Kyros, climbing up the cushions to get up close to your face. Sylus is quick to intercept his hand, mold his against the little one silently, to guide gentle combs through tendrils of your hair. “Mama, well.”

“Just a little dizzy, baby.” you reassure him— but the hypo-nasality of your voice and the light pop! from the top of your spine does little to your case.

Your family’s face remain unchanged—frowning in worry, staring in concern.

You swallow. The back of your throat feels dry no matter how many times you do so. Only Sylus can see the strain on your face and he’s digging his nails into his palms to keep himself from overreacting.

Instinct tells him to switch on survival mode. As if you’d come home with a bullet wound or a broken leg. His muscles itch to take you away, hoard you, encase you in a bubble of safety until you feel better once more. Claiming it his single-handed responsibility to nurse you back to health.

He’d done it before. Confident to a fault, he’ll do it again.

Lucian protests when Sylus lifts him out of your arms, while Kyros frowns at him in confusion. To placate their watery eyes and erupting sobs, he quickly says, “Go show mama your drawings.”

Their mind shifts. Papa is suddenly correct, and they rush off to collect the loose leaves of doodle-pressed papers scattered around the room. Lucian also hops off to retrieve his doctor set.

Buying Sylus the time and space to draw you near his orbit and cage you in his embrace.

“I’m fine, really.” is what you say and it drives him mad. He’d puff a cloud of smoke through his nostrils in another life with the way he scoffs.

He is calmed by the way you curl against him anyway; your clammy back to his middle, your heated forehead against the curve of his neck. You are driftwood in a raging stream with the tightness at which hangs on to you.

“I don’t appreciate it when you lie to me,” he says slowly. Not understanding why you insist on still acting tough. “Even if you mean well.”

Sylus sighs, “Haven’t we agreed? You can lean on me.”

His sentiment contests your fever as it melts your heart twice as fast. You run your fingers along the blunt stubble on his chin. “I know. I am.”

But you aren’t in the mood to get scolded. Not when every breath is like shards of glass through your mouth, your nostrils are vestigial and your brain pounds behind your heated eyes.

You sigh, your gaze trailing after your scampering children. “Don’t scare them.”

Hardened by experience, the rational side of Sylus’s brain knows you are fine in the grand scheme of things. With a paracetamol, a good sleep and hydration, you’ll be back on your feet at a normal temperature in no time.

But the side of him that feels— the one you bring out with little to no effort— it aches at the sight of you still fighting against your already protesting body. It makes him calloused to anything else that doesn’t involve benefitting you.

So, intentions far from ill but single-minded, he grumbles. “They should know.”

And ever patient you, with a heart so big and generous, push back. “But they don’t. Not yet.”

You take his hand. He frowns at your searing touch. A kiss is pressed onto his knuckles and he is ice beneath it at your request. “Gentle.”

One breath through his nose is sighed out his mouth and he nods. Gentle.

He doesn’t let you go when the boys return. Subtly keeping them from climbing back onto you as they present their scribbles with calculated stretches of his limbs coming in between you and them.

The boys are none the wiser.

They flit around you like humming birds wearing white coats. Lucian has the plastic heart-shaped stethoscope plugged to his ears. Kyros holds a baby-blue otoscope he insists is a hammer.

They ping-pong from being art curators and doctors. One talks about his drawing, while the other assesses your condition with a plastic medical tool.

“Dis ‘Pisto with hat.” Says Kyros, as Lucian bends over Sylus’s arm barrier to stick his stethoscope on your chest.

When Kyros is knocking your knee with the otoscope-hammer, Lucian narrates, “Dis mama, dis papa, dis Wookie and Kee-wan. And ‘Pisto have shoes. And Kee-wo and me—Woosian have cotton candy.”

The little ones show you their interpretations of the world through whorls and zigzags of color. When you try to listen closely and your mind doesn’t drift off, you catch that Kyros has drawn a field of flowers he sees in his dreams, and Lucian’s new fascination on distant planets. And that your temperature is “three-six” on the plastic thermometer, and you get a shot of “coffee” on your shoulder.

But you can only do so much. Powerless, thanks to Sylus’s weight on your arms and his lulling scent in your nose; beckoning like home, like rest.

Soon, your eyes droop and your head bobs back onto Sylus’s shoulder. Just as Lucian is telling you of the beach and Kyros is explaining how m’s can look like birds.

Sylus seizes their attempts at waking you back to attention with a look, which they take positively. With understanding nods, mouths rounded in quiet “oh…”s, they step away from poking you back awake.

Little fingers are raised to little lips and they murmur shushes and lovely things in your silence. And later, they tail after their father like minnows in a stream when he lifts you down the hallway and carries you to bed.

Kyros knows what papa is saying is important. He knows also, that whatever papa is saying, that papa is right.

And that he should listen to papa.

But the door to your bedroom is open.

“Make very little noise, because mama’s head…”

And he hasn’t seen you in an hour (which feels like a million years if he knew how to count past five).

“… go play on your own for a while…”

And he wants to know if—

“Papa.” He blurts right in the middle of Sylus’s very important reminders. Sylus turns to him patiently, taking his hand in his and massaging his palm in acknowledgement. “Roro eep with mama.”

Sylus frowns. “No, angel. You can’t.”

“Ah-huh. Can.” He nods, disagreeing with Sylus and tugging his arm back. Sylus steadies him, catching his shoulder and maneuvering him away from the door.

“Kyros.” papa says, voice deep and strong. Kyros is startled by the tone. “Mama is going to be okay.”

“But… tick.” He frowns. His eyes water, catalyzed by the sternness that has befallen this exchange. “Feel better. Need—need huggies.”

Sylus swallows nails as he stares back at his son. “Mama needs quiet right now. To rest.”

“I quiet.” He insists, pushing fruitlessly against Sylus’s embrace. “P’omise.”

Lucian, placing his own foot in the mix, chimes in. “Please, papa?”

But the decision is made. Sylus nudges Kyros to his brother, who welcomes him in a consoling hug. They stare helplessly at papa who stands and turns away. “Maybe later, hm?”

He shuts the door.

And with a heavy heart, they listen to papa.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The first time you stir from your fevered haze, you notice that you are out of your work clothes and are wearing one of Sylus’s shirts. His scent refreshing and comforting, engulfs you in a phantom hug.

The glass of warm water on your dresser is almost knocked over in the dark, but you successfully drink it along with the pills in a small dish just to its left.

Then you lie back down, drape an arm over your eyes, and drift off.

Or at least try.

It wasn’t quite a sleep— you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, too conscious of the distorted sound of your breathing, and the persistent pulse in the back of your left eye feels like how pebbles do beneath your boots.

Not to mention it was too cold, but you were sweating and shivering all the same.

Frustration holds hands with sickness; you feel your insides gang up on you to attack. When the nausea hits, you sit up blindly and scramble out of bed into the bathroom to hurl out your already empty stomach.

Sylus, the shadow you married, is already holding your hair back as soon as your knees touch the ground. “Easy.”

The headache is maxed to a hundred on its own richter with each seize and each gag. Your one hand waves Sylus away, asking him to go, to save whatever dignity you had left in his eyes.

But he refuses. A statement he makes as he stays.

When it passes, you lean back on your calves and try to get a grip of the spinning world around you. Sylus is already getting something damp and cool to press to your face.

Disgusting, you think as you brush your teeth and wash your face. But the act leaves you feeling better than you started off, paradoxically.

“Sy—“ you rasp as he guides you back to bed after you’ve cleaned up.

“Not a chance.” is all he says, lifting your shirt and slipping on a fresh one. His again.

“You’ll catch it.” you murmur.

He shakes his head, a ghost of a chuckle in his words. “It’s not that bad.”

He finds it a wonder how you’re akin to a soggy piece of lettuce right now, and still have the wits to tease him. “You’re a doctor now?”

The chuckle materializes as he tucks you back beneath the covers. “Yes. Family medicine.”

“Ooh, well look at you—AH!” you yelp, blocking his kiss with your palm as he targets your forehead. “No!”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” he gasps, swooping in for another with a impudent grin. You duck out of the way with a chiming giggle. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Stop it! I’m gross.”

He pauses at the declaration and shoots you a dangerous look. “I’ll warn you not to speak of my wife that way.”

You sniffle in disbelief. “Sylus!”

He dodges your hands expertly and successfully lands a peck on top of your head before bouncing back up to his feet with a victorious grin. You harrumph, tossing a pillow square at his face. He lets it land and laughs.

“You’ve broken your fever,” he says lightly, bending to brush sickly sweaty hair out of your now glowing face. Taking a moment to caress the plump of your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Great. At least that was out of the way. But your mouth still tasted weird, and there’s a little creature knocking albeit politely at the back of your eyeball.

You groan. “The last time I was this bad was—“

“—The twins.” he smiles fondly, recalling the earlier days of your pregnancy. “You’ve done well keeping yourself healthy for three years then.”

“Maybe I’m pregnant again.” you joke.

He freezes. His world tilts. Are you? You couldn’t be— could you? Had he been so busy, miscalculated—

Your hand squeezes his tightly. His face is a picture you wish you could paint, one that makes your heart flutter. “I’m not.”

The thickened air thins and he releases the breath he hadn’t noticed he’s held in. His brows knit together as he breathes. “Don’t… don’t do that.”

You search his expression for anything negative, but find only a plucked sense of excitement and wonder in his shining eyes. “Too many kids?”

He almost laughs at your assumption. “No, not at all.”

“Then—“

“Not enough.”

The grin he flashes you lingers with mischief and allure, sharp lower fangs almost twinkling at you seductively. Heat crawls up your face and you’re sure this isn’t the fever. You shove any part of him you can reach with all your might in hopes to relieve the tension.

“Go. Watch the kids. You’re a headache.” you say. Turning on your side to dismiss him… or, really, to hide the flush on your face.

He leans in, the weight of his hand on your hip. Takes the opportunity to kiss you again. Your head, your cheek, your shoulder—before leaving you to drift off.

This time— you sleep. And sleep is smooth, quiet and deep.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus can’t figure why his boys are extra rambunctious now, when he specifically asked them not to be.

Usually self-sustaining, Lucian and Kyros are perfectly trained to entertain themselves when the adults are too busy. But today, it’s as if all training has flown out the window, and Sylus is suddenly caring for three people and not just you.

While striding in and out of your shared bedroom, the chances that he’d have an encounter with a silver haired little boy was a hundred percent doubled.

He’d caught Lucian by the scruff of his shirt and turned him around. Two giant stuffies in his arms, far larger than his on height along with him.

Kyros had dragged books and your favorite couch blanket to your door. Sylus had to physically dig through the row of indoor plants to find him and his stash and send him away.

And at some point, Lucian snaps first. Crying when Sylus carries him off to the kitchen on his way to refill your bottle of water.

“Wanna to see mama!” He performs a full-blown tantrum in the space of his father’s one armed embrace. Pushing and shoving the unmovable force that holds him captive. “Let me go! Let me go!”

And Sylus only grumbles. A hair away from losing his own composure. “Lucian, mama is sick.”

“I doctor mama better!” He shouts now. Fueled by the expression on Sylus’s face giving absolutely nothing away. Just sheer indifference. Done with the conversation before its even started. “Let me go!”

“Lucian!” Sylus seethes. Done. Firm. Final.

Lucian freezes. Shock flooding sobering his nerves.

And then helplessly, he sobs, leaning into Sylus’s chest. Earlier shouts and shoves now faltering in the face of his father’s anger. And that hurts him more than being denied.

“I sorry.” He murmurs. No flourish, no drama. Just sorrow and regret. Sylus’s shirt is clutched in his small fists, a lifeline to keep his father tethered to him.

And Sylus is thawed in a flash. His shoulders hunch at every sniffle, his arms curl closer at each hiccup.

Then Sylus crumbles too. Bending at the waist and burying his face in his son’s hair. “Just… wait, okay?”

Lucian nods, smearing snot and salt onto Sylus’s sweater. “Love? Love Lucian, papa?”

Sylus has to clench his jaw to keep himself together. For now he finally realizes how his actions are being received by his children. And though he means well, the struggle between what he thinks is best for you and indulging in his children is like finding a shadow in a fog.

And he bears the back-breaking weight of it as he looks into glassy red irises. “Yes, of course I do.” He nuzzles his nose, wipes tears away with the swipe of his thumb. “I love you. I love Kyros. But mama is sick right now. And I just… she needs rest. So, wait, okay?”

Lucian doesn’t fully understand. But he listens still.

Sylus finds Kyros sitting by your locked door, wrapped in your blanket from the couch.

He can’t find it in himself to feel anything but endearment at the look of him. Not after the spat with Lucian still a stone in the pit of his stomach.

“Kyros.” He sighs.

“Mama need blanket?” Kyros asks, rising from his seat.

“No, angel she has enough.” He says, setting the tray of medicine and snacks to the side and picking Kyros up.

“One more!”

“No, Kyros.”

“Pease?”

Sylus shakes his head. The look in Kyros’s eyes is pitiful, but Sylus’s resolve is stronger today. Running on fumes from the stress and worry of it all, fluttering lashes and big puppy eyes just won’t make him budge.

So when Kyros’s face changes from pleading to anger, Sylus is take a back. “What are you doing?”

“Hmph!” the little boy takes a breath, mouth posturing into cry but no sound comes out. In fact, no air comes out.

Sylus turns rigid.

“Kyros,” he keeps his calm, rubbing his back with one hand and blowing steady streams of air on his face. But his heart races just beneath the surface. “Breathe, come on now.”

Kyros heaves again, taking in more air but not exhaling it out. Sylus blows again. “Please, angel. Come on.”

And with another puff of air, Kyros breaks out of the spell and cries. A loud wail that sinks into silent, frustrated hiccups. Sylus has half a mind to join him.

“Wanna go the inside!”

“Only sick people in the bedroom.” He states again, standing firm while gently rocking him side to side. Fumbling with clumsy fingers as he tries to reassure the hearts he keeps breaking.

“Wait for mama to feel better, okay?” He asks of him, pleads, holding his crying child to his chest. Drowning in the sorrow of causing both of them such pain in a day.

When he’s settled, he takes Kyros to Lucian in their bedroom. Sitting with them for a while to jumpstart a play sequence before slipping out to check up on you.

And in his act of righteousness, he fails to see the pile of your favorite things gathered by the doorway of the twins’ bedroom. Awaiting patiently to be transported to your side.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You vomit again. Sylus sticks with you until the waves of nausea calm and you tread the waters of dreams once more.

Once your breathing is even and your pupils no longer shift beneath your lids, he goes to check on your boys.

He thought they’d given up after that with the silence that followed after a while. But he clearly didn’t understand how persistent your children actually are.

“Papa.” Lucian frowns up at Sylus, large eyes twinkling with unshed tears at the wetness of his shirt. He’d tilted his sippy cup a little too much and spilled all the sticky fruit juice on his tummy. He intercepts Sylus just as he exits your bedroom.

Sylus exhales through his nose, assures him it’s okay, and gives him a change of clothes.

“My tummy cold.” Lucian tells him, guiding his father’s heavy hand to his middle. Then he heaves, “Blegh. Eugh.”

Sylus’s voice rumbles with amusement. He rubs his belly in soothing circles until he’s a little warmer and kisses his forehead.

“Better?” He asks. But Lucian doesn’t seem too happy when he nods and asks to be put down.

But just as soon as he places him down, Kyros waddles up to him with a tissue up his one nostril. “Pa.”

What is going on?

Sylus picks him up slowly. Seeing no urgency or panic in the little one’s eyes, so he’d rather not introduce the emotion to him. “You okay, angel?”

“A-choo.” He says. Says, like a script he’d planned and produced. Like someone behind Sylus had cued him with an action! The rolled up tissue flies out of his nose unceremoniously, dry as a feather.

And then it clicks.

“Oh.” He nods, understanding fully what his two clever little copies were trying to do. “I see.”

Lucian, who hadn’t gone too far away, who was idling “subtly” in the corner of their bedroom pushing a wooden car back and forth, looks at Sylus just as Kyros does.

“Are you two… sick?”

Kyros bobs his head vigorously, and Lucian is giving thumbs ups from where he sits.

“Poor angels. Sick too when mama is sick?” Sylus pouts, playing along, smothering the wheezing laughter clawing its way up his chest.

“A-huh. And—and tick babies go in— the inside room.” Kyros supplies, leaning his head on Sylus’s arm, really selling his story all too well. He points towards the direction of your bedroom and squeezes his eyes. “Achoo. Achoo! Pease.”

“Uh! Me too.” Lucian grunts, rushing over to drape himself dramatically over Sylus’s legs. Squeezing his eyes shut, hands over his very-much-okay-belly and moaning in pain. “Ow! Tummy achy!”

The laughter is far too strong to suppress now, and he gathers his boys to his chest in an adoring embrace. His caring children, he wonders where they get it from. He makes a show of a loud, defeated sigh as he brings them down with him, backwards onto the bed where they chorus his giggles in return.

“Miss mama so soon?” He asks, tilting his head forward. He brushes their bangs out of their faces to look into their eyes.

Too little to be filled with so much worry.

But understandably so— they’d never seen you sick before. Don’t know how to process seeing you act differently from their usual, put together mother figure.

And the way he carries himself doesn’t help to reassure them either. Briskly trudging around with a dip in his brow, quick and urgent. A sudden obstacle between them and their mother; equally as worried, equally as distressed. It wasn’t until the fever finally broke and he heard you joke with him once more that his lungs had regained its full capacity.

His boys haven’t had that closure yet. Their last image of you was your fluttering lashes and loosening grip on their crayon-scribbled sketchbooks. To them, it was a cartoon-swoon into an endless slumber— sudden, unexplained, too odd to feel alright with.

And here Sylus was, keeping them from seeing you. Barely providing them with an explanation outside of “mama is sick”. Underestimating how much they understand and how much they actually care.

Guilt gnaws at his heels. Faced with failing to calculate balance between caring for you and helping your sons.

Gentle, you asked him. And instead he dismisses them outright. Preferring them out of the way instead of letting them offer their helping hands to usher you to health.

He combs his fingers through their hair, marveling at how much they exude you while looking so much like him.

A wish he’d made when they were born—grant your prayer for them have his features, but let the world be kind and bless them with your heart.

“I’m sorry,” the words are brittle glass beneath a roaring flame. Broken. Fragile. The talons of his mistake dig deeper into his chest as they continue to wear their innocent hearts on their sleeves. Hearts he’s been taking for granted.

How could he have been so excited at the prospect of having another one with you earlier, while all day he kept pushing his first loves away?

“I’m sorry for hiding mama from you.” He says, cradling soft cheeks in the hard edges of his palms. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Your heart, your beautiful heart— resonates in twin chests. So easy to love. So quick to forgive.

Kyros is the first to touch his face, mirroring his own movements and brushing his own silver hair out of his eyes. “It okay. It okay, papa.”

Lucian follows suit, cradling Sylus’s cheek with his palm.

His jaw trembles. He bites his lip to steady it. He’d found tears closer to the surface since having sons. Thinks it’s still one of the strangest feelings to have evoked so easily. But he’d also learned to stop being so surprised by the wonders his little ones do for him.

“Can go the inside room?” Kyros whispers when he finally sits them all up. Unaware of the mountains Sylus has conquered in his mind in that little moment they shared.

It was a battle he was never meant to win.

He shakes his head in defeat. He eyes the pile of yours and their favorite things by the door. “One thing before we go.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The next time you wake is after hours of a soul-deep slumber.

Gone is the stiffness in your neck, and the dryness of your throat. Thanks to the heat-pack cradles your skull. On the bedside, a humidifier fizzes out your favorite scent.

This time, you do not wake to a pounding skull or nausea.

This time, you wake to the sound of the whispers that sent you to sleep the first time. Shushes. Lovely things.

Something hard rests beneath your fingers, it crackles and crunches when you flex. It takes a while for your blurry vision to make sense of it—and the nest of things around your bed—but when the picture comes to clarity, you cant help but smile.

Whorls of spirals in a shape of a flower in an obscure vase. A little queen made of circles and boxes and sticks wears a crown and lies in a heart-shaped bed.

And in spiraling, elegant handwritten script it is says: Feel better soon, Queen Mama.

“Took an hour to do that.” Sylus’s weight dips the mattress as he draws near to you. He moves various stuffies and plushies aside just to make space.

He catches the moisture from your eyes with his finger and finds no resistance this time when he leans in to kiss your forehead. “Boys were debating what color flowers you’d like.”

“For an hour?” Your mouth tugs downwards despite your joyful disposition. Sylus nods, curling around you like a beast and guiding your head to his chest.

He gestures to the red whorls overpowering the rest of the colors. “Lucian was very persuasive.”

You finally crack a smile. “How were they?”

“They take after you.” Is all he says, nodding towards the other edge of the bed where two curious heads with two pairs of careful eyes wait. Little crocodiles in the water.

Waiting, testing whether to approach or retreat.

Now, when have they ever held themselves back like this?

Your heart aches when you realize Sylus’s small movements— his one finger held up and cueing them to hold, his brows raised to prompt them to ask.

“How’a you, mama?” Lucian asks softly, his voice unused to speaking at such a volume. One hand comes up with the end of his plastic stethoscope, hovering, waiting to be used.

Kyros rasps, “All better?”

“Mhm.” You coo, and with one gesture from you to come nearer, they’re already overriding protocol and clawing at the beddings, climbing over the edge. Sylus uses his evol to nudge them up the incline. And they close the space between you.

You sit up against Sylus and watch each twin assume a position. Lucian balances himself on the bed and backs up bum first to sit on your lap and Kyros squeezes himself in the nonexistent space between you and Sylus.

Just before you’d fallen asleep, you remember their little voices telling you about their drawings. The presentation you so rudely dismissed with your slumber.

You have every intention to apologize, but Kyros is already starting a new story. In hushed tones and a practiced volume you can only guess is their papa’s doing.

“Papa make mama better— ‘ike, ‘ike eepy beauty.” Kyros says, pointing to the little queen on your ‘get well soon’ card.

You shoot Sylus a look and he promptly avoids your gaze. “Is that how the story goes?”

“Ah-huh! And—and papa too be da dragon that,” Lucian curls his fingers into claws and swipes them around to fill the space words cannot reach. “Roar! Roar! Go ‘way, little twinnies!”

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest in melodrama. Not at all surprised that Sylus had barricaded the bedroom to give you space. And though you don’t think you’d have minded the little ones, you appreciating his thoughtfulness nonetheless. You didn’t think it was possible for your heart to swell more than it already has. “Oh no! How did you get through?”

“Hat twicks!” Lucian grins proudly. He taps his finger on to his temple, while his twin nods in affirmation, echoing, “Mm. Twicks.”

