First off — massive thanks to everyone for the reblogs, comments, likes, and requests. Last month’s activity was honestly insane (in the best way possible) and I’m beyond grateful! 💛💛💛
All of your support really fuels me to keep writing more of those delicious little stories.
I always stick to one rule: only write what I’d want to read myself.
So! With that in mind, here’s a little peek at what I’ve got planned for April:
🎵 Songfic Game
🌷"Six Days" Series
✅ Posted: Xavier Solo Story (Sequel)
📝 Planned: Rafayel Solo Story (Sequel)
📝 Planned: Sylus Solo Story (Sequel)
💌 Solo stories for Caleb and Zayne haven’t really been requested, so for now I’m not planning to write any (even though I adore them both — especially Caleb).
I’m feeling like it’s time to step away from "6 Days" for a bit and explore something new.
✅ Posted: As a continuation–slash–alternative for all the LADs from “6 Days”, you can check this one out. It’s a bit AU, written by request.
🌷"After You, there was nothing" Series
✅ Posted: Sylus Solo Story
✅ Posted: Rafayel Solo Story
✅ Posted: Caleb Solo Story
✅ Posted: Zayne Solo Story
📝 Planned: Xavier Solo Story
🌷Your Requests:
📝 Planned: "One Day for You, Years for Him" — angst/drama with time skip
✅ Posted: "Not How We Planned It" — pregnancy trope with high-stakes birth: Drabbles | Xavier's Part
📝 Planned: "Something That Wears Her Face" (wanderer-mimic)
✅ Posted: Five Times the Kitchen Caught Fire (and So Did They)
📝 Planned: What-if: Energy Drink Overdose
📝 Planned: What-if: Nervous Breakdown at Caleb’s Grave (and of course, he finds you)
Any new requests will be added to my May lineup — I’ve got work and other things going on too 🙃
Hello, I found your works by accident, and they are so… amazing, catchy and full of realism, the plot and ideas are so GREAT, you are so talented author. May I try my luck and ask – may I translate your works into Russian for my second account mickeyishere? All your links and credits will be saved!
Hi! Thank you so much — this honestly made my day. I’m really glad you enjoyed my works 💙
And funnily enough… Russian is actually my native language, so your message made me smile even more.
At the moment I don’t have much time or energy for creative work myself, so yes — I’m absolutely okay with you translating my works. As long as all credits and links are kept, you have my full permission.
Thank you again for such kind words and for your interest — it truly means a lot!
Disclaimer: this is just a personal update about some rather dramatic life events, told in a very unserious, slightly sarcastic way. Proceed at your own risk (popcorn recommended).
Yep, me. Against all odds. And against every survival instinct that said: “Do not, under any circumstances, post your own face on the internet.”
…So here’s my face. Updated version. Handle with care (and photoshop).
First of all, sorry for vanishing for two months without a word. My inbox has been looking like a search party lately: “Where are you? Did you die? Are you writing? Are you abducted by aliens?” Short answer: none of the above. Long answer: grab popcorn.
So. Four years ago I divorced my husband. Applause, curtain call, happy ending? Ha-ha, no. A year of co-parenting later, I met a guy who turned out to be a scammer, emptied my pockets, and broke up with me on my birthday. Because apparently “Happy Birthday” now comes with “I love someone else.”
In a tragic lapse of judgment (a.k.a. my soft heart mixed with soft brain), I reconciled with the ex-husband. Two years of domestic cage life later, I realized nothing had changed. Same jealousy, same drama, same passive-aggressive speeches about how he does everything for the family while I literally paid for everything — including the roof, the car, and his ability to sulk in comfort. Spoiler: this did not end well.
Fast-forward: separation 2.0, but this time with full boss-level abuser mode unlocked. Screaming, threats, theft, changing locks, even surveillance cameras. Yes, I had my own reality show, except no Netflix deal and no laugh track. Only police reports.
Oh, but the drama didn’t stop there. After the breakup I did try seeing someone new — a guy who, for a short while, reminded me I was still attractive, desirable, and very much alive. Confidence boost? Check. Reality check? Double check. Because the “professional hockey player” I thought I was dating turned out to be a very mediocre footballer who’d been overselling himself like a bad car ad. Not the end of the world, but not exactly inspiring either.
And then my ex hacked into my private notes — basically my substitute for therapy sessions, where I dump my feelings, analyze events, and occasionally play detective (yes, that’s how I pieced together the Great Hockey-to-Football Scam). He screenshot everything, sprinkled insults on top, and tried blackmail. Spoiler #2: it’s illegal. Also, it didn’t work. But boy, did it add a whole new level of circus to my summer.
Meanwhile, real life kept happening: my kid started school in September, I lost my editor, and my writing mojo went into hiding under the couch. But — good news! — I’m slowly crawling back. I’ve got drafts nearly finished (yes, Caleb’s story is alive), new ideas brewing, and even a dangerous itch to write for my old fandoms (Harry Potter, Call of Duty — don’t judge me).
So here I am. Tired, slightly traumatized, definitely funnier than before — and, if you thought my angst-writing had range before, buckle up, because real life just handed me a whole new expansion pack. Thank you for waiting, thank you for poking me in DMs, and thank you for not forgetting I exist.
Moral of the story? Men are not always wolves in sheep’s clothing. Sometimes they’re just… sheep. Very loud, entitled sheep. Choose wisely.
Don't mind me. I'm just going back through all your stories for the third time to read. Ironic enough the Zayne 5 Year Later story has become a comfort fic to reread.
Ohhh I love that you said this 🖤 Honestly, when I think back on my own writing, that story is always the first that comes to mind too. There’s just something about the atmosphere in it — I still feel connected to it in a way I can’t quite explain.
I fully admit I’m guilty of rereading it myself some nights, like a little emotional bedtime ritual 😌 So knowing it’s become a comfort fic for you too? That means the world. Thank you for coming back to it — and for letting me know 🖤
arghhhhh i love love love the way you write!! I wish i had a better way to tell you how quickly and deeply your fics draw me in. I would describe it as slowly descending into a pool in the best way possible. Everything else falls away, and i’m simply immersed in the scene 🌺 so thank you!!
This is such a beautiful way to describe it — I’m genuinely touched 🖤
The image of slowly descending into a pool, letting everything else fall away… that’s exactly the kind of immersion I hope to create when I write. Knowing it came across like that for you means more than I can say.
Thank you for reading with such openness and care — and for taking the time to share this. I’ll be thinking about your words for a long time 🖤🌺
Your latest work I’m foaming at the mouth I’m feral have my firstborn as an offering god bless you and your brain and the universe for making you
I’m cackling 😭🖤 Accepting firstborns now, are we? I’ll build a little shrine out of coffee cups and emotional damage.
Thank you — truly — for this chaotic blessing of a message. I’m so glad the latest piece sent you into full feral mode. That’s the goal 🖤
May the universe continue fueling my brain with just enough unhinged drama to keep us both fed.
hello! regarding the AI question, i just wanted to ask if you're aware of how harmful it is to generate AI art?
i promise this is in no means an attack - i totally agree there is a healthy way to use AI to help in the creative process, especially since youre feeding your own works into it and no one elses, but generating AI art is unfortunately super harmful to the art community
Thank you so much for bringing this up — truly. 🖤 It’s an important conversation, and I completely understand where you’re coming from.
I’m not an artist myself, and I have deep respect for those who are — the skill, time, and emotion poured into each piece is something AI simply cannot replicate. Yes, AI can mimic something visually “perfect,” but it lacks that invisible thread — the soul, the intention, the story behind each brushstroke.
When I do use tools like Midjourney, it’s usually for very personal, internal purposes — mostly to create moodboards for myself. It helps me visualize tone, scenery, and atmosphere quickly, especially when I need to stay immersed in a certain emotional space. It’s never to replace the unique and irreplaceable value of a real artist’s work.
There was a time I considered using AI images more directly in connection to my stories — but I stepped away from that idea quickly. It didn’t feel right. It felt hollow, even harmful, and not in line with what I believe storytelling should be.
For me, AI is a tool — like a notebook or a playlist — useful in the background, but never a substitute for real human creativity. 🖤
Again, thank you for raising this — respectfully and thoughtfully. These conversations matter.
My dear, I am but a humble admirer who voraciously consumes your writing religiously. Your way with words is simply delicious! I eat it up everytime and am constantly hungry for more 🍴
The way you write Zayne makes him so flawed and nuanced, so much so that he becomes human. The best thing about it is that despite him being my favourite among the LaDS LI's, the way you write him makes me despise his actions. It affects me so because his misgivings and shortcomings are in character. And that if this were real life, I do not doubt that he would take the same course of action.
May happiness be your constant companion, and thank you for sharing your gift of storytelling with us🩵
First of all — I’m just sitting here blushing and clutching my metaphorical pearls 🖤 Your message is so beautifully worded, it honestly reads like a gift in itself. Thank you — truly — for seeing and appreciating the nuance I try to weave into these characters.
Zayne… oh, Zayne. What can I say — I remember exactly the moment he first appeared in-game. He was like a cold splash of water to the face: precise, untouchable, and immediately fascinating. He didn’t even try to win me over — and yet, he did. He claimed something instantly.
And while he’s not my main LI, there’s just… something about him that makes you want to lean in closer, even when you know you probably shouldn’t. If he were real? Oh, I’d absolutely make some questionable life choices. Straight to his bed, no detour 😌🖤
The fact that you said he feels human — flawed, infuriating, but real — that’s the highest compliment I could ever ask for. Thank you for reading with such care and for taking the time to say all of this. I hope you’ll stay hungry, because I have no intention of letting the angst starve anyone anytime soon 🖤
hi ! i just wanted to ask : how do you think the lads will react to the tiktok trend « my current boyfriend » if they were yandere (or not😭)
sorry for my bad English and thank you for your time!
Oh nooo don’t be sorry at all — your English is perfectly clear, and this is such a fun ask!! 🖤
But full honesty: I’m so sorry to disappoint you… I’m that old person who had TikTok for two days, got overwhelmed, and uninstalled it 😂🖤 I have no clue about trends unless someone lovingly throws them at me! So I don’t know this one — but now I’m deeply curious.
If you’re up for it, feel free to explain the “my current boyfriend” trend to me — I’d love to hear more and absolutely wouldn’t mind brainstorming some yandere-flavored reactions once I get the gist 😌🖤
Thank you for taking the time to send this in — and for being so sweet!
I just wanted a Caleb fic to pass time today, actually.
I say this with absolute adoration and awe, as well as artistic envy and competitive spirit. With every intention of learning your writing style, I want to put you under a microscope.
Genuinely I hope you have a fantastic day. I certainly did, reading what you're putting up here. For free???? Ma'damn ✨
This is one of the most beautifully unhinged compliments I’ve ever received, and I’m honored beyond words 😂🖤 Put me under that microscope, bestie — I promise there’s emotional wreckage in every cell.
I’m genuinely so touched by your message — the mix of awe, envy, and competition is such a writer thing and I absolutely love it. Thank you for taking the time to say this — it means a lot 🖤
And since you came here just looking for a little Caleb to pass the time... get ready, because soon there’s going to be a full deep dive into his arc. I’m talking multi-chapter angst, complete immersion, every sentence under emotional tension. You’ll be able to study each letter like it owes you rent 👀
Wishing you the best writing vibes — and thank you again for being here 🖤
i absolutely adore your writing!! it’s so detailed and honestly beautiful😭 is there any chance you would do some cute stay at home wife content? i think the boys would absolutely pamper the shit out of their girl
Ohhh thank you so much for the kind words!! 🖤 It always means the world to hear that the details land — I put a lot of heart into them, so truly, thank you 🖤😭
As for stay-at-home wife content… listen, I totally see the appeal 😌 The boys being soft, attentive, over-the-top domestic sweethearts? Yes, absolutely. They would pamper her so much — I can already picture it.
That said, I do tend to lean pretty hard into angst by default (what can I say, I like emotional damage 😅), and right now I’m still catching up on a whole list of requests I’ve already promised. So while I can’t say yes right away, I’ll definitely keep the idea in mind — and if the right inspiration strikes, who knows? 👀
Thank you again for reading and sharing such a lovely idea 🖤
Guys, I honestly can’t believe I’m finally in the final stages of something that’s been such a huge, long-term project for me — and I’m so excited to share a little teaser of what’s coming.
I haven’t been gone without reason. I’ve been quietly and stubbornly working on a story that’s lived in my head for a long time now.
This is a deep psychological angst piece with a love triangle — but not the one you’re used to.
This is about Caleb — no, Colonel Caleb — and that means it’s going to be sharp, painful, brutal, and quiet all at once. That I can promise you.
