syluspeach

[syluspeach]

Am I the only one who thinks, if someone spam likes your posts, they might as well follow?

[syluspeach]

As expected, i died a little inside.

the weight of the wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The best father. Indisputable. True. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to—“ 

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

He is still as a stone.

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

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

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

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

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

He whispers, “I’ve got you.”

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

And the night betrays you. 

Kyros turns blue. 

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

Sylus screams for the nurses across the hall.

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

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

And it’s coming from you. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kieran feels everything too. 

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

And now so are you.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･

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

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus doesn’t need to sleep. 

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

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

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

And so Sylus doesn’t need to sleep.  

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

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

But he doesn’t. 

Because he doesn’t need to. 

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

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

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

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

Unfaltering, not until his son is safe. 

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

And Kyros hates it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he does, and Sylus freezes. 

He does, not because of the request. 

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

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

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

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

But to Kyros, love is still just feeling.

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

Love is feeling. Love is being there.

And Sylus does this for him. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer’s skies are beautiful after a thunderstorm. 

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

And the moon hangs bright and radiant in the sky. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Begging. Never leave me. 

Surrendering. I will do anything for you.

Declaring, “I love you.” 

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

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

He feels it. 

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

Fiercely. Immensely. Endlessly. 

And when he coos, Sylus feels it in return. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because, like you, he believes it. 

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

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

[syluspeach]

Nerdy!Xavier getting a bj…+18(mdni)

With an important test coming up, Xavier made it his mission to have you pass the exam with at least a seventy-five percent. History wasn’t your strong suit. Thankfully, your sweet boyfriend enjoyed it when you succeeded.

“B-bun-bunny…we’re not gonna get very far if we don’t…don’t focus.”

Pulling off his dick with a dramatic pop, your cum stained lips formed into a pout.

“But Xavi, you look so handsome when you’re serious!” You deliberately fluttered your eyelashes as you trailed kisses on the underside of his length. “Wanna be your good bunny and thank you for tutoring me.

Twisting your hand along the part of his cock that didn't fit in your mouth, you gave the red mushroom tip kitten licks. You giggled as he removed his fogged-up glasses, throwing them on the table you were sitting under.

“You don't have to-fucking hell, that's so good…so good with your mouth, baby bun…”

His actions didn't match his words as the hand he wasn't using to muffle his moans settled onto the back of your head. Spitting a fat glob of saliva on the tip, you took him back into your warm, awaiting mouth.

His head fell back, eyes squeezing tightly, and his hips bucked. The sound of you gagging when the head hit the back of your throat echoed in his ears. The sound was nearly as addictive to him as when you offered him your whiny moans or the filthy squelching sound that came from your cunt as he fingered you.

Trailing your free hand up his flexing abs, it disappeared under his fluffy knit sweater before reaching his rosy nipple. Your digits caressed and tugged the hardened bud, feeling the peck muscle.

The man was a walking contradiction. Beneath the thin-framed glasses, baby blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and fluffy sweaters, his body was pure lean muscle. Even his cock had caught you off guard the first time you saw it. How could a sweet thing like him have a dick that long?

“If you don't stop…I’m gonna-oh, shit, take more of me…love your sloppy mouth, baby…”

Even the way he spoke during moments like these didn't match his good boy appearance.

‘Cum for me, Xavi. Wanna swallow your load to make you proud of me.’ That's what you wanted to say, but your mouth was full at the moment.

“Ah-ah, shit…gonna cum, bunny…gonna fill your mouth with my cum and…and you better swallow it.”

At the twitch of his hips, his balls tightened as spurts of white hit the back of your throat.

It took a few seconds for him to catch his breath, your tongue cleaning him up in the meantime. Your pleased hum had him looking down at you.

You made a show of swallowing his load, wiping your lips with the back of your hand before smiling brightly at him. You looked so pretty staring up at him from between his spread legs. With glossy eyes and heated cheeks, you said,

“I may not be able to tell you when the French Revolution started, but I can repay you for all your hard work with some good head.”

[syluspeach]

Get to it, bestie

I NEED SELKIE!RAFAYEL🗯️I NEED THEM TO BE DAD’S BESTFRIEND🗯️I NEED UNDERGROUNDFIGHTER!SYLUS🗯️I NEED THEM TO BE ALPHAS🗯️I NEED ANGST🗯️SMUT🗯️FLUFF🗯️I NEED ZAYNE TO BE AN ICE FAE KING🗯️I NEED CALEB TO BRING DOWN AN ENTIRE ARMY JUST TO BE REUNITED WITH HIS BELOVED🗯️I NEED TOUCHEDSTARVED! XAVIER WHO CANT TOUCH ANYONE ELSE WITHOUT HURTING THEM🗯️I NEED NAGA! SYLUS🗯️I NEED PLUS SIZE READER🗯️I NEED READER WITH A DISABILITY🗯️I NEED*gunshot sound*

[syluspeach]

Haven’t read it yet but I’m already gonna ask, HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO US

Future me 100%:

the weight of the wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The best father. Indisputable. True. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to—“ 

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

He is still as a stone.

