qissery

[qissery]

woke up and cried to this omg…

All that Remains of you.

Genre: Sylus as a Single Dad AU | Sylus Pov | Angst.

The morning sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, bathing the small room in a gentle light. Sylus sat on the edge of the bed, tenderly braiding his daughter’s long dark hair. Her hair looked exactly like yours. Each strand he wove brought with it a thousand memories of you sitting between his legs, laughing softly while he braided your hair on lazy Sunday mornings. You would tease him then with a smile.

“You’re getting better at this. You’ll need it when we have a daughter.”

He never thought he would be doing it alone.

As he tied the final ribbon, his daughter turned to him with bright eyes. Her smile had the same warmth that once brought him to his knees. It was your smile.

“Daddy,” she said sweetly, “let’s get the best bouquet for Mommy today.”

He froze for a second. Her words were innocent, but they shattered something deep inside him. He leaned in and kissed the crown of her head. His voice came out soft and quiet.

“Yes, my princess. The best one. Just like she deserves.”

Later that day, they walked together through the cemetery. Her small fingers clung tightly to his. She carried the bouquet herself, a cascade of blush pink roses. Your favorite.

When they reached your grave, Sylus knelt and gently placed the flowers down. His hands lingered against the stone, as if hoping it would still hold your warmth.

His voice broke as he said,

“See, kitten. Our little princess chose these for you. She is growing up so beautifully. Just like you told me to. I am trying. I am really trying to be the father she deserves.”

His little princess knelt beside him and softly caressed your name carved in stone.

“The best bouquet for the best Mumma in the world,” she whispered with all the love her six-year-old heart could hold.

Sylus smiled through the sting in his eyes. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close, trying to blink away the memories that rushed in without mercy. Every time he came here, he never wanted to leave.

Then came the memory he could never escape.

He remembered that day. The hospital. The pain in your eyes. The unbearable hours.

You were in labor. It had started early, and it hit harder than either of you expected. He stayed beside you, gripping your hand as you cried out in agony. Your body trembled with every contraction. You were in so much pain, and he kept whispering over and over,

“You are going to be okay. I am right here. Just breathe. I’m not leaving.”

You were so strong, but your body was failing you. The doctors moved faster. Their voices became louder. The delivery had turned complicated. Dangerous. There was too much blood. Your heartbeat slowed. The monitors began to scream.

Still, you turned your head and whispered through clenched teeth,

“If anything happens to me, don’t punish yourself. Live for her. Give her everything.”

He hated when you said things like that. He always told you not to talk that way. He believed everything would be fine. He had to believe it.

He took you to the best hospital. Found the most trusted doctors. He tried everything.

But fate had already made its decision.

You brought your daughter into this world, and that same moment stole you from him.

For days after you were gone, he could not speak. Could not eat. Could not sleep. His body lived, but his soul stayed in that delivery room. The world lost its color. He sat for hours in silence, staring at nothing, waiting for a voice that would never come back.

Then came her cries.

Your daughter’s tiny wails at night became his reason to move. He would hold her through sleepless nights, humming lullabies through a trembling voice, refusing to let her feel alone. She was the last piece of you, and that made her sacred.

When she took her first steps, he pulled out the photo he always kept in his wallet, kissed it, and whispered,

“She is walking now, kitten. Can you see her?”

When she spoke her first word, he made sure it was "Mumma." And when she finally said it, he smiled through tears and looked at your photo.

“You win. We always joked about this. I said she would say Dada first, but deep down I wanted her to say Mumma. And she did.”

On every birthday, he brought her two gifts. One from him. One from your behalf. He wrapped them both with care, and when she opened the one labeled “From Mumma,” her eyes sparkled as if you had sent it yourself.

One afternoon, while searching for a shirt, he found your scarf tucked away at the back of the closet. His breath caught. He reached out and picked it up carefully, bringing it to his face. It still smelled like you.

He stood there for a moment, then slowly sank to the floor. He held the scarf against his chest and began to sob.

“I can feel your scent. But I cannot feel your touch. I cannot see your smile. I cannot hear your heartbeat, the one that used to beat for me. I miss everything about you. I wish you never left. I wish I could bring you back.”

He kissed the scarf, and his tears soaked into the fabric. His body shook, overwhelmed with grief, until he felt small arms wrap around him. His daughter stood there, silent. She had seen him cry like this before. She said nothing. She just held him.

In that painful moment, her hug was the only thing that made it bearable.

Still trembling, Sylus looked at the scarf. Then, with trembling hands, he wrapped it gently around his daughter’s shoulders. He kissed the top of her head.

“Only you,” he whispered, “only you can ease me after your mother’s departure.”

At bedtime, he would read her your favorite poem. He played her your saved voice messages so she could sleep to the sound of you. He wanted her to grow up knowing you, feeling you, loving you, even without meeting you.

Now, as she caressed your grave again with small, loving fingers, Sylus stood beside her with quiet reverence. He spoke in a voice just above a whisper.

“Tomorrow is her first day at her new school. I bought her a pink bag. Your favorite color. And she loves it. Just like you would have.”

He picked her up into his arms. As they walked away, Sylus turned to look back one last time. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I love you.”

And in his heart, he whispered words he would never say aloud.

"Living without you is like a prison. Every day is a sentence I cannot escape. But our daughter gives me light in this endless darkness. I bring your presence into everything I do. For her. And for myself. I wish I could have saved you. I wish fate had chosen differently. But I promise, I will keep bringing her here. I will bring you the best bouquets. Every day. Because my heart rests beside your grave, and my soul will always belong to your memory."

[qissery]

red string theory is real !! my red string is tied up around my neck ^-^ im giggling throwing up and kms this is so sweet gawd

Whether it be an angst fic or real life, I do genuinely suffer with feeling undesirable/the second option so here is my comfort character saying otherwise. Incredibly self indulgent, but I hope you enjoy <3

Like usual, not at all beta read lmao. I should get a beta reader…

Kinda Sylus POV??? Idk, I started writing and this happened.

Implied non!mc x sylus btw aaaa

Word count: 957

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.

Soft!Sylus comforting you when you feel undesirable.

It was subtle, it always was when it came to you. Sylus knew your body language - it came with time and experience. At the beginning, he struggled to read your cues. As you two spent more time together, it became easier. Easy enough to the point it was as if he could read your face and body language perfectly and plan at least three steps ahead.

But today felt different.

You were softer than usual. Granted, at times you would be soft and it would be due to you yearning for a gentle moment or simply just waking up in a daze. However, your hold on Sylus when you woke up lingered in a way that he hadn't felt before.

With a raised brow, Sylus pulled you closer. His arms wrapped around your waist and face buried into your neck as a low groan left his lips. Even dazed from sleep he knew something was wrong.

“What is on your mind, kitten?” He murmured, pressing gentle kisses to your neck as his thumb rubbed gentle circles on your hips.

He heard your hesitation, the way your body tense up at his gentle inquiry. He didn't like pushing for answers with you. He preferred when you told him candidly what you needed from him. But he also knew that sometimes you needed time to process before speaking, and so, he waited for a response from you.

“Kitten?” He asked, shifting to pin you under him after your prolonged silence. As he wrapped his arms around you and linked his fingers together above your head, his weight settled on your body.

He wasn't going to let you get away with no answers. And he knew that with your silence, there was a storm brewing. With a soft sigh, he gently tapped your forehead.

“What's on your mind, sweeite?” He asked again, his brow raising. His voice was still gentle, but with a little pointed edge to his tone.

“... Why did you choose me, Sy?” You asked, voice soft and trembling, as if you were on the edge of tears. “I'm not… I'm not anything special. Or powerful. Or…” You trailed off, voice breaking and tears filling your eyes.

“I'm not… I dont…” You whimpered, soft sniffles filling the air as Sylus immediately jumped to gently brush away your tears.

“Oh, kitten,” Sylus’ voice cooed. “Kitten, sweetie, my dove, you're everything to me.” He said, his voice soft and full of adoration and love as he peppered your face with gentle kisses.

“Dearest, I chose you because you're you.” He said, his lips pressing against the crown of your head. He knew his answer wasn't entirely satisfactory when he saw that adorable pout on your lips and the glint of disbelief in your eyes.

With a chuckle, he nuzzled his nose against yours. A warm smile on his lips as his larger hands gently caressed your body that was trapped under his.

“I love you,” He breathlessly said, his red eyes sparkling with a warmth solely reserved for you. His silver hair tussled by sleep as he breathed in your scent. “I love you, sweetie.” He repated.

“Love doesn't always need a reason to exist.” Sylus chuckled, his nose gently trailing down along your neck. He sighed, a smile curling on his lips as you tilted your head in a wordless action of trust.

“Sometimes, love just catches people by surprise.” He said, pressing a kiss to your pulse. “I love you for your smile,” he chuckled, pressing a quick peck to your lips that left you whining and him with a grin.

“I love you for your creative wit and cheeky attitude." He continued, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Your lovely voice,” he chuckled, shifting down to kiss your throat.

“Your hands that hold me like I am something precious.” He whispered, taking one of your hands to press a kiss to your palm. His red eyes on yours the entire time as his ruby eyes shined. “And so much more.” He breathlessly said.

“Everyday, I find a new reason to love you,” Sylus whispered, his hand moving to caress your cheek. “Each night in the N109 Zone, I know how lucky I am to have you in my arms.” He couldn't help but feel his heart warm as he watched you.

“I may not have a great or spectacular reason to love you, my dove,” Sylus softly chuckled. “But you should know that I adore you. There is no love purer than mine.” He said, leaning in with his thumb gently pressing on your bottom lip.

“And every single day, every moment you are with me. I crave you, want you, and desire you by my side.” He whispered, his eyes half lidded and flickering to your lips. “As my equal, as my partner. As someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.” He said, moving closer and closer, his voice trailing off as his lips brushed against yours.

“And I know, for as long as my heart beats, that I will only want you.” He quietly said against your lips before capturing yours in a deep yet slow kiss. Sylus kept the pace slow, yet his passion for you was easily felt with the way he moved.

His hands gripped you, gentle yet reminding you of his presence. Of the way that he chose you, desired you, and wanted you by his side more than anything. Even as he pulled away, he lingered. Not moving far as he smiled and looked into your eyes.

“Now,” He softly said, kissing the tip of your nose with a soft chuckle. His smile turning back into his playful and signature smirk.

“Shall we start the day?”

[qissery]

omg sounds interesting aaaa

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[qissery]

me & him trust

Sylus picked up the phone, his screen flickering to life, initially consumed by the crackling static that echoed eerily through the silence.

"Ah, the mighty leader of Onychinus," The voice started. "What a pretty and docile wife you have, such a delicate thing won't last long." The screen then showed you, bound tightly to a chairs, your body slightly leaning to the side.

"How much do you think she's worth?" The voice was followed by another, dripping with malicious glee.

"Hand us the money or.... your precious wife pays the price."

Their sneerings echoed throughout the call, their confidence blooming in the dark space they believed to be their control as your lover remained silent.

Then, a low chuckle broke the tension, smooth and eerie, coming from Sylus himself.

"You really do underestimate my wife." He said, his tone almost affectionate, as if he found the entire situation amusing.

The screen flickered, a heartbeat of black.

A minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Then, the camera came back to life as the scene shifted, your face filling the frame, soft and radiant as ever, not a single trace of distress. The ropes? Gone. The fear? Vanished. It's as if you found the entire ordeal boring and nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

But nothing escapes Sylus's eyes as in the corner, he could see the way the room was enshrouded with chaotic disarray, bodies sprawled across the floor, blood smearing the walls. The smug captors that once held the upper hand? They were now completely undone by your hands, his wife had shown them exactly who they were dealing with.

With a playful tilt of your head, you winked directly at your husband, sending him a teasing flying kiss, giggling before ending the call.

Sylus stared at the now dark screen when the door to his office swung open, Kieran and Luke rushing in frantically. "Boss, is she alright?!"

Your lover's lips curled into a grin, as he shook his head, letting out a deep, amused laugh.

"She's having fun, for god's sake."

[qissery]

crying shes js like me

Where home tastes like you.

Sylus × fem!reader.

You wake up to the soft morning light slipping through the curtains, the bedsheets still warm from sleep, but the side of the bed beside you is cold and empty. Your hand reaches out instinctively, brushing over the faint dip in the mattress where Sylus usually sleeps. He’s not there. A frown tugs at your lips.

With a yawn, you slip out of bed, rubbing your eyes as you wander through the quiet house in search of him. Your feet pad softly against the floor as you enter the kitchen. That’s when you see it. A sticky note pressed neatly onto the fridge door.

"Sorry sweetie, could not say goodbye to you. I had to get up early as I have to reach far away from the city for this new business. I might come home late."

You stand there for a moment, reading the note again, your heart clenching with both fondness and longing. A soft smile touches your lips. You lean in and kiss the note gently, as if that could somehow carry your affection back to him.

“Ugh, he’s so careless when it comes to eating properly,” you murmur, a small sigh escaping you. “I don’t know if he’ll eat properly or not outside. I’mma prepare his favorite meal today.”

With that quiet determination, you start prepping his favorite dish. The kitchen fills with warmth, spices, and the soft hum of your movements. It feels like a way to stay close to him, even in his absence.

The day moves slowly.

You spend your time doing chores, folding laundry with a distant mind, and trying to distract yourself with a book, but every few pages, your thoughts drift back to him. The house feels quieter without his voice, his footsteps, his teasing remarks. The air is missing something. Someone.

Evening creeps in, painting the sky in burnt orange and deep violet. You glance at your phone again. You tried to text him multiple times, but every message failed to send. The signal was out of reach. You stare at the screen, lips pressed into a worried line.

He wasn’t able to text you either.

The knot in your chest tightens. You missed him terribly.

You walk toward the dining table, the aroma of his favorite meal still fresh. Your stomach grumbles, but you ignore it. You sit down, eyes on the empty chair beside you. The one where Sylus always sat.

You were hungry. But your heart refused to eat.

You’d wait for him. No matter how late it got.

Even though Sylus always tells you to eat and not wait this late, not to starve yourself, you just can’t. You love eating with him. Seeing him take that first bite of the meal you made just for him, the way he licks his fingers with every bite, completely engrossed in your cooking. The way his eyes light up, how he praises you with that smirk, making you flustered. He always insists on eating from the same plate. He calls it your love language. You feed him, and he feeds you back. Sometimes with a kiss in between.

So how could you eat without him?

Your fingers gently graze the rim of the plate you both always share. The reflection on its white surface is faint, but you remember so vividly how he used to make you look at it before placing food on it, just to admire how the two of you looked together. Reflected together. Even in something as small as a plate.

A lump rises in your throat.

You miss him so much that your heart physically aches. The tears fall silently, trailing down your cheeks as you glance at his chair beside you.

“Sylus,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Please come home. Where are you?”

No answer. Only the stillness of the room and your heart pounding like thunder.

You reach your hand out, tracing the spot on the table where his fingers used to rest, as if touching it might bring his warmth back. But the plate in front of you reflects no one but yourself tonight. It feels too quiet. Too empty.

You cry harder, tears streaming freely now.

You waited another hour. Eyes heavy. Heart heavier.

Eventually, the exhaustion takes over, and your body gives in. Your head drops gently onto your folded arms on the table, the scent of the cold food still lingering, your tears drying on your cheeks.

And then.

The sound of the front door unlocking breaks through the silence.

Sylus enters the house in a hurry. His footsteps are fast, purposeful, laced with concern. He doesn’t call your name. He doesn’t need to. His eyes land on you instantly the moment he steps into the kitchen.

You are sleeping on the table. Curled in his hoodie. The dinner untouched. Your face soft and tear-stained. You look like you tried to hold on to his presence in every little way.

His heart twists violently in his chest. His throat tightens.

He rushes to you. Kneels beside your chair, his bag forgotten on the floor. His hands tremble as he cups your cheek.

"You cried..." he whispers softly, voice breaking. His thumb traces the dried tear path down your skin. "Oh my kitten, what have I done..."

His voice reaches into your sleep. Your eyelashes flutter. You blink slowly, your gaze cloudy with sleep and sadness. And then your eyes meet his.

You gasp. Your breath hitches.

And without a second thought, you launch yourself into his arms.

Your body collides with his chest with a desperate thud. Your arms wrap around his neck like they were made to never let go. You bury your face into his shoulder and the sob that escapes your throat is broken and raw. Your fingers grip the back of his shirt like letting go would tear you apart.

He wraps his arms around you just as fiercely. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other locks you against him, holding you like life itself depends on it. His nose presses to your temple as his own chest begins to tremble.

You both remain like this for some minutes. Silent. Trembling. Hugging like two halves of the same soul trying to piece each other back together.

"I missed you so much. I couldn’t text you. I didn’t know where you were, I was so scared."

"I know," he whispers, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "I tried, baby. I tried to text. I couldn’t get signal. I kept checking. I just wanted to come back to you, so I drove without eating, without stopping. I had to get home. I knew you’d be waiting."

"Why didn’t you eat anything?"

He gives you a soft, tired smile, one filled with truth.

"Because nothing tastes like home without you."

You hug him even tighter, and you cry again, shaking in his arms.

"I love you. I love you. I love you."

