sylus x cat owner reader whose senior cat is an enigma to him. he spoils you, so of course he'll also spoil your entitled old kitty, but he can't quite figure out what she wants.
he buys her the nicest treats. she begs for ham from the lunchmeat drawer of the fridge instead.
he buys her the flashiest toys. she bats around cotton swabs and tin foil balls instead.
he buys her the softest cat bed. she likes to sleep on whatever clothes are laying on the floor instead.
he buys- and assembles!- the best cat tree on the market, only for her to be fascinated by its box instead.
sylus is stumped- until he's at your place when a new pair of shoes he ordered for you arrives, and you stop to play with the bubble wrap instead of going straight for the shoes, and he finally realizes where your cat learned it from.
I saw a reel on Instagram of a dad playing some classical music recorders for his 4 years old child, and child names every symphony, the conductor, and even its number ...
And i think that's Sylus with his child having some quality time in a random evening 🥺
Thinking about how none of the six lads men would let you suffer alone. You’re not feeling well? You’re not a fan of saying what you feel, or you struggle with asking for help?
It’s never been a huge deal for them.
Xavier's always been more observant than he lets on, especially when it comes to you. He sees the exhaustion on your face. The way your shoulders are tense. His brow furrows when you say you’re “fine” every time he asks. He doesn’t push it. Doesn’t say he’s here for you– you know that by now. He makes sure to show it.
Food gets ordered, the bed gets made, pillows get fluffed, and whatever you find joy in? A movie, a show, a content creator… it gets put on. Even if it’s a video game– he’ll play it for you, or watch you play it, or play with you. Whatever works, whatever you want.
The two of you sit side by side. He doesn’t start a conversation, doesn’t start trying to prompt you. Instead, Xavier watches how you relax. How you look lighter, and how naturally, you lean against his shoulder.
And when the sun sets, the sky becomes dark, and whatever is weighing on you is forgotten? He’s happy. If instead it pulls you down and you start to cry? He’s got you. He holds you, as gently as he can, and asks if you want to talk. If not? That's okay. He can wait. And when you finally do talk… His words back are nothing but soft and sweet.
“...Starlight, you mean the world to me, you know that, right? Hearing your feelings… Will never be a burden to me. Ever.”
Zayne has always been blunt, but that doesn’t mean he’s careless. He’s blunt when it’s required; medical results, taking care of health, or about addressing that he knows you’ve been teasing him for the past five minutes just for a reaction.
But emotions require nuance. Because he knows you’ve been feeling off– he can see it in the way your visits seem to dwindle in time, and his notifications receive less and less texts. At first, he might think you’re mad at him, but you laugh on a phone call, and bring him a box of his favorite treats. That’s how he knows you’re not mad at him– you’re mad at yourself.
Zayne puts in more effort, where you drop it. Decided to skip breakfast because you were too tired? He brought you a brown bag, anyways, and he’ll even drive you to work. You come for lunch at his office, and he makes you try some of the ‘new juice’ they had at the cafeteria in the hospital just so you drink something that isn’t just straight caffeine. Texts get sent after he finishes every task, just to check in with you. When you respond with ‘im good, just busy’, he isn’t swayed.
Its when he finally comes home and starts making dinner– the one he knows you love– when you ask what's up with him. When he confesses he saw you feeling down. He sees the stages of guilt, of pain, the memory of whatever was dragging you down flicker through your eyes as the tears well up; for a second, he wonders if he went about this all wrong. And then your tears start to spill, and you tell him he didn’t have to worry, and you try to come up with an excuse before he pulls you in to his chest– one hand keeping the dinner from burning, as the other rubs your back.
“It’s okay. I’m… I know I tell you I always want you to be okay. That is just for your physical health. If mentally, you feel bad, I don’t need you to hide that from me. Even if you don’t wish to confide in your doctor for fear of judgement… Please know that as your partner, I will never judge you for feeling like this, and that I’ll do whatever I can to help you feel better.”
Rafayel always talks about how he feels. He complains about Thomas. About the stupid gallery he doesn’t want to go to, about how he’s felt a little burnt out, recently. However, you never complain back about what upsets you. Small things, yes. A papercut that stings, a person who’s been driving you up the wall…
But something else has been bugging you, and he isn’t sure how to approach it. Rafayel doesn’t want to force you, but he doesn’t want to just ignore your feelings, either. And he’s worried that the longer he waits to say something, you’ll think he doesn’t see you, or doesn’t care, and you’ll find him unreliable.
So, he does what he’s always known to make you smile. Takes you out. Nowhere fancy at all, actually. He and you run down the beach. He’ll pick you up, spin you around, draw inappropriate things in the sand, do whatever he can to see you smile. Even if he only cheers you up for a second, sometimes coming up for air is all it takes to open up.
It’s when you’re coming down from the laughter, where you look guilty again. He decides to maybe start– he complains about something minor, before asking if you have anything thats happened recently. Rafayel doesn’t think much of it, until he sees you shake your head no, clamming up again. Deciding enough is enough, he says that you can tell him, and it's more than fair for him to listen. When you hit him with how you think your issues don't matter because his issues seem so much bigger? Rafayel cuts you off.
