Which movie do you think Caleb's new card is based on?
Ghost
Wuthering Heights
Voting ended onJun 15
Personally I haven't seen either but I am a Wuthering Heights book enthusiast and thats not the vibe at all in his card. MC is at the window and Caleb does give Heathcliff vibes, but the general vibe is a lot closer to Ghost imo, especially because WH takes place in the English moors, which are famously dark and brooding
Which movie do you think Caleb's new card is based on?
Ghost
Wuthering Heights
Voting ended onJun 15
Personally I haven't seen either but I am a Wuthering Heights book enthusiast and thats not the vibe at all in his card. MC is at the window and Caleb does give Heathcliff vibes, but the general vibe is a lot closer to Ghost imo, especially because WH takes place in the English moors, which are famously dark and brooding
Guys why does only Zayne have a movie with a happy ending? I haven't seen Casablanca (Sylus) so I can't speak for him, but everyone else got famously tragic endings, so lads really isnt beating the love and depression allegations
When your daughter's psychiatrist suggests you get in touch with your abusive ex-husband in prison for her sake, you're not thrilled. Fortunately for you, he's dead. Unfortunately for you, someone else is alive and very keen on playing the part of a doting father. wc: 3.1k
Anyone who saw the way you were glaring at the red envelope sitting on your kitchen counter would assume you were trying to vaporize it through thought alone.
When your daughter's recuring nightmares had made you consult a children's psychiatrist, she'd come to the conclusion that your daughter missed her deadbeat of a father.
"He's in jail" You'd deadpanned.
"Perhaps, she could visit?"
"Thank you"
You weren't interested in any suggestions the psychiatrist had to make that revolved around getting your daughter involved with your criminal of a husband. Not that you could even if you wanted to.
Hell didn't really have a visitors' policy.
As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.
Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.
You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.
"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"
Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."
"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.
You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.
"Would you like to write him a letter?"
Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.
Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!
If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.
It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"
You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.
"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"
When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.
You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.
My dearest Princess,
Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.
P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.
Love,
Daddy
Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?
The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.
So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.
When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.
I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.
I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:
I will not be telling her anything of the sort.
So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.
Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.
She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?
You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.
Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.
Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.
He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.
One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.
Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?
You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.
If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.
That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.
The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.
You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.
The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.
Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.
You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.
The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.
Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.
By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.
You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.
You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.
I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.
You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.
But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.
You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.
In sickness and in health,
Daddy
As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.
"Mail!"
Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.
Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.
The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.
When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.
He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"
The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"
But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.
For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.
Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.
The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.
This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.
He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"
The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.
Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.
He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.
He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.
Like always, she'd signed it
He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.
Luv u forehver
Princess Bunny
Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.
I've attached a picture of her.
He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.
Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.
Beautiful, isn't she?
She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.
In happiness and in sorrow,
Mommy
As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.
Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?
To have and to hold,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Do you want my ultrasound too?
For better or for worse,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.
For richer or for poorer,
Daddy
Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.
To love and to cherish,
Mommy
Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,
Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.
Till' death do us part,
Daddy
A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3
Summary: You catch the bogeyman of the criminal underworld on a regular Wednesday during your patrol—much to everyone’s surprise. (Including yours.)
Word Count: 3.7k
Tags: crack idk what else to tell you, enamoured!sylus, stressed!mc, stressed!association, you don't remember your former lover, said former lover is under the impression that you're roleplaying and is ecstatic
A/N: sowwy, this one’s just a Funny ha-ha that i had to get out my system... i was in the middle of writing SP, promise 😔😔
also the image header looks too serious for ts.
As far as jobs go, yours isn’t exactly the most thrilling. You can admit that.
Being born with an Anhausen-class type evol, most people would assume you’d naturally end up as a hunter. And while they’re not wrong in that regard, you don’t necessarily have any grand aspirations of making it into the “big leagues.” Besides, rare as it may be, your evol isn’t anything spectacular. Just a weak enhancement type that does little more than give someone a quick boost, comparable to a human-bottled Powerade.
You’re content to leave the spotlight and glory to those who actually deserve it, to the city’s true protectors. You were never cut out for that kind of life anyway.