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

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

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

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

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

He whispers, “I’ve got you.”

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

And the night betrays you. 

Kyros turns blue. 

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

Sylus screams for the nurses across the hall.

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

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

And it’s coming from you. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kieran feels everything too. 

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

And now so are you.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･

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

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

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

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

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

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus doesn’t need to sleep. 

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

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

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

And so Sylus doesn’t need to sleep.  

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

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

But he doesn’t. 

Because he doesn’t need to. 

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

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

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

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

Unfaltering, not until his son is safe. 

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

And Kyros hates it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he does, and Sylus freezes. 

He does, not because of the request. 

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

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

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

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

But to Kyros, love is still just feeling.

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

Love is feeling. Love is being there.

And Sylus does this for him. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Summer’s skies are beautiful after a thunderstorm. 

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

And the moon hangs bright and radiant in the sky. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Begging. Never leave me. 

Surrendering. I will do anything for you.

Declaring, “I love you.” 

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

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

He feels it. 

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

Fiercely. Immensely. Endlessly. 

And when he coos, Sylus feels it in return. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because, like you, he believes it. 

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

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

[syluspeach]

We did it, Joe

I had a dream and I made it happen

[syluspeach]

I get paid the day Xavier’s myth drop

that card will be mine

[syluspeach]

Tiny Caleb my beloved🥺

When you come up with the courage to ask your boyfriend, Caleb, for a plushie to keep with your at night, he looks at you like you've just propositioned him to enter a polyamorous relationship with a third person.

But your eyes are sparkling, and your smile is lovely, so he lets out an "alright" before he even realizes.

So now, not only does he have to live with the knowledge of you sleeping with someone something else, but he has to choose it, too.

Yeah, Caleb doesn't really appreciate this kind of irony.

To make matters worse, it doesn't look like Gideon is willing to be helpful in figuring out a solution.

"just buy a plushie that looks like you."

How is Caleb supposed to explain that he doesn't want you hugging a plushie instead of him without looking like a lunatic? It's tricky.

So he pretends to forget, for the time being.

And you, on your part, pretend that Caleb is able to forget something that is about you. Every now and again, though, you slow down when walking past a toy shop, staring and the articles on display.

Sometimes, you even ask him, "What do you think of that one, Caleb? It's cute, isn't it?"

Caleb hums and nods, white knuckles and a tight smile.

He reaches a breaking point after going shopping with you and having to witness his girlfriend hug various plushies to figure out 'which one fit right'.

"I just want to explain how I feel without looking like an asshole."

"You are being one, though." Gideon's reply comes quicker than normal.

Caleb can barely keep from punching his shoulder.

"you are being selfish and you can't even see it."

"Elaborate."

With a tired sigh and a rub of his eyes, Gideon turns around to face Caleb, squaring himself as if he was about to explain long division to a toddler.

"we are gone for long periods of time. Your girlfriend is not trying to replace you. She just wants something to keep with herself when you're not there. That's why it's so important that you choose it."

Understanding dawns upon Caleb and his friend grins. "Do you get it now?"

That night, when you open the door to your flat, you don't see your boyfriend. Instead, you come face to face with a plushie version of him, clad in uniform and everything.

"what...?"

Caleb does appear from behind, grinning while holding the toy: "Here you go! Your very own, very exclusive, limited edition Caleb plushie!"

You let out a squeal and immediately grab it, hugging it tight to your chest. "He's perfect!"

Caleb, who's let himself inside, sneaks his arms between you and well, the smaller version of him.

"ah, ah, ah. Let's agree on one rule first: tiny Caleb" he points at it, "will retire once big Caleb comes back."

Rolling your eyes at your jealous boyfriend, you agree, but not before stamping a kiss on both their foreheads.

[syluspeach]

God, i wish he was real

The way my jaw dropped 😳 🥵

[syluspeach]

DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢 DARK ELF KING!XAVIER 📢

[syluspeach]

INFOLD ATE AND LEFT NO DAMN CRUMBS

Need a Hades and Persephone fic RIGHT NOW

[syluspeach]

You feel rejected by Rafayel…+18(mdni)

Rafayel’s teeth nearly shattered under the weight of his clenching and grinding.

It was date night for the two of you, something that occurred once a week as he would be damned if he wasn’t an attentive lover. They varied from going to the movie theater, painting classes, to self-care nights at home.