Very, very soon I’ll start posting the first chapters. But for now, here’s a small piece — just enough to give you a feel for the atmosphere.
And yes, this story won’t be for everyone.
But I wrote it first and foremost for my own soul — for the grief and heartbreak I’ve lived through when you love someone desperately, hopelessly, and it doesn’t save you.
So bring tissues. There will be tears.
The antiseptic tang of the medbay clings to your skin like a second uniform. After a year aboard the Valiant, you no longer smell it unless you’ve been dreaming. It seeps under your skin, into your bones, until it becomes the only scent you associate with yourself. With safety. With restraint.
Doctor. Medic. Healer.
Words that shape you more than the name on your file.
You move through the holographic files hovering above the desk—vitals, injury reports, ghost-notes left by the one who came before you. The ship’s lighting shifts into evening cycle, casting the medbay in a subdued blue that makes everything feel drowned. Submerged. As if you're working on the ocean floor, and the surface world is a myth.
The door hisses open.
You know the rhythm of the steps before you look up. Measured. Intentional. Possessive in the way only those with absolute command can be. The kind of stride that bends silence around it like gravity.
Your fingers still.
He doesn’t need introduction. He never has.
“Doctor."
His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be. It lands heavy, with the pull of collapsing stars.
“Colonel,” you answer, standing automatically. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He doesn’t smile. He rarely does. But there’s something in the way his eyes—those unnatural, violet eyes—settle on you. As if the sight of you is... permitted. Familiar. He approaches the examination table with military elegance, each step planned, not stiff but exact.
“Routine check-up,” he says. “I’m due.”
A lie. His file is scheduled for tomorrow.
But some lies aren’t meant to be corrected. Some lies are invitations.
“Of course,” you say, dismissing the files with a flick of your fingers. “Please, have a seat.”
The dark fabric of his jacket rustles as he shrugs it off. It slips from his shoulders like shadow. The prosthetic arm moves with the same ease as the real one—fluid, flawless. You track the seam where synthetic meets skin. You’ve calibrated that connection too many times to count.
“How’s the arm?” you ask, activating the scanner, letting it sweep across his shoulder. “Any numbness or changes in sensitivity?”
“None.”
Another lie.
The readouts tell a different story. Nerve interference. Distorted feedback loops. Pain compressed into silence.
You catch your reflection in his gaze—small, white-cloaked, still. And you wonder if he sees you at all, or just a function. A tool.
“The pain’s worse,” you say.
Not a question. A fact.
His lips press into a thinner line. That’s as much of a confession as you’ll get.
“Do your job, Doctor.”
You’ve learned to navigate his economy of words. To hear what isn’t said. You work in silence, adjusting the micro-links, smoothing the feedback arrays. His skin is hot beneath your fingers. His pulse is steady, hammer-strong.
“You know,” you murmur, without looking at him, “you’d get better results if you let me replace the nerve bundle. Skyhaven’s got the upgraded interface. You’d be back in three days.”
“And leave the fleet without a commander?” His voice is dry. Mocking. “No.”
“Three days,” you repeat.
“Still no.”
You sigh, hand pausing at the edge of flesh and alloy. “Keep ignoring me, and it’s going to fail when you need it most. Then it won’t be three days. It’ll be three months.”
“Your job is to fix me, not parent me.”
“My job,” you reply evenly, injecting the stabilizer, “is to keep you functional. Kind of hard to do when the patient has a death wish.”
A beat. Then his real hand closes around your wrist.
Not rough. Not warning. Just inevitable.
Your pulse spikes.
“You’re the only one on this ship who talks to me like that,” he says, voice quieter now, but denser.
There’s something under the words. You could call it affection, if you were foolish.
“You need someone who tells you the truth,” you answer, keeping your tone flat, professional. But the heat of his fingers is traveling up your arm like it’s mapped to your bloodstream. “Because you don’t seem capable of hearing it from yourself.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
And then something in him moves. A quiet, internal tilt. A shift in gravity.
His hands are on your waist. You don’t remember when he stood.
He lifts you onto the table like you weigh nothing. Steps between your thighs with the same precision he uses in combat. Every inch of him is control—until he isn’t.
“Exam’s over,” he murmurs.
Then his mouth claims yours—demanding, searing, too much, too fast. Your hands betray you, knotting into his hair, dragging him closer. Logic dies in the heat of his breath.
Clothes stay mostly on. His efficiency doesn’t vanish; it simply redirects. His control is a storm, and you are the nearest point of contact.
Every breath he takes is inside your mouth. Every movement calculated. Designed. Even his prosthetic knows exactly how hard to grip your thigh, calibrated to the tremble in your muscles.
You dig your nails into his back through the thin fabric. You need something to hold on to. Something that will stay.
He moves harder now. Not faster—harder. And you know, in the stillness before you break, that his eyes are closed. That whatever’s in his head, it’s not you.
You reach the edge together, hands gripping, bodies straining. A single suspended breath where it almost feels like he’s yours.
Then it’s over.
He steps back. Clothes, perfect. Expression, unreadable.
The mask is back in place.
He glances at you, and there’s almost a smile. So faint, you could have imagined it.
“Good girl, Doctor.”
No name. Never your name. Just that word, sharp and polite. Boundary and reminder.
He leaves without looking back.
You stay in the silence he leaves behind, skin burning with his fingerprints...
CW/TW: emotional birth content, graphic childbirth (natural/emergency), blood, pain, implied nudity, medical stress, fear of complications, strong emotional reactions, vulnerability, soft!Xavier, forest birth, wilderness setting, temporary communication loss, pregnancy in danger, protective partner, trauma-adjacent intensity, one (1) terrified man doing his best.
Pairing: Xavier x Pregnant!You (established relationship)
Genre: Emotional intensity meets survival-mode devotion. A birth story set far from sterile walls, where instinct, love, and sheer will carry the moment. Hurt/comfort turned reverent awe. Domesticity cracked open under pressure.
Summary: You said you'd stay home. But you didn’t. Now Xavier’s running through the forest, chasing a signal that won’t answer and praying he’s not too late. He’s trained for every scenario — except the one where you’re bleeding and breathless and still managing to smirk at him through the worst pain of your life. A story about trust, blood, one white shirt, and the moment love becomes something holy.
Word Count: 3.6K
More: same birth scenario (give or take), different men, drabble-style.
You kissed him that morning. Just a brush of lips above the collarbone, warm and lazy. He hadn’t looked up from the monitor—too focused on the glitch in the west perimeter readings. You told him you were staying in. That you’d rest. That you’d be good.
He believed you.
He even smiled a little, hand trailing across your swollen belly in silent promise. His world, right there. Home, heart, purpose.
And then you were gone.
He found out from Simone. She cornered him outside Ops, biting her lip so hard she bled.
“She said it was nothing—just to check a reading—I didn’t think she’d—Xavier, please—”
But he was already moving. His blood had gone cold.
The coordinates were dead. No signal. No comms. No teleportation. The anomaly had killed everything.
He couldn’t reach you.
And so he ran. Boots pounding the moss and root-laced dirt, trees slicing past in green and gold. He hadn’t been through this forest in years — but his feet knew the shape of it. Memory blurred into instinct. He expected to find you lost. Angry. Turned around. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for what he found.
You were curled at the base of a tree, half-collapsed. Pale. Breathless. One hand white-knuckled in the soil, the other clenched over your belly.
And blood. A dark line streaked down your thighs.
His breath stopped.
He had studied birth.
He had read every godsforsaken guide. Natural deliveries, complication charts, premature signs, maternal distress indexes. All of it. He knew, on paper, exactly what to do. Timing contractions. Supporting the perineum. Assessing dilation.
But this—this was you.
You, gasping. You, crying out. You, blinking up at him through pain so deep it cracked something in his ribs.
He dropped to his knees beside you.
Not Lumière. Not legend. Not even soldier. Just a man—your man—terrified out of his mind.
“Gods,” he whispered, throat tight. “No—no, no, no—”
You tried to sit up. Another contraction slammed through you, and you bent double, screaming. He caught you. Arms around your body, shielding you from the world.
He’d studied the graphs. He’d watched the tutorial videos. He could recite the stages of labour in six languages. But none of them mentioned what it would feel like to see you in this kind of pain. None of them told him what to do with the way his heart was breaking open in his chest.
Still—he moved. He had to.
He pulled off his coat, laid it down. Positioned you on your side, cradling your head in one hand, the other stroking your spine in the slow, anchoring rhythm he'd read about. You were shivering. Muttering broken syllables.
“You’re doing fine,” he told you. It was a lie. You were doing the impossible. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
His voice shook. He bit down on it. Hard.
You looked up at him. Your face was wet with sweat, eyes glassy, but you were still there—you. Breathing. Thinking. Glaring, even. Gods, how were you still glaring?
And somehow—smirking.
That undid him more than any of the blood.
“I’ve read everything,” he murmured, brushing your hair off your forehead with a hand that definitely wasn’t trembling. “Everything. Diagrams. Protocols. Tactical field delivery guides. But I’ve never—” He hesitated. “Not with you. Not like this.”
You hissed as another contraction flared, teeth gritted. “Cats do this in bushes.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Cats,” you repeated, voice cracking around the pain. “No gloves. No comms. No Evol.” You sucked in a breath, eyes narrowing. “So you can—damn well manage.”
His mouth twitched. Gods. Of course you’d throw zoology at him during labour. Of course you would.
“Right,” he said. “Noted. Next time we’re in crisis, I’ll consult a tabby.”
You didn’t laugh. Not really. But something in your chest hitched, and your hand found his shirt, bunched it in your fist.
His heart was pounding. Not from the running. Not from the forest.
From this—you, in pain, clutching at him like he was the only fixed point in a world gone to chaos.
He lowered his head slightly, resting his cheek against your temple for just a moment. You were so warm. Too warm.
“Alright,” he murmured. “We’re okay. You’re okay. We’ve got time.”
You gave a weak, disbelieving snort. “Feels like being stabbed every four minutes.”
He gave a breath of something almost like a laugh. “Yes, well. We… expected that.”
Sheer understatement. The books had used words like waves, pressure, discomfort. None of them had mentioned the way your whole body convulsed like it was trying to tear itself in half.
Another tremor passed through you. Short. Not a full contraction. But enough.
He adjusted behind you, sitting straighter, bringing you with him so your back rested fully against his chest. You sagged into him.
His arms tightened around you instinctively. Shielding. Anchoring.
“You don’t need to push yet,” he said gently. “Right now, you just breathe. That’s your only job.”
Your fingers gripped his wrist. “How do I know when it’s time?”
His throat worked before he answered. That part wasn’t in the books. Not really.
He cleared his throat. “Technically, you’ll feel pressure. Downward. Like—like you need to use the toilet.”
You were silent a moment. Then: “That’s deeply undignified.”
He exhaled, half amused, half wrecked. “You’re telling me?”
He paused, swallowed hard. Then, softly:
“Before that… I should check for dilation.”
There. It was out. Clean. Clinical. But it still landed like something heavy.
You stiffened almost immediately. He felt it in the way your back straightened, in the way your fingers stilled on his forearm.
“No.”
His heart pulled.
“Love,” he said gently, “I won’t—not unless you say yes. But if you think we’re getting close—”
“No,” you said again, voice shaking now. “You’re not going to see me like that.”
And that—that landed like a blade. Not because you said no. But because of why. Because underneath the pain, underneath the fear, there was shame.
You, who’d walked through fire with him. Slept under broken skies. Faced Wanderers with a pulse of steel and a half-loaded blaster. You were ashamed to be seen—by him—like this.
It gutted him. But his voice didn’t shake. It couldn’t. Not for your sake.
“Alright,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Alright. Then we wait.”
No judgement. No pressure. Just quiet, certain presence.
He settled back again, supporting you more fully now, your spine curved into him, your breath ragged.
His fingers traced calming patterns along your arm, light as wind. He focused on the rhythm of your breathing, trying to sync his own with yours. Trying to lend you his steadiness.
“You’re doing everything right,” he murmured. “You’re breathing. You’re listening to your body. That’s what matters.”
You let out a noise between a groan and a whisper. “What if we don’t make it? What if I can’t do it? What if something’s wrong and we don’t know because you’re not allowed to look—”
“Hey. Hey—” He turned your face gently toward his. His forehead touched yours, grounding you. “Look at me.”
You did.
“We had the scan last week,” he said. “Head down. Perfect alignment. No signs of complications. No warning flags. And you—” his voice caught, but he steadied it, “you are doing this exactly as you should. She’s just taking her time.”
“She?”