When you tilt your head in confusion, Sylus clarifies. “Mind tricks.”

“Mama sickie and—and go in the inside room.” Kyros says, playing with the fabric of your sleeve as he explains. Partly in fascination with the fabric, and partly to make sure you don’t drift away again. “So—so Kee-ro and Woosian sickie too!”

“Sickies!” Lucian cheers, tapping Kyros’s foot with his hand. Kyros’s delayed tap back to the back of his head tells you it was supposed to be a high-five.

You hum in understanding, letting each emotion on your face be clear as day. Corners of your mouth lifting at how adorable it must have all been to witness.

“And papa cry.”

What?

You gasp—wish it was an overreaction for the littles, but it wasn’t— and your head snaps to Sylus. His palm cradles your nape instantly, steadying you before the headache could return.

His eyes are blown wide, pupils shaking as he begs his son—don’t with just a look. But Lucian wasn’t briefed for this before he came into the sick room.

So he misses it, and blurts anyways, “He say—say sowee.” He reaches out to pat your face like he did Sylus’s earlier. Soft, syrupy-warm fingers tapping to soothe against your skin. “Sowee be hide mama.”

“Oh.” you swoon, nuzzling your nose against the column of your husband’s neck. While he drops his head in defeat, shoulders hunched as if he’s bracing for judgment. One that never comes.

Instead, you say, “Papa’s a good castle dragon, no?”

Both of them nod, heads bobbing with effort from the waist enthusiastically to drive the point home.

Fingers once drumming against the skin of your arm, Sylus reaches out to tap each child’s forehead. Activating them like sleeper agents with his command. “What else wakes the sleeping beauty?”

Their postures straighten, eyes alight and in a blink of an eye they are climbing up the blanket, over your limbs, exclaiming. “Kissies!”

Your shrieks are pleasant and warm as you receive a sloppy wet kiss on both your cheeks from each of your children. A sweet barrage of happy “mwa! mmmwa!”s are reimbursed back to them by your own kisses pressing onto the marshmallowy round corners of their face.

You overdose in their giggles and screeches as they roll around the sheets, finding home once more in your presence.

Sylus watches with the intensity of a hawk, but softened features of a father nursing his own wounded pride. Holding himself back from joining the fray, swimming in his spiralling thoughts—

For how could he have missed this? Deprive you of the most effective cure of all?

Soft lips press hard on his cheek, and he snaps out of it. Blinks to ground himself back in the moment to find you in focus. And offers you a halfhearted smile.

One you don’t buy.

“Doctor…” you says slowly, testing the waters for you know they run deep. You try again when he only scoffs in mild amusement. Evoking more from him with a softened, “My love.”

And as parched earth does touched after a drought, he crumbles.

“They begged to see you all day.” He confesses, watching distantly as Kyros and Lucian finally do what he’d been wanting them to do. Just play. Entertain themselves.

“They snuck into the plants. Lucian cried. Kyros even did the breath holding thing—“ he breathes through his nose. A wince in disguise. “I told them no, not now. Wait—until you’re better. Wait until I’m not busy. Wait… because I thought I would be all you needed.”

He winces now for real. The reality of his words said out loud like nails on a chalkboard; crashing cymbals on a porcelain floor. A humorless scoff, filled with disdain and disbelief chokes him. “How cruel.”

You consider him. The man who’d spent the whole day at your beck and call, catching you before you even fall, nursing you from sickness to health, all the while keeping your children entertained no matter how ridiculous it had gotten—still, still finding impurities in his actions.

And while he could be right. While he could have hurt them in the process of figuring it out—you can’t help but think it inevitable. “Sylus, you’re figuring it out.”

He grumbles, “I should have known.”

Damns himself with his voice of venom, “But I dismissed them. Forced them to understand without helping them understand.”

Acting exactly like the ones he despised, the ones who cast him out when he knew nothing else but to live.

“You asked me to be gentle with them.” He breathes.

Yet despite it all, gently, you take his trembling chin in your fingers and turn his face to his sons. Grounding him, reminding him where he is. Where he stands. Who he is. “You are.”

“I didn’t…” he holds his breath. Swallows the confession, but it rises up anyway. Needing to be said. Needing to be witnessed, to be heard. “I didn’t know what to do.”

That’s what he hates the most.

All the power, the strength and certainty in every area he chooses to stride; for all he has conquered— here he is. Helpless, scrambling, grasping at straws to make decisions where it matters most. With you. With his family.

“Oh, Sylus.” his hands are bound together by yours, fingers burrowing in each space. You guide his forehead down to press against yours, letting him feel you here with him.

“Now you do.” you whisper kindly. So kind, terribly sickly kind to him so monstrous.

For the first time, faced with greed he now feels shame holding.

He squeezes your hands tight as if asking for penance.

Flipping it on him—you say, “They didn’t understand. But now they do… because of you.”

He glances back at his children at your command. Play fighting across the expanse of the bed, gasping giggles and lifting little fingers to little lips when their volume gets too high, pulling each other away from you when they stumble too close.

Lucian pauses when Kyros clutches his eye, catching his brother and quietly apologizing. Planting kisses on his hair, squeezing him tight in an embrace.

Echos of his own words. Mimics of his own actions. Lessons they’ve learned from him.

“No one wants you to know everything. Not with us.” You assure him, combing disheveled bangs back to reveal his tired eyes. “We just want you.”

He stares at you. Reverently, wistfully— takes your fingers to his lips and presses hard, worshiping you for breathing. Thanking you for being.

“Gentle edges and all.” You say, the last nail to his coffin. For he has died again and again in your arms, but you bring him back to life each time.

He nods. Scars tender and seen. Swallows the lesson, digests the truth. You are well, and so are his boys. And whatever mistakes he makes on the way of keeping you this way, he will spend the rest of his life making it up to you. No matter how hard the storms wreak havoc, he swears to emerge victorious.

Until his wings are clipped. Until his soul is dragged thin. He will keep figuring it out and making things right.

His children offer the levity he needs when they stumble over each other to catch him off guard. They squeeze themselves between him and you, and heal him with kisses as well. The little ones settle themselves within the nest of huggable tokens and memorable trinkets they gathered under Sylus’s command.

For they hoard his words; they treasure his verses.

They do not tally his sins. Only his love.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Later, when the headache drags you under once more, Sylus does not fight it.

With a finger to his lips, he slips out of bed to make you dinner. Kyros follows, Lucian stays.

Kyros is slow in his movements when he plucks an egg from the fridge. When he squeezes the lemon into the soup. When he arranges the spoon and chopsticks on the wooden tray.

Lucian lays silently beside you, caressing your hair gently until he too slips on his dreams.

And when you wake the last time, Sylus is there, waiting for you.

And so are your children, with their own breakfast trays and silicone bowls with the octopus grippers to hold them in place. With their spill proof bibs and messy cheeks, already elbow deep into the soup that is served.

Clumsy hands overshoot spoons into their mouths, trying their hardest to do it on their own. Making space for Sylus to feed you instead.

“I can eat by myself, you know.” you inform him, but open your mouth for another spoonful anyway.

He smiles, shy and boyish, caught in his own indulgence. “I doctor you better, sweetie.”

You snort. “I wouldn’t mind being sick if it means this.”

He nods, watching Kyros tilt his bowl into his open mouth and Lucian’s fingers dive to retrieve his sunken spoon. A captured beauty in making their mess, with no hurry to be put away.

Your laughter, despite your exhaustion, melts something in him—peeling back the old ache layer by layer, until he can finally let go.

“Now, I know.”

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so much for reading! ( っ´ `)っ

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 7 hours ago

Text

please & thank you

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: sylus x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with very little/no plot, porn with feelings

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 7.5k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, SLIGHT spoilers to the lore (with some of my own interpretations and theories), oral m!receiving, fingering f!receiving, face/throat fucking, finger sucking, kinda rough, size difference, cuffing/tied up (m!receiving), sylus kindaaaa/degrading mean but in a tasteful way, he’s also very soft for reader, sylus has a FILTHY mouth, orgasm denial (f! and m!receiving), mirror sex, improper use of Evol, use of Y/N, cute petnames hehe (little dove, little bird, sweetheart, doll, etc), slight predator and prey, choking (kinda breath play??? not really), some references to lore (main storyline + midnight stealth), kinda sub!reader, dom!sylus, THIS IS FILTHY YALL IDK WHAT ELSE TO SAY

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3

━ ✧.˖ A/N: hi guyssss she is here <3 MY FIRST ever sylus fic, first of many me thinks bc i am so utterly infatuated w him im sorry zayne LOL

i did NOT end up making this connected to ‘midnight stealth’ OR ‘no defense zone’ (although some midnight stealth plot is referenced a tiny bit in the beginning). any resemblances to these two memories are purely coincidental, mostly similar because there’s use of cuffs/restraints in all three. this is purely a standalone filthy fic

this has veryyyy little plot, i decided to keep it that way so im sorry to those who wanted to see plot in this ;_; i didn’t want to burn out, which i likely would’ve because pivoting from what i had (5.6k words) to a more plot based fic would have taken me a few more days and probably double the words and i just couldn’t do that to myself.

i appreciate you guys for supporting me and i really respect each and every opinion so i hope i didn’t let anyone down by not doing the plot version. there will be plenty of opportunities for that i promise <3

pls enjoy :) any comments or reblogs r greatly appreciated (and loved) by me <3 they help me keep motivated to keep writing and truly make my whole week.

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ .

You were playing with fire.

Actually, what you were doing was definitely more dangerous and infinitely more idiotic than playing with fire.

It was downright deranged.

It appeared the silver haired man beneath you agreed, his jaw ticking dangerously as his deep crimson eyes crinkled in warning, “Are you sure this is a game you want to play?”

You knew the answer was definitely no. But the mere glimpse of the Onychinus leader beneath you, at your mercy, was enough to make you push through the thrilling fear coursing through your veins.

With Sylus’s chiseled body unwillingly sprawled out before you, you situated yourself in between his thighs. Though his words and expression were laced with a cautionary edge, his legs spread open for you.

His wrists were bound with the two silver cuffs you’d purchased at a novelty store on girls day out with Tara, each hand simultaneously locked to the steel beams of your bed’s headboard. With his arms bound above his head, his button up shirt rode up to expose his pale and scarred skin and the defined outlines of the chiseled pelvic muscles that lead to his manhood.

It wasn’t a stretch to say you’d planned this, after all you did buy the cuffs with Sylus in mind. And you’d never forget what Luke and Kieran had told you, in what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Boss is most vulnerable when he’s sleeping.”

Except now you weren’t binding him for the purpose of incapacitating him to find that damned brooch he’d taunted you with. Now, when he’d dozed off after you’d forced him to marathon the Harry Potter series with you, you tied him up with only one goal in mind.

Well maybe two. To tease and to punish.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you watch the way Sylus’s naval rises and falls irregularly, a subtle sign of his boiling anticipation. His exposed pelvis is dusted in a faint path of hair, trailing to where his pants hang dangerously low on his hips, after you’d taken his belt off.

Sylus watches you with a careful eye as your hands find his waistband, tugging his bottoms and his boxers down in one motion. He tuts disapprovingly, even as his body lifts every so slightly to assist you in undressing him, “I’ve already warned you once. I won’t warn you again.”

And yet, there’s an undeniable amusement in his voice that lets you know it’s safe to keep going. Your eye contact never breaks as you tug his clothing all the way down, until they rest at his ankles. His hardening cock springs free as you do so, the thick mushroom head already leaking a shiny streak of precum. As it slaps against his abdomen, Sylus’s carmine irises darken, but he refuses to make any sounds. The screech of steel rattling against steel is loud in the tense air, the formidable man’s fists clenched so tightly his nails threaten to break his skin.

You bend down slowly, torturously languid, until his masculine scent invades your senses. You shiver in pleasure, positively addicted to every part of him. Sylus’s stomach heaves as he curses you inwardly; you were the only devilish minx that could even fathom rendering him into this vulnerable state. The only person he’d ever allow to see him like this.

“You’ve become quite bold, little bird. Perhaps I’ve been too lenient with you.”

His cocky attitude makes you want to shiver, but you find the strength to retort back, “Perhaps you have.”

Not wanting to give him a chance to respond, and a chance for you to lose your courage, you let your tongue run over the thick tip of his erection, collecting his arousal on your tongue. You make a show of savoring his taste, letting your eyes bat at him while you lick him clean.

Sylus is hypnotized, crunching up to watch you. His wrists pull against the metal restraints, growing irritated with being held back. Of course, if he’d wanted to, he could snap the cuffs with a mere tick of his fingers, but he found it amusing to watch his mischievous little bird believe she had control.

When you take his head fully into your lips, Sylus’s hips involuntarily buck up into the heaven that is your mouth. Though surprised, you do your best to accommodate the extra inches, tongue twirling around his leaking slit as your jaw unhinges to take in his fat girth.

“Fuck.”

Sylus’s dark eyebrows are scrunched as he fights the urge to destroy the cuffs to get to you, wanting nothing more than to sink his fingers into your hair and push you down until you couldn’t breathe. But he prided himself as a man of patience, even if he despised being tested.

And you were absolutely testing him. Your puffy lips caressed his sensitive veins, tongue assaulting every flaming nerve of his massive length, delicate and soft fingers leaving no inch of him untouched. Yet you moved so languidly. Deliberately testing how far you could push him, testing his resolve. Not that he would ever beg, but he desperately wished you’d move faster, take him deeper.

“My love,” he purrs, deceptively calm even as your filthy tongue lathered his most sensitive parts, “I implore you to release me. While I’m still feeling generous.”

Doing your best to shut him up, you take him into the back of your throat, fingers shifting from the base of his manhood to his heavyset balls. You’re only half successful in your antics, as you do cut off Sylus’s demands, only to be replaced by an inexplicable string of curses. The daunting leader of the Onychinus, whose name evoked fear itself to most, unraveled at your whims. A man who had no weaknesses, save for one.

You.

With his head thrown back, hair tousled and matted with a thin layer of sweat, he began to pant heavily. His neck bobbed deeply to the rhythm of his gasps, hands pulling against the restraints you’d locked him into. The sound of metal clashing against metal is almost deafening, your head snapping up to his arms bound above his head.

For a second you’d feared he’d snapped the steel cuffs, his biceps rippling and forearm veins bulging with the sheer strength of his arms. But fortunately for you, his wrists were still firmly bound, a red angry circle forming where the metal met the pale skin of his hands.

“Do you really think – hah – this will end well for you, dove?” Sylus considers this your very last warning, crunching up once again to watch you, your mouth full of his cock, saliva dribbling down your chin as you try to accommodate his thickness. He swears under his breath at the sight of you, his woman, the only person he’d ever even consider letting his guard down around, pleasuring him so sweetly and enthusiastically. Even if you were so foolish that you thought you could get away with typing him up.

You look up innocently at him, fluttering your eyelashes as you fuck him with your mouth. Though you let him hit the back of your throat every time, your rhythm is intentionally and torturously slow, edging him without making it obvious enough for punishment. And although each intentional motion elicits the most mind numbing grip from your gag reflex on his throbbing erection, he’s losing his mind from how much more he wants. How much more he needs.

“Faster.”

You nearly choke as you giggle at his demands, releasing his cock with a resounding pop. Of course, even tied up, Sylus didn't use the word ‘please.’ The man of unthinkable power was absolutely used to getting what he wanted without even batting an eye. It was a habit that he rarely relented on, and when he did it was only for you.

“What’s the magic word?”

Sylus glowered at you, jaw twitching dangerously as he did his best to hold himself back, “Watch it.”

It was truly taking every ounce of willpower he had to not rip the cuffs off the steel beams of your bed, taking your headboard apart with it. All so he could have more.

“Sylus,” you pout, still using your hands to gingerly stroke him with a featherlike touch. Nothing intense enough to get him off. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to say ‘please’ when asking for something?” You give him a pointed squeeze, thumb stroking the underside of his swollen head.

He curses, pelvis thrusting up into your fist to try and chase the pleasure you’re withholding from him, “Fuck, if you’re going to act like a brat, I’m going to treat you like one.”

“I just want to hear the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Please. See how easy that is?”

“Y/N, my heart,” Sylus purrs lowly, eyes glinting dangerously, “I won’t tolerate any more disobedience.”

“Well then you don’t get what you want.” As soon as the words left your mouth you knew you’d regret them.

Before you can even blink, you find yourself pressed firmly into the mattress, your head hanging off the side, hair dangling freely. The air feels strangely brisk, and you can vaguely feel your nipples hardening. It’s then you realize you’re naked. But you hadn’t felt Sylus lay a single finger on you.

His Evol.

You’d become so accustomed to Sylus’s Evol that you no longer felt its slightly suffocating invisible web when it touched you, unlike when you’d first met him in the N109 zone. The countless times he’d use his Evol to guide your lips to his, your hand into his larger ones, or to undress you, had actually made you quite fond of the touch of his Evol.

Little did you know that Sylus had actually been practicing lightening up the intensity of it, for you. He’d always detested seeing the uncomfortable scrunch of your eyebrows, the hostile goosebumps that would raise where his Evol touched you. So he’d absolved himself to train the claws of his Evol to soften, instead becoming that of a gentle caress. Only for you, of course. For everyone else, they got the skin-shredding talons that parents warned about in cautionary tales to their children.

Hanging upside down, the glint of the ceiling light against the silver cuffs hanging off your headboard catches your eye, snapping you from your thoughts. The metal loops were still completely intact, but unlocked. Of course you knew he’d use his Evol to escape eventually, but it still surprised you how he managed to do it so effortlessly. Graceful in everything he did.

You try to sit up, but Sylus’s hand wraps itself softly around your throat and holds you back down. He tsks scornfully, a playful warning in the swirling glowing cerise of his eyes. His grip is gentle enough where you can still speak normally. Rough enough where you want more.

So you pout childishly, “It’s just like you to use your Evol for such cheap tricks.”

From beneath his towering frame, you can just barely see him raise his perfectly arched eyebrow. Most of him is obstructed by his massive erection pressed at your nose, menacingly imposing before you. “Cheap? Doll, there’s nothing cheap about me. And nothing cheap about the things I’m going to do to you.”

You shiver involuntarily at his threats, your thighs clenching together in anticipation. Sylus’s words were always harsh, but when it came to you there was always such a profound sincerity and gentleness behind his actions, even when he was brutally devouring your body. So the danger edged into his words only served to excite you, fueling the dampness that had formed between your legs.

And of course, his perfect cock dangling in front of your lips, still glistening with a sheen of his arousal and your saliva. Hanging so closely to your waiting tongue, but never touching. That definitely did not help the throbbing ache in between your thighs.

“I think you’ve had enough fun, don’t you agree?”

Feeling daringly bold, you playfully curse him, “Screw y–” But before you can finish getting the words out, Sylus grips your jaw, shoving himself into your waiting mouth. The force he uses is enough to make your eyes roll back, the feeling of being full of him making you forget what you’d wanted to say to begin with. You’re careful to pull back your teeth as he finds his way to one of his favorite places, the back of your throat.

“Let’s give that mouth something to do, other than run itself, hmm?”

You groan in response, letting the vibrations of your throat speak for you. Sylus grunts, removing his hand from your throat and weaving it into your hair like he’d wanted to earlier. His grip is strong, just hard enough that you feel an immense pleasure from the stinging pull. With a firm hand on your scalp, he fucks into your face, his meticulously groomed hair brushing against your nose at every thrust.

His speed and vigor is relentless, not that you’d complain even if you could. The feeling of Sylus driving in and out of your throat, like you were a fleshlight, had your body vibrating with need, clit throbbing in ecstasy. How you could feel this good just sucking his cock was beyond you. Your unrestrained moans were an absolute orchestra to his ears, the vibrations running through every nerve ending in his erection, causing him to release a string of his own sounds

“You’re so – hah – exquisite like this, dove. Choking on my cock instead of your words.”

You whine at him, so unbelievably turned on by the filthy way he speaks to you. His skin slaps against your wet mouth, and an obscene amount of drool mixed with precum drips off your cheeks and onto the carpeted floor beneath you. You loll your tongue out to try and catch his copious dribbles of precum, not wanting to waste any part of him.

“I can see my cock in your throat, sweetheart,” he cooed, using a hand to brush against your throat, where his erection bulges against your neck each time he fucks into you.

Tears streamed from your eyes as Sylus’s pace increased, gripping onto your hair for even more leverage against your beautiful face.

“Crying already? Not feeling so bold anymore, my love?”

You ignore his patronizing words, trying to focus instead on your own pleasure. With one hand still gripping the hard muscles of his bubbly rear, your other hand wanders to the quivering area between your thighs, fiddling with the bundle of nerves that was slick with your arousal. You desperately seek to relieve some of the tension building up in your gut, all from just Sylus’s cock in your mouth.

But before you can give yourself any inkling of pleasure, you feel a familiar force of energy pulling your hand away.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to touch yourself.”

You nearly sob at his words. You want to speak, plead with him to touch you, or at least let you touch yourself, pride be damned. But his unbelievable girth makes it impossible to do anything but devour him repeatedly.

The white haired man above you watches you carefully, swearing at how your tear soaked face makes his resolve to punish you crumble ever so slightly. Taking pity on you, he brings your hand to his, weaving his long fingers into yours. You hold his hand tightly, enjoying the way his much larger hand clasps into yours, fingers digging into your sensitive flesh.

“Good girl,” he coos in praise, voice tinged with a condescension that makes your skin crawl in excitement, “You don’t touch what’s mine, unless I say, hm?”

You look up at him with wide wet eyes, nodding obediently as he continues to ravage your face. He pressed your hand deeper into the mattress, his thrusts becoming so intense that you knew you’d have a hard time speaking tomorrow, your throat battered and bruised.

From your position, you don’t see the glowing light that emanates from your joined fingers. But Sylus does, and he watches in a concealed wonder at the way you can so easily resonate with him now. You didn’t even need to try, a single touch was all it took. It was a testament to how much you’d grown to trust him.

No, it was a testament to the deep love and respect you’d both come to hold for each other. You’d both definitely come a long way from when he’d captured, or when you let him capture, you at the N109 zone all that time ago. The thought of that threatens to make Sylus shiver as he continues to ram himself deep into your warm wet throat. He watched the way you took him so eagerly, hand gripping his for dear life, your other hand coming up to stroke his heavyset balls as they slapped against your face. The way your poor little throat bulged every time he thrusted into it, the bump so visible to his hungry crimson eyes.

Oh, how you ruined him. He’d fucking marry you.

Your jaw ached, having been open as widely as possible for far too long now, but you did your best to continue to take him. The feeling of him using your mouth was more than enough to keep you growing wetter, needing more. Your thighs squeezed together, as you rocked into nothing, wanting nothing more than to feel any friction between your legs.

