craftybreadmaker

[craftybreadmaker]

found the time for more sylus brainrot

[craftybreadmaker]

yall. hear me out

human sylus. but like with flaws. Sylus who gets pimples and acne occasionally. Who has so enlarged pores and wrinkles. Who doesn’t always have perfect hair or a chiseled physique. Sylus who doesn’t look like one of Antonio Canova’s sculptures. He just looks like some guy. An extremely hot and attractive guy but still a human nonetheless.

Let him be weird and awkward and flirt badly. Please.

(in case yall couldn’t tell I want a realistic and human Sylus so bad it literally gnaws at my bones)

[craftybreadmaker]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Sylus

Summary: It was your anniversary with Sylus. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC?

Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Sylus

Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Also I don't think any of these men would ever be the type to actually willlingly forget it. So I had to adapt the request a bit.

Rafayel version | Zayne version

Content Warning: injuries, panic, insecurities, self worth issues, blood, death, Sylus POV

It had been a year since you and Sylus had been together.

How this man, leader of Onychinus, with all his power, wealth, and the infamous reputation that made the N109 Zone bow at his feet—had fallen for you, of all people, remained a mystery. Perhaps it had been one of those dangerous, untraceable things, like the slow bloom of a wildfire, unpredictable and impossible to stop once ignited.

And yet, it had happened.

Sylus had told you he’d be back today. You remembered the way he’d said it, smug as ever, like he was indulging you in some little fantasy. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me, sweetheart.”

That had been a week ago, before he left for a deal abroad. He had taken Luke and Kieran with him—his most trusted men, twins who seemed to share a single mind between them. And, of course, Lina, the Deepspace hunter who should have been arresting him, but somehow always ended up tangled in his orbit instead.

You hadn’t mentioned your plans to Sylus. If there was one thing you craved, it was the rare chance to catch him off guard for once.

The base was quiet today. You had given the chefs the day off and spent the better half of the afternoon in the kitchen yourself, cooking a meal that was hearty, rich—something that would remind Sylus that despite his empire of steel and blood, he had something warm waiting for him here.

And the gifts—what could you give a man who had everything? Who could have anything in the world with the mere curl of his fingers?

So, you made something with your own hands.

A hand-stitched crimson silk tie, embroidered subtly with black thread in the shape of a feather—your own nod to his empire. A custom-made pocket watch with an inscription hidden on the inside, words only he would ever see: Come home to me. And a small leather-bound notebook, filled with notes, half-written thoughts, and memories of the past year. A private piece of your heart, wrapped up in ink and paper. Next to the plates, a black velvet box rested, holding custom cufflinks shaped like crimson feathers, mirroring the streaks on his shirt.

The air in Sylus’ study was thick with the scent of the meal you’d spent hours preparing, rich spices and slow-cooked flavors meant to fill the room with warmth, with care. The table was set for two, lit by the soft glow of candles, the dim golden light reflecting off the dark mahogany of his desk. It was a quiet contrast to the usual sharp edges of the space, the atmosphere softened just for tonight. Just for him.

You had even opened a bottle of wine, anticipation humming in your chest like a live wire.

But the hours stretched, the evening creeping into the depths of night.

Sylus never came.

You tried calling him. But the line never connected.

How could that be? You had spoken to him just yesterday.

A cold unease coiled in your gut.

You tried calling Luke. Then Kieran.

No response.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. The air smelled of rich spices, of the meal you had made, but the warmth had long since bled from the room.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress as you paced.

Had something happened? Had the deal gone wrong? He never left you waiting without reason. And Luke and Kieran? They never ignored your calls.

A dozen worst-case scenarios flashed through your mind, none of them pleasant.Your heart pounded, and just when the thoughts threatened to spiral into something unbearable—

Your phone rang.

The screen lit up with Luke & Kieran. Relief surged, and you answered in an instant.

“Where the hell have you been? Are you all okay? Where’s Sylus?” The words rushed out, tangled with worry.

A beat of silence. Then, as expected, Luke spoke first, his voice carrying its usual playful lilt.

“Whoa, slow down, boss lady. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Kieran’s voice followed, grounded and even. “Change of schedule. We’re flying back tomorrow instead.”

Tomorrow?

Your fingers tightened around the phone. “What? Why? Where’s Sylus?”

Another pause. You could hear Luke hesitate, which was never a good sign. “Ahh… yeah, about that—”

“Kieran,” you pressed, “where is he?”

There was a sigh on the other end before Kieran answered, blunt as always.

“Miss Hunter came down with a fever.”

You blinked. “Lina?”

“She was being fussy about seeing a doctor,” Luke added. “So, naturally, Sylus decided to stay and look after her.”

You heard Luke let out a nervous chuckle, the kind he only did when he knew he had just stepped into a landmine. “Y’know, the usual—boss being boss. Can’t have our little Deepspace hunter collapsing, right? He’s making sure she’s alright.”

Something in you twisted.

“He—” Your voice caught. “He’s staying behind for her?”

“Yeah,” Kieran confirmed. “We figured it’d be easier than dragging her onto the plane half-conscious. You know how she is.”

Luke chuckled. “Yeah, stubborn as hell. Kind of endearing though—”

The rest of his sentence faded into white noise.

Sylus wasn’t coming home.

Not tonight. Not for you.

Not for your anniversary.

Your fingers went numb around the phone as something heavy lodged itself in your throat. The carefully prepared meal, the handmade gifts, the effort you’d poured into making this night special—it all felt meaningless now.

Your free hand curled into a fist, nails digging into your palm. You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“I see,” you said, quiet.

“Oh—wait, did you need something?” Luke asked, oblivious.

You almost laughed. Did you need something?

No. Apparently, you didn’t.

“Nothing,” you said. “Just… fly back safe, all of you. I’ll see you when you are back.”

You ended the call before they could say anything else.

Silence filled the room once more.

The meal on the table had gone cold. The wine in the glasses sat untouched.

And in the quiet, you stared at the chair where Sylus should have been—where you had thought he would be.

But he wasn’t.

It wasn’t fair to be angry.

You knew that.

Lina’s sickness wasn’t something Sylus could have accounted for. If you had been in his place, you would have done the same—of course you would have. You would never leave someone behind in that condition, never abandon a friend in need.

But you weren’t Sylus. You weren’t a man who could summon entire fleets at a whim, who could command the world to bend at his feet.

Sylus had resources. If he wanted, he could have had her taken care of in the best medical facility in the world and still made it home to you. But he stayed. And you?

You didn’t even know where they were.

The thought stung, sharp and unrelenting, digging into the marrow of your bones.

You pressed your palm against your eyes, swallowing back the rush of emotions that threatened to consume you. Anger. Hurt. A rational voice in the back of your mind whispered that none of this was Sylus’ fault. That you were being unreasonable.

But emotions weren’t reasonable.

You had spent hours preparing this night. Thought of every detail. A meal made with your own hands. Gifts carefully chosen, stitched, inscribed. Every little thing was meant to remind Sylus that despite the world he ruled, despite the empire of steel and blood he had built, he had something warm waiting for him. Someone waiting for him.

And yet.

A soul-bound connection...

You weren’t stupid. You had known about it, ever since Sylus told you—told you about a past life that Lina had no recollection of, about a sorceress and a dragon bound together by the threads of fate itself.

Not this life. Not this Sylus. Not this Lina.

But it didn’t matter, did it?

Your eyes burned, and you pressed your fingers against them, as if you could push back the rising sting of tears. No, this wasn’t Sylus’ fault. It wasn’t Lina’s either.

But that didn’t stop the pain.

Because it wasn’t just tonight, was it?

It was the lingering shadow of a story you had no part in.

But it didn’t matter, did it?

No matter how much you tried, no matter how much love you poured into this relationship, how could you ever stand against something forged by the universe itself?

It wasn’t just about tonight. It wasn’t just about the cold meal or the untouched gifts.

It was about that feeling—that sick, awful feeling twisting inside your chest.

You were inadequate.

You were nothing compared to a bond that had been written into the very fabric of fate. And what were you against that?

Mortal. Fleeting. A blip in the vast, endless history of what they had once been.

It made you feel so small.

No matter how much you tried, no matter how much you gave, the universe had already decided. Sylus belonged to someone else. Even if he chose you, even if he kissed you and whispered your name in the dark, you would never have what they had. You would never be the one his soul cried out for in the quiet.

The thought carved something deep inside you, raw and aching, a wound without a name.

You turned away from the dining table, from the abandoned dinner and the untouched wine, and picked up the plates with numb fingers. The weight of them felt heavier than it should have, or maybe it was just the weight of everything else pressing down on you.

The kitchen was silent save for the quiet clatter of porcelain as you methodically began packing the food into containers. Your movements were mechanical, automatic—store the food, seal the lids, stack them away. You barely registered what you were doing, lost in the storm raging inside you.

You loved him.

God, you loved him so much.

But was love enough? How was that supposed to stand against bonds forged by souls?

Your chest ached, your vision blurred, but you kept going. Container after container, hands moving with purpose even as your mind spiraled. You didn’t let yourself cry. Not now. Not yet.

It wasn’t until a cold gust of air brushed against the nape of your neck that you realized something was wrong.

Your hands stilled.

The air was different.

Off.

The base was secure—always. Layers of defenses, reinforced doors, security measures that made it near-impossible for anyone to slip in unnoticed. And yet, something in the stillness of the space sent a prickle of unease down your spine.

Slowly, you turned your head.

The lights above flickered once. Twice.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You weren’t alone.

SYLUS' POV

The hum of the engine thrummed beneath Sylus’ fingers as the aircraft carved a path through the night sky. Outside the reinforced glass, the neon-soaked cityscape of the N109 Zone flickered like dying embers. His grip on the armrest was tight, his jaw set in a firm line as unease coiled in his gut.

Something was wrong.

He had tried calling you earlier, more than once, but each attempt had ended the same—no connection.

That wasn’t normal.

You always answered, always picked up on the first or second ring, even if it was just to snap at him for being an overbearing bastard. But tonight? Silence.

Kieran’s voice cut through the cockpit. “Dropping Lina off now. Shouldn’t take long.”

Sylus barely spared the exchange a glance as Luke helped the girl out, her feverish form was leaning against Kieran. He should have been relieved—getting her to the edge of N109 Zone meant she was going back to Linkon and being cared for.