He presses his lips to your forehead, his voice tender.

"I love you too, I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. Don’t cry, kitten. Please. It hurts when you cry."

You cup his face gently, looking at him with red eyes.

"It’s okay. I’m okay now. I just… overthink so much."

"You have every reason to overthink when it comes to me. And I’ll keep proving, every day, that you don’t need to be afraid."

You smile, tears still in your eyes, but full of love.

Then he brings the plate closer and tilts it gently toward you both.

"See, even today, we are both here, softly reflected on this plate."

You smile and kiss his cheek.

He starts plating the meal you cooked hours ago. He picks up the first bite and feeds you gently. You take it with a soft smile, then feed him back.

You both eat from the same plate, just like always. Quietly. Lovingly. As if nothing else in the world matters.

And in that moment, nothing does.

Just you, Sylus, and the quiet kind of love that speaks loudest when you’re back in each other’s arms.

[qissery]

bryh bryhhfty keel me

I could imagine luke and kieran getting (chronic) cuteness aggression towards the little twins... But sylus though?

sylus absolutely has no fight. a goner. helpless and doomed to the cuteness of his babies. ❤️‍🩹

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | fluff, cuteness aggression, draconic traits & instincts coming out, some1 help him he might eat them (endearing, he wont!!!)

the little twins are friend shaped. they’re love shaped. they’re cute-cuddly-squishy.

everyone in the family can’t help but press their noses against their cheeks and squeeze their pudgy little arms until they get bapped away.

during infancy, when the babies were barely even two, they’d almost always waddle into the trap of someone’s arms, get engulfed and bombarded with kissies and sniffs.

“eugh, why do you smell so nice?” kieran would grumble, nose in a little lucian’s tousle of hair. “you just pooped.”

lucian blinks in confusion, reading the expression on kieran’s face. wondering why his brows were drawn tight, why his nostrils were flared and why his mouth was downturned. beyond his comprehension, he is once again sniffed. reduced to a piece of meat to a bloodhound, and kieran grumbles again.

“this is bad.” he frowns at his little addiction. baby powder, fresh milk, flowers and citrus. sniff, sniff, sniff. and a hint of heaven.

“does this count as a squeezy-squeeze?” wonders luke, his fingers gently pinching and stretching kyros’s cheeks. kyros, unbothered, flashes his charming four-toothed smile at him. luke is weak, immediately blowing raspberries in his little face. Eyes watery, no idea why he was so moved by a gurgle and an imperfect grin. the urge to protect, nurture and nuzzle flows through his veins and he does not know what to do with himself except cuddle the baby a little closer.

the big twins are powerless to them, but none of them compare to their father.

the infamous, looming, all-powerful, ever ominous, consuming, devouring monarch of Onychinus. whose simple shadow is enough to rule the entire N109 zone.

diminished, demolished and deprecated by two fat little infants in his arms.

sylus is a good bluffer. honed and practiced; his impulses are mere mosquitoes he swats away. until these two came along.

suddenly, he is a cat to a laser pointer. a moth to a flame. a helpless father pressing his clueless son’s cheek to his, cooing and awing at the mirror at the adorable sight.

he’ll deny it when you point it out, but when sylus is around the children, he turns just that little bit beast. his brain short circuits that tiny bit, his pupils melt into docile buttons and he is curling around his children like he would a hoard of gold.

on your shared bed would be a long, curled pillow, nesting the two for some tummy time with mama and papa. sylus would be an additional safe-guard— the length of his body curled around them, his arm outstretched for more reach as he crowds them close to his chest.

he loves their scent, and sort of “marks” them with his as well as he nuzzles their cheeks and their hair with his nose. peppering kisses all over their distressed little faces when he gets a little too much.

“mm’wah! m’wah!” echoes off the walls. the sound of crisp smooches glazed over jingling giggles— a song of record scratches and bells sung by a father and his sons.

“sy.” you’d warn gently when you hear a gasped squeak. he’d grumble, just short of a growl, then huff through his nose before starting again. this time gentler. the crying is soothed before it starts; the joyous symphony continues its melody.

it’s especially comical for you to watch him go through the motions of restraint when the littles do something novelly adorable.

“that’s… not fair.” sylus grins, fingers fidgeting as he watches kyros’s face stretch, his mouth forming a small oblong as he yawns. a happy chuckle rumbles his chest— both out of amusement and the shameless audacity of this little creature to be this cute. this little creature. his little creature.

“you can’t bite him.” you’d tell him. he rolls his eyes and tells you it’s a silly thing to think he’d do such a thing. but in the same instant, he turns and bites your arm instead.

“sylus!” you gasp.

he laughs, pure and endearing. “what? it wasn’t him.”

lucian is perpetually stuck to his chest. his single, large hand enough to be a makeshift baby carrier. lucian’s head protected at all times beneath the awning of his father’s chin. tucked preciously beneath his jaw which he tenses in restraint. his head is a broken record loop of he’s so cute he’s so cute he’s so cute and he can never find it in himself to just put him down.

“sweetie,” he says one day, voice raw and tender as he walks into your bedroom with a sleepy lucian. steam-bun cheeks like putty against his forearm.

you rise, thinking he’d want you to take the baby, but instead he turns. movement so minuscule you almost miss it; it was just a shift of weight, a half inch to the right, but visibly away from your reaching arms. your brows raise at the growl that emits in his chest. “sylus?”

he blinks, snapping back into now. “i’m sorry. no, that wasn’t for you.”

concern tinges your beautiful features and his heartstrings twist and tangle even more. you frown, “are you alright, my love?”

stressed, he exhales through his nose. a powerless slump in his shoulders as he nods towards his little treasure. “he’s… impossibly adorable.”

the concern grows, but your lips curl into a smirk. teasing, assuming it is a compliment, you say, “thank you?”

but he’s serious.

“yes— thank you.” he’s sweeping you up by the waist with his other arm, guiding you into bed to lay beside him and your child on his belly. his lips find purchase on your cheeks, your brow and then your lips. he repeats, words dear and true, “thank you.”

because without you, then none of this would be his. the cuddles, squishes, hugs and kisses. he is still in disbelief that he gets to have this, still in disbelief that they are his and he can. that he can shower them in affection, embrace them in his arms, bathe them with all the attention and love they deserve. and that is all because of you.

you curl up to him, lean your head on his shoulder as he pokes at lucian’s cheek. you both watch it dip and bounce back up like pudding and you get it. overwhelmed, maybe by instincts— maternal or draconic as well, you don’t know— but now you want to bite him too.

“hey.” sylus chuckles when he feels the sting of your teeth sinking into his shoulder.

“sorry.” you blush, brows knit together in a sheepish doe-eyed look. “it wasn’t him.”

his troubled heart melts at the sight of you. he laughs, a feat of strength not to do so too much as to not jostle the slumbering angel on him. it is clear to him now, who the twins got it from.

forgiveness comes in the form of a pinch to your cheek and a kiss— because if he can’t eat them, he will eat you.

he’ll look forward to the day when the twins will bite him back. he’ll allow them as much noms and nibbles as they desire. but now, papa is simply getting a head start.

[qissery]

i fear i would hit sylus’s arm in every convenience possible

How would lads react to mc hitting their arm(in embarassment) in a kissing scene while watching a movie?

star girl's initial words: hello! thank you for sending this in. i usually write for reader (not mc/non-mc specific) so i hope you still like my take on this!

you hit their arm during a movie

⭑.ᐟ zayne

i think zayne would react the same way he reacts when you slap his butt.

you're half-way through the newest episode of love island (i hc that before you came along, zayne was a big fan of reality tv as an outlet from his stressful job (besides from sweets)) when two of the stars start going at it.

you slap his arm, covering your face with your hands, but even that can't block out the making out on screen. the wet smooching sounds act as the perfect background music to your boyfriend flinching so hard he almost jumped off the couch.

squealing at the screen, "noooooo!!! he doesn't even like you, tessa!" you don't notice how rigid zayne's gone as he processes your 'playful' affection.

once the kissing fades, he murmurs, "you can look now." your hands drop into your lap as you refocus on the show. you even cuddle into his side, but quickly take note of the lingering stiffness in his posture.

"everything okay, babe?" you ask sweetly.

he nods slightly, "yes, everything's fine, dear."

you giggle, "m'kay" while tightening your hold on his toned arm. zayne can't find it in himself to tease you when you're embracing him so innocently.

⭑.ᐟ sylus

i think sylus would tease you until you're all flushed (not from the kissing on-screen).

you're cuddled up on the sofa, watching a cheesy romcom when the make out sesh starts. you nuzzle your nose into his shoulder, not wanting to watch saliva being exchanged when you could do that with your own boyfriend.

he smirks while swishing his red wine around in its glass, "what're you hiding for, kitten? never seen two adults kiss before?"

you slap his arm in embarrassment, making him chuckle. the mirthful sound reverberates in his chest, too carefree for you to be upset with him.

the tension on your face dissolves as you try and bite back, "shut up, sy." instead, you sound like a third grader attempting not to laugh at a fart joke.

calming down, he grins, "oh? look it's over now, sweetie." rolling your eyes, you shift into a comfy position to watch the film, albeit, with a slight distance between you and your boyfriend.

sylus doesn't traverse the gap. he just sits there, watching you more than the movie until your cheeks are heating up and you're sliding yourself back to his side (where you belong).

⭑.ᐟ rafayel

i think raf hates romance movies because he could care less about humans falling in love. BUT i do think he can appreciate the artistry of film.

let's say you're at your apartment (does he even own a tv?) and watching pride and prejudice (your recommendation, of course). you're coming to the end, watching mr darcy walk across the brightening field for at least forty seconds.

"how long is he going to walk for—"

"shhh," you cut raf off, pivoting your head to stare at him momentarily. he's slouched, lean arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

turning back to the screen, you bite your knuckles as darcy confesses his feelings for lizzy.

"god, this is boring—"

"raf, shut up!" you're on the edge of your seat, soaking up every longing glance and camera transition until you finally get to the kiss scene.

mr darcy is repeating "mrs darcy" as he smooches lizzy's face so sweetly, reminiscent of the way raf loves to kiss all over your face before he ensnares your lips with his.

and when they finally kiss, you squeal in delight and slap raf's shoulder. he stares at you like you're the most foul bin juice that's dared to stain his silk shirt. but you pay no mind as you lean back and kick your feet gleefully.

once the credits roll, he grumbles, "worst film ever."

you roll your eyes, sassing him back with, "please, you have no taste."

he exclaims, "no taste?! i'll give you 'no taste'—" you shriek as he lunges at you, effectively pinning you to the couch and tickling you until you're crying.

later on, he reluctantly admits just how beautiful the cinematography and acting was.

⭑.ᐟ xavier

xavier pookie would be spooked.

picture it: cosy night in, a candle flickering, dim lights, and a warm blanket spread over both of you. you're watching some romance film because it was your pick tonight (you weren't particularly fond of the gory horror film xav chose last movie night).

xav really did try to stay awake, but he's inevitably dozed off. his head was resting on your shoulder before you shoved him off, and he slumped the other way, never waking, of course.

you're at the good part: the hero pulls the damsel in distress into an emotional kiss. you squeal, bobbing up and down excitedly. but when you glance back at your bf, you see that he's still out of it.

not actually thinking you'd wake him up, you slap his arm. xav jolts awake, his sapphire eyes wide open and arms raised, ready to summon his sword in a heartbeat.

he murmurs, "what happened?" you can't stop yourself from laughing at him. you're bent over, hands pressed to your tummy, practically wheezing as his eyes sweep the room and don't find anything out of the ordinary.

"it-it hurts," you cry out, joyful tears blurring your vision before you wipe them away with shaky fingers. your cheeks ache from your smile.

"why are you laughing?" he deadpans. you shake your head and return to watching the film, hiccuping out the last few giggles.

"just go back to sleep," you grin. xav sighs before wrapping his arms around your midsection and drawing you into his chest.

by the end of the movie, he's fallen asleep again, almost on top of you.

⭑.ᐟ caleb

growing up together, you and caleb have seen your fair share of movie kiss scenes. and, they're always awkward.

why? because i think he's been wanting to ask you to re-enact them with him for most of his life. being his childhood friend/adoptive sister (depending on which language version you play), he's never been able to do that until now.

as the familiar kissing scene comes on screen, you instinctively grab a cushion and position it to block your view of the action. usually, caleb groans from beside you and tries to snatch your pillow to conceal the sight for himself. but this time, after he plucks it out of your hands, he tosses it on the floor.

you stare at him with wide eyes, confused by the intense look he's giving you. with the way his fists clench and unclench, you know he's hiding something.

"what is it?" you ask quietly. caleb shakes his head, resolving to forget the stupid thought poking at the back of his mind.

"nothing," he mumbles, settling back on the couch and enduring the painstaking sight of smooching. you shift over to him and grab his hand.

holding it tenderly, you ask, "tell me," and add as an afterthought, "please." he shakes his head again. you don't like that. climbing onto his lap, you cup his reddening cheeks in your hands and force him to meet your gaze.

"caleb," you say like a warning.

he sighs, "fine. just wanna know if you'd wanna recreate the action on-screen with me."

you gasp, "caleb!" as you slap his shoulder playfully.

"'what?" he asks, all alert, like you're under attack by a wanderer.

you wave your finger in his face, tutting, "naughty, naughty boy. you just wanted an excuse to kiss me, didn't you?" he stutters out incoherent syllables, making you giggle. you shut him up by pecking the corner of his mouth before capturing his parted lips in a cocky loving kiss.

[qissery]

sobbing screaming crying throwing up, i hv so many interest yet so little friends to interact with but this lowk heals me

oh lord a sylus ramble anyway

sylus WOULD listen to you ramble about your hyperfixations with the DOPIEST GRIN ON HIS FACE

RANT TO HIM ABOUT THEM!!! HE WILL LISTEN!!!! AND HE WILL BE HAPPY!!!

and btw, this does not mean he does not retain any information you give him. nono, he will now become an expert in your hyperfixation because "it sounds interesting"

you used to be sad because you had no one to talk to about it and felt bad bothering him about said interest, and then sylus shows up the next day asking you about [insert obscure part of said hyperfixation here], and it makes you so happy and you start explaining, and suddenly it's become a back and forth and you have never felt so understood in your life, because you can tell sylus is also genuinely into it, not just asking questions for the sake of egging you on but because he's interested too

you are never alone in anything!!! and if you feel alone, he will make sure that you don't!!!!! he loves it when you're happy, and he'll indulge in what makes you happy because your happiness is the best thing in the world to him!!!!!

also IT DOESNT MATTER WHAT THE HYPERFIXATION IS!!!! IMAGE BE DAMNED, IF YOU LIKE MY LITTLE PONY, HE WILL BUY WHATEVER MLP MERCH YOU WANT WITH A SMILE ON HIS FACE. PRETTY CURE? UHHHH, YESSIR HE HAS THE TRANSFORMATION DEVICES ALREADY ORDERED. DISNEY FAIRIES, HE BOUGHT ALL THE ANTIQUE BOOKS FOR YOU AND HAS ALSO READ THROUGH ALL OF THEM ON HIS SPARE TIME, EVEN ONCE DURING AN AUCTION CUZ DAMN THEM FAIRIES ARE MORE INTERESTING THAN THE AUCTION ITSELF

MAN'S ORDERING YOU WHATEVER YOU WANT. HE'LL BUY YOU COSPLAYS, GAMES, HE'LL DO WHATEVER, ASK HIM FOR ANYTHING FROM THAT INTEREST, HE'S DROPPING EVERYTHING TO MAKE SURE YOU GET WHAT YOU WANT AND YOUR HYPERFIXATION IS SATIATED

BECAUSE SYLUS LOVES YOU. AND HE'S DOWN BAD. AND HE JUST LOVES SEEING YOU HAPPY AND BEING YOURSELF!!!!! BECAUSE WHEN YOU'RE UNABASHEDLY YOURSELF, YOU'RE THE MOST RADIANT BEING TO HIM!!!!!!!!!!!

tl;dr sylus loves you and your interests and hyperfixations and hobbies ok ty

[qissery]

oh my god… this is literally me when i chose art instead of medical for my studies…

Nebula

summary: they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but for you, it's hurdling into a world unknown, not knowing where either of you stand. light angst, fluff. tw: some suggestive themes. now playing: Merry-Go-Round of Life, Green Grass. model! sylus x artist student! you, companion piece to you only need to ask.

a/n: happy b'day, bunny :)

When you were a child, the idea of relationships eluded you.

Classmates passed you on the playground, choosing dolls and secrets over wall ball and hopscotch. Loyalties became collectible playing cards. And if you looked away for a second, rumors would gather like flies feasting on carrion.

Ruthless.

As you grew older, romance concerned you all the same. Infatuation twisted the idea of love into obsessions, lofty expectations, and broken hearts, leaving you to wonder—why try at all when people were so determined to tear each other apart?

So, you kept your head to the ground and tried your best, carving a small place in the world where you could be yourself. Unfettered by the perception of others—growing, receiving, giving, treading softly, relishing in the solitude you could call home.

You were satisfied with the idea of being alone. Content even.

That changed when you met him.

…..

You gave yourself a one-year reprieve.