Sylus watched as you pathetically tried to find pleasure in the empty air, nearly growling at how arousing the sight was. He was fueled with such an intense desire and love for you, nothing like he’d ever felt before. And that love and desire was enough for him to concede, if even just a little bit, for you.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling…charitable today, my dove,” he murmurs, releasing your hair and bending over your body. His erection never leaves your mouth, but he hovers so that your sight is filled with the view of his solid abdominal muscles. You cry out against his member when the familiar feel of his fingers finds your clit. You gasp out, choking on him, your hips jolting up eagerly to meet his torrid touch.

Sylus chuckles, a satisfied smirk making its way onto his unfairly gorgeous face, “Look at how eager you are…all this just from the taste of cock?”

Not able to respond, you hump up into his hand, squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment of how desperate you were for him. Sylus only gives you a pointed thrust into your throat, making you gag deliciously around him again.

“Such an insatiable little bird,” he murmured, fingers expertly toying with you.

“You��re so beautiful, sweetheart,” his skilled ministrations never stopping, “I wish you could see how lovely you look with your mouth full.”

Your eyes rolled back when he entered you, one finger at a time. He cursed at how tightly you gripped just one of his fingers. He had half a mind to just bury himself into your perfect cunt right then and there. And that’s just what he’d do. He was never used to not indulging in what he wanted, why stop now?

You felt the familiar shift in energy, a gentle hold on your body, until you found yourself laying on the middle of your bed, Sylus situated between your knees, fingers still toying with you. Your neck screaming in relief at the plush surface, mind reeling from the sudden shift.

The white haired man bends to hover over you, free hand caressing your jaw, his frighteningly beautiful face before yours, “Hello, my love.”

Your voice is hoarse, sounding unfamiliar, “Hi.” It’s nothing more than a pitiful squeak.

Sylus chuckles, his chest rumbling warmly at your adorably vulnerable state, “How’s your throat?”

You glare at him, trying to steady your raspy voice, “Don’t patronize me.”

He smirks, not the least bit apologetic, but says, “Forgive me, love.” He doesn’t give you a chance to sass him further, instead bringing your chin up to his. His lips slot onto yours, deceptively slow at first and quickly progressing to a vigor that matched the way he’d rammed himself into your throat.

The bruising intensity of the kiss made your mind muddle, your hands coming up to grasp his neck to ground you. You gasped at the feeling of his heartbeat pounding so forcefully in his neck. The familiar feeling of an earth shattering orgasm edges into your numbed mind, every heightened sense filled with Sylus and only Sylus.

You finally break away, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him scissoring in and out of you, enough to have you on the brink of climaxing, “Sy-Sylus, I’m–”

Sylus reads you like the back of his hand, withdrawing his fingers and roughly grabbing your face to look up at him. You sob at the loss of friction, looking up at him with teary questioning eyes.

The ceiling lights illuminate behind Sylus, forming a halo like ring atop his head. He was so hauntingly and terrifyingly beautiful. Not unlike that of a fallen angel, whose sole purpose was to ruin you.

And just as you’re admiring him, Sylus looks down at you. Unbeknownst to you, he also considers you to be his very own angel sent from the heavens. Bringing light and salvation to the shadowed crevices of his soul.

But even then, he can’t help but tease you, the urge to see you ruined at his hand. An angel with tattered wings, so utterly spent with lust. “You don’t cum until I say, hm?” As if to punctuate his point, he puts his fingers, wet with your slick, in between your parted lips. The taste of you is strong on him, enough to distract you from Sylus, who’s lining up his more massive than ever erection with your weeping slit.

“Come on, sweetheart. Suck. I know you can do better than that.”

He presses his fingers harder onto your tongue, relishing in how warm you feel around him. At your adorable pouty glare, he pushes his leaking tip into you.

You yelp in surprise, biting down on his fingers in your mouth. Sylus hisses, but the pain only further arouses him, making him shove into you suddenly. Your hands come up to grasp his forearm, the veins bulging under your touch.

The feeling of him entering you is so overwhelming, the only thing grounding you to the present was the way his fingers felt and tasted against your tongue. And so you devoured him in earnest, much to his satisfaction.

It’s not long before he bottoms out, his head kisses your cervix, just enough to have your eyes rolling back, sparks of hot white pleasure clouding your vision.

Sylus removes his fingers from your mouth, bringing his thumb to his own lips and brushing it across his parted mouth, his other fingers outstretched as he licks across his thick thumb. You whimper at the sight, so unbelievably seductive he has to be doing it on purpose.

“You always taste divine.” His movements have all but halted completely, his thick girth just sitting inside of you, brushing against your womb. And even though the stretch is enough to practically compress your lungs, you want more.

“D-Don’t tease Sylus,” you whine pathetically, “Fuck me.”

The smile on his face is as cocky as ever, the corner of his lips curving up, as sharp as his edged jaw.

“So bold. Do you really think you’re in any position to make demands?”

He gives you just one pointed thrust, cockhead nestling so deliciously into your sweetest spots, but stopping just at that. You cry out, fingers gripping the comforter so tightly your knuckles turn white.

“If I recall correctly…someone once told me something about saying…what was it? ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’?”

He grins down at you, bending forward so that he hovers right over your face. He would never let you know but the pouty grimace on your lust glowing face was nearly enough to have him caving into your every whim, punishment forgotten in the wind.

“Hm? So what do we say, sweetheart?”

With his cock situated so perfectly in you, it’s impossible for you to do anything but follow his every command, no matter how much it bruises your ego.

“P-Please?”

His smirk deepens, fingers cupping your chin up to face him, “You can do better than that, Y/N.”

You groan as he shifts, giving you just the tiniest bit of friction where it mattered. You do your best to find the confidence, “Please Sylus.”

There’s the faintest flicker of darkness in his eyes, a twitch of unraveling at the way you effortlessly purr his name. If you had any idea the things you did to him, the mighty and fearless leader of the Onychinus, it would be his absolute undoing.

“Please what, my dove? Come on, use that beautiful voice of yours.”

Before you can let out your snarky response, his fingers travel to your neck, stroking your sensitive pulse gently before pressing down to compress your airway.

“Or is this throat only good for taking my cock?”

You whine at his words, patience absolutely gone. You wrap your legs around his waist and force him closer. A pathetic attempt to get him to thrust into you. Your hands come up to the back of his neck, and your tear glistening eyes search his pleadingly. He’s taken aback by the sudden shift, a small gasp escaping his parted lips. In his surprise, he lets himself be guided to you, his forehead falling to lay atop yours, his breath fanning against your own.

“Please Sylus, please fuck me. I’m sorry, I’ll be a good girl. Please.”

The curse that leaves Sylus’s voice is barely perceptible as he drinks you in. Your cheeks were still streaked with tears, your eyes wide and glassy. Your lips were puffy from his bruising kisses, and cheeks heated with desire. There was absolutely nothing in the universe that could match how utterly gorgeous you were. His gorgeous woman. His to ruin.

His voice low with longing and hunger, “Fuck, okay love. I’ll give you what you want.”

He manipulates the energy around you, raising your arm above your hand. His slender fingers dance up your exposed skin, until they find your fingers. His nails graze your inflamed skin, fingers toying with yours. For a brief moment, he enjoys how much smaller your hand feels in his. His delicate little bird.

“Hold on tight.”

Your fingers grip his, your nails digging in when he finally pulls his cock out, leaving only his head still snuggly inside. Without giving you a second to breathe, he’s plummeting himself back into your sopping cunt. Your combined slick ensures there’s zero resistance, only the sounds of wet slaps filling the space between you.

Sylus’s forehead still rests against yours, his free arm bent above your head, helping support him as he fucks you with a painfully delicious intensity. Your cunt milks him perfectly, the warmth far too inviting and the tightness much too constricting. His fingers grip yours forcefully, trying to offset the way your pussy tries to suck the living soul out of him.

“Sy-Sylus,” you cry out, nails digging crescents into his skin, your other hand coming up to rake red scratches into his back, “Slow – ngh – slow down!” Your brain is a jumbled mess, confused at the words your tongue lets out when your body only wants more.

Sylus’s chuckle is low and almost sinister, his pace never relenting, “That’s funny. I recall you saying you’d be a good girl.” He shifts his weight to his knees, moving his palm to your naval, pressing down. You squeal at the feeling of his palm pressing into your stomach, your sensitive walls being compressed into his cock spearing in and out of you.

“And good girls take what they’re given, hm?”

Moans and whimpers are the only thing you’re capable of producing, his pace brutal, like he was trying to find his way into your throat from your cunt. You don’t notice his hand traveling further south until his thumb presses into your swollen clit, flicking hard. You screech, your back arching off the bed, giving him further access to your dripping cunt.

“Answer me when I speak to you, sweetheart.”

“Yes! Yes, I’m a good girl, I can take it!” you all but screamed, spine so arched you felt like you were levitating.

The erotic cries that leave your lips make it difficult for Sylus to think straight, so he doesn’t. He fucks you with a ferocity that was nothing short of animalistic, the only thing he can think of is how many different ways he can and will make you cum.

He presses your joined palms deeper into the mattress, eyes searching yours desperately. For what, you were unsure. But as his scarlet irises bore into yours, you felt an overwhelming sense of emotion catch in your throat.

Propping yourself slightly on your elbows, you pressed your forehead to Sylus’s, his sweat dampened bangs fluttering against your eyelashes.You reach up to cup the back of his head, pulling him towards you. His right hand never leaves your clit, his left staying tightly clasped with yours.

He takes the opportunity to press his lips to yours, forcing his tongue into your mouth. You moan into him as he claims you fully, thrusts moving in tandem with his tongue. It’s a torrid clash of tongue and teeth, enough passion to have the Aether core in your heart throbbing dangerously erratically.

“Syluuus,” you slur as you pull away to breathe, “I-I’m..I’m gon–” You can’t get the words out, the tip of his cock against your cervix and fingers on your clit bringing you into another dimension, one filled with him. The scent, the sound, the feel, the sight of him.

“I know. Getting so goddamn tight,” he grits out, jaw locking as he tries to steady himself against your vice grip. Sylus was a man of boundless stamina and restraint, but when it came to you… When it came to the absolute heaven that was your body, he could hold nothing back.

Just as you neared your orgasm, Sylus stops again. You find your body being moved again, but this time Sylus’s hands are lifting you, and not his Evol. His strong arms lift you so that you’re sitting on his lap, your back pressed against his muscled chest, and his back leaned up against the bed.

He does however use his Evol to drag over the gold arched full-length mirror you had propped up against the corner of your bedroom, so that it sits right in front of the bed. Your vision is filled with the gleaming reflection of you, naked on Sylus’s lap, his arrogant smirk right by the top of your head. His muscular arms are draped over your thighs, spreading open your glistening folds, fully exposing you before the mirror.

“Sylus s-stop. It’s embarrassing,” you whine, averting your gaze at the lewd sight, and the even filthier sounds of his fingers against your copious slick. But he grips your jaw firmly, turning you back to the mirror.

“Look how beautiful you are,” he murmurs, lips pressed against your ear, “Look.”

You puff your cheeks, fighting against his fingers.

“Look, love. Or you don’t get to cum,” he purrs in your ear.

You mutter sulkily, knowing full well his threats are anything but empty, “You’re evil.”

But you obey diligently, letting his fingers guide your face forward. The sight before you is so unbelievably filthy, Sylus’s long fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread open, his other fingers playing with your swollen lips. Even on his lap, he was a head taller than you, His soft white hair is matted with sweat, his cheeks dusted a peachy red with how vigorously he’d just been fucking you.

As your eyes meet in the mirror, Sylus lifts you from underneath your thighs, and spears you onto his cock. You cry out at the feeling of being stretched open again, Sylus’s own ecstasy fueled grunts in your ear.

With you atop him, his cock reaches so unbelievably deep inside you that you feel the tears returning. Your eyes screw shut as his tip repeatedly brushes against your cervix, the familiar pain quickly dulling into an intense pleasure.

Suddenly you feel Sylus’s teeth at the crook of your neck, and arm coming across your chest to enclose over your entire throat. His sharp canines dig into the area where your neck meets your shoulder, biting just hard enough to make your eyes fly open to face his in the mirror. His eyebrows are quirked at you, amusement evident in his sharp ruby eyes.

He doesn’t speak, instead keeping his mouth attached to your pulse point. But the dark sultry heat swirling in his eyes that you can see reflected in the mirror is a clear and wordless command.

Watch.

And who were you to disobey him, when his body brought this much pleasure to your own.

So with your eyes locked on his in the mirror, Sylus begins to bounce you in earnest on his lap. And while you moan and whimper as he springs you so effortlessly on his cock, like you weighed nothing more than a mere toy, his own noises are muffled by his teeth that are sunk into your fluttering neck.

His eyes never leave yours in the mirror, darkened underneath his eyebrows, glowing with red hot lust. The way he watches you is so intimately primal, like a predator toying with its prey before the kill.

With his hungry gaze locking yours in place and the lewd wet sounds of slick skin pounding against one another, you feel the alarmingly rapid tightening of your abdomen that signals your orgasm. Sylus feels it too, your walls tightening so intensely that the outline of his veins might imprint into you. Your grip coaxes his own cock toward release, his jaw tightening as to keep himself in check.

He releases your bruised skin, admiring how breathtaking you look with his marks on you. His hand leaves your clit to rest on your tummy, stroking the skin there. You can feel him use his Evol to keep you in place, only the raw strength of his thighs and abs keeping you in steady motion on his length.

“Look,” he croons in your ear, teeth grazing against your sensitive earlobes, “Can you see where I am, dove? I’m allll the way here ” His husky voice drawls, hand on your abdomen pressing down. You can definitely see the distinct outline of something large thrusting in and out of you. Your eyes widen at the mirror, mesmerized at how your bodies connect, almost resonating on their own. Sylus’s eyes are also glued to the way the base of his cock, shiny with a ring of arousal, forces your tiny fluttering cunt to take him in all his glory.

“Tell me how it feels, hm? Tell me how I make you feel.” When you don’t respond, too lost in the sight in the mirror, his fingers come back down to squeeze your clit,

“Sylus! – ngh – feels ssoo so good,” you simper, panting through the hold he still has on your throat, the pressure quickly becoming far too addicting, “I-I…”

“Hah,” he groans into your ear, “You what baby? Tell me.”

“M’gunna cuuum,” you wail as his angle shifts just slightly, cock driving into your g spot. Sylus knows just how to play with you, his fingers sending you to heaven and back repeatedly. He was so thick that you felt like he'd split you in two, your cunt and thighs being stretched to their limits against the sloppy friction.

“Hmmm, is my beautiful girl going to make a mess on me? Does she deserve to?”

The mere thought that he might deny your climax again has you sobbing, tears of anguished ecstasy rolling down your face as his pace picks up even further.

“P-Pleaaase – unghh – please let me. I’m a g-good girl, I’ll be so – hnngh – good, I promise.”

Sylus had no intention of denying you again, but now he physically couldn’t. Because now, watching the fat tears roll down your cheek and hearing your beautiful pleas, he too could feel himself pulse with the ache to fill you up. As he watched your breathtaking form in the mirror, he cursed the Gods for sending the only thing that could ruin him.

You.

And yet, being ruined by you felt so damn good.

“Good for who, my love?”

Your vision has become clouded by your tears and the black spots that blot your eyesight. But the possessive purr in Sylus’s voice reaches you, through all the blinding pleasure, and makes butterflies flutter in your chest.

Your hands come up behind you to grasp behind his neck, and you strain yourself so that you turn just slightly to face him. For a second Sylus looks taken aback, but he quickly composes himself, the confident smile returning to his lips.

“Nggghh – for you, Sylus.” The sincerity of your shaking voice wipes the cocky smirk off his face, his thrusts faltering ever so slightly. For a brief second, Sylus can’t feel anything. He can’t feel the way your cunt, on the precipice of release, squeezes so forcefully that it threatens to break him in half, the way your soaking thighs ripple against his lap as he pounds into you, the way your fingers play with the hair at the back of his head.

Fate had played a cruel trick on the two of you. Two tragically entwined Aether cores. Two birds of a feather, trapped in the cage destiny had built.

But now, there is only you and him. Fate and destiny be damned.

“I’m yours Sylus. Always yours.”

Your words, delicate and simpering, pull him back to reality. All the sensations he’d briefly been numbed to came crashing back. The torturously delicious way you felt around him, atop him, and against him swarmed back all at once. And to top it all off, the sight of your fluttery wide wet eyes, hazed over with a fog of lust, staring at him with such wonder and adoration. Your eyes alone were practically making love to him.

It made him absolutely feral.

You squeal, thighs doing their best to grip against Sylus’s lap as he bounces you with an unprecedented vigor, his hand holding your throat to keep you somewhat steady. You watch his muscles bulge, his much larger frame very much on display behind you. Powerful and imposing – a true god-like glory.

“That’s fucking right, you’re mine,” he hisses in your ear, jaws clenched to hold back the moans your pussy threaten to pull from his body.

“Gonna cum in you, yeah? Would my slutty girl like that?"

“Y-Yes!” you squeal, so close to coming undone, “Pleeease Sylus! I-I’m s’close, I’ll do anything please!” You were quickly losing your voice amidst all the screaming and vigorous activities.

You can see Sylus devilish smile, releasing your throat to tilt your chin towards him.

“Anything? You’re making a deal with the devil, little dove.”

With your face so dangerously close to his, he can’t resist. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, his lips crashing onto yours, locked in the sweltering passion of your bodies. The feel of his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth is just enough to send you headfirst into the orgasm you’d been on the brink of for so long.

And because of that, your body couldn’t hold back the gush of excitement that squirted from where Sylus was connected to you. It’s so messy you can’t help the way your cheeks burn in embarrassment, even amidst the short circuiting of your pleasure-numbed brain.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Sylus bites out, the tautening of your orgasm stricken cunt nearly squeezing him into unconsciousness. He fucks you through your blissed out state, and it isn’t long before he follows your lead.

Like everything Sylus does, the way he cums is frighteningly powerful. Your body involuntarily shivers at how hot he is, but more so just how much there is. You can both clearly see the thick milky white seed seeping down Sylus’s cock, even as he continues to fuck into you. His thrusts are slower now, but more intentional. Conveying every ounce of passion into the way he rocks into you. Overstimulation quickly grips you, and you weakly tap at his thighs.

“Sylus, no-no more. S’too much.”

“M’not done,” he groans into your ear as he continues to thrust into you, and it’s then you feel his cock still shooting ropes of his hot spend inside you. He does, however, release your clit, shoving his fingers in your mouth, knowing it'll give you something to ground yourself amidst the sensitivity while he rides out the waves of his climax.

You gladly accept his fingers, grasping his forearm and sucking like his arm was a dessert. The taste of your mixed slick helps distract you from the intense aftershocks that wrack your body. It’s all enough to have Sylus spurting out everything he has, drained completely empty, milked utterly dry.

When you feel him finally still, you crack your eyes open, almost scared to see the aftermath.

The waning sun bounced beams of golden sunlight off your sweat, tears, and cum slicked bodies. Your own body was also littered in pretty little bruises, in the shape of Sylus’s teeth and fingers. Bruises in places you hadn’t even felt Sylus sink his teeth into. They quite literally looked like swirls of paint against a blank canvas.

Your hair was a mess, and your tear stained face was no better. The area between your thighs was red and puffy, leaking an obscene amount of white cream, all the while still stuffed to the brim with Sylus’s softening member. Even half hard, he stretched you absolutely full.

On the other hand, the man in question looked absolutely ethereal as he loomed above you in the mirror. His hair sat lusciously soft, gently blowing with the breeze entering through the cracked window. His muscles still flexed gently as they recovered from the vigorous activities, strong chest rising and falling rhythmically with his steadying heartbeat.

And finally his eyes that watch you back so carefully, the carmine orbs half lidded with satisfied bliss. His lips stretch into that signature Sylus smirk when he catches you staring, nothing short of heart stoppingly arrogant.

He’s so unbelievably handsome, your cunt quivering again just at the sight of him. Wincing at the feeling of his cock inside you stirring back to life at your involuntary throbbing, you panic and tap furiously on his thigh.

“Sylus, put me down.”

Sylus chuckles, mischief coloring his scarlet eyes, “What, no ‘please’?”

You whine, not able to withstand the feeling of him stirring back to life in your absolutely spent core. Yet you can feel yourself fluttering in anticipation. And you know he can feel it too.

You silently curse your traitorous body.

“Please.”

He laughs warmly and obliges. His strong hands grip the underside of your thighs, lifting you off of him. You cry out at the feeling, your cunt clenching at nothing, seeking him once more. Sylus inhales sharply, craving your tight warmth again. But he holds you gently against his chest, shifting so that his erection rests between his abdomen and your thigh, with you sitting sideways on his lap.

You nuzzle your head into his chest, and Sylus’s lips come down to the top of your head, breathing in your scent and ghosting kisses into your hair. Your hands reach up to weave into his silver tresses, playing with his soft locks and delicately massaging his scalp.

“Thank you,” you murmur, voice muffled against his skin.

When Sylus doesn’t respond, you pull away from him and look up at him expectantly. He appears to be lost in the feeling of your fingers.

“You never said please, you could at least say thank you,” you tease, poking his soft cheek with your finger.

Sylus looks down at you, amused danger flickering in the deep orbs of crimson. His hand leaves your thigh, slowly and tortuously crawling up your skin until he cups your face. You shiver, suddenly feel like you’re staring into the face of danger.

“Hmm, isn’t it customary to say thank you after eating?”

You crinkle your brows in confusion at his cryptic words, waiting for him to elaborate further. Sylus’s smug grin widens, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, basking in the excited fear brimming in your bleary eyes.

“I’ve yet to finish my meal, little dove.”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

#sylus fic recs #tbr

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lads-ficrecs · 7 hours ago

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Sylus loves when you have your nails done.

You don't fully understand where his fascination with them comes from. Every time you see him he finds a moment to take your hand in his, inspecting your fresh manicure.

The nail salon has his card on file, leaving you free to experiment however you wish. Most days, you'll get the top notch set, sending him a picture as you leave the salon. If you're mad at him, you'll get something he'll especially love, not sending a photo until you receive at least a few apology texts.

You thought maybe he just enjoyed pampering you, knowing that with your crazy schedule he could ensure you would sit down and be forced to relax for an hour every week.

It's only once he's stepping out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, do you notice the bright red lines on his back.

"Sylus? Why haven't you healed those?" You ask, gently tracing one with the pad of your thumb.

He looks at you over his shoulder, smirking in that way that makes you feel like you've stepped into a trap.

