mycrowskitten

[mycrowskitten]

Something Comforting (a softish love and deepspace au)

Been wanting to write a soft, slice of life style AU ficset for LI x MC. In my mind every LI has their own MC, so these are really just all LI x Reader. All set in this soft-verse, main couple is Sylus x MC/Reader. There's a loose plot which I may or may not actually write about, but its probably just gonna be a place for me to drop oneshots.

This is just setting up the location/vibe. Not sure what to name their place yet lol.

Please enjoy!

⋆⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋆

⋆⋅୨୧⋅⋆ You live in a pocket dimension, one that is tethered to many places but kept untraceable. It's for your safety and his. The only others with free access to this place are Kieran, Luke, and Mephisto of course. Otherwise, while visitors can come and go they cannot do so against their wishes.

⋆⋅୨୧⋅⋆ Except for those other versions of you. But that's a discussion for another time.

⋆⋅୨୧⋅⋆ It's been years since you both took it upon yourself to turn the dilapidated pocket of land into a place to call home, but now it is something you are both proud of. It's not the world, or the universe, but you have never been greedy and while he complains about the fact that you deserve more, he keeps his peace.

⋆⋅୨୧⋅⋆ Now you are content to run your midnight bakery-cafe serving Travelers across space and time, and in the rare moments he stops to breathe he finds peace in the garden he has finally managed to grow. Sometimes in emergencies you allow Travelers in need to stay in one of the vacant rooms, but not often.

⋆⋅୨୧⋅⋆ You have come to terms with the fact that you're spoken about in hushed whispers, the sorceress and dragon who's shop appears in odd places. Sylus always grins and says something about marketing value as you roll your eyes, a little guilty that you don't actually know any magic--your evol doesn't count.

⋆⋅୨୧⋅⋆ You've come to love this life, meeting the people who are the same but different from the people you know. Hearing their stories, gently helping them along their way. You fervently wish for this to last as long as possible, and that those who are hunting you both never find you.

⋆⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅୨୧⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋆

[mycrowskitten]

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

Sylus has had a long day. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They pretty.” 

“Did you pick some for mama?” 

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

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

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

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

Thwack. 

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

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

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

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

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

bap. 

bap. bap. 

“Huh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sylus hums. 

“Pa?” Lucian asks, louder. 

Sylus drawls helplessly, “Lucian…” 

“Can sleep—“ 

“Yes.” 

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

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

“Can sleep here?” 

Sylus waits a beat. And then, “Yes.” 

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

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

Lucian shakes his head. “Nuh-uh.” 

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

Quiet.

Too quiet.

A lifeless refrain.

A vacuum.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mycrowskitten]

MC: ...Because you're handsome, and you're smart, and you're ignoring me. So you're obviously my type.

Zayne, looking up from his note: I'm sorry. What were you saying?

MC: Perfect.

[mycrowskitten]

Morninnn everyone ♡♡

Here zayne as papa, look at their cute babyyy

[mycrowskitten]

𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

Lads’s men kissing you for the first time (part three here. part five here. Masterlist here.)

ft: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb.

wc: 8006 (aprox 1600 for each)

warnings: angst(nothing major) allusions to myths, injury (In Caleb’s also nothing major) suggestive (no actual smut)

notes: sooo I got a bit carried away ngl 🤭 this took so long to write and trying make each kiss different was so difficult but hopefully it works

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier really wanted to kiss you. It had been on his mind for ages, slipping into his thoughts in the moments he wasn't busy with soft whispers. You'd been dating, officially, for two months. Two of the happiest months of Xavier's life, with you there was no second-guessing, or having to infer hidden meaning from ordinary words, there was no distance that couldn't be bridged. That's why he needed to make sure your first kiss was perfect.

You deserved nothing less, and he would give you nothing less. But he didn't know how to give it to you. Did he tell you? Did he ask if you wanted to? Would that be unromantic? He didn't know. He toiled in his mind, desperate to find the best solution. 

Jeremiah suggested setting the mood. Xavier had hesitated, but his friend had always been better with people than he. Jeremiah spoke without tiring, smiled at anyone and blended into people's jokes like he'd always been part of the laughter. Nothing like Xavier, who preferred quiet.

As such, he'd taken you on a date to a five-star restaurant. Pulling the strings to get a reservation was easy. To keep up appearances, he lived in a simple apartment, one fitting of a Hunter's salary, but he'd been on Earth too long not to amass a fortune. Jeremiah had too. Just because they were meant to lie low didn't mean they couldn't enjoy the luxuries of a fleeting planet.

"You've got something on your face," You giggled from across the table.

You were beautiful tonight. Not that you weren't always, of course, but tonight you looked like you'd been kissed by life herself. Other patrons were sleek, professional, but you? You smelled of a garden, daisies, hydrangeas, roses, lilies and everything else in your apartment.  Xavier remembered how bewildered he was the first time your forna and flora dragged you into your room to prepare you for a date.

Xavier wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Better?"

You snorted and shook your head.

"Come here," You leaned over the table, soft fingers gently cupping his chin as you dabbed your napkin against his cheek. Your eyelashes were long, blanketing your warm gaze. Would it be fitting to kiss you now?

He certainly wanted to.

But the waiter was striding towards your table. He swallowed down the words on the tip of his tongue and buried his mounting desire. Had he ever met someone who tested his restraint as much as you did? 

"Sir, Miss," The waiter began, "Your desserts have arrived."

Xavier watched with delight as your eyes sparkled. You made his heart hammer in his chest when your expression was like that. It was so alive and adoring, full of emotion, it was just so human. Xavier loved it, and he was falling in love with you. Rapidly, unflinchingly, like a comet shooting across the stars, he was falling in love with you.

"Thank you! These look wonderful!" You hummed, "Simone is gonna be so jealous, right, Xavi?"

Xavier nodded, "Very. I'll make sure to show her as soon as I get to Hunters HQ tomorrow."

He'd brought you to a formal event for Hunters, and Simone had latched onto you with a mischievous grin, making fast friends. She enjoyed making fun of him. He enjoyed one-upping the outings you did with her with dates of his own. 

He had to fight everyone for you, it seemed─ as if you weren't his girlfriend.

You smiled warmly at Xavier, "Wanna try?"

He nodded with ease, leaning forward towards the spoon in your hand. You'd filled it as much as you could, the sweet dessert swaying dangerously above the table as you reached towards Xavier.

It was sweet and smooth on his tongue, but he found there was a tart aftertaste, something you liked only in specific things. He studied your features, trying to detect subtle dislike as you ate yet another spoonful of your dessert.

"Thank you," Xavier hummed, gently taking a spoonful of his own dessert. "Want some of mine?"

You grinned widely, "Yes!"

He laughed fondly as you eagerly took the spoon. And there it was, the thing that was missing from your expression before. Your eyes were creasing. The smile on your lips was so wide it was squishing the skin around your eyes, a sign of true delight.

As such, Xavier swapped your plates.

Again, you grinned, "You didn't have to do that, Xavier. I would've been fine with that one."

Xavier shrugged, "But you're happy with this one."

Your cheeks flushed. He wanted to kiss them and feel the warmth on his lips. To Xavier, you bloomed like your flowers when you were joyful, a paragon of vitality and life. Around you, he was reminded of the beauty in the ordinary and the serenity of simplicity. That's why he had to make everything perfect.

But the restaurant was not the best place to kiss you. That's why you went for a walk in the park. Your feet echoed against the gravel path as the two of you walked together. Xavier's thumb stroked over your knuckles, your hands conjoined affectionately. He loved the way your palms slotted against one another, like they'd always meant to be together.

Everything he'd done, everything he'd sacrificed, everyone he'd sacrificed, he was sure it was all meant to lead to you. With you, Xavier Shen was just an ordinary man. Prince. Traitor.  Coward. None of those names meant anything around you. Even though you knew the beginnings of who he was. He hadn't told you everything yet. 

But you knew and trusted him enough to wait for him to be ready to confess to all his secret sins. For that, he would be thankful forever.

"The stars must be different from where you're from," You murmured quietly, "Is it weird to see Earth's constellations?"

Xavier tilted his gaze to the midnight sky, "It used to be. But I like Earth's sky more.  The stars here are scattered, wild, free. I feel like they're so much brighter here than on Philos."

"I'm glad you came here," You said.

Xavier stopped and looked at you, "So am I."

You smiled brightly. Xavier used his spare hand to reach up and cup your cheek. Your skin was warm to the touch as you leaned into his hold, gazing at him with pure, unrestrained affection. Maybe this was it?

Xavier began leaning in close.

You gasped suddenly, "Is that a photobooth?!"

You were pulling him forward without a second thought. Xavier followed without hesitation, curiosity burning in his gaze as he looked towards the sleek metal box settled against the side of a building. Wasn't that dangerous?

"You're so excited," He observed, warmly.

"I love photobooths!" You grinned, pulling out your card, "We have to take some!"

Xavier tapped his card against the scanner.

"You didn't have to do that, Xavi." You spoke softly.

"I wanted to," He shrugged, "Now, come on."

He pulled you into the booth, shutting the curtain behind you. He watched fondly as you fiddled with the settings, finding the right filters and borders for your photos.

"Okay, ready?" You grinned as the camera before you began its first of four countdowns.

Xavier nodded, pressing his forehead against yours. Simple, but cute. You were so warm, he could fall asleep against you if you let him. You had become his favourite place to sleep. In your arms, in your lap, against your thighs, it didn't matter; he loved them all.

The flash was blinding, but you needed your next pose.

"What should we do-" Xavier began, watching the countdown get lower and lower with panic. He didn't want to ruin your photos. 

Your hand latched onto his chin, pulling him towards you. He opened his mouth to question you, but your lips were on his cheek, silencing him. Your lips were so soft. Gentle. Like the petals of a rose bud beginning to unfurl.

The flash flickered. You let go of his chin. You were blushing. 

The countdown started again.

Xavier swallowed.

Screw it. Everything was perfect when it was with you.

Xavier grasped your face in his hands, leaning down. You met him halfway. Your hands wrapped around his neck, and your lips were on his. You tasted of sweetness, the remnants of your dessert lingering on your lips as Xavier greedily tasted them. 

Flash.

A soft sigh left your lips. Xavier cradled you closer, like you'd break in his hands. You met his lips like flowerbuds met spring sun. Xavier felt himself flush as your hand came to stroke his jaw, shivering at the gentle affection.

He pulled away briefly, "I can't believe I spent so long panicking over this."

You giggled, "I can't believe I spent so long waiting for you to stop panicking!"

Xavier pouted, "Less talking. More kissing."

Flash.

You giggled again, pulling him to your lips. This kiss was yours to lead, passionate and enamouring, your lips met his, against, over, under, against again. Xavier felt himself falling further into your affection, melting into your touch, matching your pace with ravenous want. He felt himself going breathless; he found he didn't care.

Each wild, hitched breath he made was collected by your mouth as your lips caressed his again and again. Finally, you pulled away just enough to rest your forehead against his.

"All the photos were taken," You breathed, studying the now black screen.

Xavier contorted his body, reaching out the grasp the sheet of paper that had come from the machine's dispenser. He brought the photos between you.

The first was your heads pressed together. The second was your lips on his cheek. The third was his hands on your face, his eyes shut, his lips on yours. The fourth was you leaning close, foreheads pressed together, matching grins on your lips.

"Well..." You murmured, tracing the photo with your fingers, "I think we could recreate this much better at home."

Xavier smiled and kissed your sugary lips again, "We certainly can."

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

Luke and Kerian had long since left the Onychinus Base in search of revelry in the chaotic streets of  N109. The hallways of the building were silent, even Mesphisto had retreated to his resting place and yet Sylus could not relax. With intrigue, the twins had been inquiring about you and your bond to Sylus, laughing in unison when Sylus had frozen at the mention of kissing. They'd run before Sylus could swat at them, cackling all the way like goblins.

But their words plagued their leader. He couldn't think of one time the two of you had. Sylus sat in his office, glass of wine in his hand as he racked his mind for a time the two of you had kissed. He searched in ordinary conversations, in the hours spent lying in bed, in the shared showers. But he came up blank.

He furrowed his brows, looked out his window upon the dark sky of the N109 Zone. Bright lights mimicked stars on buildings, shining and neon, each begged for attention. The city was fast and unforgiving, but it allowed bonds to prosper in ways no one ever considered. Fighting for their lives made people connect in unprecedented ways.

Slyus gritted his teeth. Why hadn't you kissed? How hadn't you kissed? The possibility seemed impossible.

Perhaps you hadn't fully made yourselves vulnerable to one another, but you'd certainly done other things. Sylus remembered those times fondly. It was like the two of you were playing a game, slowly untethering the layers that made one another in search of raw people hidden beneath.

Surely kissing was a part of that. Or was it too intimate? Sylus thought more and more about it. He imagined kissing you during those moments of desire and found it felt...misplaced. Kisses of tender affection did not belong to those moments; they carried a different kind of desire─ burned with more than the need to be physical.

He was certain of one thing, and that was that he wanted to kiss you. Desperately.

He wanted to make it clear that your dates, your relationship and your physicality weren't a game to him. He needed to let you know that you were more than a toy to him to play with. You had Sylus' soul in your hands.

Sylus pulled out his phone and hovered his thumb over your familiar number. The contact picture was recent, taken in bed, his bed. You had a folder in your photos dedicated specifically to Sylus and your relationship.

Sylus clicked on your number and waited.

You answered after the first ring, "Sylus?"

"Hello, Kitten," He hummed, savouring the sweet sound of your voice, "How are we tonight?"

"Considering I've got whiskey in one hand and am listening to my man with the other, I'd say I'm feeling pretty good," You mused softly, teasing edge to your words, "And you, handsome?"

"I'm feeling rather curious, I must confess," Sylus spoke.

"Curiosity killed the cat," You sang playfully. He envisioned the way your eyes glinted and wanted to kiss the spot between your nose and eyebrows. 

"Satisfaction brought it back," He called back, voice lowering, words finishing in a hiss.

The sky was dark, savage and sensual. It promised adreniline and desire.

You were silent for a moment, "All right...I'll bite. What's got the big bad leader of Onychinus so perplexed?"

Sylus was never one to shy away from what he wanted. He built an empire with his bare hands. He always got what he wanted. No matter what.  And right now, he wanted you. He wanted all of you. Your lips on his, soft confessions whispered into your passion.

"Whether or not you know that this, that us, isn't just a game. Not to me," Sylus said. He was never so honest. He protected himself with a fierceness very few could overcome. And yet you had. He shivered at the sound of your breathing.

"Of course, I know, Sy. I knew the day you asked me to be your girlfriend," You mumured softly, earnestly, "When you mean something you say, really mean it, your eyes go the shade of a Red Lotus. Your eyes were that colour when you asked."

"I want to kiss you."

Silence.

"Where'd that come from?" You laughed, but your breath hitched all the same.

"From my feelings for you, do keep up," Sylus chuckled like it was obvious, as if his own heart wasn't thundering, "I've ripped your clothes from your body, I've had you in my bed, I've caressed your skin, but I've never kissed you."

"Huh...I never realised that before. How haven't we kissed?" You muttered, faintly amused.

"My thoughts exactly. An atrocious error on our part," Sylus murmured, unbuttoning the top of his collar.

He heard you shuffle, "I suppose we should fix that, shouldn't we?"

"Immediately," Sylus agreed, pulling the phone closer, listening to your muffled movements.

Your breathing was soft, but your words were urgent, "Unlock your door. I'm coming over. Now."

Surprise burned in Sylus's chest. Something else mixed in, something hot and feral, something that only responded to you. He leaned forward, desire flaring in all his senses. Everything would change. The two of you would be bound in a way never before. His soul would be bared to you and yours to his, ready to be exchanged.

"How demanding," Sylus chuckled, sipping his wine, "Don't keep me waiting."

"Now who's demanding?" You laughed, and a faint jingling echoed. Your keys.

Sylus didn't answer. He simply hung up and rose to his feet. He had a door to unlock after all.

If it were anywhere else, you would've been arrested for breaking every speeding law imaginable. But the N109 Zone welcomed reckless regard, as did Sylus. It got you to him quicker. That's all he cared about.

He watched with rapt attention as you threw your helmet onto one of his lavish sofas, stalking over to him without hesitation. You wore confidence like armour, your sharp wit, your sword and your cunning mind your shield. Sylus adored it. Adored you.

His legs spread, welcoming you to stand between them as his hands found their rightful place on your hips. He caressed your body with his fingers, gaze never straying from your face. He'd burn everything down if you asked him to. He'd make you jewellery from Onychinus' ash if you wished. Whatever you desired, he'd deliver.

"I'm curious now," You began, caressing his face with your hands.

"About?" Sylus murmured, gaze trained on your lips. He wanted them swollen and red, a vivid example of feelings for you.

"Whether or not you know that I love you," You answered. 

Sylus' entire being froze. He stared up at you. Activated the Aether Core in his eye and found no lie. No, he only found the truth. You loved him, fiercely, endlessly, without restraint. Every inch of adored him, wanted him, needed him.

He grabbed your shirt.

"The things you do to me," Sylus rasped and yanked you down.

His lips were on yours in an instant. You met him easily. Your hands gripped his face, his went back down to your hips, then to your back, then your arms and back to your hips. He couldn't keep his hands off of you, not when your lips tasted so good. Whiskey and wine mixed on your tongues. 

Sylus pulled you onto his lap, and your hands found happy purchase on his shoulders. He grunted as your teeth sank into his lower lip, tongue darting out to smooth over the sting. Savage and sensual, you kissed him. He loved it. Loved you.

Sylus loved you.

He pressed his hand to your throat, gently pushing backwards. You let him guide you. Your lips were only inches away; that was as far as Sylus could bear to part with you. Your breath fanned his face. The smell of your perfume intoxicated him. Your eyes glittered like starlight, Sylus' very own wish in human form. He intended to keep you forever.

"Know that I love you as well. More than I thought possible," Sylus murmured, breath mingling with yours, "You unearthed my heart from its coffin and brought it back to life."

You smiled softly, "Good. It's staying beside my heart for eternity."

"Nothing sounds better," Sylus murmured, kissing up your jaw, "So long as you keep kissing me like that."

Your thumb ran over Sylus' lower lip. He shivered at the feeling, eyes lidded, pupils blown wide, as he looked up at you. You'd enchanted him from the moment he'd seen you. He gave all his power to you. All his authority meant nothing against you. He liked it that way. He liked you in control.

"I can do that," You giggled and leaned back down.

Your lips were smooth against his, falling into the rhythm both your hearts had always beat to. Sylus's hand slipped up to cup the back of your neck, strands of hair slipping between his fingers like strands of fate. He'd always meant to find you, of that, he was certain.

He grinned into the kisses adoringly, feeling you respond in kind. Two grinning idiots, kissing on the sofa. Sylus wondered if people would think you two love-sick teenagers if they saw you in public. He found he liked that idea. He kissed you harder, conveying all the words he could not voice. You understood. You always did. You kissed him just as hard.

Sylus could barely bear to pull away, "We should've done this sooner."

You laughed, kissing his lips quickly, "Well, we do have all night."

Sylus grinned and lurched upwards. You squealed loudly, wrapping your arms and legs around him as he strode towards his bedroom, "We best get started then, Darling."

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

Rafayel needed it to go well. He was desperate for it to. He didn't know what he'd do if it didn't. The man wanted to clasp his hands and collapse on his knees, praying to God for good fortune. But what God could he pray to? He was a god himself, after all. And he was about to tell you that. 

In the middle of the sea, surrounded by cerulean waves and bottomless possibilities, Rafayel was going to tell you everything. Then, you'd leave him or love him. He wished he were sure which option you'd favour, but it didn't─that in itself was enough to kill him.

"Raf...?" You murmured.

Your dress was beautiful. He wanted to hold your hips and feel the fabric beneath his fingers. You sat peacefully in the little wooden boat, a vision Rafayel wanted to paint again and again. You were oblivious to the fact that your world was about to be forever changed. Would you try to escape? Scream and cry? Or would you touch his cheeks and kiss his worries away?

He swallowed, "There's something you need to know, precious."

You straightened up immediately upon hearing the serious tone in his voice, "Yes? What is it?"

Rafayel opened his mouth. No words came. 

Why was this so difficult? He just wanted to tell you so he could accept whatever happened and crush the shattered fragments of his heart into a pigment for his new painting. His chest heaved.

You leaned forward, careful not to rock the boat, and grasped his hands. They were soft against his own, and he relished the feeling of your thumbs caressing his knuckles. He'd bitten them red raw the night before, toiling helplessly in the struggle of his mind's insecurities.

A god with insecurities, how laughable.

"I..." He shut his eyes, "It'll be easier to show you."

Better to take a knife to the chest than to the back.

He unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his shoes; he'd pull the trousers off underwater. He watched your face twist in confusion as you leaned backwards, trying to meet his gaze when he stood up. Oh, how he loved your curious eyes.

"Rafayel? What are you doing?" He tipped towards the edge of the boat, "Rafayel? Rafayel! Don't!"

That was all he heard of your worried screams before he hit the water. It was almost peaceful. Like entering the place you'd spent your childhood in, almost home but too different to be. He felt the water rush into his lungs, the constant dryness in his throat finally receding. He gave himself to the currents and let himself change.

Finally, he could breathe. Gills flapped against his neck as they greedily sucked in the water, the scales in his tail flexing against one another as they adjusted to the caressing chill of the sea once more.

Above, he heard your gargled screams.

He couldn't hide beneath the waves forever.

He swam upwards, feeling water caress his hair as the air brushed against his face. It took him a moment, but the second he focused on you, his heart thundered in his chest. Your brows were furrowed, your eyes glossy with worry, half of your body leaning dangerously over the edge of the boat.

"Rafayel!" You gasped with relief.

"Hey, Cutie," He hummed softly.

"Don't 'hey, Cutie' me! Why the Hell did you do that?" You snapped angrily, "You scared me! And─ Wait...what's on your neck?"

Rafayel sucked in a harsh breath, "Gills."

"Gills?" You murmured.

"I'm Lemurian," He said simply, "Humans would simply call us merfolk."

You blinked. You shook your head. You laughed, "Come on, Raf. Don't be silly. Did you get this joke from Thomas or something?"

Rafayel gritted his teeth, "I'm not lying."

"Sureee, and I'm a fairy," You snickered, reaching out your hand, "Now come on, get out before you catch a cold."

Rafayel did take your hand, but instead of letting you pull him out of the water, he guided your hand to his neck. The second your fingers touched the ridges of his gills, his breath hitched, louder than your own. He shut his eyes.

Each caress of your fingers sent a pulse of electricity through his body. Despite the cold water, he felt feverish. Your hand was soft, tentative, like a kiss placed tenderly against his skin. The feeling was hypnotic. Addictive. His breathing increased. He wanted your hands all over him; he wanted it even more when your other hand came to explore the other side of his neck, gliding over the scales that settled there with adoring care.

He wanted to call your name, but he kept his mouth shut. If this was his last moment with you, he wanted to savour it.

"I─" You breathed in harshly, "I have so many questions."

Rafayel let his eyes flutter open again, blinking against the sun. You were closer to him now, soft eyes studying his features with rapt interest. Your fingers slid high, settling against his pulse points and the tip of his chin. He shivered against the touch, burning inside.

"I'll answer everything," He swore, "No matter if we're here until dawn breaks again. I won't stop until you know everything you want to. I'll show you everything. My gills, my fins, my scales, my tail, everything."

"No," You said.

"Precious, please," He gasped, a sudden rush of desperation flooding through his veins at the thought of you leaving him. The thought was killing him. You made the surface worth living on, you made the sea worth painting again, you made life worth loving.

"Rafayel," your hands slid upwards to caress his cheeks, "I'd love to know everything about you and who you are, but I won't at the expense of your health."

"What? I am healthy!" He scoffed, tail flicking beneath the water, making ripples rock the boat. He steadied it with his hands, saw you study the webs between his fingers and his sharper nails.

You shook your head, "Your gills are going pink and they're flapping more. Your breathing's getting more rapid. This form isn't suited to being above water. You're not getting your appropriate oxygen intake. That's not healthy, Raffie."

Rafayel blinked in surprise, "How can you tell that?"

"Marine Biologist, silly," You giggled, flicking his forehead gently, "I just need to find scuba gear so I can be underwater with you. I won't be able to talk, though, so how will I be able to ask you questions...?"

"I can help you breathe underwater," Rafayel said. His heart swayed back and forth with the waves at the realisation that you weren't leaving him.

Your eyes sparkled, "Really?"