Minutes later, when Kieran and Luke rejoined him, Sylus barely waited for them to strap in before he barked, “Move. Now…” as they drove towards the base.

Luke shot him a sidelong glance but, wisely, didn’t ask questions.

The base wasn’t far. They reached the outskirts in record time, but the second Sylus stepped off the vehicle, his pulse sharpened to a blade’s edge.

The air was wrong.

Too still.

And right now, his own base felt foreign.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. His security grid had been tampered with. Not shut down—no, that would have triggered failsafes—but rerouted, bypassed just enough to avoid raising alarms.

Luke and Kieran noticed it at the same time.

Sylus turned to them, his red eyes gleaming under the low lights. One look was all it took.

They spread out, moving like shadows.

Kieran’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “Boss lady was here yesterday.”

A muscle in Sylus' jaw ticked.

His gaze snapped to Kieran, but the man was already continuing. “Yesterday. Security logs picked her up before the system went dark.”

That cold feeling coiled into something heavier, denser. His gut twisted in a way he didn’t like.

Was she safe? Was she hurt?

You  had been here.

And now you weren’t answering your goddamn phone.

He moved faster, his long strides carrying him through the halls with terrifying purpose. The first guard he saw was sprawled on the floor, unconscious, a dark bruise spreading along his jaw. Another lay slumped against the wall, barely breathing. Sylus crouched briefly, checking their pulse. Alive. But taken out efficiently.

Someone had gotten in.

And you—

A sharp exhale through his nose. He didn’t let the fear settle in his chest. Didn’t let it slow him down.

His mind burned through every logical step as he stalked through the base, checking rooms, searching for any trace of you. When he reached your shared room, his heart kicked up—only for it to plummet at the sight.

The door was ajar. The air inside was stale.

And everything was a mess.

The bed was unmade. The belongings scattered. Drawers left half-open. It looked like a fight had broken out—or someone had torn through the space in a rush.

Sylus never rushed. Never panicked. He was in control—always.

And yet, something dark and frigid curled in his chest as he pivoted, moving toward his study.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent of melted wax and aged wine hit him first. His gaze dropped, cataloging the scene in an instant.

Candles, burned low.

A bottle of wine, uncorked.

Two glasses. One untouched.

The weight of realization hit him like a fist.

You had been waiting for him.

Something curdled in his stomach.

The back of his mind supplied a thought he refused to acknowledge. Had you left because of it? Had something snapped in you before someone else got here first?

Before he could spiral further, a voice crackled through his earpiece—sharp, panicked.

“Boss!” Luke’s voice. “Kitchen—now.”

Sylus was already moving before the transmission cut.

The moment he stepped in, his breath stilled.

The smell of food, faint and lingering, mixed with something coppery.

The table was overturned, food scattered, porcelain shards glinting in the dim light. A glass had shattered, its crimson contents smeared across the floor like blood—except there was blood.

Not just wine. A dark stain, drying.

Your phone lay cracked on the floor, its screen splintered beyond recognition.

And next to it—two men.

Not his.

Two unfamiliar men lay motionless nearby, their bodies in a puddle of blood where they had fallen. Not his men. Intruders.

You fought.

Sylus’ blood turned ice-cold.

You had fought.

His fingers curled into fists, his Evol humming beneath his skin, barely restrained.

He should have been here yesterday.

That thought seared through Sylus’ mind like a molten brand, burning deeper with every heartbeat.

He should have flown back yesterday. Should have shoved Lina into a damn transport and sent her straight to Linkon without a second thought. Should have been here with you. Should have spent the night with you. Should have protected you.

Instead, he’d played nurse, wasted hours hovering over a feverish girl, while you—

His gut twisted as he moved through the wreckage. The kitchen was a battlefield, overturned chairs and smeared blood marking the violence that had taken place. His boots crunched over broken porcelain, and his breath came shallow, ragged.

He should have been here.

His study flickered in his mind—the candles, the untouched glass of wine, the boxes of presents you had set up. Always a step ahead of him. Always anticipating what he needed before he even realized it. You had been waiting for him. And he hadn’t come.

He failed you.

A sharp exhale hissed past his teeth, and he forced his focus back on the blood trail. It smeared across the floor, fading and reappearing in uneven patches—dragged footsteps. It wasn’t enough blood to be fatal, but it was too much for him to ignore. His pulse was a war drum in his ears as he followed it, every step carving another layer of dread into his spine.

Then—

A door. Slightly ajar.

The closet.

Sylus barely registered his own movement as he wrenched it open.

And there you were.

Curled in on yourself, hidden between crates and spare supplies. Your limbs were tangled awkwardly, one hand clutching your side, the other barely shielding your face. Your breathing was shallow, uneven. A dark stain spread across your shirt—blood.

His stomach plummeted.

Fuck.

His knees hit the floor before he even processed it, his hands reaching, trembling. He never trembled. But now—

His fingers brushed your cheek.

His jaw clenched as he took in the bruises, the way your body remained so still, so eerily still—

Then you moved.

It was slight, barely a twitch at first, but then—your breath hitched sharply, and before he could say a word, you jerked awake.

Wild, terrified eyes locked onto him.

And in the space of a heartbeat, you struck.

A flash of motion, a blade in your trembling grip—his grip shot out, catching your wrist before you could drive it into his throat. Your strength faltered, but your panic didn’t. Your chest heaved, your breath ragged and erratic. Fear clouded your gaze—real, visceral. You didn’t see him.

You saw an enemy.

“Hey!” His voice was lower, rougher than he meant it to be. He forced himself to ease his grip on your wrist, slow and deliberate. “It’s me.”

You were still rigid, still shaking. He watched as your pupils dilated, as reality reassembled itself behind your exhausted eyes.

His heart clenched.

“It’s me, sweetheart...” he repeated, softer this time. His thumb brushed against your pulse point—too fast, too frantic.

A shudder passed through you, and then, slowly—finally—your body sagged. The tension bled out of your frame as your vision cleared, as recognition settled in.

Sylus caught you before you could slump forward.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him, his body coiled with a thousand emotions he couldn’t untangle. You were hurt. You were bleeding. And he hadn’t been here.

His voice came quieter, steadier, even as everything inside him screamed. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Sylus could feel the erratic hammering of your heart beneath his fingertips, the warmth of your blood seeping through his gloves. His mind was screaming, a cacophony of rage, grief, and self-recrimination, but none of it mattered—not when you were here, small and shaking in his arms.

And then, in a voice so quiet, so broken it shattered something inside him, you whispered:

"Where were you?"

Sylus stilled.

"Why weren’t you here?"

The words weren’t an accusation. That would’ve been easier. No, they were worse. They were raw. A desperate, wounded thing, frayed at the edges. And gods, he would’ve taken a blade to the heart over this—over the way your voice cracked, over the way you curled into yourself, as if trying to make sense of the void he had left behind.

"I—" The word caught in his throat. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would be enough. He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening as though he could somehow hold you together when you’d already been torn apart.

"I’m sorry." The words rasped from him, raw and guttural. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. "I’m so fucking sorry."

You swallowed thickly, the barest shudder rocking your frame. "I was waiting," you whispered. "I waited. But you never came."

Sylus squeezed his eyes shut. He had known—known—the moment he saw the candles in his study, the untouched wine, the careful arrangement of gifts, that you had been waiting. That you had planned this night, had prepared for him. And he had never told you he wouldn't be there.

And now you were bleeding in his arms.

"I should’ve told you," he murmured, his voice cracking. "I should’ve—fuck—I was too far up my own head. I was wrong. I was so goddamn wrong."

Your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his coat. He could feel the way you were holding yourself together, could hear the pain in your ragged breathing, and yet—

"Is Lina okay?"

A sharp exhale hissed past Sylus’ teeth, his jaw tightening. Even now, even after everything, you were asking about someone else. Worrying about someone else. His fingers trembled as he brushed your hair back from your face.

"You should be worried about yourself," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost chiding. "Lina’s fine. She’ll be fine. But you—" His throat tightened. "You’re the one who needs help right now, sweetheart."

Your breath hitched, and he felt you sag against him, whether from exhaustion or relief, he couldn’t tell.

"I saw the study, with the candles and the presents" he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I saw the kitchen with the food."

His fingers brushed against your cheek, reverent, as if touching something fragile, something he didn’t deserve.

“You were waiting for me.”

A small, broken nod.

“I should have been here…” he whispered.

A sharp inhale from you, barely audible. “The food is ruined…”

"I know. But you did what you had to, sweetheart. You were brave," he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. "So damn brave." His hands curled against your back, his grip steady, anchoring. "But you never should’ve had to be."

His voice shook then, something fractured bleeding through. "I should’ve been here. I should’ve been protecting you. I should’ve been celebrating with you, not—" He swallowed hard, his breath shuddering.

Not finding you like this. Not watching you bleed.

He tilted his head forward, burying his face against your hair, his breath unsteady.

“I failed you.” The words tasted like rust on his tongue. “I should have been here. I should have been protecting you instead of being away. I should have been celebrating our time, our love with you, not—” His jaw clenched, his grip tightening. “Not finding you like this.”

Another shudder passed through your frame. Then, slowly—hesitantly—you curled against him, your body giving out, trusting him to hold you up.

Sylus did.

He held you like you were something sacred, something irreplaceable.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt his own confidence falter.

He had always been the one in control. The one who planned ahead, who anticipated every threat, every move. But now, kneeling here with you trembling in his arms, beaten and bleeding because he hadn’t been there—

He wasn’t in control of a damn thing.

And he hated it.

But more than that—he hated that you had ever felt alone.

Never again.

Sylus gritted his teeth as he slid his arms beneath you, carefully lifting you against his chest. The moment your body shifted, a sharp, barely-there whimper escaped you, and his stomach twisted violently. His hold tightened instinctively, as if he could somehow absorb the pain for you.

“I know, sweetheart,” he rasped. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

Your breath was shallow against his neck, but you didn’t resist when he pulled you closer, cradling you against him as he rose to his feet. You were too weak to fight it. Too hurt. And that realization cut through him worse than any blade ever could.

He had let this happen.

Not again.

Never again.

“You need medical attention,” he said, his voice low and firm, more for himself than for you. “And I need to get you somewhere safe.”

His mind was already burning through possibilities. Where to take you. Who to trust. The fastest route, the safest location, the cleanest supplies. But beneath the cold, calculated thoughts was something else—something raw and unbearable, curling tight around his chest like barbed wire.