"Heal them? Why would I, kitten? I like wearing your claws."

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 7 hours ago

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wrote this in a haze lol His new promise card has me in a chokehold omg 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

Can you imagine Sylus, groggy and half-asleep on the pillow next to you. It’s a sight afforded to very few— a sight afforded to none, actually, aside from you.

He’s so vulnerable like this: red eyes just slivers behind light lashes and his breathing soft and even. In exhaustion, that aggravating (handsome) smirk he wears is softened into a slight curve of his mouth. Hair tousled, broad back catching the light of the rising sun from his window, and for a moment you think you might be falling in love with him all over again.

”Mm,” is his deep, rough hum when you gently run your hands through his hair. Not unlike a purr, not unlike a dragon’s rumble. One of his eyes cracks open, finding you even in his sleepy haze. “Something you need, sweetie?”

”...sorry,” you say, not actually sounding very sorry at all. Your hand continues to run through his hair, as if you have no control over it. “Your hair is just…very soft.”

Sylus laughs— the one he reserves only for you, and it makes something warm settle in your chest. “No need to be jealous, kitten. You’re more than welcome to help yourself to my hair care.”

As if in warning, you tug on a strand of his hair, but it just makes his grin widen.

“So violent,” he coos, delighting in the way your eyes narrow. You huff— even when sleepy, he’s a pain in your ass.

It’s only when your hand motions to retract from his mussed head of silver hair that he frowns, one of his hands darts out from beneath the sheets, grasping your wrist and determinedly tugging it back to tangle in his hair.

”Keep doing that. It feels… nice,” Sylus murmurs, all but melting under your fingers when you do as he asks, scratching pleasantly at his scalp and running your fingers through his hair. He does that rumble again— that purr as his eyes flutter closed, and you’re not even sure if he’s aware of it, but he inches just the slightest bit closer to you, his head sliding onto your own pillow as if it were his own.

Clingy, you want to tease, but you know the word will come out too soft. So instead you just sigh and continue to run a hand through Sylus's hair, slowly listening to his breathing even out as he falls asleep.

And if you snuggle close before you sleep, face buried in his neck and legs tangled with his, then it's a secret for only the two of you to keep, too.

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 12 days ago

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To Whom It May Concern [ zayne x f!mc | regency-era ] — Teaser

AUTHORS NOTE : So yes… the regency-era Zayne ship has officially left the harbor on this page. The sails are unfurled, the ink is bleeding, and I’m already neck-deep in fleshing out scenes and weaving a plot that may very well ruin us all. Consider this your first taste, my sweet little crows—just a whisper of what’s to come.

IT IS A PECULIAR occupation, to write letters one never intends to send. Yet Mr. Li had become an expert in it.

In his escritoire lay no fewer than a dozen such compositions, each one folded and locked away with the guilty precision of a man determined to betray no outward sign of weakness. They were a veritable catalogue of contradiction—half plea, half rebuke, wholly impractical.

It was fortunate no one had discovered them, for they betrayed not only the very depth of his feeling, but also the absurdity of it. For what man of sense devotes his midnight hours to writing the same confession in a hundred different ways, only to bury them unseen at dawn?

It was, in short, ridiculous— and yet he did it all the same.

That evening’s effort lay open before him still, the ink scarcely dry. It was more dangerous than the rest, more indulgent, more final. He had written it quickly, with the air of a man who knows he ought to stop and cannot.

He read it once, and then, against his better judgment, a second time.

My Dearest— If this is the last letter I write, let it be the one I never meant for you to see. Let it be the one that says only this: I loved you before I understood it. I loved you when I did not want to. I love you still, and perhaps I always shall. There was no moment of clarity. No bolt of divine light. Only the quiet disaster of watching you refuse me— smiling as though I had never mattered. It was then I knew: this love was not meant to be requited. It was meant to be endured. I have written you a hundred letters, and buried each one beneath lock and key. What cowardice it is, to love you in ink. But how else was I to bear it? Your name has become my prayer and my punishment. I speak it to the night. I silence it in daylight. I have become devout in my denial— and still, you dwell in every breath. If I could write you out of me, I would. But you are the ink. You are the very quill. You are the ruin I return to, again and again, even knowing the door will never open. I pray you never read this. But if, by some great mercy or cruelty, you do— Know that I loved you. Know that I chose not to say it. Know that it would have ruined us both. Always yours. — Z

Mr. Li exhaled sharply, as if the sight of his own words were an embarrassment. With a decisive hand, he folded the letter, sealed it, and consigned it to the drawer where all the others slept—his silent congregation of cowardice.

He told himself, as he always did, that this would be the last. That tomorrow, he would think of her less. That the matter was finished, and his dignity preserved.

And yet, as the latch clicked shut, he already knew he was lying.

Stay tuned lovies...

Taglist is open — reply or send an ask to be added.

#zayne fic recs #tbr

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lads-ficrecs · 17 days ago

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TASTEFUL BLISS

STARRING: nerd!sylus x reader

synopsis: you've been keeping your very huge, almost obvious crush on your best friend for a while and you're determined to make the most of the time you spend together. little do you know, he's also very determined to do the same especially when it comes to the fantasies you've openly shared with him. he's more than happy to give you just what you need. in exact detail.

warnings: porn with plot, lots of banter and confessions (for the fluff), marking, church sex, grinding, cunnilingus, dirty talk, body worship, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, marathon sex. you freaks.

wc: 8,6k

an: I'M BACK!!! this is very loosely based off the 'witnessed by deepspace' banner, but mostly because i missed writing sylus. hope you enjoy!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

You love nerds.

Love ‘em. Not only do they match just how clever you are, they have something about them that you always itch to unravel and claim as yours.

Which is why your eyes have been dead set on Sylus as your prey.

He is the definition of a standard nerd. Major in actuarial sciences with a sprinkle of business and general comp sci as his electives, he is considered one of the smartest people in his class and one of the hottest in the entire university.

Beneath you, of course. As modest as you try to be, and you should really start appreciating how beautiful you are, it is true that you’re considered one of the most beautiful people on campus. Pretty face, pretty smile, and an even prettier demeanour. It’s almost effortless. You’re just too pretty.

Not only that, you’re incredibly intelligent too. And it goes beyond marks. Even if you stumble a bit you always make sure you bounce back higher and stronger than before. It’s an admirable trait. That ambition and resilience is why Sylus is a close friend of yours.

You’re ogling him right now. You aren’t even trying to hide it. His eyes are locked hard on his laptop, typing away while those ruby red eyes of his occasionally twitch from the glare of the sun blaring into the window of the cafe you’re working in.

“You should wear those tinted glasses more often.” You hum, sipping on your drink through a paper straw. You hollow your cheeks, imagining what it would be like to hollow them while you— ahem. Not the time, you freak.

“It’s bothersome.” He briefly gestures to the mentioned glasses sitting next to his laptop. “If my eyes start acting up I’ll put them on.”

“They’re already twitching, big brain.” You slide his glasses closer to his hands. “Put them on before you have to get some kind of laser surgery.”

Reluctantly, Sylus slips the frames onto his face. They fit him so well, accentuating the shape and sun-exposed glow of his eyes, his sharp jawline, those pink heart shaped lips, his cheekbones, that one pimple you had begged to pop just a few days ago before he threatened to bite you… so fucking handsome.

“You’re staring.” A twitch of his lips curve into a small smirk.

Sylus may be your typical genius— and totally your type— but he is by no means an idiot. He’s always noticed your ‘stares of admiration’ as he calls it, but he avoided confronting it. Mostly because he wanted to see how far you’d go.

Too bad he’s already wrapped around your finger. He doesn’t even realise it yet! Well, he kind of does.

You’ve been working towards this for months. To be fair, you’d been friends with him for a while, supporting each other through your first two years of university for academics and then for companionship overtime.

One thing led to another and by one thing we mean a very short and very unintentionally intentional kiss, you two are now locked in for life.

“I like your face.” You grin, ignoring the heat rushing through your cheeks. One year ago, you would have made fun of him, telling him you can see his pores. Right now, you just want to tell him how beautiful he is. Then maybe kiss him in front of all the people in the cafe like a cringey movie couple.

Instead, you say “Makes me want to lick you.”

As expected, you receive a grimace then a short chuckle. “You’re so intriguing.” His eyes momentarily return to the code running on his screen before looking back up at your unwavering gaze. “I want to show you something.”

“Another vintage weapons museum?” You sigh with a smile.

He loves his vintage stuff. Vintage buildings, vintage vehicles, vintage everything. Sometimes he buys them and keeps them as collectibles. He’s got his quirks, as concerning as they can be, but that’s what you adore about him. He’s passionate.

“Not this time,” He stores away all his belongings in a leather bag with an unusual sense of urgency. “I think you’re tired of being stopped from touching old swords.”

“Why put them on display if I can’t touch it?” You huffed, joining him in his fast strides to his motorcycle.

Yeah, he has a motorcycle. He even invites you to his place to help (more like you watching) him do some repairs. You have a feeling he’ll do a bachelor’s in engineering after his current degree at the rate he’s going.

The drive to this mystery location was peaceful. You had no idea where he was taking you and no matter how many times you asked, Sylus would either poke the hand that was wrapped around his waist or just yell “You’re being a bit too impatient, sweetie.”

It was only when the engine died down did you glance up to see a very old, gothic looking building.

“An abandoned church?”

You can tell it hasn’t been touched in a while. The stained windows near the entrance had streak marks alongside layers of dust, probably being the only areas apart from the higher parts of the church that the rain managed to reach. Cobwebs cover the hinges of the large double doors that Sylus strides right over to in those leather pants you love so much.

The doors loudly creak open, giving you double confirmation that nobody has been around the area in years. Dust practically falls on your shoulders as the two of you walk in, bringing in a sight more beautiful than what is presented from outside.

Multiple wooden pews are aligned neatly from the entrance right, each one delicately carved with designs you can consider arcane. A large window, fragmented into different unequal pieces illuminate the altar with so many colours it seems like a large kaleidoscope. The structure is severed into arcs and divine shapes, creating a garden of intricate design as it the hands that made it created it with pure reverence.

The afternoon light peers through the stained glass, staining the dust and your skin with beams in several colours. You peer up to the ceiling and softly gasp at the sight of the paintings inscribed eternally onto the plafond. They’re intricate, delicately painted as if they were crafted by the greatest of artistic hands centuries before your very existence.

“When did you find this?” You ask with your neck still craned, mesmerised by literally everything in front of you. “How did you find this?”

You hear him softly laugh as his hands gently tilt your head down to lock into his gaze. “I came here on the way home after studying late.” He flicks your head at you muttering ‘nerd’ under your breath. “I’ve seen you study till sunrise, you mega nerd.”

“Sylus, you know I don’t that anymore!”

“Let’s wait until exams come along.”

“Fuck you.” Oh, would it be great if you could.

“Can I continue?” Sylus flicks your forehead, this time more gently. “It started raining on the way back and it got really bad. Obviously, I wouldn’t want to get wet so I stopped at the closest shelter I could see. Right here.”

You watch him look around to admire the temporary shelter he had found. You can see the appeal. The stained windows, the old organ on the altar, the narrow, carving embroidered path leading what you assume are the confessionals. It’s all so beautiful, and intricate.

You could do anything here in peace. Heh. Anything.

You also find a set of thick blankets and pillows laid near the altar, positioned specifically to be hit with the colourful light radiated from the stained windows.

“I ended up sleeping here,” He sheepishly smiles, averting his gaze briefly to your lips. “When I woke up, the rain droplets were on the large window and the way the beams of light collided only skin and in the air was just… beautiful. Almost as much as you.”

“Huh?” Your eyes widen slightly. Your cheeks burn as if the sun is right in your face. He said what?

“You’re beautiful.” Sylus says again with a small smile on his face. Not snarky. Not smug like he is with all the people that fawn over him. No, this one is serene, full of admiration and a hint of something much more. “I’ve told you this before.”

“Yeah, when I was in a literal pit and going through absolute hell.” You scoff, trying to turn your face away but his hands have been holding your cheeks the entire time. “I thought you were just saying it to make me feel better.”

“Why would I do that when you already know it’s true that you’re beautiful?” He pouts, raising a brow. “You are beautiful. And if you don’t want to hear me say that word, then you’re really pretty.”

“Sylus.”

“You’re really cool.”

“Sy.”

“You’re incredibly smart and empathetic.”

“Sylus, I get it—“

“You’re amazing, and I’ve always thought that you’re all those things. From the moment you wanted to be my friend— and it only amplified after we kissed.”

For some odd reason, your heart skips a beat hearing that slip through his lips. That kiss.

Neither of you were under the influence, under emotional turmoil, none of that messy stuff that turns something so intimate into something you’d want to hide.

Instead, it happened overlooking the view of the city. You two had gone on a joyride to take a break from studying, just to clear your heads. You were sitting close together, knees, thighs and hands touching, shoulders bumping and rubbing together under his jacket to keep you both warm.

You were talking about everything and nothing, recalling the early months of your friendships and helped each other through everything. You knew everything about each other and made sure to make it fun.

He told you he wanted to learn how to sing, even though it was really bad at that time. You told him you wanted to be more confident in your skin. You shared your vulnerabilities and soon a glimpse of your mutual desires.

One glance turned into another. A glimpse of your lips prolonged until your realised you were both leaning in with no intention to stop. And above the endless bustle of the city, you found peace in each other’s embrace.

It was soft. It was brief. It was gentle. His lips were soft, almost trembling with nerves before he moved with you even if it were for just seconds. You cradled each other’s faces with a care and level of devotion you would grant a small animal like a little crow or a kitten.

When you eventually pulled away, the memory, the sensation, the event simmered away with small— but not awkward— laughs and a change of the subject.

The event never found its way back into conversation. Until now.

“You’ve liked me that way this entire time?” You whisper, feeling a low bubbling of both hope, excitement and rage boil within you.

You have been crushing on him for so long that you were considered adding obliviousness to his list of nerdy traits. To realise that he had the same sentiments almost ticked you off. Maybe you were so drawn to him that you didn’t notice him pining over you the entire time.

“Yeah,” Sylus grins, exposing his cute gummy smile. You remember you used to force him to smile like that by tickling him until he started to attack back. “You were so enamoured that you barely noticed. Which makes more sense now, considering you so recklessly told me about your fantasy to get fucked in a cathedral. You thought I friend zoned you, giving you leeway to tell me your dirty secrets.”

Shit. Shit.

You’ve been telling him almost everything. Like when you were complaining about how your old vibrator was dying out on you so you needed to replace it. He helped you get a better one— walked around a sex shop with you for hours— and even offered to make one himself.

You nagged him about his smooching skills— the one other time you both referenced the kiss you shared— and somehow showed him pictures of all the hickeys you have received. You even gave him a very clear and descriptive visual of a position he was confused with from a book you were reading together.

You’ve told and shown him a lot of things you probably shouldn’t have, especially considering he’s your friend. But you had long accepted the fear that he wouldn’t return your feelings and chose to continue being his friend than to break your heart in the attempt to push it further.

Now that it’s confirmed that the feeling’s very much mutual, you are so insanely fucked.

“I’m going to start drinking.” You deadpan.

“No, you’re not.”

“I told you the freakiest things I wouldn’t even tell my best friend!”

Those pretty lips of his curve into a pout. “I thought I was your best friend.”

You paused in your panic. He is technically your best friend. “You’re my best friend in possession of a dick.”

Sylus narrows his eyes in suspicion. “I think you should admit that you’re so comfortable in our relationship that you’re open to say some of the most grotesque things around me.”

“If I admit that then you have to admit that you were planning this!” You arms flail in the air as you gesture to the church sheltering you. Again, you are very very smart, even if you don’t want to say it. You’ve been catching on to his little stunts from the start.

You invited him to study with you, knowing the weather would switch up by the time you finish your session. You wanted a cute cliche moment of sharing a jacket while running in the rain. Something to soothe and satiate your romance-hungry fantasies. Nothing too crazy.

What confused you on the joyride to this arcane infrastructure was how he knew when to start moving. He checked his laptop before he got up. He took routes that you didn’t know existed. It was almost like he was intentionally stretching the drive to get the timing right.

Also, you told him you wanted to get fucked in a cathedral. Your current location doesn’t stray far from your personal fantasy. Coincidence? You’d be foolish to assume so.

Thunder lowly rumbles from outside the church with soft patters of rainfall accompanying it. That nerd wanted you to be here exactly at this time.

“It was going to rain today.” You start, lips thinning into an irritated line.

“I checked the weather, and so did you.” That stupidly attractive smug smirk paints his face.

“I wanted to get you to stay at the cafe just until it started raining.”

“So you could get your cliche moment.” So he knew!

“You took me here to fulfil a fantasy I used to have.”

He gives you a knowing look. “You still want it.”

To be fair, it is still an active desire you have.

You’d spent some occasional nights driving your clit to overstimulation over the imagery of the two of you having a moment (at least two nights) of passion in this kind of place— as controversial as it seems. You’d spend your nights crying out his name in desire only for you to spend your days poking and prodding him as your friend and not someone you adore.

It’s still something you want.

“You fucking nerd.”

“You’re a greater nerd than I am.”

His hands are still cradling your face. His palms have small callouses, probably from all that boxing he does. Despite the roughness of his skin, he holds you so gently. With so much consideration and care.

“We’re both incredible.” You say, unable to pull away from his gaze. Not that you wanted to. “We’re both nerds.”

“Major nerds.” Sylus agrees. That beautiful smile hasn’t left his face.

Droplets of rain strike the large windows, filling the silence between you. The opportunity is right in front of you. He’s clearly more than willing to do what you want to do, or he wouldn’t have brought you here.

Do you stop him? Do you indulge? Or should you sprint and scream into that little pillow fort that you’re certain smells like him? Or maybe you should stop overthinking and notice that he’s starting to notice you panicking in your mind.

Sylus is smart. He’s so dangerously talented and multi-skilled. He’s so irritatingly kind and charming that you almost feel like an idiot for catching feelings so quickly. You don’t regret it, but making the move to pursue your very desires (which he has a good knack for catching) might just make your friendship something entirely different.

Eh, fuck it. You were going to snap eventually.

Pursing your lips together, you muster as much courage as you can grab before the special moment fades into another memory. “I’d like to kiss you again, Sylus.”

That small flicker of joy flashes through his eyes just long enough for you to catch it. His face stiffens for just a moment before his smile widens, exposing more of his cute, adorable gummy smile as his eyes crinkle, showing those lines surrounding his eyes made from exhaustion and all he times he’s laughed with you. “Really?”

“Really.”

Like back then, the endless gap of air and space becomes more narrow as you lean towards each other. Magnetised, enamoured, connected.

“I have always held my affections for you.” Sylus whispers, his coffee-touched breath tickles your skin as his thumbs ghost circles onto your cheekbones. “My heart has always beat a certain way in your presence, I have always spent my every breathing moment desiring you since we met.”

Your attempt to whisper your response ends with a soft gasp shared between you as your lips finally reunite.

It feels just as soft as it did before. Your arms slowly creep up his back to wrap around his neck and find comfort in his soft hair. You’d always brushed and played with his hair and he would always just allow you to. To feel it like this is something entirely new.

You move together in unison, hands shifting lower and higher in intervals as you find rhythm in your embrace. Aches of desire, both familiar and slightly inappropriate for the sentimental nature of this moment, set you in flames as your tongues begin to explore.

Breathing becomes a social construct and touch becomes your lifeline. Tasting him despite the remnants of caffeine attached to him drives you into a flustered frenzy, tugging at his locks unintentionally, relentless in your desire to feel him and hold him and adore him before it all turns into a dream.

Your lips pull apart after what feels like hours, your breathing heavy and thick with need. Sylus, eyes still partly closed, leans closer to you with the sole intention of attaching his lips to yours once more.

“Why pull away?” He rasps in that super hot husky voice that you only hear when you call him in the middle of the night.

“You should have let me talk about how much I like you.” You tease, pressing a kiss on the corner of his lips.

“It’s all in your eyes,” He smiles, cradling your skin with his calloused fingers. “You’ve always told me how you feel with them.”

If you thought you were a perv, Sylus is lucky you can’t read his mind.

And that you haven’t already noticed the raging boner poking through the fabric of his pants. The very set he knows you drool over.

Sylus has been very deliberate with his actions for a while now. The way he dresses has been to satisfy your tastes and match your outfits, the way he styles his hair has been to catch your eye every single time.

He made sure he walks with his back completely straightened to stand at his actual height— and not in the slouch that he has habitually claimed from curving over his laptop while typing away at the programs he makes. All for you.

He gets your favourite drink every Tuesday afternoon between lectures, he drives you to your apartment and has sleepovers with you whenever you don’t want him to leave (and neither does he).

All those intricate details and deliberate moves to subtly charm you were for this very moment, all those days of impressing you in his charm and all those nights of spilling hot strings of cum onto his sheets whilst moaning your name into the air— he’s a shameless guy, you see— were all worth it for this.

He might just cum in his pants right here and now.

Sylus wastes no time to kiss you again, this time with more hunger and need than before. He waits for your hands to wander, ghosting over the skin of his nape until you grip hard on his soft locks hard.

He groans into your mouth, giving you the opportunity to slip your tongue in, tasting him and feeling as much as you can before you lose your breath. It turns into a lustful dance, intertwining tongues, tastes mixing, desire building and burning to the point where kissing alone won’t just do it anymore.

Just as you pull away, his lips find new attachment on your neck to suck and lick away at your skin. You’re warm to the touch, if it’s not due to his mind being half gone already. What can he say? You’ve got him wrapped tight around your finger.

“Tell me what you want us to do.” Sylus murmurs into your neck, mouthing wet kisses into your flesh.

“Hm?” You’re too deep in your daze to think about what he said. It must be a dream come true. Sylus, your best friend Sylus, is kissing your neck. You can feel his hard on literally throbbing against you, hot and rock fucking hard.

You’ve seen him in less clothing than what friends should normally see, so you’ve always been aware of his huge bulge— which is something you always think about whenever you get horny— but now that you can feel it, it’s larger than you’d thought.

And now you get to have him all to yourself?! All that prep you did with your trusty dildo is finally coming to use! You could go into detail about how you’ve tortured your cunt to the thought of him but you’d rather pay attention to the nerd that’s busy sucking very dark, very visible hickeys onto your neck.

“Don’t haze out on me.” Sylus rasps. That just shoots shocks of pleasure down your spine. “What do you want us to do while we’re here?”

Oh, you have a lot of ideas in mind. Riding him on one of the pews while the storm rages outside as if you’re in some scandalous scene in a telenovela, having him eat you out in the confession booth until his face is covered nose to chin in your slick and cum, being entangled within those blankets near the altar—

It’s a very long, near endless list of ways you can take advantage of the opportunity you have in your hands.