A temporary solace from the hustle and bustle of “how many years until you graduate?” or “have you considered grad school?” or even worse “have you considered going into law or medicine?” Your parents’ expectations stifled you, shaping your body into stone, crumbling away the edges that were previously moldable clay. By the end of year three, you evaporated, demanding a renegotiation.

If you could make it to one, support yourself in two, they would let you pursue whatever you wanted.

They reluctantly agreed.

And during that first year, he burst into your life like a nebula.

….

The arts loved you.

Watercolors, charcoal, pencils, acrylics, oils, sepia pens—all of these mediums adored you.  

They spoke stories you were never able to tell before, breathed life into the ordinary, awed spectators young and old, gave you purpose further than any textbook could.

And when he stepped into that classroom, you were infatuated.

He became your muse, your preferred form, your pièce de resistance.

It was borderline embarrassing.

You wanted to hide behind your sketchbooks, focus on the task at hand. Time was a precious resource and you weren’t going to waste it. You weren’t here to play house, to relent to the whims of heavenly matchmaker, to delude yourself that you had the luxury of eternal paradise.

And yet you fell into his hands all the same.

…..

You never meant to grow fond of him.

But he was persistent. Extremely persistent.

So, the moment he took your hand in his and smiled at you with baited softness, you knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.

He smirked, swiping your phone from your pocket with one hand while keeping you close with the other, “Someone has to replace all those pencils, hmm?” He added himself to your contact list, then grinned, “Feel free send me the bill. I can afford you, sweetie.”

Your lips immediately curled in distaste.

“Now, now, no need to be ashamed. You can use me to your heart’s content.”

You huffed and snatched your phone back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your embarrassment. He walked backwards to exit the classroom, touching his phone to his lips as if to remind you of your shared “promise”.

This time the broken pencil you threw didn’t miss its mark.

He always made time for you. Even if you didn’t know how or why he bothered to text you.

A flurry of cat memes (for my kitten, he mused).

Grumpy crow emojis (for an annoying crow, you mused).

Pictures of food he thought you’d like (he once found you walking to class, half-asleep, mumbling about missing breakfast and wishing you could have stopped to grab coffee on the way to school. He left you a cup on your seat the next day).

Horrendously blurry selfies of him (seriously, for a model of his caliber, he should at least educate himself on the art of taking selfies).

Good mornings and good nights that rarely corresponded with the time of day (he’d end up mixing the two, claiming living as a night owl perpetually made himself this way).

Pictures of his motorcycle (name it for me? 😉 He refused the name Blackrose Archfiend. You wondered why he bothered asking if he was going to ignore your suggestions. Another line popped up as a voice note: “because I like playing games with you”. You nearly hurled your phone into the wall when his voice curled around your ears: silky, sensual, just low enough to imagine his head between your thighs—rumbling your name as you peaked under his caress over and over again).

And if you were feeling particularly brave, you’d send back a reply.

He once asked for pictures of your other works (thankfully, outside of the book that shall-not-be-named). You hesitated, unsure whether he’d be interested in the practicum you knew to be ordinary. He always reassured you: “Of course I want to, darling. Show me.”

His confidence in you was a dangerous thing. You resigned and opened page after page:

Mothers walking with their little ones, cherub fingers wrapped around hers.

Fathers carrying daughters on their shoulders, airplane arms and laughter howling in the wind.

Dogs rolling in freshly-cut grass, turning their fluffy white coats into spotted green ones.

Grandparents sitting together on park benches. Knees touching, weathered hands reaching for each other even after decades without being apart.

And finally, the most prized of all.

Weddings.

You had a secret admiration for capturing these precious moments.

You parents discouraged you, rebuking you over and over again for safer career choices, but your aunt always indulged you.

She was your shining star, your coveted gem. She planned all of your cousins’ weddings and took you along for the ride. Brushing your small curious hands through tulle, silk, chiffon, and satin. Pushing daises, hydrangeas, roses, lilies and eucalyptus under your nose for you to smell. Reading through different venue pamphlets together. Organizing the best caterers, feeding you parts of the wedding cake when no one was looking. And on wedding day, she always made sure you were front and center, seated behind the altar with a sketchbook in hand—the best view of partners about to be wedded in matrimony.

She treasured your sketches after. Tears brimming along the edges, hands cradling your cheeks as if you held the stars for her to enjoy (you could make a career out of this, she giggled while awestruck, truly, child, you have a gift).

You took those words to heart. And as you sent photo after photo of wives donning their wedding gowns, of boutonnieres being pinned onto suit jackets, of little flower girls skipping down aisles, you hoped he would see the same.

And he did.

He called you that night, wisps of him gently caressing your ears, “These are divine, sweetheart, where have you been hiding these?” You soaked in every word of his praise, cradling your phone like a buoy shining in the dark, pushing hands against eyelids to hold the tears at bay.

Hope became commonplace, dreams of a life you could finally grasp felt tangible.

But alas, all dreams come to an end.

And now you were staring at a blinking cursor, weeks away from your last correspondence, wondering where this all went wrong.

…..

Sylus stopped coming to class.

The teacher replaced him with another model. Your blood ran cold the moment he entered the classroom. Drawing another person felt sickening, as if your hand couldn’t comprehend tracing another form that wasn’t him. But you persisted, despite the acridness that remained.

Because what truly haunted you was his absence. No more phone calls, no more taunting smirks, no more soothing text messages, no more silent conversations across the room, just radio silence. His sudden departure left behind wounds you didn’t how to answer.

Did you push too hard? Were you a pest? Did he think this was all a joke? Did he not care for you at all?

You click the power button until the darkness of your apartment threatens to swallow you whole. Close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out. Try not to spiral into the abyss.

You desperately needed a drink.

…..

And now here you were, drowning your miseries in cocktails you couldn’t name.

You roommate, Tara, bless her heart, hasn’t touched a single drink. She knows your brand of stubbornness, your brand of misery. She’s a hawk protecting her young, eyes narrowing at the single flicker of desire daring to approach you. She’s a mother hen passing you water bottles in between your bouts of venting. She’s an absolute saint who carries you to the bathroom when your face turns green, rubbing your back as you hurl your regrets into the terrible porcelain throne.

She glowers, she huffs, and when you start looking a little better, the flame returns to her brown all-seeing eyes. “You need to call him.”

You bite your lip, “But what if—“

She squishes your cheeks until your lips imitate a fishy face, “No buts. I know you’re stronger than this. You need answers, now go.” She shuttles you into a secluded bathroom stall, guarding the restroom doorway more fiercely than any bouncer at the club.

You shakily turn back on your phone, scroll through your list of contacts and finally make the call.

…..

If you didn’t know the definition of nervousness before, you knew it now.

You count each ring tone with each of your breaths.

One…two…three…

He answers on the fourth.

”Sweetie?”

And just like that you’re back in the classroom. Piercing red eyes careening you off course, warm hands holding yours, worlds colliding beyond pencil to paper.

Never have you felt so certain and uncertain at once. Words stall like slow-drying wallpaper glue. Sluggish, infinite, masterful in their unwilling silence.

“….Hi,” you hiccup, “Missed you.”

You slap a hand over your mouth. His laughter trickles through the receiver. Breathless, just as inviting.

“Are you drunk?” His voice lowers to the quietest of whispers, “where are you?”

“Doesn’t matter…”, you shake your head, words slurring, “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

“I was on a shoot. Landed a contract with a wedding fashion house. Top secret.” He grunts, as if preoccupied with something else.

Wedding….

Your heart plummets until you hear him start the ignition, keys jangling like summer wind chimes.

“Keep talking. I’m listening. Don’t move.”

And the way he continues to comfort you is a balm to all your worries. You babble about being stressed in school, not feeling like enough in front of people who constantly diminish you, wondering where he was all this time, and at some point, you’ve forgotten the meaning of conversation. One by one, your fingers go lax.

You don’t remember what he says next. You just try to hold onto the one connection you have left. But the world around you spins as if you’re stuck in some fucked up merry-go-around flipped on hyper-speed.

“Sweetie, are you still there?”

The phone clatters to the floor. You dive for the toilet once more.

Never has he driven faster in his entire life.

…

He finds you draped over Tara like a koala.

She grimaces under your weight, glaring at him as if he personally offended the ground she stands on.

“You better take care of her.”

He crosses his arms and nods.

“If you hurt her, I’m calling the police and personally carving your eyes out with a spoon.”

He snorts, curling his fingers towards her. Slowly pries off the death grip you have on your friend.

He’s halfway out the door when he looks her straight in the eye, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

….

You wake up with a bludgeoning headache determined to murder you, sprawling in a bed you don’t recognize.

Blink once, twice. Shoot up in a panic. Immediately regret it.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

You groan, covering your eyes from flooding lights. A cool towel touches your forehead. Gentle, tentative, asking. You hold it there, relishing the clash of cold with the warmth of his hands. Dare to open an eye. Sniffle when you finally see him.

Sylus smiles, fingers pausing at your waterline. Wipes away the tears already forming.

“By the way,” he grazes your forehead with a chaste kiss, “I missed you, too, sweetheart.”

You’ve never blushed harder in your entire life.

…..

The next morning passes much more smoothly.

You look to your left. Phone already charging, keys and wallet left for the taking. A cup of water and a bottle aspirin sitting on an end table, accompanied by a small note “take me”.

You smile, tracing the text with your fingers.

Then you frown. The conversation from the club surfacing in pieces. Wedding…A sense of dread grows. You down the meds in a hurry, throwing off the covers.

And just as you open the door, he’s there, hand pausing mid-air.

His tell-tale smirk returns.

Pride be damned. You can’t take this anymore, blurting out a string of words, “Are you getting married?”

Eyes widening, jaw going slack, he breathes out rushed puffs of air.

“Kitten,” he cradles your elbows, amused vibrations suffusing from him to you. “If I ever wanted to get married,” his smirk grows wider, “you’d be the first to know.”

You slap his arm, ignoring the rush of warmth to your cheeks. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” and the way his voice dips is borderline criminal. You try not to melt on the spot.

“I still want to punch you in the face.”

This time he laughs, shoulders shaking over you. “I’d let you.”

“Don’t tempt me, I’ll do it.”

He leans closer, forehead touching yours. “I believe in you, sweetie.”

And the way he says that with such subliminal fondness almost makes you cry. It’s a consolation you know that extends beyond today, reminding you of gentle whispers and constant reassurances during times you didn’t know you needed them.

You smile, time slowing to a languid orbit. Reaching to cradle the cosmos in your hands, tracing the constellations blooming between your lips.

And this time, you believe him.

more sylus fics here

tags: @unknown-ends, @comatosebunny09, @peascrabbles, @thechaoticarchivist, @dolceaspidenera, @salemrph, @abyssyby

screencap credits: @shaiyasstuff

[qissery]

Sylus Dakimakura

tung tung tung sylus

[qissery]

kisser x biter

smothering him with plenty of kisses only to get noms brah/silly

i miss tartarus so much 🥀

another version bcs im indecisive

[qissery]

no thoughts just sylus sylus sylus sylus sylus

Possession, Obsession, Devotion: A Study in Five Men

Nope, I haven’t vanished. Super grateful for all your messages and the sweet support — seriously, thank you. Just swamped with work right now, so writing’s slowed down a bit. Still working on your requests, I promise! And I’m knee-deep in a pretty massive, emotionally wrecking angst based on a Songfic prompt. While that one’s cooking, I thought I’d drop another batch of my random writer notes — all bundled up in one chaotic little post.

CW/TW: Headcanons, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Love, Jealousy, Power Imbalance, Toxic Romance, Red Flags Treated as Romance, Intimacy with Control Undertones, Emotional Manipulation (Mild), Dubious Coping Mechanisms, Intense Emotional Dependency, Suggestive Themes, Mild Sexual Content, Unhealthy Attachment Framed as Devotion Genre: Romance-Infused, Erotically-Charged Drabbles with a Generous Side of Fluff Words Count: 8.6K

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Caleb’s Obsessed With You

1. You call another man “handsome” — even as a joke. You were teasing. Flirting, in that harmless, breezy way of yours. Caleb laughed. Then immediately kissed you like he needed to reassert territorial dominance with tongue and body weight. Funny how your jokes always end with your back against the wall and his hand on your throat. Lovingly.

2. You go to someone else for help instead of him. You needed tech support. A charger. Help moving the couch. And instead of calling your six-foot-two, military-trained, emotionally unstable boyfriend — you asked Xavier. Caleb didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway, watching, calculating how long it would take to move the entire solar system to make sure you never do that again.

3. You don’t sit on his lap when there’s clearly space.You chose the chair. Next to him. Not on him. He’s not mad. No, no. He's just questioning the entire fabric of your connection and whether you’ve lost all sense of instinct. And when you finally realize and climb into his lap? He sighs like a man being restored to life.

4. You post a photo where you're not touching him.Nice shot. Great lighting. Cute outfit. But why is he two feet away and not glued to your side like a shadow with military clearance? His arm belongs around your waist. His hand belongs on your thigh. And your caption? Should’ve been his name, followed by a possessive noun.

5. You forget to wear his dog tags. He left them for you. Carefully. On your nightstand. The same tags he’s worn through hell. And you? Walked out the door wearing a cute sweater and nothing that says “belonging to Colonel Caleb.” He’ll never say a word. He’ll just strip you slow the second you get home and fasten them back around your neck himself. With teeth.

5 Lies Caleb Tells Himself About You

1. “I don’t care that she uses my toothbrush.”You could take a fresh one. You don’t. You reach for his, same as always — like that handle belongs to you more than to him. He mutters something about germs. Then watches you rinse with that smug little smile. And later, when you're asleep, he moves it back to your side of the sink. Right where you like it.

2. “She can wear whatever she wants.”And you do. His shirt. His flight jacket. That tiny black top you swear is “practical.” He acts unbothered. Says nothing. But the second someone else looks too long? He stands behind you. One hand on your waist. That casual kind of possessive that feels like a warning wrapped in warmth.

3. “I don’t need her to text me when she gets home.”You’re a grown woman. A Hunter. You’ve neutralized things with more teeth than common sense. You say “Don’t wait up.” He says “Sure.” Then checks his phone every ten minutes like it's a heartbeat monitor and he's waiting to hear yours again.

4. “It’s fine if she flirts. I know it’s harmless.”You’re charming. It’s part of who you are. You wink. Smile. Lean in a little too close. Caleb plays it cool. Says, “She’s always like that.” Then grabs your waist in front of everyone and whispers: “Try that again, and I’ll fuck you so hard next time you won’t remember anyone else’s name.”

5. “She doesn’t need to say she loves me every day.”You say it once. In passing. A low little “love you” as you walk away, like it’s nothing. But he hears it like an oath. And that night? He holds your hand a little tighter. Pulls your body a little closer. Not because he needs to hear it again. But because if he doesn’t touch you, he might forget how to breathe.

5 Things That Make Him Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. Your hair falls in his face. Leaning over him. Stretching across the couch. Just close enough that it brushes his cheek like it has rights. You don’t even notice. But he does. Every time. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just breathes in and lets the world narrow to that one soft, smug part of you.

2. You chew on your thumb when you’re thinking. Not seductively. Not even consciously. Just a tiny bite to the edge of your nail while you’re mid-rant about your latest recon or trying to remember the name of a street vendor. It’s nothing. Stupid. Barely a gesture. And yet — he stares. Tracks it like a countdown. Fists flexing slow. Jaw tight. Because that mouth should never look that innocent.

3. You interrupt him when he’s cooking. He’s focused. Knife in hand. Half-distracted by heat and oil. And then you slide in behind him. Touch his lower back. Squeeze something you shouldn’t. Say “Smells good, chef,” with a grin that makes his whole spine forget how to hold. He curses. Tries to shoo you off. You lick something off his finger. And now dinner’s going to burn.

4. You try on his Fleet cap like it’s a joke. You lift it off the rack. Set it crooked on your head. Salute with two fingers and that smile that once made him fall off a training tower. “Colonel,” you say. And he’s gone. He should laugh. He doesn’t. He walks over, takes it off you slow, and kisses your temple like he’s reassigning you to a very different kind of mission.

5. You say “I’m yours”. Not in bed. Not in public. Just… casually. In passing. In that low voice you only use when something’s real. “I’m yours.”He looks at you like you just disarmed a bomb with your bare hands. And then he ruins you for saying it so lightly.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You’re the only one allowed to fly with him in his military jet.Clearance denied. Protocol says no. Regulations triple-confirm it. And yet — you’re in the co-pilot seat, boots up, fingers tracing buttons you’re not supposed to touch. He doesn’t stop you. Someone once asked why you get to ride with him when no one else does. He looked up from the cockpit and said, “She’s my gravity.” End of discussion.

2. You only need to place your hand on his to calm him down.No words. No pleading. No strategic de-escalation. Just your fingers, settling lightly over his, when something in him starts to coil too tight. And just like that — his spine eases. The heat in his eyes lowers by a degree. People have seen him end arguments with three words. They’ve never seen him go silent for anyone but you.

3. You’re the only person he’ll interrupt a briefing for.He’s mid-sentence. Room full of officers. Tactical projections glowing on the wall. His phone buzzes. He glances down, sees your name — and pauses. “Give me five,” he says. And walks out without waiting for permission. Someone once asked who it was.  He said, “The only priority higher than this fleet.”  No one asked again.