“You’re too damn patient with me,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I’m a fool. A goddamn fool, and I don’t deserve it.”

Your fingers curled again weakly against the fabric of his coat. He nearly stopped breathing. Even now, after everything, you still reached for him.

His throat ached.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “Until my last fucking breath.” His heart slammed against his ribs, his mind spiraling with everything he hadn’t said, everything he hadn’t done. Every moment he should have been here, instead of lost in his own head, buried in responsibilities that suddenly felt insignificant compared to the weight of you in his arms.

“I love you,” he admitted, the words slipping free before he could stop them. “Too much to lose you. Do you understand?” His grip on you firmed, as if anchoring himself to the reality of having you here. “You are the only light in the perpetual darkness of N109. The only light in my life.”

He exhaled sharply, steadying himself, steadying you.

“And I will never lose that.”

His grip on you was secure as he carried you forward, out of the wreckage, away from the blood and broken glass

“You found me…” you whispered, barely more than a breath.

His arms tightened around you. “I’ll always find you.”

You shifted slightly in his arms, your voice weak but steady as you met his gaze, eyes glistening with the faintest hint of something like trust.

“I know you’ll make it right,” you whispered, your fingers brushing his cheek, a soft touch amidst the chaos. "You always do."

Sylus paused, his breath catching at the warmth of your words, a flicker of relief sparking through the storm of guilt that had clouded his chest. “Sweetheart, I never want it to get to this point, ever again and I never will let it come to that.”

"I don't need you to be perfect," you murmured, your eyes meeting his for a moment, steady despite the pain. "I just need you to stay."

Sylus' heart twisted, and he swallowed thickly, the weight of those words pressing down on him. He had never been the kind of man to believe in redemption—not for someone like him. But in that moment, he could almost taste it. The possibility.

He leaned his forehead against yours once more, his breath shaky but filled with something that burned a little less than guilt.

"I’ll stay, sweetheart," he vowed softly. "I’ll stay. And I’ll fight for us... for as long as you’ll have me."

The future between the two of you, uncertain as it was, seemed a little less dark. There were wounds to heal, scars to mend—but there was also time. Time that, for the first time in a long while, didn’t feel like it was running out.

Maybe, just maybe, there was something worth fighting for after all.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom @lucifers-silhouette @sunsethw4 @kthehoeforfictionalmen @mentaltrouble2201 @seris-the-amious @cheezeandkrackers

[craftybreadmaker]

Smiths confronting John Wick

Adding to Headcanon : The Smiths were definitely couple friends with John and Helen Wick (true identities kept secret of course) and when John is getting hunted they go after him but don’t really intend to try and kill him, like many of his other buddies.

(Still unable to draw digitally so going back to traditional artwork💀)

[craftybreadmaker]

heya birdies! i just did this one bc i love derek a lot. i hope y'all enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it! sorry if it's a bit trash, it's taken me ages to write and most of it was written at 3am one morning many moons ago lol (': - mae

*just a warning that there is a quick mentioning of being caught having sex by the pack! but no detail at all!*

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Dating Derek Hale Hc's:

° okay, right off the bat, this man is soooo protective of you. he's never gonna let anything hurt you (or at least he's gonna try to ensure that).

° heart eyes mother fucker! derek has this look in his eyes that he only reserves for you and everyone (cough cough! stiles!) always brings it up but Derek genuinely just denies it point blank every single freaking time. (his eyes have this soft warmth to them whenever they gaze at you. it's super sweet.)

° you're certainly one of the people that he's playful with and the pack really enjoy seeing this side of derek more often. you help him feel less alone and teach him how to love more deeply. you're also much healthier for him than his other past relationships - *i'm looking at you kate and jennifer!*

° he'd literally do anything for you oml. derek's always doing whatever he can to help you out, although sometimes he may be slightly awkward if you're vulnerable and there are a lot of feelings on the table. over time he really gets better at feeling comfortable with vulnerability when it comes to you and others. anger isn't his main emotion any more, because there isn't as much pressure riding on his shoulders from being an alpha.

° whenever there's trouble afoot, derek wants to get you on the next plane out of beacon hills. he's not hot on the idea of you fighting against anything - even if you're supernatural or can defend yourself -. however, if you're dead set on it, he can't force you onto the plane...

° this then leads to derek understanding that he can trust you to not only handle your own corner, but you've also got his back. it's both anxiety inducing and a relief.

° so expect an overprotective derek to tag along with you. He's shielding you every chance he gets, especially if it has anything to do with explosions, cars, etc. derek doesn't fuck around.

° honestly, you end up saving him more often than not bc he's reckless™. but who's keeping score right? haha everyone!

° y'all tease each other all the time and flirt, the pack are kinda grossed out.

° "okay, who switched out Sour Wolf for the Love Puppy?" stiles snapped, pointing at derek.

° "you've got two seconds to take that back or i'm ripping your throat out with my teeth." derek snarled.

° "easy tiger! there will be no ripping of any teenage throats!" you smarted, getting in between the pair.

° "are you seriously taking his side on this?" derek grumbled down at you, disgruntled and quite frankly, offended.

° honestly, derek loves being affectionate with you - at least secretly that is -. altho it took some time to warm up to the idea and for him to get to know you. warmth and closeness doesn't come naturally to derek. it takes a long time for him to be comfortable around you, but tbh the time it took really paid off because now you've got this man absolutely wrapped around your finger.

° you never seemed to ever give up on derek - even when he was a terrible alpha and did things he wasn't proud of due to his survivors guilt, being afraid and stressed out, etc. he doesn't excuse his behaviour, but he's glad you were one of the people that remained true to themselves and supported him; even if it was just from a distance.

° cora absolutely loves you!

° "well, at least you're not a psycho, so i'll give you that."

° "break my brothers heart and i'll break your face-"

° "cora!"

° "what?! a little sister can't get protective of her big brother?"

° i mean, even peter thinks you're a great suit for derek, but he's not gonna go around saying it. any time derek or you mention it, he profusely denies the fact he's got a slight soft spot for you.

° you've adopted the hale eye roll lmaoo.

° cuddles galore! derek is a huge softie, but mainly behind closed doors. he's got this "image" to uphold in public lmaoo pls he's a softie, we all know it! chdhsvsgdhdvd

° man's treats you like royalty, like you go on the cutest and most fun dates filled with loads of adventures.

° "who knew you had a fun side!"

° "I'm gonna pretend like you didn't just imply that you believed stilinski's false description of me."

° "well, its not entirely false."

° "next time you're up to bowl, i'm making sure your ball goes into the gutter."

° "sore loser..."

° derek highkey shows off all the time lol he's so perfect wtf? and he knows he's doing it too!

° "okay, people are dying, yn! can you please stop looking at your boyfriend's ass for two seconds? okay, we get it! you can bounce a quarter off of it and it'll slit your throat! But people are dying here! less ass watching and more looking at this map!" stiles barked animatedly into the air, distress and irritation evident upon his countenance.

° "okay stiles... i think they get it. let go of the map before you rip it into little pieces." scott muttered, prying the frail looking paper from his best friend's death grip.

° "you said what about a quarter bouncing off my what?" derek asked, finally coming into the scene from a quick scout around the abandoned warehouse.

° "you have a perky ass! they talk about it all the time." trusty malia let loose rather comically.

° and you know fine well derek doesn't let you live that shit down. he uses it against you whenever he can. Thanks a lot stilinski and malia!

° lydia looooves you and so do malia and kira! they definitely steal you away from derek to have some fun times with you!

° liam tends to follow you around a lot bc you put stiles in his place a lot and it is his greatest form of entertainment. stiles genuinely gets this one deadpan look from you and he backs off. liam dubs this as your party trick, but it freaks stiles out bc "oooooh look who's trying to be scary all of a sudden~"

° "what did you just say about me?!"

° "nothing!"

° dude you gotta listen to derek and stiles bitch about each other and you're literally that fucking ben affleck meme of him smoking a cigarette and rolling his eyes bc pls stfu already!

° obviously scott likes you a lot because you even derek out and bring a much more playful derek out. he's just happy there's a little less sour wolf and more happy wolf!

° isaac really adored you before he went off the france. sometimes he was like a little duckling just following you until derek started swatting at him.

° "you're gonna give them brain damage, get lost!"

° "the brain damage is from you- ow!"

° lmaoo he got a rubber spatula catapulted off of his forehead.

° you're seriously one of the best things to ever happened to him. you make derek so happy oml!

° dude the amount of times y'all get caught making out and having sex in the loft is unreal. the pack need therapy twice a week. they've just stopped randomly barging into the loft now lmaoo

° you've kinda become the second pack "mom" besides stiles. you're not as overbearing as him, and since you're not a teenager, you're like derek, often giving wise advice.

° isaac literally flocks after you and not in like a weird or crush type of way. you bring out a better side to derek that he enjoys, meaning he can get away with being more cheeky with him lol

° "okay, i like them because you're less of a heartless asshole, which puts less stress on the pack."

° "maybe you should've bitten them and let them become the alpha. yn would've been better a better alpha than you."

° "that would've required me to have died, you dimwit!"

° "i'm just saying that it could've been a great possibility...."

° we stan a savage isaac lahey in this household! lmaoo you can't deny you didn't lie when he hid behind you when derek gave him that look.

° "make him stop having murderous thoughts about me." isaac murmured in your ear.

° "maybe you shouldn't have said that whole better off dead thing." you mumbled back, still looking at derek.

° "you know i can hear you both right? i'm still in the room."

° you really admire derek. he's come a long way since the beginning, which is lovely to see. he went from an angry loner that had raging survivors guilt to being a calmer, much more compassionate man and is apart of an odd pack.

° you annoy him by calling him master shifu from kung-fu panda whenever he gives advice to scott. deaton finds this very hilarious.

° you're highkey a smart ass that gets away with so much. derek's just raising his eyebrows at you and he's giving you this look of "you're gonna get it later" and you do (;

° whenever derek smiles you go all mushy for him lol

° cuddling with him in the winter is highkey the best bc he's like a radiator lol

° every halloween you join him in scaring the children when they turn up for candy. y'all are fucking mean and I support it bc some kids fucking deserve to shit their pants.

° y'all watch a show together okay? doesn't matter what it is but you can't watch it without the other. derek loses his shit and knows when you've skipped ahead without him bc he went to visit cora in south america. he takes this shit personally!