He blinked. “I didn’t mean—just… the baby. Sorry.”
But you didn’t protest. You were too tired.
He kissed your cheek again. “I will be here for every breath. Every second. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”
There was a pause. Then—quiet, small:
“If… if it gets worse. If I feel like I need to push. Will you…”
“I’ll help,” he said instantly. “Only then. Only if you want me to. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
You nodded. Once. He felt it.
And then you sagged into him again. Not surrender—just trust.
He held you tighter, but gently, as if afraid you might shatter.
Inside, his mind kept running—measuring minutes between contractions, tracking signs, remembering every medical note, every diagram, every scenario from those long, sleepless nights when he studied for this moment and prayed he’d never have to use any of it in the middle of a godsdamned forest.
But outside?
Outside, he was steady as the roots beneath you. Because you needed him to be.
The next contraction hit like a thunderclap—violent, full-bodied, and merciless.
You twisted against him with a sound that wasn’t a scream, wasn’t even human—just raw, desperate pressure breaking free.
He held you as you arched, gritted his teeth as you clawed at his arm.
Your voice came in fragments now. Shattered glass.
“Xav… it’s… Gods— it’s too much—I can’t— I can’t—”
“You can,” he said, though his own breath was starting to shake. “You are.”
You slumped forward. Your body had no more room for words. Just breath. Just heat. Just fire from the inside out.
Then you whispered—so small, so hoarse it barely registered:
“Pushing. Want to—push—can’t stop—”
His entire body went still.
That was it.
That was transition.
He closed his eyes for half a second. Felt the cold edge of panic knock once—just once—on the door of his chest.
He didn’t let it in.
But when he opened his eyes again, they burned.
“I need to check,” he said quietly. “Just once. Then we’ll know.”
You didn’t answer. Another spasm wracked you. You doubled over with a broken sob. And then—your hand weakly gripped his wrist.
“Okay,” you rasped. “Do it. Just—don’t say anything. Don’t react. Just—do it.”
His throat was dry. He nodded.
“I won’t see you,” he promised, voice stripped down to the core. “Not like that. I’ll see what needs seeing. Nothing else.”
He moved quickly, precisely, laying you back just enough, bracing your hips with one arm, reaching with the other—slow, clinical, careful.
He had to separate it. You—the woman he loved—
And this: the medical necessity. Function. Anatomy. Nothing more.
His fingers found you. Not clumsy. Not invasive. Just precise. Controlled.
He had no clinical experience. Only theory. Diagrams burned into memory. Models. Sketches. Silhouettes.
He remembered the spacing—two fingers across, then three. The depth. The softness of the rim when it was ready. The slight give under pressure.
He measured with his own hand, adjusting, confirming what he hoped he already knew—
And what your body had already told him. Pressure low. The baby was descending.
And then—
No rim.
His breath caught.
You were fully dilated. Ten. Complete. The cervix had disappeared under his touch. It was just you now—you and the child between.
And the next contraction came on like a thunderclap. He was barely back behind you before you surged forward with a sob.
“Push— I have to push—”
His arm wrapped around your waist, catching you, steadying.
“It’s time,” he whispered, breath hitching. “You’re ready. She’s ready.”
He didn’t let you see the way his eyes burned. He didn’t let you hear the part of him that was shaking, not from fear—no.
From awe.
From the unbearable, quiet truth that the woman he loved was about to bring his child into the world. Right here. In his arms. And all he could do was catch her. Hold her. Witness you become divine.
Your cry tore through the trees.
It wasn’t loud—not really. But it was final. Elemental. A sound ripped from the deepest part of you.
Xavier braced you gently, one hand supporting your thigh, the other steady at your lower back, guiding your body as it arched into the next wave.
“Push,” he said, voice low, calm, anchored. “Now. With the contraction. Just this one.”
You bore down with a guttural sob, and he felt it — all of it. The power. The resistance. The moment everything began to give way.
Then silence. A breath.
And it was starting.
He shifted slightly on his knees, closer, reverent. The forest around you didn’t exist anymore. Time didn’t exist. There was only this clearing, this woman, this child — and him.
He needed something clean.
His gaze flicked to the ground—his coat. Already beneath you, soaked through with dirt, sweat, and blood. It wouldn’t do. Couldn’t.
He cursed under his breath.
Then—his hands went to his collar.
The shirt. White. Crisp. Still dry. It would have to be enough.
He stripped it without hesitation, fumbling only once with the buttons, skin prickling with cold as he peeled it off. The air hit his back like ice, but he didn’t care. He folded the shirt quickly, then spread it across his lap—his thighs just beneath where your body rested against him.
That’s where she’ll land, he thought. She deserves something clean.
His hands moved before his mind could catch up. He reached for his belt—unfastened the sheathed knife he always carried. A weapon, once. Now, a tool.
The blade caught what little light there was. Forest-dark steel.
He flicked the lighter open, held the flame to the edge of the knife until it hissed, glowed dull orange. His palm burned from the heat, but he held it steady. The acrid scent of scorched metal twisted into the night air—earth and sweat and blood and fire.
Once done, he laid the knife on the clean white fabric beside him, far from you but within reach. Handle turned just so. Ready.
Only then did he look up at you. And everything else disappeared.
You cried out — a sound pulled from the centre of the earth. Your body curled forward, shaking. He reached — one hand bracing your thigh, the other steady beneath to guide.
You pushed.
And the world cracked open.
A slick weight slipped into his hands.
She was here.
He caught her. Gently. As if she might fall through the world if he wasn’t careful.
She was warm. Heavy. Unbelievably small.
For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.
She let out a wail that startled birds from the trees.
High. Piercing. Demanding.
Alive.
His lips parted, but no words came—just a choked sound, part laugh, part sob.
He turned her slightly in his hands, instinct leading action: checking her chest—rising. Good. Legs flexing. Strong. The cry—forceful. No retraction, no dusky colour, no silence.
She’s breathing. She’s breathing on her own.
He pressed her to his chest, skin to skin, the heat of her sinking into him like something sacred.
Then, with trained precision, he laid her down briefly on the shirt across his thighs. His hands moved without hesitation: found the cord, still pulsing faintly. He tied it carefully with a strip of thread from his own seam—double-knot, firm but not tight. Just as the manual had said. Two fingers from the belly.
He reached for the sterilised knife. No shaking now. Only purpose.
A clean slice. The cord slackened. She was fully in the world now.
He scooped her back up, bundled her gently in the folds of his shirt, and turned to you.
You were half-conscious, panting, eyes glassy—but they locked with his the moment you heard her.
“She’s here,” he whispered. His voice broke. “She’s alright. You did it. Gods, you did it.”
Your hand found his wrist. Weak. Wet with sweat. But real.
He returned to you immediately, settling behind you once more, your back folding into his chest, his arms wrapping around you both. Warmth. Shelter. The world narrowed to the circle of his embrace.
He moved gently, reverently, unbuttoning your blouse with one hand, baring the curve of your chest. You didn’t stop him. Didn’t need to.
He laid the baby on your skin. And everything fell silent.
Her cries softened. Her mouth turned instinctively, nuzzling, searching. You curled your arm around her—slow, protective, shaking.
Xavier stared.
Not at the blood. Not at the mess. At you. And her. And what you had both become in this moment.
And then you groaned again.
His whole body tensed.
“What is it? What’s—”
“Still,” you managed. “One more…”
Of course. The placenta.
“Okay,” he said quickly, his arms tightening around you, helping you lean forward just enough. “It’s alright. Let it happen. Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”
You pushed once—twice—and then the soft, wet mass slid free. Heavy. Intact.
He gave a ragged exhale. It was over.
You collapsed back into him, hollowed out but whole.
The baby shifted on your chest. Still now. Warm. Real.
And for the first time, Xavier let go—just a little. He pressed his forehead to the side of your head, eyes closed, breath catching in his throat.
You were safe. She was alive. And he—
He was undone.
The forest had never been this quiet.
You were limp in his arms, the baby bundled tight against your chest beneath the folds of his ruined coat and his dirt-streaked shirt. He’d covered your hips as best he could—your legs, trembling and bare, now wrapped in everything warm he had left. His body heat did the rest.
He looked down once—just once.
You. Her. Breathing in the same rhythm. Your cheek against her forehead.
His family.
“I’m carrying you,” he said softly. “We need to get you to a hospital. I’ll run if I have to.”
You didn’t answer. Just stirred faintly. Trusted him.
Of course you did.
He gathered you both into his arms and stood—slowly, carefully, making sure her head was cradled between you, that your spine aligned with his chest. One step. Another. The weight didn’t matter.
He’d carry you to the end of the world.
But he didn’t have to.
Light glinted through the trees. Voices. Boots. Flashlights cutting through the fog.
Medics.
Simone had sent them. He knew it instantly. They rushed forward—soft chaos, hands outstretched, voices sharp and gentle at once.
He didn’t speak. Just surrendered you both into capable arms with a kind of silent reverence. He stayed close. Never let you out of his line of sight. Never let her out of his hands.
The hospital was white. Quiet. Sterile in a way that made the memory of forest moss and blood feel like a fever dream.
You lay on a low cot, pale but stable, a drip in your arm, your heartbeat steady under layers of warm linen. Antibiotics. Fluids. Everything under control.
“She’s perfect,” the doctor said after checking her over. “Strong lungs. No sign of distress. You did everything right.”
Xavier hadn’t sat down since they brought you in.
He paced. Slowly. Back and forth. The baby in his arms, bundled in the softest blanket they could find. She was sleeping now, one hand curled like a tiny fist near her mouth.
He looked down at her like she was made of glass.
Or starlight.
He had seen her come into this world. Had felt the weight of her as life began. Had watched blood turn into breath, watched pain become existence. Nothing—nothing—had prepared him for that.
She stirred, and he stopped pacing.
You were awake now, watching him through half-lidded eyes, drug-heavy but calm.
He came to your side. Sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“She’s yours,” he said, and there was something cracked in his voice he didn’t bother to hide.
He placed her gently into your arms, guiding your hands with his, still beneath hers. You cradled her awkwardly—your arm stiff from the IV line.
“She wants to feed,” you murmured. “I can’t… not yet.”
He shook his head. “She’s fine. Just hold her. That’s all she needs.”
You both watched her sleep.
So small. So utterly here.
Her hair—soft and pale, almost silver-gold—shone faintly under the hospital light.
You smiled. “She has your eyes.”
Xavier was quiet a long time. Then—his voice, low, fragile, certain:
“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did.”
You turned your head. He was still looking at the baby.
“But I watched you carry her. For months. Every discomfort. Every fear. Every impossible day.”
He swallowed hard.
“And then I saw you bring her into the world. With your body. With your pain. With your strength.”
His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, they were sea-glass clear.
“And I realised,” he said, almost a whisper, “I’ve only ever loved the surface of you.”
Your breath caught.
“Everything deeper,” he said, “everything you never let me see until tonight—that’s where the real love lives.”
The baby stirred.
Just a small twitch—her fingers unfurling like petals, her lips parting in a dream. She shifted closer against your chest, seeking warmth she already knew by heart.
The monitors hummed softly. Footsteps passed far down the hall. But here—in this corner of sterile light and borrowed linen—everything was still.
Xavier's hand found yours, fingers threading together without thought, without effort.
You turned your head, your voice barely a breath.
“I want another.”
He blinked, startled.
“A boy,” you added, eyes never leaving the baby’s face. “Next time.”
He stared at you a moment. And then—he smiled. Quiet. Wrecked. Entirely in love.
“Yes,” he said. “Next time. And I’ll be with you again. From the very start to the very end. Always.”
Don't know if you will accept this one because not everyone is comfortable with writing for pregnancy trope. But i will try. 😭
Imagine the reader is pregnant, and for some reason, she can't get to the hospital or opted for giving birth at home, and the labor starts with just the reader and the boys, how would they react? (Zayne would go well, I guess lol)
Anyway, I gotta say I am obsessed with your writing ✍️ 🤤🥰
It honestly took me forever to get this request done, but here it is—finally! I ended up splitting it into two parts, including a bit of my own experience with childbirth.
The main challenge was that, even when extreme, birth tends to follow a similar pattern. I didn’t want to lean into unnecessary drama, so I approached it differently: wrote one complete mini-fic and turned the rest into short drabble-style sketches, which I’ll be posting here.
You can read more about Xavier/MC’s story here.
I chose him simply because I hadn’t written anything focused on him in a while—and it just flowed (from pen... well, keyboard) that way.