"Mhm. A Lemurian's kiss gives someone the ability to breathe beneath the waves," He hummed, hand coming to cup your own, turning it so he could kiss your pulse, then your palm, then your knuckles.

"You need to kiss me?" You murmured, tongue darting over your lower lip.

 His eyes were trained on the sight; he was so close to tasting your lips, he almost couldn't handle it. "Yeah. Need to, really, really, need to."

"Well, I shouldn't keep you waiting then," You grinned and stood.

"Cutie?" He furrowed his brows, hearing a clank. Your shoes. He watched, eyes widening as your hands reached for the hem of your dress.

You shrugged, "I like this dress too much to ruin it."

And then, you stepped off the edge of the boat and into the water.

 Rafayel's heart skipped a beat. He ducked back down into the water, eyes sharpening against the salt as he looked for you. Only a few short meters below him, you flailed, squinting against the sea as you righted your body. He watched as you steadied yourself and thought you were adorable with your puffed-out cheeks.

He swam to you. He cupped your cheeks in his hands. You blinked, hands blindly trailing up his arms, settling against his shoulders. He smiled, pulling you in close with his tail. You squeaked, bubbles of air leaving your lips.

Rafayel took his chance.

Your lips were soft, so very soft. They slotted against his own like they'd always meant to belong there. Your hands tightened against his neck, and he responded in kind, kissing you strongly, hand tangling into your hair as he kept you close. He savoured the hypnotic taste of your lips, tongue darting out to lick your lower lip, grinning into the kiss when he heard you sigh. 

You barely pulled away. Rafayel chased your lips.

The rhythm came easily. One of Rafayel's hands came down to caress your hip, shivering when his palm met bare skin. He brushed his fingers over your rips, feeling the hairs rise as you shifted closer, chest to chest. His lips met yours again and again. You were very quickly becoming his favourite addiction; he was drunk off of you already.

Your hands softly pushed against his chest. He groaned but let you move him away. Feeling your fingers caress his chest was enough ot sate him for now.

You blinked softly, opening your mouth, tentatively adjusting to the foreign sensations surrounding you. You looked at his face, his chest, then his─

"Rafayel! You're beautiful!" You gasped, staring in wonder at his tail. Pride swelled in his chest as he flicked it gently, scales gleaming under the fractured sunlight of the waves. Dawnbreak blue, periwinkle purple, and magenta's dusk decorated his lower half, scales shimmering brightly as they faded into a long, flourishing fin.

You gently caressed his upper scales.

Rafayel gasped.

You flinched away, worry ripping across your face.

"Sensitive," He smiled adoringly, grasping your hand and pulling you back to his tail, chest heaving when he felt your fingers on him again, "You make me so sensitive."

You leaned closer, nose brushing his, "Yeah?" 

He grasped your chin with his hand, "Yeah."

And then he kissed you. Again and again, he kissed you. He could wait to explain everything. His heart had finally come home to him.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The Colonel of the Deepscape Fleet was out for blood. It burned against his skin, hissing against his muscles, searing in his veins. Pure, unrestrained fury. Murder snarled in the forefront of his mind as he marched through the halls of HQ. He wasn't sated yet, wouldn't be until he sat on top of a pile of rats.

The rats were royal to some revolutionary who thought they were better than the Fleet, trying to infect his crew with their doubts about Caleb's command. They began with whispers, which were easier to ignore, but now they'd turned to more extreme methods. Five of the vermin decided that self-sacrifice ─ how very noble ─ was the best way to get attention. They'd sabotaged the mission, killed themselves and tried to drag others down with them.

The Colonel would find the rest of them, and once he did, he was going to rip them limb from limb and deliver their severed body parts to their master, he'd even wrap them in pretty pink bows.

"Colonel Xia," Liam spoke as he matched Caleb's unforgiving strides, "The Medical Centre sent their report."

Caleb nodded, "Go ahead."

Liam pulled up the report on a tablet, assertive and concise as he spoke, "Most injuries sustained were minor due to the limited range and power of the bombs the traitors used."

"Most injuries?" Asked Caleb.

"Some have dislocated various joints, and some have broken bones. The pilot of ship F-12 has the worst injuries, two broken ribs and second-degree burns across her right arm, shoulder and parts of her stomach," Liam responded, a full analysis of the report falling from his tongue, "She's been sent home on bed rest until further notice so she has time to heal."

The pilot of ship F-12.

Caleb felt his heart stop.

That was you.

Caleb didn't remember anything after that. Maybe he mumbled an order to Liam, maybe he didn't. He didn't know if he told his superiors he was leaving or if he stayed there longer to ensure everything was taken care of. No, his memory of the next few hours was a blur, distorted in all-consuming worry. You'd been hurt because of him. You were suffering because of his arrogance. He swore he'd keep you safe, and he hadn't.

He felt sick, nausea clawing at his stomach, shredding into strips strong enough to be tied together to make a noose to hang his heart in. What if the Medical Centre had missed something? What if you had internal injuries? What if you were lying limp on the floor of your home, dying alone and afraid?

No.

The sight of your door pushed Caleb faster. He all but sprinted down the hallway, insignia on his body clanking loudly. He hadn't bothered to change. He just needed to get to you. His heart thundered in his chest as he crashed into the door, skidding to a wild, frantic halt as he banged on the door. He was sweating, heat coursing painfully across his body.

"Honey?" He rasped.

He waited. No response. Acid climbed up his throat, scraping at his flesh.

"Honey?!" Caleb yanked the door handle, "Honey?!" It was locked. Breaking it open was a simple task. He'd smash it to smithereens and carry you over the cracked wood straight to the hospital. He'd do anything to make sure you were alright.

He yanked the door handle again.

The door jerked backwards. He stumbled forward.

A familiar hiss echoed in his ears, and hands came to steady him, planting firmly on his chest. He felt the warmth of your hands soak through his shirt and into his skin. He let out a shuddering breath, chest heaving, heart crying out.

"Caleb?!" You gasped in surprise, softly kicking your door closed.

Caleb felt himself perish and be reborn at the sight of you. You had a tank top on, revealing the endless trail of bandages that wrapped your arm. They were vibrant white, they stretched from around your shoulder to your hand, wrapped between your thumb and fingers like armour. Scrapes ripped across your face, cracks of dried blood covering them, bruises burrowing into your complex; they were an odd shade in the sunset, brown against the burning sky.

But you were alive. He could see you were alive.

"Caleb?" You murmured, brows furrowed as you looked up at him, "What's wrong?"

But he needed to feel that you were alive.

His hands slipped upwards to cup your chin, lifting it upwards. One of his thumbs caressed your lower lip, and he leaned in. He heard your breath hitch as he closed his eyes, slowly drawing your face closer to his.

Your warm forehead met his, and his chest heaved, like a black hole emerging from a dying star. He clutched your chin tighter, finger switching upwards to brush your cheeks. He felt like a heretic praying to some forbidden God. His desire. His restraint. They raged within him at the feeling of your skin against his.

"Caleb...?" You murmured, reaching up to grasp his wrists. You didn't move them. You just curled your fingers around his skin, pressing comfortingly against his pulse.

"I...Fuck─" He Caleb breathed wildly, feeling like he was being torn apart, "Honey, I am so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," You hummed, confused, almost amused. 

"I do!" He snapped, opening his eyes so he could memorise the destruction he had caused you. He brushed his hand against the cut on your cheek, "This is because of me." He motioned to your ribs, "This is because of me." His fingers flinched away from the bandages on your arm, "This is because of me."

You stared at him for a moment.

Caleb would do anything to give you the universe. Anything.

You removed one of his hands from your cheek. You were going to push him away. You were going to tell him to leave. You'd tell him that he was an obsessive monster and that you could never love him.  You'd sever the bond between you and let Caleb go blind in an existence without light.

You placed his hand on your chest. On your heart. Goosebumps rose on his skin.

"This is because of you." You whispered, fingers curling around his to keep his palm over your beating heart. He felt it speed up beneath his touch.

"No─" He tried to pull away. You wouldn't let him. His hand should've been cold, the metal that made his artificial bone and muscle was chilling and yet not once did you shiver against his fingers.

"Yes. As soon as you knew there were moles, you told us.  You gave us time to find the traitors and the bombs. It's because of you that the bomb didn't blow a hole in the engine and leave us to die from the Wanderers. That quick mind of yours saved us, Caleb. It saved me," You spoke with strength. Your words held unwavering conviction as you stared into his purple eyes, willing him to feel your faith in him.

Caleb swallowed the lump in his throat, "You've been burned, Honey. Burned."

You shrugged, "Better burned than buried."

A laugh escaped Caleb's throat, edging on frantic, "You're a fearless woman."

You grinned, your eyes shining like stars against burnt sienna skies, "I'm your fearless woman."

Caleb's restraint ruptured like the Universe when it first sparked to life. 

Then his lips were on yours, and his pointless heart finally had a direction to follow. He kissed you firmly, savouring the taste of your lips against his own, relishing in the softness of them. He heard a breath of contentment leave your lips and felt your hands coil upwards to wrap around his neck. His hat fell to the floor as your fingers tangled in his hair. His hands slipped to your hips, holding you as gently as he could. Your lips moved in tandem, and all he could think of was the way you felt against. Hard and real, alive.

"Never─" His breath mixing with yours, "─scare me─" his lips on yours "─like that again─" his tongue touching yours "─got it?"

You gasped, "Got it."

Satisfaction bloomed in Caleb's chest at the sight of your flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. He wasn't much better; he knew that. In fact, he was probably worse; the heat burning his ears was proof enough of that.

"You had me so worried, Honey," Caleb confessed into the sunset. 

Your nose brushed against his, "I know."

"So worried," He gasped, eyes stinging.

"I know," You whispered, tilting your head to kiss his lips again.

Caleb melted into your affection. Kissing you slowly remedied the endless thoughts in his mind, bringing him to serenity. He felt weightless in your embrace, high above the mortal strife of the world, floating endlessly in his love for you. Your lips caressed his tenderly, and he couldn't help the soft sound that left his mouth, or the way he reciprocated the smile that stretched across your lips.

His thumbs gently rubbed circles over your hips as you rested your forehead against his again. You gently brushed a few strands of his hair out of his face behind his ear, fingers happily setting against his nape once more.

"You know, your eyes look a little bit pink in the sunset," You mused

"I'm so in love with you, Honey," Caleb breathed.

Your eyes glittered with delight, "I love you more."

"No way," Caleb shook his head, lips curving into a smile, "I love you to the end of the universe and back."

"The universe is infinite," You raised a brow.

Caleb kissed you again, "Exactly."

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Zayne Li enjoyed parties. Not the kind where bodies pressed together and sweat stained the walls, no, he liked social gatherings. He liked to talk, more so to listen, and build connections. Connections that flowered against his walls but never broke through them. He had colleagues, he had friends, he had family, but not one of them could find and hold the key to his core. It had been that way for years, longer than he could remember. Zayne sighed softly.

People liked the snow.

Greyson laughed at someone's joke, Zayne's own lips curling upwards in amusement as he watched his friends snicker and smile with an ease he admired. Zayne was quiet; he saw no point in speaking when he didn't need to; a trait always judged before enjoyed.

People loved to look at snow, play with it, and enjoy it.

He hadn't touched the white wine in his glass. Drunkenness had never interested him in the way it did others; the thought of letting the reins of control go was foreign to him. Zayne liked order; he liked security, knowing what was going to happen so he could prepare for it.

People liked snow─ for a while. Until the ice crept in, and suddenly being in frozen water no longer seemed fun. Snow was not something meant to be loved forever.

And Zayne was okay with that.

So why did he hold you so tightly?

He'd never intended for you to get close when you'd first walked up to him. But then you spoke to him, then you listened to him, then you went on dates with him, and finally, you agreed to a relationship with him. The frost in his heart flourished, like the first snowflake of winter.

He wanted you close to him─always.

You were on the other side of the room in a blue dress, the same shade as his tie. You'd insisted, because you wanted to let people know you were together in some way, no matter how subtle. That thought plagued him. Why? Because you wanted more.

He'd seen you. You loved physical contact, an arm thrown around the shoulders, head resting against another, hugging, even fist bumps and high fives, you loved them. You got given and gave them to other people like it was easy as breathing.

But Zayne's body was too numb to give that to you. Every touch set him ablaze. He wanted you to burn with him.

Restraint was something he wielded. Control was something he craved

Greyson and Yvonne laughed loudly, lifting their glasses for a mini cheer, and Zayne joined, cold alcohol searing at his throat.

A click echoed.

Zayne opened his eyes. Blearily, he saw his floor, then his sofa, and the beginnings of his kitchen. He furrowed his brows. His head ached dreadfully. All he could do was rest limply as he waited for the nausea to pass.

His head fell to rest against warmth. Zayne found himself searching for more of it, digging his nose into the blissful comfort. It didn't feel like the silk sheets of his room, and it didn't smell like his laundry cleaner either. No, instead it smelt like...

Zayne's eyes shot open, and he reared his head backwards. A terrible mistake on his part, but certainly not worse than the one he'd just made. His head swam.

Hands came to steady him. They were warm. Soft. Safe.

"Zayne..." You murmured, "Please sit down."

With staggered steps and you as a cane, he found himself collapsing onto his sofa, back pressing into the cushions like he was sinking into them. His chest rose and fell, and his skin felt hot and clammy. He didn't like it. He didn't understand it. He couldn't control it.

His breathing picked up.

He didn't like it.

Weak hands came to tug at his shirt. He was too warm. His skin prickled where his shirt clung to him. He felt like he had a noose around his throat. He scratched. His clumsy hands slipped off the buttons and tie like a car on an icy road, bound to lose control.

He submerged himself beneath the ice.

"It's all right," A soft whisper entered his ear. Your voice, a safe haven against the relentless blizzard that pierced his skin.

The noose around his throat loosened. Cold air blanketed his boiling skin. His back let the fabric over the sofa, and when he returned to it, his bare skin brushed against the material. He furrowed his brows. You'd taken off his shirt and tie.

It was quiet now. There were no more clinking glances and lively chatter. Only the silence of the night and the sound of breathing. Yours or his, he didn't know. Blearily, he opened his eyes and saw your blurred figure.

You leaned close, "That's it, just breathe."

Your perfume entered his nose, and he sucked in a harsh breath. You were like a drug, threatening every inch of his control. The urge to clutch your hips and pull you on top of him raged in his chest. Once he got a bit of you, he'd never let you go.

Zayne was a greedy man.

"W-What happened?" He rasped.

"Greyson called me over and asked me to check on you because you'd disappeared outside," You murmured. "You were standing there, muttering about how you wanted to go home. Then, I realised you were drunk."

"Drunk?" Zayne breathed, twisting the thought in his aching mind.

"Not badly. You hide it well. But I was surprised because I thought you didn't like alcohol in large amounts," You hummed, resting your hand on his forehead, brushing his hair out of his face.

He realised the feeling, wanted more of it. Wanted too much more.

He sighed deeply, "I don't."

"Then why'd you drink it?" You tilted your head, confused. 

Because he couldn't stand the sight of you touching others, knowing he craved to touch you so much more.

You looked beautiful in the moonlight. Creamy blue light cast upon your features, highlighting cheekbone and nose and eyes. Your eyes gleamed. Zayne felt like he was staring at an angel, a divine entity that decided to take pity on his miserable plight.

He was a man who wanted to feel but was terrified of feeling.

"I─ Don't trouble yourself," He turned to look away.

You grasped his jaw, forcing it forward so he had to look at you, "Don't look away from me. Something's been bothering you for a while," He tried to jerk away from your hands' hold, but your grip only tightened. "Don't avoid me."

His eyes drifted down to your hands. He wanted them. He wanted to hold them, to kiss them, to pin them, to put them on him. He swallowed harshly, spikes of ice in his throat freezing his throat.

You took notice of his attention, "Is it me? I know you're really cautious about touch.  I've been trying my best to go at your pace, I swear, but if I've made you uncomfortable...Oh, my Go─"

You flinched away from him. Horrified at the thought of horrifying him. 

"I'm so sorry─"

Zayne lurched forward to grasp your hand in his own. His heart was hammering in his chest. His mouth was dry, and he was struggling, flailing helplessly. He needed to explain; he needed you to understand that you weren't making him uncomfortable. You never could; you made him feel better than anyone else. No, the issue was his.

"Zayne..." You whispered.

He clutched your hands in his, eyes trained on yours.

"I am a selfish man," He began, scathingly, "Gluttonous to a fault. I cannot simply have part of a thing and not want the rest of it.  Greed compels me to want more. I find it easier to abstain entirely from that which I want in its entirety."

You furrowed your brows, "Meaning?"

"Meaning I want you. All of you," Zayne confessed, "I don't want small, domestic touches. Like a lecherous fool, I want to possess you and be possessed in return. I want every inch of you to be mine. And I know if I touch you, I won't stop until every part of you is marked by me, mind, body, soul."

You were silent for a moment.

"You talk like you need to have the restraint of a god," You murmured.

Zayne licked his lips, "When it comes to you, I do. Nothing has ever tested me the way you do."

"But I don't want a god," You smiled, "I want a man. Weak and flawed. Passionate and desiring. Loving and intimate. I want you."

"I won't let you go," He rasped.

"Good. Because I won't let you go," You promised.

Somewhere, the ice spires in his heart shattered.

Zayne yanked his hand out of yours. It shot up, wrapped itself around the back of your neck and tugged forward. Onto his waiting lips. Your squeak of surprise was swallowed by his kiss, his lips colliding with yours in a fierce passion you'd never felt. Zayne was not slow, nor was he gentle; he was far too starved for civility.

His fingers clutched the back of your neck as he pulled you further into him. His other hand slipped to your waist to tug you forward onto his lap. There was wine on your lips, and he licked at them to savour the taste.

Your hands caressed up his chest. He shivered delightfully at the touch, pressing into your palms. He felt delirious, ravenous, insatiable. Your perfume flooded his nose, and he wanted to leave marks where you'd sprayed it. Your neck, your wrists, your knees, your ankles. He'd mark you in every way.

His rhythm was an unforgiving one, but you matched it with enthusiasm. Tongues and teeth clashing as your lips met over and over again. Zayne would leave your lips brusied with his affection, he decided. No one would doubt your relationship. No one would doubt his love for you.

Your hand slipped into his hair, tugging lightly. He grunted and kissed your lips again. You tugged again. Harder.  He pulled away, studying your flushed features. 

You grinned giddily, "I think we should take this to the bedroom, yeah?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea, Angel," Zayne smiled.

Taglist: @kaiofhobbiton @miffysoo @glitterykingdomangel @sylusqt @welpthisisboring @silver--47

[mycrowskitten]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, slow burn, language, mentions of blood & injury, alcohol, mutual pining, romantic tension, jealousy, mild angst tracklist: tú - maye fig. 1 | fig. 2 | fig. 3 | fig. 4 | fig. 5 | fig. 6

Consciousness toddles in with the finesse of a newborn fawn.

There’s no extravagant fanfare when you fully come to. When you sit up, throat dry, lips sticky, hair chaotic. 

A dull throbbing in your temples and your sides screaming for water is your primary greeting, courtesy of one too many glasses of something you’ll never fuck with again. It went down smoothly enough. But that’s the dangerous part, isn’t it?

Sunlight leaks in, muddied amber across the floor. A sky stuck between raining and roasting the asphalt like marshmallows held to a bonfire. It’s morning if the mourning doves cooing outside is any gauge. 

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to discern familiar shapes, patterns, and textures. The memory foam sinking beneath your palm. Your comforter puddled around your waist. Your bed.

Wait.

Your bed? Your room?

When did you…get here? 

And how?

Wading through the shallow waters of your mind, you catch streams of the night prior. 

Popcorn. Alcohol. The couch. Batman. 

The texture of an expensive sweater imprinting its pattern into your cheek. Even breaths. Heartbeats to match. An arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as if to shield you from the cruelty of the world. That warm scent of skin blended with sandalwood and mahogany. Red eyes like supernovae. Hair tickling your temple. Pretty, heart-shaped lips blurring in and out of focus, slowly panning in.

“Not yet,” rasped when they eased back.

Your heart pinching. A whine. A responding chuckle, a thumb pulling at your poked-out lip. 

Shit.

With a groan, you collapse into your pillows. Shield your eyes with the back of your hand as warmth invades your neck and face.

You almost kissed him. 

Again. 

And there were no mysterious phone calls to interrupt this time. No suspicious trips to take him away. No Roomba to muck up the mood. Nothing but your dulled nerves and the syrupy slosh of liquor in your gut and loosened inhibitions. Yet you were once again barred from making progress. From taking what you’ve craved more than the nostalgic caw of seagulls and the grit of sand between your toes. 

Foiled again. 

You don’t know if you’re more frazzled by another would-be kiss or how trashed you got. Your roommate’s lived with you for almost a year. He’s seen you hammered. Saved you from yourself a few times, cutting you off when your tongue got hung up on syllables and you blinked like your eyelids were sticky with syrup. But he’s gratefully never seen you sloppy. 

Were you sloppy? Gods, did you try to—

Fuck.

Thoughts recalibrating, you frown, trying to recall how you made it up to your room. It yields nothing but your head throbbing in defiance. A hiss. More questions. Less clarity. 

You can only remember warmth. Safety. Softness. That smell—his smell. Lips on your cheek, lingering as if soaking all the heat of your body into his. A raspy voice whispering goodnight. Your mattress sighing when his body left your side, the cautious click of your door, the light of the hallway fading out. A dizzying descent into darkness. 

Did he…did he carry you? Upstairs? To your room? With dirty laundry piled in the hamper and an embarrassing amount of bottled water collecting on your nightstand? 

The thought of it makes your face burn hotter. Your chest spasms, and you sink further down your headboard, willing your mattress to open up and swallow you whole.

Your self-pity party is short-lived when laughter and squealing erupt from outside. Kids enjoying the humid call of summer. 

As mortified as you feel, you can’t rot in bed all day. You’re no bitch. Never one to tuck your tail between your legs and retreat. Besides, the aromatic wisp of your favorite coffee beckons to you from downstairs, making it nearly impossible to fall back asleep.

If he made coffee, he still likes you, right? You didn’t overstep? Didn’t try to touch him beyond what he allowed?

And if he’s maintaining some sense of normalcy, shouldn’t you be, too?

Having a little faith in yourself, you leave the safety of your bed and crowd into the shower where the crisp spray awakens stubborn nerves. You ease into something comfortable afterward, loose enough to make the heat bearable, padding downstairs to an empty kitchen.

Coffee awaits you in that expensive drip. Breakfast under a cheesecloth on the noodle board. Familiar sticky note on top with a crudely sketched cat sticking out its tongue. 

You couldn’t have messed up too badly last night if he’s still using his terrible drawing skills to antagonize you.

You finish your coffee, lowering the mug into the sink and rinsing it. Eat your breakfast standing, watching kids run by with their infectious laughter beyond the bay window. 

While you were in the bathroom trying to make sense of the world, you sifted through your medicine cabinet for something for your hangover. To your dismay, only cough syrup, nasal spray, and Band-Aids peered back.

So, you snatch up your keys from the counter, slip into your sandals, and prepare to battle the heatwave for a trip to the convenience store. 

You don’t know where Sylus is. If he’s even home. Didn’t bother checking, too discomfited to confront him now. Not until you’ve established a game plan on how to address what could’ve been. 

The heat hits like you’ve walked into a sheet of plastic wrap when you step outside. Petrichor threatens the air. Wet earth, warmed rocks. The sky’s half grey, dense with nimbostratus clouds. If you leave now, you can beat the rain. 

You drag yourself down the steps of your porch towards the driveway. And here, something feels…off. Like the prickle of charged ions before lightning strikes. Your skin tingles as you reach for the driver's side handle of your car, trying to shake it off.

But you’re not crazy.

There’s movement behind you. The familiar aroma of bodywash. Before you can turn to acknowledge the intruder, hands encase your arms, violently twisting you towards the street. 

He ducks behind you before you can get a word out. A wash of white and mischief. You're stammering, trying to catch a glimpse of him. But then—

Splat!

Cold. 

Teeth-chattering cold, saturating your shirt, your hair, and dripping down your face. 

You pop your eyes open following the impact, the remnants of a water balloon blurred at your feet. You’ve no time to brace for the next before it explodes on your shin. Another blasts your hip, a shriek dying in your throat against the onslaught.  

Laughter follows as your vision clears. The neon glint of Super Soakers catches in the sunlight before you’re sprayed from different angles. Little feet batter against the asphalt in retreat. You drip like a sopping, wet cat in the aftermath, realizing too late you’ve been used as a human shield.