“You’ll freak out if I say it.” You say instead, feeling heat warm up your ears. You’re not embarrassed, you just… feel a little nervous to talk about your fantasies now that you two are more than friends now.

“Perhaps I should guess then.” His hands wander to the hem of your top, gently raising it higher and higher until he feels your bra. “Maybe you want to start on the pews, riding me perhaps? Or maybe you want to warm up first in the confessionals, with me on my knees eating you out until you tell me to stop.”

Oh, that mouth of his is exquisitely filthy.

“Or perhaps you want me take you to every single corner I found here and paint each wall in our cum, and compose a symphony of our own noises of pleasure right on top of the organ.” His large hands cup your mounds, gently squeezing them like a horny teenager.

“Or maybe we should screw the logistics and fuck in every part of this place we can reach until we can’t think straight.”

Holy fuck, he’s profane. Your jaw drops as your brows deeply furrow in shock. You know he has a bit of a not-so-innocent innuendo to him, but this? How pussy throbbing.

“Surprised?” His lips curve into a sly smirk. He can tell that he’s riled you up.

“Just a little bit.” You tug at his white locks, relishing in the hushed moan that slips out of his lips. Your other hand explores his chest, ghosting your fingers over his pecs. “I like it. Didn’t expect you to be so… lewd.”

Sylus doesn’t respond. Instead he steps closer to you, closer and closer until he’s moving you as he walks towards the pews. His hands slither down to your waist, wrapping tight around you so that he can pick you up and gently straddle you on his lap.

The dimmed lighting creates a soft sparkle in those ruby eyes of his, completely amplified by the glasses loosely hanging on his nose. There’s just something about the way that he looks at you with a sliver of admiration… it makes your heart warm.

“We can stop whenever you want us to.” He says in a hushed tone, the warmth of his breath fans your lips with the afterscent of caffeine. “I’d never want you to feel like you must do something you aren’t fully up to.”

You shake your head, tapping his lower lip with your finger. It’s so soft and plush, you could fangirl about it for hours. “I want this. I want you.”

The kiss he engulfs you in is borderline orgasmic. He must be fucking starving from how quick his tongue slips through your lips. Your bodies move as if they’re in sync, hands wandering from hair to skin, from your necks to your chests until you reach the hems of your clothing.

You pull your clothes off as if it burns you until you’re both in nothing but your underwear, breathless from the rush of feeling each other skin to skin.

“Confessional,” You sigh into his lips. “Start there.”

To this day, you marvel at his strength— it’s almost inhumane. Sylus carries you in his arms effortlessly, his lips never leaving yours as he makes his way to the confessional standing parallel to the altar. It’s like he memorised every part of this place.

He gently sits you down all while dropping to his knees from how compact and tight the space is. There’s something that is just so appealing when it comes to Sylus being on his knees. You have a hunch that it’s the fact that he enjoys it.

“Got any confessions to make, Sy?” The way he looks up to you almost makes you cream on the spot.

His eyes are completely glazed over with lust and desire, irises shaking as if the light shining above you makes you look like an angel about the cleanse— preferably ruin— him. Your grip on his hair brings his gaze to roll slowly to the wooden ceiling of the confessional before your grip forces his attention back to you.

“What confession?” He husks, with a saccharine smile. He must be in heaven.

“Look how hard you are.” You tut, rubbing your foot between his legs, deliberately teasing his shaft. “Are you always like this when you think of me?”

The contact alone makes his cock twitch, pumping blood right down there. He’s practically soaking himself in precum from all that excitement, length swelling with insatiable need.

“Yeah,” He confesses, flushing bright pink all around his face. “Almost every night.”

“The only fair thing to do is repent, don’t you think?” You tease, subtly hinting your innuendo by shifting your hips lower to bring your soaked pussy clothed in lace (conveniently) to him.

“Mhm,” Sylus can feel himself salivating at the sight of you being utterly soaked. Just for him. The way the fabric of your panties were beyond saving, so much so that your essence dripped down to the seat you comfortably treated as your throne, it’s riveting.

More than enough for him to worship you for hours. Hell, if he told himself the day before that he’d be doing this, the past version would have scoffed. Look at him now. Lady Luck has most definitely granted him good fortune today.

“Should totally repent.” He affirms, eyes darting between your soaking pussy, his hands wrapped around your thighs, and that beautiful face of yours. This little play of words and desire is entertaining. “That’ll make you forgive my transgressions, yes?”

He could look at you for hours without losing his concentration. He would design code that would create all the weirdest hacks that would impress you. He would write love letters that would make Shakespeare spin in his grave just from how romantic and devoted they are. He would cook for you every day, but make sure you know that you’re the best meal he’ll ever have.

“Definitely.” You breathlessly nod, moving your hand from his soft white hair to caress his cheek. Your press down harder on his length, drawing out a pleasured hiss from him. “Best you get started before I get impatient.”

Without another word, Sylus sinks his head snug between your legs. His tongue darts out straight into you despite the barrier of your panties, tasting your warm slick like its holy water.

His eyes roll back into his skull, his tastebuds tingling in tandem with the throbs of his cock like you’re the first meal he’s had in months. Hearing your short yet audible moan only makes the feeling so much more divine.

His eyes flutter shut as he draws himself to lock in on the mission at hand: pleasing his goddess, you.

It’s really hard to keep your mind in one piece when all you can see and think of is the sight of your best friend on his knees, between your legs, sucking the juices out of your soaked underwear before he feasts on you properly.

Your hand twitches back to his locks, tightening in grip as out grow antsy for more. Droplets of your own slick spread up to his cheekbones from all that lapping, nodding and nuzzling, making it so much worse.

“Sy,” You whine, slithering his name in a lengthy moan. It barely registers to him that you’re trying to get to him. He’s already gone, already in deep.

His lips curl around your clothed clit and suck hard. His brows furrow in deep attentiveness as he sucks on your clit, drawing small circles with his tongue as roughly as he can to penetrate his ministrations through the barrier of lace between you.

Something about that friction just works so well that your toes curl. “Sylus— fuck— take it off.”

Between his muffled groans, Sylus presses a hot kiss on your clit before pulling away. “You’re disturbing my repentance, sweetie.”

Oh fuck.

You gulf as he rises to his feet in the too-small booth until he hunches over you. Firstly, you want to hear him calling you that more often. Secondly, the very first thing you see in front of you is his cock straining against its confines, thick, huge, and leaking.

You must be drooling from how long your jaw dropped. You had a feeling that he would be big from all the times you’d seen him in sweatpants, but damn. You’re kind of glad you invested in a dildo.

It takes so much willpower to look away from that Herculean girth in front of you and when you do, you meet his hazed gaze that teases you with a knowing look accompanied with his signature smile.

“Don’t start.’’

“You like it?” You both speak in chaotic unison, only to magnify the irritation painted in your expression and the smug flattery in his.

“I think you like it.” Sylus hums, gently gripping your hips to help raise them. With your hands gripping on the seat beneath you to secure your position, Sylus hooks his fingers around your lacy garments and pulls them down with a swift tug.

The cold air hits your open cunt like a gust of wind, making your legs shiver. The sound of a gentle patter on the floor catches your ears, bringing you to see his underwear on the floor with yours.

“It’s only fair that I do it too.” Sylus answers before you even start. You know each other that well, answering each others’ questions before you even think of it.

“Is there anything else I should do?” He asks as he returns to his knees, this tie hooking your knees over his broad shoulders. Your lips part to say something, anything, with a bite but you’re rendered speechless. “No? Alright.”

Sylus plants his head between your legs once more, licking a long stripe down your thigh just before he touches your folds. Hot, wet kisses travel around your pussy, all the way to your clit without truly giving you what you want.

Such a tease.

“Did you know there’s thousands of nerve endings here?” He muses, darting his tongue around your clit so lightly that you can only feel the burning tease of his touch. “Of course you do, you abuse this poor thing with your vibrator.”

Soft whines slip out of you lips before you can stop them. You can barely do much other than squeeze his head with your thighs, but it’s looking like that only riles him up more.

“Since my hands are out of commission at the moment,” Sylus says, patting your thighs gently. “How many times do you think I can make you cum with my tongue?”

“No more than twice.” You try to scoff, but it comes out more like a whine you tried to swallow.

“Is that a challenge?” He grins, nuzzling his head into your thigh all while keeping his crimson gaze on yours. You can tell he’s slipping despite his confidence, if not that then his reddened cock bobbing between his legs is a dead giveaway.

“I’ll aim for three.” His tongue travels back down slowly to your pussy, lapping up your dripping essence. “Just to be spiteful.”

All that teasing from earlier goes right out the window when he dips his tongue right inside you, enveloping his tastebuds in nothing but your taste. A melody of your moans bounce off the walls of the confessional from the mutual pleasure.

His tongue goes as far as it can, caressing and pressing hard against your walls, moving back and forth and curling like he’s looking for something within you. His brows are knotted, eyes blissfully closed as he worships your fluttering cunt.

The noise is so obnoxiously loud and wet that it almost outdoes your own. Your nails dig into his scalp as his tongue finally curves just right, getting as close to your most sweetest spot as his tongue can reach.

“Sylus!” Your back arches into him, receiving a muffled grunt in return. His tongue circles around your entrance, lapping up all the slick that attempts to drip down away from his reach.

He has no intention of wasting what you give him. Each slurp and lick comes with a kiss to your folds until he’s practically making out with your pussy, tasting, teasing, and pleasing you all at once. It all burns so good that you can already feel that familiar, back-arching tingle subtly creep in.

“I could stay here forever, making you feel so good.” His rambles, sounding slightly incoherent from all his ministrations. His grip on your thighs tighten as he glances down to his aching cock. Watching it twitch and drip all that precum in desperation just reflects his own need for you.

“You taste so damn good.” He licks a long stripe from your cunt to your clit, circling around your bud with the tip of his tongue. “You sound like heaven.” It’s almost too much to not to do anything, so much so that his hips start to grind his cock against the surface you sit so beautifully on for some satiation to his arousal. “Wanna drown in you, sweetie. Won’t you let me?”

Just as you’re about to respond, Sylus suckles hard on your clit in pulsating intervals so erotically well that it brings you to your first climax. Your toes curl, your thighs tighten around his head without restraint, and your eyes roll back until your vision is spotted with sprinkles of light between the darkness of your skull.

A sharp, lewd cry of his name flows right into his ears from your kiss-swollen lips as hot waves of pleasure hit you with each harsh suck that he gives your clit. He’s just so close and attached to your clit, both through his own strength and you literally holding him there mid-orgasm, that he’s more than ready to happily stop breathing between your legs.

There can’t be any joy better than this.

Other than the painfully slow grinds he teases his cock just enough to keep himself at bay. One glance down and he’d see his cock almost completely soaked from all that leaking. He can feel his pulse thump and throb right there as he twitches violently from the lack of contact.

Just a bit longer. You come first.

Which you already did. But he still needs two more before he can even think of his own needs.

You’re whining his name like you’re about to cum again, clawing your nails down his nape and tugging at his hair, confused between whether you should push him away or pull him closer.

“Sylus, wait— Sylus!” You can barely think of what you’re supposed to tell him from that overwhelming pleasure. You can just feel the second one creeping in fast like a storm and it’s clear that Sylus won’t stop until he achieves it.

His tongue flicks back and forth over your sensitive bud, carelessly rutting his cock up and down to capture new flickers of your carnal responses. The way you’re tugging his hair makes him whimper. The way you whine his name burns a sense of pride in him. The way you pull his hair to you fucking yourself on his face, he relishes in it all.

The second orgasm comes in stronger than the first. Your thighs are trembling in his grip as your cries hit a higher pitch. Your eyes, too far gone up your skull, might just reach crossing territory at this rate. If you grab his hair any tighter, you might end up ripping it off. And still, he just doesn’t stop.

“Sy,” You pant, trying to writhe away from the overstimulation he’s driving into you. “That’s two, you can—“

“I said three.”

“C-Come on, Sy!” You gasp, feeling your breath catch in your throat from his titillating gaze.

Half of his face is completely drenched in your slick with some dripping down his chin. Your legs move up and down with his body from all that grinding to soothe his aching cock. He just can’t stop, can he?

“Three.” He presses a hot kiss on your pussy, nuzzling your clit with his nose despite how violently your thighs tremble around him.

“Too much!”

“Three.” His tongue swirls around you, slurping up everything you generously give him while his moans get louder with yours. It looks like he’s about to cum too.

“Sylus— f-fuck— please.” You whine as your fingers curl around his soft locks like second nature. The aftershocks from your previous orgasm are still pulsing through your body, adding onto the endless pleasure burning through your veins and flesh.

“You can do it, sweetie.” Sylus hums into your heat, softly whining from your scent. “Just one more.”

Just one more.

It all blends together until you can barely tell where pleasure begins or ends. Your head leans against the wooden wall, seeking cool air as a relief of all the pleasure-driven heat burning you up. It’s still too hot. Too full of your moans and cries, his groans and whimpers, and the tasteful stickiness in the air from your joint arousal.

You can barely muster a single word when the third finally hits you like the skies falling upon the earth. Your back sharply arches as your eyes cross over completely, ripping out a blissful moan from your lips. Your legs straighten as your body tenses, unable to comprehend anything other than the pleasure and relief his tongue gives you.

Finally satisfied with his work, Sylus grants his cock the attention it needs, grinding faster and harder as his tongue helps you ride out your orgasm. But he doesn’t allow himself the pleasure of cumming— not yet.

By the time you’ve calmed down enough to have some level of comprehensive thought— and finally released your death grip on the poor man— the first thing you see is a goofy smile plastered on his face.

“See?” His smile widens, glistening with your slick and cum. “You can handle it.”

You’re far too exhausted to give a snarky response, or any at all. He definitely takes note of it.

“We can stop here—” Sylus begins, readying himself to carry you out of the stuffy box of a confessional, but you smack your palm on his forehead.

“Who said I wanted to stop?”

He looks dizzy with excitement just from hearing that and picks you up in his arms as if he wasn’t on his knees for so long. Just how much stamina does he have?

The walk, more like pace, to the makeshift bed is quick. So quick that you barely realise he’s gently set you down like he’s about to tuck you in. Reaching behind you, he pulls out a large box of condoms and swiftly takes one out, shining bright in its packaging.

“Sy, you do know I’m on the pill, right?” You ask, watching him set the foil between his teeth.

“Of course I do.” He hums as he rips it open, letting the condom fall into his palm. “But you did mention in your very detailed fantasy that you wanted to end the night with multiple used condoms all over the floor.”

There is no way he remembered all those details.

“It’s only fair that we fulfil each and every portion of what you want, right?” He slowly pumps his cock to get it harder, as if it isn’t already in that state, and slips the sheath down his shaft.

“You’re terrible.” You groan, covering your face. Maybe that will save you from embarrassment.

His hands caress yours with tender affection. “Do you want us to continue, sweetie?” He asks as he brings your palm to his lips for a gentle peck. “We don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

He’s too sweet. So gentlemanly that you can’t stop the smile spreading from ear to ear on your face. “I’m more than ready.”

No other words need to be shared for Sylus to align his cock with your pussy. He taps the tip on your entrance, once then twice to tease, before gently pushing in.

Since you’re already soaked (times three), he practically slips in like a hand into a perfectly fitting glove. His girth and pressure of something so beautifully warm and big being inside just brings that delicious burn that makes you both hold your breaths.

Your hands lace together as he sinks in deeper and deeper until he’s fully bottomed out, hip to hip and skin to skin. You both deeply exhale, keeping your gaze on each other to make sure you’re okay.

Just the slightest twitch shoots jolts of pleasure up your spine just from how good he feels inside you. Nothing could beat this feeling. Nothing could ever defeat being like this with him. Goodness, it’s all just too good.

And then he moves.

He pulls back nice and slow until his tip is all that’s inside you, then thrusts right into you with little patience to spare.

Your eyes flutter shut from being filled with him once more, then again and again in a rapidly moving pace until your hand reaches for his back to paint with scratches while the other claws at his hair. Anything to keep you grounded while he presses you into the makeshift bed.

“You like how this feels?” Sylus grins his famous smug grin, sliding his hand to your breasts to fondle and tease. With a quick peck on your permanently parted lips, he lowers his head to trap your hardened nipple between his teeth.

“F-Fuck,” You half-sigh, half-moan into the cold air. His tongue circles around the bud, teasing and suckling you all while his gaze is locked on your beautiful face.

Each whine, each gasp, and each loud and lust-soaked moan that leaves your mouth is committed to memory just so he knows exactly how to please you. His cock is practically begging for release from how hard it throbs as he pounds his hips into yours, but he doesn’t want to yet.

He wants to feel you suffocate his cock from how good you feel around him. Between his relentless torture on your tits and romantically filthy pumps of his cock into your cunt, he can’t tell which is more blissful to do. Maybe both.

That’s definitely the case for you.

All that overstimulation from his tongue torturing your clit has left you weak and overly sensitive in all the good ways. Your walls flutter with every single time your bodies collide, smacking loudly from your slick spreading all over you and mixing with the layer of sweat coating your skin.

The otherwise silent infrastructure sings the echoes of your lovemaking both shameless and divine, almost overpowering the rumbles of thunder striking the skies beyond the shelter of your sanctuary. Sylus groans loudly, licking his way up your chest, between your collarbones until he reaches the corner of your lips.

“I won’t last long, sweetie,” He grits in the midst of a rougher thrust into your squelching pussy. It almost aches him to hold himself from moving faster and harder despite you sucking him in every time he moves back.

His face is completely flushed red, crimson eyes glazed over with bliss solely from watching your face contort in the pleasure he gives you. The tight squeeze of your walls almost suffocating his length is riveting, maddening.

“Good,” You huff into his neck, mouthing hot, wet kisses onto his cheek and nipping him with your teeth. “‘M close too.”

All that overstimulation from him eating you out is more than enough to tap out, really. But something about the way Sylus stares at you… as if he knows what you truly desire and is more than happy to give it to you. How can you possibly deny yourself such pleasure?

The squelches of his cock and claps of wet skin fill your senses, blocking out everything until there is only you and him, you and him, and the insatiable burn that consumes you both into oblivion.

You’re almost certain his back is completely red and tainted with lines from your scratching. Your throat grows hoarse with every moan, whimper, and cry that you two share, each being louder than the last.

It’s so lewd, so risqué, and yet it makes you writhe and arch in ecstasy.

“Sylus,” It’s almost second nature to whisper his name into his skin as if you’re casting a spell on him.

“I’m here, sweetie,” Sylus croons before he captures you in a lascivious kiss, slipping his hand down between your colliding hips to torture your long neglected clit.

The contact immediately maximises the tension building deep within your core, crashing over like waves hitting the shore.

Your vision goes completely white as a hot stream rushes up your spine. Pleasure becomes tangibly infinite, forcing all your senses to kneel and submit to the orgasmic waves pulsing through you. You can’t tell if you’re even making a noise at this rate even though your throat burns.

Your walls clench so hard on his cock that Sylus’ climax hits him like a train, bursting ribbons of thick cum into the condom over and over again until all he can feel is his own hot seed against the barrier of your warmth.

Your bodies move in a carnal dance as you ride out the pulses of your senses going on overdrive. It feels like hours before you can think of anything other than Sylus. Anything other than how he feels, how he sounds, and how he just gave you one of the best orgasms you’ve had in months.

“You okay?” You croak, patting his sweat-dampened hair. He merely nods— or rather nuzzles, since he’s barely moving— with his forehead stuck on yours. The only noise he can muster is an adorable mixture of a whimper and a groan.

The soft grunt he makes sounds like a mirrored question. Are you okay?

Especially after getting your shit rocked by your best friend, who admitted he really likes you and knows you like him. Especially after having one of your most prominent fantasies fulfilled by the very person you wanted to do it with.

Are you okay?

“Yeah,” You close your eyes in bliss and nuzzle him back with as much strength as your body can give. “I feel great.”

You barely give yourselves time to rest, not even for a moment. Freaks. “Again.”

That must have been a buzzword because his cock immediately hardens in an instant. Sylus shoots up to sit on his knees and slowly pulls out to see the condom full, full, of cum.

“You don’t have to tell me twice, sweetie.” He’s quick to tie it into a knot and throws it away to grab the one of the many that you will be using up.

Watching him reach for the condoms beside the bedding, you weakly lift yourself to rest on your forearms. The sight of the setting sun shining specks of colour onto his glistening form is so ethereal that you’d assume he’s an angel. He must be if he gave you all those orgasms.

“Remember when you told me about that other fantasy you have?” He asks, sliding the sheath down his cum-slick cock. His grip is tight on the base to keep it from jumping but its violent twitches are a dead giveaway of his insatiable arousal.

“Which one?”

“The more exhibitionist one,” Sylus prowls over you once more, raising your legs to his shoulders to peck and caress. “Where did you want it to be? Ah, yes. A party."

You seriously need to stop telling him these things.

“Don’t remind me, Sy.” Your groans of embarrassment are greeted with more affectionate kisses and love bites all over your skin.

“A house party, right?” He slowly pushes your legs down until they connect with your chest, folding you over into a gentle yet strong mating press. You can just feel the heat of his cockhead slipping in and out of your cunt.

Too aroused to even speak, you nod with a mischievous grin painting your face.

“Good.” Gentle yet fast is how he slides back in like he never left, making sure you feel every aching part of his cock reuniting with your pussy. “A friend of mine is hosting one next week. Let’s make that desire of yours come true once we’ve ruined this place.”

Yeah. You love nerds.

All works belong to thalwri. Do not copy, translate, or repost my works.

#sylus fic recs

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lads-ficrecs · 21 days ago

Text

You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 1

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.5k

NOTES: so.. this ended up being way too angsty than the original blurb but oh well no regrets. fair warning, prepare some tissues! The tag list for this fic is CLOSED.

MASTERLIST | part 2

The day you chose to deliver the papers was grey. Not rainy. Not stormy. Just… grey.

A sky without conviction. Wind without bite. The kind of afternoon that felt as indecisive as you were pretending not to be.

You stood outside his office door for longer than you were proud of. Long enough to memorize the grain of the wood. Long enough to talk yourself into it, and then out of it, and then back in again.

You pushed the door open softly, already shrinking into yourself.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you came.

That he’d be behind his desk, maybe. Pen in hand, papers meticulously arranged in little towers like the ones he builds in your mind—precise, unreachable, always half-tilted toward something you’re not allowed to see.

You thought you might say something rehearsed but kind. A line you practiced in the mirror, gentle but final. You didn’t want to hurt him. You just wanted to end the slow bleeding before it became a hemorrhage.

But the office was empty.

The silence hit first.