CT/WT: birth scene, childbirth, emergency birth, home birth, water birth, airplane birth, snowstorm birth, intense emotional content, partner support, soft!men, vulnerable!men, protective partner, found family, twins, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy, fatherhood, new dad energy, birth fic, drabble collection, first-time dad, emotional whump, soft smutless intimacy, love confession, trauma comfort, birth complications, raw vulnerability, medical emergency, no smut just feelings, domestic intensity. Headcanon!!!
🖤 SYLUS — The Moment He Realizes It’s Up to Him (Home Birth, Unprepared Conditions)
The Second It Clicks:
You gasp. Double over. He’s at your side in a heartbeat.
“Is it time?”
You nod. Pain. Panic. Wet warmth. His blood freezes — then boils. No hospital. No doctor. No help. Just him.
His First Thought?
“Fuck. No. Not like this. You deserve better.”
Not chaos. Not uncertainty. Not cold floors and towels that aren’t sterile. He’s Sylus — he controls everything. But this? This is the one thing he can’t delay, buy, or dominate. It’s coming. Now.
Terror?Not for himself. For you. For the pain in your eyes, the grip of your hand, the sheer fragility of the moment. His entire being rallies like a war horn blaring inside his chest.
“If the universe put this in my hands, then it’s getting the best fucking performance of my life.”
What he does first:He lowers you carefully to the bed. Kisses your knuckles, even as he’s barking quiet orders into a phone no one picks up. His voice is deep, steady. But his heart is galloping. He never lets you see it. Never lets his fear break through. You deserve certainty, and he’ll give it to you — even if he’s unraveling at the seams.
What He Says:“Kitten. Look at me.”
You do. Eyes wide. Brave. Terrified.
“You trust me?”
You nod.
“Then breathe. I’ve got this. I’ve got you. I always have.”
What He Feels:You’re vulnerable. And you’re still the strongest creature he’s ever seen. He wishes he could take the pain. Rip it from you and carry it in his own bones. But this is your war. And all he can do is be the sword and the shield.
“Don’t you dare break on me, baby. You’re almost there. We’re almost there.”
And when you cry out —Something inside him shatters. Not weakness. Not panic.
Love.
The kind that could burn cities. The kind that makes gods kneel. He wipes your brow with trembling fingers, and for the first time in years, he whispers: “Please. Just let me do this right.”
The First Push:Your nails dig into his forearm. Hard. He doesn't flinch. He leans in, forehead almost touching yours.
“That’s it. Breathe through it. I’ve got you.”
Your body trembles. He sees it — the pain, the fear, the fight. And God, he’s never loved you more than in this bloody, imperfect, holy moment.
The Next Contractions Hit:They're relentless. And so is he. He’s on his knees beside the bed now, sleeves rolled, jaw locked, hands steady but heart breaking.
“You're doing so good, kitten. So fucking good. I'm right here. Ride it. Ride it out. You're the strongest thing I've ever seen.”
He keeps talking because your cries are the sound of his soul ripping open. He wants to scream with you — but he doesn’t. He can’t. You need him iron-clad.
When the Baby Crowns:For a split second, he freezes. The sight undoes him. It's real.
His voice catches. He swallows hard. Then acts. Fast. He speaks softly but firmly. “Almost there. Just one more, baby. Give me everything you’ve got.”And when you do — when you scream and bear down and sob his name — the world shifts.
The Birth:The baby slips into his hands. Warm. Fragile. Alive. He catches it like it’s made of light. For a moment, he just stares. His lips part, but no words come. This. This is his child. His hands are shaking now. Bloody, trembling.
But when the baby cries? He lets out the most ragged breath of his life.
“You did it,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “You fucking did it.”
He ties and cuts the cord. Precise. Careful. Reverent. Wraps the baby in a soft towel and places it in your arms. And then? He just watches. Like the world cracked open to show him something he never thought he was worthy of.
When the Medics Finally Arrive:He doesn’t move from your side. Doesn’t let go of your hand. The men in white bark questions. He answers in clipped growls, still on alert. They try to move in too fast, and he snaps, “She’s fine. You move when she says so.”
The room is full now — but all he sees is you.
Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:He sits beside you, one hand on your leg, the other gently stroking the baby's tiny back. His shirt is soaked, his knuckles still stained, his eyes rimmed red. He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just breathes in the shape of you. Watches you like you might disappear.
And then he says it, raw and low:“I’ve killed for less than the pain you just went through.”“You scare me,” he adds, almost smiling. “Because I didn’t think I could love you more than I already did.”A pause. His voice softens. “Turns out, I was wrong.”
How He Is With You After:
He won’t leave the room for the first 24 hours. Won’t sleep unless you sleep. Won’t speak unless it’s to you. Every time you shift, he’s there. Water. Blankets. Warm palms.
He touches you like you’re made of fire and stardust. And maybe you are. You brought life into the world — and now he’s a man who’s seen a goddess bleed and survive.
What’s Changed?
Everything. You’re no longer just the woman he worships. You’re the mother of his child. And he’s never been more dangerous, more devoted, or more in awe.
And when he finally holds the baby in his arms, whispering something in a voice only the stars can hear, you catch the look on his face — as if the king of the underworld just met the one soul that could make him believe in heaven.
🎨 RAFAYEL — Water Birth Gone Off-Script (But You're Still His Masterpiece)
The Second It Clicks:You gasp. A real one. Water shifts behind the door. He hears it — not the splash, but the silence that follows. Brush mid-stroke, he freezes in the studio. Palette still in hand. Then he hears you call his name. Soft. Urgent. Different. His heart misses a beat. Oh. Oh, fuck. It’s time.
His First Thought?“Cutie, not yet — where’s the damn midwife?” This was supposed to be smooth. Music, candles, soft towels, help. He practiced. Took notes. Learned everything. But you’re contracting, you’re gripping his arm like a lifeline, and that carefully prepared plan just drowned.
Terror?Only for a split second. Then? It turns into motion. His version of war. No armor. Just bare skin, water, and wild love. He tears off his silk shirt, drops to his knees beside the tub, and cups your face. Eyes blazing. Smile trembling. “You’ve got this. I’ve got you. Let’s be legends, sweetheart.”
What He Does First:Lights dimmed. Calm playlist turned off. That’s not helping. He speaks instead. Constant stream of velvet and madness — anything to keep you in your body. He checks your breath, strokes your arms, pours warm water down your back. He holds your thighs when the cramping gets too much. “Breathe, Cutie. Moan if you need to. Scream. I’ll scream with you.”
What He Says:“You’re the most divine creature I’ve ever painted and you’re not even trying right now.”
“Do you know what it does to me — to see you bring life into the world? I’m ruined.”
“I love you. You’re terrifying. It’s magnificent.”
“I’m not ready, but I’m so ready. Are you ready, sweetheart?”
He laughs and cries all at once. Classic Raf.
What He Feels:Absolute awe. Like watching a volcano give birth to the moon. You’re in pain, and he’d trade his soul to take it away —
But you’re also gorgeous. Power and surrender. Fury and grace. He watches you like a living epic, memorizing every second. And somewhere deep down: terror. Because he’s about to meet a little soul that already feels like the most important thing he’s ever waited for.
And When You Cry Out —He flinches like someone hit his body. Then kisses your forehead. Then your shoulder. Then your fingers. “I know, I know, my love. You can hate me right now. But when it’s over, you’re going to be a fucking goddess in my arms again.”
The First Push:He holds you. Literally. Behind you in the tub, your back pressed to his chest. Whispers in your ear like poetry, nonsense, love confessions. His hands steady your belly. His cheek presses to yours. “Push. With me. Right now. Pretend the stars are watching.”
The Next Contractions Hit:You sob. Scream. Curse. He laughs through tears. “That’s my girl. Go feral, baby.”
He doesn't pretend it's easy. He matches the chaos. You scream louder? He screams louder. You sob? He hums a lullaby in broken Lemurian. And when you break? He stitches you back together with every ridiculous, poetic, stupidly beautiful word.
When the Baby Crowns:He feels it before he sees it — the shift in your breath, the way your body tenses like a storm breaking. “Cutie — he’s here. He’s really here.”
He helps you lean forward, moves behind and then lower, one arm steadying you as he shifts to kneel in the water. And then he sees it — the beginning of everything. His voice is gone. His hands shake. But he stays.
The Birth:The baby slides into the water. Raf catches him like he’s catching a star falling into the sea. He brings him up gently, lets him cry, and then stares — completely undone. He places the baby on your chest with reverence. Then breaks. Just breaks. Weeps silently as he holds you both.
When the Medics Finally Arrive:He answers the door shirtless, soaked, with red-rimmed eyes and a feral look.
“Too late,” he snaps. “She did it herself. I just got to be lucky enough to watch.” Then walks past them, back to the bathroom, because he’s not done looking at you.
Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:You’re in bed. Baby asleep. Candles flickering low. Raf’s lying next to you, propped on an elbow, fingers lightly tracing invisible constellations on your arm. His voice is almost a whisper. “You made something I could never paint. Not with all the colors in the universe.”
Confession:“I used to think love was chaos. Fire. Tragedy.” He swallows. “But you — carrying him, birthing him — you made me believe in something bigger than all that. Something gentle.” Beat.
“Still chaos. But now… now I want to live in it.”
How He Is With You After:He won’t stop touching you. Ever. Cheek pressed to your stomach. Hand around your ankle. Lips to your collarbone. He calls you his ocean, his cathedral, his everything. Gets jealous when the baby gets more attention, then sulks dramatically — only to melt the moment the baby yawns.
What’s Changed?
He didn’t think he could love more than he already did. But now he’s ruined. Completely, gloriously yours. He paints you every day. He stares at the baby like a spell. And every night, he murmurs: “Cutie, I would live a thousand lifetimes just to land in this one with you.”
🛩️ CALEB — 35,000 Feet Up, When the World Falls Apart (And You’re the Only Thing That Matters)
The Second It Clicks:Your breath hitches. You shift. Then freeze. He knows your body too well — something is off. You whisper, "Caleb…"
He looks at you. And in that one heartbeat, he knows. It’s happening. Here. Now. Too early.
His First Thought?“No.”Not like this. Not at cruising altitude. Not without equipment, backup, time. You were supposed to have two more weeks. He had a plan. A perfect one. And the baby just threw it out the emergency exit.
Terror?It brushes him. A ghost against the back of his mind. There’s a moment — sharp, almost blinding — where every instinct screams: get to the cockpit, take the controls, force the descent, get her to a hospital, make it stop. Not the birth — your pain. The helplessness. But Caleb is a fortress — fear doesn’t get through the walls. Not when you need him solid. Not when your breathing goes shallow and your fingers dig into his thigh. He shuts it out. Cold. Calculated. He stays. Right where you are. “Handle it.”
What He Does First:
Turns to the nearest flight attendant — she’s pale, shaking. “Get blankets. Towels. Water. First aid kit. Everything. Now.”Then he takes your hand. Squeezes once. He shifts the cabin — clears seats, turns it into a command zone. Straps you in, kneels in front of you like you’re his entire mission.
What He Says:“Breathe.” “Look at me, not the chaos. Me.”“You're safe. I'm here. I’ll get you through this.”“No one’s going to touch you but me. You hear me?”Low, controlled. The voice of command — but laced with something raw. The kind of voice that means he’d rip this plane open and land it with his bare hands if he had to.
What He Feels:Failure. Because this wasn’t the plan. Because he let you on this plane, knowing the risks. Because you’re in pain and there’s nothing he can shoot or order or carry to fix it. But above that — something bigger. Something anchoring. You’re about to give him a child. His child. And he’s never been more terrified or more in love.
And When You Cry Out —He stops breathing. Just for a moment. Then grabs a wet cloth, wipes your forehead, presses his mouth to your knuckles.
“It’s okay. I know. I know it hurts. Just hold on, love.”
He doesn’t flinch when you scream. He braces for you. Becomes your wall.
The First Push:
He helps you brace your legs. Talks you through it. Counts your breaths. His voice doesn’t shake. You’re gripping his shoulder like you want to break him — and if it helps, he wants you to.
“Push. Right now. You can do it. I know you can.”
The Next Contractions Hit:They come fast. Brutal. You’re soaked in sweat, sobbing, slipping in and out of focus. He holds your gaze. Forces you to stay present. “Stay with me. Just me. Eyes on mine.” He’s not just commanding your body now. He’s anchoring your soul.
When the Baby Crowns:His jaw locks. There’s blood. Pain. A sound from you that breaks something in him forever. But then—
“I see the head. One more. One big push, baby. Do it for me.”He’s never begged in his life. Until now.