He used you. 

He used you. 

“You son of a—!”

Sylus darts from behind you towards the street before you can punch him, laughing. Not his usual dry, rich bastard chuckle. Something boyish and unhindered that would stir something in your chest if vengeance didn’t reside there first.

Children come out of the woodwork, giving chase, their plastic weapons trained on him. 

“Get him!” someone commands. 

You think that’s not a bad idea.

You eye the bucket of brightly-colored, shifting water balloons at the edge of the curb. Scoop up a couple, joining the kids in their pursuit.

“I trusted you!” you shout, your balloons clutched to your chest.

But Sylus is already halfway down the street, quick, smug over his shoulder with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen him wear. 

For a moment, the world slows. And if it weren’t already obvious the universe was conspiring against you, your sandal snaps. 

You stumble, the world tilting, your water balloons splattering on the street. You follow suit, scraping your toes, knee, and catching yourself on your palm.

“Shit!” you hiss, sitting up and holding your stinging hand.

The children gasp, crowding around you. Heavy footfalls cut through the dissonance. Sylus is beside you in seconds, blurring into focus with the sun haloing his hair, and he’s crouching, hovering. Hands paused near your shoulders, flexing with an impulse to touch. 

“Are you alright?” The playfulness in his voice is gone, making way for tender concern and furrowed brows.

He cups the crook of your knee with one hand, already scraped raw with grit and rocks and shallow streaks of blood. Sucking in a sharp breath, he assesses the damage to your hand next. Not as bad, but still burning an angry red.

You wince. “I’m fine, just—ow.”

Sighing, Sylus picks up your mangled sandal, holding it between you like a roadkill at the end of a stick. “I told you to toss these months ago.”

You glare at him, the adrenaline ebbing. “They’re my old faithfuls! I’ve had them since college,” you lament.

“You mean they’re death traps?” He doesn’t await your snark, already slipping an arm around your back. “Come. Let’s get you up.”

The neighborhood kids part as Sylus hefts you to your feet. Your arm finds his shoulders, and his hand burns through the fabric of your denim at your side to brace you.

He turns towards the house. You stop him before he steps off, turning to him with wide eyes. “Wait!”

You didn’t forget about how he heartlessly used you as a meat shield earlier. So while he eyes you suspiciously, you bring a water balloon you snuck from one of the kids between your faces and squeeze. 

“Really?” he flatly chastises, water dripping down his face.

You snort, swiping droplets from your lashes. Worth it. 

“I should let you hobble back yourself,” he says. But you don’t miss the amused undertones of his voice. And you know he wouldn’t dare do that. Not after you almost broke your wrist chasing him down.

—

You’re seated on your porch bench minutes later, frowning, a cool towel pressed to your scratched-up knee. You haven’t removed your intact sandal yet, kicking up your foot, reciting an internal eulogy for your fallen friend.

Sylus crouches in front of you with a first aid kit he procured from your trunk, pouring some antiseptic onto a cloth. 

“This might sting,” he warns, removing the towel and propping your leg on his thigh.

“Perfect,” you laugh humorlessly, bracing yourself.

You wince at the prickly bite of it. He captures you in his gaze, studying your face for discomfort, fingers gentle yet rehearsed as they dab away dried blood. Inwardly, you wonder how many times he’s done this before—cleaned up booboos for pretty girls who busted their asses chasing him down. 

When he’s satisfied with his work, he angles down and blows. Gentle. Patient. Cool air dusts your scrape, soothing the burn, and sending your pulse roaring in your throat.

He’s pretty like this—kneeling between your legs, white hair dusting his brows, dark lashes bowed, pink lips pursed. For a moment, your mind sinks back into last night.

You clear your throat, putting on that haughty little facade.

“Y’know, this wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t sacrifice me to a bunch of grade schoolers.”

He chuckles, still attentive, still holding your leg like it’s made of glass, assessing his work. “If it makes you feel any better, you saved me from those grade schoolers.”

“Not intentionally. You used me.”

Setting your foot down on the ground, he next takes up your hand to clean it. “I adapted. You just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”

Rolling your eyes, you pull a face, flinching when the disinfectant seeps into one particularly deep cut on your palm. He blows on that, too, and you take note of how perfect his hand feels, dwarfing yours.

Your expression softens when he looks up with a fond cant to his lips, and you forget how your lungs work for a second.

Rummaging in the tin, he produces a Band Aid adorned with cat paws and whiskers, and tapes it onto your knee. He pats your thigh for good measure, flashing that ridiculous, thousand-watt grin.

“What? No lollipop?” you jab.

He ignores you, sliding onto the bench beside you, long, leggy, dizzying warmth. He slings an arm across the bench’s backrest like it’s second nature, his thumb grazing your shoulder to soothe. 

“I’ll buy you new sandals,” he says, eyeing the one dangling from your toes. 

“Don’t want new ones. These got me through shitty breakups and many a night spent in painful heels.”

“Then I’ll break them in before I give them to you. I’ll make sure they’re riddled with holes with no tread left. That sound like a deal?”

You smack him on his chest, his resulting snicker playing up your spine like a xylophone, turning your brain into primordial sludge.

—

The familiar jingle of the ice cream truck echoes through the cul-de-sac, a stark cutout of white and pink amid the grey slowly overtaking the sky. 

The chirp of cicadas and sprinklers jolting to life give way to the laughter and squealing of children running barefoot across the street to gather around as the truck slows to a stop partway to your house. 

It’s humid—a product of the atmosphere threatening rain. 

Sylus looks up, bowed forward with his elbows on his knees, his shirt sticking to his back like snakeskin. You get a good look at those biceps. The veins spilling like constellations down to his wrists, fingers intertwined.

He peers back at you, all teeth and amusement, tone soft, barely above the commotion. “Want anything?”

Before you can answer, he’s already standing. Already fishing his wallet from his pocket, so unfairly tall and good looking, shadowed by your porch cover. A statue etched from marble—something human eyes weren’t meant to see. 

“My treat. Consider it penance for you getting hurt because of me.”

You squint up at him. He’s just trying to butter you up. And it’s working. “I’ll take a Bomp Pop. Since I lost blood today. Hydration and all that.”

Chuckling, and after a nod, you watch him trot down the steps, making his way towards the truck. The kids greet him exuberantly, all varying sizes and ages, parting for Mister Sylus like a school of fish. It’s comical, watching them jump around this skyscraper of a man, tugging on his hands, begging him to buy out the truck.

He’s already on it, fishing a black card from his wallet and thrusting it towards the vendor, telling the children to get whatever they want.

You watch the scene unfold, a dull ache behind your ribs. For someone who claims to disdain people, he’s a magnet for them. He doesn’t try hard to be liked. To get along. To fit in. He just naturally falls into place wherever he goes, fitting as seamlessly as a well-placed Tetris piece.

The neighborhood kids love him. The older residents tolerate him, despite his obnoxious revving of the motor on his bike in the wee hours of the night. He’s a favorite amongst the housewives, which, duh. Can you blame them? Have you seen him?

They find excuses to swing by the house to chat and bring him food when he’s in the garage working on his bike with his tank half off, hair sweat-slicked, skin sun-kissed. He’s a flirt without trying to be. Naturally attractive, but that’s only part of the reason he was able to carve a Sylus-shaped cavity in your chest. 

He’s back with your popsicle while you’re hung up in the nebula of your thoughts, already unwrapped and sweating condensation and sugar down the side of his hand.

“Peace offering,” he rasps, holding it towards you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and your skin vibrates from the simple exchange of skin. For a moment, he looms, lips still rucked up on one side, and it looks like he’s about to say something. But he decides against it, sliding onto his spot beside you, watching the mob of children slowly dissipate.

Silence hangs between you for a while. Comfortable, until the ice cream truck leaves, and thunder roils somewhere far off in its place. 

Your popsicle drips in nostalgic red and blue down your wrist. You’re halfway distracted, studying your roomie’s side profile like you can peer into thoughts if you stare hard enough. 

Eventually, he rises with a stretch, a swatch of toned, warm ivory skin playing peek-a-boo from beneath his shirt. 

“We should get inside before it rains,” he says, glancing at your bare feet—you finally parted with your other shoe.

Nodding, you maneuver yourself to get up. But the world’s moving beneath your feet, wind on your face, threading through your hair, as Sylus scoops you up before you can step down.

“Sylus, I can—”

He shakes his head, lips tilting. “Just enjoy the ride.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re inwardly squealing from how good his arms feel cradling you. 

He props you on the kitchen counter when you’re inside, the granite top cool beneath your thighs. You swing your legs like a happy little thing, finishing off your popsicle while he rifles through the fridge for something to prep for lunch.

There’s a quiet concentration between his brows. In the set of his jaw as he rinses vegetables in the sink, sets them on the cutting board, and procures a pan from the cupboard to set on the burner. Domesticity suits him. Whenever he’s done selling property and whatever else he does on the side, you think he’d make a killing as a house husband.

Watching him move around your kitchen with a quiet grace—slippers, loose-hanging pants, soft eyes—makes your chest burn. It’s almost like he’s lived here his whole life. Like this is home. 

He catches you staring beneath the soft hue of light spilling through the sheer whisper of your curtains, and his smirk eats shit.

But then, he stops halfway to the pantry, the humor sloughing off his face. It’s replaced by something unreadable as he turns, padding towards you as soundlessly as a cat. 

He leans over the counter towards you, palms roosted on its edge, arms bracketing your thighs. The air shifts. Pulses with charged ions. You get a nose-full of cologne and warm skin. Unconsciously lean forward as he angles closer, scarlet gaze jolting between your eyes and lips.

Popsicle forgotten, you brace your hands on the counter, lids drooping, lids pursing. He mirrors you, so close, your breaths mingle, and your skin hums with the press of his body between your legs.

He’s going to kiss you this time—you’re sure of it. Nothing’s holding you back this time. No deceptively sweet liquor, no nerves, no hesitation.

The air tightens like a hand towel being wrung dry. You’re holding your breath when your noses brush. Let a sweet little sound leave your tight throat, one of your hands closing around his wrist.

But the universe hates you, remember? She’s a finicky bitch who’s gotta be on her period. 

Because a familiar, obnoxious ringtone startles you apart, coming from his pocket.

He exhales through his mouth, still so tortuously close. He waits until the ringing stops before he tries again. But that god damn phone starts acting up again. Whoever’s on the other end means business. That, or they’re intentionally cock-blocking. 

“It’s alright,” you whisper around a wobbly smile, voice husky, blood throbbing in your neck. “Get it.”

He hesitates like it hurts. Drops his head into the pocket of your shoulder, letting out a strained, frustrated noise before ducking back, snatching his phone out, and pacing into the living room to take the call.

You catch it—that name. The one always snatching him away, activating him like a sleeper agent. 

Your stomach sinks. Twists. You hop down from the counter, needing something to busy your shaking hands, adrenaline still spuming through you. So, you take to chopping vegetables, smiling bitterly at the cutting board as his voice fades in and out in the background. 

You’re the safety in his life. The sense of normalcy he seeks when he isn’t jetting around the world, cryptic with what he does. His “clients.” You’re the woman with a scraped knee, shitty taste in shoes, and a terrible time holding her alcohol.

Meanwhile, whoever’s on the phone is his world-ender. 

tags: @blessdunrest @peascrabbles @finalgirlfanatic @kpop-athena @codedove @yourlocalcatscammer @darkeskye @zaynessbeloved @young-adult-summer @seventeen-x @ikesimpleton @raginginferno267 @dyeinsomniadontwake @satansdaughter123 @nerezzaworlds-blog @secretkiseki @beesin03 @animecrazy76 @thirstblogforaparchedgirl

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[mycrowskitten]

LOVE, WITHOUT QUESTION ! — LADS!MEN

[♕]: including — sweet pure love, heart aching fluff. That's pretty much it <33 [♡₊˚ ♕]: her highness's decree: Love is complicated, messy, irrational, and even seemingly ridiculous. But without question, it’s still the softest touch in the chaos, the tender thread that holds you together, and the unrelenting care that never lets go—no matter how imperfect the journey <3 (also yes I’m obsessed with soft love😭🎀)

like these jewels? check out --> lads masterlist

sylus who won't allow you you to face anything alone. Not because he thinks you're weak/not strong enough. No, not by a long shot. But because why would you should deal with any pressing matter alone? Even if it's the simplest wanderer, or the easiest problem.

He’s already there—beside you, just a step behind or ahead depending on what you need. Not hovering. Just present. Steady. Protective in that quiet, deliberate way of his.

Sylus doesn’t ask, doesn’t make a show of it. He simply moves with you—shoulder brushing yours, hand ghosting at your lower back, eyes tracking every detail like he’s memorizing the air around you. And when things get heavy, even if you haven’t spoken a word, he’s already set his hand over yours, grounding you with that unshakeable calm.

“Doesn’t matter the ordeal,” he murmurs once, when you tried to wave him off with a tired smile. “If it regards you, it matters to me.”

zayne who never lets you two go to bed on a disagreement, the mere thought of not having your warmth near him a night heart breaking. So he gives you your space, allowing you to cool off and calm down. However once he sees you settle into bed about to turn away from him he stops you, gently but firmly.

"We don't have to finish this tonight but, I don't want us going to bed cross with each other." His voice softer than usual, a quiet rasp that cut through the low hum of the room. A flicker of softness in his eyes as His hand finds yours beneath the sheets. Fingers threading together in a slow, deliberate motion, grounding.

“I can take space, my love, I can take silence. But not distance—not from you. Not like this.”

You'll feel the tension in your chest loosen, just a bit. With the way he looks at you—even in conflict, he looks at you like you're still the most important thing in his world. Which makes it exceedingly harder to hold onto the frustration you held from earlier. After seeing your shoulders droop and your body turn, he tugs you just a bit closer, head dipping to press a soft kiss to your temple.

“My affections will never cease simply because we don't see eye to eye on some matters, I'll always love you. Regardless of our disputes."

caleb who jolts awake immediately when he feels you shaking or whimpering from a bad dream, instincts kicking in the second he feels your body tense beside him. One hand reaches for you without hesitation—steady, warm, grounding on your waist.

“Pips?” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep, brow furrowed in concern. When he sees the faint shimmer of tears in your lashes or the way your breath hitches like you’re fighting something in the dream, his chest tightens.

He pulls you closer instantly, wrapping you in his arms like a shield. “Hey, hey—‘s okay, just a dream, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple with a tenderness that only ever came out in the quiet of night. His voice, low and full of warmth, seemingly reaching into your chest and loosening the grip of whatever nightmare had hold of your pretty mind.

xavier who never leaves you without kissing your knuckles, and your ring finger. A soft, habitual gesture that never loses its weight no matter how many times he does it. Even if he’s running late or half-asleep, or if it’s just a trip to the corner store, his lips will find your hand, warm and kiss over your knuckles like a silent vow.

And then— that gentle kiss to your ring finger, sweeter than the rest.

It’s not possessive. It’s not even showy, not even purposefully flirty.

Just a simple reminder.

Sometimes he’ll murmur, “Be safe my star,” against your skin with a sweet smile. Other times, when the morning is quiet and his eyes are still heavy with sleep, he just presses that last kiss with a lingering glance as if to silently say: You’re it for me.

And if he ever forgets — if he’s distracted or pulled away too fast — he’ll double back no matter what. Never caring who's around.

rafayel who kisses your moles and marks so lightly, so soft, as if you were porcelain. Whispering soft praises into your skin, practically worshiping your body like a sacred blessing. Rafayel, who leads you into his studio the second he hears you ‘joking’ about how you wish you could be rid of your imperfections—gently but firmly telling you he won’t have that kind of talk about his greatest love in his presence.

He sits you down beneath the soft hum of warm studio light, his palette already in hand. “Sit still for me, dove,” he murmurs, voice low and tender as he begins to mix colors, brushing your skin clean like it’s sacred. Then, with delicate patience, Rafayel starts to paint. A slow, tender piece—blooming petals across your shoulder, celestial trails down your spine, soft vines around the moles you once thought were mistakes.

Between each stroke, he leans in to press kisses to your skin—your shoulder, the back of your neck, the curve of your arm—reverent and warm, like prayer. “You don’t need to be fixed, or changed," he murmurs as he paints. “You’re already perfect, cutie. I’m just adding a frame.”

® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !

[mycrowskitten]

[ sylus x mc ] 💍

[mycrowskitten]

when the cold air hits ur face, it's "zayne-kissed" ❄️. ゜

[mycrowskitten]

Classified: Asset W

Pairing: Sylus X Reader Marriage AU

Words: 5.4K

This is a gift for the lovely @diamondtiger! When she said she was craving glasses/Sylus beig a sexy menace, I knew it was my duty to deliver! It's a love letter to fogged lenses, war crimes committed in your honour, and the kind of husband who gets hard from handing you a file full of executions, the dream honestly.

Beta-read by her majesty herself @diamondtiger💎- thank you for your hard work lovely!

Content warnings ⚠️

Explicit sexual content. Power imbalance. Dubious morality (he murders people… lovingly). Mentions of torture/execution. Glasses kink, paperwork kink, violence kink, he-is-my-husband-and-my-weapon kink. Fingering. Couture disrespect with 0 apologies! Aftercare. No thoughts, just tiddies and tactical precision.

If you feel there’s any other warnings I need to add then please reach out and let me know!

You lingered in the doorway of his office, hip resting against the smooth wood, wine glass in hand. 

The soft light of his office cast a warm amber glow over everything. Leather-bound folders, metal paperweights, and pens arranged with exact precision. Everything in its place. The far wall featured a large window that displayed the glowing hues of the vibrant N109 zone. The city came alive at night, illuminated by neon and bloodlust. It was filled with possibilities and vibrancy. However, here, inside the warmth of your shared home, everything was calm. Heavy. Private. The kind of hush that invited confessions or sins.

And he looked obscene like this.

Relaxed in his chair, he lounged with one ankle resting casually on his knee. A file was balanced against the edge of his desk, while his reading glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose. His silver hair, long at the nape and tousled, gave away his true state of mind. He was too busy to bother with neatness, a testament to too many moments running his hands through it. 

He hadn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he had and was letting you believe otherwise.

You took a sip of wine, eyes tracing the slope of his throat, the way the collar of his black shirt gaped open just enough to expose the chain resting against his skin. The glint of his rings in the low light drew your attention to the slow drag of his finger over the page. 

His lips were curved into something too soft to be a smile, too knowing to be neutral.

The glass trembled slightly in your hand.

“You planning to stand there all night?” he asked without looking up, voice low and lazy.

Alas, you were caught. Still, you didn't move, only leaning your shoulder a little deeper into the doorframe as you shielded your warm cheeks behind your glass. 

“Maybe,” you murmured.

That made him slowly glance up. His carmine eyes peeked over the rim of his glasses.

Fuck. The look in his eyes, sharp and static, made your spine straighten and your thighs press together.  He didn’t speak right away. Just let his gaze coast over you with a hunger you could physically feel.

Yes, you were staring. And he was staring right back at you. 

Not that you could blame him. It was only natural for him to stare when you’d dressed exactly for him. 

A silk scrap of fabric that could in no way be called a nightdress clung to your skin, baring just the right amount of cleavage and sitting prettily well above mid-thigh. A matching dressing gown hung lazily from your shoulders, covering about as much as the dress did. And it was all in his colour: blood red and black lace.

"You’re staring," you teased, flashing a sly grin.

“You’re… distracting,” he breathed. His eyes drifted closed as he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. You nearly mourned the loss.

“It’s late, darling. When will you be finished?”

“Mmm.” He hummed at the pet name, eyes snapping open to drink you in. “I just need to finish this last report. And then I’m all yours.” 

He placed his glasses back in their rightful spot on his face.

You smiled bashfully, your eyes dropped to the file resting on his thigh. You caught a flash of something brutal. A name you recognised. A sentence underlined in red.

His voice came again, softer now. “You want to know what it says, sweetie?”

Your stomach fluttered. “That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether I’m going to like the contents.”

His smile sharpened. He set the folder down and curled two fingers toward you in invitation, a warm light glinting across those frameless glasses.

"Come here."

You took a single step forward. Then another and another until you were directly between him and the desk. 

Up close, he was even more devastating. His sly smirk and blown-out pupils reeked of sin and the inevitable debauchery he would make of you. He sprawled in his chair like it was a throne, and you, his loyal subject. Like he owned you.

And let’s be honest, he did. He owned you and you owned him. Two pets calling each other master and falling over themselves to please each other. 

The air between you had thickened into something molten. You expected him to gesture to a seat, maybe hand you the folder like a challenge.

But you should’ve known your husband better than that.

He reached for your wrist and tugged you with a twist of strength and intention. You were pulled down onto his lap, thighs bracketing his with your back to his front. 

The wine glass nearly tipped in your hand, crimson sloshing against the crystal as you gave a startled squeak of protest. 

“Sylus!” You gasped, startled, but he didn’t give you a moment to catch your breath.

His arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you there. Close and controlled.

“Sit, I want to share the spoils of my victories with you,” he murmured, nose grazing your cheek. “You smell like cherries and sin.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you tilted the glass away, setting it down on the desk with trembling fingers. 

His grip on your waist tightened, dragging you flush against the hard planes of his chest, your ass cradled firmly in his lap. He pressed a warm palm to your stomach, coaxing you to relax into his hold.

And that’s when you felt it.

Him.

Hard and undeniable. 

He chuckled, low and enticing, the breath of it ghosting over the skin of your neck.

“Don’t squirm," he warned, voice a low purr. "Or we’ll be here even longer than I planned. Weren't you in such a rush to get me to bed, sweetie?"

Your throat went dry. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

That earned a low chuckle from him, breath hot against your ear.

The file was lifted from the desk by the red and black tendrils of his evol and placed in your hands.

“Page three,” he instructed, flipping it open with clinical precision. “Start from the second paragraph. Right here.”

His hand over yours, he guided your finger to the line, then sat back against the chair, utterly relaxed. 

You looked down at the file and hesitated, the weight of its contents suddenly very real.

“Read it, kitten.” He smoothed his hand down your side, pinching the meat of your hip in a light warning to obey before wrapping it back around your middle, holding you close. 

You took a deep breath. 

“Subject 07C, real name Janek Roven, executed 02:14 a.m. Local time. Immediate cause: exsanguination. Final statement-’” You paused, skin prickling, “I didn’t mean to. Please don’t kill me.” 

Sylus hummed in approval behind you, the sound vibrating along your back. One hand slipped from around your middle, trailing lower, fingers delicately brushing the curve of your thigh. It was just a light tickle, a mere drag of his fingertips across the skin, but it told you everything about his intentions. 

You paused at the touch, relishing in the feeling of your husband’s warm hands on your skin. You already knew what he wanted, how this whole thing would play out; it was just a matter of time. 

He knew you so well – where to touch, where to tease, what you liked. He knew your tells, spotting that slight hitch in your breath when you felt his fingers graze your skin. 

His pretty little kitten, always so in tune with him, so sensitive that just a touch was enough to have your heart rate pick up and your breath catch. 

"Keep going." 

You swallowed, eyes flicking over the next line, the words blurring before your unfocused eyes as you fought to focus on anything but him and his wandering hands. 

It wasn’t your fault. Your whole body had been fine-tuned to match his frequency, instinctively responsive to give him what he wanted. Years of marriage and fighting side by side would do that to any couple, but the connection you had with Sylus ran much deeper than that. 

Two souls, bound together for eternity, two halves of one whole. Of course, it was inevitable that a simple touch would have your mind reeling.

His hand traced over your thigh, firmer and more deliberate. His thumb tracing slow, idle circles, right at the hem of your nightgown, dipping under it and smoothing over your supple skin. 

How he expected you to be able to read anything was beyond you. It would’ve made more sense to just forget about it altogether and get to fucking.

You were already wet, had been since you’d seen him in those goddamned glasses. Your hips shifted, feeling him hard against your ass. He was clearly ready too, so what was the point in stalling? 

“Sylus-” 

“Shhhh,” he murmured, voice featherlight and soft against the shell of your ear, placating. “You're doing so well. Keep going. Keep reading for me, my pretty girl.”

You sighed. He clearly had some ulterior motive here. Something was happening inside his head to demand this of you. You’d indulge him, of course. 

“Body parts retrieved and sent to Roven’s associates,” you began, your voice a little thinner than before, breathier in a way that betrayed how his touches had affected you. You should’ve been ashamed at how easily he riled you up, especially with the contents of the folder in your hands. “Site 32 destroyed. Combustion initiated via direct ignition. Chemical accelerant ensured complete structural collapse. Confirmed by satellite at 2:47 a.m. Remaining assets-” 

He pressed a kiss just below your ear, warm and lingering, interrupting the flow of your words. The cold of his glasses followed, a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth. 