Someone from special ops—the highly venerated UNICORNS team—had taken an interest in training you, believing your evol is something you could develop and strengthen over time. But you stood firm, turning down the offer politely, content with simply being part of a well-respected organization. And, more importantly, having to work in a safer department compared to your risk-chasing colleagues.
(You saw the statistics. You think you’re good.)
So here you are, freshly licensed as a probie hunter—though your role leans more towards that of a constable; your duties limited to daytime patrols and breaking up petty disputes, usually between rowdy teens picking fights in parks and other public spaces.
It’s a lovely day out in Linkon, and you’d like to think you’re getting more familiar with your assigned route, and that the familiar faces are getting used to seeing you around, too. You give a small wave to the middle-aged man who usually walks his adorable dachshund around this time of the evening.
You’re just past the border between the central district and a rather deserted stretch before the next zone area. Your patrol hours might be a little later in the day, sure, but the most excitement you’ve had in the month since you started was chasing down a petty thief who’d snatched a panicked old lady’s purse. He also ended up faceplanting over a kid’s stray skateboard, and the arrest was over before it even began. So it’s not too bad, really.
Boring’s fine. Boring means no trouble, no crime, and people are safe. You’d take that over any kind of high-level catastrophe, any day.
Well, everything seems to be the same as usual… apart from the massive black motorcycle parked haphazardly in a loading zone near the pedestrian lane at a road junction.
You sigh in disapproval, already making your way towards the beast of a thing, looking distinctly out of place among the jacaranda trees and squeaky-clean side roads. The owner is nowhere to be found. You give it a minute or two, allowing the benefit of doubt that they might’ve just ducked into a nearby shop to grab something quickly.
But after a full five minutes of impatient foot tapping, you resign yourself to the inevitable. The motorcycle’s getting a ticket.
Scribbling away on the yellow paper, you tear the slip from your pad and wedge it into the small space between the handlebars and one of the many rubber cables. It’s a minor inconvenience at best for the irresponsible driver, but that’s on them for parking willy-nilly in this part of town.
Such is life. You begin to turn away, ready to continue your patrol, when a deep, masculine voice sounds from behind you:
“Surely, crossing paths after all the ways I’d imagined orchestrating our first meeting would be more exciting than this.” The voice carries a note of incredulity, and—are you imagining it? Something almost fond. “Oh, kitten. What are the odds?”
You hold back a sigh; just your luck that the driver returns the moment you’ve already slapped a violation onto their precious eyesore of a vehicle.
Turning around, you spot a tall man dressed head to toe in black leather, as if he’d materialized out of nowhere, a dangerously rakish grin showing a glint of teeth. Apart from the overly familiar way he's addressed you, there’s something unsettling about him. Something recognizable in the red of his eyes as they meet yours.
…It takes you an embarrassing second too long before the realization hits, ice flooding your veins as you clock exactly who you’re standing face to face with.
“Y-you–!” The moment you register that the man standing in front of you is the same one plastered across the Hunters’ bulletin board—front and center of every Most Wanted poster on this planet and the next, with a bounty so high that the number's frankly fucking ridiculous to think about—you fumble for the walkie-talkie at your belt, hand shaking as you raise your other one instinctively.
To what? You’re not so insane as to think you have any chance of stopping the infamous criminal, who could probably disintegrate you with nothing but pure will, from doing anything at all. And the horror of even pretending you could doesn’t hit you until said criminal lets out a chuckle.
You gawk at him, bug-eyed, frozen in place, your hand hovering over the radio at your hip. But the Overlord of Evil™ makes no move to stop you.
If anything, he watches your shaking form with fascination, something inexplicably charmed in the way he stares. And for a moment, you’re convinced you might’ve already died somewhere between forming that thought and now, because what the hell.
The two of you stand there, only a few feet apart, neither quite registering the other’s innermost turmoil. You’re sweating bullets, visibly panicking—while he, for reasons entirely unknown to you, looks positively ecstatic.
_
The most feared man in the universe stares down at his long-lost lover, finally found after years of chasing nothing but echoes of you.
Of course, he’s known for some time that you chose to become an enforcer of the law. The irony hasn’t escaped him. He’s watched from the shadows, impossibly patient, waiting for the right moment to take you back into his arms… to reclaim what was once his, to resume the whirlwind romance you two always seem to leave unfinished.