° "i was gone for a week! you couldn't have just waited for me to get back?!"

° "it's not that big of a deal! i can rewatch it with you!"

° "no! now there's no point! watching it together entails both of us, not just one! you've ruined it for the both of us, yn."

° "okay! you're being stilinski dramatic now-"

° "WHAT IF I DID THAT TO YOU?!"

° istg it's highkey funny. he does eventually forgive you after he gets revenge on your guys latest series obsession.

° "paybacks a bitch, isn't it?"

° you hype him up when he works out, kinda being a bit sexual.

° "you know this counts as sexual harassment right?"

° "you can call the cops all you want, but the only one getting arrested is you for being fiiiinne"

° "you're such a loser..." he'd laugh.

° spontaneous play fights. he let's you win after a little while, but he never fails to enjoy softly pinning you down.

° there was that one time you absolutely handed his ass in a play fight though and he never went easy on you again.

° derek is flirty asf so be prepared for that.

° he's also pretty romantic or can be that is. like it's not really in the traditional sense but he's more spontaneous and he can plan things out quite well. he can seriously do a lot of sweeping you off your feet if you're into that stuff.

° road trips galore mate! y'all are like, "peace out motherfuckers " to the pack in their time of need sometimes fhdhdhehe

° clowning each other.

° never start a prank war with derek... you learnt the hard way!

° anything that you wanna do is usually supported by derek bc he wants you to be happy, healthy and safe. you want a career in neuroscience? fucking do it dude! you wanna work 9-5 in the diner down the street bc it's your dream? do it! he supports you no matter what your goals are in any area of life.

° derek really allows himself to become vulnerable with you, he gets that this relationship won't always be sunshine and rainbows. he's loyal and willing to get through the uncomfortable stuff to work on you guys.

° ngl you're his end game <333 he will grow old with you and probably marry you too: if that's what you want ofc.

° dating derek entails a lot of banter and love: your relationship is very meaningful and you bring each other a lot of strength and joy.

° i ship it! <33333333

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

please like, reblog and follow for more!

requests: closed!

[craftybreadmaker]

blame it on the alcohol.

OR dean’s drunk— and makes it your problem!

my masterlist

「 pairing 」 : drunk ! dean x reader

「 word count 」 : 1.6 k

「 content / warnings 」 : fluffy fluff / comedy, alcoholic!dean, drunkness, NOT violent— purely just my thoughts of goofball drunk dean winchester off his rocker with reader hehe

‧˚₊⋅ ──── faith’s tell-all. welp i got drunk off my ass the other night and finished this draft that’s been rotting for actual months but i love the way it turned out. i hate to drop then dip immediately— but ‘if i wrote this then y’all need to see it’ has always been my policy around here (with finished works at least), and that includes regardless of my mental status. idc y’all are my ride or dies for life, no take backsies! that being said though, i still need to respond to everyone who reached out to me over the last month(ish)— which feels overwhelming rn, so i promise to do it at some point.

and for anyone that was wondering, things are pretty okay for now— but i still don’t plan on coming back back on here anytime soon. it’ll probably be more just me posting works here and there since i don’t really write like i used to + don’t really feel like i belong on here anymore yk? i’m sorry to let everyone down, but just know i appreciate and love every single freakin’ one of you that interacts with and (hopefully) enjoys my writing. it means the absolute world— it always has and always will. enjoy this one, miss you all dearly <3

( p. s. ) . . . this should be obvious, but: DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO READ ABOUT ALCOHOL OR DRUNKENESS !!!

𖤐 ────────────────────────

you were cozied up in bed at your motel room for the night, pretending to be reading a book on the lore of a specific hybrid of werewolf— god, don’t even ask. it was like pulling freakin’ teeth trying to get through a page, even the words. you were debating lighting the while thing on fire— and maybe sam, too, for suggesting that you decipher it.

but the sudden and loud-ass bang against the door had gotten your attention, and you instinctively snatched your gun off the nightstand, expecting the worst. fight or flight kicked in— and of course, fight reared it’s head immediately.

but there was no need, since the door swung open— and dean was attached to it, leaning on it as it hit the wall with a thud.

“stupid fuckin’—” he lifts himself off the handle, looking offended at the thing, like the door was the reason he almost fell face-first into the room and not himself.

then, he meets your gaze.

and the only way to describe it was like if the freakin’ sun just came out and hit dean’s face.

“hey!” dean bursts your name out, somehow kicking the door shut behind him— while smiling. like, full-blown, teeth and all. at you. and you know he’s never been that happy to see you in your life, ever.

it’s about now you realize he’s absolutely hammered beyond belief.

of course you knew that dean had his… issues with alcohol— and everything he’d been through? shit. you probably would, too. but still, you never pushed him to talk to you about it. not like sam does— yeah, no, that wasn’t your place. you were a good friend, sure, but still, you didn’t need a ‘okay, mom’ from dean, or a cussing out. so you weren’t about to try and force him to tell you anything. that was a line you refused to cross.

“hi,” you give your own smile back— because come on. your eyes clock how dean was swaying on his feet, so you slide off of your bed, meeting him halfway and grasping his shoulder gently— because you knew if you didn’t take action right now, he’d end up face-first right on the carpet. “you havin’ a good night?”

and dean’s glazed eyes seemed to sharpen for a moment as he took in your presence— now he could smell you, foo. his lips curved into a lopsided, drunken grin as he attempted (and failed) to focus on your face.

“jus’ livin’ the dream,” he quipped, trying to muster a cocky smirk— but the way he leaned right into you standing up told you otherwise.

“needed sum company. your room was t’closest, thank god— ‘n sam’s bein’ mean.” dean explained, almost pouted at that last part, his words being pretty much incoherent. dean somehow got an arm around your shoulders, the other waving floppily at the door— most likely, at sam.

of course you’ve seen dean drunk before, but he’s never sought you out while completely wasted like this. not that you were complaining or anything like that— it was just new.

you were trying not to think about what that meant.

you now realize that you can’t exactly sustain holding dean up like this, with just your own body weight— so your arm wraps fully snug around his shoulders and your free hand presses onto his chest, holding him upright.

“i see,” you guide dean in your grasp towards the edge of your bed. “well, come and sit down before we both end up face-planting, huh?”

surprisingly, as you guided him toward the bed, dean stumbled along more willingly than you’d expected him to, even as his movements were jerky and completely uncoordinated. he flopped right onto the edge of the bed, head lolling momentarily as he fought to focus on you, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

then, as if that wasn’t enough shock factor, dean reached out, his hand clumsily searching for something to hold onto— his fingers found your hand and wrapped around it a smidge too tight, as if to ensure you wouldn't leave.

a beat passes, then—

“yer my favorite, y’know that?”

damn.

maybe you needed to sit down, too.

so you do.

“your favorite, huh?” you inquire softly, sitting next to dean. you never took him to really be sentimental drunk, but hey. at least he wasn’t upchucking. a smile tugs on your lips, too. “like, ever? or just right now?”

you’d think you’d asked for the equilibrium constant of freaking iron, the way dean huffed and actually thought about it, hard.

a beat, and then, he nodded, confirming.

“yeah, ever. well, ‘cept sammy... or m’baby.” he said slowly, trying to form the words through his inebriated brain, looking back to you. “but yeah. ever.”

while listening, you glance over at the clock as you’re sitting on the edge of the bed— well, you’re sitting. dean’s now just kinda… more slumped against you than anything.

but you didn’t mind it.

“well either way, i’m honored,” you lean a little into dean playfully, but your voice is still quiet. “and you know somethin’? you’re my favorite, too.”

oh, damn.

if dean was sober, he'd probably scoff and play it cool— find some sort of joke to spin off of it. but drunk dean was a different man. instead, he squints at your face, cheeks flushed for a different reason, his expression… hopeful.

“really?” he slurred, looking unconvinced and squeezing your hand like it would help. it did. “not sammy or baby?”

“i like you both,” you clarify with a soft laugh, voice still quiet, eyebrows scrunching together as you remind him: “and baby’s your girl, dean.”

“true,” that got a chuckle out of dean, “baby’s m’girl, and you…”

dean paused, his mind taking a moment to process the thought. and people say that drunk people had no filter. he lifted his head slightly, his gaze attempting to focus on your face.

“y’somethin’ else.”

dean finally said, his words barely above a whisper. his fingers fidgeted a little with yours, lightly tracing patterns against your skin.

damn damn.

even drunk, dean sure was vague when he wanted to be. his tone was genuine as ever, though— so that made you feel a little better.

“‘somethin’ else’, huh?” is what you respond with to dean as you smile again, eyes flicking between his. “well, thank you— i think.”

dean manages a lopsided smile back. he’s uncharacteristically quiet now, a stark contrast to earlier.

“mean it. you’re special,” he murmurs after a moment, his voice dripping with sincerity.

now how the hell were you supposed to respond to that.

you weren’t used to compliments— in general, but from dean? that was essentially nonexistent. it was like he made a point not to compliment you sometimes— and now this? it wasn’t just a random compliment.

he called you special.

so you just kinda… stare at dean for a second, your cheeks heating up a little as you look down at your entwined hands, trying to ignore the warmth in your chest before you get the courage to look up at him again. 

dean, however, doesn’t seem to notice the way you reacted— if he did, he didn’t point it out. his fingers continued tracing small patterns on your hand, almost absentmindedly. the gesture, despite the alcohol swimming through his body, was still somewhat… deliberate.

gentle. 

“thanks, de.” you managed to get out, glancing back down at your hand in his.

dean’s somewhat half-lidded gaze follows your glance down to where his fingers are tracing patterns on your hand, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he lifts his gaze to meet yours again.

“love when you call m’that,” he murmurs, a soft, albeit, drunken honesty to his voice. “feel s’like a hug.”

you knew that sober (and definitely hungover) dean would be absolutely losing it if he could hear himself, but you don’t dare call him out on it.

you gape at dean again for a second, your chest doing that thing, more intensely now as your cheeks flush a little harder.

the chest thing usually happened daily, hourly around dean: whenever he said your name, wiggled his brows at you from the rearview window of baby, or got right into your personal space— but it felt so much more with his words.

and it didn’t help that you were holding hands.

“i’ll try and say it more often, then,” you affirm to dean with a nod, giving his hand a little squeeze.