Not a tranquil silence. Not the kind that invites rest.

This one was clinical. Dry. Like the room had forgotten how to hold a heartbeat.

Zayne wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t. He was rarely anywhere you were. You’d grown used to missing him like one grows used to an old injury—limping out of habit, not pain. Not anymore. Not really.

You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. The room smelled like him—mint and paper, a trace of cologne sharp as memory. The blinds were half-drawn, the light filtering in like a sigh through cracked ribs.

You walked to his desk and placed the envelope down.

Gently. As if it were made of glass.

As if the act itself might shatter something irreversibly.

Why stay in this marriage when the instigator is already dead? It wasn’t a cruel thought. Just… practical. Your mother had orchestrated it all, hadn’t she? Down to the embroidered napkins and the painfully bright chandelier you never wanted. She'd made you both promises you never consented to, and now she was gone, buried in roses and obligations.

That question had come to you in the silence after her funeral, when the guests were gone and the condolences had dried into something brittle. You weren’t looking for liberation. You weren’t angry. But there was a kind of clarity that only grief could offer—harsh, clean-edged clarity that cut deeper the more you looked at it.

You stood there, staring at the divorce papers. The ink still smelled fresh. The curve of your own signature stared back at you like a challenge.

You didn’t hate Zayne.

God, if you hated him, maybe this would be easier.

But love had never bloomed between you. Not really. It had been all frost and formality, glances across long tables, the occasional brush of his coat sleeve as he passed you in the hallway. You learned his silences. He learned your smiles. But you never learned each other.

And even if Zayne had been mostly absent, even if he’d buried himself in work and left you to wander the quiet halls of your shared home like a ghost—well.

You weren’t completely blameless either.

You’d withdrawn before he could reject you. You’d built your own walls, brick by brick. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. But the truth was messier than that.

Maybe you’d been waiting. Hoping.

And when hope dried up, you folded your longing into politeness. Into pleasantries. Into dinner set for one.

Your fingers grazed the edge of the envelope again. He’ll see it when he comes in, you told yourself. He’ll understand.

He was good at understanding, wasn’t he?

But the part of you that still ached—the part that hadn’t quite given up—wished you didn’t have to do this alone. Wished he’d been here so you could have said something. Anything. So you wouldn’t have to walk out with your heart still clenched, still wondering if this was mercy or cowardice.

You turned toward the door slowly, letting your eyes sweep over the room one last time.

His chair was slightly angled toward the window. A mug of coffee sat abandoned on the side table, still half full. A scarf hung on the back of the chair, the one you once bought for him because he never remembered to dress warm in winter. He never wore it in front of you.

Maybe he wore it when he was alone.

Maybe he missed you, in his own quiet, useless way.

Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted either.

Maybe it was.

You didn’t wait to find out.

You slipped out of his office as softly as you had come. No tears. No dramatics. Just the sound of your heels clicking against the tile, carrying you away from the life you tried to build without being given the tools.

Behind you, the envelope sat motionless on his desk.

It would be the first thing he saw when he returned.

Or the last thing he expected.

Either way, the decision was made.

You just hoped he’d understand that it wasn’t born out of resentment.

It was born out of surrender.

And surrender, after all, was the only way you’d ever been allowed to love him.

You go about your day.

Mechanically, precisely. Like if you move fast enough, you won’t feel the weight of what you just did. Like if you keep your hands busy, they won’t remember how they trembled when you left the envelope on his desk.

You have dinner at a high-end restaurant downtown. The kind with mood lighting and cutlery that costs more than your first paycheck. The waiter greets you by name. You’ve been here before. Enough times to build a familiarity that feels almost like comfort.

You order your usual. A glass of wine, a dish too delicate for hunger. You smile when the waiter makes small talk. You nod when he compliments your dress. You even laugh—soft, practiced, hollow.

Around you, couples lean close, forks clinking gently against china, knees brushing under tables. You sip your wine and pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re above it all. That you chose this. That you’re fine.

You leave a generous tip and walk out alone.

You stop at a shop on the way home.

There’s a window display with crystals and tiny gilded mirrors and perfume bottles shaped like hearts. Useless things. Luxuries. Trinkets that mean nothing and say everything. You buy a pair of earrings that you’ll never wear, a satin ribbon you don’t need, and a music box that plays a lullaby you didn’t realize you remembered.

It doesn’t help. But it gives your hands something to hold.

By the time you return home, night has long folded itself over the city. You step out of your heels and into the silence, your keys landing with a metallic sigh in the tray by the door.

The house is spotless. Sterile. Like no one lives here. Like no one ever did.

You draw yourself a bath. You pick out the bath salts your mother once gifted you—lavender and sandalwood, soft and laced with memory. The water fogs the mirror, curls against your skin. You sink in, hoping the heat will coax something loose. The ache. The numbness. The way you still listen, stupidly, for the sound of the door opening behind you.

But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No voice calling your name.

Only the slow drip of a tap and the echo of your own breath.

After, you do your skincare. Layer after layer. Toner. Serum. Cream. A ritual. A mask. You look at your face in the mirror and wonder when you started looking so tired. You wonder if Zayne ever noticed. You wonder if he’d care.

You go to bed.

The sheets are cool, tucked too tightly. You lay there, stiff as porcelain, your eyes wide in the dark. The ceiling offers no answers. The night holds no comfort.

Your fingers find the empty side of the bed.

And stay there.

Still.

Quiet.

You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself. Because you made this choice, didn’t you?

You left the papers.

You left him.

But as sleep evades you and the silence tightens like a noose, you wonder if he’ll notice the way your perfume still lingers on the pillow.

And if he does—

You wonder if he’ll miss you.

Or just the absence.

You wake in the dark, unsure what pulls you from sleep. There is no noise, not exactly—just the strange pressure of being watched, the weight of something pressing too hard against your ribs.

Your eyes blink open slowly.

The room is dim, only the amber spill of the hallway light trailing in like a whisper beneath the door. The sheets have tangled around your waist, your body curled in that way it always is when you sleep alone, when there's too much space and too little warmth.

And then you see him.

Zayne.

Kneeling at your bedside.

His head is bowed, his hands gripping yours like lifelines, like they’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His shoulders are trembling. There are tear tracks on his cheeks—silent and luminous in the half-light. His palms are cold, clammy, too tight around your fingers, but you don’t pull away.

You can’t.

Because you’ve never seen him like this.

Not composed. Not distant. Not restrained behind the iron wall of manners and duty and that maddening, unreachable calm.

No. This is Zayne—undone.

“Please don’t leave me,” he breathes.

The words are so soft, they barely make it past his lips.

Your breath catches.

You stare at him, heart thudding with a terror you don’t understand. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded. Not dying.

But he looks like he is.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice breaking like something rusted. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to be your husband. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to be. I thought—” His grip tightens, desperate. “I thought you were happier without me. I thought I was giving you space. I thought it was what you wanted.”

You try to sit up, but he’s still holding your hands, head bowed so low you can feel his breath against your skin. He presses his forehead to your knuckles like he’s praying. Or confessing.

“I saw the papers,” he says. “I came back and I saw them and—” A pause. A shudder. “I felt something inside me go still. Like the part of me that hoped you’d someday choose me… just stopped breathing.”

You swallow.

Your throat is dry. Your heart is loud. Your hands are still in his, small and warm and useless in the face of this.

Zayne’s never begged for anything. Not when you married. Not when you drifted. Not even when the silences stretched longer than the days.

But he’s begging now.

And it breaks something in you.

“I don’t care about the arrangement,” he says, lifting his eyes to yours for the first time, and—God. They’re red-rimmed and wet and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. Not even when his mentor died. Not even when yours forced a ring onto your finger. Because that's exactly what she was—a mentor before a mother.

“I don’t care who started it. I care that I can’t sleep knowing you won’t be there. That I won’t see your shoes in the hallway. Your cup in the sink. Your voice in the morning. I know I’ve been gone—I know I made you feel alone. But I never stopped—”

He cuts himself off, like the words are too big for him to hold.

“Don’t leave me,” he says again, hoarse. “Please. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I can try. Tell me I can love you better.”

And then he says it.

“Because I do—”

Soft. Crushed. Almost drowned in breath.

“—I do love you.”

You sit frozen, trembling with something that isn’t shock but grief—but hope—but disbelief.

Because you’d spent months mourning something that had never bloomed.

And now here he was. On his knees. With all his walls gone.

Waiting for you.

His words echo in your chest like footsteps in an empty hall. They don’t settle. They don’t land. They just… circle. Hover. Haunt.

And yet—your hands stay in his.

You want to pull away. You should pull away. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?

But your fingers won’t listen. They're traitors. Trembling, but curled around his like they still remember how to hold on.

Zayne’s eyes are still on you—pleading, ruined, impossibly gentle. And you hate him for it. You hate him for coming to you like this now, when your chest is raw and bandaged over with resignation, when your heart has learned to live with its hollow space.

You don’t know what to say.

You’ve always known what to say. You’ve always had something ready. A laugh, a line, a quiet deflection. You were raised to survive with poise, to never let the cracks show.

But now?

You don’t know how to speak through the knot lodged in your throat.

“I…” Your voice barely comes out. It sounds foreign. Bruised. “Zayne, I don’t—I don’t know.”

His brows draw together.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper. “You didn’t want me. You wanted peace. You wanted quiet. I gave you that.”

You’re breathing faster now, not from panic—but from all the things you’ve never let yourself say aloud.

“You weren’t there,” you murmur, looking somewhere past his shoulder. “Not when I waited for you to come home. Not when I made tea and poured two cups out of habit. Not when I cried so quietly I thought I’d go mad from the silence.”

He’s shaking his head, tears falling again.

“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you felt—”

“Because I didn’t tell you,” you say sharply. “Because I thought I didn’t have the right to want more. We weren’t in love. We were just… two people honoring a contract.”

Zayne looks like he’s in pain.

Real pain.

The kind that doesn’t bleed, just bruises the soul until everything aches.

“I’m not saying this to punish you,” you whisper. “I just—I need you to understand. I don’t know how to believe you now. I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering me, when all I’ve ever known is how to be alone in this marriage.”

He closes his eyes like he’s been struck.

“I’m not whole,” you add, voice cracking. “And I don’t know if I even know how to be loved anymore.”

There’s a pause.

A long, trembling pause.

Then, quietly—softly—Zayne presses your hands to his lips.

He kisses your knuckles like he’s asking permission to breathe.

“I don’t expect you to believe me right now,” he whispers. “Or tomorrow. Or the day after. I just want you to know—I’m not leaving. I won’t run from this again. From you. Even if you don’t forgive me. Even if you never say those words back.”

You stare at him.

Still unsure. Still aching. Still raw.

But something inside you shifts.

Not healed.

Not certain.

Just—listening.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

He stays kneeling for a long time.

Even after your fingers loosen in his grip. Even after your breathing slows and your eyes drop from his face to the twisted bedsheet between you. Even after the tears stop falling from both of you.

He stays. Like a man rooted. Like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll disappear.

Eventually, you whisper, “Get off the floor.”

It comes out hoarse. Less command, more tired breath. The words of someone too wrung out to carry this moment any further, but too tender to let it close alone.

He looks up at you, cautious. But the moment has passed for confessions. He knows it.

So he rises slowly, joints stiff, fabric creased and damp from where his knees met the floor. You shift aside, just a little—enough to make room without saying it aloud.

He doesn’t assume.

He stands for a beat longer than necessary. Hands fidgeting. Shoulders tense. And then he moves—quiet as snow—and slips beneath the covers, staying on top of them at first, as though unwilling to cross some unseen line.

The bed dips with his weight. You both lie there, backs half-turned, inches away and aching with silence again—but not the old kind. Not the lonely, echoing kind.

This one is... full. Thick with things unsaid but understood.

His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn't move. Neither do you.

You let your eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come.

Your mind is loud in the hush. Not with words. With fragments. Ghosts. That night at the wedding when your mother held your hand too tightly and whispered that love is just a fantasy. The first time you saw Zayne sleeping at his desk, collar loose, lashes brushing his cheek, more beautiful than anything you were allowed to say. The moment your fingers twitched toward him once, and you stopped yourself. Every almost. Every if.

You feel him shift beside you. Just a fraction.

Then his hand—a single scarred hand—moves slowly across the space between you. Hovers. Waits.

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t breathe.

And then, as gently as anything you’ve ever known, he rests his fingers on your wrist.

Barely a touch.

Just a presence.

I'm here, it says.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

But you let him stay.

The sheets rustle as he slides down slightly, mirroring your position. His forehead brushes your shoulder. His breath warms the back of your arm. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist like an apology without words.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

You fall asleep like that.

Not in his arms. Not pressed close. Not healed.

Just… not alone.

For the longest time, your mother dictated the weather of your world.

She didn’t just control the room—she was the room. Her presence seeped into the walls, into the silence, into the decisions you hadn’t even made yet. She knew what you’d wear before you opened your closet. She could recite your schedule before you checked your calendar. She didn’t raise a daughter—she built a reflection.

And she expected that reflection to obey.

At first, it was subtle. Childhood rules disguised as safety.

“Don’t play in the sun, you’ll get too dark.”

“Keep your voice down, good girls don’t shout.”

“Smile when guests are around, don’t embarrass me.”

But over time, the rules turned into walls. And the walls became a prison. You learned to swallow words before they formed. To weigh your tone. To apologize for breathing too loudly.

It didn’t matter what you wanted. What mattered was what she thought you should want.

And then Zayne entered the picture.

A calm man. A blank page. A voice with the temperature of winter mornings—cool, crisp, distant. You hadn’t even fallen for him. You’d simply watched as your mother’s attention pivoted from micromanaging your life to orchestrating your marriage.

He was her dream son-in-law. A doctor. Unshakeable. Mannered. From a family she couldn’t nitpick.

She didn’t ask if you liked him.

She didn’t need to.

She assumed you would be grateful.

And in some ways, you were.

Because Zayne—unavailable as he was, emotionally constipated and always at the hospital—did one thing your mother never did.

He left you alone.

There was no suffocating presence. No list of expectations folded into every meal. He didn’t demand you dress a certain way. Didn’t police your volume, your mood, your silences. He didn’t ask much of you at all.

And in that eerie vacuum, you found something terrifyingly precious.

Autonomy.

Even if he barely spoke to you, even if he barely saw you, Zayne gave you the one thing you craved more than affection.

Freedom.

At home, your mother would barge into your room with unsolicited opinions. In Zayne’s apartment, you had a key to your own space. At home, your mother would correct you mid-sentence in front of relatives. Zayne would barely notice if you said something silly, let alone make you feel small for it.

He didn’t tether you.

And while that coldness carved an ache in your chest during sleepless nights, it also came with a strange sense of safety.

He was distant, yes.

But he was not cruel.

When your mother visited your new house for the first time after your wedding, you saw her try it—try to step into your space like she still owned it. She scanned your kitchen with sharp eyes, criticizing how you stored the spices. She told you you were putting on weight. That you needed to stop being lazy, that Zayne would leave you if you didn’t “keep up appearances.”

She said it lightly, like a joke.

Zayne was standing by the coffee machine.

He looked up, his gaze ice-cold.

“I didn’t marry her for appearances,” he said, voice clipped, face unreadable. “And if you’re done insulting my wife, you can go.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You remembered the way your mother blinked. Like someone had thrown cold water on her. She huffed, lips pursed, and left without another word. She didn’t even say goodbye.

And you…

You’d looked at him like he was a foreign language.

He didn’t look at you. Just poured his coffee and left for work without a second glance.

But you had stood there, rooted to the floor, hands shaking.

Because for the first time in your life, someone chose you.

Zayne had drawn a line in the sand.

And your mother had been on the wrong side of it.

You hadn’t cried then. Not even when the door slammed shut and silence filled the apartment again. But you remembered the tightness in your chest. The way you stared at the floor like you were thirteen again, except this time you weren’t helpless.

Because someone—your husband—had made it clear you were not to be messed with.

You still think about that moment. More than you probably should.

Because Zayne never brought it up again. Never mentioned her. Never asked how it made you feel.

But he didn’t apologize for defending you.

He didn’t make you feel like you owed him for it either.

And somehow, in his detachment, there was a kind of tenderness your mother had never offered you.

He gave you space.

He gave you a shield.

And somewhere in the folds of that cold, quiet marriage, you started seeing him not just as the stranger you were legally tied to—but the man who, even in silence, stood between you and the woman who broke your voice.

He might not have held your hand.

But he kept your name safe in a house that was finally your own.

And maybe that didn’t look like love in the way you were raised to recognize it.

But it was protection.

And for someone like you—raised to feel like a burden—that meant something.

You wake before the sun.

The room is still steeped in the heavy blue of early dawn, where everything looks softer than it really is. Blurred at the edges, like grief.

There’s a moment, a breath, where you forget. Where you wake as if from a dream and all is suspended. The air is cold against your cheek. The sheets heavy with the imprint of two. And there’s warmth behind you. A weight.

Zayne.

Not a memory. Not a phantom. Not another figment of wishful thinking conjured up by your loneliness.

He's still here.

The realization sinks in slowly, like tea bleeding into water. At some point in the night, he must’ve shifted closer. One of his arms is draped around your waist, tentative but real. His chest rises and falls against your back, the rhythm steady, anchoring. And his face—God, his face is tucked into your shoulder like it’s the only home he’s ever known.

You don’t move.

You just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, your body stiff with exhaustion and the kind of grief that has no name. You're not sure what it is you’re mourning. Only that it’s something vast. Something invisible. A version of this marriage you never got to live. A thousand versions of yourself you never got to be—with him, beside him, for him.

There’s a heaviness in your chest that isn’t pain. Not sharp, not sudden. Just... present. Like fog. Like longing left too long in the cold.

You think about the envelope still sitting on his desk. Signed. Final. As binding as a scar.

You think about how easy it would be to slip out from under his arm. Walk away before the sun catches you both in this quiet trespass. Before the ache turns into expectation. Before kindness gets mistaken for forgiveness.

And yet—you stay.

Not because anything has been resolved. Not because his whispered apology last night has undone the loneliness you watered for so long it grew roots inside you. But because you're tired. And his breath is warm. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re not waking up to a silence that only belongs to you.

He shifts slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on your waist. Just a twitch. Just enough to remind you: he feels you there.

The tears come before you can stop them.

Slow. Silent. The kind you don’t sob out loud. The kind you let slip into the pillow because you’re too proud to make a sound.

You wish you could hate him.

You wish he’d never said anything at all. That he hadn’t come into your room like that. That he’d left the papers on the desk and let the story end quietly.

Because now there’s a crack.

A crack in the coffin you tried to bury this marriage in.

And through it, something stirs.

Not hope. Not yet.

Just the unbearable truth that he’s still in there, somewhere—beneath all that absence. That maybe he always was. That maybe, just maybe, he had been mourning it too, all along, but in his own cold, closed, unreadable way.

Zayne breathes in deeply, then exhales with a small, uneven sigh. Still asleep.

You glance down at the hand around your waist. His fingers twitch once, like he’s dreaming of holding you tighter but doesn’t quite know how.

It hurts.

Not because he’s touching you—but because of how long you’ve wanted him to. Because of how gentle it is. Because tenderness, after all this time, feels like both a balm and a blade.

You close your eyes again.

You don’t move.

You don’t wake him.

There is a funeral between your ribs and a heartbeat beside you, and both feel sacred.

And maybe—just for this morning—that’s enough.

The eggs are overcooked.

Zayne stares down at the pan like it offended him personally, the browned edges curling up as if mocking the silence that’s wrapped itself around the kitchen. The yolks aren’t runny the way you like them. He used the wrong kind of salt. The tea might be too bitter. Everything’s a little off today.

Or maybe he is.

Zayne places the plate gently on the table, careful not to make too much noise. You’re sitting across from him, wrapped in your robe, a thin line between your brows as you butter your toast like it’s a task that requires precision. You haven’t spoken much. Not since waking up to find him still there, hovering in the doorway with eyes swollen from a night spent begging the universe to turn back time.

He watches you through the soft steam rising from the tea.

And he aches.

Not with longing, though that’s part of it.

No, this ache is older. Rooted in something he thought he buried years ago, back on that cursed mountain where blood froze faster than it could pool, and lives ended mid-sentence.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that morning—not here, not with you sitting across from him—but he is.

Because the divorce papers, the ones still waiting on his desk like an open grave, reminded him exactly how it felt to lose something you didn’t know how to hold.

That night on Mt. Eternal… years have passed since then, but the cold never really left his bones.

He still sees William’s face sometimes. In dreams. In the flicker of a hallway light. In the space between one breath and the next, when memory has no mercy.

He hadn’t known the man for long—barely a few months, a blip in the timeline of his tightly folded life—but William had burned bright. Reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly intuitive. He had a way of making people feel seen. A way of cutting through Zayne’s silence with nothing but presence.

And then—

Zayne remembers pressing his hand to William’s chest, trying to keep the life in. His own blood mixing with his friend’s. He remembers the way the air smelled—like frost and iron and finality.

He remembers thinking, If I survive this, I will never love anything fragile again.

And then he met you.

He looks up.

You’re chewing slowly, eyes unfocused. Lost in your own world of unspoken grief.

You hadn’t said anything last night after he fell asleep against your shoulder. You hadn’t moved away. But you hadn’t touched him, either.

Zayne doesn’t blame you.

He doesn’t know what to make of your silence—whether it’s resignation, or fear, or kindness. Whether he’s been forgiven, or whether you’re still too tired to fight.

He wishes he knew how to ask.

He wishes he were the kind of man who could reach across the table and take your hand, just to show you he's still here. That he finally wants to be here. But he isn't that man. Not yet.

And you deserve better than half-formed promises from someone still trying to dig his heart out from beneath layers of protocol and loss.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost without realizing it. The words come out hushed. Fragile.

You glance up.

Your eyes meet.

There’s no anger in them. But there’s no relief, either. Just tiredness. And something that looks too much like a mirror of his own sorrow.

Zayne swallows.

He wants to tell you everything. About the nightmares. About the way guilt has hardened in his chest like a scar tissue. About how hard it is to come home to a soft, warm bed after you've learned to sleep beside death. About how sometimes, when you smiled at him, he looked away not because he didn’t care—but because it hurt too much to hope.

But he doesn’t say any of it.

He takes a sip of tea. It’s scalding. Bitter. His throat burns.

He watches you spread jam on toast with careful, robotic movements before you casually reach over and add two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, and thinks—I should’ve told her sooner. I should’ve told her everything.

But he didn’t. And now, here you both are. Sitting in the ruins. Pretending it's breakfast.

There’s no music. No birdsong. Just the soft clink of ceramic and the breathing of two people who don’t know how to mourn what never had a name.