“Ah, but– shh- listen to me, cutie. It’s not a competition, you know. Even if I was bleeding to death right now, I’d still want to hear you tell me about what’s been bugging you. Especially if you think it's trivial. In fact, I’ve been dying to know all day. So, if you’d please enlighten me…”
Sylus knows. Whatever it is you’re upset about– he’s not a fool. He sees how your face sours when it's brought up, when your words turn bitter while speaking about yourself.
At most, he’ll respond with a tsk. Tell you not to speak about yourself like that. He tries to pry, once. Ask if you’d want to talk. When you say that you’re okay, and that your negative words mean nothing– he doesn’t buy it. But, he’s never been one to push.
So, he waits. Sylus waits through conversations where you call yourself stupid. Sylus waits when Mephisto’s camera feed shows you crying in your bedroom, alone, and then saying nothing about it to him. And he waits when he takes you out and you look around with glossy eyes like you’re not supposed to be there. Like being by his side will get you in trouble.
He doesn’t mention it. A hand stays on your waist. Calls you pretty a half dozen times, his tone carrying the same sincerity the eighth time as it did the first. Its somewhere between ordering dessert and your glasses getting refilled you break– say you don't deserve this with tears spilling down your cheeks.
An arm slips under you without hesitation. A coat that isn’t your side falls around your shoulders, and the dessert is boxed and taken with you. The fresh air feels nice, but it doesn’t help when you feel like shit. You cry more. He lets you. Says you do deserve all of this– and when you continue to reject it, all your issues spilling out at once, he listens, holds you in his grip.
“I know. Sweetheart, I know. But I promise you-- it will be okay. I know some issues are bigger than money, but you'll always have me to rely on. And, if you don't see the value in yourself, I'll have to show it to you."
Caleb's the exact same. Honestly, you could hold a gun to his head before he’d confess that he’s feeling bad. He never wants to ruin your mood.
Little does he know that it is. He’s been home for the past few days now– and he can tell you’re keeping something from him. Teasing words don’t work, and even directly asking results in nothing. He knows you’re not mad at him, because you usually give him even more of a silent treatment, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what's wrong.
The worst part is, you keep parroting him. Asking how he’s doing, if he’s okay. He keeps saying he’s fine– because he means it. Even if he’s had rough days in Skyhaven, he’s always happy by your side.
The breaking point is when he finds you crying. When you quickly dry your eyes and say you’re fine, he doesn’t accept it. Caleb practically pleads with you to tell him what's wrong– and you do. When he asks why you didn’t tell him, and you say it's because he never complains and you don’t want to seem like the weak one, he’s kicking himself.
“Pipsqueak… Listen to me. I'd never think you're weak. Never. You're so strong. And truthfully… I have nothing to complain about when you’re by my side. But… If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you know when things are bugging me too, ‘kay? But you have to promise to do the same.”
Valko isn’t aware, at first. Not because he isn’t paying attention– he is. All his senses are laser focused on you, always. It’s just… That your relationship is new. As far as he knows, you’re always happy around him. Sometimes you ramble on about things that have been bugging you, but you’ve never come to tears.
And truthfully, he’s been nothing but honest about himself. How he feels, what he wants… He’s always been rather forward with his words. No one gives you what you want if you don’t say it. It's foolish of him, but he assumes you'd be the same with your feelings.
Normally there’s time in the day where he’s busy, or not around. For work, his family, and so on… But today, he’s decided to focus on you. Holding you in his arms, snuggling… A good break, if he says so himself.
That is, until the smell of something salty hits him. Followed by laboured breathing, and a mumbled apology as he pulls back to ask what's wrong. His tail does a sad flick, his ears droop, when he sees you start to cry. Before you can even answer– his grip tightens and he keeps you firmly held against his chest.
“Shh… shh… it's okay, lil pup… I got you. Just let it out. If it’ll help, you can rub my ears, pet my tail, or talk about it, if you want? It’s always been better to talk about it than it is to keep it bottled up…”
Also requests are open for fluff !! I still have a few half baked right now but I wanted to write comfort :3
As of 12:00PM CDT—not a lot to report, but no news is better than bad news.
DO NOT—I REPEAT, DO NOT—engage with CN antis on RedNote or Weibo. They are trying to shift the narrative and say that our protest is based on sinophobia. If they succeed, it could lead to the removal of the global server. Protest with KINDNESS and RESPECT.
Ignore all kinds of negative rumors unless someone has specifically asked to help disprove them. Some insane rumors are starting to surface. FOCUS ON THE PROTEST!
HOWEVER! Infold's legal department and the local police are investigating trolls and those who spread misinformation about the game and Valko.
If my calculations are correct, we are nearing (or have already surpassed) 2 million posts on X in support of #bringvalkoback
I cannot fully confirm this, but according to CN sources, Infold is down to 1/4th of the revenue they were gaining when KoD released
Russian fans have also started donating to a wolf shelter called Wolf's Hall
Vendors at AX2026 who are selling Valko merch are doing very well! Even people who don't play LADS are buying his items.