“good,” dean nods back, like he was in a haze— but he couldn’t tell if it was from you or the alcohol. “i’ll hold y’to that.”

oh, yeah. you knew he would.

even drunk, that might be the only thing he remembers— but you’d take it.

it was bittersweet. knowing that this dean seemed to have all the troubles off of his mind, the burdens off of his back for once in his goddamn life— but you knew the reality. the one deep down, the monster under the bed:

the fact that dean needed alcohol to do so.

and a lot of it.

maybe someday, you’d talk to him about it in that way you always did, like a deep conversation, but not really; one that left him all light and drunk on something very much you instead of a brewski— and maybe he’d even listen. 

but you knew tonight wouldn’t be the night.

tomorrow wouldn’t be the day.

so you’d let him have tonight.

you’d let him have you. 

if he wanted.

──────────────────────── 𖤐

🏷️ : @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlejackles @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @honeyyxxbee @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @missus-ackles + if i missed anyone or you want to be added / taken off, please let me know <3

[craftybreadmaker]

I'm normal about Sterek and I can stop whenever I want.

[craftybreadmaker]

Thinking about Jason Todd finding out you have a crush on him…

It would make Jason’s day. Honestly that man would be giddy about it, though he’d never outwardly show it. He’d sit around and smile to himself, thinking about all the times you’ve been flustered when he’s near, all the times he caught you looking his way. It would make him more confident, which would in turn make him insufferable.

At least in the sense that he would tease the living hell out of you. Obviously he won’t let on that he knows you have a crush on him. He’d play you like a fiddle, trying to get you to confess.

He’d start small, brushing a hand over your lower back when moving past you. An innocent set of touches that could be excused by the cramped space of the kitchen or wherever it happened.

He’d lean down and whisper in your ear in crowded spaces, brush strands of hair back from your face so he can “get a good look at you.”

And with each little thing, he would watch you grow more bashful, more confused and muddled. He would watch you fan yourself from the corner of his eye as he walked away, and after a few weeks of it, it was Jason who was desperate.

He’d wanted you to tell him how you felt, dammit, he was flirting so hard that he hoped you might just kiss him on the spot, but he underestimated your self control.

He doesn’t know exactly when you caught on to what he was doing, but the day you did was his downfall. Because that was the day you started teasing him back. It didn’t happen like he thought it would, you didn’t give in and admit how you felt. Instead you turned the tables, made it war.

Payback was bitch, Jason now realised, after the second time you brushed up against him in a very important meeting. Or when you leaned over him, while he was having breakfast the previous day, supposedly to grab some salt. You’d placed a hand on his shoulder, the other reaching across for the salt shaker, your neck so close to his mouth that he damn near kissed it.

Surprisingly enough, the final straw was late one night when Jason was headed to bed. You’d stopped him in the hallway feinting to bid him goodnight, before you frowned at him, an innocent kind of expression.

“You’ve got something in your hair.” It sounds like you are telling the truth, but deep down Jason knows this is another play. At this point, he’s so down bad, he doesn’t care.

“Oh yeah?” He runs a hand over his head, in an attempt to wipe the nonexistent thing away, and you just smile at him, something that makes his cheeks heat.

“Here, let me get it.” You step forward, and tilt his head toward you. He’s so tall, you have to stand on your toes to look through his hair, for the absolute nothing that’s there. You pretend to pluck something out, and Jason thinks your tricks are over until you run your fingers over his scalp, and despite the tough guy reputation he’s built for himself, he practically purrs.

And just like that, you’ve won. You’ve got him like putty in your hands, and you laugh. Just a quiet chuckle, but it’s there nonetheless. Something that makes Jason just a little bit feral.

“How long are we gonna keep doing this?” His eyes fall down to lock on yours as you pause your actions, raising an eyebrow.

“Doing what?” You’re playing dumb, making him do all the hard work. He respects it though, considering he started all this, he may as well be the one to finish it.

He brings his hands to your hips, his touch warm even through the fabric over your skin. “This.” He puts emphasis on the word and punctuates it by squeezing your hips. To his delight, it’s you that’s purring now, allowing yourself to find pleasure in his touch.

“As long as it takes.” You answer finally, running your hands through his hair again, your nails trailing gently over the nape of his neck when you’re done.

“As long as it takes until what, exactly?” His voice has lowered, somewhere between a growl and a whisper. And you finally give him the answer he wants. The one he’s been craving since he found out how you felt.

“Until you fucking kiss me, Todd.” You would roll your eyes, but you’re so infatuated with him, with the way his streak of white hair falls effortlessly into his eyes, with the way his gaze is locked on you. And then he does it. He kisses you, after months of tests and teasing. After years of your pining for him.

And it sure is sweet.

-

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!! Please tell me your thoughts darlings!!!

JASON TODD TAGLIST: @princessbl0ss0m @unofficial-jaytodd-wife @eternltys

[craftybreadmaker]

I know it’s not the be-all and end-all, or maybe even the most accurate, but what do you think the Teen Wolf characters love languages are? Both giving and receiving?

I was supposed to be working on the second chapter of my fic, but I just read this, and now my brain is CHURNING and I cannot do anything else until I write down my ideas for this. So uh, here we go.

Also, the things I write down here may or may not be the 'official' love languages, but I don't care. I'm just yapping.

Stiles Stilinski - Gift Giving

This is literally evidenced in the show. That giant ass box that he brought to Lydia's birthday party, the fact that he literally bought her a bunch of different birthday gifts because he couldn't decide on which one would be the best one. He is a gift giving king.

Now, you could interpret this as something that he just did for Lydia because he knows that she's a bit more of a materialistic person and he wants to impress her, but I don't think that's the case, because I genuinely believe that he has difficulty expressing himself through words - like, he's awkward, he stumbles with his words, he gets nervous and doesn't know what to say. So he does a lot better when he has time to think about what kind of gift to give a person and can express himself that way.

He is the type of person to bring you a coffee and a pastry every single morning because he much prefers to show his affection through those kind of gestures (though that might be considered 'acts of service' and not gift giving, but idk) - either way, even if he doesn't always have the money to buy you expensive gifts, he is constantly giving you things because he likes to quantify his love through physical objects.

He is also the type of guy to make DYI gifts constantly. He makes you friendship bracelets, a scrapbook of your relationship, a decorated frame with a picture of the two of you in it. He doesn't always have a lot of money to spend, but he has time to look up a bunch of tutorials to make crafts - and while sometimes he is embarrassed to present his crafts, you always love them. So he keeps making them.

In terms of how he likes to receive love - quality time. He needs your presence around, he loves spending time with his partner. To him, there is nothing like quality time with someone, no matter what the two of you are doing.

Isaac Lahey - Physical Touch

I have said it before, through and through, this man is a fucking dog. He is a puppy, he is the most animal of all of them. So his animal instincts are always at play - and one of those instincts are to possess, to claim his territory. Even if it's completely subconscious. So he needs to be touching his partner all the time, even if it is in some small way - a hand on the back of your neck, holding hands, an arm around your shoulders, you being pressed into his side.

He can't get enough of your touch.

And even though he hates appearing clingy, unconsciously he loves you smelling like him, and he loves your warmth, so he can't stop himself from grabbing your hand or wrapping his body around you when he's in the same room as you. It's just instinct to him.

In terms of how he likes receiving love? He loves praise (or - would that be words of affirmation?) but he's always too embarrassed to ask for it. Because of the way that he grew up, he's had so few kind words spoken to him or about him, and whenever you naturally compliment him, it genuinely makes his brain short-circuit, and he thrives off it. So you either figure out on your own that he needs more kind, affirming words, or eventually, he learns to ask for it more - but he genuinely does thrive off of praise and kind words because you are one of the only people in life who has ever given it to him.

Derek Hale - Quality Time

I think it would be a tie between this and Physical Touch, because I think he would also really enjoy cuddling and scenting you, but I think he's also a person where some days he does not want to be touched at all, even by his partner, (like if he's having a bad day and he's in a bad mood) but even on those days, he doesn't want to be separated from you. He wants to be around you all the time.

And I feel like part of it would be due to paranoia - so much bad stuff has happened in his life, and he feels like if he's not constantly watching over you, the minute you are out of his sight, then you are going to die or be murdered. And obviously he has a healthy respect for your personal space, but he vastly prefers when the two of you are just existing in the same space, even if you're just each doing your own thing and you don't have to talk to each other, he loves having your presence there.

A few more quickfire ones with less explanation:

Scott McCall - Physical Touch - he's very affectionate, and again, loves it when you smell like him.

Lydia Martin - Gift Giving - she loves shopping and loves it when she finds something that is just so you, and loves seeing the look on your face when she can give you something that she thinks is so perfect for you.

Allison Argent - Word of Affirmation - she loves praising you and telling you how much she loves you, and hearing it in return, especially because she comes from a household that has so many secrets and is so uptight, she loves beautiful and open communication in your relationship.

Erica Reyes - Acts of Service - she's not so good with words, but she will beat someone up for you or bring you (stolen) flowers to show her love.

Vernon Boyd - Quality Time - he has spent most of his life being lonely, especially after his sister went missing, so spending time with you means everything to him.

Jackson Whittemore - Gift Giving - due to the way he was raised, money has always been the way he was shown affection and it's the only way he knows how to show affection, but he is very precise in how he picks out gifts, so you know it's always sincere and thoughtful coming from him (as thoughtful as he is capable of being).

[craftybreadmaker]

I need a good derek hale x reader fanfic 😭

yall im in the trenches out here. like don’t get me wrong i love me some good Sterek fics, but please let a girl be delusional and think that Derek is in love with me. So please help a girly out 😔 (me on my knees begging)

[craftybreadmaker]

Inferno :: abandon all hope, ye who enter here

[craftybreadmaker]

at least you kissed the brick before you threw it at my face 😭 

Bloody dean kissing Cas leaking out grace save me, save me bloody dean kissing Cas leaking out grace

(Timelapse under the cut)

Evenfall by @macy2me

[craftybreadmaker]

the uptight and serious squad captain Luo Qiuheng dunking on everyone in a game of cheat will never not be funny

[craftybreadmaker]

[craftybreadmaker]

recently binged Miss S (2020), the cdrama adaptation of Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries and I loved it sm????? the plot throughline is the uhh, murders (actually very riveting) but the ship?? was very slow burn and simmering but also very very hot ?? su wenli is one of my favourite FLs I've seen in a long time.

soo the ship dynamic is the very Serious police captain ML who doesn't even believe it himself when he tells the FL to get out of his unit's crime scene, and the FL who is like oh but what if we flirted a little bit in front of this dead body, and then later at the morgue , and then come back to the crime scene at night for a date :^)

also there is a long suffering coroner who has to watch the fl and ml flirt in front of his salad homicide victims, a hot doctor, a ragtag crew of found family ... how do i rec this to people in 2025?!