You shivered.

“Don’t stop,” he coaxed, lips brushing against your jaw. “You’re learning so much.”

“I don’t want-”

“For me, kitten.”

He shifted beneath you then, just enough to grind the length of him against your ass. To make sure you felt exactly what this was doing to him. This is what he wanted. 

It was turning him on. 

Pervert. 

Your next exhale came out shaky, caught between a giggle and a breath. Unsteady.

You wanted to tease him back, to make him drop the facade and just take you like he wanted to. 

You tried to move against him, to sit forward, to rock your hips over him, to urge him on, but his arm locked tighter around your waist. Stopping you. Steadying you. Controlling you.

“I said,” he began, dipping his lips to the crook of your neck and biting your skin there. “Keep reading.”

You gasped and choked on the words as he continued his assault on your neck, lavishing kisses and swiping his tongue against the sensitive skin of your throat. “As-assets include Alpha and Beta-m-mmph-” 

His mouth dipped lower, trailing a line of heat down your skin, slow and reverent. He shifted again, leaning forward to press his chest firmly against your back, until his teeth grazed the skin just above your collarbone.

You clenched your hands around the folder.

“-A-and high gr-grade protocores from Onychinus’ eastern faction base.” 

He withdrew his hand from its grip on your thigh and passed you a highlighter, like it was nothing.

“Here,” he said. “Highlight that last sentence. Slowly.”

Your fingers trembled as you obeyed, dragging the pen across the printed line. He rewarded you with the hand still around your waist, trailing up, up to cup your breast and roll your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

“He-he stole from you?” you asked, voice shaking. 

“Mmmhmm,” he hummed, dragging one shoulder of your dressing gown down, baring your warm skin to his predatory gaze. 

He pressed another kiss against the newly bared skin, eyes fixed on your hand as you finished underlining. 

He hummed again, low and satisfied. “There,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

Heat tore through you like wildfire, like a switch had been flipped. Your knees twitched with the need to press against each other, but he would never allow that. Not when he had you right where he wanted you, trapped in his lap with nowhere to go, his voice sinking into you like velvet soaked in wine.

“Your voice is so sweet,” he murmured, tone dipped in satisfaction. “I should’ve made you read to me a long time ago. It’s much easier to digest this way.”

Sylus’ hand trailed higher up your thigh, nudging up the hem of your dress up and up, until it sat dangerously high on your thighs. One centimetre higher and he would discover the terrible secret you had been hiding from him all night. 

His other palm moved down from your shoulder and flattened against your stomach. His fingers splayed wide, thumb and pinky spanning the length of your belly, measuring just how deep he knew he fit inside you. 

His breath stuttered against your collarbone when his thumb traced a soft line above your navel. His palm flattening fully and pulling you impossibly tighter against his chest.

Sylus shifted beneath you again, rucking up to press his legs between yours. He was a menace, spreading his thighs under yours and gently forcing them apart with his own. It left you with nowhere to run, no leverage to buck upwards or make demands of him. His body pressed against you, hard, steady and deliberate. He moved you as he saw fit, grinding the full length of himself over the curve of your ass and exhaling a shaky breath that fanned warm against your shoulder.

A groan caught low in his throat. One he swallowed down with a soft bite and a slow sweep of his tongue across your shoulder. The dressing gown slipped lower, baring even more of you to the chill in the room. 

“Let’s keep going,” he said softly. It wasn’t a request.

His fingers on your thigh moved again, just a hair higher up your thigh, raking your skirt up completely and uncovering your heat. 

The cold air made you shiver.

“Start from the top of the next paragraph,” he added he said, voice patient but firm. “And take your time. I want to hear every word.”

You didn’t move.

Not yet.

Not until he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear and whispered, “Or do I need to remind you what happens when you disobey?”

That made your breath catch and spurred you into action.

You picked up the page again.

“Remaining assets under surveillance. Operative… Operative 31-”

You paused, as his mouth grazed your jaw yet again. 

“Go on, sweetie,” he urged gently, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “I need to hear you.”

“Operative 31 terminated targets 8C through 10A-ah-less than-”

The soft gasp escaped you as his hand moved higher again, confident and unhurried. He didn’t even pause when he discovered your little secret. No panties, nothing between you. He just groaned, low and visceral, and slid a single finger smoothly through your wet slit, spreading your juices around and making you even messier than before.

You couldn’t finish the line, eyes fuzzy from the sudden onslaught of sensation against you. 

He chuckled darkly against your skin.

“You skipped a word,” he groaned, hot and heavy. “Start again. From ‘terminated.’”

And then, just as his fingers brushed just beneath the bud of your clit.

“Slower.”

“Operative 31 terminated targets 8C through 10A in less than 5 minutes,” you corrected yourself. 

“Good fucking girl.” 

He rewarded you with a swipe of his fingers through your slit, barely grazing over the aching bud, teasing as much as he was rewarding.

You whimpered, hips twitching as his fingers pressed firmer against you. His long fingers sweeping through the mess he’d made of you.

You barely had time to breathe.

Sylus removed his fingers with a slow, wet drag that left your thighs twitching and your thoughts shattered. The report trembled in your grip. 

You looked over your shoulder just in time to see him slip his drenched digits between his lips. 

He groaned, obscenely loud, like he was savouring the finest wine in his collection. 

Heat flamed through you.

His glasses had started to fog. Just a light mist curling at the edges, clinging to the corners of the lenses like condensation on a wineglass. Whether it was from you or him, you didn’t know, and you didn’t care. 

God, the way they framed his eyes made everything worse, or better, you couldn’t decide. His lashes fluttering beneath them as his lips worked around his fingers, the hotness of his gaze amplified and sharpened.  

Like he was studying you. Like you were a subject on the page, cataloguing your unravelling and fall from grace. 

And Sylus, just behind you. Polished and powerful. Sucking your slick from his fingers like it was fucking wine.

He let them go with a wet pop, the sound obscene in the quiet, the fog on his lenses refracting the glint in his eye.

“You are the taste of victory,” he said, and then he licked his thumb clean, too. 

You wanted to kiss him. Fuck, you wanted to kiss him so badly. 

You leaned back toward him, desperate to close the distance. To taste yourself on his mouth. To feel the heat of his tongue on yours. To be ruined in more ways than one.

But he stopped you. 

“One more page, sweetie, please.” It almost sounded like begging, filthy and sweet, desperate as he implored you to obey him. 

“You always get like this after a win,” you whispered, deliberately grinding your ass over his erection. “Hard. Hungry. Easy to tease.” 

He growled low in his throat and brought his hand down firmly on the meat of your thigh. The smack sounded out in the room, smarting and hot.

And god, you moaned.

“Don’t test me, sweetie. I wasn’t asking you.” 

You smiled despite yourself. 

His Evol coiled again, calm and crimson, lifting a second folder from beneath the first and depositing it gently in your lap. 

“Page six,” he said. 

You turned back around to look at it. 

Your hand didn’t move at first. You just stared down at the folder in your hands. 

Your name stared back at you in bold black font, taunting you with the secrets that it contained. You must have hesitated too long for his liking, because he brought his hand down again in a harsh smack. This time, landing right against your clit and sending shockwaves through your whole body. 

You gasped, back arching against him and squealing from the shock. “Sylus!” 

“Each time you stop, each time you hesitate, you get one more. Am I clear?” He asked, and you nodded frantically. “Words, sweetie. Use them.”

You nodded again before catching yourself as he raised his hand in preparation. “Yes! Yes, I understand,” you sputtered. 

You held up the folder in shaky hands and took an unsteady breath before opening up to page 6. 

The paragraph began like the others, clinical and sterile. 

“Subject 9A located at perimeter of safe zone. Suspected of plotting abduction and extraction of Asset W. Asset W?” 

You had sat in on countless Onychinus meetings before but you had never heard of “Asset W” before. “What’s Asset-” another smack rang out in the office space as Sylus brought his hand down hard against your pussy, this time leaving his hand there and soothing the sharp sting with the pads of his fingers in a gentle caress.

“Ahh! Fuck! I didn’t even-”

“You hesitated, kitten, and I am a man of my word,” his fingers danced over your clit lightly, too lightly to do anything except tease. It had you clenching around nothing and leaking even more slick into the lap of your husband behind you. 

“Well, what's Asset W? I need the context if I’m the one reading it,” you argued. 

He let out a soft chuckle in your ear and surprised you with a kiss against the juncture of your neck. “Wife,” was his only answer to your question. 

You snorted. “You can’t be serious, Sy. Asset W means Asset Wife?” 

You looked at him over your shoulder and found him resting his forehead against the skin of your neck, red eyes, hot and molten, peering at you over the rim of his glasses and a pretty blush staining the tops of his ears and cheeks. 

You leaned back and kissed his forehead. “That’s such a lame code name, baby,” you giggled. 

He tilted his head up, looking through his lenses to really take in the dazzling smile on your face as you teased him. “I know, kitten. So, so lame.” 

He plunged his fingers inside your tight pussy and smirked as the grin was wiped off your face with a choked moan. 

His fingers curled, hitting your sensitive spot with an accuracy that betrayed just how well he knew your body, just how well he could take control and flip the scales in his favour.  “Now, are you going to read it or is your lame husband going to have to punish you properly?” 

“I-I’ll read it, I’ll read it!” you gasped out. “Subject 9A taken into c-custody and interrogated. Methods of interrogation: isolation, threat, sleep d-depriva- oh fuck! Deprivation, nail avulsion, glossectomy, and mass- frahhh, mass fractures resulting in death.” 

Sylus hummed low in your ear. “Do you understand it? What I had them do to him?”

Sylus quickened the movements of his fingers inside you, deep, precise motions that had you seeing stars and bucking against his hold. 

“M’hmmm yeah, I-I understand it.” 

“Then keep reading,” he murmured, too gently. “You were doing so well.” 

Shame curled hot in your gut. You were soaked and embarrassingly close from all the teasing. Wet sounds and your breathy moans filled the quiet stillness of the office, a symphony composed for only its creator to listen to. And it was his favourite of all his masterpieces, his magnum opus. 

His fingers were still working you slowly. Torturously, sliding in and out, curling just right, the heel of his palm nudging your clit each time he shifted his fingers. You were wet, almost too slick, the mess pooling on his suit trousers beneath you almost uncomfortably. 

You bit your lip. Your thighs quaked. The paper scrunched under your fingers.

He leaned in, glasses fogged again, lips curling up wickedly against your cheek.

“Sweetie,” he said softly. “Don’t tell me this is turning you on this much.”

How he thought you’d be able to form a coherent sentence was utterly beyond you. How could you think straight when your gorgeous husband was playing you like a damn instrument, using all of his intel to make you lose your mind?

His fingers stilled entirely.

“No, no,” he said, dangerously calm. “Don’t get shy now. You’ve been reading so beautifully. You’ve been so good for me.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, firmly, drawing out a gasping, breathy moan from the depths of your chest. “Tell me. Are you close?” 

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

He tsked.

“Don’t cum yet, don't you dare. If you finish,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet and cruel, “before you finish reading-” He slid his fingers out just to the first knuckle. “-you’re going to be in so much trouble, my love.” 

You gasped. Clenched. Nearly cried.

The file trembled in your hands.

“Keep going,” he said. “Third paragraph.”

You blinked through the blur and found the next line.

Your voice broke as you read.

“Subject 9C. Associate of Subject 9A. I-interrogated at secondary location 𝛃. All digits removed post-interview. Eyes chemically destroyed.” You choked out the words, breathless and wanton. 

What was wrong with you? Was it just your husband making this so thrilling? There was no way that reading about people being tortured was getting you off. Surely you weren’t that depraved.

“Sylus, please! Please, baby, I can’t-”

“You can, I know you can. You’re my good girl, my perfect little kitten, you can do it for me, right?” He goaded. 

You nodded feverishly. And he hummed, picking up the pace and moving his fingers inside you again, freeing you from the torment. 

“Treated with high-dose capsaicin derivative via dermal injection. Oh my god-” you whispered.

He groaned into your neck. “Mmm. That’s the one. That made you clench so hard, kitten.”

“Final protocol: t-tracheal crush. Time of death, 03:12.” 

You were shaking.

And Sylus was faring no better. He exhaled like he was drunk.

“Do you see what I do for you, sweetie?” he whispered. “You see what happens when someone threatens what’s mine?”

His fingers plunged back in, hard and deep, his palm flattening against your clit and working feverishly to get you back to where he wanted you. Hovering over the precipice.

“Their life ends. No exceptions.”

You cried out. Loud.

“And you love it. Don’t you? My utter devotion to you, the lives I have ended for you,” he hissed. “Say it. Say you love it.”

You could barely speak, whines and moans clawing up your throat.

And Sylus was almost as wrecked as you. 

His glasses had slid down his nose again, precariously close to falling off, but he didn’t bother adjusting them. He just leaned forward and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, groaning against your skin as he rolled his hips beneath you, grinding his cock hard against your soaked thighs.

The hand that had been anchoring you to him around your middle reached for the centre seam of your nightdress and ripped. The sound of tearing silk split the air like thunder. 

You didn’t have it in you to be pissed about him ruining yet another of your pretty nightgowns. You gasped, body jolting as cool air rushed over newly exposed skin. Your tits spilled free, nipples tight and aching in the sudden chill.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, kitten, I needed to see them. I’m sorry, I’ll buy you a hundred more,” he growled. “You’re so pretty like this. All mine. All ruined.”

He wrapped his hand around one breast, squeezing almost too roughly, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger before giving it a sharp pinch that made you cry out.

“You’re dripping, sweetie. So wet you’re soaking through my trousers,” he murmured, twisting your nipple again while his fingers fucked you steadily. “God, listen to you. I haven’t even let you cum yet and you’re already shaking for me.”

Your thighs twitched again. Your hips rocked forward involuntarily, chasing more friction, more anything.

“You're filthy,” he breathed, kissing down your shoulder, his voice thick with something bordering on reverence. “My perfect, beautiful, depraved little wife. Getting off on death reports and violence. You’re so perfect for me.”

“Please, Sy, pleaseee…” you sobbed.

His fingers plunged deeper. Pressed harder.

“I want you to cum just like this,” he whispered. “With my fingers inside you. With my name in your mouth. While you hold the evidence of what I did for you.”

Your whole body bucked in his lap.

“Do it for me, kitten. Come on. Be good. Be so good and let me feel it, let me feel how much you love me.” 

His hand pinched your nipple again, rougher this time, while his palm dragged tight over your clit. The pressure was perfect. It was everything. And the voice in your ear? Begging? That tipped you over the edge.

“You’re mine,” he said. “No one touches you. No one even thinks about you without dying for it.”

You shattered around his fingers with a cry that bordered on a scream, the report fluttering from your trembling fingers as your whole body seized. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, could only feel as each wave crashed over you, dragging you under. 

Sylus held you through it, whispering filth and praise against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetie. That’s it. You’re so good for me. So sweet when you break like this. Look at how you cum for me, so fucking pretty.”

You barely registered the strangled sound he made behind you, a deep, choked groan that cracked into something raw. But you can’t ignore the sharp buck of his hips. The way his hand clutched your breast just a little tighter. The low, wrecked sound he made as he came too, breath hot against your neck, cock twitching in his trousers beneath you.

And through it all, he kept up the movement of his fingers inside, slow and almost reverent, fucking you through the aftershocks while his palm rubbed slow, sinful circles against your overstimulated clit. Just enough to make you twitch. Just enough to keep you squirming in his lap, too sensitive, too full, too his.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “You’re perfect. You know that, right?”

You whimpered something incoherent, hips giving a weak jerk when his fingers flexed again. “S’too much.” 

You slapped his hand, which made him chuckle, low and smug, but he slipped his fingers free all the same, giving you the reprieve you needed. You whimpered as he drew his hand back fully, palm sticky with your release, slow and careful, dragging against your slick walls in a way that made you shiver, oversensitive and raw.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Couldn’t help it. You just feel so good around me.”

The grin in his voice was evident.

You both just sat there for a moment, utterly ruined, catching your breath and basking in the afterglow of not-quite-sex, and then he moved. 

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other bracing your thigh as he shifted you gently, slowly, turning you in his lap until you were facing him, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your torn nightdress clinging uselessly to your sides.

His eyes found yours.

And for a moment, all the hunger and sharpness fell away. What was left behind was something softer. A sweetness that was uniquely his.

He cupped your cheek with his clean hand, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. You were flushed, glassy-eyed, still trembling from the aftershocks. And he looked at you like you were the only thing in the entire universe that made any sense.

And when he kissed you, messy, deep and all tongue and teeth, you could feel his devotion and love burning through. 

His glasses bumped awkwardly against your nose, the bridge of them pressing into your cheek in a way that was suddenly so silly. He growled lightly, annoyed and reached up with his hand to swipe at them. You giggled at him, looking like an angry cat that got fed up with being teased. 

And when he took them off, he kissed you properly. Slower and deeper than before. Devastating in a way that had you melting into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his silver hair. 

He finally pulled back, you were both smiling.

“You came in your pants,” you whispered against his mouth, breathless and smug.

“Mm.” He kissed your jaw. “And you soaked my lap. I think we’re even.”

You laughed, the sound soft and hazy.

He brushed a lock of hair from your face, eyes still heavy-lidded with post-orgasm affection. “You know,” he murmured, “you read very well under pressure.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe next time you can just send the reports to my inbox like a normal husband.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to watch you squirm,” he replied, smirking. “And you wouldn’t get to soak my notes with your filthy little moans.”

You snorted and buried your face in his neck. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he said, kissing the crown of your head.

“And what am I?”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, gazing into your eyes with a loving softness. 

“The centre of my world,” he said simply. 

And because he was a menace, one that couldn’t help himself, he added:

“Also, an absolute slut for violence, apparently.” 

You shrieked in indignation, slapping his chest with a laugh.

He caught your hand and kissed it, chuckling rich and deep alongside you. 

And just like that, the office was quiet again.

There was a mess beneath you. A file on the floor. His glasses somewhere under the desk. And the two of you, content as anything to ignore it for the time being.

[mycrowskitten]

Luke & Kieran Parent Trap

I'm going back through the early-relationship Sylus and MC content, and there's all the times where Sylus "coincidentally" ends up in the same place as MC, which he's generally cagey about, which we love.

And of course it's totally plausible that he's stalking her a bit, though when Sylus gets called out on that, he usually cops to it.

So what's stuck in my head is that Luke and Kieran are constantly scheming to get the two of them to cross paths, Parent Trap style 😂 We know the twins are actually pretty competent operatives and they're always up to petty shenanigans so Sylus wouldn't even have reason to suspect they're doing stuff specifically with MC.

Like when Sylus ends up in the arctic at the same time as the hunter symposium that MC is at? (Immobilized)

Can't you just see Luke and Kieran casually suggesting missions in the arctic, then when Sylus is like "Fine, book me somewhere to stay" the sheer glee when they book him a room in the same hotel as MC 😂

And I think it's in Razor's Grip where it's specifically stated that Luke and Kieran follow her on social media, and she doesn't have them blocked, so they figure out she's in town. So we know they're stalking her Moments posts.

Maybe Sylus is even like "wow these are a lot of fated encounters" until he catches Luke and Kieran in the act. And at some point Sylus just gives in and plays along even when he knows what they're up to 'cause yeah, he wants to see her again.

Just Kieran and Luke being the wingmen of the year for Sylus x MC 🤣

[mycrowskitten]

FREAK LIKE ME — LADS!MEN

[♕]: warnings— mdni!! fem!reader, smutty hcs, sensory deprivation + play, spanking, zayne being a brat!tamer (literally is cannon atp), semi-public sex, overstimulation, fingering, sex in a dressing room, lowkey overprotective + obsessive!caleb, toy play, rafayel being a little shit (I love him lol), rope & stillness training, [౨ৎ] synopsis: how the lads!men punish you when you've been bratty/bad.

SYLUS. — sensory deprivation (blindfolding)

You felt so vulnerable, yet immensely turned on as you felt sylus's fingers trail up and down your bare thighs. Your vision blinded by the blackness of a blindfold around your eyes. Each graze sending a shiver down your spine and heat to your core. A low chuckle escaped sylus as you whimpered, "Please sy.." hands griping the sheets loosely as you breathed, "M'sorry for posting the pictures—I really am just ah!"

A sharp gasp fell from your lips as you suddenly felt a finger slide up your clothed slit, damped panties making the sudden touch making you jolt and mewl as your hips chased the sensation. "You saw my text, you saw me ask you to delete it." Sylus’s voice was low, calm, but there was that dangerous edge threaded through every word—one that made your pulse stutter.

“I– I know, Sy, I’m sorry—” your apology broke off in a breathy moan as now his thumb pressed firmly against your clit, rubbing slow circles into the bundle of nerves. “Shhh…” he hushed gently, drawing out another shiver. “You don’t get to explain now. Just take it.”

Defeatedly, you nodded, resisting the blinding urge to grind your hips into his thumb like a dog in heat.

Lashes fluttered uselessly behind the blindfold, your world reduced to the soft drag of sheets under your fingers and the sharp, exquisite burn of his touch. Deprived of sight, every sensation was magnified—the slow, deliberate circles of his thumb over your swollen clit, the measured pressure that had your stomach tightening and heat pooling low in your belly.

It was agonizing how unhurried he was, how he never gave you the rhythm you desperately chased. Just when you felt yourself begin to crest, hips twitching up instinctively to meet him, everything stopped.

The sudden absence made you gasp, a broken sound caught in your throat.

A sharp tsk followed, and you could hear the smile in his voice as he sucked his teeth softly. “Ah, ah… what did I tell you?” His words were silk over steel, low and commanding. “You don’t get to take what’s not being given.”

Your breath shuddered, frustration and need clawing up your spine as his hand lingered there, warm but still, reminding you of what you weren’t getting. “Sy…” you whined, a tremor in your voice, your thighs trembling with the effort not to move.

He chuckled low against your ear, the sound rumbling through you like velvet over flame, sending another shiver racing down your spine. “There you go… nice and still,” he murmured, voice dripping with dark amusement. His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear as he added, softer, yet no less commanding, “Try to behave for me, kitten… otherwise I won’t touch you at all.”

The slow drag of his thumb resumed—pressing down with maddening precision, circling your clit with deliberate cruelty. The rhythm was just enough to make your thighs tremble, just enough to have your hips jerking upward before you could stop yourself.

“Mmm…” he hummed, the sound low and approving yet tinged with warning, and then—he stopped. His thumb stilled completely, leaving you stranded in that aching, buzzing need. A needy cry broke from your lips before you could swallow it back.

Sexual frustration coiled tight in your belly, heat climbing up your chest and into your throat. A sharp retort bubbled at the back of your tongue, but you forced it down, desperate not to lose even this cruel attention.

“Not a word,” he breathed, his lips grazing the side of your neck in a fleeting, electrifying kiss. His other hand slid over your stomach, fingers splayed wide and firm as he pressed you down into the mattress, a silent show of strength that made your heart race.

“You decided,” he began slowly, each word precise, each pause deliberate, “you weren’t going to delete that post after I told you to.”

A soft, shaky sigh left you as his mouth found your throat, pressing a slow kiss into your skin. The contact made you bite your lip, stifling a whimper even as his voice threaded through you like silk and steel.

“So now,” his thumb began to move again, slow, torturous circles, “you’ll take your punishment.” His teeth grazed your neck in a fleeting nip that drew out a soft gasp from your lips.

“And if I hear even a hint of attitude…” his voice dropped lower, darker, the words a promise that curled through your core as his lips brushed your pulse point, “…then I’ll correct it accordingly.”

ZAYNE. — spanking

“Louder,” Zayne breathed, his tone low and smooth, but sharp enough to make your toes curl. His palm rested heavy on the curve of your ass, the sting of the last slap still burning hot across your skin.

You hiccupped out a shaky breath, hips wriggling instinctively though his arm around your waist kept you pinned, bent neatly over his lap. Your cheek pressed into the sheets, fingers knotting into the fabric as you gasped, “T‑two… please—”

Smack!

The sound cracked through the air, the heat flaring over your tender skin as you cried out.

“Count it,” he ordered softly, that dark edge in his voice making your thighs tremble.

“T-three!” you squeaked, voice breaking into a whimper. Your eyes squeezed shut as you felt his fingers sweep lightly over the sting, rubbing soothing circles that only made you ache deeper.