The Birth:The baby slides into his hands — hot, wet, alive. He holds it like it’s a grenade and a prayer. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then moves on instinct drilled in from every medical video he obsessively watched in the weeks before. Wipes the face. Rubs the back. Hears that first cry. And his shoulders slump like he just survived a war. He lays the baby on your chest with military precision—
But his hands are shaking. And his voice is gone.
When the Plane Lands:Paramedics are already waiting on the tarmac. The moment the wheels hit the ground, he’s on his feet, securing the baby, then lifting you into his arms — no hesitation, no discussion. Your body wrapped in his jacket, his grip unshakable.
“She stays with me,” he tells them — low and final. He carries you down the stairs himself, eyes scanning every face like a soldier clearing a field. And when the medics move in, he doesn’t flinch — but he watches every hand. Every word. His eyes never leave you. He’s still on the battlefield.
Afterward, When It’s Quiet Again:
The baby’s wrapped and asleep. You’re in a hospital bed now, monitors quiet, lights dim. Caleb sits beside you — still in his flight-worn clothes, hands resting on the edge of the mattress like he’s holding the line. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you breathe. As if any second, the universe might try to take you again.
Confession:“I don’t know how to do this part.”
Soft. Almost a whisper.
“I know war. I know strategy. I know how to keep you alive.”A pause.
“But you just gave me everything, thirty-five thousand feet above the world. And I don’t know how to thank you for that.”
How He Is With You After:
Hypervigilant. Keeps you warm. Fed. Rested. Checks the baby’s breath every ten minutes. Doesn’t leave your side — not even to sleep. Carries you to the bathroom if he has to. Barely talks. Just does.
What’s Changed?
He always thought his job was to protect you. Now he knows — you are the reason he fights. You made life, in midair, with nothing but pain and instinct. He’s seen you soft. He’s seen you in love. Now he’s seen you divine. And no enemy will ever get close again. Not even turbulence. And definitely not labor at 35,000 feet — because he’s never letting you board a plane pregnant again.
He’s already planning the next birth. Controlled environment. Ground-level. Walls. Doctors. No sky. No chaos. Just you, safe — the way you were always supposed to be.
🧊 ZAYNE — Snowcrest Emergency (Twins, a Storm, and You in His Hands)
The Second It Clicks:You’re at the stove, stirring a pot of mulled wine, the scent of cloves and orange peel curling through the wooden walls of the chalet. Snow presses against the windows like a soft white fist. Then something shifts. You freeze. One hand goes to the edge of the counter, the other to your belly. Your breath catches — once. Twice. Too sharp.
Zayne looks up from the hearth, where he was stacking firewood. Sees your face. Sees your hands. His mind clicks into motion before you can speak. Contractions. Strong. Rhythmic. A month early. Twins. It’s happening. Now.
His First Thought?“No hospital. No OR. No neonatal equipment. Two infants. High-risk environment.” His mind races: What’s missing? What can he improvise? What matters most? You. He recalibrates in milliseconds. The plan has changed. You’re the plan now.
Terror?He doesn’t let it register. But for the first time in a decade, he feels his pulse spike without choosing it. This is not a patient. Not a clinical environment. This is you. And his hands — hands that saved hundreds — suddenly feel too slow, too human.
What He Does First:Takes control. Quietly, precisely. “Lie down. Left side. Pillows under your knees.”
Gets gloves. Clean cloths. Lantern light. Wipes the counter. Boils water. Checks your pupils, your breath rate, heart rate. Starts counting contractions. Voice — steady as marble. “Vitals are within threshold. We’ll manage.” He doesn’t say "I’m scared." He sets his jaw and becomes the machine you need.
What He Says:“Cut the noise. Focus on me.” “Deep breath in. Hold. Now exhale slowly.” “You’re safe. I have you. Nothing’s going wrong under my watch.” And softer, almost like it slips out against his control: “You’re not doing this alone. I’m here.”Then quieter still, barely audible over your breathing—
“I don’t want you to be afraid. Not with me.”
What He Feels:A depth of protectiveness so massive it short-circuits logic. He can’t afford emotion — so it burns quietly behind his ribs. Every sound you make, every twitch of pain — he catalogs it, files it, calculates it. But somewhere behind the math, something whispers: “These are my children. And she’s the one I never deserved.”
And When You Cry Out—He doesn’t flinch. But his jaw locks, and he moves faster. More towels. More warmth. Calmer voice. He adjusts your position, murmurs into your hair: “I know. I know, love. It hurts. You’re strong. You’re going to get them here, and I’m going to catch them. I promise.”
The First Push:““Push with the contraction. Not before.”He watches your breath, cues your muscles, syncs with your rhythm like surgery. You scream. He doesn’t blink. Just steadies your knee, keeps his voice low and close. “You’re doing it. This is the part that ends it. The worst is behind you.”
The Next Contractions Hit:They come harder, closer. You’re shaking. Your body starts to give. Zayne grips your hands, brings your forehead to his. “You’re not breaking. You’re giving life. Do it. I’m right here.”
He says it like a command. But his voice catches.
When the Baby Crowns:It’s fast. First twin is anterior. Textbook. Zayne’s gloves are slick, but his hold is perfect. The baby slips into his hands — screaming. He wraps, clears, breathes. Then glances up at you, and — for half a second — his breath stutters. One down. One more.
The Birth (Second Twin):This one’s trickier. Breech. Zayne’s hands move with silent grace, guiding you, shifting your hips, protecting you from the risk. It’s intense. It’s dangerous. But he handles it like a master. The second baby arrives blue. He doesn’t panic. Just acts. Clears airway. Stimulates. Waits — cry. Only then does his chest move again.
When the Medics Finally Arrive:He meets them at the door. Calm. Precise. These are his colleagues — people he trusts. He listens to every reading, watches every movement. They confirm what he already knows: vitals are steady. No signs of immediate risk. He should transfer you. He planned to.
But then you look at him — raw, pleading, exhausted. And he recalculates. “We’ll monitor here. Twelve-hour window. I’ll oversee everything myself.”
He’s already wrapping you and the twins in fresh blankets, resetting the monitors. His voice is steady. His posture sure. But his hand doesn’t leave yours. He’s not just responsible. He’s personally invested. In this. In you. In all three lives now resting in his hands.
Confession:He speaks only when you touch his wrist.
“I’ve never been this scared.” A beat. “And I didn’t let myself feel it. Until now.”
Another pause.
“You and them — you’re the only variables I can’t solve. And I think I’m okay with that.”
How He Is With You After:
Meticulous. Attentive. Understated. Charts feed schedules. Tracks sleeping patterns. Never wakes you if he can help it. Takes night shifts. Warms bottles. Still quiet. Still reserved. But touches you more often now — almost absently. A thumb to your wrist. A hand at your back. Like he can’t not.
What’s Changed?
Something in him has shifted — quietly, irreversibly. He was a man of logic. Now he’s a man of you. He doesn’t smile often — but when he looks at the twins, something in his eyes softens in a way he can’t quite explain. And every time you cry — from exhaustion, or joy, or pain — he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “Tell me what to fix.”
Even if he knows he never could. Because he’ll try anyway. For as long as you’ll let him.
Quick off the top of your head: What is the singular best physical and/or emotional trait you love from your favorite LADs LI?? gooooo 🏃♀️
Oh, do Caleb’s push-ups count? Because honestly, I could be grinding through a full day’s workload while he’s off grunting on my screen — and I’m not complaining for a second. 🤸
But since I have three favorite LIs, here’s the breakdown:
🍎 Caleb — It’s the duality for me. That perfect blend of “boy next door” and “ruthless colonel.” There’s just something irresistibly compelling about a man who could kiss you soft one minute and lead a battalion the next. (Military types are my kryptonite — shoutout to CoD & TF 141.)
🏍 Sylus — I fell for him in his full-on “bad boy” era. The sarcasm, the edge, the whole dark romance energy he carries like a second skin — I eat that up.
❄️ Zayne — My other fatal weakness: emotionally restrained, intellectually layered men who feel just out of reach. And the brains. God, the brains. Intelligence is my ultimate kink. (Cue the Sherlock & Benedict Cumberbatch phase of my life.)
Also — thank you for such a great question. Seriously. I had way too much fun answering this one. 💀💬
Possession, Obsession, Devotion: A Study in Five Men
Nope, I haven’t vanished.
Super grateful for all your messages and the sweet support — seriously, thank you. Just swamped with work right now, so writing’s slowed down a bit.
Still working on your requests, I promise!
And I’m knee-deep in a pretty massive, emotionally wrecking angst based on a Songfic prompt.
While that one’s cooking, I thought I’d drop another batch of my random writer notes — all bundled up in one chaotic little post.
CW/TW: Headcanons, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Love, Jealousy, Power Imbalance, Toxic Romance, Red Flags Treated as Romance, Intimacy with Control Undertones, Emotional Manipulation (Mild), Dubious Coping Mechanisms, Intense Emotional Dependency, Suggestive Themes, Mild Sexual Content, Unhealthy Attachment Framed as Devotion
Genre: Romance-Infused, Erotically-Charged Drabbles with a Generous Side of Fluff
Words Count: 8.6K
5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Caleb’s Obsessed With You
1. You call another man “handsome” — even as a joke.
You were teasing. Flirting, in that harmless, breezy way of yours. Caleb laughed. Then immediately kissed you like he needed to reassert territorial dominance with tongue and body weight. Funny how your jokes always end with your back against the wall and his hand on your throat. Lovingly.
2. You go to someone else for help instead of him.
You needed tech support. A charger. Help moving the couch. And instead of calling your six-foot-two, military-trained, emotionally unstable boyfriend — you asked Xavier. Caleb didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway, watching, calculating how long it would take to move the entire solar system to make sure you never do that again.
3. You don’t sit on his lap when there’s clearly space.You chose the chair. Next to him. Not on him. He’s not mad. No, no. He's just questioning the entire fabric of your connection and whether you’ve lost all sense of instinct. And when you finally realize and climb into his lap? He sighs like a man being restored to life.
4. You post a photo where you're not touching him.Nice shot. Great lighting. Cute outfit. But why is he two feet away and not glued to your side like a shadow with military clearance? His arm belongs around your waist. His hand belongs on your thigh. And your caption? Should’ve been his name, followed by a possessive noun.
5. You forget to wear his dog tags.
He left them for you. Carefully. On your nightstand. The same tags he’s worn through hell. And you? Walked out the door wearing a cute sweater and nothing that says “belonging to Colonel Caleb.” He’ll never say a word. He’ll just strip you slow the second you get home and fasten them back around your neck himself. With teeth.
5 Lies Caleb Tells Himself About You
1. “I don’t care that she uses my toothbrush.”You could take a fresh one. You don’t. You reach for his, same as always — like that handle belongs to you more than to him. He mutters something about germs. Then watches you rinse with that smug little smile. And later, when you're asleep, he moves it back to your side of the sink. Right where you like it.
2. “She can wear whatever she wants.”And you do. His shirt. His flight jacket. That tiny black top you swear is “practical.” He acts unbothered. Says nothing. But the second someone else looks too long? He stands behind you. One hand on your waist. That casual kind of possessive that feels like a warning wrapped in warmth.
3. “I don’t need her to text me when she gets home.”You’re a grown woman. A Hunter. You’ve neutralized things with more teeth than common sense. You say “Don’t wait up.” He says “Sure.” Then checks his phone every ten minutes like it's a heartbeat monitor and he's waiting to hear yours again.
4. “It’s fine if she flirts. I know it’s harmless.”You’re charming. It’s part of who you are. You wink. Smile. Lean in a little too close. Caleb plays it cool. Says, “She’s always like that.” Then grabs your waist in front of everyone and whispers: “Try that again, and I’ll fuck you so hard next time you won’t remember anyone else’s name.”
5. “She doesn’t need to say she loves me every day.”You say it once. In passing. A low little “love you” as you walk away, like it’s nothing. But he hears it like an oath. And that night? He holds your hand a little tighter. Pulls your body a little closer. Not because he needs to hear it again. But because if he doesn’t touch you, he might forget how to breathe.
5 Things That Make Him Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)
1. Your hair falls in his face.
Leaning over him. Stretching across the couch. Just close enough that it brushes his cheek like it has rights. You don’t even notice. But he does. Every time. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just breathes in and lets the world narrow to that one soft, smug part of you.
2. You chew on your thumb when you’re thinking.
Not seductively. Not even consciously. Just a tiny bite to the edge of your nail while you’re mid-rant about your latest recon or trying to remember the name of a street vendor. It’s nothing. Stupid. Barely a gesture. And yet — he stares. Tracks it like a countdown. Fists flexing slow. Jaw tight. Because that mouth should never look that innocent.