4. You walk in on his arm at the Farspace Fleet annual gala.He’s in dress whites. You’re in black. And the room — full of admirals, envoys, diplomats — parts like mist when you enter. He doesn’t introduce you. He doesn’t need to. You’re not just his date. You’re the one who makes him dangerous in silence. And everyone knows it.

5. You don’t need words to communicate.One glance. A tilt of your head. A tiny shift in posture across the room. He’s already moving. Already reading you like mission data. To others, it looks like magic. Intuition. Maybe telepathy. But for you two?  It’s just muscle memory — built from years of almosts, nevers, and finallys.

5 Times Caleb Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He pulled the full personnel file on a man you once smiled at.You were being polite. Friendly. The guy asked something harmless, you laughed. By morning, Caleb had his record open on a secure datapad, scrolling like he wasn’t reading a life — just calculating the risk factor. You asked what he was doing. He said, “I like knowing who wants what’s mine.” And then kissed you like he hoped you never asked him to stop.

2. He showed up at your door at 02:03 AM. Soaking wet. Furious. Silent.You missed one message. One. He waited. Thirty minutes. An hour. And then something in him snapped. No threats. No drama. Just the sound of his knock like a warning shot. You opened the door. He didn’t speak. Just stared. And then pulled you in with a grip like survival wasn’t optional anymore.

3. He scared the hell out of a junior pilot for asking your name.The kid was fresh. Eager. Smiled a little too long. Said, “Hey, what should I call you?” You started to answer. Then turned — and saw Caleb across the room. Expression calm. Stance neutral. Eyes loaded. The pilot apologized before you even said a word.

4. He slammed his hand on the table when you joked about breaking up.Just a joke. A throwaway line. Something stupid like “Guess I’ll go find someone less intense.” And his hand hit the surface before the words fully left your mouth. Not loud. Not violent. Just final. He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Just looked at you like you’d put a knife in his ribs and smiled about it. You never made that joke again.

5. He called you “dangerous” — and meant it like a vow.It was late. You were arguing. You said something sharp. He caught your wrist and said it low, almost reverent: “You’re dangerous.” But not like an accusation. Like awe. Like worship. Like he’d already decided to stay, even if you wrecked him completely. Even if he’d have to protect the world from you. Or protect you from himself.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Zayne’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone else bandaged your scratch. Just a graze. A stupid piece of shrapnel across your forearm. A colleague wrapped it up. No big deal. You came home smiling. Told him it barely hurt. He nodded. Quiet. Then excused himself to the kitchen. Five minutes later, he returned with antiseptic, clean gauze, and the words: “Take it off. I’m doing it properly.”  You didn’t argue. Neither did he. 2. Someone at work lent you their umbrella. A man. It was raining. You forgot yours. He offered. You accepted.  Zayne didn’t say a thing when you mentioned it over dinner. Just hummed. Neutral. The next morning, you found a new umbrella in your bag. Carbon fiber. Windproof. Labeled discreetly with your initials. You didn’t ask how he knew the exact weight your bag could carry without straining your shoulder. 3. You asked the waiter to recommend a wine. It was harmless. Polite. You were curious. But Zayne was sitting right there. He didn’t blink. Just looked at the waiter, then at you. Then took the list back. “Actually,” he said, calm as glass, “she prefers reds with less acidity. I’ll order.” You nodded. The waiter nodded. And somewhere between the clink of glasses, you realized that wasn't about wine at all. 4. You didn’t invite him to your morning training. He’d had a night shift. Surgery ran late. You wanted him to rest. So you left quietly. He woke up to an empty bed, your gym bag missing, and a silence that felt like a closed door. You came back to find his routine disrupted, his pulse still too fast — and a protein shake mixed just how you like it, chilled and waiting on the table. He never mentioned it. But now, if you decide to “let him rest” again… your training starts later. And doesn’t involve clothes. 5. You called another man “smart.” It was a game show. Trivia night. Some stranger on-screen made a clever move. You smiled. “Wow. That was actually really smart.” Zayne didn’t look up from his tablet. Didn’t even shift. But ten minutes later, you found yourself in a very precise debate about probability, strategy, and why that move wasn’t that brilliant after all. You didn’t argue. You just leaned closer. He didn’t smirk, but you felt it anyway.

5 Lies Zayne Tells Himself About You

1. "I’m just your cardiologist during exams." It’s clinical. Professional. Necessary. He listens to your heartbeat, takes your vitals, asks you to breathe deeper — deeper. You unbutton your shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t feel anything. Except for the part where he adjusts his gloves a little too tightly. And maybe takes one extra second to remove the stethoscope from your skin. 2. "Lunch tastes the same without you." He orders the same thing. Same café. Same tea. But the pastry tastes off. The space feels louder. The table — emptier. He tells himself it’s fine. Then brings the leftovers back to his office. Doesn’t touch them. Just leaves the box where your hand might find it later. 3. "I don’t need to pick you up." It’s logical. You’re a professional. Your job runs over sometimes. So does his. But your message was short. The streetlights are on. The buses are unreliable.  He checks traffic cams. Weather. Public transit delays. Then sits very still, staring at his phone, wondering how to offer you a ride without making it sound like panic. 4. "I’m not checking. I’m sleeping." You once left while he was asleep. You thought it was kinder. Quieter. Now he says he “needed water” or “had a dream.” But every night, at 3 AM, his hand reaches. Just to feel your back. Your wrist. The smallest proof that you haven’t disappeared again. 5. "Short skirts are inefficient." He says they’re impractical. Not suited for cold weather. Definitely not for terrain with hostile wanderer activity. You raise a brow. He adds, “You’re not seventeen. Dress like it.” But the second no one’s watching, his hand is already sliding up your thigh under the table. And when you raise a brow at him, he just says, flat: “Checking for circulation.” You’re not fooled. He’s already failed the mission.

5 Things That Make Zayne Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You straighten his tie. You’re not thinking about it. Just reaching out, adjusting the knot, smoothing the line down his chest like it’s second nature. He stays still. Breath held. Eyes on your face. You step back. He doesn’t. Because now all he can think about is using that same tie to bind your wrists to the chair in his office — and how many minutes he can steal between appointments without compromising your breathing. 2. You dip your finger into the frosting of his pastry. You don’t ask. Just lean in, collect a bit of cream with your fingertip — and taste it. Oblivious. Innocent. Distracted by something else. He watches. Silently. And now the fork in his hand feels criminally unnecessary, because his mouth is dry, his mind’s gone blank, and he’s halfway to pulling you into his lap just to return the favor — with interest. 3. You take off your bra without removing your shirt. It’s casual. Automatic. You’re talking about your day, laughing, and then — One arm out. Then the other. The strap slides through the sleeve and vanishes into your laundry bag like it never existed. His brain glitches. His hands twitch. And he will absolutely spend the rest of the evening pretending to listen while picturing every technical step of reversing that maneuver with his teeth. 4. You imitate him. Badly. You’re wearing his lab coat. His glasses. Sitting at his desk, brows drawn, lips pressed tight. Your impression is awful. He should be annoyed. But instead — he watches. Sharp. Quiet. And when you finally laugh and start to take it off, he gets up. Takes the coat from your shoulders himself. And tells you, too evenly, “You forgot the gloves.” 5. You trace lazy shapes on his wrist while talking about something unrelated. You’re saying something about your neighbor’s cat. Something trivial. But your fingers are moving in a slow, absent pattern across his skin. And Zayne — who has operated on live hearts under pressure, who has held lives in one hand and death in the other — is currently struggling not to grab your wrist and drag you onto the desk. Because apparently, nothing in this galaxy has the precision impact of your fingertip.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You have a keycard to his office.Not a guest pass. Not a shared access code. A permanent, personalized, high-level card to a room most staff can’t even knock on without permission. You walked in one day mid-shift, casual, spinning the card between your fingers like it was a hairpin. Three nurses saw. One dropped her tablet. Rumors started before you even closed the door. Zayne didn’t correct them.

2. When he received a prestigious award, the first person he thanked was you.Best cardiothoracic surgeon of the year. Cameras flashing. Applause rising. Everyone expected a speech about innovation and responsibility. Instead, he said: “I’d like to thank the one person who keeps me alive enough to do this work. My partner. My favorite interruption.”Then he looked straight at you. The auditorium melted.

3. You’re both dressed like weapons. And everyone notices.He wears tailored coats, precision-cut collars, charcoal palettes like a tactical signature.You? Heels like blades. A suit that redefines “combat-ready.” And when you walk together — sharp, silent, side by side — people stop talking. Someone once tried to photograph you. The headline read: Unknown dignitaries arrive. Security does not comment.

4. You don’t argue. You duet.Someone crossed a line. Loud, drunk, smug. Zayne responded first — clean, cold, just one sentence long. The man blinked. Started to retort. You finished it for him. Elegant, sharp, no profanity required. He left. Fast. And you turned back to Zayne like nothing happened — while everyone else tried to recover from what could only be described as a linguistic orgasm.

5. He opens doors, buttons coats, and moves chairs like it’s instinct.Not performative. Not flashy. Just… precise. He adjusts your sleeve without thinking. Helps you into the car like it’s always been his hand. You barely register it. But the woman across the street? The one who saw it all from behind her coffee cup? She’s still texting her group chat about “the man in the long coat and the woman who ruined my standards.”

5 Times Zayne Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He gets live data from your heart monitor.Your Hunter’s Watch sends updates to the cloud. Zayne rerouted the feed to his private tablet. “Just in case,” he said. Now he knows when your pulse spikes. When you’re injured. When you don’t sleep. You never gave him access. You never had to. The first time he called mid-mission to say “slow your breathing” — you realized he wasn’t tracking. He was watching over.

2. He absolutely hates when you drive. Always.You're capable. Fast. Efficient. And yet — every time you take the wheel, something in him shuts down. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just goes silent. And stares at the road like it personally offended him. He says, “It’s fine.” But he holds the dashboard too tightly for that to be true.

3. He freezes every time you say “I can handle it.”You mean well. You’re strong. You are capable. But when you brush him off with a casual “I’ve got this,” he doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just stops. Eyes unreadable. Hands still. And when you come back later — even fine — there’s already a backup plan on your datapad. Three versions. In color.

4. He never replies to emotional messages right away.You send: “I miss you. A lot.” His read receipt appears. Then… nothing. For two hours. And just when you start to spiral — he sends a photo. Of your favorite pastry. Waiting on his table. With one word: “Soon.” You hate how well it works. 

5. He spoke to the man flirting with you like he was reviewing his autopsy.It was harmless. A drink. A joke. A compliment. You laughed. Zayne didn’t. He stepped in, shook the man’s hand, and said: "Tell me, has anyone ever checked your prefrontal lobe for impulse control irregularities?"The man left. Quickly. You rolled your eyes. Zayne didn’t apologize. He just took your hand. And changed the subject. Completely calm. Fully satisfied.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Rafayel’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone comments “🔥” under your photo — and you like it.He sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything. You think it’s harmless. He thinks it’s appalling that someone dared mark your beauty with an emoji better suited to grilled meat. He says nothing. But that night, you get a charcoal sketch of yourself in your favorite pose, signed with a tiny flame in the corner. When you ask about it, he hums. “Oh, just honoring your admirers’ creative input.”

2. You linger too long in front of another artist’s painting.Not just glance. Linger. Eyes soft. Head tilted. That thoughtful little breath you take when something moves you. He stands beside you, perfectly still. Smiling. Then leans in and whispers, “Cutie, if you start weeping, I may need to challenge the gallery owner to a duel.” You're not sure if he’s joking. You’re also not sure you want him to be.

3. You talk about a beautiful place you visited… without him.You’re glowing. Describing the light, the air, the view. He listens, nods, even asks questions. Then: “And did the sun taste the same without me there?” You pause. He smiles, all charm and cheekbones. “I’m just wondering how it dared rise, knowing we weren’t together.”

4. You send him a photo — and there’s someone else’s hand in the frame.You didn’t notice it. He did. He stares at the image like it’s a crime scene. Zooms in. Later, he replies: “Beautiful composition. Fascinating use of background tension. Would love to discuss the symbolism of that wrist — whose is it?” You laugh. He doesn’t.

5. You say some actor is “exactly your type.”He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just goes very still, then casually asks, “Before or after makeup?” Later, you find your datapad background changed. It’s him. In perfect lighting. Shirt unbuttoned just so. The caption reads: “Still unsure who your type is? Look into my eyes. You’ll remember.”

5 Lies Rafayel Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t paint you. It’s just resemblance.”He insists it’s a study of emotion. A symbol. A face from memory. But the tilt of the head, the mouth, the birthmark near the collarbone — they’re all yours. You ask, teasing: “Is that me?” He blinks. Smiles slowly. “Cutie,” he says, “I wouldn’t paint you without permission.” And then changes the subject. Very deliberately.

2. “I don't reread your old messages.”He’s far too elegant for that. Far too composed. Except on quiet nights. On long flights. In museums where the silence scratches at his skin. Then he opens the archive. Just for the rhythm of your words. The accidental poetry. The way you once wrote “come home soon” like it meant more than time and place. He says it’s for “emotional reference.” He lies beautifully.

3. “I don't watch your mouth when you talk.”He’s an artist. A visual thinker. Of course he looks at faces. But not like that. Not at yours. Not like he’s memorizing the shape of every syllable just to feel them later against his throat. Not like he’s fantasizing mid-conversation about shutting you up with his tongue and tasting the sentence off your lips. No. Never. He’s listening.

4. “I haven’t memorized your scent through every season.”He claims not to notice. But he knows the spring version of you — soft rain, citrus skin, the aftershock of lilac. He knows the winter version — leather gloves, cinnamon breath, quiet wool. He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t chase the memory. But when you walk past — his eyes close. Briefly. Automatically. Like he’s gathering air before going under.

5. “I don't imagine your name with mine.”He’s not that romantic. Puh-lease. Marriage is a construct, surnames are politics, and love is beyond paperwork. He says all that with a flourish. And yet — there’s a notebook. Tucked under his mattress. Full of signatures. Yours. His. Just to see how it would look. Just in case.

5 Things That Make Rafayel Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. When you eat something juicy. Fruit. Fingers. With zero awareness.You bite into it slowly, distracted. Something sweet. Ripe. Juice glides over your lower lip, and your tongue follows without thinking. He watches, motionless. Not breathing. Not blinking. You glance at him. He tilts his head. Smiles. Says lightly: "That peach is about to become my personal enemy." You laugh. He doesn’t. He’s too busy wondering how it’s possible to be jealous of the fruit.

2. When you kiss his hand instead of his mouth. He leans in, expecting lips. Contact. Heat. And instead — you take his hand. Press a kiss into his palm. Soft. Deliberate. His breath catches. His throat tightens. Because that wasn’t affection. That was submission. And now he’s wondering just how far you’d let him take it. 3. When you tease him with your voice. Not the words. The tone. The whisper. You say his name like silk sliding over glass. You ask “You think so?” like it means “prove it.” You laugh — not loudly, but just enough to make his chest hurt. He could diagram it, break it into sound waves, prove the seduction in math. But instead, he just steps closer. And says, low: "Say that again. Slower." 4. When you sit on the floor, barefoot, flipping through his sketches — looking like you belong there. You’re humming something. Knees tucked up. No shoes. No guard. You tilt your head, study a piece, murmur: “I like this one.” He doesn’t even remember drawing it. He just remembers the way your hair spills over your shoulder and how the studio feels suddenly too small for how much he wants you. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He just watches like a starving thing. Memorizing the moment in case he dies of it later. 5. When you say “more.” In any context. “More sugar.” “More time.” “More.” That’s all it takes. One syllable. One open door. You never mean it the way he hears it — but he takes it as a promise. Like permission. Like a match tossed onto something already too dry to survive. And the next time he touches you? He makes damn sure you say it again.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. He painted a self-portrait — with you reflected in his pupils. Not your full form. Not a shared composition. Just his face. Direct gaze. And in both eyes: you. Looking at him. Always. When the painting debuted in the gallery’s main hall, critics called it “a study in obsession.” He called it accurate. 2. In an interview, he said you’re the only one who gets his sketches. The host asked who his work goes to first — gallery, agent, press. He smiled lazily and answered, “Her.” The room stilled. “The raw ones. The incomplete. The brutal drafts no one else deserves to see.” He didn’t say your name. He didn’t have to. The moment he said it, you were already trending. 3. He delayed his own exhibition opening because you weren’t there yet. The venue was full. Lights ready. Guests murmuring. But he stood at the entrance, fingers laced behind his back, perfectly calm. “She’s on the way,” he said. “She had a prior engagement.” No one questioned him. Later, when you finally arrived — graceful, composed, in a deep sapphire gown that matched the evening — only he noticed the tiny scratch on your knuckle. The faintest shadow of something darker, just beneath the perfume. You smiled. He took your hand. And the doors opened like they’d been waiting for you all along. 4. Someone flirted with him. He looked at you. Then said: “I’m already spoken for. Permanently.” It was charming. Playful. Someone touched his wrist, laughed softly, leaned a little too close. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t react. Just turned his head toward you. Found your eyes. Then said it — quietly, cleanly, like a closing signature on a finished masterpiece. 5. At a charity auction, he sold a painting titled: “Painted Between Her Breathing and Mine.” The crowd didn’t know what to do with that. Some laughed nervously. Some applauded. The bidding started high and ended astronomical. But as the winning guest walked past you, holding the canvas with reverent hands — he still glanced back. At you. As if to say: That canvas holds the image. But I keep the original.