“That’s it…” he murmured, leaning over just enough that his breath ghosted against your ear, “but I’m not hearing that sweet voice loud enough. You can do better for me, can’t you?”

You nodded desperately, body shivering. “Y‑yes, Zayne, I can— I’ll be louder, I promise—”

Smack!

You gasped, the pain melting instantly into a rush of molten heat between your thighs. “F‑four!” you yelped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of sensation.

His hand smoothed over the curve of your ass again, slow and deliberate, as if praising the very spot he’d marked. “Good girl… such a pretty sound."

Your breathing hitched as you felt him shift beneath you, the firm press of his thighs steady under your stomach, his voice dropping even lower—gravelly, intimate.

"Tell me why you're getting punished right now."

Your lips trembled, the words catching in your throat. Shame and stubbornness tangled together until another sharp smack made you jolt and cry out, hips jerking against his hold.

“Answer me,” Zayne breathed, calm but commanding, his thumb rubbing over your heated skin as if coaxing you to speak. His hand glided slowly up the back of your thigh, a deliberate caress that made your breath catch.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, shame pricking hot behind your eyes as you buried your face into the sheets. “…Because I ignored you,” you whispered, voice muffled and trembling.

“And why did you ignore me?” he pressed softly, tone unwavering, not sharp—just patient, steady, like stone beneath your trembling hands. Your fingers tightened in the fabric, and you felt the sting of tears before the words finally tumbled out. “Because you… you didn’t get me the heels I wanted.”

There was no immediate judgment in the silence that followed. Instead, his hand smoothed over the tender curve of your ass, thumb tracing soothing little arcs as if to ground you.

“Mhm,” he hummed lowly, lips brushing just near your ear. “There it is.” A breath of a pause, then, quieter still, “You could’ve told me that, angel. You didn’t need to push me away.”

“I—I’m sorry…” you whispered, and his fingers ghosted along your hip again, that soft edge still wrapped in steel. “I know you are,” he murmured. The warmth in his voice didn’t take away from the gravity of his next words. “But you’re not done counting. Are you ready to continue?"

You gave a tiny nod, breath shivering.

Smack!

Your body jolted, a strangled cry spilling out as you gasped, “S-seven!”

CALEB. — semi public sex, overstim

"Why was that guy talking to you, hm pips?" Caleb asked through pants, his fingers thrusting in and out of your cunny as your head lolled onto his shoulder. Your bare back pressed up against the walls of the changing room.

"F-fuck, I don't know he was hah— askin for directions to a store!" You whispered biting back a whimper, your hand coming up and clutching onto his shoulder as your eyes rolled to the back of your skull. Mouth dropping into an 'o' as you quivered,

"Bullshit," Caleb spat, "He was checking you out when we first walked in here. Eyes staring up your skirt like a fucking perv."

Your thighs trembled as his fingers curled deep, dragging over that tender spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “C‑Caleb—” you choked out, hips jerking as a familar coil began to unravel. Fingers purposely hitting that spot as purple eyes peered down at you, watching your face intently as your eyes fluttered shut.

“That’s it,” his voice dropped, rough and commanding, “fuckin’ come for me, pips. Let him hear you.”

The words shattered the last of your restraint. Your climax tore through you—hot, blinding, unstoppable. A strangled cry spilled from your lips as your walls clamped down around his fingers, the slick sounds and your ragged moans echoing in the cramped changing room.

Your breath hitched in panic and pleasure as his pace didn’t falter—if anything, his thrusts grew sharper, slick sounds filling the tight space as your overstimulated walls fluttered around him. “C‑Caleb—please—” you gasped, legs shaking as you tried to squirm away, but his other hand shot out, gripping your jaw, tilting your head back to meet his dark, burning gaze.

“Nuh‑uh, pips,” he rasped against your ear, voice low and rough, frayed with lust. “We’re not done. Not even close.”

“’Leb—wait, please, there’s people outside—ah!” you mewled, your protest dissolving into a high, desperate cry as another wave of pleasure coiled tight and fast in your belly.

His lips brushed your temple, his breath hot against your skin, and you felt the curve of a cruel little smirk against you as he whispered, slow and dark, “I don’t give a shit. And you will. Let them hear you, pips… c’mon… let everyone out there know this pretty pussy’s mine.”

Your knees buckled, your whole body quivering as his fingers worked mercilessly, pushing you higher and higher, every wet thrust loud in the quiet store, every ragged moan slipping past your bitten lip only fueling his low, approving groans.

“C‑Caleb, please, I’m gonna—!”

“Good,” he growled, thumb circling your clit now in tight, relentless motions as you writhed between his body and the cold wall. “Scream for me, baby. Let everyone know exactly who’s making you fall apart.”

And with another sharp curl of his fingers, the dam inside you broke again—louder, messier, raw enough that you didn’t care who was standing outside that door.

XAVIER. — rope & stillness training

The silk ropes were warm against your wrists, tied neatly to the headboard in a way that was firm but not cruel. Xavier always made sure you could move your fingers, always checked twice before stepping back to admire his work.

You tugged instinctively, testing the knots, and he caught the movement immediately—dark eyes flicking to you with that infuriatingly calm smile.

“Ah, ah,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “I didn’t say you could move.” Your breath stuttered, chest rising and falling faster as he sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with a predator’s patience. “Do you remember why you’re tied up like this, angel?”

“…Because I was teasing you in front of your friends,” you admitted, voice trembling.

“Mm,” he hummed approvingly, sliding his palm slowly down your throat, lingering just over your collarbones before tracing the dip between your breasts. “You wanted my attention then. You have it now. Every last bit of it.”

Your thighs shifted restlessly as he dragged his fingers over your bare stomach, deliberately slow, circling your hips but never quite touching where you needed. The ache built cruelly, every second stretching into forever.

You whined softly, hips lifting just an inch— and his hand instantly left your body.

“Still,” he warned, voice soft but cutting through you like glass.

“I—Xavi, please…” you whimpered, tugging helplessly at the ropes. He only tilted his head, that quiet smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at you,” he breathed, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, “you can’t even lie still when I ask you to.”

His hand returned between your thighs, stroking lazy patterns over the soft skin there, so close your body shivered with need. And then, with devastating slowness, he pressed two fingers into you—deep and unhurried, curling just enough to make you gasp.

The pleasure built fast, spiraling up and up— and just as your hips bucked—

He pulled out, fingers wet, your slick glistening in the dim light.

A broken sob escaped you. “X‑Xavier—”

He hushed you with a finger to your lips, his tone as calm and patient as ever, but layered with steel: “Until you learn to stay perfectly still for me, star,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your swollen bottom lip, “you’ll keep feeling like this—aching and desperate.”

RAFAYEL. — toy play

You were trying desperately to keep your smile polite, your words steady—when suddenly a low hum started deep between your thighs.

Your hand twitched around your wine glass, a strangled gasp caught in your throat. “Y‑yes, the piece is quite… quite beautiful,” you stammered, legs pressing together as your pulse spiked.

Across the room, Rafayel’s dark eyes met yours over the rim of his glass. The faintest curl of his lips told you he’d turned the remote on. His voice slid smoothly into your earpiece—a private comms he insisted you wear when accompanying him. “Mm, you’re twitching, sweetheart. Focus.”

You swallowed hard, trying to answer another question from the woman in front of you. The vibration softened, mercifully fading, and you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding you—

—until it flared again, stronger this time.

Your knees nearly buckled, the words tumbling out in a broken stammer. “Ah—I mean, it’s… th‑the composition is, um—”

He was leaning lazily against the wall now, remote in hand, watching you struggle with an expression of decadent pride. “Such a cutie,” his voice purred softly in your ear, “you look so lovely like this. Everyone thinks you’re nervous little thing.”

By the time you slipped into the car beside him after dinner, your entire body was trembling with frustration and arousal. You grabbed his wrist, breathless. “Rafayel, please… turn it off. I can’t—”

“I could...” he spoke softly, catching your chin between his fingers. “You have done so well for me all night.” His thumb swept over your lips, eyes glinting with something darker. “But I heard that little tone you took with me at the table. Getting mouthy infront of investors?”

You froze. “…Rafayel—”

The toy roared to life on the highest setting, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your hips jerked against the seat. “Let’s fix that attitude, shall we?” he murmured, leaning close to your ear, the city lights flashing across his sharp features.

“Keep your pretty thighs open, dove. And don’t you dare come until I say.”

Your hands clawed at the leather seat, head falling back as wave after wave wracked through you, every word you tried to form dissolving into gasps and whimpers— and through it all, his low voice stayed calm and silken, the faintest smile in every syllable:

“That’s it… let me hear how well pretty girl behaves."

[mycrowskitten]

𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗸 - sylus qin oneshot

summary — After getting rejected by your college crush back in freshman year, you swore off dating—why bother when it clearly wasn’t meant for you? Years later, thanks to a well-meaning setup by your friends, you find yourself on a blind date… only to come face-to-face with him again. Totally not awkward—until he suggests something that makes it even worse. Or… maybe not?

pairings — excrush!sylus x fem!reader

content/tags— fluff, angst if you squint REALLY hard, blind dates, reader is traumatized, classic 10 dates trope, tara and her bf is their cupid, timeskips, kissing, SFW, second chance romance + more!

words— 10k

—

“One caramel macchiato!”

The barista calls out your name, drawing your attention from the glow of your laptop screen for the first time since you sat down. You rise, stretching slightly as you make your way to the counter. She greets you with a warm smile, and you return it with a quiet one of your own before taking your coffee and slipping back into your seat.

After a few moments, the front door swings open with a soft chime, letting in a brief gust of warm air and the unmistakable voice of your co-worker.

“Hey!” Tara calls out, already grinning as she spots you.

You lift your head from your coffee with the energy of a drained phone battery, offering her a weak wave. She's radiant, as usual—like someone who actually slept last night and didn’t just survive on caffeine and deadlines.

She slides into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation, eyes practically sparkling. That look. You know that look. You brace yourself.

“So,” she begins, drawing the word out like a plot twist. “You remember Ethan from accounting? Super cute, like ‘bakes-his-own-bread’ cute? Well—”

You groan softly, slumping forward until your forehead nearly kisses the table.

“Tara, I’m running on four hours of sleep and two existential crises. Please don’t set me up with someone who makes sourdough starters for fun.”

She just laughs, undeterred. “That’s exactly why you need someone! Balance, babe.”

You sip your coffee like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the mortal world.

“I’ve been single for almost my whole life, and I’m planning to be until I reach 35,” you reply flatly, sipping your coffee like it’s a shield.

Tara’s smile falters into a small frown, her brows knitting together. “Thirty-five? That’s so… specific. Why 35?”

“Because by then I’ll either have my life together,” you say, waving vaguely at your open laptop, “or I’ll be so far gone into the abyss of burnout that no one will want to date me anyway.”

She gasps like you just said you don’t believe in love or oat milk.

“That is the most depressing thing I’ve heard all week. And I sat through a budget meeting yesterday.”

You lift a brow. “And yet, you’re still trying to play Cupid.”

“Exactly!” She sits up straighter, suddenly energized. “Which is why you need someone before you become a recluse who hisses at the sunlight and lives off instant noodles.”

You squint at her over your mug. “That sounds like a dream, actually.”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, but she’s laughing. “You are impossible.”

“And yet, you keep trying.”

“Because I believe in love. And also because you’re too pretty to be left to your own self-sabotaging devices.”

You groan again and slump further into your seat.

““It’s Evan’s request!” she pouts, her lower lip jutting out like a child denied dessert.

You groan instantly at the mention of her beloved boyfriend. Of course. Of course she’d do anything for him. Ride or die—for his romantic fantasies involving you and some stranger.

“Who is it this time?” you deadpan. “A cousin? Colleague?” You narrow your eyes. “And before you say it—I’ve had enough of his friends. They’re all terrible on their first dates.”

You sigh and rest your cheek in your palm, memories flashing like a highlight reel of awkward handshakes, painfully long silences, and one guy who brought his résumé to dinner “just in case.”

Tara winces a little but pushes on like the soldier of love she is. “It’s his old college coursemate!” she insists, leaning forward dramatically.

“That means nothing to me.”

“He’s actually nice!” she protests. “Evan swears he’s not like the others.”

“You said that about the one who only talked about cryptocurrency.”

“Okay, that was a dark time. But this guy’s different. He reads books! He collects vinyls!”

You arch a tired brow. “So he’s a passionate adult. The bar is so low, Tara.”

She grins, undeterred. “Just one date?”

“I have deadlines.” You look at the report you have to finish before your meeting tomorrow morning before your boss starts to passive-agressively call you out, again.

“It’s coffee.”

“I already have coffee.” You lift your mug in emphasis.

“It’s free coffee, and he might be hot.”

You hesitate.

She sees it.

Victory blooms on her face like sunshine after rain.

“Fine, this is the last time.” You mutter, in which Tara smiles. “Yay! I really think this time it’s gonna be the one for you! I’ve seen his face and Evan told me things about him. He’s also very…” She made the classic money gesture—rubbing her thumb against her fingers—while grinning. “Cha-ching.”

You groaned harder at that. Fine, one last try.

By the time you finally cave and go on the date—mostly out of guilt, slight curiosity, and Tara’s relentless texting—you’re already bracing for disappointment. But nothing could have prepared you for this.

Because sitting across the table, casually sipping his drink like he didn’t just shatter your soul five years ago, is none other than your college crush from freshman year. The same guy you’d nursed a hopeless, head-over-heels attraction for. The same one you’d confessed to in a moment of naive bravery—and the same one who turned you down with that polite, almost apologetic smile that still haunts your occasional 3 a.m. spiral.

You stare at him, and he looks up with a pleasant smile, clearly having no idea who you are.

And that’s the moment it hits you.

Maybe love really isn’t for you. Maybe the universe is playing a long, humiliating game of romantic dodgeball, and you just got hit square in the face—again.

You force a smile, heart sinking into your gut as you stir your drink just to have something to do with your hands.

“So…” he says, leaning in slightly, “have we met before? You look kind of familiar.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Sylus Qin.” He offers you a handshake, his voice calm, smooth—like it hasn't shattered your ego once before.

You blink at him. The name confirms it, not that you needed it. You would’ve recognized that voice anywhere. The same one that used to echo down lecture halls and occasionally star in your daydreams back when love felt like something soft and full of promise.

Your hand hovers for a second too long before you take his. His grip is firm, warm. Too familiar.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like you’re a stranger with slightly interesting eyes.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat and slipping your hand back like it burned. “Nice to meet you… again.”

A small crease forms between his brows. “Mind reminding me where we met, Miss?”

Your smile tightens. “Freshman year. Psych class. I was the idiot who met you at the campus entrance and confessed and gave you a letter?”

His face stills. Then slowly—too slowly—his eyes widen with dawning recognition. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say, sipping your drink and praying for the floor to open up beneath you. “That girl.”

He opens his mouth to say something—maybe an apology, maybe nothing—but you cut in before he can gather a sentence.

“But don’t worry,” you add lightly, voice wrapped in practiced indifference. “I’m not here for a second chance. I was tricked into this by a mutual friend. Apparently Evan thinks we’d be great together.”

Sylus leans back, still watching you. “So… this is a blind date?”

“Unfortunately.”

He hums, gaze flicking over you with a hint of something unreadable. “Guess he forgot to mention the history.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Guess he didn’t know anything. It was a one second thing anyway”

The silence stretches—but it’s not exactly awkward. Just loaded.

And part of you already knows: this night is not going to go the way you expected.

And suddenly, you become extra conscious of what you’re wearing.

The blouse you’d thrown on in a rush this morning suddenly feels too casual, too slouchy. Your jeans, just slightly faded at the knees. Your hair—was it frizzy? Was there coffee foam on your lip?

Of all the days to run on autopilot.

You shift in your seat, subtly tugging at your sleeves like that’ll magically sharpen your entire look. But it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Really seen you.

Sylus watches you with a calm expression, but there's something unreadable in his eyes now—like he's reassessing, recalibrating. You don’t know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. And you hate that it matters. But it does.

Because no matter how long it’s been, or how hard you tried to file him away as a “learning experience,” some tiny, ridiculous part of you still wants to be… enough.

Still wants to make him regret saying no back then.

You force yourself to sit up straighter, chin tilted, like you’re fine. Like your heart isn’t doing little nervous pirouettes.

“Anyway,” you say, breaking the silence with a half-laugh, “how ironic is this?”

He quirks a brow. “Ironic?”

“Fate clearly has a sense of humor.”

Sylus’s lips curl into a faint smile. “Maybe. Or maybe fate’s giving me a second chance to get it right.”

Your breath catches—just slightly. You tell yourself not to read into it.

But it’s too late for that, too.

“Uhm, moving on,” you say quickly, trying to shove the tension back into its box. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes fixed on the condensation forming on your glass. “What do you do now?”

Sylus leans back slightly, giving you a moment of reprieve from his steady gaze.

“I’m a software engineer,” he says, casually swirling his drink. “I mostly do freelance contract work. Apps, platforms, tech solutions for startups—you know, the usual keyboard warrior stuff.”

You nod, impressed despite yourself. “So you’re the guy everyone calls when their website crashes at 2 a.m.”

He chuckles softly. “Something like that. Less dramatic, more debugging-induced migraines.”

His laugh still sounds like it did years ago—low, easy, the kind that used to make you turn your head without meaning to.

You resist the urge to sigh.

“And you?” he asks, leaning in a little. “What did you end up doing?”

You shrug. “Marketing. Mostly brand copy and strategy. I sit in a lot of Zoom meetings, say ‘circle back’ more than I’d like, and write things that sound exciting but mean almost nothing.”

He grins. “Ah, professional illusionist. Respect.”

You huff a laugh. “Exactly.”

For a moment, there’s quiet—not awkward, just… contemplative. A shared pause between two people who were once on completely different pages, now reading from the same one without meaning to.

And though you’re still wary, still guarded, there’s a small flicker of something unspoken between you. Maybe.

You push it aside. For now.

You clear your throat, trying to push through the lingering weirdness. “So… you’re still based around here?”

“Mhm,” Sylus nods, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Moved back about a year ago. Needed a change of scenery. Or maybe I was subconsciously following a ghost from freshman year.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you stare at him over the rim of your glass.

“Relax,” he says with a lazy grin. “Joking.”

“Right,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Obviously.”

He leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin lightly on one hand. “You always get this flustered, or is it just me?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I am not flustered.”

“You’re stirring an empty cup,” he points out, amusement glittering in his eyes.

You glance down—and sure enough, you’re absentmindedly swirling your straw in a drink that’s been gone for five minutes.

You set it down a little too quickly. “It’s a nervous habit.”

“Cute one,” he murmurs.

You glare. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Tease people on blind dates?”

“Only the ones I rejected five years ago and then ran into completely by accident,” he says, smile widening. “It’s a rare demographic.”

You groan and drop your face into your hands for a second. “This is so weird.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s not terrible.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You think this is going well?”

“I mean, you’re adorable when you’re awkward,” he says without missing a beat. “And I don’t not want to be here.”

You blink. That’s… not what you expected.

Sylus shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Honestly? I think it’s kind of poetic. Terrible timing back then. Maybe this time the timing’s just… less terrible.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re still mentally stuck on “adorable.”

So instead, you reach for your glass again—forgetting it’s empty.

He laughs.

You roll your eyes. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

“Nope,” he says, lifting his drink in a small toast. “But I am buying your next one.”

And despite yourself, despite everything—your lips twitch into a smile.

“What about dinner?” he suggests, casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him. “We’re… dragging this date?”

Sylus lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Dragging? That’s a strong word. I was thinking about extending.”

You squint at him suspiciously. “You sure this isn’t a social experiment? See how long you can tolerate the girl who confessed to you in college?”

He grins. “You keep bringing that up like I’m not flattered.”

You scoff. “You rejected me.”

“Regretfully,” he says, placing a hand over his chest with exaggerated sincerity. “I was young. Emotionally unavailable. Spiritually lost.”

You deadpan. “You were nineteen and dating a girl who made jewelry out of spoons.”

“Ah, Simone,” he says with a nostalgic sigh. “She had a vision.”

“She made you wear a fork necklace for a month.”

He laughs, and you hate that it sounds so nice. Like warm sunlight through a café window. Dangerous. “You know a lot about me, huh?”

“Knew. I literally had a crush on you.”

You glance at your watch. You could go home. Eat leftovers. Watch a true crime doc you’ll forget by morning. Or…

You exhale. “Fine. Dinner.”

He blinks. “That easy?” You didn’t reply when you stood up and he immediately followed you out.

The restaurant Sylus brings you to is tucked away on a quieter street—a cozy, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and old jazz humming from a record player in the corner. Not fancy, but warm. Intentional.

“This feels… not like a first date spot,” you say as he pulls out a chair for you.

“That’s because it isn’t,” he replies, sliding into the seat across from you. “It’s a make-up-for-my-past-mistakes spot.”

You squint at him as you open the menu. “Do you have a designated restaurant for your emotional failures?”

“Only the meaningful ones.”

You snort. “So you bring a lot of people here.”

He winks. “Just you, actually.”

Your cheeks flush again—great—and you pretend to focus very hard on the pasta section. He watches you, though, openly and without shame, chin resting on his hand like he’s perfectly content just sitting across from you.

The waiter comes, and you place your orders. After he walks off, the silence between you settles again—but this time, it’s quieter. Softer.

“So…” you say, twirling the condensation on your glass, “you really didn’t remember me when you saw me at first?”

Sylus winces. “I remembered your face. Just… didn’t connect it right away.” You gave him a knowing look, in which he sighs.

"Fine, I knew it was you ever since I entered that cafe."

“Hm.”

“But when you brought up the confession and letter?” He taps the table lightly. “It all came back like it was yesterday. I even remember the pen color—dark green ink, right?”

Your eyes widen. “Okay, weird.”

“You wrote in cursive,” he continues, grinning. “All neat and swirly. I thought it was sweet.”

“And you read it after rejecting me?,” you asked him, stabbing a breadstick like it personally offended you.

He chuckles. “Hey, in my defense—I was an idiot. The kind who didn’t know what he wanted until years later.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, biting into the breadstick, “welcome to the club.”

Your food arrives midway through him telling a story about a client who paid him in garden vegetables. You’re genuinely laughing now—soft and a little surprised, like you forgot what it felt like to enjoy someone’s company this way.

Over dinner, the teasing doesn’t stop, but it shifts—less sharp, more playful. He leans in sometimes when you speak, nods like what you're saying matters. And every so often, he looks at you like maybe this was never just a coincidence.

When dessert comes, he casually pushes the plate of tiramisu toward you with a fork already ready.

“I didn’t order dessert,” you protest.

“You did,” he says, “you just didn’t know it yet.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet, here you are.”

You roll your eyes, but you do take a bite.

It’s unfairly good.

“...Damn it.”

“Exactly.” He smiles, slow and warm. “So... what do you say we drag this date a little longer?”

You stare at him, fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Then it hits you.

You can’t.

Not like this. Not with someone who clearly rejected you once, and maybe—just maybe—is only entertaining this out of guilt or curiosity. The warmth in his eyes, the way he leans in, the softness in his smile... it all feels too good, too dangerous.

And you've read some post on tiktok saying if a man rejected you once they shouldn't be in your life ever again. Even though you never really follow social media's advices, you're still unsure.

Because you remember exactly what it felt like to have hope, only to have it shut down with a kind smile and a polite “I’m sorry.”

And no matter how nice dinner is, no matter how different he seems now—you’re still you. And he’s still Sylus Qin.

The boy who took your letter and probably never really read the insides rather than a glance, and threw it out (That is what your dramatic heart convinced you happened)

You put the fork down slowly, like it's suddenly too heavy. “I can’t do this,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Sylus straightens slightly. “What?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between you two. “Dinner. The... date. Whatever this is.”

His brows draw together. “Did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, looking down at the half-eaten tiramisu like it holds answers. “No. You were—you are fine. And that’s the problem.”

He blinks, clearly confused. “You lost me.”

You take a slow breath. “You don’t remember how that felt, do you? Being rejected by someone you genuinely liked—someone who barely noticed you until years later. Someone who now decides, over pasta and charming smiles, that maybe you're worth a shot.”

Sylus is quiet for a moment, no longer smiling.

“You think that’s why I’m here?” he asks, voice low.

You shrug, arms folding tightly across your chest. “I don’t know why you’re here. And that’s the part I don’t think I can handle.”

There’s a pause between you—long and sharp.

“I didn’t come here to mess with you,” he says, tone more serious now. “I didn’t remember right away, but once I did, I chose to stay. I’m not trying to make up for the past. I just... thought this could be something new.”