This one involved trying out the new restaurant Sylus recommended, which had opened in the heart of the N109 zone.

It was supposed to be a pleasant night out in the town. The leader of Onychinus had made a special reservation just for the two of you. You’d have your fill on delicious food, spoon feeding one another from your designated plate obviously, before sharing whatever dessert caught your eye.

And it was.

Until Rafayel felt your stocking-clad foot trail up his calf.

“You look so handsome tonight, Raffie.”

Your eyes took in the hint of smooth skin of his chest that was exposed due to the first few buttons being undone. His lips held a rosy stain that came from the wine he had been drinking. Hair perfectly ruffled by his hands, the volume it held was the same one he'd get after sex.

“Think I'm the luckiest girl here since I have the hottest date in the world.”

He muffled a groan behind his fist, shutting his eyes as your manicured toes brushed the head of his dick.

“S-speak for yourself, guppy.”

Looking so damn sweet sitting across from him, the other patrons would never assume you were inching closer to his cock.

You were dressed in a lovely dress designed by the man himself. It was tailored to flatter your figure, and the color meshed nicely with your skin making you stand out against the active atmosphere. He had even gone as far as styling your hair, a pretty brochure glistening under the dimmed lights.

“You-You're the-hah don’t touch me like that…” The spoon he held bent in his grasp as he tried to keep his hips from bucking in his seat. A particularly precise stroke had him whimpering.“Feels so damn-teasing the hell out of me cutie. Was supposed to be a nice night out.”

He felt as though he could finally breathe when you pulled your foot away. When his eyes fluttered open, he expected to see you wearing a pleased little smile, but instead, you shrank into your seat and sadly picked at your dinner. Your eyes actively avoid his.

It was hard not to feel as if he was rejecting your advances.

Normally being on the receiving end, you wanted to try your hand at teasing him, yet the twitch of his brow suggested he was annoyed.

“I'm sorry, my little pearl. Didn't mean it like that.”

Your silence made his heartbeat pick up from the anxiety slowly filling him. You finally looked at him when his hand reached across the table in search of yours. The unshed tears were noticeable in your eyes.

“Shall I make a spectacle of myself to get you to talk to me? You know I have a flair for the dramatics. But I know your face will only burn in embarrassment.”

He made the motion of standing up. Your grip switched from his hand to his forearm, forcing him to stay seated. After a second, you gathered your bearings.

“You have no issue initiating affection with me and the one time I try, it seems as if you're rejecting me. ‘Says I'm ruining our night out.”

His cooing reached your ears, a habit of his he used to relax you.

“I am having a nice night, guppy. I just know that if you keep giving me those eyes while stroking my cock, we’re going to have to cut it short and hurry home. Shit, if we make it that far. I’m more than willing to fuck you in front of everyone. Then they'd be able to see the muse behind my paintings in all her glory.”

A scandalized gasp came from you as you pulled away from him, arms wrapping around your middle.

“I could see it. You'd look so damn appetizing stretched out on the table. I'd start by feasting on your delicious cunt, savoring the taste of you like it would be my last meal.”

“Rafe, stop-”

“Once I had you cumming, I'd drink up your slick like it was syrup made from the freshest fruits. Only then, would I take you apart on my cock, and I'd do it for everyone to see. I'm more than willing to burn this place down with everyone trapped inside just so that they would never speak of what happened here.”

“That's… you're crazy. Sylus would have your head.”

Rafayel snickered before bringing your hand up to his lips, placing a tiny kiss on your knuckles.

“Wouldn't be the first time I killed. Besides, I'd make a deal with him. Pay him for the damages and he'd accept. Y’know why? Because he'd do the very same thing for his girl.”

[syluspeach]

Sylus’ inner monologue

[syluspeach]

Being a good little shared wife for Zayne, Caleb, and Sylus, getting rewarded with three creampies total. They each get a turn but Zayne always goes first. It's his right as the primary husband after all. Cuddles afterwards and lots of forehead kisses.

😩😩😩😩😩

[syluspeach]

when will it be my turn to experience this type of love

I need Sylus big hands talking me through my trauma and body dysmorphia while gently squeezing my tummy and kissing it erasing all the self loathing and all the self hatred…I just want him affirming my existence and affirming that I’m perfect the way I am…fat rolls, scars psychologically and physically, and nothing but meant for him…

[syluspeach]

What he doing up there with all that cake

FINALLY 😭

[syluspeach]

If anyone is gonna match Caleb’s freak, it’s gonna be Zayne

STAY🤺BACK🤺CALEB

WHY IS HE ALWAYS IN A FREAKY MOOD(same tbh)