And now, here you are.
Irresistible. Looking downright adorable in that little hunter uniform, and the sight of you alone awakens something possessive and ancient in him. He reins it in, forces the tempestuous dragon in him to heed, even as it strains toward the treasure set so carelessly before it. The most precious one.
The urge to covet nearly overtakes the iron control he’s known for—and they call him the criminal. Oh, if only they knew the kind of power you held over him.
Sylus finds it… odd, that you look at him with fear instead of what he’d expected; surprise, perhaps, a flicker of excitement, if not outright affection. After all, what is he if not your devoted lover, returned to you as he’s always promised?
It must be his reputation then, he decides. Unfortunately, it precedes him in the worst possible way. And with a heaviness almost akin to regret in his chest, he recognizes the position it puts you in. Of course you can’t simply run into his arms this time.
Ah, well.
Even so, it won’t do.
He can’t have the other half of his soul looking at him like something to be petrified of. His bleeding heart couldn’t bear it for much longer.
So–
“Oh, how unfortunate.” Sylus raises his hands in a languid, almost mocking display of surrender. “After everything… this is what it comes to. I’ve finally been bested.”
His sweetheart blinks owlishly at him, hand twitching over the crackling radio device. He adjusts his expression into something faintly put-upon, hoping it could be convincing enough.
“Caught in the middle of an illegal act. How dreadfully embarrassing.” Sylus finds himself enjoying this bout of dramatics, holding both wrists out as he strides slowly towards you, as though ready to lay himself metaphorically prostrate at your whim. “It appears there is no other choice but to surrender myself to you, formidable, little hunter.”
The way he croons the last three words in layers of saccharine affection shakes you to the core. “What the fuck…” You seem to whisper to yourself, shaking your head in a manner that conveys your disbelief, but also propels you to take action, as confused as you are.
How precious. Sylus quirks a smirk he only barely bothers to suppress when your eyes dart up to meet his, and he blinks at you with feigned innocence.
He gestures then, down to his joined hands, as if to suggest what you’re meant to do.
He didn't quite expect the thrill that rouses him when your hand slowly moves for the silver cuffs—standard issue, unremarkable, and something he could slip out of in a fraction of a second—hooked at your belt. He remains perfectly still as you nervously secure the metal bands around his wrists.
“Y-you have the right to remain s-silent. Any… anything can be used against you—” you begin mumbling out his rights, and he almost coos at the way you falter over the words.
His heart can’t help but stutter when an electrifying current passes through him at the brush of your fingertips against his skin as you fiddle with the lock. Letting out a lovesick sigh, he forces himself to resist the urge to catch your hands, draw you in, and kiss you senseless right there in the middle of the street.
It’s a tempting, a dangerously tempting, thought.
But perhaps he’s right in assuming that any loud, sudden, and very public display of affection would only spook you further—that you’d retreat into yourself, embarrassed… perhaps even at the thought of having to arrest your husband lover in broad daylight. And he’s heady, still, from finally being in your presence after what feels like eons. So much so that he isn’t thinking quite as clearly as he should.
What he does know is this: being arrested by you is both his pleasure and his privilege. And, at the very least, guarantees him more time with his beloved.
He doesn’t give a shit that he’s in the middle of being incarcerated. If the enforcer in question is you, he’s more than willing to be locked away. (He can always escape later, once your shift ends.) He’s spent far too long without you, and he’ll be damned if he squanders any opportunity to make up for it.
And if that means playing nice, sitting through endless bureaucracy, then so be it. The Hunters Association should consider themselves fortunate, to have his wife working for them.
_
Your perp (hah!) tries to make small talk as you wait very, very impatiently for backup to arrive and take the two of you to head office. You have no idea why he’s asking how you take your coffee, or what your plans are for the weekend, or why he seems to think you’d be receptive to entertaining any kind of conversation with him.
You see a car pull up in your periphery, and you let out a big sigh of relief from finally being free, for the time being, from the debilitating tension brewing between you and the unnervingly affable man at your side, waiting for someone—hopefully more equipped than you—to take in the S-rank criminal.