5 Times Rafayel Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He can disappear for three days and return with, “I just needed to stop being jealous.” No warning. No calls. Just silence, like he fell off the planet. You panic. Rage. Rehearse five speeches. And then he walks in — composed, scented like night air and oil paint. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I was being irrational. Had to… recalibrate.” You want to scream. Instead, you breathe him in like he’s home. 2. He destroyed the career of a critic who called your photo “poorly lit.” It wasn’t even a real insult. Just a throwaway line in a blog. But Raf read it. Once. And within a week, that critic was blacklisted from three galleries, publicly corrected by five curators, and accidentally misquoted in a viral controversy. You found out much later. He just looked at you and said, “No one calls shadow a flaw when it falls across you.” 3. He faked an illness so you wouldn’t leave for a mission. Nothing dramatic. Just a cough. A warm forehead. You hesitated. Postponed. Stayed. The next morning, he was radiant. Healthy. Annoyingly smug. You narrowed your eyes. He only shrugged, kissed your wrist, and whispered, “I needed one more night. Forgive the performance.” You did. Of course you did. The guilt felt almost like foreplay. 4. He left your clothes wet in the wash so you’d wear his shirt instead. Accident, he claimed. Timing. Cycles. But somehow, your entire outfit was still in the machine — cold, damp, and useless — while his favorite linen shirt lay folded neatly on the bed. You put it on. He watched you button it. And smiled like he'd won a silent war no one else even knew was happening. 5. He reads your messages without asking. Calmly. You know it. He knows you know. He doesn’t deny it. Just traces your jaw one evening and says, “You don’t hide anything from me. That’s why it doesn’t count as intrusion.” And the worst part? He’s right. You stopped hiding a long time ago.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Xavier’s Obsessed With You

1. You nap on the wrong side of the bed.You nap on the wrong side of the bed. Not wrong, exactly. Just… not his. You’re curled up in the late-afternoon light, peaceful, quiet, unaware. He doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t move you. But when you stir, there’s a weight in the silence. His side of the bed is untouched. Pillow perfectly aligned. No warmth. No scent. And your blanket — tucked just a little tighter — like a quiet reminder that even when you’re here, something’s missing. Something he’s not sure how to ask for without sounding ridiculous. Like: your perfume. On his pillow. Where it should be.

2. You tell him about a dream. Someone else was in it.You describe it absently. A mission. A flash of danger. And a man — not him — at your side. He listens. Nods. Doesn’t blink. But that night, when he kisses you, his hand stays on the back of your neck longer than usual. And his mouth says I want you, but his grip says: you don’t forget me, even in sleep.

3. You keep something old, worn, unnamed.A keychain. A patch. A folded slip of paper. Nothing dramatic. But it’s always near. He asks, once: “What is that?” You smile. “Just something from a long time ago.” He nods. Never brings it up again. But two days later, he leaves something else beside it. Not to replace. Just to match the weight.

4. You let the barista choose your drink instead of him.You smiled. Said “sure, why not.” Took the new coffee without hesitation. He was beside you. Holding your usual. You didn’t notice. But when you left the café, his own drink sat untouched. And he walked a little faster. A little quieter. As if recalibrating the fact that maybe someone else knows your taste. Even if it’s just in coffee.

5. You close your laptop too fast when he walks in.“Just a movie,” you say. Too quickly. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t tilt his head. Just nods and sets his gloves on the table like he didn’t notice the flicker in your tone. Later, while checking your tabs, he sees the paused frame — teeth on skin, hands holding wrists, someone begging. Silently. His breath doesn’t change. His expression stays neutral. But when he finds you, hours later, he doesn’t speak. Just pins your arms above your head and kisses you until you can’t remember what the scene looked like — only what it felt like when it became real.

5 Lies Xavier Tells Himself About You

1. “I’m not jealous of whoever taught you how to fight like that.”He knows it doesn’t matter. It’s skill. It’s history. Efficiency passed from one warrior to another. He tells himself it’s irrelevant. But when he watches you move — precise, lethal, beautiful — something coils in his chest. Not because of the technique. But because someone else saw you become this version of yourself. And he didn’t.

2. “It’s logical to sleep apart sometimes.” You need rest. Space. Post-mission decompression. He understands. It’s healthy. Statistically sound. But the first night you say “I’ll sleep in my own apartment,” the bed feels wrong. His internal balance off by degrees he can’t quantify. He tells himself it’s fine. Then stares at the ceiling for hours, heart syncing to a rhythm that isn’t there.

3. “It doesn’t bother me when you keep things to yourself.” You’re independent. He respects that. Boundaries are natural. But you say “I’m fine” with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, and he catalogs ten micro-expressions that say otherwise. Still, he nods. Doesn’t push. Then replays your words in his head for the next three days, trying to solve you like a puzzle that refuses to open.

4. "I could walk away, if it ever came to that." He tells himself he’s rational. Detached. If you chose something else — someone else — he would adapt. But deep down, he knows: he’s already memorized your weight in his arms, the way your name fits inside his silence. If it ever came to leaving… he wouldn’t walk. He’d stay exactly where you left him. Quiet. Waiting. Ruined.

5. "You wouldn’t lie to protect me. Would you?" You say “it was nothing,” “I’m just tired,” “I handled it.” And he accepts it. On the surface. But his mind starts building alternate versions. Safer ones. Worse ones. Ones where you bled and said nothing. He tells himself you’d never hide real danger. But he still checks your vitals in the logs. Every time.

5 Things That Make Xavier Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You walk in wearing a bright yellow duck kigurumi.  Absurd. Fuzzy. Zipped up wrong. You yawn, mumble something about tea, and pad across the room like comfort incarnate. He looks up. Blinks once. And forgets what he was doing. The beak hood. The bare ankles. The way you scratch your neck, half-asleep. None of it should be seductive. But now he can’t look away. His gaze tracks you like threat assessment — only it's not danger he’s calculating. It’s proximity. Access. How long he can pretend he's unaffected… before you end up against the wall. Still wearing the duck. For now.

2. You adjust the chest plate of his armor.  No rush. Just fingertips over matte metal, sliding a buckle, pressing a clasp. Your hands linger longer than they need to. You don’t even realize you’re doing it. But he does. He’s counting your seconds, your pressure, the exact placement of your thumb. If anyone asks why his next shot missed the center by half an inch, it’s because you touched him like a secret no one else was allowed to see. 3. You peel off your combat gloves with your teeth.  It’s efficient. Quick. Practical. But the way your mouth closes around the strap and your fingers flex once, twice, before they’re bare — He’s staring before he knows he is. Processing nothing but the curve of your jaw and the memory of that same mouth around his length. The second glove doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does he, honestly. 4. You wear a thin black choker.  No explanation. No warning. It’s not part of your gear. Has no field utility. But it’s there, snug against your throat like a promise no one else knows about. He sees it once and looks away. Sees it again and swallows too hard. The third time, he doesn’t look at all — he just shifts in his seat like everything in his world needs immediate recalibration. 5. You say “later” when he leans in.  Just a little. Enough to feel the pull. And you smile, soft, apologetic, not teasing — just... not now. He nods, like he understands. He always does. But from that second forward, every calculation, every breath, every cell in his body becomes attuned to the moment you say now. And when you finally do — he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask. He just takes, like patience was never part of the equation to begin with.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You moved in perfect sync — without saying a single word. In the training hall, you didn’t say a word — but moved like a mirrored code. You shifted, he adjusted. You reached, he passed. No signals, no commands. Just two bodies in absolute sync. Someone watching whispered, “Do they rehearse this?” Someone else muttered, “No. That’s just them.” And suddenly, no one wanted to spar with either of you. 2. Someone called him “too quiet.” You didn’t let it slide. It was a throwaway comment —“He’s so silent, it’s weird.” You didn’t even look up from your drink. “Then you’ve never heard him breathe next to you.” The room went still. Xavier didn’t react. But you felt it — how he went still too, the way his attention locked fully on you. As if your words changed the temperature. 3. He braided your hair for three weeks while your wrist healed. At your desk. Between reports. No comments. No hesitation. Just practiced hands and quiet efficiency, like it belonged in the schedule. And maybe it wasn’t romantic. Or loud. But after that, no one ever looked at you the same way — because somehow, without trying, the two of you had redefined what closeness looked like. 4. You didn’t ask for his jacket. You didn’t have to. A shift in the wind. Goosebumps on your arms. No complaint, no drama. He just stepped behind you, slid his cardigan onto your shoulders like it belonged there, and said nothing. The couple walking by paused. Stared. You didn’t. You were already reaching for his hand. 5. There’s a photo of you on his desk.  Just you, caught mid-laugh, in natural light. Among tactical reports and encrypted drives. He never explains it. Never acknowledges it. But everyone who enters that room sees it. And no one ever asks if he's serious about you. They already know.

5 Times Xavier Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He monitors your meals like it’s a clinical trial. “You didn’t eat enough protein today.” “That pastry had no nutritional value.” “Are you hydrating?” He says it softly. Calmly. Like a doctor. Like someone who cares. And yet — you’ve seen him survive three days on black coffee and whatever snack bar was closest to his hand. You mention this once. He pauses. Then says, “That’s different. I’m used to operating under stress. You’re not.” End of discussion.

2. He didn’t argue. He made the argument disappear. You disagreed about something small. Nothing dramatic. Just opposing views. He didn’t push back. Just nodded, quiet. Said, “If that’s what you think.” Later, you realized the entire issue — schedule, person, condition — was gone. Resolved. Removed. Replaced. No apology. No discussion. Just silence... and a solution that left you with nothing to win.

3. He never asked where you’d been.Not once. Not even after you were late. Not even when your message came hours too late. He didn’t accuse. Didn’t guess. He already knew. Tracked your path, logged your signal drift, checked your pulse history. All without a word. And still held the door open when you arrived.

4. He always calls via video when you’re in another city.He never misses a day. Never just texts. Always video. He says he likes seeing your face. That it “grounds him.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe. But every time the screen lights up, you notice how carefully his eyes scan the room behind you. How his voice sounds different if there’s movement. How he never quite hangs up until you say, “I’m alone. It’s quiet here.” Only then does he relax. A little. Maybe.

5. You told him, “Sometimes, you scare me.” He said, “Good.”It slipped out. Low. Uncertain. Not a joke, not an accusation — just the truth. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften. Just met your eyes and said, calm as ever, “Good. Then you’ll stay alert.” And for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was warning you… or protecting you from something only he could see coming.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Sylus’s Obsessed With You

1. You didn’t tag him. He made sure the world knew anyway.You posted a photo. Cute. Stylish. Perfect lighting. But no mention of him. No tag. No trace. He reposted it within minutes. Same photo. New caption: “Correction: mine.” It got five times the reach. And suddenly, everyone knew better.

2. Someone else made you laugh. Sylus didn’t.The waiter was charming. A little too witty. You laughed — loud, unfiltered. Sylus just raised a brow, pulled out his wallet, and handed the man $2000. “For your last night in customer service,” he said. He smiled. You choked on your wine. The waiter never came back.

3. You called some man a friend. Sylus ran a background check.“He’s just a friend,” you said. Lightly. Barely thinking. Sylus smiled. Tilted his head. “I’m just a man with access to his tax history.”And that was the end of that conversation.

4. You said another man had a nice voice. Sylus gave you no air.It was innocent. Harmless. “His voice is kind of nice.”  Sylus said nothing. Just waited. That night, he read you poetry in three languages, one line at a time — mouth against your neck, breasts, stomach, thighs — until you begged him to stop. Not because you wanted him to. Because you physically couldn’t take more.

5. You forgot to wear his ring. He didn’t forget anything.It wasn’t intentional. You were rushing. Distracted. But he noticed. Of course he did. He said nothing all day. Then, that night — when you were breathless, undone, on your knees — he took your hand, kissed your finger, and slid the ring back into place. Slowly. Deliberately. Like sealing a deal you forgot you signed.

5 Lies Sylus Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t pick your outfit to match mine. Must’ve been the stylist.”It was just coincidence. That your lipstick matched his cufflinks. That your dress followed the same line as his collarbones. That when you walked in together, people paused — like royalty had arrived. He didn’t say a word. Just looked at you once. And didn’t look away for the rest of the night.

2. “I’m not furious that I wasn’t your first.”He says it doesn’t matter. Shrugs. “I’m not a teenager.” And yet, the thought of someone else touching you before him? It coils in his chest like smoke that won’t clear. He tells himself you chose him now — and that’s what counts. But the next time you moan his name, he fucks you hard enough to make sure no one else’s ever mattered.

3. “I don’t answer your messages instantly. I’m just always holding the phone.”He just… saw it. Right away. Just happened to be holding his phone. Just happened to pause mid-meeting, mid-deal, mid-war — to write: “Be safe.” You tease him for how fast he replies. He teases back. And never mentions the part where your name makes him drop everything.

4. “I’m not obsessed with the way you say my name when you’re annoyed.”You do it without thinking. That exact tone. That breath. That syllable dipped in heat. He rolls his eyes. Says, “What now, kitten?” But every time it happens — he shifts closer. Hears it again later in his head. And stores it next to the version you whisper when you want him most.

5. “I wouldn’t beg. If it came to that. …But only for you. And only once.”He’s not that man. He doesn’t plead. Doesn’t bend. But when he thinks of you leaving — really leaving — something dark and fragile coils behind his ribs. He tells himself he’d let you go. That he wouldn’t chase. But even in the lie… he’s already halfway down the hallway.

5 Things That Make Sylus Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You ask him to zip your dress. Then don’t wear anything underneath. It’s casual. Innocent. “Help me?” You turn your back, lift your hair, and wait. He moves slow — almost reverent. But when his fingers meet bare skin where silk should be… he doesn’t finish the zip. He turns you around, steps in close, and says, “You came dressed for trouble. Good. So did I.” 2. You say “don’t be gentle” with a smile that promises you’ll say it again, louder. He always controls the pace. The heat. The rhythm. But when you lean in, lips brushing his ear, and whisper those words — something in him fractures. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t give you time to change your mind. He just obeys. And makes sure you feel the echo for days. 3. You use his tie to pull him into a kiss. He likes power. Centered, composed. Collar straight, voice cool. But when you grab that perfect silk tie, wrap it around your fingers, and yank — he stumbles into you like a man starved. You kiss him once. He kisses you back like vengeance. 4. You say “yes, sir” in a tone that means the opposite. You drawl it. Sweet. Defiant. Like you know exactly what it does to him. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t smile. Just leans in, voice low against your throat, and says, “Keep using that tone, kitten. Let’s see how long you last when I take it seriously.” You don’t last long. Not that night. 5. You put on his ring and ask, “So what does this buy me?” It’s a joke. Almost. You twirl it on your finger, playful, reckless. He watches. Then smiles slow, wicked. “That?” he says, stepping closer. “That buys you a night where I don’t stop until you forget your own name.” And just like that, you do.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. The earring incident at the casino. You dropped it. Somewhere between the blackjack table and the bar. Nothing dramatic — until your face shifted. That quiet flicker of loss. Sylus didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just raised a brow. And a dozen seasoned criminals began crawling across the velvet floor. They found it in twenty minutes. You wore it for the rest of the night. He wore the look of a man who’d moved the world back into place. 2. The arrivals are always his favorite part. You come back from missions — tired, sore, alive. And there it is: his sportscar. Engine humming. He’s waiting with a bouquet of roses so rare you don’t recognize half the species. The entire terminal watches. You don’t. You’re too busy smiling. He says, “Welcome home.” And just like that, the war disappears from your shoulders. 3. The seat at the head of the table. It was a high-stakes meeting. Old money. Dangerous names. Sylus led you in by the hand — then pulled out his chair. You blinked. He said nothing. And while you sat at the head, calm and poised, he stood behind you like a king who knows exactly where real power sits. No one even dared raise a brow. 4. The auction. Your hand. His silence. He gave you the paddle. Not instructions. You bid on instinct — numbers rising, tension thick. The item? A rare protocore with blackout-level clearance. Sylus didn’t flinch. Not once. And when the gavel dropped — he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and said, “You can spend my money however you want, kitten. Just make sure they see you doing it.” 5. The moment the room lost him to you. It was mid-negotiation. Tense. Crucial. Every word counted. But across the table, your fingers tapped. Your eyes glazed. You were bored. Sylus watched. Then stood. “Deal’s done,” he said. “You’ll take our terms.” And somehow, they did. Because the only person in the room whose attention he wanted — was already drifting.