You look up at him, uncertain.

“I get it,” he adds gently. “If you don’t want to keep going, I won’t push. But I’m not that guy from freshman year anymore. And maybe you’re not that girl either.”

You hesitate, heart torn between a self-defense mechanism you’ve polished to perfection—and the stupid, stubborn flicker of curiosity he somehow reignited.

You glance down again, then quietly push the dessert plate back to him.

“I think I’m still her...and uhm, I need a little space,” you say.

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

The server returns with the check, and Sylus pays without question waving in dismissal at your attempt to sneak in your card as well. You both rise, the air between you heavier now, but honest.

He walks you to the door, hands in his pockets. “For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I’m glad I saw you again.”

You manage a small nod, already halfway out the door, already fighting the part of you that wants to turn back.

Maybe later.

Maybe next time.

Maybe.

One month later

The coffee shop’s the same.

Same mellow jazz humming from the speakers. Same barista who still gives you a warm smile and extra whipped cream when she thinks you look tired. Same seat by the window, where your laptop sits untouched, your fingers curled around a lukewarm mug of cappuccino.

But you’re not the same.

Not entirely.

Because ever since that dinner—since him—you haven’t quite been able to return to your emotional baseline. There’s a small ache under your ribs when you let your guard down. A lingering sense of something unfinished.

Tara drops into the seat across from you, smoothie in one hand, far too much energy in the other.

“You’re avoiding the question again,” she says, poking your arm with her straw.

You don’t look up. “What question?”

“The Sylus Question."

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You sigh. “There’s nothing to say.”

Tara leans in, unconvinced. “You were gone for almost three hours. You came back looking like you’d seen a ghost and then refused to talk about it. Something happened.”

You stay quiet, eyes fixed on the steam curling from your drink. And for a while, she just watches you—not pressing, for once.

Then quietly, you say, “I never told you about him, did I?”

She blinks. “Told me what?”

“Sylus wasn’t just some random guy Evan picked out of a lineup. I knew him. From college.”

Her brows lift. “Wait—what?”

You nod slowly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Freshman year. I had the biggest crush on him. We had psych class together. I wrote him this ridiculous handwritten confession letter like I was living in some second-rate teen drama.”

Tara’s jaw drops. “You wrote him a letter?”

“In green ink,” you mutter. “Cursive. I poured my heart out. He was nice about it. Rejected me politely. But still... it stuck with me.”

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “And you, out of all people just proceed with the date?”

You finally look up, your expression tight. “Because the moment he sat down and saw him smile like he didn’t even recognize me, it all came rushing back. I felt stupid. Like I was nineteen again, waiting for a reply that never came.”

Tara leans back slowly, eyes softer now. “You never said any of that.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” you murmur. “You were so excited to help me. And I thought I could handle it. I didn’t know it would be him!  But after the date... I don’t know. He was kind. Charming. All the things I used to like about him. And somehow that made it worse.”

She studies you for a long moment. “You didn’t ask Evan for his number?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t dare to. Because what if he was only being nice to be nice? What if he was curious? Or worse—what if it meant nothing at all to him and I just end up falling again?”

Tara exhales slowly. “Evan said Sylus asked about you. He didn’t push. Just wondered if you were okay.”

Your heart gives a quiet, reluctant thud.

“I think you’re still thinking about someone you saw once a month ago,” she says gently. “That kinda says everything.”

You fall silent, eyes drifting to the window where the light hits just right, shadowing the table in soft gold. You remember his smile. The way he looked at you—not like he was sorry, but like he wanted to know you again. For real this time.

“Do you think…” you start, then pause, swallowing. “Do you think I messed it up?”

Tara doesn’t even hesitate. She reaches for her phone and gives you a raised eyebrow. “Should I text Evan?”

You stare at the screen.

Maybe you should.

You stare at Tara’s phone like it’s a bomb she’s about to detonate.

“What would you even say?” you ask, cautiously.

Tara shrugs, already typing. “Something neutral. Friendly. Non-dramatic. ‘Hey, can you send Sylus’s number to [Name]? She forgot to get it that night.’”

“I didn’t forget.”

She glances up, grinning. “Exactly. That’s why it’ll sound innocent.”

You hesitate. Your fingers tighten around your cup.

Tara pauses, thumbs hovering. “Do you want me to hit send?”

There’s a pause. A long, uncertain one. But your silence is a maybe, and she knows you well enough to hear it.

Send.

“Done,” she says brightly, locking her phone like she didn’t just possibly alter the trajectory of your emotional well-being.

You groan and sink further into your seat. “You’re evil.”

“I’m efficient,” she corrects. “Also, you’re welcome.”

You don’t respond. Your mind’s already spinning—what you’ll say, how it’ll sound, what he’ll think. If he’ll even reply.

You don’t have to wait long.

Tara’s phone buzzes. She unlocks it, reads the message, then slides the phone across the table to you.

Evan: Yeah, sure. He’s actually been meaning to reach out, but didn’t want to push. Here’s his number. Hope she’s doing okay.

You stare at the number for a few seconds, your heart weirdly loud in your chest.

“He was going to reach out,” Tara says softly. “He was waiting for you.”

You don’t say anything. You just copy the number into your own phone. Your thumb hovers over the message screen for way too long. You delete three different drafts before settling on the simplest version possible.

You: Hey. It’s me. From that very extended blind date. Mind if we talk?

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Then you both wait.

A few agonizing minutes pass. You sip your now-cold coffee. Tara picks at her muffin like she’s trying not to stare too obviously. You check your phone again. Nothing.

And then—finally—your screen lights up.

Sylus: Hey. Wow. Hi.

Sylus: I was hoping you’d text. Where should we start—apologies or second chances?

Your breath catches, somewhere between a laugh and a nervous sigh. You glance up at Tara, eyes wide.

She grins. “Well?”

You look back down at the screen, smile tugging at your lips before you can stop it.

You: Maybe… coffee. One cup. No letters. No expectations.

Sylus: One cup. No letters. Just you. When?

And this time, you don’t hesitate.

You: Tomorrow? Same café, 4pm?

Sent.

You stare at the message, heart tapping against your ribs like it’s trying to make a run for it. Across from you, Tara’s holding her breath with a weirdly intense look.

“I asked him,” you murmur.

Tara’s hands shoot up in silent victory. “Yes. Finally.” Then her voice drops, more sincere. “You okay?”

You nod—small, uncertain. “I don’t know what I want from this.”

“Then start with what you don’t want,” she offers. “You don’t want it to end with silence. Again.”

Your phone buzzes.

Sylus: I’ll be there. And I promise not to pretend we’re strangers this time.

Your lips twitch. You hate how fast your fingers move when you type back.

You: Good. Because I’m done pretending too.

—

You sat at the coffee table, waiting—nervously fiddling with the rim of your cup as your eyes flicked toward the door every few seconds. The café felt louder than usual, or maybe it was just your thoughts making too much noise.

What were you even doing here?

A month had passed. You should’ve let it go. But something about the way he’d looked at you that night—surprised, yes, but not indifferent—kept looping in your head like an unfinished sentence.

Your fingers stilled.

The door chimed.

You didn’t turn right away, but you felt it—the shift. The quiet recognition, the way the barista paused mid-sentence to smile, how a familiar set of footsteps approached the table.

“Hey,” Sylus said.

You looked up.

He hadn’t changed, but something in his posture was different. Softer, maybe. Less guarded.

“Hey,” you replied, quieter than intended.

He glanced at the cup in front of you. “Did you order for me again?”

You smirked. “Habit.”

“Dangerous. I could’ve turned into someone who drinks oat milk lavender lattes.”

“Then we’d have a real problem.”

That made him laugh. And you hated how nice it still sounded.

He slid into the seat across from you, exhaling slowly like even he wasn’t sure what came next.

You both sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle—not awkward, not entirely comfortable either. Just real.

“So,” he started, eyes meeting yours, “are we pretending this is just coffee?”

You paused, then shook your head. “No pretending this time.”

His gaze lingered. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He smiled faintly. “Because maybe I was wrong about a lot of things back then. But mostly... because I don’t want to be wrong about you again.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to keep your tone even, but you can already feel your chest tightening.

Sylus gives a small, breathy laugh and looks down at his hands. “I mean I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Since that night.”

Your eyebrows lift, skeptical. “We barely talked.”

“That’s the thing,” he says, meeting your gaze. “Even when you weren’t saying much, I could feel it. That weight between us. Like there was more. Like you knew something I didn’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re not sure if you can. Because part of you wants to believe he means this, and another part still remembers the awkwardness of freshman year—of your letter, of his rejection, of everything that made you feel small.

Sylus seems to sense it.

“I know I didn’t handle things well back then,” he says. “And I don’t expect us to magically reset, or rewind. I just… wanted a chance. A real one this time. No setups, no pressure, no expectations.”

A beat.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You know this is kind of insane, right?”

He smiles softly. “The best things usually are.”

You stare at him—at his hopeful expression, at the way he’s sitting there with nothing but his words and his coffee and maybe.

You look away, jaw tightening. “If we hadn’t gone on that blind date, none of this would’ve happened.”

There's a pause. You expect him to deny it, to give some sweet romantic line about fate. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he says quietly, “You’re right.”

You glance back at him, surprised by the honesty.

“If we didn’t go on that blind date,” he continues, “we probably would’ve gone on living like strangers who once shared a college campus and a forgotten letter. But we did go. And I saw you again. And it... shifted something.”

You scoff under your breath. “You’re making it sound like a movie.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives a soft laugh. “I didn’t expect it either. I thought you’d be another awkward coffee and polite goodbye. But then you walked in and looked at me like you already knew who I was—and I couldn’t stop wondering why.”

You stay silent, the edge in your expression softening, but only slightly.

“You’re still mad,” he notes gently.

“I’m still trying to understand what this is,” you reply. “If it’s just guilt. Nostalgia. Or something you’ll forget in a week.”

Sylus leans back, eyes steady on yours.

“I don’t know what it is yet either,” he says honestly. “But I’d like to find out.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes slightly. “And how exactly are you going to find out? Expect me to write you a letter again?”

Sylus smiles—not smug, not overly confident. Just steady.

“While it doesn’t sound so bad to receive one from you again, I have another idea,” he says. “But how about this: ten dates.”

You blink. “What?”

“Ten dates,” he repeats. “Maybe romantic, but not dramatic. Just… ten chances. To talk. To laugh. To see if this—whatever this is—is real.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “That sounds like a really desperate Netflix series.”

“Yeah, well, desperate is fair,” he replies with a half-shrug. “You’re kind of terrifying.”

That almost makes you laugh, but you suppress it. “Why ten?”

“Because I’m stubborn,” he says, leaning forward just a little. “And because if I can’t convince you by the tenth, I’ll back off for good.”

You look down at your cup, pretending to think, though your heart is already pacing.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But so is the fact that I still remember what you wore when you gave me that letter.”

Your head snaps up, and he grins—caught you off guard again.

You sigh, long and tired. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be charming.”

He raises a brow. “So… that’s a yes?”

You pick up your drink and sip slowly. “It’s a maybe. A probationary date system. Conditional.”

Sylus holds up both hands in surrender. “I’ll take it.”

—

The rain drums lightly against the windows as you sit across from Sylus, sipping a warm chai latte in one of your favorite hideaway spots—a quiet bookstore café tucked behind a florist and barely staffed. You picked it on purpose. Familiar. Safe. Low stakes.

He’s dressed in a dark sweater and jeans, damp at the shoulders from the rain, hair slightly tousled like he ran a hand through it too many times on the way in. You hate that he still looks so... annoyingly good.

“You chose the most intimidating first date spot,” he comments, glancing around at the towering bookshelves and soft jazz playing overhead. “Is this a test?”

You raise a brow. “You said you wanted ten dates. I’m making sure you work for them.”

He chuckles. “So... trial by literature.”

“I heard you read a lot.” You reply as you look at him with a smile, in which he echoes.

“Making some research on me, huh?” He grins. 

“Evan.” 

“Oh, that guy. Was he giving you some biodata check before going on that blind date?”

“Just simple things like what you like, the fact that you collect vinyls amongst other things. Not too much to be considered as a Sylus Genius.” You say while sipping on your drink.

He clicked his tongue, “Then it is my duty to make you one, the only one, perhaps.”

You felt your cheeks grow warmer, what a stupid reason to be blushing, but still, he laughs.

“I like that expression,” He stares at you, eyes soft and bright. Something rare to see from someone like him, yet here you are eliciting it effortlessly.

You're flipping through a poetry book when Sylus suddenly sets his phone down between you both, screen facing up.

It’s a playlist. Titled: “For Date One, if she lets me.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

“I made it last night,” he says, sheepish. “In case conversation got awkward.”

“It already is awkward.”

“Exactly. I planned ahead.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small grin tugging at your lips. You tap the first track. Soft acoustic guitar filters through the speakers—he must’ve connected it to the café’s Bluetooth. You recognize the song. Something nostalgic, early 2000s indie, a little cheesy, a little perfect.

“You’re lucky I like this band,” you murmur.

“I know.” He rests his chin on his hand, watching you a little too closely. “I remembered.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, unsure how he means it—remembered like he Googled your old Spotify profile or remembered as in… back then.

Your stomach knots.

“What else do you remember?” you ask quietly, not fully meaning to say it aloud.

He doesn’t look away. “You always carried two pens to class. A black one for notes. A blue one for thoughts.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going. “You always tied your hair up during exams, even if you didn’t need to. Said it helped you think.”

You don’t respond.

“And you once cried in the back row after a presentation because someone laughed at your voice when you read your script.” He pauses. “I wanted to punch them.”

You blink hard, your throat suddenly tight.

“I wasn’t brave then,” he adds softly. “I should’ve said something. But I never forgot.”

You look away, blinking at the shelves, pretending to read the book in your hands. His words sit between you now, heavy but warm. Sincere.

After a long pause, you whisper, “Ten dates might not be enough.”

Sylus smiles—just barely. “That wasn’t me winning you over, was it?”

You shake your head, voice barely audible. “That was you... remembering me.”

He changes his seat from across you to beside you, before plugging one earphone in your ear while the other in his. “Decided not to let the whole cafe hear your little playlist?”

“Yeah, it’s special for you.”

—

On date two, you’re still not sure how he roped you into this.

“This is a terrible idea,” you say flatly, standing in the vegetable aisle with a shopping basket in hand while Sylus debates between two kinds of veggies like it’s a life-or-death decision.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “You said you wanted something low-key. What’s lower key than cooking?”

“You didn’t say I’d be cooking with you.”

“Technically, I said we would cook. Together.” He turns back to the mushrooms. “Also, you’re stalling.”

“I just don’t trust you to know the difference between coriander and parsley.”

“That’s fair,” he mutters, tossing the better-looking pack into the basket. “I Googled that this morning.”

You try not to smile, but it slips through anyway. He notices. You pretend not to see that he noticed.

His apartment is neat. Not obsessively clean, but clearly lived in. A jacket draped over a chair. A vinyl player in the corner. A pair of reading glasses on the coffee table you didn’t know he wore.

“You can put your stuff anywhere,” he says, motioning to the couch. “Shoes off if you want. I have house socks.”

You glance at him. “House socks?”

“Yeah, you know. Guest socks. Clean, fluffy, magical.”

“…You’re a menace.”

“You’ll thank me in five minutes.”

You do. They’re ridiculously soft.

Cooking is chaotic. He chops vegetables like he’s in a rush to win a knife skills competition. You end up laughing when he puts the pasta in before the water boils and looks genuinely shocked when you scold him.

At one point, you’re both standing shoulder to shoulder at the stove, close enough to feel the heat of his arm. He smells like citrus and something woodsy. Not cologne—like fabric softener and something more subtle.

You steal glances.

He catches one.

“What?”

You shrug. “Nothing.”

“You were looking.”

“Maybe.”

“You were definitely looking.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re cute when you’re trying to pretend this isn’t fun.”

You look up at him. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I know.” He says it gently. “But it means you’re here.”

Dinner is good. Surprisingly so. You eat on the couch, plates balanced on your laps, a dumb movie playing in the background that neither of you really watches.

Halfway through, you notice him watching you again.

“What now?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. You just… look comfortable.”

You pause. It feels like a compliment, but it sinks a little deeper than that.

“Do you want dessert?” he asks quickly, maybe sensing the shift.

You nod. “Only if it’s something you didn’t burn.”

He laughs. “Rude. I bought ice cream. Zero effort involved.”

He disappears into the kitchen. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself lean back into the couch, socks on your feet, a full plate on your lap—and a feeling creeping in that maybe, just maybe, letting go of the past isn’t the same as forgetting it.

It might even be… the start of something new.

—

It’s date seven.

The previous dates were all quiet and cozy, except for date five, where the both of you went to the amusement park. You've learnt that he hates rollercoasters due to their "anti-climatic" push when the controller decided to prolong the time at the top.

But for date seven?

You hadn’t expected a literal night market.

When Sylus texted you the location, you assumed it was a café or some quiet restaurant again — something low-key, in line with your still-fragile dynamic.

Instead, you’re standing in the middle of a lively crowd, colorful lanterns strung overhead and the scent of grilled meat, fried snacks, and sugary things thick in the air.

“Too much?” he asks, appearing beside you with two skewers in hand. One of them is unrecognizable and probably a challenge.

You take the safer one.

“I thought you were the introvert.”

“I am,” he says with a smirk. “But I figured if I keep taking you to quiet places, you’ll keep overthinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And now I’m supposed to... not overthink while holding a fishball skewer?”

“Exactly. It’s very grounding.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t hand it back.

The night air is warm, heavy with humidity and noise, but there’s something oddly comforting about being one small story in a sea of strangers. It makes things easier. Lighter.

Sylus walks beside you, not saying much, just letting the sights and sounds fill in the space between. Sometimes, his hand brushes yours — never on purpose, but never fully accidental either.

You pass a booth with handmade rings, mismatched and colorful.

He pauses. “Pick one.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Date seven deserves a souvenir.”

You glance at the table, then back at him. “If I pick one, are you going to analyze what it means?”

“Undoubtedly.”

You sigh, but eventually point to a silver one with a tiny moon charm.

“Cute,” he says, paying for it without asking.

He slides it onto your finger — careful, slow — and it makes you shiver, just a little.

“You good?” he asks, eyes glancing up at you from beneath his lashes.

“I’m not used to this,” you admit, voice barely audible above the crowd.

“To what?”

“To being… wanted. Again. Still.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then says, “You’ve always been wanted. I was just too late to realize it.”

You don’t respond. Just stare at the ring, then at the ground, then at him. Your heart’s too loud again. Too full of things you swore you’d buried.

Later, after sharing a cup of mango ice and pointing out constellations you can’t actually name, you find yourselves leaning against a closed-up stall. The market’s winding down. The crowd’s thinning.

He nudges your shoulder gently. “Date seven complete.”

You glance at him. “Three more, huh?”

He nods. “Unless you cancel the package early.”

You smile, just slightly. “What’s the return policy?”

“No refunds,” he says, voice low. “But… you could renew.”

You look away too quickly.

And he doesn’t press.

Just stands there beside you, hands in his pockets, like someone who’s willing to wait — even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

The night breeze makes you shiver as you’re wearing nothing more than a thin blouse — a poor choice, you realize now, when the heat of the crowd starts to fade and the open air settles in.

Sylus notices immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, then shrugs off his jacket.

“Here,” he says, holding it out.

You hesitate.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, though your arms betray you by hugging yourself tighter.

“You always say that,” he replies gently, stepping closer. “Let me do one nice thing without making it weird.”

You sigh, but don’t fight it when he drapes the jacket around your shoulders. It’s warm. Smells faintly like him — like cologne and comfort and something you wish you didn’t miss.

You clutch it closer anyway.

He doesn’t comment. Just gives you a small smile and walks beside you again, closer this time, like maybe his presence alone could shield you from the rest of the chill.

And for a second, just a second, you stop resisting how easy it is to lean a little closer.

And as if he’s trying to push his luck, he slowly takes your hand, and interlocks your fingers together, before bringing it in his pockets.

You glance at your hands together before looking up at him, while he looks up front, like whatever he did is natural and was clearly bound to happen for him.

“Seriously?”

He looks at you, “helping you warm up.” He smiles.

—

Date nine.

You hadn’t planned on letting Sylus into your apartment yet.

It’s too personal, too you — a space you’ve protected the way you’ve guarded your heart: meticulously. No loose ends, no open doors.

But it’s raining, and he showed up early with two bags of groceries and a sheepish grin.

“You said you missed home-cooked food,” he says, already toeing off his shoes. “I make a decent curry. Or edible. Let’s start there.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That was weeks ago.”

He shrugs. “I remember things.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. Not when he’s already heading toward your kitchen like he’s been here before — like this isn’t some emotional line being crossed.

The apartment smells like garlic and coconut milk within the hour. Rain taps against your windows. Soft music hums from your phone speaker, something low and jazzy that fills the silence without drowning it.

You lean on the counter as he stirs the pot, sleeves rolled up, focused.

He looks… settled here. Like he belongs in your kitchen. Like the space didn’t mind opening up to him.

It makes something ache in your chest.

“You cook often?” you ask.

“Sometimes. It’s... therapeutic. And cheaper than emotional damage.”

You snort. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable.

Then you ask, “Why are you really doing this? The ten dates, I mean.”

He doesn’t look up at first. Just stirs slowly. Thoughtfully.

“Because I wanted to show you I could mean something to you,” he says quietly. “Without rushing. Without trying to fix what I broke before. Just… be there this time.”

You blink.

The honesty, the simplicity of it — it lands heavier than you expect.

“I don’t need fixing,” you murmur.

“I know.” He finally looks at you. “But you deserve someone who knows that.”

Dinner is warm. Slightly too spicy. You both laugh over it. You tease him for almost setting your pan on fire and he teases you for owning only two forks.

When he leaves later — umbrella in hand, jacket still with you — there’s a folded napkin left under your mug.

On it, in scribbled black ink: “You feel like home. Date Ten’s going to be dangerous.”

You stare at the note long after the door closes behind him.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel afraid of what’s next.

—

At least that’s what you thought you felt.

It has been two weeks, 14 days.

You hadn’t meant to pull away.

Work just... got in the way.

One last-minute project turned into two. A client call stretched past midnight. You started checking your phone less, replying slower. Not intentionally — just the kind of slow fade that happens when real life creeps in.

Sylus doesn’t push. He sends a meme here and there, a good morning text you forget to answer until lunch. A voice note one evening — gentle, teasing — asking if you’re still alive and if he should send a search party or just a very persistent delivery driver with bubble tea.

You laugh, but don’t reply right away.

When you finally do, it’s short. Something like, “Just swamped. Talk soon?”

He leaves it at that. No guilt. No pressure. But still — it lingers.

You miss him.

Worse, you realize it on a Tuesday night, forehead pressed against your desk, your laptop glowing 2:47 a.m. back at you, and all you can think about isn’t the project due at 8 a.m.

It’s that you haven’t seen Sylus in almost two weeks.

And you don’t know what Date Ten is supposed to be anymore.

That was until you heard your front doorbell ring.

You blink, groggy. It’s late. Not a normal time for someone to suddenly show up, but close enough that your heart stutters as you push up from your desk.

Padding to the door in mismatched socks and a hoodie you barely remember putting on, you glance through the peephole.

It’s Sylus.

Holding a paper bag, umbrella folded under his arm, hair damp like he walked the last few steps in the rain.

You hesitate for half a second before opening the door.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft. “I come bearing caffeine and snacks.”

You stare at him.

“I... you didn’t text,” you manage, your voice scratchy with fatigue and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.

“You weren’t replying,” he says simply, not accusing. Just... explaining. “And I figured if I waited for a calendar opening, I’d see you in October.”

That earns a weak laugh from you.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you mumble, stepping aside to let him in. “Work’s been—”

“—hell. I know.” He toes off his shoes and heads to your kitchen like it’s routine now. “I figured you wouldn’t feed yourself properly either.”

You blink at the bag he sets down. Soup. Tea. A small pastry you once said you liked.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says again, but there’s no heat in it.

Just the same gentle, unshakeable Sylus from Date One through Nine. The same one who gave you space, and now—unexpectedly—shows up without asking for anything back.

You exhale slowly, walls slowly lowering.

“I forgot what day it was,” you say.

He smiles faintly. “It’s not Date Ten. Yet. This is just... a bonus round.”

You sit down at the counter. He pours you tea without asking. You watch him, warmth curling up beneath your ribs.

“You didn’t give up.”