A mid-rank hunter steps out, calling your name with a note of concern and clearly have yet to take a proper look at the man you’ve got in cuffs, leaning far too comfortably against his motorcycle.
“–hey, is everything okay? You didn’t state the exact reason for calling back-u–what in the everloving FUCK—”
He’s finally seen said reason for back-up, then.
“Hm. It appears our time’s being cut short. Are you sure you couldn’t just take me in yourself? I'm happy for you to drive the motorcycle.” He suggests hopefully, almost sounding as if he’d willingly be detained if it were you.
You continue to pointedly ignore the criminal in question.
“P-please, let’s just get this over with,” you tell the hunter, who’s staring at your first arrest of the day with the same bug-eyed way you were just half an hour ago. “I want him out of here.”
“Is–is this some kind of elaborate joke?” the hunter—who, rather unhelpfully, goes by the name of Hunter—squeaks, gesticulating wildly.
You let out a helpless sound, shrugging in defeat. At almost the exact same time, you and your (large) suspect say:
“I have no idea, god.”
“Of course not. Are you doubting your colleague’s skill?”
There’s a sharpness to the devil, villain, imposing man’s tone, and Hunter notes, somewhat terrified, that the red in his right eye seems to flare at the end of the sentence.
He gulps. “N-no.”
It takes everything in the seasoned hunter to tamp down the sir that nearly slips from his mouth under the criminal’s ire—an anger that, for some reason, seems reserved only for him, and not for you, the one who actually made the arrest.
The two of you share a stressed look before shooting a glance back at the now amicable criminal, who seems to brighten the moment you give him your attention. When you hover a palm over the small of his back in some semblance of control as you guide him along, the terrifying man hums a contented sound; something you answer with a distressed one of your own.
Still, he’s compliant. And everything goes off without a hitch as you usher him into the backseat of the standard patrol car (one he might be just a little too big for).
…It’s the biggest fish two regular patrolling hunters have ever caught in the history of arrests. It’s almost as if this is all a very obvious ploy for something, or being the butt of the most fucked-up joke ever. But what else are the two of you supposed to do?
_
“And on Channel Three, we have breaking news! Live from the Hunters Association: the high-profile leader of Onychinus has finally been captured after years of cold leads and failed attempts to take the criminal kingpin in. The arrest was made by a patrolling hunter, who went from issuing a parking ticket to apprehending the mastermind behind three hundred and fifty-five listed offenses—”
“Uh…” Kieran squints at the TV from where he and his twin had been watching Super Hunters before the urgent news alert cuts in. “Is that–? Is that boss? Did he send out an SOS we missed?”
Luke blinks at the mugshot of the smirking figure, who doesn’t appear any worse for wear. If anything, their boss looks like he’s having the time of his life.
“Yeah… but he doesn’t really look like he’s in trouble...”
“What, you think he turned himself in on purpose?” Kieran asks, frowning.
His twin shrugs. “The woman he’s been stalking for months works at the Association, right? He’s probably just making a move on her, finally.”
Kieran lets out a small, “huh,” but figures their cryptic leader has it under control before switching to Disney+.
_
In the middle of the Hunters precinct, pandemonium breaks out. The news that the Sylus—relentless conqueror, elusive Godfather of the N109 Zone—has been brought in spreads like wildfire, putting everyone on edge.
The Association has been in lockdown since the moment he entered the building, and every Hunter worth their dime has been ordered to stand guard for any potential subterfuge or sabotage. Alpha, Bravo, and Delta teams are quickly called into position; securing entry points, locking down corridors, and establishing a hasty perimeter in case anything goes catastrophically sideways.
Meanwhile, the crime lord sits shackled in a sparse holding room. Your standard cuffs replaced with evol-suppressing restraints, a change he allowed without resistance when you were the one to make it, and he waits patiently for his hunter to enter and begin whatever passes for standard protocol.
He can’t quite suppress the flicker of excitement at the thought of having you alone again. An illusion of privacy, yes—but one that could easily be remedied. And while he has no intention of sharing anything remotely intimate with your Association, he has to admit that watching you in action stirs something in him all the same.
How exhilarating it is, to be with you in every capacity.