[craftybreadmaker]

fate | rafayel

synopsis : Who are we to stand in the line of fate?

content : rafayel x non-mc!reader, cannon/non-cannon, Shaiya is an OC, angst

(Very very inspired by this here.)

To you, he was the star, the moon, and the sky—the entire universe strung together in the shape of a boy who laughed too brightly and looked too beautiful in the sunlight.

To him?

You were background noise. A quiet, fleeting presence. Someone he could blink away and never miss.

You stare at Rafayel now, his smile too wide, his hands squishing his own cheeks as he pouts at Shaiya in that annoyingly endearing way of his.

He’s rambling—something about the lack of dessert in the break room or the injustice of early morning patrols—but his voice has faded into white noise.

You’ve been somewhere else for the past five minutes.

Somewhere darker, quieter, lonelier.

Somewhere where your heart isn’t being wrung out like this.

You ignore the way it hurts.

Ignore the way his laugh, meant for someone else, sits like broken glass in your ribs.

He once told you, voice soft and almost reverent, the story of how he gave Shaiya his scale in another life.

My heart belongs to hers eternally, he’d said.

You only nodded. What else could you do?

The other option was crying until your chest cracked open and all your feelings poured out in ruin.

You glance at Shaiya.

She’s everything you’re not—effortlessly charming, golden and kind, with a laugh that people lean toward and a presence that feels like sunlight after winter.

She’s the first person who ever looked at you at the Hunter’s Association and didn’t look away.

She reached out, befriended you, made space for you in a world that never did.

That’s how you met Rafayel.

And now here you are—watching him fall in love with the person who led him to you.

How poetic.

How cruel.

You push yourself off the table, fingers curling against the edge as the nausea rises in your throat like a tide you can’t hold back.

“Alright, guys. I’m off,” you say, forcing your voice to sound normal—light, detached, as if you weren’t quietly bleeding beneath the skin.

Shaiya turns to you immediately, concern softening her features. “Wait, already? You sure you’re okay—?”

But him?

He doesn’t even look up.

Just lifts a hand in a lazy, distracted wave, eyes still locked on her like she hung the constellations he dreams under.

That’s what undoes you.

Not the pain—the indifference.

You offer them both a small smile, the kind you’ve mastered over time—the kind that hides everything and says nothing.

Then you walk away, not daring to look back.

If you did, you knew you’d shatter.

Once outside, the cold hits you like truth—sharp and biting. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, but it does nothing for the chill burrowed deep in your bones.

You feel stupid. So, so stupid.

What they have—it’s fate.

Already written, already woven into the threads of the world long before you even existed in it.

A love etched into lifetimes. A bond sealed by gods or stars or whatever cruel thing governs soulmates.

You knew that.

You always knew that.

So then why—

Why does your heart still break like this?

Why does it feel like you’re standing in the ruins of something that never even belonged to you?

Why does it hurt so much to love someone who was never yours to begin with?

You clench your jaw, breathe in the frost-laced air, and blink up at the sky, hoping the cold will numb more than just your fingers.

But it doesn’t.

It never does.

Because nothing numbs the kind of ache that lives inside your chest when you’re the leftover in someone else’s love story.

—•

You tap your finger against the desk absentmindedly, the rhythm uneven, fading in and out like a heartbeat too tired to keep pretending it’s whole.

Your mind drifts—

To the curve of his face in golden light, the way his smile tilts crooked when he’s teasing, how his hair falls into his eyes when he’s sketching, utterly focused and beautiful in a way that feels unreal.

And those eyes—striking, impossible, burning with colors that don’t belong in this world.

You used to think they saw you.

Really saw you.

Not just the way you lingered too long in his shadow or how you always laughed a little too late at his jokes.

But the quiet parts. The aching ones. The version of you that never quite fit anywhere.

But maybe that was just another illusion you spun for yourself—another thread you tugged loose in hopes it might unravel into something real.

You press your finger harder against the wood.

When did your heart become so traitorous?

When did longing become your default state?

You’re not foolish enough to believe you’re the first to fall in love with someone unreachable.

But it doesn’t make the ache any less specific.

Any less sharp.

You wonder what it would’ve felt like—

If he had looked at you the way he looks at her.

If fate had been kinder.

If you had met in a different life, one where his heart wasn’t already spoken for by memory and myth.

But you didn’t.

And here you are, loving him quietly, like a secret you’ll never speak out loud.

Like a prayer that never deserved to be answered.

You’re broken out of your trance when Shaiya slides onto your desk, her voice lilting and warm.

“What’s up with you?”

She’s smiling—always smiling—but there’s something softer tucked beneath it. Concern, maybe. Or pity.

You blink up at her, disoriented by how suddenly you’ve been pulled back into reality.

For a second, you forget how to hold your own expression together.

What do you even say to that?

I’m in love with someone who will never love me back, and it just so happens to be the person you’re bound to for eternity?

You don’t say anything.

You just look at her. Really look.

And for the first time, you realize how cruel the universe truly is.

Because it didn’t just give Rafayel someone to love.

It gave him her.

Bright, kind, magnetic Shaiya. The kind of person people gravitate toward without meaning to. The kind of person who lights up a room without even trying.

Even you weren’t immune. You liked her the moment you met her.

How could you not?

There isn’t a single flaw to cling to. Nothing to resent. Nothing to hate. She’s warm where you are quiet. Effortless where you are struggling. She talks to you like you matter. Makes space for you even when she doesn’t have to.

And somehow, that just makes everything hurt more.

You offer a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Just tired,” you say, voice barely above a murmur.

She doesn’t press. Just swings her legs lightly and chatters on about something—about Rafayel, probably. You’re not listening anymore.

Not really.

All you can think is that maybe the universe didn’t create her to laugh at you.

It created her to show you just how deeply you could never compare.

You punch down the ugly, snarling thing inside you—the one with claws made of envy and teeth that whisper you’ll never be enough.

It writhes in your chest anyway, bitter and relentless, but you school your features into something calmer, quieter, safer.

You turn to her, your voice casual, even light. “Don’t you have a mission today?”

Shaiya blinks, caught off guard for half a second before her usual brightness returns. “I do—later tonight. Some rogue activity in Sector Twelve. Nothing serious.”

Of course not. Nothing ever seems serious for her. She always makes it look easy—missions, friendships, love.

Even Rafayel.

Especially Rafayel.

She stretches her arms above her head and hums, “Figured I’d hang around until then. Besides, someone’s got to keep you company.”

You give her a short, noncommittal nod, forcing your lips into a half-smile you hope passes for polite.

She stays perched on your desk, legs swinging, babbling about field reports and malfunctioning tech, her words drifting around you like static.

And you let them. Because it’s easier than the silence. Easier than admitting that the monster inside you isn’t just jealousy—it’s grief.

Grief for a love that never had a beginning.

Grief for a story where you were never meant to be anything more than a footnote.

And still, you stay.

Because it’s better to be near him—near them—than to be alone with how empty you feel without him.

You found yourself at the shooting range, fingers trembling as you loaded the magazine, one round after another. The metallic clicks were sharp, final—like closing the door on every hope you didn’t have the courage to voice aloud.

You raised the pistol, lined your sight, and fired.

Each bullet was an echo of grief you never gave a voice to.

Bang. You’ll never be enough.

Bang. You’ll never compare.

Bang. He will never love you.

Bang. He won’t even look in your direction.

The sounds reverberated through the still air like accusations, like truths carved into the bones of the room. Your heart thudded violently against your ribs, not from the recoil—but from the crushing, bitter clarity of it all.

You reload, slow and methodical, the movement almost ritualistic now. One last round. One last truth.

You take aim.

Bang.

Who are you to stand in the line of fate?

The silence that follows is deafening. The smoke curls like regret in the air, wrapping around your wrists, your breath, your chest.

And you stand there, unmoving, with hands that remember his warmth and a heart that remembers how it felt to believe—if only for a moment—that maybe, maybe you were meant for something more than watching him love someone else.

But fate is cruel.

And you are just a girl with a gun in her hands and grief buried beneath her skin.

—•

“Have you seen Shaiya?” Rafayel asks as he strolls into your apartment like he owns the place—like you aren’t sitting on the floor trying to hold yourself together with fraying threads and shallow breaths.

You don’t look at him right away. Just tilt your head lazily over the couch, eyes heavy with exhaustion you can’t name. “She’s on a mission,” you murmur. “Sector 12.”

You wave him off, dismissive. Hoping he’ll get the hint and leave before you break.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he plops down beside your legs with that same careless grace he always has, as if he belongs here, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The warmth of him seeps into your space, your solitude, your silence. Uninvited. Unbothered.

“You okay?” he asks, voice softer now, dipping into something almost tender.

Your breath catches, barely, like his words had teeth. You stare straight ahead, not at him—never at him.

Because if you do, your mask might slip. And he might see everything he was never meant to.

You laugh under your breath, hollow and sharp. “Do I look okay to you?”

There’s a pause.

And still, you don’t look at him. You can’t. Because he’s here—he’s here—and all you want to do is scream Why now? Why only when she’s not?

Why not when it could have meant something?

You hug your knees tighter, pressing your cheek to the fabric of your sleeve, trying to keep yourself from unraveling.

“Rafayel,” you whisper, the syllables fragile in your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

And though you don’t say it out loud, the real question lingers in the air between you:

Why are you always here when it’s too late?

His eyes narrow, the usual spark of mischief dulled into something sharper, something dangerous.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, low and serious, like he’s ready to burn down the world for an answer.

You almost laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because he doesn’t see it—because the irony stings more than it soothes.

You, you want to say. You did this. Without even trying. Without even knowing.

But the words die in your throat, swallowed by pride, by fear, by the pathetic hope that maybe he’ll stay if you just keep pretending.

So you swallow the ache like you always do and shrug, smoothing the cracks in your voice until it almost sounds normal.

“It’s just a bad day,” you say, brushing him off with a weak smile. “Forget about it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to unravel a puzzle that’s missing too many pieces. And still, you keep smiling, keep pretending you’re whole.