3. You interrupt him when he’s cooking.
He’s focused. Knife in hand. Half-distracted by heat and oil. And then you slide in behind him. Touch his lower back. Squeeze something you shouldn’t. Say “Smells good, chef,” with a grin that makes his whole spine forget how to hold. He curses. Tries to shoo you off. You lick something off his finger. And now dinner’s going to burn.
4. You try on his Fleet cap like it’s a joke.
You lift it off the rack. Set it crooked on your head. Salute with two fingers and that smile that once made him fall off a training tower. “Colonel,” you say. And he’s gone. He should laugh. He doesn’t. He walks over, takes it off you slow, and kisses your temple like he’s reassigning you to a very different kind of mission.
5. You say “I’m yours”.
Not in bed. Not in public. Just… casually. In passing. In that low voice you only use when something’s real.
“I’m yours.”He looks at you like you just disarmed a bomb with your bare hands. And then he ruins you for saying it so lightly.
5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)
1. You’re the only one allowed to fly with him in his military jet.Clearance denied. Protocol says no. Regulations triple-confirm it. And yet — you’re in the co-pilot seat, boots up, fingers tracing buttons you’re not supposed to touch. He doesn’t stop you. Someone once asked why you get to ride with him when no one else does. He looked up from the cockpit and said, “She’s my gravity.” End of discussion.
2. You only need to place your hand on his to calm him down.No words. No pleading. No strategic de-escalation. Just your fingers, settling lightly over his, when something in him starts to coil too tight. And just like that — his spine eases. The heat in his eyes lowers by a degree. People have seen him end arguments with three words. They’ve never seen him go silent for anyone but you.
3. You’re the only person he’ll interrupt a briefing for.He’s mid-sentence. Room full of officers. Tactical projections glowing on the wall. His phone buzzes. He glances down, sees your name — and pauses. “Give me five,” he says. And walks out without waiting for permission. Someone once asked who it was. He said, “The only priority higher than this fleet.” No one asked again.
4. You walk in on his arm at the Farspace Fleet annual gala.He’s in dress whites. You’re in black. And the room — full of admirals, envoys, diplomats — parts like mist when you enter. He doesn’t introduce you. He doesn’t need to. You’re not just his date. You’re the one who makes him dangerous in silence. And everyone knows it.
5. You don’t need words to communicate.One glance. A tilt of your head. A tiny shift in posture across the room. He’s already moving. Already reading you like mission data. To others, it looks like magic. Intuition. Maybe telepathy. But for you two? It’s just muscle memory — built from years of almosts, nevers, and finallys.
5 Times Caleb Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway
1. He pulled the full personnel file on a man you once smiled at.You were being polite. Friendly. The guy asked something harmless, you laughed. By morning, Caleb had his record open on a secure datapad, scrolling like he wasn’t reading a life — just calculating the risk factor. You asked what he was doing. He said, “I like knowing who wants what’s mine.” And then kissed you like he hoped you never asked him to stop.
2. He showed up at your door at 02:03 AM. Soaking wet. Furious. Silent.You missed one message. One. He waited. Thirty minutes. An hour. And then something in him snapped. No threats. No drama. Just the sound of his knock like a warning shot. You opened the door. He didn’t speak. Just stared. And then pulled you in with a grip like survival wasn’t optional anymore.
3. He scared the hell out of a junior pilot for asking your name.The kid was fresh. Eager. Smiled a little too long. Said, “Hey, what should I call you?” You started to answer. Then turned — and saw Caleb across the room. Expression calm. Stance neutral. Eyes loaded. The pilot apologized before you even said a word.
4. He slammed his hand on the table when you joked about breaking up.Just a joke. A throwaway line. Something stupid like “Guess I’ll go find someone less intense.” And his hand hit the surface before the words fully left your mouth. Not loud. Not violent. Just final. He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Just looked at you like you’d put a knife in his ribs and smiled about it. You never made that joke again.
5. He called you “dangerous” — and meant it like a vow.It was late. You were arguing. You said something sharp. He caught your wrist and said it low, almost reverent: “You’re dangerous.” But not like an accusation. Like awe. Like worship. Like he’d already decided to stay, even if you wrecked him completely. Even if he’d have to protect the world from you. Or protect you from himself.
5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Zayne’s Obsessed With You
1. Someone else bandaged your scratch.
Just a graze. A stupid piece of shrapnel across your forearm. A colleague wrapped it up. No big deal. You came home smiling. Told him it barely hurt. He nodded. Quiet. Then excused himself to the kitchen. Five minutes later, he returned with antiseptic, clean gauze, and the words: “Take it off. I’m doing it properly.” You didn’t argue. Neither did he.
2. Someone at work lent you their umbrella. A man.
It was raining. You forgot yours. He offered. You accepted.
Zayne didn’t say a thing when you mentioned it over dinner. Just hummed. Neutral. The next morning, you found a new umbrella in your bag. Carbon fiber. Windproof. Labeled discreetly with your initials. You didn’t ask how he knew the exact weight your bag could carry without straining your shoulder.
3. You asked the waiter to recommend a wine.
It was harmless. Polite. You were curious. But Zayne was sitting right there. He didn’t blink. Just looked at the waiter, then at you. Then took the list back. “Actually,” he said, calm as glass, “she prefers reds with less acidity. I’ll order.” You nodded. The waiter nodded. And somewhere between the clink of glasses, you realized that wasn't about wine at all.
4. You didn’t invite him to your morning training.
He’d had a night shift. Surgery ran late. You wanted him to rest. So you left quietly. He woke up to an empty bed, your gym bag missing, and a silence that felt like a closed door. You came back to find his routine disrupted, his pulse still too fast — and a protein shake mixed just how you like it, chilled and waiting on the table. He never mentioned it. But now, if you decide to “let him rest” again… your training starts later. And doesn’t involve clothes.
5. You called another man “smart.”
It was a game show. Trivia night. Some stranger on-screen made a clever move. You smiled. “Wow. That was actually really smart.” Zayne didn’t look up from his tablet. Didn’t even shift. But ten minutes later, you found yourself in a very precise debate about probability, strategy, and why that move wasn’t that brilliant after all. You didn’t argue. You just leaned closer. He didn’t smirk, but you felt it anyway.
5 Lies Zayne Tells Himself About You
1. "I’m just your cardiologist during exams."
It’s clinical. Professional. Necessary. He listens to your heartbeat, takes your vitals, asks you to breathe deeper — deeper.
You unbutton your shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t feel anything. Except for the part where he adjusts his gloves a little too tightly. And maybe takes one extra second to remove the stethoscope from your skin.
2. "Lunch tastes the same without you."
He orders the same thing. Same café. Same tea. But the pastry tastes off. The space feels louder. The table — emptier. He tells himself it’s fine. Then brings the leftovers back to his office. Doesn’t touch them. Just leaves the box where your hand might find it later.
3. "I don’t need to pick you up."
It’s logical. You’re a professional. Your job runs over sometimes. So does his. But your message was short. The streetlights are on. The buses are unreliable.
He checks traffic cams. Weather. Public transit delays. Then sits very still, staring at his phone, wondering how to offer you a ride without making it sound like panic.
4. "I’m not checking. I’m sleeping."
You once left while he was asleep. You thought it was kinder. Quieter.
Now he says he “needed water” or “had a dream.” But every night, at 3 AM, his hand reaches. Just to feel your back. Your wrist. The smallest proof that you haven’t disappeared again.
5. "Short skirts are inefficient."
He says they’re impractical. Not suited for cold weather. Definitely not for terrain with hostile wanderer activity. You raise a brow. He adds, “You’re not seventeen. Dress like it.”
But the second no one’s watching, his hand is already sliding up your thigh under the table. And when you raise a brow at him, he just says, flat: “Checking for circulation.”
You’re not fooled. He’s already failed the mission.
5 Things That Make Zayne Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)
1. You straighten his tie.
You’re not thinking about it. Just reaching out, adjusting the knot, smoothing the line down his chest like it’s second nature. He stays still. Breath held. Eyes on your face. You step back. He doesn’t. Because now all he can think about is using that same tie to bind your wrists to the chair in his office — and how many minutes he can steal between appointments without compromising your breathing.
2. You dip your finger into the frosting of his pastry.
You don’t ask. Just lean in, collect a bit of cream with your fingertip — and taste it. Oblivious. Innocent. Distracted by something else. He watches. Silently. And now the fork in his hand feels criminally unnecessary, because his mouth is dry, his mind’s gone blank, and he’s halfway to pulling you into his lap just to return the favor — with interest.
3. You take off your bra without removing your shirt.
It’s casual. Automatic. You’re talking about your day, laughing, and then —
One arm out. Then the other. The strap slides through the sleeve and vanishes into your laundry bag like it never existed. His brain glitches. His hands twitch. And he will absolutely spend the rest of the evening pretending to listen while picturing every technical step of reversing that maneuver with his teeth.
4. You imitate him. Badly.
You’re wearing his lab coat. His glasses. Sitting at his desk, brows drawn, lips pressed tight. Your impression is awful. He should be annoyed. But instead — he watches. Sharp. Quiet. And when you finally laugh and start to take it off, he gets up. Takes the coat from your shoulders himself. And tells you, too evenly, “You forgot the gloves.”
5. You trace lazy shapes on his wrist while talking about something unrelated.
You’re saying something about your neighbor’s cat. Something trivial. But your fingers are moving in a slow, absent pattern across his skin. And Zayne — who has operated on live hearts under pressure, who has held lives in one hand and death in the other — is currently struggling not to grab your wrist and drag you onto the desk. Because apparently, nothing in this galaxy has the precision impact of your fingertip.
5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)
1. You have a keycard to his office.Not a guest pass. Not a shared access code. A permanent, personalized, high-level card to a room most staff can’t even knock on without permission. You walked in one day mid-shift, casual, spinning the card between your fingers like it was a hairpin. Three nurses saw. One dropped her tablet. Rumors started before you even closed the door. Zayne didn’t correct them.
2. When he received a prestigious award, the first person he thanked was you.Best cardiothoracic surgeon of the year. Cameras flashing. Applause rising. Everyone expected a speech about innovation and responsibility. Instead, he said: “I’d like to thank the one person who keeps me alive enough to do this work. My partner. My favorite interruption.”Then he looked straight at you. The auditorium melted.
3. You’re both dressed like weapons. And everyone notices.He wears tailored coats, precision-cut collars, charcoal palettes like a tactical signature.You? Heels like blades. A suit that redefines “combat-ready.” And when you walk together — sharp, silent, side by side — people stop talking. Someone once tried to photograph you.
The headline read: Unknown dignitaries arrive. Security does not comment.
4. You don’t argue. You duet.Someone crossed a line. Loud, drunk, smug. Zayne responded first — clean, cold, just one sentence long. The man blinked. Started to retort.
You finished it for him. Elegant, sharp, no profanity required.
He left. Fast. And you turned back to Zayne like nothing happened — while everyone else tried to recover from what could only be described as a linguistic orgasm.
5. He opens doors, buttons coats, and moves chairs like it’s instinct.Not performative. Not flashy. Just… precise. He adjusts your sleeve without thinking. Helps you into the car like it’s always been his hand. You barely register it.
But the woman across the street? The one who saw it all from behind her coffee cup? She’s still texting her group chat about “the man in the long coat and the woman who ruined my standards.”
5 Times Zayne Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway
1. He gets live data from your heart monitor.Your Hunter’s Watch sends updates to the cloud. Zayne rerouted the feed to his private tablet. “Just in case,” he said. Now he knows when your pulse spikes. When you’re injured. When you don’t sleep. You never gave him access. You never had to.
The first time he called mid-mission to say “slow your breathing” — you realized he wasn’t tracking. He was watching over.
2. He absolutely hates when you drive. Always.You're capable. Fast. Efficient. And yet — every time you take the wheel, something in him shuts down. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just goes silent. And stares at the road like it personally offended him. He says, “It’s fine.” But he holds the dashboard too tightly for that to be true.
3. He freezes every time you say “I can handle it.”You mean well. You’re strong. You are capable. But when you brush him off with a casual “I’ve got this,” he doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just stops. Eyes unreadable. Hands still. And when you come back later — even fine — there’s already a backup plan on your datapad. Three versions. In color.
4. He never replies to emotional messages right away.You send: “I miss you. A lot.” His read receipt appears. Then… nothing. For two hours.
And just when you start to spiral — he sends a photo. Of your favorite pastry. Waiting on his table. With one word: “Soon.” You hate how well it works.
5. He spoke to the man flirting with you like he was reviewing his autopsy.It was harmless. A drink. A joke. A compliment. You laughed. Zayne didn’t.