He looks at your hands—those same hands he held last night like a prayer—and wishes he could rewind time.

Just one month. One year. One heartbeat.

But he can’t.

So he lifts his fork. Cuts into the eggs. Forces himself to chew.

Because this is what it looks like, sometimes, when you try to make amends:

Burnt breakfast.

Too many silences.

A table full of ghosts.

And you—still here.

Not forgiving.

Not forgetting.

But here.

And for Zayne—for a man who’s only ever learned to grieve in private—that is a beginning worth mourning, too.

His phone vibrates against the table.

He flinches—guilt, maybe, or just the startle of being dragged out of a thought you didn’t want to leave.

You don't look up, still quietly chewing, lost in that dreamless place where sorrow goes to sleep in you like a second skin. But Zayne reaches for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen, half-expecting some emergency at the hospital. A late case. A consult. Another impossible situation to fix so he doesn’t have to fix himself.

But it’s a text from Greyson.

"You still coming to the charity gala? Need someone to block Dr. Malik from hijacking the auction with his ugly vintage duck paintings again."

He exhales—one short breath, barely a sound. The message is simple. Banter, really. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing.

He hasn’t replied to Greyson in weeks.

He hasn't thought about the gala either. Usually an excuse for donors to parade their goodwill in overpriced suits, for surgeons to trade horror stories over cocktails, for the hospital to raise enough funds to keep the rural outreach programs going another year.

Zayne’s gaze flickers upward.

You’re sipping your tea now. Still quiet. Still careful. But you’re here. Still in this kitchen. Still in his orbit.

Zayne lets a thought settle in his chest—tentative, unsteady, like a flame in high wind:

Perhaps not all is lost.

Maybe not everything has calcified into endings. Maybe not every door has shut. Maybe there's still a sliver of future that hasn’t collapsed beneath the weight of what went unsaid. You hadn’t kicked him out last night. You hadn't pulled your hand away when he clutched it like a lifeline in the dark.

And now, this. A small, ridiculous gala. The softest suggestion of routine, of life continuing.

He looks back at the message, thumb hovering over the reply field.

Maybe… maybe he could take you.

The thought startles him with its tenderness.

Would you even want to go? Would it feel like a poor excuse to make up for everything? A bandage over a bullet wound? Would you dress up just to stand beside a man who once vanished when you needed him most?

Zayne’s thumb lowers.

He doesn’t reply.

Instead, he watches you butter another piece of toast with slow, mechanical grace. He memorizes the way your lashes cast shadows down your cheeks. The way your hand trembles just slightly, like you’re barely holding yourself together.

You were so strong, always. And he—he let himself believe you didn’t need him. That your strength meant he could keep hiding inside his cold logic and call it love.

He knows better now.

Maybe it's too late to be the man you needed back then. But maybe… maybe he can still learn to be someone you don't have to heal from.

He slips the phone screen-down on the table.

Then, with hesitant hands, he reaches across the table and nudges the jar of jam closer to you. A quiet offering.

You glance at it.

He meets your eyes again.

And in that fleeting glance, something moves. The first light in a room long sealed shut.

The moment passes too quickly.

Your eyes lower again, lashes shuttering the fragile connection. You spread the jam he offered, slow and deliberate, as if trying not to let your hands betray you. Zayne watches the knife tremble ever so slightly in your grip. Not enough for someone else to notice. But he does. Of course he does.

He’s used to studying tremors for a living—on monitors, in pupils, in dying pulses beneath his palm.

And now, you.

You, trembling under all that quiet.

He clears his throat.

It’s not a loud sound, but it slices through the morning hush with a clean, surgical precision. You blink up at him, guarded again. As if waiting for him to say something devastating, or worse—dismissive.

Zayne presses his palms against the edge of the table. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t crowd you. He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Low.

“I, ah…” he starts, and immediately hates how uncertain he sounds.

You set your knife down.

Zayne exhales softly through his nose, schooling himself into coherence. He can do this. He speaks to grieving families, for God’s sake. Tells them about cardiac arrests and brain deaths and the final moments of their loved ones. He can string a sentence together.

But this—this is harder.

“The hospital is hosting its annual charity gala this weekend,” he finally says. “Greyson asked if I was coming.”

You tilt your head. Neutral. You say nothing, but he thinks you’re waiting. Letting him go on.

Zayne looks down at his mug, watching the swirl of steam curl like a vanishing thought.

“I was thinking,” he says carefully, “maybe you'd like to come with me.”

There.

He doesn’t look up immediately. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see your hesitation, your polite refusal, the way you’ll swallow your discomfort and say maybe next time when you know there won’t be one.

But then—

“Why?”

Your voice is not sharp. Not cruel. Just… tired.

Zayne looks up.

You’re watching him now, one brow faintly raised, lips parted slightly—not in expectation, but confusion. Sincere confusion. And something deeper beneath it—wariness, perhaps. The kind that comes from being wounded too many times in the same place.

He leans back in his chair. Not retreating. Just trying not to suffocate you with the closeness of his yearning.

“Because…” he begins, but the rest of the sentence gets tangled somewhere in his chest.

Because I want to be seen with you.Because I want to try again.Because I miss being beside you even when we weren’t really together.Because I can’t bear the thought of showing up alone and being reminded of what I let die between us.Because I want to be yours.

Instead, what comes out is softer. Smaller.

“Because I’d like you to be there.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, your eyes move over him—like you’re taking stock of the man across from you. Not the doctor. Not the public figure. Not the version of Zayne that the world sees. But him.

You study the way his hands are folded, the way his jaw is clenched not with arrogance but restraint. The hair still damp from his morning shower. The sleeves of his dress shirt slightly creased because he didn’t take the time to iron them.

He’s not posturing. Not performing.

He’s just… here. Holding out a hand through the quiet wreckage.

And finally—finally—your lips part.

“Is it black tie?” you ask, like you’re still testing the water, still waiting to see if this is real.

Zayne blinks.

Then breathes.

“Yes,” he says. “Full formal.”

You nod. Just once. A small thing. A quiet gesture that still manages to bloom something in his chest that almost feels like hope.

“Then I’ll need a new dress,” you murmur.

And Zayne doesn’t smile. Not fully. But something in his expression softens, loosens. The beginning of light behind stormclouds.

He knows it’s not forgiveness. But maybe, maybe—it’s the start of returning home.

Zayne finishes his tea in silence.

And as he stands to leave, brushing past your chair to take the dishes to the sink, he lets the faintest hope settle into the hollowness of his ribs.

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#zayne fic recs #tbr

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lads-ficrecs · 21 days ago

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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 1

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.5k

NOTES: so.. this ended up being way too angsty than the original blurb but oh well no regrets. fair warning, prepare some tissues! The tag list for this fic is CLOSED.

MASTERLIST | part 2

The day you chose to deliver the papers was grey. Not rainy. Not stormy. Just… grey.

A sky without conviction. Wind without bite. The kind of afternoon that felt as indecisive as you were pretending not to be.

You stood outside his office door for longer than you were proud of. Long enough to memorize the grain of the wood. Long enough to talk yourself into it, and then out of it, and then back in again.

You pushed the door open softly, already shrinking into yourself.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you came.

But the office was empty.

The silence hit first.

Not a tranquil silence. Not the kind that invites rest.

This one was clinical. Dry. Like the room had forgotten how to hold a heartbeat.

Zayne wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t. He was rarely anywhere you were. You’d grown used to missing him like one grows used to an old injury—limping out of habit, not pain. Not anymore. Not really.

You walked to his desk and placed the envelope down.

Gently. As if it were made of glass.

As if the act itself might shatter something irreversibly.

You stood there, staring at the divorce papers. The ink still smelled fresh. The curve of your own signature stared back at you like a challenge.

You didn’t hate Zayne.

God, if you hated him, maybe this would be easier.

And even if Zayne had been mostly absent, even if he’d buried himself in work and left you to wander the quiet halls of your shared home like a ghost—well.

You weren’t completely blameless either.

You’d withdrawn before he could reject you. You’d built your own walls, brick by brick. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. But the truth was messier than that.

Maybe you’d been waiting. Hoping.

And when hope dried up, you folded your longing into politeness. Into pleasantries. Into dinner set for one.

Your fingers grazed the edge of the envelope again. He’ll see it when he comes in, you told yourself. He’ll understand.

He was good at understanding, wasn’t he?

You turned toward the door slowly, letting your eyes sweep over the room one last time.

Maybe he wore it when he was alone.

Maybe he missed you, in his own quiet, useless way.

Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted either.

Maybe it was.

You didn’t wait to find out.

Behind you, the envelope sat motionless on his desk.

It would be the first thing he saw when he returned.

Or the last thing he expected.

Either way, the decision was made.

You just hoped he’d understand that it wasn’t born out of resentment.

It was born out of surrender.

And surrender, after all, was the only way you’d ever been allowed to love him.

You go about your day.

You order your usual. A glass of wine, a dish too delicate for hunger. You smile when the waiter makes small talk. You nod when he compliments your dress. You even laugh—soft, practiced, hollow.

You leave a generous tip and walk out alone.

You stop at a shop on the way home.

It doesn’t help. But it gives your hands something to hold.

By the time you return home, night has long folded itself over the city. You step out of your heels and into the silence, your keys landing with a metallic sigh in the tray by the door.

The house is spotless. Sterile. Like no one lives here. Like no one ever did.

But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No voice calling your name.

Only the slow drip of a tap and the echo of your own breath.

You go to bed.

The sheets are cool, tucked too tightly. You lay there, stiff as porcelain, your eyes wide in the dark. The ceiling offers no answers. The night holds no comfort.

Your fingers find the empty side of the bed.

And stay there.

Still.

Quiet.

You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself. Because you made this choice, didn’t you?

You left the papers.

You left him.

But as sleep evades you and the silence tightens like a noose, you wonder if he’ll notice the way your perfume still lingers on the pillow.

And if he does—

You wonder if he’ll miss you.

Or just the absence.

You wake in the dark, unsure what pulls you from sleep. There is no noise, not exactly—just the strange pressure of being watched, the weight of something pressing too hard against your ribs.

Your eyes blink open slowly.

And then you see him.

Zayne.

Kneeling at your bedside.

You can’t.

Because you’ve never seen him like this.

Not composed. Not distant. Not restrained behind the iron wall of manners and duty and that maddening, unreachable calm.

No. This is Zayne—undone.

“Please don’t leave me,” he breathes.

The words are so soft, they barely make it past his lips.

Your breath catches.

You stare at him, heart thudding with a terror you don’t understand. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded. Not dying.

But he looks like he is.

You try to sit up, but he’s still holding your hands, head bowed so low you can feel his breath against your skin. He presses his forehead to your knuckles like he’s praying. Or confessing.

You swallow.

Your throat is dry. Your heart is loud. Your hands are still in his, small and warm and useless in the face of this.

Zayne’s never begged for anything. Not when you married. Not when you drifted. Not even when the silences stretched longer than the days.

But he’s begging now.

And it breaks something in you.

He cuts himself off, like the words are too big for him to hold.

“Don’t leave me,” he says again, hoarse. “Please. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I can try. Tell me I can love you better.”

And then he says it.

“Because I do—”

Soft. Crushed. Almost drowned in breath.

“—I do love you.”

You sit frozen, trembling with something that isn’t shock but grief—but hope—but disbelief.

Because you’d spent months mourning something that had never bloomed.

And now here he was. On his knees. With all his walls gone.

Waiting for you.

His words echo in your chest like footsteps in an empty hall. They don’t settle. They don’t land. They just… circle. Hover. Haunt.

And yet—your hands stay in his.

You want to pull away. You should pull away. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?

But your fingers won’t listen. They're traitors. Trembling, but curled around his like they still remember how to hold on.

You don’t know what to say.

You’ve always known what to say. You’ve always had something ready. A laugh, a line, a quiet deflection. You were raised to survive with poise, to never let the cracks show.

But now?

You don’t know how to speak through the knot lodged in your throat.

“I…” Your voice barely comes out. It sounds foreign. Bruised. “Zayne, I don’t—I don’t know.”

His brows draw together.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper. “You didn’t want me. You wanted peace. You wanted quiet. I gave you that.”

You’re breathing faster now, not from panic—but from all the things you’ve never let yourself say aloud.

He’s shaking his head, tears falling again.

“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you felt—”

“Because I didn’t tell you,” you say sharply. “Because I thought I didn’t have the right to want more. We weren’t in love. We were just… two people honoring a contract.”

Zayne looks like he’s in pain.

Real pain.

The kind that doesn’t bleed, just bruises the soul until everything aches.

He closes his eyes like he’s been struck.

“I’m not whole,” you add, voice cracking. “And I don’t know if I even know how to be loved anymore.”

There’s a pause.

A long, trembling pause.

Then, quietly—softly—Zayne presses your hands to his lips.

He kisses your knuckles like he’s asking permission to breathe.

You stare at him.

Still unsure. Still aching. Still raw.

But something inside you shifts.

Not healed.

Not certain.

Just—listening.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

He stays kneeling for a long time.

Even after your fingers loosen in his grip. Even after your breathing slows and your eyes drop from his face to the twisted bedsheet between you. Even after the tears stop falling from both of you.

He stays. Like a man rooted. Like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll disappear.

Eventually, you whisper, “Get off the floor.”

It comes out hoarse. Less command, more tired breath. The words of someone too wrung out to carry this moment any further, but too tender to let it close alone.

He looks up at you, cautious. But the moment has passed for confessions. He knows it.

So he rises slowly, joints stiff, fabric creased and damp from where his knees met the floor. You shift aside, just a little—enough to make room without saying it aloud.

He doesn’t assume.

The bed dips with his weight. You both lie there, backs half-turned, inches away and aching with silence again—but not the old kind. Not the lonely, echoing kind.

This one is... full. Thick with things unsaid but understood.

His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn't move. Neither do you.

You let your eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come.

You feel him shift beside you. Just a fraction.

Then his hand—a single scarred hand—moves slowly across the space between you. Hovers. Waits.

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t breathe.

And then, as gently as anything you’ve ever known, he rests his fingers on your wrist.

Barely a touch.

Just a presence.

I'm here, it says.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

But you let him stay.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

You fall asleep like that.

Not in his arms. Not pressed close. Not healed.

Just… not alone.

For the longest time, your mother dictated the weather of your world.

And she expected that reflection to obey.

At first, it was subtle. Childhood rules disguised as safety.

“Don’t play in the sun, you’ll get too dark.”

“Keep your voice down, good girls don’t shout.”

“Smile when guests are around, don’t embarrass me.”

But over time, the rules turned into walls. And the walls became a prison. You learned to swallow words before they formed. To weigh your tone. To apologize for breathing too loudly.

It didn’t matter what you wanted. What mattered was what she thought you should want.

And then Zayne entered the picture.

He was her dream son-in-law. A doctor. Unshakeable. Mannered. From a family she couldn’t nitpick.

She didn’t ask if you liked him.

She didn’t need to.

She assumed you would be grateful.

And in some ways, you were.

Because Zayne—unavailable as he was, emotionally constipated and always at the hospital—did one thing your mother never did.

He left you alone.

And in that eerie vacuum, you found something terrifyingly precious.

Autonomy.

Even if he barely spoke to you, even if he barely saw you, Zayne gave you the one thing you craved more than affection.

Freedom.

He didn’t tether you.

And while that coldness carved an ache in your chest during sleepless nights, it also came with a strange sense of safety.

He was distant, yes.

But he was not cruel.

She said it lightly, like a joke.

Zayne was standing by the coffee machine.

He looked up, his gaze ice-cold.

“I didn’t marry her for appearances,” he said, voice clipped, face unreadable. “And if you’re done insulting my wife, you can go.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You remembered the way your mother blinked. Like someone had thrown cold water on her. She huffed, lips pursed, and left without another word. She didn’t even say goodbye.

And you…

You’d looked at him like he was a foreign language.

He didn’t look at you. Just poured his coffee and left for work without a second glance.

But you had stood there, rooted to the floor, hands shaking.

Because for the first time in your life, someone chose you.

Zayne had drawn a line in the sand.

And your mother had been on the wrong side of it.

Because someone—your husband—had made it clear you were not to be messed with.

You still think about that moment. More than you probably should.

Because Zayne never brought it up again. Never mentioned her. Never asked how it made you feel.

But he didn’t apologize for defending you.

He didn’t make you feel like you owed him for it either.

And somehow, in his detachment, there was a kind of tenderness your mother had never offered you.

He gave you space.

He gave you a shield.

He might not have held your hand.

But he kept your name safe in a house that was finally your own.

And maybe that didn’t look like love in the way you were raised to recognize it.

But it was protection.

And for someone like you—raised to feel like a burden—that meant something.

You wake before the sun.

The room is still steeped in the heavy blue of early dawn, where everything looks softer than it really is. Blurred at the edges, like grief.

Zayne.

Not a memory. Not a phantom. Not another figment of wishful thinking conjured up by your loneliness.

He's still here.

You don’t move.

There’s a heaviness in your chest that isn’t pain. Not sharp, not sudden. Just... present. Like fog. Like longing left too long in the cold.

You think about the envelope still sitting on his desk. Signed. Final. As binding as a scar.

And yet—you stay.

He shifts slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on your waist. Just a twitch. Just enough to remind you: he feels you there.

The tears come before you can stop them.

Slow. Silent. The kind you don’t sob out loud. The kind you let slip into the pillow because you’re too proud to make a sound.

You wish you could hate him.

You wish he’d never said anything at all. That he hadn’t come into your room like that. That he’d left the papers on the desk and let the story end quietly.

Because now there’s a crack.

A crack in the coffin you tried to bury this marriage in.

And through it, something stirs.

Not hope. Not yet.

Zayne breathes in deeply, then exhales with a small, uneven sigh. Still asleep.

You glance down at the hand around your waist. His fingers twitch once, like he’s dreaming of holding you tighter but doesn’t quite know how.

It hurts.

Not because he’s touching you—but because of how long you’ve wanted him to. Because of how gentle it is. Because tenderness, after all this time, feels like both a balm and a blade.

You close your eyes again.

You don’t move.

You don’t wake him.

There is a funeral between your ribs and a heartbeat beside you, and both feel sacred.

And maybe—just for this morning—that’s enough.

The eggs are overcooked.

Or maybe he is.

He watches you through the soft steam rising from the tea.

And he aches.

Not with longing, though that’s part of it.

No, this ache is older. Rooted in something he thought he buried years ago, back on that cursed mountain where blood froze faster than it could pool, and lives ended mid-sentence.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that morning—not here, not with you sitting across from him—but he is.

Because the divorce papers, the ones still waiting on his desk like an open grave, reminded him exactly how it felt to lose something you didn’t know how to hold.

That night on Mt. Eternal… years have passed since then, but the cold never really left his bones.

He still sees William’s face sometimes. In dreams. In the flicker of a hallway light. In the space between one breath and the next, when memory has no mercy.

And then—

Zayne remembers pressing his hand to William’s chest, trying to keep the life in. His own blood mixing with his friend’s. He remembers the way the air smelled—like frost and iron and finality.

He remembers thinking, If I survive this, I will never love anything fragile again.

And then he met you.

He looks up.

You’re chewing slowly, eyes unfocused. Lost in your own world of unspoken grief.

You hadn’t said anything last night after he fell asleep against your shoulder. You hadn’t moved away. But you hadn’t touched him, either.

Zayne doesn’t blame you.

He doesn’t know what to make of your silence—whether it’s resignation, or fear, or kindness. Whether he’s been forgiven, or whether you’re still too tired to fight.

He wishes he knew how to ask.

He wishes he were the kind of man who could reach across the table and take your hand, just to show you he's still here. That he finally wants to be here. But he isn't that man. Not yet.

And you deserve better than half-formed promises from someone still trying to dig his heart out from beneath layers of protocol and loss.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost without realizing it. The words come out hushed. Fragile.

You glance up.

Your eyes meet.

There’s no anger in them. But there’s no relief, either. Just tiredness. And something that looks too much like a mirror of his own sorrow.

Zayne swallows.

But he doesn’t say any of it.

He takes a sip of tea. It’s scalding. Bitter. His throat burns.

But he didn’t. And now, here you both are. Sitting in the ruins. Pretending it's breakfast.

There’s no music. No birdsong. Just the soft clink of ceramic and the breathing of two people who don’t know how to mourn what never had a name.

He looks at your hands—those same hands he held last night like a prayer—and wishes he could rewind time.

Just one month. One year. One heartbeat.

But he can’t.

So he lifts his fork. Cuts into the eggs. Forces himself to chew.

Because this is what it looks like, sometimes, when you try to make amends:

Burnt breakfast.

Too many silences.

A table full of ghosts.

And you—still here.

Not forgiving.

Not forgetting.

But here.

And for Zayne—for a man who’s only ever learned to grieve in private—that is a beginning worth mourning, too.

His phone vibrates against the table.

He flinches—guilt, maybe, or just the startle of being dragged out of a thought you didn’t want to leave.

But it’s a text from Greyson.

"You still coming to the charity gala? Need someone to block Dr. Malik from hijacking the auction with his ugly vintage duck paintings again."

He exhales—one short breath, barely a sound. The message is simple. Banter, really. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing.

He hasn’t replied to Greyson in weeks.

Zayne’s gaze flickers upward.

You’re sipping your tea now. Still quiet. Still careful. But you’re here. Still in this kitchen. Still in his orbit.

Zayne lets a thought settle in his chest—tentative, unsteady, like a flame in high wind:

Perhaps not all is lost.

And now, this. A small, ridiculous gala. The softest suggestion of routine, of life continuing.

He looks back at the message, thumb hovering over the reply field.

Maybe… maybe he could take you.

The thought startles him with its tenderness.

Zayne’s thumb lowers.

He doesn’t reply.

You were so strong, always. And he—he let himself believe you didn’t need him. That your strength meant he could keep hiding inside his cold logic and call it love.

He knows better now.

Maybe it's too late to be the man you needed back then. But maybe… maybe he can still learn to be someone you don't have to heal from.

He slips the phone screen-down on the table.

Then, with hesitant hands, he reaches across the table and nudges the jar of jam closer to you. A quiet offering.

You glance at it.

He meets your eyes again.

And in that fleeting glance, something moves. The first light in a room long sealed shut.

The moment passes too quickly.

He’s used to studying tremors for a living—on monitors, in pupils, in dying pulses beneath his palm.

And now, you.

You, trembling under all that quiet.

He clears his throat.

Zayne presses his palms against the edge of the table. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t crowd you. He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Low.

“I, ah…” he starts, and immediately hates how uncertain he sounds.

You set your knife down.

But this—this is harder.