-
-
Unbeknownst to him—or perhaps he knows and simply doesn’t care—Captain Jenna and another equally high-ranking official tense at the smile that creeps onto the disconcerting man’s face for no apparent reason, watching from behind the one-way mirror.
“Status?”
“Stable. No signs of tampering with our systems, and no external interference detected.”
“No traces of metaflux or anything similar?”
“No, Captain.”
Captain Jenna exhales. “Copy. Stay on guard. He may be anticipating internal sabotage. Or worse.”
…Qin Che. What is your angle?
_
A scuffle at the door draws his attention, followed by the turn of the handle. Sylus tilts his head in anticipation.
The disappointment is immediate, almost palpable, when someone else steps into the room—someone who isn’t you. His expression hardens, and he makes no effort to hide his displeasure towards the person in offensively idiotic hunter garb.
(You wear something similar, but he could never think of yours as the same. On you, it’s the most beautiful uniform… one he can’t wait to peel off in the privacy of his own abode, once he’s brought you home, where you belong.)
The hunter clears their throat as they takes a seat in front of the criminal. “Mr Qin, I hope we can begin the intake procedure. It’s standard protocol, I’m afraid.”
Sylus blinks boredly, not deigning to answer. Where were you?
“Please state your full name for the record.”
Silence.
“Mr Qin,” the hunter repeats, more firmly. “Please state your full name for the record.”
“Let’s not waste any more of our time,” the silver-haired man drawls. “I won’t be answering any questions unless the hunter who made my arrest is the one conducting the interrogation.”
The hunter in front of him hesitates, trying to make sense of the demand. “Unfortunately, she doesn’t have the necessary clearance to conduct an interrogation, nor has she been properly trained for it. It would be in our best shared interest to proceed with the briefing as intended.”
“In our best shared interest,” Sylus repeats, baring his teeth—not in any semblance of a smile, but something far more sinister. “You will bring her to me, or we will have nothing further to discuss.”
“Is that a threat, Mr Qin?”
Sylus, with remarkable serenity, breaks free from the cuffs with an ease that makes them seem like nothing more than decorative foil.
The hunter in front of him scrambles to their feet.
“Take it how you’d like. But I would like–” the crimson in his eyes burns like hellfire as he emphasizes, “–to be processed by her. Only her.”
The hunter barely has time to reach for their weapon before black and red whips lash out, coiling around their limbs and hurling them headfirst across the room into a wall.
“I do not like repeating myself,” Sylus says, with no vested interest in the figure lying on the floor with limbs askew. “Scram.”
An alarm blares from outside, followed by a surge of commotion; shouts to get in position echo loudly down the halls. He’d wager a team will barge in any second now, and he sighs. He’d hoped for a little more time with you before the inevitable chaos, but it seems his stroke of good luck has finally run its course. Sylus pushes himself to his feet with effortless ease, like a man entirely unconcerned with his captivity, as if he’s already expected the current situation and has simply grown bored of playing pretend.
The noise outside swells into a sharp crescendo and he decides it’s time to leave.
Teleporting out would be easiest. He doubts you’d appreciate it if he chose a more violent way of exiting the building. One that is, for all intents and purposes, still your workplace.
Before he can take another step— “STOP!”
And stop he did. Not out of self-preservation, not because of any mind-control evol or compliance to whichever this Association deems as proper authority. But out of pure delight at the sound of your voice.
“S–sit back down!” you bark, nerves fraying your otherwise commanding tone. “Now!”
So he follows. His gaze settles on your shaking form, a standard-issue gun trained on him; his eyes glint as he lowers himself slowly, careful not to spook you.
He raises his palms beside his head in a show of submission as he sits back down, just as you wished.
“Hello, sweetie.” He smiles up at you, drinking in the furrow of your brows, the angry jut of your lip like a man parched. “I was just asking for you.”
“I-I’m not your sweetie,” you grouse out stubbornly, your cheeks pinking at the unexpected pet name.
Has he embarrassed you? “I apologize, Miss Hunter.” Sylus dips his head in a show of contrition, as if concerned he might have given you the impression he was disregarding your rank in your station. “Nevertheless, you promised you’d process me.”
When did you ever—
Focus. “Will you be cooperative if I–if I did?”