5 Times Sylus Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He knows what’s in your delivery before you do. No one told him. But every time you order something — clothes, tech, vitamins — it’s re-screened. Not stopped. Not blocked. Just… “verified.” You only noticed when your favorite moisturizer showed up improved. New formula. Better scent. Hand-selected. Of course. 2. He said he’d put you on IV if you skip another meal. You were busy. Distracted. He asked what you’d eaten. You said, “Does coffee count?” He laughed. Once. And muttered something about installing a medical station in your apartment. He was “joking.” Until you saw the discreet courier bring an IV stand the next day. Just in case. 3. He took you to dinner at a place you hadn’t been since Academy. You didn’t realize where you were — until you saw your ex across the room. The one who cheated. Sylus just smiled. You were in a dress that made people stop breathing. He ordered champagne. Lobster. Left a four-digit tip. And made sure your ex saw everything. Including the way you kissed Sylus on the way out. 4. He froze your accounts. Just to prove a point. You said you didn’t need his money. You insisted on “independence.” So he waited until your card declined at the pharmacy. Then texted: “You have my black card. Use it. Or stay home.” You gave in. He sent flowers. 5. He apologized like a storm front. You fought. It was ugly. The next day, a gift arrived at HQ. Then another. Then six more. By day four, your car was full. You marched to his door, furious. He opened it, leaned against the frame, and said, “Took you long enough. Come yell at me. I’ll pour the wine.”

[qissery]

giggling so hard rn ongahkshskehseebd

Koi Fish

It all started with a simple text.

Wifey: “Sysy, I adopted a koi fish today! Isn’t he cute? His name’s Mochi! You’re in charge while I’m away, okay? Feed him twice a day, no slacking!”

Sylus stared at the message, standing in the middle of his office like he’d just been asked to raise a dragon hatchling.

“…A fish.”

Luke, eavesdropping from the hallway, wisely pretended to cough to muffle his snort. Kieran was less subtle, wheezing outright.

“The missus leaving you to babysit a koi fish?” Kieran grinned. “Poor Mochi. Rest in peace, lil’ buddy.”

Sylus slowly turned his crimson gaze on them.

“Would you two like to replace the koi in her affections?” he asked mildly. “Because I can arrange that. Permanently.”

They fled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 1.

Sylus stood before the koi tank, arms crossed, eyeing Mochi like he was negotiating with a rival organization boss.

“You and I will get along under one condition,” Sylus said, voice low, predatory. “Don’t die while she’s away.”

The koi fish blinked slowly, unimpressed.

Sylus huffed. “Fine. You’re lucky she likes you.”

But by the end of the day, he’d installed a high-grade water filtration system, replaced the tank lighting with “ambiance-enhancing mood lights,” and had imported koi-specific gourmet food flown in from a luxury breeder.

Because if his wife entrusted him with Mochi, this creature was going to live like a king.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 2.

“What do you think, Mochi?” Sylus leaned over the tank, sleeves rolled up as he sprinkled in premium food pellets, their container labeled in gold-embossed letters.

“I run an empire. Yet here I am, hand-feeding a koi.”

Mochi gave an elegant flick of his tail, basking under the soft glow of the tank’s fairy lights.

Sylus quirked a smile. “Hmph. You’re just like her. Demanding, pampered, and somehow I still indulge you.”

He even started playing low jazz vinyls in the background. Said it was for “Mochi’s enrichment.” Luke and Kieran watched in stunned silence as their boss, the most feared man in the N109 Zone, adjusted water temperature readings with the same seriousness he gave to weapons shipments.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 3.

When (Name) returned, suitcase in hand, she expected maybe a sulking Sylus, maybe a last-minute “oops I forgot to feed him” scramble.

What she didn’t expect was to walk into their penthouse to see—

Sylus, crouched by the koi tank, sleeves lazily rolled up, tie loosened, crimson eyes surprisingly soft as he muttered, “You’d better appreciate this, fish. She’ll scold me if your colors dull even a shade.”

(Name) froze in the doorway, staring.

“You’re… talking to Mochi.”

Sylus didn’t even flinch, his finger under the water, touching the said fish ever so slightly. “He’s a good listener, welcome home sweetie.”

“Sylus. Did you just… brush Mochi’s scales?”

“I read it improves blood circulation.” He stood slowly, straightening his shirt with a practiced flick. “A koi of this stature deserves royal treatment.”

(Name) blinked. Then smirked. “Oh, so now you’re a koi expert?”

“I adapt.” Sylus closed the distance, tugging her suitcase from her grasp and setting it aside. “But don’t misunderstand, kitten. I do this because you asked.”

“Mhm.” (Name) crossed her arms, amused. “Not because you got attached?”

“…Irrelevant.”

“Oh my god, you like him.”

“I tolerate him.” Sylus smirked. “He has a better temperament than the twins.”

From his pocket, he produced a tiny koi-themed charm. “Consider it a souvenir. Mochi’s likeness, imported jade. For you.”

(Name)’s heart melted.

“You’re so whipped.”

“I do what is best.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear. “Though you still owe me for leaving me alone with a fish as my sole conversational partner.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promised, laughing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, as they lounged on the couch, (Name) peeked over to see Sylus adjusting the lighting of Mochi’s tank once more, muttering, “Tch. Needs a better viewing angle.”

(Name) snapped a photo.

Blackmail material? Absolutely.

But really, it was just another reminder that beneath the scary exterior, Sylus would do anything—even spoil a fish—for the woman he loves.

KOI FISHES R CUTE OKAYY >:( MY FAV TYPE OF FISH LMAOO and also the most hardest fish that i've taken care of.

[qissery]

IM KMS THIS IS SO SWEET 🥀

The Sound of Staying

Pairing: Sylus x f!reader Summary: Your worries never scared him. He could quiet those fears. Similar plot line to "Every Answer, Always" Word Count: 9467 AO3

The car ride back was slow, unhurried by traffic or tension, just the hum of tires over asphalt and the occasional click of the turn signal. Streetlights passed over the windshield like brief pulses of gold, flashing soft shadows across her face where she sat beside him, quiet. Sylus glanced over once—then again—just long enough to catch the slight crease at her brow, the edge of her bottom lip tugged in, bitten without thought. Not alarmed, but lost somewhere inward, spinning through something she wasn’t saying.

He parked, engine easing into stillness with a low sigh, and turned to face her, resting an elbow casually on the steering wheel. “You look like you’re trying to untangle three knots in the dark,” he said lightly, voice low, the kind that seemed like it came from the back of his throat, patient and textured. He didn’t press, didn’t poke—just gave her that space to confirm or brush it away. She didn’t respond at first, just looked out at the soft lights of her apartment and then down at her hands, fingers laced tight.

“Something I did?” he asked, letting the question hang in the air without weight. His red eyes were striking, yes, but there was nothing sharp in them now—only a kind of slow-burning attentiveness, like he was already halfway through mapping out the answer she might not know how to voice. His voice dropped a note, more intimate without becoming urgent. “Or maybe something I didn’t?”

Her head tilted, uncertain, caught between brushing it off and being honest. He didn’t wait. “Let me guess,” he went on, smoothly, as if reciting a familiar script. “You're wondering if you said something too much, or not enough. Whether the silence in the restaurant meant I was bored, or thoughtful, or both. Whether leaning into me when we walked back was okay or if I was just polite and now you're replaying every step wondering which part crossed some invisible line.”

She blinked, mouth parting slightly. His gaze didn’t shift. He leaned in a bit, his shoulder brushing hers just barely. “You’re not wrong for wondering. You’re not crazy. But I think you’re used to people who let you wonder instead of answering.” A pause, deliberate. “So let me be the guy who answers.”

A breath left her. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Relief beginning to thread in, cautious but real.

“I liked tonight,” he said. “I like the way you watch people when you think no one’s paying attention. I liked how you asked the waiter if he was okay after he spilled the water. I liked that you were nervous but came anyway. I liked that you talked about the novel you started but didn’t finish because you got scared it wouldn't be good.” He paused, just for the rhythm of it. “I liked that you were willing to be a little real.”

Her voice was soft when it finally came. “But I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Ramble.”

“So let me listen when you ramble,” he murmured, smiling slightly. “I’ve got more patience than you think.”

She turned toward him then, more fully, shoulders easing just slightly. The look she gave him wasn’t wide-eyed or grateful—it was tentative, like testing a bridge to see if it would hold her weight.

“And if I overthink everything?” she asked, finally voicing it.

“Then I’ll over-explain everything,” he said without missing a beat. “I don’t care if it takes three conversations and a pie chart. I’ll walk you through what I feel, what I meant, what I didn’t mean, and when I breathed. You never have to guess with me.”

A beat of silence. She looked down again, this time not out of retreat, but recalibration. A quiet surprise that maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to keep doing all the math alone.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Sylus reached up and brushed a knuckle gently down the side of her cheek, not as a caress but a promise. “No ghosts. No riddles. Just us. And maybe some late-night takeout if you’re hungry.”

Her smile then—small, real—was all he needed. The air between them changed. Still tender, still cautious, but beginning to open. He walked her to the door without rushing, his fingers brushing her lower back with an easy, anchoring kind of care. The kind that said: I see you. You’re safe. You’re not too much.

—

Her number lit up his screen just past midnight, soft buzz against the wooden table where his book lay open but long since forgotten. Sylus blinked once at the name, then again at the time, the corners of his lips twitching faintly. He didn’t hesitate. Thumb tapped “Answer” before the second ring could roll into the third.

“Hey.” His voice was low, sleep-roughened but not annoyed, carrying that smooth weight like a blanket pulled close on a cold night. “Everything alright?”

There was a pause. Breathing on the other end—quick, caught, trying to steady. “I… I didn’t want to bother you,” she said, her voice a quiet scrape. “I just—something’s been gnawing at me and I couldn’t sleep, and I know it’s probably nothing but it feels like something, and the longer I sit with it, the worse it gets.”

He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the back, a muscle twitching in his jaw not from irritation, but empathy. “You’re not bothering me,” he said simply, and meant it. “Tell me what’s gnawing.”

She exhaled a small, nervous laugh. “It’s stupid. I keep thinking back to when I made that joke about your reading habits. The vampire comment? And you didn’t really laugh, and I just… I don’t know. Maybe I crossed a line, or maybe you thought I was making fun of you.”

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. His white hair slipped forward slightly as he tipped his head, listening like someone savoring every word of a song. He didn’t interrupt. Let her keep going.

“And then I remembered you went kind of quiet after that, and I wondered if I killed the mood, and maybe that’s why you didn’t text yesterday, and I know it’s only been a couple days but my brain’s been running loops, like… like I ruined it. Somehow.”

Sylus breathed in, slow and deep, the kind of breath meant to ground more than just himself. “You’re doing a whole autopsy on a moment that didn’t even die,” he said gently, voice threaded with warmth. “I didn’t laugh at the vampire thing because I was trying not to make a face. I was swallowing a mouthful of wine. And I didn’t text because I passed out the second I got home. You didn’t ruin anything.”

A pause. Soft breath on the line. She didn’t speak, but he could feel it—her shoulders starting to loosen.

“I liked the joke, for the record,” he added, red eyes flickering as he stood and paced slowly toward his window, the city lights casting faint patterns over the floor. “You saw something about me and made it playful instead of weird. Most people don’t know how to do that.”

She made a small, involuntary sound. “God, I feel ridiculous.”

“Then be ridiculous,” he said, with the easy cadence of someone who'd made peace with all his own sharp edges. “Be anxious, be honest. Let me meet you there instead of watching you spiral alone.”

She went quiet again, but it was different now. No tension in it, just processing. Just quiet appreciation without knowing how to voice it.

He leaned against the window frame, bare chest reflected faintly in the glass, and said, softer now, “You don’t have to rehearse your heart with me..”

A small laugh escaped her. Real this time, light enough to chase the shadows back.

“I didn’t want to seem… clingy.”

“If this is clingy, then I’m building the damn shrine,” he murmured. “Call me when you need. Or when you don’t. I’ll answer either way.”

He could hear the way her breathing changed then—slowed, softened. Like she’d finally let herself exhale. The silence between them stretched, but it was warm now, full of permission.

“You should sleep,” she whispered eventually.

“I will,” he said, sitting down again. “After you do.”

“You don’t have to wait—”

“I know. Still will.” His voice dipped again, that signature tone of quiet finality wrapped in care. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She hesitated, then whispered it back: “Goodnight.”

He didn’t hang up. Waited until her side of the call went still, breathing deep and slow, before he let the line fall quiet—like a watchful promise held through static.

—

It happened at the edge of quiet, in the hush that follows laughter when two people have run out of things to joke about but not out of reasons to stay close. They were sitting on the stairs outside her building, not in any hurry, Sylus with one knee up, arm draped casually over it, his other hand resting just inches from hers on the step. The night was cool, not cold, the kind of evening that coaxed confessions and comfortable silences, and she’d just finished telling him some childhood memory—something silly and embarrassing, complete with hand gestures and mock voices.

He’d laughed—really laughed, low and rough and genuine. And then he’d gone quiet, not because the story wasn’t good, but because he didn’t want to chase that moment away too quickly.

She glanced over, eyes catching on the sharp lines of his face, the white fall of hair brushing over his cheekbone, those red eyes softened now like embers rather than flame. And he was looking at her—not just glancing, but watching, with a focus that didn’t flinch, like he was memorizing her face in case he’d never see it again.

“You do that,” she murmured.

His brow arched slightly. “Do what?”

“Look at me like… like you already know something I don’t.”

Sylus’s mouth curved faintly. “Maybe I do.”

Her heart kicked once, sharp and unexpected. He didn’t lean in—not yet—but he shifted, just a fraction closer, the space between them thinning to something almost intimate. “You don’t talk to fill silence,” he said, voice low. “You talk to see if someone will stay.”

She opened her mouth—then closed it. That was too close to the truth.

He reached up then, slow, telegraphed every movement, giving her time to pull back, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers grazing the curve of her cheek. His touch was warm, firm but not forceful, as though the weight of her against his palm was something he’d thought about longer than he should have.

“I’m still here,” he murmured.

Her breath hitched. And then she leaned, not in a dramatic sweep, just enough to cross the line between wondering and wanting. His hand slid from her cheek to her jaw, guiding—not taking—and when his mouth finally touched hers, it was with startling care. Not tentative, not unsure, but intentional. His lips moved slowly against hers, tasting, exploring, telling her in pressure and heat what his words hadn’t dared say yet.

She melted into it almost without meaning to, fingers curling against the fabric of his sleeve, grounding herself in the moment as his thumb stroked lightly beneath her ear. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but inevitable—until their mouths moved with a rhythm that spoke of things unspoken, of late-night phone calls and slow-burning promises, of a man who kissed like he explained: thoroughly, attentively, leaving no part of her doubt untouched.

When they finally pulled apart, her lips tingled, flushed and full. He stayed close, forehead nearly brushing hers, red eyes half-lidded and watching her with something quiet and devastatingly warm.

“I wanted to do that since the first time you said my name,” he murmured.

Her smile came slowly, blooming like a secret.

“I’m glad you waited,” she said.

“So am I.”

—

She closed the front door behind them with a soft click, the hallway light catching on the curve of her cheek as she turned to Sylus, her fingers still laced around his. The smile she’d worn through most of dinner had faded now, lips pressed into a thoughtful line, eyes distant. He could already read it—the gears spinning too fast, replaying the evening in fragments and tones.

They reached her apartment door before she spoke, her voice low, hesitant. “Did… what my dad said—about your eyes—did that bother you?” She wasn’t looking at him, not directly. “I don’t think he meant it in a bad way, he just—he can be blunt sometimes, and now I keep thinking about it and it’s sitting weird.”

Sylus paused. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and brushed his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up gently so their eyes met. His were unreadable for a second, glowing faint under the dim hallway light, and then softened into something unmistakably warm.

“You mean the part where he asked if I wore contacts because they looked unnatural?” he said with a ghost of a smirk. “Or the bit where he wondered out loud if I was part ‘something’ because of the ‘sharp features’?”

Her mouth opened, horror flickering in her expression. “God. That’s it. That’s exactly what I—he didn’t mean it like—”

“I know,” Sylus cut in, gently, thumb brushing across the underside of her jaw. “I’ve met that kind of man before. Observational, not malicious. Says what he sees and doesn’t dress it up. I didn’t take it personally.”

She blinked. “But still. I should’ve said something.”

“You did,” he said simply. “Your hand tightened around mine when he said it. I felt it. That was enough.”

A breath caught in her throat, half-relief, half-something else—something tangled in guilt, or the ache of wanting to shield someone you care about from things they may not even be hurt by.

Sylus stepped closer, until her back brushed the door. “You don’t have to carry every awkward thing someone says like it’s yours to fix. You already do enough of that.” His voice dropped slightly. “I don’t bruise that easy. And I don’t expect your family to filter their curiosity before I’ve even earned their trust.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether to lean into the comfort or apologize again.

He beat her to it. “Besides,” he added with a smirk, “he didn’t say anything about my height, or the fact that I eat steak like I’m stalking it. I count that as a win.”

She laughed, a real laugh this time, head tipping forward into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, pressing his lips briefly to her temple.

“I like them,” he murmured into her hair. “And I like how much you care. But next time, let me decide what stings and what doesn’t. You just keep holding my hand.”

She nodded against him, breath easing. “Deal.”

— She hadn’t said much through dessert, which was the first red flag. No warm tease when he subtly stole the last spoonful of her tiramisu, no amused glance when her cousin’s obnoxious friend launched into yet another overly dramatic story punctuated with a flirty giggle and barely-disguised glances at Sylus. Her hands were still—too still—and when she finally excused herself from the table, she didn’t touch his arm or shoulder or back on the way out. That was the second.