“The hospital is hosting its annual charity gala this weekend,” he finally says. “Greyson asked if I was coming.”

You tilt your head. Neutral. You say nothing, but he thinks you’re waiting. Letting him go on.

Zayne looks down at his mug, watching the swirl of steam curl like a vanishing thought.

“I was thinking,” he says carefully, “maybe you'd like to come with me.”

There.

But then—

“Why?”

Your voice is not sharp. Not cruel. Just… tired.

Zayne looks up.

He leans back in his chair. Not retreating. Just trying not to suffocate you with the closeness of his yearning.

“Because…” he begins, but the rest of the sentence gets tangled somewhere in his chest.

Instead, what comes out is softer. Smaller.

“Because I’d like you to be there.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, your eyes move over him—like you’re taking stock of the man across from you. Not the doctor. Not the public figure. Not the version of Zayne that the world sees. But him.

He’s not posturing. Not performing.

He’s just… here. Holding out a hand through the quiet wreckage.

And finally—finally—your lips part.

“Is it black tie?” you ask, like you’re still testing the water, still waiting to see if this is real.

Zayne blinks.

Then breathes.

“Yes,” he says. “Full formal.”

You nod. Just once. A small thing. A quiet gesture that still manages to bloom something in his chest that almost feels like hope.

“Then I’ll need a new dress,” you murmur.

And Zayne doesn’t smile. Not fully. But something in his expression softens, loosens. The beginning of light behind stormclouds.

He knows it’s not forgiveness. But maybe, maybe—it’s the start of returning home.

Zayne finishes his tea in silence.

And as he stands to leave, brushing past your chair to take the dishes to the sink, he lets the faintest hope settle into the hollowness of his ribs.

#zayne fic recs #tbr

2K notes · View notes

lads-ficrecs · 23 days ago

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AITA: I Kidnapped My Childhood Crush and Got Her Pregnant!

Summary: You run from Caleb after being kidnapped for a year. He finds out and brings you right back.

Content Warning: Drugging, Past Somnophilia, DubCon, Breeding, condescending caleb, mocking, mirror sex, manhandling, Yandere caleb, kidnapping, pussy eating, overstim, Rough sex, intimidation tactics, manipulation, Big Dick Caleb, mouth covering, you’re lwk a sick freak in this too…hair tugging, Uniform sex, slight hate sex…? Threats of humiliation, Threats in general he’s crazy, obsessive behavior, power imbalance? He’s a government worker so..

A/N: Also on ao3 yay

Caleb was a man of control, whether or not he was controlling himself or others- he was always in control. This did not stop. Even for you. If anything- it doubled. Everything had his input whether you liked it or not, as any good boyfriend would. You liked to gripe and whine that he was nothing of the sort, and you were ‘not dating his crazy ass’, but– you didn’t know anything, nor did you know what was good for you. You couldn't even lock your windows properly to keep strangers out. Not that he’s a stranger, besides- he would have gotten in anyway.

This really sets the scene for how upset he was at you. Just plain unhappy, how could you be so stupid? Going out without explicit say so from him, god you’re so ungrateful.

He walked down the halls with a mission, the same air of authority he always had. Maybe the uniform made him seem like you just had to listen to him- Obey. His subordinates, at least the ones you’d seen that day, seemed too rigid- too fearful, to be anything but practiced..-Learned obedience. Obedience bred by fear was something he swore by when it came to his work. Maybe it was time to apply it to you too.

His footfalls were heavy, hard to miss, impossible to ignore. Maybe that’s what the sense of foreboding was in your dreams, it’s too foggy to tell.

Caleb turned the knob and opened it to a crack. No sounds, lights off. Ah, so you’re still sleeping. Poor you, so sleepy, so tired after a day of disobeying any rule he set.

But, it’s not like he could be entirely too mad that you took the bait. Yea, sure— he set you up. He just wanted to see if you’d be desperate enough to think he’d be so stupid as to lighten up his security measures. The cameras that were way too obvious being turned off, yet the ones that weren't the camera staged as a doorknob, the one pretending to be a flower bud, even the one posing as a damn charging port? They were very much still on.

But everything else seemed to just be gone! Lucky you..! Except the bolted shut windows, the bullet proof military grade windows you couldn’t dream of shattering, the metal kitchen door to keep you away from the knives and glass, the lack of sharp edges never made a reappearance in the house either. The damn thing was basically baby proofed to hell and back. All with the goal of keeping you here. Keeping you safe. And you found a way out through pure dumb luck. Planned dumb luck. The one day he decided to test you by very simply leaving the door unlocked. (ignoring the 12 security systems and pass codes set in place when you come within 2 feet of it and even attempt to open it.)

And you took the bait. And you had the audacity to sleep after it all. Oh, he was going to fucking ruin you for this.

Each step closer toward your bed echoed from the heavy boots he wore. Boots he trudged through blood in. He bent down, crouched at your side and ran his fingers lightly above your neck. He ‘ought to leash you, really. You’d gone out. Sure, the moment you left you were never actually gone. All under his surveillance and tracking. He saw everything— but.. what if you’d gotten hurt, hm? What would poor Gege do? Extensive measures might have to be taken, then. Like the vulnerable kitten who just kept trying to escape when you were both young.

The truth is, you weren't sleeping. And you sure as hell weren’t unaware, he made sure of that. He wanted you to know what was going to happen to you, and know you deserved it. The type of man he is wasn't an ethical one. He wasn’t above anything, and that meant being a good Gege and giving his sweet girl some water when she returns home from her little escapade.

He drugged your water. Clearly. Just enough to knock you out for the day, light shit. He could have very well gotten you light headed, babbling and mushy brained- but where’s the fun in that?

“Gege’s home.. T’awww, my sleepy girl, yeah? Long day..?”

You woke up from your bout of drug induced unconsciousness, already fed up with him. You should have known it was too good to be true. A door unlocked? In this house? Really..? Fuck, you walked right into it with the lone glass of water you knew damn well wasn’t there when you left. But you were so thirsty and everything was suspiciously out of all their stock all of a sudden after just a couple customers or closed. Like.. everything. There would be customers buying things leisurely, yet the moment you strolled up to get something, they were out.

Yes, he did pay off (read; threaten) every shop runner to close down for the day, either that or refuse you service the moment they recognized you.

You didn’t respond to him taunting you, it seemed like every word you spoke up until now only fueled him and his fucked up head.

“Mute now, hm? I didn't drug you up that much.. I don’t think so, at least.” He trailed his hands down your back, rubbing up and down as if he were soothing you, but it only felt like a threat. Each stroke of his hand across your body had a purpose you couldn’t quite make out yet. A reminder of sorts.

“Been thinkin’ Pip. Real hard, so try and understand. If I were… to.. say- impair you, that would make you easier to manage, yeah?” That got a reaction out of you.

“Caleb, stop talking like that— isn’t this whole sick thing just to keep me ‘unharmed’” you rushed it out as if any second later would have gotten you killed. Maybe it would have. It was like a hostage situation and you had to talk him down before he got any funny ideas. “Well, calm down, I didn’t say I was going to. N’ I said I was thinking. Am I not allowed to think?”

Unfortunately for you, his ideas were about to get hilarious.

Saying no would imply you’re setting a boundary and he would get mad. Saying yes would imply he could think up whatever sick shit he wanted and you’d be on board and he would get trigger happy. You lost either way, so you said nothing.

–Which implied that you 100 percent wanted what he hadn’t even said out loud yet. Caleb logic.

He flipped a switch in a second and suddenly your chest is on the mattress and he has your wrists in a one handed grip. Combined with his weight pressing down onto you made it impossible to even imagine escaping.

He pressed even more weight on your body, leaving down until his chest met your back, his head coming to the side of your face, making sure you heard him loud and clear.

“That means i’ve gotta’ breed you ‘till you take. Then you can never leave. I'm gonna keep you here, and so will your body.”

As he says this his hands snake around and under your body, laying his forearm under your hips and pulling them up with him, giving him access to your shorts. His chest being to your back made the sense of foreboding that much more potent, you couldn’t read his face because you simply couldn’t see it.

His fingers unbutton your pants and slide them down “Gonna let me do this? ‘Gonna let Gege make you his? He’s doing this for you. For your own good..”

“Is gege scaring you? Hm?”

If you say no, he’s only going to up the ante. If you say yes, it’s going to go to his head and he’s gonna get trigger happy. So you just moan as he grinds into your panties.

That moan must mean this excites you. And it does. Not that you’d ever admit that to this sick fuck. But if you’re enjoying it to an extent— what does that make you? C’mon, he’s hot, you’ve known him 99% of your life, and you’ve had the hots for him since you were 16, it was just a crush back then. Just a crush.

For him it was so much more. It was an obsession in a ‘family’ shaped bottle, sure, he wanted to be a kind figure in your life– but he also wanted to be the only figure in your life. He didn’t want to be family, or friends, he wanted to be yours and that wasn't possible as long as he was who he was. At least without all the faux kind smiles and calm demeanor. He was always like this. The incident just gave him the perfect excuse to unleash it.

Each roll of his hips into yours just pushed you into arousal further and further, sue you- you liked it, big whoop.

Each time he touched you, it was like wrestling with Satan the way you tried to deny how much you wanted him- it’s just the way he goes about it that unsettled you. But you didn’t even know the half of it. You moaned when his fingers began to circle your clit, rubbing feather light like it was barely there only to press down, making your hips draw back into his.

The sounds of his huffs against your ear only heightened your pleasure, God- he sounded so fucking good, panting like a damn dog every time he laid a hand on you, hips rolling wildly. The texture of his clothed bulge against your bare pussy was a contrast as delicious as any.

He starts to suck on and kiss your neck, licking with no direction, just pure instinct. The need for him to leave some kind of mark on your was unbearable for him- he couldn't ignore an opportunity to boost his ego. “Fuck, pip- so sweet for me, so fuckin’ sweet..”

The filth and praise he whispered in your ear as his fingers swirled slowly was intoxicating. He was so fucking intoxicating.

“Gonna go faster, baby, faster. Gonna make you cum.” and he did. He went so much faster. His fingers jerked back and forth under you as his panting increased. You writhed as you sank your face further into the bed, only getting so far before he gripped your jaw and forced your head to the side. “Don't hide, you don’t hide from it. From me.” The squelching and obscene noises he was ripping from your soaked cunt was something you never thought possible, his fingers gliding along your wetness making sounds that filled up the room.

“That’s it baby, louder. Louder.” he goaded. Egging you to get louder and louder until even the cameras in the garage could pick it up. All so he could watch it back later.

The pressure building up inside of you was hard to ignore, and he knew it. Fingers going impossible faster as your pussy drooled onto the sheets under you, staining them for the near future. Knowing the sick fuck- he’d probably fold ‘em up and put it in a display case.

His panting turned into moans as he felt you dripping all over his fingers, they merged into incredulous laughs. “Shit, baby- gonna fuckin’ cum, hm? I know…” Your whines got higher and higher until the pressure snapped like a rope holding a truck. Liquid squirting out of your cunt like a waterfall, pooling in his hands and onto the sheets.

Caleb groaned as your juices warmed his hands, fingers rubbing into your slit lazily just to hear the sounds your pussy would make. She always made such delicious sounds.

The gloves of his uniform now covered in your slick and cum, he leans back to teeth them off. His chest no longer on your back as he sat up on his knees, yet his hips never left yours. “M’not done yet, Pip. not yet..”

Gloves tossed to the side, he shoves his coat aside to get to his heavy belt buckle. The tingle and clink of every movement just made you clench around nothing. Through the loop, and pull. ‘Clank!’ The belt fell. ‘Ziiiip.’ His fly was undone.

And suddenly his bare cock was resting on your back. Fuck– no matter how many times you saw it, it never got less daunting just how big it was. He gripped his cock by the tip, thumb pressing up against the head as he dragged it down your ass and to your waiting cunt. The way he rubbed it up and down, and up.. And down- Fuck.

He moaned and lolled his head to the side, as if getting every angle to his dick dipping between your folds just barely only to pull back, the strings of your last orgasm connecting you each time you pulled away. Caleb's hands came to grips your ass, spreading it to make way for his cock. Kneading and squeezing wherever he wanted. He gripped lower to your thighs, spreading them to see your pussy throbbing with need. You arched into his touch, desperate for anything.

He suddenly ceased all movement, his hands leaving you as he dragged you by the legs to the edge of the bed. “Shh, to the side– there you go, look to the side.”

It was you. In the mirror you’d forgotten was there, a tall wide mirror on the side of the bed. The scene it replicated was like drugs to Caleb. Fuck that deer in headlights look you had, the way his cock prodded against your cunt, the strings of cum dripping to the floor, the arch– all of it tightened his balls and now he was sure. He was going to breed you silly.

He pulls himself away from you, slowly getting to his knees, level with your slick pussy. He breathes in a huff of it, groaning when he releases the air. “Fuck.. best fuckin’ thing in the world, my sweet girl.”

Shoving is face into your pussy he licks a long line up it, tasting every inch of it. Caleb felt his cock twitch with each lick of your sweet pussy, already addicted to every little clench against his lips. He sucks your folds into his mouth, letting go with a sloppy pop before diving right back in, nodding his head up and down wildly into your cunt.

The way he looked in the mirror was too much, yet you couldn't look away. He looked so good on his knees feasting on you, lost in how you tasted. Your back arched even further into his face, pushing your hips back as he groaned behind you.

“All ‘f it baby, yeaaah.. All in my mouth..” he just kept talking into your pussy, mumbling sweet words into it like you weren't losing your mind as he latched onto you as if he were trying to suck something out of you.

And he was, he wanted it so badly. He wanted- needed– something to come out, more, more, more. Your juices dripped down his chin, down to his neck and into the collar of his uniform, it was so messy you had to turn away from the mirror to save face.

Everything was so mushed together in your head that you couldn't focus on anything but the slurps and sucks of his mouth as he licked and licked and licked. He finally leans back for a deep breath, giving you a moment of reprieve. But only for a second to palm his cock slowly, just staring at your pussy as it dripped and drooled. Lips wet and shiny as he heaved, the uniform rubbing against his heated skin with each stroke of his dick. Only four slow strokes before he simply dove back in, lips attaching to your clit, thumb pushing into your hole. He tightened his hand around his cock with a moan as you pushed your face into the bed. You fisted the sheets, your leg lifting as he shook his head back and forth, the obscene sounds filling the room. Your eyes almost rolled into the back of your head each time his thumb sped up to match the rhythm of his tongue.

The tension inside you was coiling and curling with the heat in your belly, winding tighter and tighter with each suck of your lips. The sounds of his hand going faster and faster up and down his cock as he ate you out was hypnotizing. You don't even recall when he stopped, edging himself just before he came, focusing completely on your pussy.

Both his hands came to your ass, gripping enough to leave bruises as he opened his mouth wide and fucking sucked. Your voice wavered and shook with each moan, your thighs trembling. You pulled your hips away from his mouth trying to get some reprieve, but he only slid his hands to your thighs, pulling you even harder into his face, sucking deeper, shaking his head, his arms snaking around your thighs, locking you to his face.

You looked into the mirror and had to look away immediately after. The sight of his face pulled flush against your ass, head moving wildly, body tensed with pleasure. The coil pulled tighter the moment his tongue began to thrust in and out of you. It snapped the moment he moaned directly into your ruined cunt, your cum flooding his mouth as he drank it down like it was the first sight of water he’s seen in weeks.

He unlocked you from his face and held your lower thigh as he licked up everything lazily, jaw moving smoothly between your thighs, the sigh of it in the mirror was fucking beautiful.

He finally pulls away slowly, a thick string of saliva stretching as he backs away and breathes in deeply, catching his breath. Caleb slowly stood, stroking himself slowly as he laid a hand on your back. “Remember why were here, pip. Fuck, you’re so pretty. Gonna breed you, baby..”

His slow praise was all that clouded your mind as he lined himself up with your wrecked cunt and pushed in, inch by inch as he stretched you, filling you up as you clenched. “So fuckin’ tight, my tight girl..” he moaned as he lifted his knee onto the bed, looking into the mirror on the side watching your scrunched face, bitten lips and arched back. Caleb leaned forward, pushing himself inside you deeper. He buried his cock into you to the base, his balls snugly against your cunt. Not even giving you a second to breathe, he immediately began to slam his dick into and out, thrusting roughly into you.

He reaches his hand to your hair and grips, pulling your hair, forcing you up to your hands. “Thought..-fuck..! Thought i forgot all about today, hm?” He laughs between moans as he tightens his grip on you. “I’ll never for-hah..forget. As long as I have the footage.. Of this.”

Of course someone like Caleb had cameras, even in the bedrooms. You expected nothing less. “Say yer’ fuckin’ sorry, pip. Fuck.. Say it.” You can only whine in response as he fucks you, hips thrusting so roughly your whole body shakes.

“Say it- fuckin’ say it. I’ll fucking show everyone how much- hah.. Shit- how much ‘a slut you are.” Of course he wouldn't actually show anybody what was his. As much as he loved the idea of showing his subordinates exactly what they could never have– you were for his eye only, especially when he’s got you like this. Then, you started clenching like a whore when he threatened to show everyone.

He leaned forward to taunt filth into your ear, calling you all sorts of names for sarong to clench after that, what a slut, right? His pounding became more and more relentless, messy, and deep. The way you reached back and gripped onto his starched and pristine ironed uniform, pulling him closer.. It drove him crazy– you drove him crazy. All the more reason to never let you leave.

He sucked marks and bruises into your neck, kissing your cheek before turning your face to his, shoving his mouth onto yours. He moaned into your mouth as you whined into his.

He broke away from you and spaced his knees further and forced you into a mean arch. “Almost done, baby- almost..” he breathed into your neck. He gave a slight pause before he was pounding into your slick cunt over and over again, his hands digging into the soft of your hips, never daring to let go. Caleb's noises overpowered yours, so vocal and unabashed in how good you made him feel, so good he couldn’t seem to shut up.

He felt his balls begging to be emptied, begging to fill you up– he was insatiable. And so were you. You kept fucking your hips back into his, never letting his leave yours for too long. Due to him having never taken his uniform off, Tech and all– Suddenly his radio roared to life in his ear. Ah, now he remembers, he came here on break, he’s still on the clock. Despite this his thrusting never stopped, only slowing to just slick sounds instead of the pounding that took over the room. He tapped his ear to pick up. “State your business.”

You’d never be able to tell he’s fucking the life out of someone with how steady his voice was. The slow place he was going did nothing to lessen the heat in your belly, only churning it more. Your low whines made it to Caleb’s ears only a second before he lifted your head and shoved his hand against your mouth, giving you a particularly hard thrust that made you come undone unexpectedly. He knew, but he paid it no mind, keeping his slow pace all while the Fleet personnel droned on in his ear piece. “I see, and you’ve done as i told you? Every single file?”

The overstimulation was slowly creeping up on you, eye getting glossy, drooling into his hand as it gripped your face. All your senses are full of him.

In the haze of your mind you couldn't really hear anything, just the slick sounds of how he lazily dragged his cock and in out of you. His thrusts sped up, his voice becoming a little more strained. “Meet at 0700, all Fleet Personnel under my command– will be in attendance, we’ll talk then.” There was a noticeable pause when he spoke, but if the man on the other end wished to keep his life, he’d shut up about it. And he did.

“Looks like I've gotta speed this up, Pip. Duty calls.” He braced one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, angling himself into you. He could feel himself getting closer to cumming just from repositioning. He pulled his aching cock out of you, rubbing the weeping tip onto your cunt before slipping right back inside.

You both moaned at that. You both fit so perfectly– so deliciously with one another, he could only wonder why he hadn't locked you up sooner. He began his pace, hips snapping with quickness against yours, giving neither of you reprieve. If you were overstimulated before, it was worse– or better now. He kept hitting that spot that made you see stars and forget where you were. Thinking only ‘Caleb, Caleb, Caleb’ as if you were under a spell.

Ropes of stray arousal spouted from his dick with each thrust. “Fuck, fuck f- oh.. Pip, y’so fuckin’ perfect for me. Taking my dick so perfectly..” You could only moan, no words coming to mind, only his name. You’d never felt so full.

He rolled his hips harder, impossibly harder. Again, and again, and again– you reached your hands back and began pushing his hips away. Well, trying. “You can take it, pip. I know you can..-fuck.. You can.”

Could you really? You felt like you were getting split in half and swallowed. You had walked into the jaws of a beast, and how had you only just now realized that? His hips began to stutter and stall, his dick twitching inside of you as he threw his head back with a loud groan that seemed to shake the house. “Gonna..fuckin’ cum, baby… almost– almost, ah…ah fuck.” His voice took on a whiny quality as he began to tense up. His moans spilled through bitten lips, and a raw throat. Fuck, he was gonna fill you up. “Ready? Yeah, all ready for Gege.. fuck- gonna fill you up..”

He began panting, his voice cracking and going off kilter. His balls tightening with each thrust before the dam finally broke. His semen rushing out of his spent cock, filling your needy cunt.

His thrusts never stopped, riding out his orgasm and pulling one more from you. He was overstimulating both you and himself, unable to stop himself, unwilling to part from you. His broken whines filled the room, pushing his face into your neck once more, breathing you in. The feeling of his cum sitting deep into your womb was dizzying, leaving your brain mushed. Caleb wasn't faring much better– but, alas– he has a job to do, like, right now.

He slowly slides himself out of you, making a milky stream of his seed spill from your puffy cunt. He groaned deeply at the sight. “That should do it, yeah?” He chuckled as he caught his breath, straightening his uniform.

Something must have rang in his ear, because he tapped at it once and his eye hardened for a sec before it was gone. His eyes slid back over to you as he zipped himself back up, smiling as if nothing had happened. “I’ll see if it takes when I get back. I hope you learned something today, Pipsqueak.”

Although his voice took on a light hearted tone, there was something under it that promised worse if he found you to disagree. He rolled you onto your back, your body feeling as heavy as bricks, yet your limbs like jello. You don’t remember him leaving to grab moist towelettes, but he came back to wipe you done a while ago and took a step back to look you over with what most would say was a soft look. It just seemed smug.

“But, we both know when it comes to you.. Lessons are hardly learned in one sitting.” Basically, Caleb's way of saying; ‘I hope you’re not stupid enough to try and escape again.’ And, you were not.

After a staredown where he went blank for a moment, he clapped suddenly and turned on his heel towards the door, unlocking and opening it. “Gege wont be long, so just lay there.” Was all he said before he was ‘gone’. To Duty. blood and grime, coverups and sinister deals. To the Fleet. Yet his eyes were still on you, cameras, listening devices, alarms all littered by the handful around the room. So, you laid there, and you waited.

Because now? You knew better than to disobey.

#caleb fic recs #tbr

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