He stepped in, shook the man’s hand, and said: "Tell me, has anyone ever checked your prefrontal lobe for impulse control irregularities?"The man left. Quickly. You rolled your eyes. Zayne didn’t apologize. He just took your hand. And changed the subject. Completely calm. Fully satisfied.
5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Rafayel’s Obsessed With You
1. Someone comments “🔥” under your photo — and you like it.He sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything. You think it’s harmless. He thinks it’s appalling that someone dared mark your beauty with an emoji better suited to grilled meat. He says nothing. But that night, you get a charcoal sketch of yourself in your favorite pose, signed with a tiny flame in the corner. When you ask about it, he hums. “Oh, just honoring your admirers’ creative input.”
2. You linger too long in front of another artist’s painting.Not just glance. Linger. Eyes soft. Head tilted. That thoughtful little breath you take when something moves you. He stands beside you, perfectly still. Smiling. Then leans in and whispers, “Cutie, if you start weeping, I may need to challenge the gallery owner to a duel.”
You're not sure if he’s joking. You’re also not sure you want him to be.
3. You talk about a beautiful place you visited… without him.You’re glowing. Describing the light, the air, the view. He listens, nods, even asks questions.
Then: “And did the sun taste the same without me there?” You pause. He smiles, all charm and cheekbones. “I’m just wondering how it dared rise, knowing we weren’t together.”
4. You send him a photo — and there’s someone else’s hand in the frame.You didn’t notice it. He did. He stares at the image like it’s a crime scene. Zooms in. Later, he replies: “Beautiful composition. Fascinating use of background tension. Would love to discuss the symbolism of that wrist — whose is it?” You laugh. He doesn’t.
5. You say some actor is “exactly your type.”He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just goes very still, then casually asks, “Before or after makeup?” Later, you find your datapad background changed. It’s him. In perfect lighting. Shirt unbuttoned just so. The caption reads: “Still unsure who your type is? Look into my eyes. You’ll remember.”
5 Lies Rafayel Tells Himself About You
1. “I didn’t paint you. It’s just resemblance.”He insists it’s a study of emotion. A symbol. A face from memory. But the tilt of the head, the mouth, the birthmark near the collarbone — they’re all yours. You ask, teasing: “Is that me?”
He blinks. Smiles slowly. “Cutie,” he says, “I wouldn’t paint you without permission.” And then changes the subject. Very deliberately.
2. “I don't reread your old messages.”He’s far too elegant for that. Far too composed. Except on quiet nights. On long flights. In museums where the silence scratches at his skin. Then he opens the archive. Just for the rhythm of your words. The accidental poetry. The way you once wrote “come home soon” like it meant more than time and place. He says it’s for “emotional reference.” He lies beautifully.
3. “I don't watch your mouth when you talk.”He’s an artist. A visual thinker. Of course he looks at faces. But not like that. Not at yours. Not like he’s memorizing the shape of every syllable just to feel them later against his throat. Not like he’s fantasizing mid-conversation about shutting you up with his tongue and tasting the sentence off your lips. No. Never. He’s listening.
4. “I haven’t memorized your scent through every season.”He claims not to notice. But he knows the spring version of you — soft rain, citrus skin, the aftershock of lilac. He knows the winter version — leather gloves, cinnamon breath, quiet wool. He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t chase the memory. But when you walk past — his eyes close. Briefly. Automatically. Like he’s gathering air before going under.
5. “I don't imagine your name with mine.”He’s not that romantic. Puh-lease. Marriage is a construct, surnames are politics, and love is beyond paperwork. He says all that with a flourish. And yet — there’s a notebook. Tucked under his mattress. Full of signatures. Yours. His. Just to see how it would look. Just in case.
5 Things That Make Rafayel Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)
1. When you eat something juicy. Fruit. Fingers. With zero awareness.You bite into it slowly, distracted. Something sweet. Ripe. Juice glides over your lower lip, and your tongue follows without thinking. He watches, motionless. Not breathing. Not blinking. You glance at him. He tilts his head. Smiles. Says lightly: "That peach is about to become my personal enemy." You laugh. He doesn’t. He’s too busy wondering how it’s possible to be jealous of the fruit.
2. When you kiss his hand instead of his mouth.
He leans in, expecting lips. Contact. Heat. And instead — you take his hand. Press a kiss into his palm. Soft. Deliberate. His breath catches. His throat tightens. Because that wasn’t affection. That was submission. And now he’s wondering just how far you’d let him take it.
3. When you tease him with your voice. Not the words. The tone. The whisper.
You say his name like silk sliding over glass. You ask “You think so?” like it means “prove it.” You laugh — not loudly, but just enough to make his chest hurt. He could diagram it, break it into sound waves, prove the seduction in math. But instead, he just steps closer. And says, low: "Say that again. Slower."
4. When you sit on the floor, barefoot, flipping through his sketches — looking like you belong there.
You’re humming something. Knees tucked up. No shoes. No guard. You tilt your head, study a piece, murmur: “I like this one.” He doesn’t even remember drawing it. He just remembers the way your hair spills over your shoulder and how the studio feels suddenly too small for how much he wants you. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He just watches like a starving thing. Memorizing the moment in case he dies of it later.
5. When you say “more.” In any context.
“More sugar.” “More time.” “More.”
That’s all it takes. One syllable. One open door. You never mean it the way he hears it — but he takes it as a promise. Like permission. Like a match tossed onto something already too dry to survive. And the next time he touches you? He makes damn sure you say it again.
5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)
1. He painted a self-portrait — with you reflected in his pupils.
Not your full form. Not a shared composition. Just his face. Direct gaze. And in both eyes: you. Looking at him. Always. When the painting debuted in the gallery’s main hall, critics called it “a study in obsession.” He called it accurate.
2. In an interview, he said you’re the only one who gets his sketches.
The host asked who his work goes to first — gallery, agent, press. He smiled lazily and answered, “Her.” The room stilled. “The raw ones. The incomplete. The brutal drafts no one else deserves to see.” He didn’t say your name. He didn’t have to. The moment he said it, you were already trending.
3. He delayed his own exhibition opening because you weren’t there yet.
The venue was full. Lights ready. Guests murmuring. But he stood at the entrance, fingers laced behind his back, perfectly calm. “She’s on the way,” he said. “She had a prior engagement.” No one questioned him. Later, when you finally arrived — graceful, composed, in a deep sapphire gown that matched the evening — only he noticed the tiny scratch on your knuckle. The faintest shadow of something darker, just beneath the perfume.
You smiled. He took your hand. And the doors opened like they’d been waiting for you all along.
4. Someone flirted with him. He looked at you. Then said: “I’m already spoken for. Permanently.”
It was charming. Playful. Someone touched his wrist, laughed softly, leaned a little too close. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t react. Just turned his head toward you. Found your eyes. Then said it — quietly, cleanly, like a closing signature on a finished masterpiece.
5. At a charity auction, he sold a painting titled: “Painted Between Her Breathing and Mine.”
The crowd didn’t know what to do with that. Some laughed nervously. Some applauded. The bidding started high and ended astronomical. But as the winning guest walked past you, holding the canvas with reverent hands — he still glanced back. At you. As if to say: That canvas holds the image. But I keep the original.
5 Times Rafayel Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway
1. He can disappear for three days and return with, “I just needed to stop being jealous.”
No warning. No calls. Just silence, like he fell off the planet. You panic. Rage. Rehearse five speeches. And then he walks in — composed, scented like night air and oil paint. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I was being irrational. Had to… recalibrate.” You want to scream. Instead, you breathe him in like he’s home.
2. He destroyed the career of a critic who called your photo “poorly lit.”
It wasn’t even a real insult. Just a throwaway line in a blog. But Raf read it. Once. And within a week, that critic was blacklisted from three galleries, publicly corrected by five curators, and accidentally misquoted in a viral controversy. You found out much later. He just looked at you and said, “No one calls shadow a flaw when it falls across you.”
3. He faked an illness so you wouldn’t leave for a mission.
Nothing dramatic. Just a cough. A warm forehead. You hesitated. Postponed. Stayed. The next morning, he was radiant. Healthy. Annoyingly smug. You narrowed your eyes. He only shrugged, kissed your wrist, and whispered, “I needed one more night. Forgive the performance.” You did. Of course you did. The guilt felt almost like foreplay.
4. He left your clothes wet in the wash so you’d wear his shirt instead.
Accident, he claimed. Timing. Cycles. But somehow, your entire outfit was still in the machine — cold, damp, and useless — while his favorite linen shirt lay folded neatly on the bed. You put it on. He watched you button it. And smiled like he'd won a silent war no one else even knew was happening.
5. He reads your messages without asking. Calmly.
You know it. He knows you know. He doesn’t deny it. Just traces your jaw one evening and says, “You don’t hide anything from me. That’s why it doesn’t count as intrusion.” And the worst part? He’s right. You stopped hiding a long time ago.
5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Xavier’s Obsessed With You
1. You nap on the wrong side of the bed.You nap on the wrong side of the bed. Not wrong, exactly. Just… not his. You’re curled up in the late-afternoon light, peaceful, quiet, unaware. He doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t move you. But when you stir, there’s a weight in the silence. His side of the bed is untouched. Pillow perfectly aligned. No warmth. No scent. And your blanket — tucked just a little tighter — like a quiet reminder that even when you’re here, something’s missing. Something he’s not sure how to ask for without sounding ridiculous. Like: your perfume. On his pillow. Where it should be.
2. You tell him about a dream. Someone else was in it.You describe it absently. A mission. A flash of danger. And a man — not him — at your side. He listens. Nods. Doesn’t blink. But that night, when he kisses you, his hand stays on the back of your neck longer than usual. And his mouth says I want you, but his grip says: you don’t forget me, even in sleep.
3. You keep something old, worn, unnamed.A keychain. A patch. A folded slip of paper. Nothing dramatic. But it’s always near. He asks, once: “What is that?” You smile. “Just something from a long time ago.” He nods. Never brings it up again. But two days later, he leaves something else beside it. Not to replace. Just to match the weight.
4. You let the barista choose your drink instead of him.You smiled. Said “sure, why not.” Took the new coffee without hesitation. He was beside you. Holding your usual. You didn’t notice. But when you left the café, his own drink sat untouched. And he walked a little faster. A little quieter. As if recalibrating the fact that maybe someone else knows your taste. Even if it’s just in coffee.
5. You close your laptop too fast when he walks in.“Just a movie,” you say. Too quickly. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t tilt his head. Just nods and sets his gloves on the table like he didn’t notice the flicker in your tone. Later, while checking your tabs, he sees the paused frame — teeth on skin, hands holding wrists, someone begging. Silently. His breath doesn’t change. His expression stays neutral. But when he finds you, hours later, he doesn’t speak. Just pins your arms above your head and kisses you until you can’t remember what the scene looked like — only what it felt like when it became real.
5 Lies Xavier Tells Himself About You
1. “I’m not jealous of whoever taught you how to fight like that.”He knows it doesn’t matter. It’s skill. It’s history. Efficiency passed from one warrior to another. He tells himself it’s irrelevant. But when he watches you move — precise, lethal, beautiful — something coils in his chest. Not because of the technique. But because someone else saw you become this version of yourself. And he didn’t.
2. “It’s logical to sleep apart sometimes.”
You need rest. Space. Post-mission decompression. He understands. It’s healthy. Statistically sound. But the first night you say “I’ll sleep in my own apartment,” the bed feels wrong. His internal balance off by degrees he can’t quantify. He tells himself it’s fine. Then stares at the ceiling for hours, heart syncing to a rhythm that isn’t there.
3. “It doesn’t bother me when you keep things to yourself.”
You’re independent. He respects that. Boundaries are natural. But you say “I’m fine” with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, and he catalogs ten micro-expressions that say otherwise. Still, he nods. Doesn’t push. Then replays your words in his head for the next three days, trying to solve you like a puzzle that refuses to open.
4. "I could walk away, if it ever came to that."
He tells himself he’s rational. Detached. If you chose something else — someone else — he would adapt. But deep down, he knows: he’s already memorized your weight in his arms, the way your name fits inside his silence. If it ever came to leaving… he wouldn’t walk. He’d stay exactly where you left him. Quiet. Waiting. Ruined.
5. "You wouldn’t lie to protect me. Would you?"
You say “it was nothing,” “I’m just tired,” “I handled it.” And he accepts it. On the surface. But his mind starts building alternate versions. Safer ones. Worse ones. Ones where you bled and said nothing. He tells himself you’d never hide real danger. But he still checks your vitals in the logs. Every time.