“Nope,” he says. “I said ten dates. I’m not going anywhere until you get all ten.”

You look at him. Tired, but soft. Edges worn down by the weeks, but still holding space for him.

You reach for the tea. “Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s call this one... nine and a half.”

Sylus grins. “Nine-point-five. I’ll take it.”

You nurse the cup of tea slowly, letting the heat seep into your fingers. The apartment is dim except for your desk lamp, casting a soft glow across the space. Rain continues tapping against the window, steady and hushed.

Sylus sits on the other side of the counter, watching you — not in a way that makes you self-conscious, but like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Your eyes get glassy when you’re running on four hours of sleep,” he says gently.

You raise a brow. “You make that sound factual.”

“Maybe it is,” he says, and he’s not joking.

There’s something weighted in the silence that follows, but not heavy. Just... full. Brimming with all the things neither of you have dared to say out loud since that blind date started everything again.

You look down at your tea. “I didn’t mean to pull away.”

“I know,” he says. “And I didn’t show up to make you feel bad.”

“Then why did you show up?”

He pauses. And then—

“Because I missed you,” he says, quiet but certain. “And I wanted you to remember what it feels like to be taken care of, even when your world’s on fire.”

You stare at him.

It hits in a strange place — the truth of it, the care, the timing. The softness in his voice that reaches you deeper than any grand gesture ever could.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s your exhaustion. Or maybe it’s the way he hasn’t stopped looking at you like you’re something fragile but worth holding onto.

But when you set your cup down, and say, “Come here,” your voice is steady.

He doesn’t question it. Just moves.

You meet him halfway around the counter. The rain hums in the background, steady and soft. He’s close now — warm, still damp at the edges from the walk over.

You look up at him. “This... doesn’t make us even,” you murmur.

“I’m not trying to settle a score.”

You hesitate. Then, finally—finally—you step into him.

And when you kiss him, it’s slow. Not rushed or desperate. Just a quiet press of lips in the middle of a rainy midnight, in an apartment that suddenly doesn’t feel so tired anymore.

His hand finds the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek. Yours curls into the front of his jacket like you need to hold onto something steady.

It’s not a first kiss full of fireworks or dramatic music.

It’s soft.

Earned.

Real.

And when you pull back, neither of you says anything right away. He just presses his forehead to yours and exhales the smallest, happiest breath.

You smile.

“Ten’s going to be dangerous,” you whisper.

He grins. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got nine and a half reasons to survive it.”

—

You wake up to sunlight sneaking through the curtains and the unmistakable scent of coffee.

For a moment, you think maybe you dreamed it all — the rain, the tea, the kiss.

But then you hear gentle clinking in the kitchen.

You push yourself up from the couch, blanket slipping off your shoulders, and find Sylus standing by your stove like he’s been there a hundred times. One of your mugs in hand. His hair still slightly messy from sleep.

He glances over when he hears you. “Morning.”

His voice is quiet. Familiar. Safe.

“You stayed,” you say, more like a thought than a question.

He tilts his head. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I kissed you and then fell asleep in the middle of your jacket, so I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

Sylus chuckles, crossing the room to hand you a fresh cup of coffee.

You take it with a small, grateful hum and sip. It’s perfect. Just how you like it.

He nods toward the table where he’s already laid out toast and eggs — simple but warm. Intentional.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But I wanted the first morning after our nine-and-a-halfth date to start right.”

You pause. The phrase makes your chest tighten — not in a painful way. Just full. Softened.

“You’re very good at this, you know,” you murmur.

“What? Being your emergency food delivery guy?”

You give him a look, and he smirks, stepping closer until your hip’s pressed lightly against the counter and he’s standing in front of you.

“No,” you say. “At... making it feel easy.”

He shrugs, but there’s something fond in his eyes. “It is easy. When it’s you.”

That line shouldn’t make your heart skip, but it does. And before you can overthink it — again — he leans down and brushes a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips. This one slower, softer than the night before.

“Let me stay a little longer,” he murmurs when you part.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Because for once, you don’t feel the need to run ahead or fall behind. You just want this moment.

His.

A few hours later, Sylus left, and date ten starts.

You’re already suspicious when Sylus tells you not to wear anything too fancy, and even more so when he insists on picking you up himself.

“I swear, if this is a paintball arena—” “It’s not,” he laughs, hand warm around yours as he leads you down a quiet path.

It isn’t until you recognize the stone archway ahead that your heart stumbles. Your old campus.

You blink. “You didn’t.” He raises a brow. “Didn’t what?” “This is where I met you.” “It’s where I saw you,” he corrects gently. “You met me after tripping over your own feet trying to sit in the last row.”

You gasp in mock outrage. “That’s not—okay, that is accurate.”

He grins, tugging you toward one of the empty benches just outside the old lecture hall. The sun’s low, sky blushing gold and soft blue.

“There’s a picnic,” he says, motioning to the small setup — nothing over the top. A blanket, some pastries, cold brew in glass bottles, and a small stack of your favorite snacks.

You sit beside him, heart full and quiet.

“You remembered this place,” you murmur, looking out over the familiar quad where your lives once barely brushed each other’s.

“I remembered you in this place,” he says. “That matters more.”

You glance at him. His expression is soft, unreadable in the best way — like he’s still amazed you’re here.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice quieter, “if we didn’t go on that blind date... we might not have ever come back to this.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Maybe. But I think something else would’ve pulled us together eventually.”

You raise a brow. “That’s bold.” “That’s fate,” he says simply. “Stubborn. Annoying. Kind of like you, actually.”

You nudge him, trying not to laugh. “You just ruined the moment.”

He shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to fix it.”

And he kisses you.

Not a hesitant first. Not a sudden second. But a tenth-date kind of kiss — full of memory, promise, and quiet affection that doesn’t need to prove itself anymore.

When you pull away, you press your forehead to his.

“This is my favorite date,” you whisper.

“Mine too,” he replies. “But... I want to show you something.”

His voice has shifted — softer now, more careful.

You watch as Sylus reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a timeworn envelope. Cream-colored. Slightly bent at the corners. A familiar messy swirl of ink where your handwriting signed his name.

Your breath leaves you. “Is that—?”

He nods slowly. “Your letter. From freshman year.”

Your world tilts a little. “I—I thought I threw it away after… after you said no.”

He looks at the envelope like it’s fragile. Like it’s sacred. “You gave it to me after that group project, remember? You said I could read it or pretend it never existed. I was too much of a coward to say anything back then.”

“You folded it and put it in your backpack,” you murmur. “Didn’t even open it in front of me.”

“I read it that night,” he admits. “Twice.”

Your eyes sting.

“I was young. Stupid. Scared. You wrote something so sincere, and I didn’t know how to be what you deserved. So I told myself it was easier to say nothing than to mess anything up.”

You’re silent. The weight of years pressing in on you. On both of you.

He carefully opens the envelope, pulling out the folded pages inside. The paper’s softened over time, but your words are still there — full of nerves, and longing, and a kind of bravery you barely recognize anymore.

He starts to read it aloud. Not theatrically. Not to embarrass you. But like it matters. Like it’s still beating.

To. Sylus Qin.

This might be stupid, in fact, this may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever encountered in your life. But if I don’t write this down, I might have even more sleepless nights overthinking all these thoughts in my head.

I like you. I really do. Ever since the first day of psych class. It felt like love at first sight but I don’t want to be dramatic with this, I can’t help it. The way you can answer every question the Prof gave us, or when you seemed to laugh so freely at your friend’s awful jokes (I sometimes overheard you guys, he was being pretty loud), Or maybe when you held the door open for everyone that one rainy morning even though you were soaked.

It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just needed you to know. Because I want to be brave, and this letter is the only way I know how. 

You cringe at the words your past self wrote to him, burying your face in your hands with a soft groan. “Why did I have to say all that when I still got upset that you rejected me?”

Sylus chuckles, folding the letter back with surprising care before slipping it into his pocket again. “Because it was honest. And brave. And a little dramatic,” he adds, smirking.

You glare at him through your fingers. “I was nineteen.”

“And very articulate for someone confessing their heart and soul,” he teases. “Honestly, I think that’s when I started falling for you — I just didn’t know what to do with it back then.”

You lower your hands slowly, blinking. “Falling?”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “My pride’s already hanging by a thread.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That’s what you get for carrying emotional artifacts in your coat pocket.”

He grins. “That letter’s my proof that you liked me first.”

You laugh, swatting his shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I’m here. And if you’re still mad about nineteen-year-old me being a dumbass... I can make it up to you.”

“Oh?” you raise a brow, suddenly wary. “How?”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “Ten more dates. Starting with breakfast tomorrow. I’ll even bring coffee and not screw up the order.”

You hesitate — heart twisting, tugged between the embarrassment of the past and the fragile wonder of now.

But then you smile, small and real.

“Only if I don’t have to write any more letters.”

Sylus leans in, nose nearly brushing yours. “No more letters. Just us.”

—

One Year Later

“You shrunk my sweater!” you shout from the bedroom, holding up the tiny, once-cozy piece of clothing like it's been murdered.

Sylus appears in the doorway, toothbrush in hand. “It said warm wash!”

You point an accusatory finger. “It said hand wash only, you chaos gremlin!”

He squints. “Are you sure?”

You shove the tag in his face. “Does this look unsure to you?”

He pauses, leans in, reads the tag, then slowly backs away like it might bite. “Okay. So I may have misread.”

“You may have committed a war crime.”

He raises a brow. “It’s just a sweater.”

“It was my comfort sweater. My post-long-day, rainy-night, sad-girl-hours sweater!”

Sylus tries not to smile. “Sad-girl-hours?”

You glare. “Don’t mock me in my time of grief.”

He disappears for a moment and returns with a hoodie — his hoodie. He tosses it at you.

You catch it and blink. “What’s this?”

“Official replacement,” he says with a shrug. “It’s softer. Smells better. Probably has my good boyfriend energy woven into the threads.”

You squint at him. “Bribery.”

“Compromise,” he says, smug. “Also, you look cuter in my clothes anyway.”

You roll your eyes and pull the hoodie on. It is soft. And warm. And kind of smells like him and cinnamon.

“…You’re lucky I’m forgiving,” you mumble.

“And you’re lucky I’m good at laundry 87% of the time.”

You shake your head, already smiling. “That 13% is dangerous.”

“I live on the edge,” he smirks, walking away.

You sigh dramatically, flopping onto the bed in your oversized hoodie.

“Next time,” you call out, “I’m making you sort socks for a week.”

“Babe!” he yells and comes back at you making you look up at him. “What now?”

He went to sit beside you on the bed, before suddenly crashing on top of you with all his weight. You let out an exaggerated oof as he smothered you like a human blanket.

“My hourly kiss,” he mumbled against your cheek, already pressing a noisy one there.

You squirm under him, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “You’re so heavy, Sylus—get off before my ribs turn into dust!”

“Nope,” he says, settling in even more like a cat refusing to move. “This is rent. You wore my hoodie. Now you pay in affection.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but your arms are already wrapping around him out of habit.

He lifts his head just enough to look down at you, his grin softening into something gentler. “You love it.”

You wrinkle your nose, but your heart betrays you. “I do.”

He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “Good. Now hurry and give me my kiss.”

You roll your eyes but oblige, lips brushing his in something far sweeter than the bickering that led to it.

And somehow, even after a year and countless ridiculous arguments, it still makes your heart race like it’s the first.

“Mmh..” He smiles into the kiss, like he always does.

You try to pull away, but his grip on you tightens and the kiss turns into something more rougher, more passionate.

“Not done,” Sylus murmurs, his voice low against your lips.

The next kiss catches you off guard—no longer playful, but deeper, rougher. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all day. His hand slides to the back of your neck, tilting your face toward him, anchoring you to the moment.

It makes your breath hitch, makes your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s still Sylus—still familiar, still home—but there’s something new in the way he kisses you now. Like all the quiet moments, the bickering, the small touches and soft laughs have been building to this. Like he’s telling you something he hasn’t yet found the words for.

When you finally pull back, your lips are tingling and your heart is racing far too fast.

He’s staring at you like you hung the stars.

You swallow. “What was that for?”

He doesn’t smile—just brushes your hair behind your ear and says, “Felt like a good time to remind you.”

You blink. “Remind me of what?”

He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “That I’m in love with you. And I mean it every hour, not just the one with the kiss.”

Your chest tightens in the best way. You can’t quite speak, but your hand finds his, and that’s enough for now.

“I love you, baby.” He smiles.

And when you reply, he hugs you, wrapping your body in the warmth only he could provide for you. You sigh in his arms in content.

You’re happy, both of you are.

And you couldn't ask for more.

fin.

a/n: hmmm i didn’t expect it to be this long :\ but i hope you guys love this as much as i do! reblogs are very appreciated! do let me know what you guys think? 💭

[mycrowskitten]

WHERE SOLACE BLOOMS.

PAIRING: Sylus x fem!reader SYNOPSIS: In moments where you feel like you don't belong, Sylus reminds you that only you deserve a place by his side. CW: Insecurity, fem!reader, hurt/comfort, mild angst, non-sexual intimacy, body dysmorphia/dysphoria, past trauma, healing, forced alcohol consumption, kissing. W.C: 3.8k A/N: Filler post!! I'm sorry for being inactive. I'm super busy with life and am writing a novel-length Sylus fic, which is taking longer due to my packed schedule and inability to stick to one simple plot. My stories breathe without my permission. They become things I don't intend them to. For example, this fic was supposed to be <1k words. And the huge fic I'm writing was supposed to conclude in <20k words, but I'm currently at 30k (second act out of 4, by the way). But, oh well. If my stories want to become something great, who am I to stop them?

Red was the most prominent colour in Sylus’s life. The one that graced every aspect of his life, from his eyes to his attire, to the very home he resided in. The first time you met him, he wore red on his shoulders. Even now, though he sometimes wore white in spring and summer, red never truly left his wardrobe. 

Beyond a doubt, red was his colour. His signature. Something only he could pull off with such unmatched elegance. And you loved him for it—of course you did. It was so very him. And if he relished in his appearance dressed in blacks and scarlets, you would smile as well. 

But, unmistakably, red was not your colour. 

You remember the first time you wore red. 

The only time you’d attended a college party, you’d worn an outfit tailored perfectly to your tastes. The dress was opulent—not overly so, but certainly enough to attend a party. It covered you adequately and felt comfortable to your skin. But just as you twirled around in it in front of your friends, one of them snickered—“Surely, you’re not wearing... that?” 

She had the best intentions in mind, you were certain, but those words cut deep. Scrambling, you put the dress back onto the shelf and dragged her along so she could pick out something “sexier” instead. 

Finally, she settled on a red dress. Low straps, exposed cleavage, and a slit dangerously high up your thigh. The silk had been bunched awkwardly around your torso, and the drapes looked more like a crumpled curtain than something elegant. You were unsure whether the problem was with your body, your posture, or your disarrayed psyche itself. Perhaps, it was simply your brain rejecting the boldness of the fit. Too confident, it said. Not compatible with someone of your personality. 

Still, your friend’s earlier snicker compelled you to buy the dress. 

And the night you’d worn it, you’d paired it with thigh-high boots, gloves, and a scarf instead. Looking back at it, you realised you rendered yourself more of a clown than you were in that dress alone. You spent the night tugging at the slits, folding it over your thigh to cover as much as possible. No matter, you’d assured yourself. I’ll learn confidence with time. 

Except, you never did. And that God-forsaken red dress lay abandoned in your apartment until you deliberately left it when you moved out. 

A part of you wishes now that you hadn’t. Not out of a genuine longing for that dress, or from the nostalgia of the lessons that came with it. You wished you owned it so you could exercise sucking it up and flaunting it despite your discomfort. Because in Sylus’s world, red was the dominant colour. And if you were to survive in it, you’d have to learn to blend in with the reds on his arms. 

So, when he’d taken you with himself to choose a dress for an auction that would be later that evening, you’d entered with your head held high, ready to pick red. 

The place smelled like a tailoring shop. Abundant fabrics of many scents, ranging from silk to cotton, and full of gowns and suits that glinted gracefully under the lighting. You’d been used to the elegance by now—not comfortable with it, no. It had bled into your life, and you’d accepted it like a welcomed parasite. If you were to be with him, you would have to adapt. Adaptation is how most species survive, and for women like you, it was a most crucial skill. But to really be with Sylus, to live and love with him for an eternity undisturbed, you’d have to evolve as well. Just like your ancestors did. 

As you drifted through the endless aisles, you kept an eye out for dresses having any three of these qualities—elegant, red, black, seductive. You chanted the keywords like a mantra in your head. But still, it required some familiarisation to not be drawn to gowns you liked instead. 

Sylus followed close behind you with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He watched with great amusement as you switched from aisle to aisle, lane to lane, from dress to dress. He noticed your glimmer as you eyed what he’d expected you to pick, and the sadness that overtook you as you reluctantly pulled away and hovered to something else instead. 

He watched you pick out dresses you’d never wear, hold them out to him with a smile that never reached your eyes, and skip to a dressing room with weights attached to the soles of your feet. 

Still, he indulged you. If his beloved would choose to wear something else instead, he’d support her nevertheless with every part of himself he could invest. 

But when even she was unhappy with her picks? Well, that was a different story entirely. 

You’d picked out three dresses for yourself. One was nothing short of bold. It had an oval neckline that dipped intimidatingly low, past your sternum, and just above your abdomen. The “sleeves” were merely two thick straps that looped around your neck. The dress itself reached just below your hips. The rest would have to stay bare. 

The second was a little more covering—long, black, backless with two drapes of fabric slung over your shoulders. But the waist was fitted, and there were strings fitted inside which you could pull to make the dress tighten around your curves. If it were really up to you, you’d go with this one. 

And the last was strikingly similar to the red dress you once owned, but in far finer silk. It had four slits instead of one—two at the thighs, and two at the back. Each distinct lobe hung like jagged petals of a vicious flower. It was lethal, efficient, and undeniably his type. You’d have put it back, but you realised that if any of these gowns were to please him, it would be this. 

As you stepped into the dressing room, fear began to coil in your stomach. And as the door clicked shut behind you, the room shrank. The walls pressed into your ribs, leaving you more breathless than any tight dress could. 

You couldn’t bear to glance at yourself in the mirror, and you hadn’t even tried anything on yet. 

Instead, your eyes remained glued to your outfit. Simpler, cheaper, and more comfortable—it was perfect for you. The type of outfit you wish you could always wear. If societal standards did not exist, you’d have worn them everywhere. From casual hangouts to actual banquets—why must attire shift with circumstances? Was clothing not a form of self-expression? Why was it used to conceal one’s flaws? If you could, you’d have sewn it with your skin so no one could ever force it off you without ripping you apart. 

But to evolve was to let go of the skin you’d shed. To swallow a blazing pyre and be born anew amid the flames. Forcing it down your throat would be the most difficult part. But in the end, it would be worth the sting. 

You stripped your clothes with unwillingness. Your legs began to wobble under the weight. But as any good woman would, you pushed on, slipping your pants off your legs and tossing it to the side. 

You grabbed the first dress from the rack; the black one. Better to start slow, you sighed. 

You didn’t dare spare a glance at yourself before you’d perfected it around your form. You pulled the strings hidden inside, and it tightened around your torso. Your stomach bulged, protruding through the fabric. But you’d recalled that some found even that attractive. So, you paid little mind. 

This dress too had an opening in the front. You hadn’t noticed it before. Although it wasn’t nearly as exposing as the other two, it revealed a good portion of your legs. But it was too late for any takebacks, wasn’t it? You’d have to do with translucent tights if you picked this out. 

Slowly, you swung the door open. And with lagging steps, you inched outside. 

Your hands were draped humbly over your lap. You were too preoccupied with gauging Sylus’s expression to bother to put on a show. 

His eyes glimmered with faint surprise, whose cause you couldn't decipher. For a minute, the room remained silent. Only the calculated thuds of employees treading echoed in the background. Thud, thud, thud... The noise grew almost sickening after a while. 

And then slowly, his crimson eyes softened. 

A small smile spread across his lips. “You look beautiful,” he murmured. But his smile fell, and a firm look graced his features. He opened his mouth, as if to voice a concern, but sealed his lips as soon as he landed upon the vulnerable look on your face. 

The silence that’d transpired earlier didn’t feel right. It stretched too long. Weighed too heavy. And paired with his surprise and the words he couldn’t speak, it only sent you into further disarray. 

Not this one, you noted. You weren’t planning on stopping until you elicited the perfect response from him. 

“Do you want this one, sweetie?” 

You tilted your head and pretended to think. “I’ll check out the other ones first.” 

You shut yourself in. 

The boldest dress, which you hadn’t shown him before pulling the fabric as much as you could over your legs, evoked a harsher response than before. 

His brows furrowed, and conflict emerged on his face. For a long time, it looked as if he were torn between two sides. 

Not this one either, you thought. You should have known. No partner would be okay with flaunting this. 

You stood there, with your hands desperately trying to seal your last shreds of dignity, unmoving as he sized you up. 

Then came his voice, low and cautious, like a single misstep could scare you away, and he uttered—“As delectable as you look, I can tell you’re uncomfortable.” 

You nearly flinched as a warm hand rested atop your shoulder. With a final breath, he said, “Don’t force yourself,” and gently guided you back into the dressing room. 

Once inside, you gladly undressed yourself. You tossed the dress carelessly to the side, leaving it abandoned like the others. But when you reached up to unhook the final red gown, your hand froze mid-air. 

Your excitement dissolved into bitterness. A familiar disgust crept into your bones. 

That night—the night before the college party, you remembered slipping into the dress you’d bought. You had tidied your hair, touched up your face, and slipped on your earrings all without as much as glimpsing at your attire. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it. It felt wrong. Foreign. Like a look into a life that wasn’t yours—a life that would never be yours. 

But after you’d slung your purse over your shoulder, there was nothing left to do. No excuse left to stall the reveal. Nowhere to flee. 

Your phone rang in the background—your friend, possibly prodding about your delay. You waited for it to stop. And it did, only to begin ringing once more. Ring, ring, ring... 

You positioned yourself in front of the mirror, but your eyes did not open. For a long time, you stood like that—trembling, sweating, unable to face the reality of what you’d become. What you’d deliberately turned yourself into. 

Ring, ring, ring... 

But a nefarious voice coiled around your throat. It spat the truth; that you could never again re-weave yourself if you couldn’t face it today. That you’d be a loser forever if you never learned to flaunt yourself, to blend into unyielding societal norms no matter how they ripped you apart. 

Ring, ring, ring... 

So, hesitantly, you lifted your eyes. 

Ring... 

In the mirror, a stranger stared back. 

Memories flashed in a blink. You smelled the stench of alcohol as it was forced down your throat, the laughter of the crowd as you spilled it all over your dress, gagging, the relentless sobs that came as you tried to push everything away. But then, the scene changed. 

You were back in the dressing room. The one you forced yourself into. The one with the lights buzzing overhead. 

A figure came into view. Someone bearing your skin, your face, your personality, but someone that wasn’t you. She was dressed in an intimidating red. The outfit looked horrendous on her. 

The fabric was bunched around her torso awkwardly. It fell from her body and lapped in irregular folds. Not elegant at all, you thought. The silk glimmered, but she was not meant to shine. 

Suddenly, you were 20 again. Standing before the mirror, hastily throwing on whatever you could find, and staring back at a tear-stricken face ruined with liquid mascara. The phone rang cruelly in the background, as if mocking you as well. 

You remember looking at yourself—truly looking—and thinking, “How can a girl be so inconceivably ugly? How can you look so horrid? So foreign?” But no answer ever came. It was a cruel God’s wicked scheme to let you breathe in this skin. To have given you such things—features that expired millennia ago, personalities that were adored no longer, and tastes that one would now be ridiculed for—fate had chosen you rather than anybody else. 

If you were meant to be free, why did you have to conform to a societal norm? Why did you have to paint yourself in reds and blacks when the brighter hues suited you the most? But then again, who could you blame? You did this to yourself. Sylus had never asked you of a thing, never demanded you conform. Your biggest enemy wasn’t the world. It was you. 

Tears pricked your eyes. Their dampness returned you to the world, and only then did you realise your head was already hung low, unable to meet your reflection. You didn’t know when you’d done that. 

You rubbed your tears away with the back of your hand. Tiny pieces of hardened makeup peeled off your face in the process. 

A hurried knock thudded behind the dressing room’s door. “Sweetie?”, a worried voice spoke, “Can I come in?” 

You straightened your dress and cleared your throat. Had it been that long? You couldn’t tell. You’d lost track of time scrutinising yourself. 