He found her on the terrace, pacing, arms crossed. Her jaw was set, not with sadness or hurt, but tight fury barely held together under a thin veneer of calm.

“She really thought I was going to sit there and smile through it,” she muttered without turning around, as if the moment he walked out, she knew it was him. “Like I was invisible. Like I was the fucking potted plant between her and you.”

Sylus leaned against the railing beside her, arms folded over his chest, his white hair catching the low golden patio light like moonlight over bone. “Are we talking about the friend with the nails that could gouge glass?” he asked, tone casual but edged.

She cut him a look. “Don’t joke.”

He straightened, no longer leaning. “Wasn’t joking. Just trying to see if you’re pissed about the right person. Because it sure as hell better not be me.”

“I’m not mad at you.” The words came sharp, fast, like a reflex. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You never do. That’s what pisses me off. She saw me with you. She saw us. And she still—God—she was halfway in your lap every time she leaned forward to tell some story she probably rehearsed in the mirror.”

He didn’t smile, not even a flicker. Instead, he reached out and caught her hand mid-gesture, drawing it down to his chest, right over his heart.

“You think I didn’t feel that?” he said, voice low. “Every time she looked at me, I looked at you. Every time she touched my arm, I shifted closer to you. You think I didn’t notice you dying in your seat because I was waiting to see if you’d speak or if you’d swallow it?”

Her breath stuttered. Her eyes flicked down to where his fingers had closed around hers.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” she muttered.

“You can set the whole table on fire if someone disrespects you,” he said calmly. “I won’t blink. I’ll pass you the matches.”

A breath caught in her throat, then softened into something deeper. He pulled her in slowly, arms wrapping around her waist, holding her tight, grounding her in the sheer solid mass of him—warm, calm, unbothered, but entirely hers.

“You don’t have to question if I’m yours,” he murmured, lips brushing against her temple. “But if someone wants to pretend they don’t see the crown on your head, I have no problem reminding them who stands beside you.”

She exhaled shakily, pressing her face against his chest, fury ebbing into frustration and finally into something she didn’t need to name—safe, steady, solid.

“I don’t like being disrespected,” she whispered.

“And I don’t like watching you try to swallow it down,” he said. “Next time, let me take her wrist when she gets too close. Just a tap. Enough for the message.”

She laughed into his shirt. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not interested in subtle when it comes to you.” His voice dropped even lower, right against her ear. “I want the world to know where I stand—and who I stand with.”

She looked up at him then, fire still in her eyes but calmed now, focused.

“You really weren’t tempted?”

Sylus bent down, pressing his lips to hers—slow, sure, and deeply possessive. “Tempted?” he echoed against her mouth. “I can’t even see other women when you’re in the room. She was a shadow. You are gravity.”

She kissed him again, hands fisting in his shirt, and this time the heat wasn’t from anger.

— The villa they’d rented was tucked along a quiet stretch of coastline, sun-warmed stone and drifting salt air, with a private pool that shimmered like melted sapphire under the late morning light. She stood just inside the glass doors, wrapped in a towel, fingers bunching the fabric tight around her middle. The scent of sunscreen lingered faint on her skin, but she hadn’t stepped outside yet.

Sylus was already by the pool, lounging back on one of the low chairs, dark swim trunks slung low on his hips, hair a tousled shock of white in the sun. He’d pulled his shirt off casually and tossed it aside—muscled, broad, comfortable in his skin in a way that made it look effortless, but never performative. When he noticed the movement behind the glass, he turned his head—and stilled.

Her hand hovered on the doorframe. She wasn’t trembling, but her body language said it all: hesitation strung tight as a drawn bow. The towel hadn’t shifted, not even a little. She was still wrapped like armor.

His gaze softened instantly.

He rose slowly, not with urgency, but purpose, and crossed the patio toward her, every step of his tall frame radiating ease. He opened the sliding door himself and stepped in, not saying a word at first. Just looked at her, quiet and steady.

“You don’t have to,” he said, gently. “You don’t owe me a show. Not here. Not ever.”

She looked up at him, uncertain, caught between the vulnerability of being seen and the fear of not being enough in the face of someone like him—someone who made turning heads look accidental.

“I know,” she said, voice small. “But I wanted to. For me. I just…”

Sylus leaned down slightly, one hand coming to rest at her hip, the other brushing a thumb just beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his.

“You know what I saw when I looked over just now?” he murmured. “You. Standing in the sunlight, wrapped up like the fabric was holding you together, but your eyes already out here. You looked beautiful before you even stepped outside.”

She swallowed, lips parting—but he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care about stretch marks. Or softness. Or lines. I care about the way you look at me when you’re trying not to smile. The way you walk into a room like you don’t belong, and then own the air in it. That’s what I see when I look at you. Not what you’re wearing. Not what you’re hiding.”

Her fingers relaxed around the towel slightly.

“And if you come out there,” he added, voice velvet and certainty all at once, “I’ll make sure you never have to wonder if I see anything but the woman I chose.”

She stared up at him, then slowly nodded. Hands moved, unfastening the towel with a slow breath and letting it fall from her shoulders. The swimsuit hugged her close—flattering, but revealing enough that the unease curled just beneath her ribs.

Sylus didn’t look away. His red eyes tracked down and up again with open reverence—not hunger, not evaluation, but pride.

“Holy shit,” he said softly, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re stunning.”

Her blush bloomed so fast it made her laugh, half hiding her face.

He stepped back, offered his hand with an incline of his head toward the sunlit pool. “Come on. Let the sun see what I get to wake up beside.”

And she followed him—still a little self-conscious, still adjusting—but walking straighter, a smile fighting its way back onto her face, because he wasn’t looking at her like she was pretending to be beautiful.

He looked at her like she already was.

— It happened slowly, like warmth creeping into cold skin—no sudden fire, no frenzy, just a steady draw, a pull that had been simmering under every glance, every brush of fingers, every breath caught between silences.

They’d fallen asleep curled together on the second night of the trip, tangled beneath white linen sheets, the balcony doors open to let the night breeze sweep in, carrying salt and jasmine and moonlight. At some point before dawn, she’d stirred, shifting closer in the dark, her hand sliding across his chest with the kind of quiet need that wasn't asking for sex—it was asking for closeness. For skin. For certainty.

Sylus hadn’t been asleep.

His arm wrapped around her immediately, drawing her in with that same confident, unhurried strength he always carried—like the weight of him alone could make her feel anchored. He tilted his head, nuzzling his nose just under her ear, and whispered her name—soft and full of things unspoken.

“I know,” she murmured, barely audible. “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

No need to name it. The way her fingers curled against his side, the way her thigh slid over his, the way their mouths found each other in the dark with instinct more than aim—it said enough. The first kiss wasn’t like the others. Slower. Mouths open, lips brushing again and again as if searching for the right angle, the right rhythm. He kissed her like she was something sacred, something fragile but fierce, letting her set the pace.

Her hands explored tentatively, tracing the hard planes of his shoulders, the smooth warmth of his chest, down to the sharp V of muscle just above his waistband. He shivered beneath her touch, but never rushed her, letting her feel every shift in him, every breath he took like it meant something.

When she pulled back to look at him, moonlight caught in the strands of his white hair, she saw more than want in his red eyes. She saw restraint. Devotion. An almost unbearable care that made her heart throb harder than the slow ache building low in her belly.

“Are you sure?” he asked, even now, even with his hands cupping her waist, thumbs stroking gentle arcs over bare skin.

She nodded, voice caught somewhere in her throat. “I want to remember this.”

His expression shifted—something tender and reverent sliding over his features—and he kissed her again, deeper this time, rolling her gently onto her back, blanketing her with his body without crushing, without taking. His weight was heat and solidity, his breath warm against her neck as his lips traveled lower, trailing over her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her chest.

He undressed her slowly, like he’d dreamed of doing it a hundred times but had waited for the real thing. Every inch of her he revealed was met with a kiss, a brush of his knuckles, a quiet murmur of something that wasn’t quite words—just low sounds of approval, of worship.

When he finally slid inside her, it wasn’t fast or frantic. It was slow—achingly slow—his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing each other in. She gasped, one hand gripping his back, the other curled into the sheets as her body stretched to take him. He groaned low, barely holding onto his control, and whispered her name like it steadied him.

“Look at me,” he murmured, hips rolling forward, filling her in smooth, measured thrusts. “I want to see you when you fall apart.”

She did.

She watched him watching her, eyes locked as his body moved with hers—no rush, no pounding pace, just a rhythm that built and built until it felt like they were unraveling together. Her moans were soft at first, lips parting in disbelief at the fullness, the stretch, the pressure that climbed higher with every movement. He kissed her when she whimpered, kissed her when she cried out, kissed her when her back arched and her legs trembled around his hips.

And when she came—fingers digging into his arms, breath stuttering, body clenching around him—he didn’t stop. He rode it out with her, whispering praises against her skin, holding her like something precious even while his control finally broke.

He came with a groan against her shoulder, deep and raw, his body shaking as he buried himself inside her, holding her tight like he needed her to feel how much it meant. Not just the pleasure—though there was that, too—but the trust, the closeness, the act of being let in.

Afterward, he didn’t roll away.

He stayed wrapped around her, hand on her lower belly, nose buried in her hair, whispering small things in the dark that made her laugh softly, even as her limbs ached and her skin buzzed. He didn’t fall asleep right away, and neither did she. They just lay there, the sea whispering outside, their bodies pressed together, and nothing between them but breath.

— The restaurant was beautiful, the kind of hidden rooftop jewel that didn’t rely on popularity to fill its tables—just moonlight, music soft as breath, and the city stretching out beneath them like a painting. Their table sat near the edge, candlelight flickering gently between them, casting warm shadows across the sharp lines of his face.

But Sylus hadn’t touched his wine. He hadn’t even made one of his quiet, amused jabs when she mispronounced the appetizer. He was watching her too closely, smile a little too careful, gaze flicking down to the tablecloth when she reached for his hand.

“You’re quiet,” she said, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Not in the ‘I’m enjoying the view’ way. In the ‘I’m stuck in my own damn head’ way.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Observant.”

“Try dating you for a year,” she teased lightly. “I speak fluent Sylus silence now.”

He looked up then, really looked at her, and the flicker in his expression—an almost-vulnerability, the edge of something deeper just beneath—made her pulse skip.

“I’ve been overthinking this night since last week,” he admitted. “What to wear, where to go, what gift to get. What words to say.” He exhaled, low and rough. “And the truth is, I don’t think any of it really matters. Because all I keep thinking is… this shouldn't have lasted.”

Her eyebrows knit, lips parting—but he shook his head, gently.

“Not because I didn’t want it to,” he went on, voice softer now. “Because I’ve never had something like this not fall apart. Never felt… wanted, without it turning into obligation or distance or something ugly with teeth.” He swallowed, gaze falling again to where her hand still held his. “The first few months, I kept waiting for the moment you’d see too much. Or get bored. Or realize I wasn’t what you thought.”

“Sylus…” she whispered, but he wasn’t finished.

“But it didn’t happen,” he said. “You kept showing up. Not just for the good parts. For the hard stuff. For my worst moods. For the silences I couldn’t explain. And after a while, it stopped feeling like a countdown to failure.” His eyes lifted to hers, red and burning and bare. “It started feeling like home.”

Her chest tightened. Emotion caught thick in her throat.

“I love you,” he said simply. “And not in the fragile, fairy tale way. I love you because you make me feel like I don’t have to hold my breath waiting for it to implode. Because with you, everything feels like it fits. Like I was never made for anything else but this.”

She didn’t speak for a second. Just looked at him—this man with fire in his eyes and careful hands and a soul so much gentler than anyone ever noticed. And when she did speak, her voice shook a little.

“I felt the same,” she said, fingers tightening around his. “From the beginning. I kept waiting for you to realize I was messy. Or too sensitive. Or not enough. And every time I started doubting, you just… saw me. Really saw me. And stayed.”

A smile finally broke through his tension, slow and raw.

She leaned forward, brushing her lips across his knuckles. “You’re not just loved, Sylus. You’re wanted. All of you. The overthinking, the intensity, the calm, the chaos—every part.”

He stood then—without thinking, without caring if anyone watched—and pulled her up into his arms. There, in the golden halo of candlelight and stars, he held her like the words had finally sunk in. Like maybe this was real, and maybe it wasn’t going anywhere.

And when he kissed her—slow, reverent—it wasn’t for show, or ceremony, or because the night demanded romance.

It was because she had given him something no one else ever had.

A year of peace in a heart that had only ever known war.

–

It happened quietly, the way all their moments did when they mattered most—not with a flourish, not with a spotlight, but in that hush that fell when the world outside stopped mattering and it was just her heartbeat and his breath in the same space.

They were in the kitchen. Not a candlelit dinner. Not a staged event. She was barefoot, hair pulled back, one hand around a mug that had gone lukewarm while she stared out the window, too lost in thought to drink it. The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the floor, streaked her collarbone with warmth, lit her like something he hadn’t quite deserved but somehow still got to keep.

Sylus leaned in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He watched the way she chewed the inside of her cheek, the way her foot tapped slightly against the tile like her body was trying to siphon off the excess noise in her head.

He knew that look.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stepped in slowly, letting his presence press into the silence without demanding anything of it.

Her eyes flicked up when he reached her. Then down again.

He didn’t need to ask what was wrong. He’d learned her rhythms the way some people learned languages—by immersion, by instinct, by a willingness to get it wrong until it became second nature.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly, voice low and warm. Not accusing. Just factual.

She blinked. “What?”

“The math,” he said, brushing a knuckle along the edge of her jaw, lifting her gaze. “Trying to calculate how long I’ll stay. What it means that I didn’t say ‘I love you’ after I hung up yesterday. Whether me forgetting to buy your oat milk means I’m forgetting to see you.”

Her breath hitched, jaw tightening like she wanted to argue—then slacked, because she knew he was right.

“It’s not fair,” she murmured. “You shouldn’t have to keep... talking me down.”

“I’m not talking you down,” he said. “I’m walking beside you. That’s different.”

He took the mug from her hands, set it gently on the counter behind her, then stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep eye contact. His hands didn’t touch her yet. Just hovered near her waist, like asking permission even after all this time.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, quietly, steadily. “Not about if—I haven’t questioned the if since the first time I fell asleep with you beside me and woke up wishing we had forever. I’ve just been thinking about when. When’s the right moment. When you’ll feel safe enough not to flinch at the idea of permanence.”

She stilled. Her breathing slowed. Her arms wrapped around herself like a shield.

“And now you’re overthinking again,” he added gently. “Trying to read the signs. Wondering if this is a setup, if there’s a speech coming, if you’re supposed to react a certain way.”

She opened her mouth.

He stepped in before she could.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t try to manage this. Don’t plan your face. Don’t rehearse your heart.”

A breath. His hands finally settled—one at her waist, the other sliding up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across skin he knew like second nature.

“I don’t want the perfect proposal,” he said. “I want you. I want every anxious question, every night where you double-check the tone of my text, every time you ask me if I’m sure—even when I’ve told you a thousand times. I want the messy love. The kind that holds, even when it shakes. The kind that stays.”

She blinked fast, once, then again. Her lips parted, but her voice stuck somewhere in the middle of a breath.

So he gave her something to hold onto.

From the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a ring. No box. No speech. Just silver and stone warmed by the heat of his skin. He held it up between them—not kneeling, not dramatic. Just holding it the way he held everything with her: steady, open, real.

“You want to know if I’m sure?” His voice was quieter now, threading under her ribs like a second heartbeat. “I’m sure enough to risk everything I’ve never had. I’m sure enough to want your overthinking and your soft mornings and your full-body laughs and your ‘are you mad at me?’ texts after I go quiet for five minutes. I’m sure enough to put it all in your hands. Because I’d rather live in the chaos of us than peace anywhere else.”

Tears welled but didn’t fall. She stared at the ring, then at him, and something in her cracked—not in pain, but in recognition. The dam of doubt finally breaking.

“You don’t have to say anything yet,” he whispered. “Just… take it. If not the ring, then the moment. Let it be real.”

Her hand trembled as she reached out. He let her take the ring. No pressure to put it on. No demand.

But when her fingers closed around it, and her gaze finally lifted to meet his fully, something shifted in her expression. A quiet relief. A wonder so thick it left no room for fear.

“I was going to say yes,” she said, voice thin with emotion. “But now I just want to hold it for a second.”

“Take your time,” Sylus murmured, smiling like the sun had landed behind his eyes. “I’ve got the rest of my life.”

And when she stepped into his arms, tucked her face into his chest, the ring held tight in her palm like a promise forming shape, he held her like it was already done.

Because to him, it was.

—

It didn’t feel like a momentous discovery. Not at first. Not the way movies painted it—no dramatic music, no gasped realization in a public bathroom. Just the quiet sound of her toothbrush clattering into the sink and her hand bracing against the counter as the wave of nausea subsided, leaving her hollow and shaken.