“You have my word.”
“You’ll answer whatever I ask?”
“Of course.” For you? Always. Though he might omit a few details, forgive him, considering the two of you are still in the presence of highly annoying nuisances. But once you’re alone… he’ll tell you anything, everything you desire to know.
You tiptoe closer, avoiding the prone body in the corner. Glancing surreptitiously, you check to make sure the hunter is still alive. He is. However, unconscious.
You swallow. Please don’t let that be you in five minutes.
Fuck being a hunter. Fuck this Association. You lament morosely, recalling how you’d been pushed into the room for damage control, promised—far too quickly—that the entire Alpha team was on standby outside, as if you were nothing more than expendable bait. This is so above my pay grade.
Hesitant, you pull back the chair and settle into the seat in front of the powerful man who demands your audience, a foreboding feeling sitting heavy in your chest; that you’ve just entangled yourself in the web of a spider with no intention of letting you go.
“Shall we begin?” he says in a conciliatory tone, the same damned smile playing on his lips.
Fuck me, you whine inwardly.
…
(Good thing the man in front of you can’t hear your thoughts, yes?)
he’s not supposed to be there yet. that’s the first thought that hits you as you step into tolan wildlife park, hands still clutching the small bag of things you’d prepared.
you’d planned everything, every detail and every step. from retracing where you spent his first birthday together… to the quiet little surprise waiting at the end.
luke and kieran said he’d love it. (they were far too excited about it, in hindsight.) you follow the familiar path, your footsteps slowing as something feels… off.
too quiet and definitely too perfect. then you see it. petals, white and red, scattered carefully along the walkway. your brows knit together.
“…what?”
you step forward slowly, heart beginning to race for reasons you don’t quite understand. this wasn’t your doing. you definitely didn’t plan this.
the path leads you further in, the world around you fading into the background as your focus narrows, until you reach the end. and stop, completely.
he’s already there. sylus. the love of your life, standing at the centre of it all like he’s been waiting only for you.
your breath catches. he’s dressed in the outfit you picked out for him, the one you gave him for today, like he followed your instructions perfectly… but this, this wasn’t part of your plan.
“…sylus?”
your voice comes out softer than you expect. he doesn’t answer straight away. instead, he walks toward you. slow and measured. like he’s grounding himself with every step.
then he reaches you and takes your hands in his. you immediately feel it. the slight tremble. your eyes widen just a little.
“sylus… what’s...."
“four years ago,” he starts quietly, cutting you off before you can spiral, “I wouldn’t have imagined this.”
your heart stutters. he’s not looking away. not even for a second.
“i didn’t celebrate birthdays. didn’t care for them.” a small breath leaves him. “they were just… another day.”
his thumbs brush lightly over your knuckles.
“but then you came into my life.” your throat tightens.
“and now…” he lets out the faintest, almost disbelieving huff, “it’s the one day i look forward to the most.” tears begin to blur your vision.
“sylus…”
“this year,” he continues, voice softer now, steadier despite the way his hands still betray him, “there isn’t anything I want.” a pause and then...
“there’s only you.” before you can react, he lets go of one of your hands. and drops to one knee. your breath leaves you. like the world just, stops. he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small box and opens it.
the ring catches the light. “i’ve had everything I never thought I deserved… because of you,” he says, looking up at you like you’re the only thing that exists. “so there’s no gift in this world that could compare to having you beside me.”
your tears spill over. completely, utterly overwhelmed.
“…sylus....”
“will you marry me, my love?”
your hands fly to your mouth. a soft, broken laugh escapes you through your tears. you don’t even think.
“yes.” it comes out instantly, breathless and certain.
“yes, of course, yes.”
relief floods his expression so quickly it almost makes you cry harder. he slides the ring onto your finger, hands still warm, still slightly shaking and the moment it settles, you launch yourself at him. arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you pull him into a kiss. one that's very messy, emotional and absolutely perfect.
“i love you,” you mumble against his lips, voice trembling. his arms come around you instantly, holding you like he never plans to let go.
“…i love you more, my beautiful fiancé.”
and for the first time, his birthday feels like something worth celebrating. because this time he gets to keep you forever.
you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes still glossy, a soft, breathless smile forming on your lips.