Because if he knew—

If he really knew—

He might never come back.

And even if it hurts like hell, you’d rather have the ghost of him in your life than nothing at all.

Naturally. Because the universe doesn’t believe in mercy—only in timing that wounds with surgical precision.

One minute, you’re curled in on yourself, trying to disappear into the quiet, and the next, Rafayel is sweeping you off the floor like it’s instinct.

As if your heartbreak is his responsibility now, when it never was before.

“What are you doing?!” you burst out, hands gripping the front of his shirt, more startled than anything else.

He barely blinks.

“You’re going to sit,” he says, already nudging open your bedroom door with his foot, “and I’m going to take care of you until you tell me what’s wrong.”

He lays you down at the edge of your bed like you’re made of something breakable. His touch is gentle, absurdly so. As if he’s trying to patch up wounds he can’t even see.

Your lips tighten, your breath catching at the back of your throat.

You look at him, really look—and the pain in your chest coils tighter.

“Why now?” you whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it. Raw. Unshielded.

Rafayel freezes.

His brows pull together, confusion flickering across his face, like he’s hearing a language he was never taught. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice low, uncertain.

And gods, that’s the worst part.

That he doesn’t know.

That he truly doesn’t see what he’s done to you.

You look away, because it’s too much—his kindness, his nearness, his obliviousness.

Because in his world, you were never anything more than a friend with a quiet smile.

But in yours?

He was everything.

“It’s nothing, just…”

Your voice falters, cracking like thin ice under too much weight.

“Just leave me alone.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. You already feel too bare, too close to unraveling.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the shift in his expression—hesitation, confusion, something close to hurt.

And for a moment, it nearly breaks you.

He looks hurt.

He looks conflicted.

You almost laugh.

Because isn’t that just the punchline?

Why does he get to be wounded when you’re the one who’s been quietly carrying the torch, burning for him in silence?

When you’ve been holding the candle for someone who never even thought to look for the light?

Your hands curl into the bedsheets, nails digging into fabric to keep yourself grounded.

He has no idea what he’s done.

No idea what it’s like to stand this close to someone and feel a thousand miles away.

To watch him reach for someone else with the same hands you used to dream would hold you.

So you swallow the laugh. The scream. The truth.

Because what good would it do now?

“Please,” you whisper, barely audible. “Just go.”

And this time, you don’t look to see if he does.

You hear it—soft shuffling behind you, hesitant footsteps on the floorboard, the faint rustle of fabric. He hasn’t left.

You turn around, ready to say it again, sharper this time. “Raf—”

But the word barely leaves your lips before his face is right there, inches from yours.

So close you can see the way his lashes catch the light, the faint flush along his cheekbones, the way his lips part like he wants to speak but can’t.

And then—those eyes.

Those impossible eyes, glowing somewhere between dusk and dawn, blue and pink and something otherworldly in between, all of it filled with a concern so raw it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just looks at you. Like you’re not breaking. Like you’re not pushing him away with everything you have. Like you matter.

And you?

You go still.

Because what do you even say, when the person who’s been slowly undoing you without even realizing it is suddenly close enough to memorize the shape of your sadness?

Your throat tightens. Words vanish.

You’re left speechless, caught in the gravity of him, wondering what it means that he’s finally looking—but you’re not sure your heart can survive it.

“Wha—”

The sound barely scrapes past your lips before he cuts in, his voice low, careful, like he’s walking across something delicate.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” he says. “Shaiya told me you’ve been staring off into the distance at work. Not answering when people call your name.”

You blink.

The words hit like a pebble tossed into still water—small, but enough to send everything rippling.

Shaiya told him?

He asked?

You stare at him, stunned.

For a second, the ache in your chest forgets how to twist. Your mind struggles to wrap itself around the fact that, somewhere in his orbit, your name had drifted into conversation. That he noticed.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You hadn’t prepared for this—for him to see through you, even just a little.

“I…” you try, voice softer, unsteady. “You asked about me?”

His brows furrow slightly, like the answer should be obvious. “Of course I did.”

And just like that, your world tilts—just enough to make you wonder what it would’ve been like if he’d looked at you like this before you broke.

You couldn’t breathe.

The walls felt too close, the air too thick, and his gaze—so full of something you’d wanted for far too long—was suffocating.

You needed to get out.

Your chest tightened, pulse racing as the weight of everything—his nearness, his concern, the unbearable hope clawing its way back into your throat—crashed over you all at once.

“I— I need some air,” you muttered, already rising to your feet, heart in your throat, limbs moving before your mind could catch up.

You didn’t wait for him to respond.

You couldn’t. You just needed to move. To run. To escape before whatever held you together came undone.

Because if you stayed a second longer, you might’ve said it.

You might’ve said I love you.

And that was a truth you couldn’t afford to let slip—not when he was still in love with someone else.

Rafayel stared at the space you left behind, still warm with your presence, still echoing with the sound of your retreating footsteps.

His fists clenched slowly at his sides, jaw tightening as something sharp and unfamiliar twisted in his chest.

You were slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know why.

He replayed every word, every look, every tremble in your voice—and it hit him, sudden and brutal, like the tail-end of a wave he didn’t see coming.

There was something wrong.

And he’d seen it too late.

The air felt heavier without you in the room, the silence deafening.

And for the first time, Rafayel didn’t know what to say, or how to fix it, or why it hurt this much to watch you walk away.

His fingers flexed.

Because if someone had hurt you, he’d burn the world down.

—•

Your phone rang the next morning, cutting through the hush of waves and the distant cry of gulls. The sharp vibration against your thigh jolted you awake.

You blinked against the early light, skin damp with ocean mist, mouth dry with sleep and silence. It took a moment to realize where you were.

The beach.

You’d fallen asleep in the sand, curled in on yourself like the tide might take you if you let it.

Your jacket was pulled tight around you, half-covered in grains of salt and moonlight. The ache in your bones reminded you of last night—the panic, the closeness, the way Rafayel had looked at you like he finally saw you.

The phone kept ringing.

You fumbled for it, thumb swiping across the screen with sleep-clumsy hands, heart already sinking at the name that might be waiting.

Part of you hoped it was him.

Part of you hated that you hoped.

Because even now—with your cheeks kissed by cold wind and your heart cracked from trying to outrun the truth—he was still there. Still in your thoughts.

Still in the space where love had no business surviving.

“Where are you?”

Shaiya’s voice bursts through the speaker, sharp with worry, echoing in the quiet morning air. It makes you flinch, like guilt has teeth and just sank into your shoulder.

“I—” you begin, but your voice barely holds shape.

Then his voice cuts through hers—low, urgent, too close.

“Y/N? Where are you?”

Rafayel.

Rafayel.

“I’ll come get you right now.”

You go still, the phone pressed against your ear like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. The sea murmurs behind you, waves brushing the shore like it’s breathing beside you.

Your heart pounds, wild and disoriented.

“Is that the sea?” he asks, sharp, and then—

“I’m coming. Stay where you are.”

The line goes dead.

You sit there in stunned silence, the phone still pressed to your ear long after the call ends. The wind brushes your cheeks, and for a moment you wonder if you imagined the entire thing.

Because… why now?

Why did he sound like you mattered? Why did his voice shake like that?

Why did he suddenly care—when you’d already convinced yourself he never did?

You sit there, still dazed, the phone limp in your hand, the sea brushing gently against the shore like it’s trying to comfort you.

And then—

You hear it.

Your name. Carried over the wind, frantic and raw.

“Y/N!”

You turn slowly, like your body’s moving through water, and there he is—Rafayel—running toward you across the sand, hair windswept, eyes wide, breathing like he’d sprinted across the whole city to get here.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate.

He drops to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your frame in a crushing embrace, pulling you into him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Oh god,” he breathes against your shoulder, voice trembling. “You’re okay.”

And for one fleeting, trembling moment—you feel it.

Hope.

Soft and shimmering in your chest like seafoam, fragile and glistening. You close your eyes and let yourself believe—just for a heartbeat—that maybe he came for you.

Maybe he chose you.

But fate has never been kind.

“Do you know how Shaiya felt after she found out you were missing?” he says, pulling back slightly, his hands still on your arms.

And just like that—

the moment shatters.

His words echo, cruel and sharp, ringing in your ears like a bell tolling for your delusion.

Of course.

He wasn’t worried because you were gone.

He was worried because she was.

You smile—small, broken, empty—and nod like it doesn’t hurt.

Like you hadn’t just imagined an entire world where he ran for you.

And as if the world hadn’t twisted the knife deep enough—she appeared.

“Oh my god, Y/N,” Shaiya gasped, breathless as she stumbled down the dunes, cheeks flushed, hair tousled from running.

Her voice was laced with relief, eyes wide and glassy as they landed on you. She looked like she had been worried sick—like you were someone she couldn’t bear to lose.

You stared at her, stunned, caught between guilt and something heavier.

She was panting, hands on her knees, chest heaving with effort.

And beside you, Rafayel stood quickly, like gravity had suddenly remembered who he was supposed to be standing next to.

He took a step toward her. Not you.

Always her.

And in that moment, you realized the world didn’t just forget you—it remembered you only in relation to someone else.

A side character in their story. A shadow at the edge of someone else’s light.

You pressed your hands to the sand to steady yourself, head bowed, heart splintering in silence.

Because it was never really about you.

And it never would be.

“I didn’t realize,” you say quietly, your voice barely louder than the wind. “I fell asleep.”

It’s the truth, and not.

You fell asleep, yes—but more than that, you slipped. Out of yourself. Out of control. Out of hope.

Before the words can settle, Shaiya’s already moving—reaching out, pulling you to your feet with a strength that surprises you.

And then she hugs you. Tight.

Arms around your shoulders, face buried in your neck like she was afraid she wouldn’t find you again. You freeze for a moment, caught in the shock of it—her warmth, her worry, the weight of how much she cares.

And for a moment, you let yourself be held. Let yourself pretend this closeness doesn’t sting.

But your eyes lift, instinctively, over her shoulder—to him.

Rafayel is watching. Quiet. Still.

His expression unreadable, but his body turned slightly toward her. As always.

And as her arms tighten around you, all you can think is that,

You’re holding the person who loves him.

And he’s watching the person he loves.

And you are simply—

There.