The Valko memorial outside of AX2026 continues to grow!
It seems LADS is not doing ANYTHING on social media except observing. Their pinned posts are still for the multibanner that ended on July 2nd. They haven't even changed it to the GoA rerun.
LADS following count: Instagram 920k, X 657.3k, TikTok 894.4k, YouTube 325k
Petitions: 220.6k and 91k
KEEP BOYCOTTING AND PROTESTING! Post with the hashtags, tag Infold, interact with other positive posts, and spread the petitions.
Remember!
DO NOT LOG IN! We're still trying to affect their DAU metric.
Don't expect a statement from Infold until Wednesday. With Anime Expo this weekend, and a historical day in China on the 7th, it's unlikely they will say anything about the situation until then.
Keep fighting! Antis worked for seven days to get Valko's release cancelled. We have to continue to make noise in order to be louder than them. Many companies will wait out protests for a few days to see if they fizzle out.
Don't lose hope! We're making a HUGE impact already!
Take care of yourselves. Take breaks, eat, drink water, and get plenty of rest.
Resources ↓
Notes Do NOT log into the game. We need to affect their DAU metric (daily active users) Unfollow on social media (Instagram, X, TikTok, etc.
When your daughter's psychiatrist suggests you get in touch with your abusive ex-husband in prison for her sake, you're not thrilled. Fortunately for you, he's dead. Unfortunately for you, someone else is alive and very keen on playing the part of a doting father. wc: 3.1k
Anyone who saw the way you were glaring at the red envelope sitting on your kitchen counter would assume you were trying to vaporize it through thought alone.
When your daughter's recuring nightmares had made you consult a children's psychiatrist, she'd come to the conclusion that your daughter missed her deadbeat of a father.
"He's in jail" You'd deadpanned.
"Perhaps, she could visit?"
"Thank you"
You weren't interested in any suggestions the psychiatrist had to make that revolved around getting your daughter involved with your criminal of a husband. Not that you could even if you wanted to.
Hell didn't really have a visitors' policy.
As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.
Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.
You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.
"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"
Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."
"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.
You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.
"Would you like to write him a letter?"
Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.
Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!
If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.
It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"
You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.
"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"
When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.
My dearest Princess,
Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.
P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.
Love,
Daddy
You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.
Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?
The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.
So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.
When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.
I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.
I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:
I will not be telling her anything of the sort.
So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.
Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.
She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?
You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.
Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.
Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.
He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.
One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.
Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?
You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.
If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.
That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.
The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.
You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.
The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.
Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.
You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.
The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.
Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.
By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.
You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.
You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.
I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.
You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.
But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.
In sickness and in health,
Daddy
You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.
As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.
"Mail!"
Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.
Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.
The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.
When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.
He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"
The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"
But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.
For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.
Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.
The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.
This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.
He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"
The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.
Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.
He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.
He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.
Like always, she'd signed it
Luv u forehver
Princess Bunny
He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.
Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.
I've attached a picture of her.
He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.
Beautiful, isn't she?
She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.
In happiness and in sorrow,
Mommy
Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.
As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.
Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?
To have and to hold,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Do you want my ultrasound too?
For better or for worse,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.
For richer or for poorer,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.
To love and to cherish,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.
Till' death do us part,
Daddy
A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3
"What if i were? What if i died right here of low blood sugar because my wife refused to let me have one macaron?” The seriousness in his voice might have fooled anyone but you.
"Stop being dramatic. You’re not going to die of hypoglycemia just by skipping one macaron right after your dental appointment.” With that said, you snatch the plate from his hands and head straight to the kitchen to hide them somewhere he can't find.
When you come back to the living room, you see Zayne lying on the couch with his eyes closed, body still. “Zayne, are you okay?”
A small smile appears on his face at your concerned voice and you roll your eyes. You can't believe what lengths this grown ass doctor with a prestigious medical degree could go for sweets.
You decide to play along and walk over to him, crouching down on the floor. "Oh no. Did the famous cardiac surgeon of Akso hospital dr Zayne Li die of hypoglycemia?” You fake mourn his pretend death. “What a tragedy! I have no choice but to check his heartbeat."
His smile grows bigger, awaiting your touch on his chest, instead he feels them on his crotch.
He grabs your hands off almost immediately and pulls you on top of him, looking equally amused as surprised. "Do you think my heart is located there?”
“It’s not my fault that they're both big and do a very good job in loving me. Anyone could be easily mistaken.” you say while tracing a huge penis on his chest.
He seemed pleased with your answer. “What if i propose a deal? You show me how much you love me by giving me one macaron and i dedicate both my big attributes to love you back?”
“You're trying to sell your body for one macaron?”
He innocently nods, and you giggle. "As tempting as your offer is, Zaynie." You pat his chest and climb off him. "I'm going to have to pass."
"So my wife would rather see me dead than let my teeth rot?”
You shake your head, he's acting like a man in withdrawal except his addiction is sweet and so is his suffering. You almost pity him, “Yes, no sweets for..... a month.”
His face falls comically and you turn away, already running before he becomes more dramatic.