5 Things That Make Xavier Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)
1. You walk in wearing a bright yellow duck kigurumi.
Absurd. Fuzzy. Zipped up wrong. You yawn, mumble something about tea, and pad across the room like comfort incarnate. He looks up. Blinks once. And forgets what he was doing. The beak hood. The bare ankles. The way you scratch your neck, half-asleep. None of it should be seductive. But now he can’t look away. His gaze tracks you like threat assessment — only it's not danger he’s calculating. It’s proximity. Access. How long he can pretend he's unaffected… before you end up against the wall. Still wearing the duck. For now.
2. You adjust the chest plate of his armor.
No rush. Just fingertips over matte metal, sliding a buckle, pressing a clasp. Your hands linger longer than they need to. You don’t even realize you’re doing it. But he does. He’s counting your seconds, your pressure, the exact placement of your thumb. If anyone asks why his next shot missed the center by half an inch, it’s because you touched him like a secret no one else was allowed to see.
3. You peel off your combat gloves with your teeth.
It’s efficient. Quick. Practical. But the way your mouth closes around the strap and your fingers flex once, twice, before they’re bare —
He’s staring before he knows he is. Processing nothing but the curve of your jaw and the memory of that same mouth around his length. The second glove doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does he, honestly.
4. You wear a thin black choker.
No explanation. No warning. It’s not part of your gear. Has no field utility. But it’s there, snug against your throat like a promise no one else knows about. He sees it once and looks away. Sees it again and swallows too hard. The third time, he doesn’t look at all — he just shifts in his seat like everything in his world needs immediate recalibration.
5. You say “later” when he leans in.
Just a little. Enough to feel the pull. And you smile, soft, apologetic, not teasing — just... not now. He nods, like he understands. He always does. But from that second forward, every calculation, every breath, every cell in his body becomes attuned to the moment you say now. And when you finally do — he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask. He just takes, like patience was never part of the equation to begin with.
5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)
1. You moved in perfect sync — without saying a single word.
In the training hall, you didn’t say a word — but moved like a mirrored code. You shifted, he adjusted. You reached, he passed. No signals, no commands. Just two bodies in absolute sync. Someone watching whispered, “Do they rehearse this?” Someone else muttered, “No. That’s just them.” And suddenly, no one wanted to spar with either of you.
2. Someone called him “too quiet.” You didn’t let it slide.
It was a throwaway comment —“He’s so silent, it’s weird.” You didn’t even look up from your drink. “Then you’ve never heard him breathe next to you.” The room went still. Xavier didn’t react. But you felt it — how he went still too, the way his attention locked fully on you. As if your words changed the temperature.
3. He braided your hair for three weeks while your wrist healed.
At your desk. Between reports. No comments. No hesitation. Just practiced hands and quiet efficiency, like it belonged in the schedule. And maybe it wasn’t romantic. Or loud. But after that, no one ever looked at you the same way — because somehow, without trying, the two of you had redefined what closeness looked like.
4. You didn’t ask for his jacket. You didn’t have to.
A shift in the wind. Goosebumps on your arms. No complaint, no drama. He just stepped behind you, slid his cardigan onto your shoulders like it belonged there, and said nothing. The couple walking by paused. Stared. You didn’t. You were already reaching for his hand.
5. There’s a photo of you on his desk.
Just you, caught mid-laugh, in natural light. Among tactical reports and encrypted drives. He never explains it. Never acknowledges it. But everyone who enters that room sees it. And no one ever asks if he's serious about you. They already know.
5 Times Xavier Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway
1. He monitors your meals like it’s a clinical trial.
“You didn’t eat enough protein today.” “That pastry had no nutritional value.” “Are you hydrating?” He says it softly. Calmly. Like a doctor. Like someone who cares. And yet — you’ve seen him survive three days on black coffee and whatever snack bar was closest to his hand. You mention this once. He pauses. Then says, “That’s different. I’m used to operating under stress. You’re not.” End of discussion.
2. He didn’t argue. He made the argument disappear.
You disagreed about something small. Nothing dramatic. Just opposing views. He didn’t push back. Just nodded, quiet. Said, “If that’s what you think.” Later, you realized the entire issue — schedule, person, condition — was gone. Resolved. Removed. Replaced. No apology. No discussion. Just silence... and a solution that left you with nothing to win.
3. He never asked where you’d been.Not once. Not even after you were late. Not even when your message came hours too late. He didn’t accuse. Didn’t guess. He already knew. Tracked your path, logged your signal drift, checked your pulse history. All without a word. And still held the door open when you arrived.
4. He always calls via video when you’re in another city.He never misses a day. Never just texts. Always video. He says he likes seeing your face. That it “grounds him.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe. But every time the screen lights up, you notice how carefully his eyes scan the room behind you. How his voice sounds different if there’s movement. How he never quite hangs up until you say, “I’m alone. It’s quiet here.” Only then does he relax. A little. Maybe.
5. You told him, “Sometimes, you scare me.” He said, “Good.”It slipped out. Low. Uncertain. Not a joke, not an accusation — just the truth. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften. Just met your eyes and said, calm as ever, “Good. Then you’ll stay alert.” And for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was warning you… or protecting you from something only he could see coming.
5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Sylus’s Obsessed With You
1. You didn’t tag him. He made sure the world knew anyway.You posted a photo. Cute. Stylish. Perfect lighting. But no mention of him. No tag. No trace. He reposted it within minutes. Same photo. New caption: “Correction: mine.” It got five times the reach. And suddenly, everyone knew better.
2. Someone else made you laugh. Sylus didn’t.The waiter was charming. A little too witty. You laughed — loud, unfiltered. Sylus just raised a brow, pulled out his wallet, and handed the man $2000. “For your last night in customer service,” he said. He smiled. You choked on your wine. The waiter never came back.
3. You called some man a friend. Sylus ran a background check.“He’s just a friend,” you said. Lightly. Barely thinking. Sylus smiled. Tilted his head. “I’m just a man with access to his tax history.”And that was the end of that conversation.
4. You said another man had a nice voice. Sylus gave you no air.It was innocent. Harmless. “His voice is kind of nice.” Sylus said nothing. Just waited. That night, he read you poetry in three languages, one line at a time — mouth against your neck, breasts, stomach, thighs — until you begged him to stop. Not because you wanted him to. Because you physically couldn’t take more.
5. You forgot to wear his ring. He didn’t forget anything.It wasn’t intentional. You were rushing. Distracted. But he noticed. Of course he did. He said nothing all day. Then, that night — when you were breathless, undone, on your knees — he took your hand, kissed your finger, and slid the ring back into place. Slowly. Deliberately. Like sealing a deal you forgot you signed.
5 Lies Sylus Tells Himself About You
1. “I didn’t pick your outfit to match mine. Must’ve been the stylist.”It was just coincidence. That your lipstick matched his cufflinks. That your dress followed the same line as his collarbones. That when you walked in together, people paused — like royalty had arrived. He didn’t say a word. Just looked at you once. And didn’t look away for the rest of the night.
2. “I’m not furious that I wasn’t your first.”He says it doesn’t matter. Shrugs. “I’m not a teenager.” And yet, the thought of someone else touching you before him? It coils in his chest like smoke that won’t clear. He tells himself you chose him now — and that’s what counts. But the next time you moan his name, he fucks you hard enough to make sure no one else’s ever mattered.
3. “I don’t answer your messages instantly. I’m just always holding the phone.”He just… saw it. Right away. Just happened to be holding his phone. Just happened to pause mid-meeting, mid-deal, mid-war — to write: “Be safe.” You tease him for how fast he replies. He teases back. And never mentions the part where your name makes him drop everything.
4. “I’m not obsessed with the way you say my name when you’re annoyed.”You do it without thinking. That exact tone. That breath. That syllable dipped in heat. He rolls his eyes. Says, “What now, kitten?” But every time it happens — he shifts closer. Hears it again later in his head. And stores it next to the version you whisper when you want him most.
5. “I wouldn’t beg. If it came to that. …But only for you. And only once.”He’s not that man. He doesn’t plead. Doesn’t bend. But when he thinks of you leaving — really leaving — something dark and fragile coils behind his ribs. He tells himself he’d let you go. That he wouldn’t chase. But even in the lie… he’s already halfway down the hallway.
5 Things That Make Sylus Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)
1. You ask him to zip your dress. Then don’t wear anything underneath.
It’s casual. Innocent. “Help me?” You turn your back, lift your hair, and wait. He moves slow — almost reverent. But when his fingers meet bare skin where silk should be… he doesn’t finish the zip. He turns you around, steps in close, and says, “You came dressed for trouble. Good. So did I.”
2. You say “don’t be gentle” with a smile that promises you’ll say it again, louder.
He always controls the pace. The heat. The rhythm. But when you lean in, lips brushing his ear, and whisper those words — something in him fractures. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t give you time to change your mind. He just obeys. And makes sure you feel the echo for days.
3. You use his tie to pull him into a kiss.
He likes power. Centered, composed. Collar straight, voice cool. But when you grab that perfect silk tie, wrap it around your fingers, and yank — he stumbles into you like a man starved. You kiss him once. He kisses you back like vengeance.
4. You say “yes, sir” in a tone that means the opposite.
You drawl it. Sweet. Defiant. Like you know exactly what it does to him. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t smile. Just leans in, voice low against your throat, and says, “Keep using that tone, kitten. Let’s see how long you last when I take it seriously.” You don’t last long. Not that night.
5. You put on his ring and ask, “So what does this buy me?”
It’s a joke. Almost. You twirl it on your finger, playful, reckless. He watches. Then smiles slow, wicked. “That?” he says, stepping closer. “That buys you a night where I don’t stop until you forget your own name.” And just like that, you do.
5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)
1. The earring incident at the casino.
You dropped it. Somewhere between the blackjack table and the bar. Nothing dramatic — until your face shifted. That quiet flicker of loss. Sylus didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just raised a brow. And a dozen seasoned criminals began crawling across the velvet floor. They found it in twenty minutes. You wore it for the rest of the night. He wore the look of a man who’d moved the world back into place.
2. The arrivals are always his favorite part.
You come back from missions — tired, sore, alive. And there it is: his sportscar. Engine humming. He’s waiting with a bouquet of roses so rare you don’t recognize half the species. The entire terminal watches. You don’t. You’re too busy smiling. He says, “Welcome home.” And just like that, the war disappears from your shoulders.
3. The seat at the head of the table.
It was a high-stakes meeting. Old money. Dangerous names. Sylus led you in by the hand — then pulled out his chair. You blinked. He said nothing. And while you sat at the head, calm and poised, he stood behind you like a king who knows exactly where real power sits. No one even dared raise a brow.
4. The auction. Your hand. His silence.
He gave you the paddle. Not instructions. You bid on instinct — numbers rising, tension thick. The item? A rare protocore with blackout-level clearance. Sylus didn’t flinch. Not once.
And when the gavel dropped — he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and said, “You can spend my money however you want, kitten. Just make sure they see you doing it.”
5. The moment the room lost him to you.
It was mid-negotiation. Tense. Crucial. Every word counted. But across the table, your fingers tapped. Your eyes glazed. You were bored. Sylus watched. Then stood. “Deal’s done,” he said. “You’ll take our terms.” And somehow, they did. Because the only person in the room whose attention he wanted — was already drifting.
5 Times Sylus Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway
1. He knows what’s in your delivery before you do.
No one told him. But every time you order something — clothes, tech, vitamins — it’s re-screened. Not stopped. Not blocked. Just… “verified.” You only noticed when your favorite moisturizer showed up improved. New formula. Better scent. Hand-selected. Of course.
2. He said he’d put you on IV if you skip another meal.
You were busy. Distracted. He asked what you’d eaten. You said, “Does coffee count?” He laughed. Once. And muttered something about installing a medical station in your apartment.
He was “joking.” Until you saw the discreet courier bring an IV stand the next day. Just in case.
3. He took you to dinner at a place you hadn’t been since Academy.
You didn’t realize where you were — until you saw your ex across the room. The one who cheated. Sylus just smiled. You were in a dress that made people stop breathing. He ordered champagne. Lobster. Left a four-digit tip. And made sure your ex saw everything. Including the way you kissed Sylus on the way out.
4. He froze your accounts. Just to prove a point.
You said you didn’t need his money. You insisted on “independence.” So he waited until your card declined at the pharmacy. Then texted: “You have my black card. Use it. Or stay home.”
You gave in. He sent flowers.
5. He apologized like a storm front.
You fought. It was ugly. The next day, a gift arrived at HQ. Then another. Then six more. By day four, your car was full. You marched to his door, furious. He opened it, leaned against the frame, and said, “Took you long enough. Come yell at me. I’ll pour the wine.”