—•

“Don’t you ever disappear like that again,” Shaiya scolds, her voice stern, hands working deftly as she wraps the bandages around your scraped, sand-bitten feet.

You hadn’t even realized you were barefoot. Hadn’t felt the sting of the shoreline or the rocks beneath your heels.

You’d been too caught in everything else—your thoughts, your feelings, your unspoken heartbreak.

You look down at her—at the way her brows furrow in concentration, the way her hands tremble just slightly despite how steady she tries to be.

She cares. Of course she does. She always has.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering her a small, worn smile. One that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Because you weren’t sorry for falling asleep on the beach.

You were sorry for wanting to disappear.

To the side, Rafayel stands silent.

He hasn’t spoken since she arrived. Hasn’t moved from that spot.

But you can feel his gaze on you—steady, unreadable, heavy with something you’re too tired to decipher.

You don’t look at him. Not this time.

Because if you do, you’re afraid you’ll start to hope again.

And you’re not sure your heart can survive another betrayal like that.

Soon, Shaiya is called away—duty tugging her back into the world, into action, into a place where she belongs.

She gives you one last look, lingering at the door, her fingers squeezing your shoulder with silent affection before she’s gone, leaving only the sound of waves and the hush of your shallow breath behind.

And then—

you’re alone.

With him.

Rafayel doesn’t speak right away. The silence stretches between you, tense and brittle, until he takes a single, tentative step forward.

You flinch.

It’s instinctive. Small. But enough.

He freezes.

And then you see it—the way his expression falters, confusion folding into realization. His brows knit together, not in anger, but in something closer to hurt.

As if it hadn’t occurred to him—not really—that you might be afraid of him. Not because he’s dangerous, but because he’s the one holding the dagger you kept running into.

He frowns, quietly. As if he’s only now starting to see the shape of the damage. The bruises he left without ever laying a hand.

And still, he doesn’t move.

Like he knows now that any closer, and you might shatter.

“Why?” he says, quietly. Barely above a whisper.

It hangs in the air like smoke, curling into your chest, choking before you even have the chance to breathe it in.

You finally look at him.

His eyes are on you—soft, searching, and so unbearably gentle it makes you want to scream.

Because he doesn’t get to be gentle. Not now. Not when your heart has already learned to ache in silence.

Feigning ignorance, you offer the easiest escape:

“What do you mean?”

Your voice is hollow, even to your own ears.

Because you can’t say it.

You won’t say it.

You can’t tell him that it hurts—god, it hurts—seeing him with her, the way he smiles when he’s around her, the way his voice softens just for her. The way his whole world shifts in her direction, like it never had to for you.

You can’t say that every time he looks at her, it feels like a thousand quiet deaths.

That there’s nothing you can do about it.

No fate to change. No mark to rewrite.

That he was never meant to be yours.

You clench your jaw, lowering your gaze again before your eyes betray you.

Because how do you confess to a man who was written for someone else?

And worse—how do you stop loving him, when even silence tastes like his name?

His jaw tightens—just barely, but enough to see the flicker of something shift behind his eyes. Hurt, maybe. Frustration. Maybe both.

And then he turns.

No parting word. No final glance.

Just silence—cold and absolute—as he strides toward the door.

And then,

Bang.

The door slams shut behind him, loud enough to make you flinch, to rattle the air in your lungs.

It echoes through the room like an exclamation point to a conversation that never really began.

You’re left standing in the quiet aftermath, staring at the space where he’d been.

You’d wanted him to leave.

But not like that.

Not so angry. Not so broken.

Not without understanding the why behind your silence.

But maybe that’s what you deserve—for loving him in secret, for hoping in spite of fate, for carrying a heart that was never yours to offer.

The silence stretches.

And all at once, you realize—

you’ve never felt so completely, devastatingly alone.

[craftybreadmaker]

Pairings: Dragon!sylus x reader

Notes: sorry for dying I’m back now, I got sick, and I hate this respectfully I will write a better piece once I’m feeling better.

Warning: mentions of dead deers, Beast!Sylus.

The first time you saw Sylus, you thought you were going to die.

Not because he attacked you. No—he stood still at the edge of the clearing, wings half-folded, steam rising from his nostrils. His skin shimmered like obsidian, black horns curving back over a crown of tangled white hair. He was… massive. Nearly seven or more feet of muscle, talons, and silent, menacing power.

He approached one day while you were outside, picking some carrots from your little farm outside of your cottage house.

And he dropped a dead deer at your feet.

Just—thump. Right there. Legs curled awkwardly, neck broken, but it was still warm.

You stood frozen, eyes flicking from the deer to the dragon-man and back again. He said nothing. Just stared, red eyes unblinking, tail twitching like he was waiting for something.

“…Do you… want me to cook it?” you asked weakly.

He blinked. Once. Then turned and vanished into the trees.

The second time, it was gold.

He didn’t make a sound at dawn. You just stepped out of your cottage one morning and there it was: a heap of raw gold nuggets and coins, like someone robbed an entire mountain.

You stood on the porch with your tea, staring at the glittering pile and blinking hard.

“…Is this a trap? Or maybe—maybe the forest spirits finally accepted my offerings of mushroom stew.”

You knelt down to inspect the coins. They were ancient. Some of them had runes you didn’t recognize. One had a dragon engraved on it. You poked it.

A low growl rumbled behind you.

You jumped, turning to find him again—towering, hulking, silent. Red eyes fixed on you.

“You again?” you whispered. “Okay, this is… this is getting a little weird.”

He stepped closer. You backed up.

“Did you lose this?” you asked, pointing at the gold. You knew how much dragons like treasures or shiny things, and getting barbecued by a dragon was not on your to do list this morning. “I can… help you carry it back?”

He stared. Then, slowly, he said, “Take it.”

You hesitated. “I mean, I guess I could keep a few—”

His wings twitched. “Take it.”

“…Okay.”

You picked up one coin.

He exhaled hard through his nose, clearly unimpressed. With a frustrated snort, he turned and walked off again, stomping like the very earth offended him.

The third time it happened, it was rocks—shiny ones. Polished quartz, opal, raw moonstone, the kind of stones that sparkled like water under moonlight. You found them lined across your windowsill one morning, arranged carefully as if someone had studied where the light hit best.

You sighed, fingers brushing over the smooth surfaces

“This again…”

The forest was silent behind you—but not for long.

A rustle. Then heavy, deliberate footsteps. Heat crawled up your spine before you even turned.

And there he was.

Sylus.

Towering, wings partially unfurled, horns gleaming in the dappled light. White hair tangled from wind and weather. Red eyes, burning like coals, locked on you.

He stood still. Staring.

You stared back, heart stuttering in your chest. “You again…”

He didn’t speak, not at first. He just nodded to the rocks with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

“You brought these?” you asked, voice unsure.

He exhaled heavily, a deep sound from the pit of his chest. Then, in that low, growling voice, he said,

“Take them.”

You hesitated, brows furrowing. “They’re… beautiful, but why do you keep bringing me things? The deer, the gold, now these—”

“You not… understand?” he asked slowly.

You scratched the back of your head, awkward. “Understand what?”

He stared at you, expression unreadable, and then sighed—deeply. He looked down, broad shoulders slumping just a bit. Like a man who had tried very hard to follow the sacred rites of his kind and was now at the end of his rope.

Was he really this doomed?

“You are human,” he muttered. “But… pretty.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Um… thanks?”

He looked up again, eyes intense. “Good scent. Good eyes. I like your laugh.”

That only made it worse. Your heart kicked up in your chest.

“I brought prey. I brought gold. I brought treasure. I make nest warm. You live in it. You eat. You make funny noises when happy.” He stepped closer, voice rough, sincere. “I protect you. I fly over your roof at night. I scent-mark the trees so no male gets close.”

“You… what?”

He blinked once. “You are my mate.”

You froze.

“M-Mate?”

“Yes.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. A hundred things crashed into each other in your brain. The gifts. The constant watching. The deer. The way he always appeared when you left your cabin too far behind.

“Wait,” you said softly. “The deer was… a courtship gift?”

He nodded.

“And the gold?”

“A dowry.”

“…The rocks?”

“For your nest.”

“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “I’ve been accidentally accepting your… your dragon proposal this whole time.”

His tail flicked. “Yes.”

You groaned, covering your face. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I am dragon,” he said, almost stubborn. “I bring gifts. You are meant to understand.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Well, we’re very different, because I just thought I was being haunted by a very generous forest spirit.”

His nostrils flared. “I am not a spirit. I am Sylus. And I chose you.”

Your chest tightened at how… earnest he sounded. There was no guile, no smooth charm. Just raw, beast-like devotion. He’d been courting you the only way he knew how. And you’d been accepting everything without a clue.

“You said I’m your mate,” you said carefully. “But what if I don’t feel… ready for that?”

His eyes flickered. “Then I wait.”

You blinked.

“I do not take,” he said. “I give. Always. Until you give back.”

You stared up at him. “Even if it takes years for me?”

“I live long. I can wait.”

Your heart felt too big for your chest.

Then you reached out—slow, cautious, and brushed your fingers over the back of his hand.

His breath caught.

“…I’m not saying yes,” you whispered. “But I’m not saying no.”

His wings twitched slightly, his tail curling around your porch like a barrier. You half expected him to roar or make some triumphant noise, but instead He lowered his head to your hand, and pressed his warm, scaly forehead to your palm.

A growl, low and soft, rumbled from his throat.

It sounded like a purr.

Weeks later…

You sat on your porch, legs tucked under you, a blanket over your lap. The shiny stones had been arranged into a little circle beside you. A bowl of soup sat nearby.

A shadow passed overhead, followed by a familiar gust of heat and wind.

Sylus landed quietly for someone his size. He approached slowly, claws tapping the wood.

“You are back” you smiled.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out something small—clumsy, handmade. A necklace you’d woven with leather cord, threaded with one of the moonstones he’d brought.

You held it out, and he stared, surprised.

“You said dragons give. But I want to give something too.”

He took it, slowly, like he thought it might disappear. His claw curled around it carefully.

Then, with deep reverence, he tied it around one of his horns.

“I will never remove it,” he said.

You laughed softly and leaned back against his warm side as he sat beside you.

You still weren’t sure where this path would lead.

But he was warm. Loyal. Fierce.

And most of all, he waited for you.

You looked up at the stars and smiled.

“…Maybe being with you wouldn’t be so bad.”