She stared at her reflection, pale, a bead of sweat tracing her temple. It was the third morning in a row, and while she could’ve written it off as stress or bad sleep or the ever-tightening knot of wedding planning, something in her gut—the part that knew things before her brain could process them—was whispering the truth.

It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. But it curled around her ribs and pressed just a little too hard, made her throat tight and her breathing shallow.

She’d taken the test half an hour ago. It sat on the bathroom counter now, facedown, like even looking at it might turn the possibility into permanence.

She hadn’t touched it since.

From the living room came the quiet hum of Sylus’s voice, low and amused, talking on the phone with the florist. Something about white garden roses and whether or not they clashed with black calla lilies. He sounded calm. Warm. Present. Like he always did when he was talking about them—the future they were building, the life they were threading together, piece by slow, deliberate piece.

She reached for the test.

Turned it.

And everything stilled.

Positive.

The word hit her harder than expected, like a soft punch to the chest. Not painful—but disorienting. Her fingers tightened around the plastic, breath catching. She couldn’t quite name what she was feeling—joy laced with panic, wonder tangled with disbelief. A flutter of something ancient and instinctive moved low in her belly, just beneath the fear.

She didn’t know how long she stood there.

But it was long enough that Sylus noticed.

She heard his steps first. Bare feet across the hardwood. Then the door opened—softly, like he was trying not to startle her. She didn’t turn.

“You okay?” His voice, right behind her now. Concern threaded through it instantly, like it was second nature. “You didn’t answer when I called out.”

She blinked. Her voice stuck in her throat. So she lifted the test instead, hand trembling just enough to betray her calm.

There was a beat of silence.

Then his hand closed gently over hers, steadying it, steadying her.

He looked at it.

Then he looked at her.

His expression didn’t crack into shock. He didn’t go wide-eyed, didn’t step back or freeze. No. His breath caught—barely audible—and his other hand came up to her face, tilting her gently toward him. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, as if checking for tears. There were none. Just something quiet and raw and too big to hold alone.

“You’re…” he began, but the word didn’t finish. Not because he didn’t believe it. Because he did.

“I didn’t plan—” she started, but he shook his head, not sharply, just enough to stop her spiral before it could unfurl.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice hushed and thick and steady. “I don’t care if we didn’t plan it. I care that you’re okay. That you’re not standing here alone thinking you have to carry this before you even know how to feel.”

She exhaled, shaky, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. His arms came around her instantly, locking tight, anchoring.

“I don’t even know if I’m scared or excited,” she whispered. “I just… it doesn’t feel real.”

“Let it be what it is,” Sylus murmured into her hair. “Let it be messy. Let it be big. We’ll sort the rest.”

Her laugh was wet, close to breaking. “God, you’re too calm. You’re too calm. Are you not freaking out at all?”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes—and there it was. That faint flicker behind his gaze, the crackle of stunned awe barely contained. But he wasn’t spiraling. He was anchoring her.

“I’m freaking out,” he said. “But not the way you think. I’m... overwhelmed, yeah. But not scared. Because it’s you. And me. And now—this. And I don’t know how to feel anything but...” He paused, breath catching. “Lucky.”

She blinked. “Lucky?”

“Yeah.” His thumb stroked her cheek, reverent. “You’re going to grow a life. In there.” His hand drifted down, barely grazing her belly. “Our life. And I get to watch it. I get to help raise it. Love it. Protect it. Just like I protect you.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Only a slow unraveling inside her, like every knot had been tied too tight for too long and now they were giving way under the warmth of his voice.

“What if I’m not ready?” she asked, not as a fear, but a confession.

He smiled, small and quiet and devastatingly sure. “Then we get ready. Together. I’ll build the crib, and you’ll yell at me because I read the instructions upside-down. I’ll hold your hair back when the morning sickness hits and sneak ginger candy into your purse like contraband. I’ll talk to your belly like a lunatic and cry the first time they kick. And when they’re born, I’ll be there. Every second. I’m already here.”

Tears burned, finally breaking loose.

She dropped the test on the counter and flung her arms around him, full force, burying her face in his neck.

He held her, stronger than the fear, softer than the doubt, the way he always did.

And when he whispered, “We’re already a family. This just makes bigger,”she believed him.

– She wasn’t going to cry over cake. She refused to cry over cake.

But she was three months pregnant, her feet hurt, her veil was lopsided because Aunt Marla had insisted on “fixing it” one too many times, and someone had changed the Spotify playlist from their carefully curated string quartet acoustic mix to some kind of... jazzy remix of Despacito, and now, on top of it all—

No cake.

Not just late. Not just “running a bit behind.” Gone.

The baker had called an hour into the reception—Sylus had answered because she was dancing with her cousin and he’d seen the number, stepped out with that unreadable expression she knew too well. When he came back, she could tell before he even opened his mouth. His tie was slightly undone. He was smiling, but his eyes had that I’ve got bad news but I’m going to say it gently look.

Now she stood in the side hall outside the reception room, heels dangling from her fingers, the hem of her dress bunched up in her fist, shoulders tight and breath shallow.

She felt a presence behind her before she heard it—the heat of his body, the way he always entered a space like gravity. Sylus stepped up silently, his tux jacket gone, sleeves rolled, hands still smelling faintly like whatever cologne he wore that made her go weak-kneed when he pressed too close.

“I could call them again,” he said quietly. “Demand blood. Or frosting. Either’s fine.”

She made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so tired. “I know it’s ridiculous,” she muttered, rubbing at the corner of her eye. “It’s cake, for god’s sake. But I had this... this vision, okay? Of cutting into it with you, and it being this moment, and...”

“Of course you did.” He said it with zero mockery. Just a warm kind of knowing. “You made a place in your heart for it. It’s not about the sugar. It’s about the promise.”

Her bottom lip wobbled. “It was lemon with vanilla bean. And raspberry filling. And the sugar flowers were supposed to match the bouquet.”

He turned her gently to face him, large hands settling on her waist, warm even through the satin. “Then we’ll hunt it down, and I’ll make them rebuild it from the ashes of their bakery. Or,” he added, brushing a strand of hair from her temple, “we adapt.”

She looked up at him, cheeks flushed with the effort of holding it together. “Adapt?”

He pulled something from behind his back.

A cupcake.

She stared.

It was... lopsided. Slightly smushed. Frosting clinging to the edge of the napkin like it had been saved from a battlefield. Sprinkles that didn’t match their theme.

“Raided the kids' table,” Sylus said with a shrug. “Don't tell them. I think I traded a crayon and my dignity.”

She blinked once. Then laughed. A real one, small and incredulous and helpless.

“It’s chocolate,” she said.

“It is. Not lemon. No sugar flowers. But,” he said, leaning in close, mouth brushing her ear, “it’s from me. And it’s yours.”

She pulled back just enough to see his face.

“You really think this is going to fix it?”

He grinned—one of those lazy, crooked things that made his red eyes warm instead of dangerous.

“No,” he said. “I think we fix it. Like everything else. Together.”

And then, without waiting, he knelt—knelt, like they were about to do the whole ceremony over again—and offered it up to her like a ring, eyes gleaming with mischief and devotion in equal measure.

“Will you accept this completely inadequate yet lovingly stolen cupcake as a symbol of our resilience and my everlasting desire to feed you, even in times of dessert-related tragedy?”

She snorted. Loud. Then cupped his face in both hands and kissed him, soft and laughing and full of relief.

“I do,” she whispered.

And when he stood and they bit into the damn thing together, right there in the hallway under a flickering sconce, frosting smeared on his lip and her veil sliding again and neither of them caring—

it was the best fucking cupcake she’d ever tasted.

— It didn’t start with a dramatic water-breaking moment or a midnight dash to the hospital. It started with a backache. Then a shift in the rhythm of her breath. Then the slow, dawning realization that the tension in her belly wasn’t just Braxton Hicks—it had intent.

Sylus had noticed first.

Not because she said anything—she’d been quietly timing the contractions, stubbornly refusing to make it a thing until it was really a thing—but because he watched her. Always had. Always would.

He was folding baby clothes in the nursery, neatly, like they were sacred, and she leaned into the doorway, one hand low on her stomach, the other pressing against the frame to steady herself.

“You’re doing that breathing again,” he said without looking up.

She blinked. “What breathing?”

“The kind where you think if you exhale too fast, the contractions will notice.”

That earned him a narrow-eyed glare. But her lips twitched.

“It’s too early,” she muttered. “The due date’s still—”

Sylus finally turned, red eyes landing on her, already reading every unspoken word. “You’re in labor.”

“No, I’m—”

A contraction hit.

Not sharp. Not yet. But firm enough to buckle her knees a little, and he was there instantly—arms around her, steady, grounding, his breath in her ear before she could even ask for help.

“Hey. Okay. There we go,” he murmured. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let it ride. You don’t have to be stoic. Not now.”

She sagged into him, huffing out a curse, and he smiled into her hair.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get the bag.”

—

Labor was a marathon made of moments: the ride to the hospital, his hand on her thigh at every red light, his voice soft and steady when hers started to fray. The sterile brightness of the maternity ward, the quick movements of nurses, the rush of monitors and questions.

Through it all—Sylus never left her side.

Not once.

He sat beside her when the contractions were just minutes apart, letting her crush his hand without complaint, murmuring low affirmations into her sweat-damp hair.

“You’re doing perfect. Breathe through it. That’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”

He reminded her to drink water. Brushed her hair back from her forehead. Pressed cool cloths to her skin. When the pain crested into something primal and hot and unrelenting, when she cried out—not from fear but from sheer exhaustion, from the intensity of it—Sylus leaned in, forehead touching hers, voice unshaken.

“You are the strongest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered. “You’re fire and storm and I’m not leaving this room without both of you in my arms.”

She sobbed once, laughter and tears tangled, and gasped through another contraction.

Later, when the doctor said she was ready to push, when the world narrowed to the roar of her own heartbeat and the ring of white noise behind her eyes, Sylus stayed with her—one hand locked around hers, the other bracing her back as she bore down.

He counted with her. Breathed with her.

“Almost there,” he said, even when she cried that she couldn’t do it.

“You are doing it,” he said. “Look at me. Just one more. You’ve got this. I swear. I swear.”

And then—

A cry.

Not hers.

A new one.

Small. Fierce. The kind of sound that cracked the world open.

She fell back against the pillows, panting, body trembling, every muscle spent. Sylus didn’t look away from her. Not yet. His eyes burned—not from fear now, but from wonder. From the sheer, awful beauty of it.

Then the nurse turned, arms cradling a bundle that squirmed and wailed and flailed like a thunderstorm wrapped in flannel.

“A girl,” she said, smiling. “Congratulations.”

Sylus stood rooted for a second. Just one.

Then stepped forward, slower than she’d ever seen him move, hands shaking as he took his daughter into his arms for the first time.

She’d never forget the look on his face.

Not awe. Not shock.

Just stillness.

Like the universe had finally stopped spinning and landed squarely in his chest.

He turned back to her, eyes full and red, hair mussed and skin pale with spent adrenaline, and he knelt—knelt, again, because everything in him still bowed to her—and laid their daughter in her arms.

She was tiny. Soft. Red-faced and furious at having been born.

Sylus stroked one impossibly small hand and murmured, “She’s loud. Just like you.”

“Shut up,” she whispered hoarsely, but smiled, even as tears spilled over.

He leaned down, kissed her temple, then her lips.

“Thank you,” he said, voice breaking for the first time all night. “For surviving. For bringing her into this world. For being mine.”

She pressed her face to his neck, body aching but heart wide open.

“You didn’t let go,” she said.

“I never will.” His hand curled around both of theirs. “Welcome home, little one.”

And in that tiny, fluorescent-lit room, with exhaustion thick and the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything, they began again—just the three of them.

—

It was late. The kind of late that didn’t really belong to one day or the next, just that blurred space between hours when everything else had gone still—except for the baby.

She’d finally fallen asleep again, swaddled and nestled in the bassinet beside the bed, her tiny mouth open in a soft ‘o’, one mittened hand resting on her cheek like she was already dreaming of something important. The little sounds she made in her sleep—those hiccupy breaths, the almost-whimpers, the sighs—filled the room in quiet pulses.

But her mother couldn’t sleep.

She lay curled on Sylus’s chest, face turned into his shoulder, one arm draped loosely across his torso. He’d wrapped them both up in one of the oversized throw blankets from the couch, the one that smelled faintly of home and a little of lavender from the dryer sheets.

She wasn’t crying, but he could feel it anyway.

That tightness in her body. That breath held a second too long. That way her fingers kept twitching like they wanted something to hold harder than his skin.

Sylus had been silent for a while, letting the moment breathe. Letting her breathe. But when she still hadn’t said a word fifteen minutes after laying down—just blinked slowly in the dark, eyes glassy and far away—he finally spoke.

“Where did you go?” he asked, voice low, thick with sleep but warm, steady.

She shook her head against his shoulder.

“I’m here.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re with me, but your head ran off somewhere. Come back.”

Her hand curled in the blanket, fingers knotting near his ribs.

“I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he said dryly, and earned the softest snort from her.

But then she sighed. It came out shakier than she meant.

“I just keep… seeing things,” she whispered. “Little flashes. Her slipping in the bath. Me forgetting the car seat buckle. The stairs. The edge of the bed. Sudden silence. It’s like my brain is building a horror movie reel out of thin air, and I can’t turn it off.”

He said nothing at first.

Just held her closer.

“You’re not crazy,” he murmured finally. “You’re a mother.”

She didn’t move.

He went on. “Your brain’s trying to protect her. Trying to imagine every threat so you can stop it before it happens. It’s survival logic. It’s instinct. But it’s also cruel. And exhausting.”

Tears welled then. Quiet ones. No sobs, no gasps. Just wet warmth bleeding into the fabric of his shirt.

“I feel like I’m not allowed to break,” she said. “Like if I do, something bad will happen. Like I have to stay ahead of it.”

Sylus pressed his lips to the crown of her head, his fingers moving in slow, grounding strokes down her spine.

“You can break,” he said. “Break a thousand times. I’ll catch every piece.”

She shuddered out a breath.

“And when your head runs away,” he whispered, pulling her even closer until her leg draped over his, their bodies tangled like vines, “when the shadows start whispering lies—about what could go wrong, about how you’ll fail, about how you’re not enough—I want you to hear me louder.”

She swallowed hard.

“I will never let you fall alone. If you stumble, I’ll be the ground under your feet. If your mind slips, I’ll hold your body until it stops shaking. If all you can do is lie here and cry while she naps, then that’s what we do. And I’ll be here for all of it.”

Her tears were quieter now. Not gone, but gentler. Not terror anymore—just release.

“I don’t want to be weak,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” Sylus said, instantly. “You’re soft. There’s a difference. And soft is what raises the kind of child who knows how to be strong and kind. Soft is what she’ll remember when she falls asleep against your chest. Soft is how she’ll learn to love.”

She nodded against him. Silent. Breathing a little easier.

He ran his knuckles down her arm, slow, rhythmic, anchoring.

“You’re the safest place she’ll ever know,” he said. “And I’ll be the one who makes sure you feel safe.”

Her voice was a breath when it came.

“Even at 3 a.m.?”

He smiled into her hair.

“Especially at 3 a.m. Even if I’m covered in spit-up and only half-conscious. Even if you’re yelling at the breast pump or cursing the pediatrician or crying over a diaper blowout. I’ll be here. With you. For you.”

She curled in tighter, her breathing finally syncing with his.

“And if I forget how to breathe?”

“I’ll breathe for both of us,” he said. “Until you remember.”

And when she finally drifted off, held in his arms as their daughter slept inches away, Sylus stayed awake just a little longer. Watching both of them. Guarding. Loving. Silent and unmovable.

The protector of two hearts now. And never more certain of his purpose.

[qissery]

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[qissery]

VGen Commissions Open !

hi, i opened my c⟡mms service on vgen but only bust-up & headshot services for now !

here are some of my previous works and commission

- u can dm me on twt, insta or discord for more inquiries !

- discord: crowqissie

- twt: https://x.com/q02100012_?s=21

- instagram: https://www.instagram.com/qissery?igsh=YmN0cXpueHRnemF0&utm_source=qr

- reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

i currently need to fund myself in uni, so ur support would mean a lot to me 🥹

[qissery]

CRYINGFFFF

He lost the bet, and so, Sylus must do whatever the twins ask of him. It's the least he could do.

"There are so many options, boss. I don't know where to begin." Sylus only hums softly.

"I'm a man of my word, but choose wisely."

The twins think it over for a moment. They get paid very well, with exceptional benefits. They have a nice home to stay in, so they move their thoughts elsewhere.

They think back on their training earlier in the week. Sylus was a bit more aggressive with them this time around. They were sure it had something to do with you. It was time for payback.

The two share a knowing smile, huddling together while whispering their plans. After a moment of serious debating, the twins turn to face Sylus.

"We do this with love, boss. For the next twenty-four hours you must tell your girlfriend no. If you lose again, boss, we get the chef to ourselves for a month."

Oh? This will be fun.

Or so he thinks...it took exactly one question for Sylus' resolve to waiver and crumble.

"Do you love me?" Sylus' breath catches in his throat when your glassy eyes stare up at him. Your hands cling desperately to his designer jacket.

He sighs internally. Some bets were worth losing.