“…happy birthday, my handsome fiancé.”
~
a/n: happy birthday sylus!! i totally didn't cry happy tears while writing this last week 🥹✨
Sylus had spent years of his life imagining what it would be like to see you again. He had pictured countless reunions with you, dreaming of the day he could hold you again. No matter how many scenarios he had cooked up in the vast expanse of his mind, he never once could have seen the way you look at him with fear rather than recognition. Where once there was love was now a face painted with disgust and rejection pointed directly at him. So many years spent planning for the worst and anticipating every negative outcome, but you managed to defy his expectations, even in this lifetime. He lets you threaten him, hands you the gun, even, but he helps himself to your hand. His hand was always bigger than yours, and he cherished the warmth of your hands intertwining. This was the only pleasure he allowed himself, his one indulgence. He tells you to shoot him in the chest, taunting you to see the spirit he remembers so vividly. It doesn't matter to him when the gunshot goes off, as long as he gets to hold your hand in this life. The same hands that cradled him, begging him to stay, or the hands that you forcibly linked together, red energy pulsing between the two of you, were now the hands that pulled the trigger. He should find it in himself to get angry, but his only thought in the moment is that your hands were just as perfect as he remembered.
Summary: Sylus finds his forever with you.
A.N: Wifeguy Sylus has my heart
Content: Mild angst, slight spoilers, mentions of myths (and also the arena because of course), Sylus is madly in love with you
------------------------☆☆☆----------------------
"I love you. In life and in death, I will love you. Even as the stars burn cold, and the oceans run dry, I vow to stay by your side. There is no force in this universe that could tear us apart.”
Sylus had never imagined he could be deserving of such a pure form of happiness, and yet here he is. His beloved wife, lying by his side, asleep in his arms. Your hair is fanned out across the pillow, features soft with sleep.
The wedding was quiet, private. The two of you exchanged vows in a cathedral that was never meant to exist in this world. High, arched ceilings and intricate stained glass windows. It was a place that held more history than it had any right to. A sorceress and her dragon forging the most unbreakable of bonds. A mage and her archfiend—two tormented immortals—finding their final resting place. A girl and a boy, tending to each other’s wounds in this sanctuary after escaping from somewhere worse than hell.
Two souls, entwined across lifetimes. Two souls, finding their peace after an eternity of pain.
Sylus does not cry easily, and still, when you shift closer, muttering his name in your sleep, his vision begins to blur. He presses his face into your hair, arms tightening around you. His wife. He doesn’t understand why you chose him. Why you let him hold you with bloodstained hands. Some part of him still fears that you will leave him one day—replace him with someone better, safer, who doesn’t carry the weight of countless lives cut short. When you nuzzle against his chest, the tears begin to fall. Here you are, sleeping beside the most dangerous man in the N109 Zone. You trusted him enough to bind yourself to him. That, more than anything, quiets the turmoil in his mind. He presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head, lips lingering longer than strictly necessary.
Your lips part in a sleepy sound, before you say something that makes his heart clench.
“My dragon. . .”
“I’m here, beloved.” And he will raze entire galaxies before he loses you again.
I saw a tiktok that said Sylus isn’t actually a red flag cus “if you had your memories as MC [in the first meeting] it would’ve been completely consensual” uhhhh no… it would not have been. We need to learn how to sit with uncomfortable themes as they are delivered to us in our media. Sylus violated MC’s boundaries completely in their first meeting and that is fine because it served the narrative and made sense within it.
Characters are tools of story-construction, their actions are reflexive and reflective. MC is a character constantly dispossessed of her autonomy in every lifetime, Sylus violating that in the main story reinforced that theme, and their following relationship development centered around him learning to step back and working to gain her trust, and her growing around her initial impression of him. That’s literally how stories work. Characters are allowed to make mistakes (in fact, they’re supposed to) because that is how a story moves, they can let their emotions possess them, they can do bad things because of it. I know that the design of LADs is parasocial attachment but you need to be able to step back and see how each character fits into the story, and what they reflect in it. Saying Sylus had no non-consensual elements in his story is parroting a revisionist mental-gymnastics version of what happened in the main story.