With your damp hands, you slid the lock open and pushed the door. As it creaked open, a familiar figure came into view. His white hair, as kept as always, shimmered brilliantly under the ceiling lights. His red eyes sparkled. Beautiful. But his brows were furrowed ever so slightly. His lips almost resembled a frown. 

You stepped back, and he stepped forward. Before long, he’d entered the dressing room and shut the door behind him. The gesture was logical. Something he definitely should’ve done. But in doing so, he’d trapped you to your fate. There was nowhere to flee. Nowhere to bolt to so you wouldn’t have to see his reaction. 

You turned to the mirror and brushed aside your hair. You made sure to pat down everything, to pull at every loose end to cover as much as possible. 

“So... how do I look...?” 

Sylus stood behind you. His hands reached your bare shoulders, and you almost squirmed away. 

Despite this, he said nothing. Anxiety pooled in your stomach. You could feel your head throb with the pressure. 

“Do I look... bad?” You couldn’t help but ask. Still, he didn’t reply. 

Four seconds of silence passed, and that was when you’d decided you’d had enough. You began pulling at the dress’s flimsy straps desperately. 

“I can take it off if it’s bad. I’ll just wear something else tonight. I’m sorry. I’m—” 

Before you could slide it completely off your shoulder, a hand wrapped firmly around yours. 

“Sweetie.” His voice grounded you. For a moment, you wished you could drown in it forever. 

“Why are you doing this...?” 

You paused. Your teeth slowly sank into your lips. 

“Doing... what?” 

“Forcing yourself.” He squeezed your taut shoulder and pressed it down. 

You lowered your head. A few tears threatened to fall. 

“I’m not.” 

“You’re stiff,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I can see your tears as well. You’re not enjoying this.” 

You shut your eyes. The droplets fell. They thudded against the carpeted floor. 

“Since when was this supposed to be enjoyable?” You sniffled. Your makeup flowed with your tears. 

Sylus flinched. His eyes widened a little, and his brows furrowed even more. Almost as if your words had hurt him. You hadn’t meant for it to. You felt even worse. 

Nonetheless, he didn’t pull away. His fingers carefully slipped under the strap. 

“Do you remember what you wore on your birthday?” 

You eyed him curiously. 

“The one with the frills,” he added. An image flashed before your eyes. An image of your favourite dress. 

That day, you hadn’t held back. When Sylus had asked you to come downstairs in your best clothes, you hadn’t hesitated before slipping into that dress and touching yourself up just the way you liked to. 

“You looked so beautiful that day.” A large smile spread across his face. “All because you were happy with what you wore and confident in your choice.” 

You bloomed in the memory. But back then, things were simpler. You weren’t nearly as intertwined with his life as you were now. 

“What I’m saying is, if it only brings you discomfort... then don’t wear it.” 

He sought your eyes for permission, and when he received it, he began sliding the dress off your shoulders, down your torso, and onto the floor. Once it was completely off your body, you breathed a sigh of relief. 

You shivered as his lips pressed tenderly against your shoulder. His arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you close against his chest. You both eyed the same woman in the mirror. And this time, she looked much happier. 

“See?” He mused, “You look much better this way.” 

You couldn’t tell if he was flirting, or if he was being sincere. Knowing him, it could very well be both. Either way, you couldn’t stop the smile that crept to your face, followed by the soft blush that covered your cheeks. 

“I just... wanted to be the kind of woman worthy of being by your side.” 

He raised his head, almost offended. Did you really think of yourself like that?, he wanted to ask. But the words dissolved at the tip of his tongue. He knew the answer already. 

“Let this be a lesson, sweetie—” he decided to say—“Nobody should be forced to keep up with anyone.” His hands cupped your face. “Not even for me.” 

You lowered your head. “Nobody should be... but they are, Sylus. I’ll look like a clown if I dressed how I wanted. Nobody dresses like that in the N109 zone.” 

His lips aimed for your collarbone. “Let them speak.” He brushed aside a stray strand from your face. “It won’t change a thing about how I feel about you.” 

You smiled again. Willingly, this time. It felt familiar, but not unwelcome. Perhaps, you’d done this a thousand times. 

But, still, how could you believe him? 

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him, no—you trusted him with your life. What could tell you for sure that it wasn’t a white lie made to lift your spirits? How could you be sure that he didn’t secretly wince at the weird glances, didn’t frown at how his reputation was tainted? 

How could you know he wasn’t lying to himself as well? 

You craned your head to gauge his face. His features were sincere. Serene. Loving. But you were conditioned not to trust them. Expressions were as easily orchestrated as words. What stopped him from putting on a perfect façade to simply not hurt you? 

The conflict must have been visible on your face, as Sylus’s expression soon fell at the sight of it, making him release his grip on your face. His calmness shattered as soon as he realised he had failed. And instead, it transformed into a self-loathing you feared you made him feel. 

"You know what?” Sylus reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. His thumb ghosted over the screen a while before he made his decision. “We’re not going tonight.” 

You stared at him wide-eyed. 

“But, it’s important—” 

“For my work?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Surely you know by now that the losses I’ll suffer would be too insignificant to matter?” 

You bit your bottom lip. “Still, it shouldn’t be cast aside so easily.” 

“So easily?” He huffed. “Sweetie— to me, nothing matters more than your comfort.” 

You squinted sceptically. 

He laughed. “I mean it.” He ruffled your hair affectionately, to which you’d responded with a smack to his forearm. 

“But in all seriousness,” Sylus leaned down. His face neared yours, and once again, he took it into his hands. His thumb swept over a damp cheek, collecting your tears like soot and smearing it onto his skin. 

“If it means seeing you smile one more time...” His eyes flickered to your lips. “I’d sell half my fortune, and maybe my soul as well.” 

Your smile softened. “Wasn’t it you who always warned me about making deals with the devil? What changed, Sylus?” 

“You.” A shiver ran down your spine at the finality in his words. The confidence, the sureness—he said it as if it were the only truth that would remain untouched by time, death, and preserved by eternity. 

Your bottom lip trembled. He leaned in and pressed his forehead against yours. 

“I can’t fix everything in a day. But...” 

His eyes opened, and you found yourself staring back into deep pools of crimson. The only shade of red you adored. 

“... I hope that every day you’re by my side, we can mend pieces of what was lost.” 

You leaned up, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss. 

That night, you both ditched the auction, spending time cuddling in bed instead. 

You’d spoken to him of all your woes—of the college party you never forgot, of the feelings you trapped in that gilded cage you called a heart, of everything and anything that was you and you alone. 

And he listened, with his limbs tangled with yours, with your mascara staining his collar, and with a devoted shimmer in his eyes. Like bees enclosed within a datura’s petals, you conversed as if the world outside had faded from existence. And for a while, it truly felt like that. Like it had all crumbled to ash, and you both were the only ones alive. 

Perhaps, some woes would linger forever like pollen stuck to a butterfly’s wings—an invisible burden carried unknowingly. But with Sylus by your side, even the heaviest grains seemed weightless and irrelevant. So long as he stayed, the colours would drown them until they stung no more. 

[mycrowskitten]

Explaining what the lads tags mean so everyone can learn the concept of tagging.

This is a long post

for rants : #lads rant

#love and deepspace / #lads / #loveanddeepspace / #lnds

are common fandom tags, any posts under the fandom including writing, ramblings, rants and fanart go under these tags.

a. #love and deepspace angst :

#love and deepspace smut :

#love and deepspace headcanons:

#love and deepspace x reader :

#love and deepspace x non mc :

#love and deepspace x mc :

#love and deepspace fluff

and similar tags like #lads fluff consists of said topic with all the love interests

2. #zayne / #loveanddeepspace zayne / #lads zayne / #love and deepspace zayne / #lnds zayne

are tags for Zayne from love and deepspace, any rants, ramblings, fics, fanart containing him falls under this category.

a. zayne x reader

are tags Exclusively used for writing and drabbles of Zayne which contains reader, not MC. (this is optional ik but x reader does not mean the game MC and I've seen people annoyed by that so this is why it's here)

b. #Zayne x MC

is the tag used for writing containing Zayne and in-game MC, not the reader

c. #Zayne smut : writings of Zayne which contains smut

#Zayne angst : writings of Zayne which includes angst

#Zayne Fluff : writings of Zayne which includes fluff

#Zayne headcanons : are headcanons of Zayne

#Zayne x non mc

: writings of non-mc reader containing Zayne, please keep in mind that this tag is for non mc fics and not for rants about how much you hate them

3. . #Xavier / #loveanddeepspace Xavier / #lads Xavier / #love and deepspace Xavier / #lnds Xavier

are tags for Xavier from love and deepspace, any rants, ramblings, fics, fanart containing him falls under this category.

a. xavier x reader

are tags Exclusively used for writing and drabbles of Xavier which contains reader, not MC.

b. #Xavier x MC

is the tag used for writing containing Xavier and in-game MC, not the reader

c. #Xavier smut : writings of Xavier which contains smut

#Xavier angst : writings of Xavier includes angst

#Xavier Fluff : writings of Xavier which includes fluff

#Xavier headcanons : are headcanons of Xavier

#Xavier x non mc

: writings of non-mc reader containing Xavier

4.

#Rafayel / #loveanddeepspace Rafayel / #lads Rafayel / #love and deepspace Rafayel / #lnds Rafayel

are tags for Rafayel from love and deepspace, any rants, ramblings, fics, fanart containing him falls under this category.

a. Rafayel x reader

are tags Exclusively used for writing and drabbles of Rafayel which contains reader, not MC.

b. #Rafayel x MC

is the tag used for writing containing Rafayel and in-game MC, not the reader

c. #Rafayel smut : writings of Rafayel which contains smut

#Rafayel angst : writings of Rafayel includes angst

#Rafayel Fluff : writings of Rafayel which includes fluff

#Rafayel headcanons : are headcanons of Rafayel

#Rafayel x non mc

: writings of non-mc reader containing Rafayel

5.

#Sylus / #loveanddeepspace Sylus / #lads Sylus / #love and deepspace Sylus / #lnds Sylus etc.

are tags for Sylus from love and deepspace, any rants, ramblings, fics, fanart containing him falls under this category.

a. Sylus x reader

are tags Exclusively used for writing and drabbles of Sylus which contains reader, not MC.

b. #Sylus x MC

is the tag used for writing containing Sylus and in-game MC, not the reader

c. #Sylus smut : writings of Sylus which contains smut

#Sylus angst : writings of Sylus includes angst

#Sylus Fluff : writings of Sylus which includes fluff

#Sylus headcanons : are headcanons of Sylus

#Sylus x non mc

: writings of non-mc reader containing Sylus

6

#Caleb / #loveanddeepspace Caleb / #lads Caleb / #love and deepspace Caleb / #lnds Caleb

are tags for Caleb from love and deepspace, any rants, ramblings, fics, fanart containing him falls under this category.

a. #Caleb x reader

are tags Exclusively used for writing and drabbles of Caleb which contains reader, not MC.

b. #Caleb x MC

is the tag used for writing containing Caleb and in-game MC, not the reader

c. #Caleb smut : writings of Caleb which contains smut

#Caleb angst : writings of Caleb includes angst

#Caleb Fluff : writings of Caleb which includes fluff

#Caleb headcanons : are headcanons of Caleb

#Caleb x non mc

: writings of non-mc reader containing Caleb

I always see people complaining about people mistagging but the irony is that they complain and rant in the 'x reader' tag proving that you need to follow your own advice, so please from now onwards, tag fics correctly, but at the end of the day there are soo much lads tags as far as the eye can see, if I were to write them down, I would have to spend a couple of hours doing so - instead here are some main tags in the fandom

[mycrowskitten]

Thinking about Fruit Vendor! Sylus who actually establishes a produce company to keep up the ruse — only to become way more invested and passionate about it than he initially expected. 

It starts off as an inside joke, a made-up background he spews bullshit about to MC’s friends and colleagues. But one day, he gets a text from one of your mutual friends he met at an engagement party, asking if he had connections to any wholesale suppliers. And he finds himself rather stumped (a feeling he doesn’t particularly like). 

Never let it be said that Sylus isn’t a good actor, but a little research never hurt anyone. It's all for the ruse, he thinks, as he begins researching the stock market and existing suppliers in Linkon. But you see, the moment he finished the first business article, the gears of his mind already started turning. A few hours later, he has an endless compilation of research and a whole business venture planned out. (Luke and Kieran are probably confused as hell as to why their boss is suddenly interested in selling fruits, but they're probably used to his random entrepreneurial ideas and investments. It's not as if it doesn't pay off.)

Onychinus has all sorts of business dealings, both legitimate and fronts for the organization’s… less than legal dealings. A produce company would fit right in, he thinks, with the added benefit of maintaining his fake identity as “Skye.” Before he knows it, he has a whole operation underway — one that’s legal, at that — and it ends up being far more successful than he expects.

His first clients are contacts he made from being at your side in various events and gatherings. Spewing enough bullshit about seasonal fruit quality and the weather affecting shipments and growth had gained him quite a few connections over the months, and it paid off now that he had a legitimate business to back up his claims.

Eventually, the company expands enough to start harvesting rare and premium quality fruits. It turns a high profit during the holiday seasons, where the advertisements and special packaging entice people to buy it for occasions and gifts. With his draconic tendencies, it was only inevitable he’d expand into this area of business; it’s like another type of treasure for him, especially when he gets to bring you home the rarest and highest quality fruits.

Throughout this, he ends up investing in a farm for the business, one that exclusively supplies the company and his other business fronts. I can imagine that it becomes a passion of his, to run a sustainably-run farm that pays well and offers benefits to its farmers, slowly building up a rural community. With Onychinus being all bloodshed and crime, he’d take pride in contributing to something that truly helps people (and of course, to build something you would be proud of). 

He drives you out to the farm occasionally, when you both need a break from the city. Cue the mini Stardew Valley AU where you guys put on your overalls and tour the farm, the managers briefing Sylus on crop production while you’re chatting with the farmers, getting to know the people who make up the heart and soul of the place. 

i don’t know how to end this but tldr; sylus may be the criminal overlord of the n109 zone, but never let it be said he isn’t a damn good boss and business owner

[mycrowskitten]

dinner at akso | ZAYNE from lads

summary: he missed you. he always misses you. are you gonna make him say it? pairing: zayne x reader tags:  fluff, doctor!zayne, lowkey yearning, PURE FLUFF, mentions of surgical procedures, sliiiightly suggestive at the end, reader and zayne not a couple yet. also a very minor alteration to canon (im talm bout the pot), zayne thinks ur adorable, u have a BIG crush a/n: (main story spoilers ahead) ugh guys i rlly feel like we were meant to be with zayne sometimes. theres so much content for that in the main story. we sleep in ONE BED in the main story. thank you so much for reading ^_^

A soft smile played on Zayne’s lips. It seemed to be a permanent accessory of his whenever he was with you. Greyson, Yvonne– the whole cardiac division at Akso, honestly– noticed it. He knew they noticed it– their soft chatter would mute to a hush when the famed Miss Hunter would walk through the hall in her battered uniform. You would carry a flimsy plastic bag, hanging taut from your fingers under the weight of takeout boxes. Tiny dewdrops of condensation would swirl in patterns on the packaging of two drinks you had balanced on top of the food. It was always two. You would give them quick but warm smiles, and slump quietly against the rows of waiting chairs that lined the corridor. They would watch your eyes flutter, heavy with fatigue, and glance at the clock. It would always glow a number past 1:00 AM. You would let out a soft sigh, tightening your hold on the containers. Waiting. Always waiting.

But you were never alone in that.

Familiar footsteps would patter down the hall. Greyson and Yvonne would exchange a knowing smirk. It would grow wider once they’d spot your figure straighten, recognising the swift thuds of dark shoes and the ruffling of a specific white coat. The steps would quicken in pace as Zayne would appear round the corner, off of his last shift.

No one could miss the way his frame would relax, all the tension gone as he spots your shape.  No one could possibly miss the way his eyes would light up at the first glimpse of you, lips curling into the softest smile anyone but the children in the pediatric ward would ever have the privilege to witness. Most of all? That smile, those softened eyes, the sheer fondness in his gaze would stay. It wouldn’t falter once, not when Zayne would rush to take the weight of the packages off of you; not when you’d wince as you leaned to get up– not even when lines of worry would crease his forehead. Zayne would gently whisper, sighing once you’d lace your fingers through his. A sigh so reverent, like the mere brush of your hands against his were enough to ease the weight of the hearts that rested in his palms everyday. He’d pull you up, let your arm curl around his for support as you both walk to his office. Zayne would be leaning down, head tilted to one side so you wouldn’t have to strain your neck too much when you spoke softly. The featherlight whispers would disappear behind the door of his office as he would push them closed with his foot, not bothering to look back. Zayne knew, though. He knew how Yvonne would be grinning at Greyson whilst the latter cooed with both hands on his chest, a characteristic ‘Awwwww’  leaving his lips. He knew because every morning after you visited (which was nearly every day)  he would walk into the cardiac surgery division, sporting the iciest rendition of expressions, only to be greeted by the duo of a grinning nurse and first assistant. Zayne would curtly state a professional reminder to get back to work, humored when their faces would fall only to suddenly light up again. That’s when the questions would start. Yvonne would barely get to ask one before Greyson would take over.

How is Miss Hunter? Did you have a good time last night Dr. Zayne? What do Hunters do in their free time Dr. Zayne? Do you think Hunters like amusement parks? Miss Hunter was- “Greyson..." sighed Zayne, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Humour." He would stare at him, slack-jawed. “Dr. Zayne?” But Dr. Zayne had already slipped into his office, positioned to work. His hands would fly over the keyboard, but his eyes would glance every now and then to the small ceramic pot on his desk. He put it right beside his neat cup of stationary, a place where he could always see it. The pot had a bud of jasmine curled above it, perched on a delicate stem of the deepest green. You gave it to him yesterday. Zayne conducts his consultancies with the same thorough care.  His eyes shift to the jasmine. His fingers barely brush over the bud before he carefully waters it. He trades his break for an emergency surgery in the ER. He remembers to check phone as he jogs there, only putting it away once he spots the notification from you. Zayne slips into his scrubs. He works with the same urgency, with the same robotic preciseness as he removes the last sliver of black crystal lodged into the aorta of his patient— a gruelling 7 hours of surgery. It’s past midnight again. Zayne glances at the clock, fighting the tender warmth that blossoms in his chest. He can’t wait to see you.

Zayne reached his office before you did. His shift was over, yet he lingered by the nurse’s desk. He flipped through your hospital records, checking the time of your next appointment– even though he had it memorised anyways. He would  end up leaning over his keyboard, progressing at yet another paper, eyes glancing every now and then at  the bud of jasmine– a glowing white reminder against the darker accents of his office. Zayne checked his phone, the gap between your last text and now creasing his brows with worry. You still hadn’t read his replies. He stayed like this for a bit, eyes glued to the mobile screen. Waiting. Always waiting. The sound of your soft footfalls echoed through the hospital’s sterile halls. Zayne lifts his head as his office door is flung open.

There you are. His eyes glide over you with practiced care. Your hunter’s uniform was more battle-worn than before, but there was no limp in your leg this time. You carried one takeout bag,  two bottles of iced lemon tea nestled in the grip of your other hand. Zayne does not see the flush that dusts across your cheeks under his intense gaze. Your cheeks lift, adorning the biggest smile as you meet his eyes. You were magnetic; his own lips curled to mirror yours. He feels himself literally thaw with that familiar warmth you always manage bloom in him. Zayne speaks tenderly. “How was work?” His legs move on their own accord as he takes the food from you, a gentle crimson descending on his ears as soon as the sweetened fragrance of pastries and his favourite spiced takeout wafts to his nose.

“The usual. Fighting Wanderers and all,” You sigh. “You?”

“The usual. Saving lives and all.” You let out a soft laugh, and Zayne wishes he could hear that forever. He neatly arranges the takeout on the low table, quickly sliding a pillow behind you as you settle beside him on the sofa. “Thank you,” you breathe, melting in the soft velvet. Your back was killing you today. Zayne hums in reply, handing you the utensils before unwrapping his. “I’m sorry for being a little late. Did I keep you waiting?” You speak softly, the day’s fatigue laced in your voice. “Not at all,” He lies. “I was working on the papers.” You giggle, mouth half-full with the spaghetti you had just shoved in. “You’re always working on something.” He’s about to speak when the words die in his throat. Zayne glances at you. The sight nearly has him burst into flames. Your cheeks were full and flushed, lips curled to a pout as you softly chewed with difficulty. A little bit of tomato sauce was smudged across the corner of your mouth as you looked up at him with wide glassy eyes, filled with mirth. Zayne knew what you resembled. You sent enough of those short videos, of those little pompom-resembling animals with stores of seeds puffed inside their cheek pouches. A hamster. You looked exactly like a hamster. An incredibly adorable one at that— which was evident from the deep rose that dusted Zayne’s face. He watches you swallow, his own hand raised with a forkful of food that hadn’t made it to his lips yet. You reach out for the iced tea before pausing at the weight of his stare. Your brows furrow as you meet his gaze.

“Zayne? Everything okay?- wait, is there something on my face!?” you blurt, scrambling to reach for the stack of tissues that were conveniently placed on Zayne’s side of the table. He lets out a soft chuckle before wrapping his fingers around your flailing arm. He takes a neatly folded tissue and tilts his head as he gently wipes away the sauce on your lip.

“Mhm. That’s not what I was looking at, however,” He leans in closer. Heat rushes to your face. He notices the hitch in your breathing as he trails his hand down to your palm, humming in response. So cute.

He laces his fingers between yours. “You reminded me of a hamster.” states Zayne, very matter-of-factly. You were mortified. “A what?” “A hamster.” He confirms. He redirects his focus on the food, the tips of his ears flushed still. He wants to eat you. Your eyes are as wide as saucers. “Adorable. You looked adorable, Y/N.” he clarifies quickly with a quieter tone, sensing the shock on your face. When Zayne looks back at you, your expression is unchanged. You’re as still as a statue.

He laughs. A deep, dulcet tune– short-lived but with all the warmth that comforts a gentle huddle of courting penguins. The light crimson that brushed across his cheek was a burst of colour in his pale complexion—even in the sharp white light of his office, his features softened. You found yourself gazing into the eyes of the boy that gave first aid to your popsicle years ago, who made you little seals with his Evol just because the real ones had made you upset; the man who drove you hours just to eat those special macarons you wanted to try so badly. The warm emerald of his iris reminded you of the way the dappled sunlight would pour through the trees at Akso’s garden, a symphony of hazels and greens.

It reminded you of the how you’d slice Wanderers through orbital trials and miss the steady pillar of his back against yours. How you’d slump over your desk at the Association, the loud typing emerging into rhythms that you often memorised as Dr. Zayne’s melody. How you’d itch to send him a third or fourth text whenever his response time would stretch to hours on end, and how sometimes it felt like a physical need to be able to see him again. You swallow the last of your meal. “Zayne?” He was opening the box of pastries you had brought. “Hm?” “Do you ever think of me sometimes? Like when I’m not here?” He stills. Regret seeps through you instantly. Did you seriously just say that? What if he didn’t? Why do you even need to know? What kind of question even is tha-

“Yes.” Zayne’s tone is below a whisper. His eyes are back on yours with a newfound intensity. You look away, feeling a familiar flutter in your stomach. He squeezes your hand softly as you’re reminded that they’re still laced through his. “Me too.” You confess quietly. Your gaze is fixed on the bottle cap of your iced tea. So you miss the way he tilts his head down, eyes carefully tracing the flush that was beginning to creep up your neck. You miss the shallow gasp that leaves his lips, the weight of your words a fuel to the heart beating faster and faster in the cage of his chest. He needs you to look at him again. You gasp softly as he cups your jaw, gently moving your face to his. You look away anyways. And up. And down. And behind him, beside him– you look at anything but him. Zayne’s voice cuts through the silence. “Say ahh.” You oblige. He floats a piece of blueberry shortcake to your mouth, gently feeding it to you. “Good?” His thumb glides over your cheek, catching on to the stray bit of frosting on the corner of your lip. Maybe he gave you a bigger bite on purpose. You nod, full-on heat blooming in your chest. It probably incinerated the butterflies. You were about to positively explode.  Zayne pulls his hand away. He holds your gaze, a dangerous intensity in his eyes as his tongue darts out to taste the smudge of blue on his finger. You watch, slack-jawed. He lets out a satisfied hum.

“It really is good," His gaze shifts to your lips. "But I might need a bite to be sure."

© snowypi 2025 do not steal, repost or translate.