Wanted to drop this when the event started, but I didn’t make it and now I've lost my interest in this one- Tho, I will draw him in his new outfit again because I love it!🥹🐦⬛💕
when everyone knows you're Levi's – everyone except you...
Kenny has known since you were both kids. Just two brats he'd taken under his wing in the Underground (why he'd done that, he still doesn't even know himself). Kenny knew you were Levi's when he saw the way the runt would always stay close, moving when you moved as if some invisible string were tying you together. Levi would always make sure you ate first, that you were always warm, always safe. It was also during that time when Kenny realised that, even with his own shit influence, the runt would turn out alright.
Isabel and Furlan have known since before Levi knew himself. They noticed the way that, in a room full of people, Levi's eyes would always seek you first. When you spoke, he'd listen with an intensity so unlike the usual disinterest he showed towards most other people. When you were separated for some reason – maybe, you were with another team during a heist, or just out for an errand – Levi's shoulders were tense, he was snappy, on edge, and overall unpleasant to be around. But it only lasted until he saw you again, safe.
Mike has known from the moment he saw Levi's eyes widen with pure terror when you'd been held at knife-point. It was that day when the Scouts had finally caught Levi's infamous gang in the Underground. It was almost comical how fast Levi dropped his dagger and let himself get dragged to his knees, then shoved right into a puddle of sewer filth. Especially now, when Mike knows how much that guy hates filth, he marvels at how Levi didn't even seem to notice it – no, his attention was solely focused on you, and first when the immediate threat to your life had been removed had he looked at Erwin.
Erwin and Hange learned that you were Levi's shortly after you both joined the Scouts. You were always seen together – during training, meals, and every other time of the day. They noticed that, unlike with others, Levi was always patient with you. He'd spar with you, even though he was much better at it than you were (you were still remarkably good, it was just that no one was as good as Levi), and he'd show you a move again and again and again just so you could learn it, never raising his voice at you and always answering your questions. And he didn't express even the tiniest hint of annoyance during those moments – only a softness in his eyes they would've described as adoration, if that word wasn't so strange when associated with Levi.
The Levi Squad also quickly learned that you were his. At first, they'd thought that the rumours about Levi being an aloof asshole were wrong. How could he be, with the way he acted around you – talking more than they'd ever heard him talk before, smiling like it was natural to him, letting you hold his hand, hug him, and kiss his cheek as if the two of you were a happily married couple. However, it didn't take long for them to realise that he was every bit as grumpy as rumours had claimed him to be – not quite an asshole, but still blunt and private. That is, to everyone but you.
The revelation had spurred Petra to casually ask how long you and Levi had been together. To their surprise, Levi had fallen very silent, while you spluttered and waved your hands frantically in front of yourself. "No no, I promise it's not like that! We've just known each other since we were kids!"
Petra was sceptical, Oluo confused, and Eld and Gunther exchanged looks. Later, they asked Hange about it, but they'd just pinched the bridge of their nose, mumbling something along the lines of, "If that idiot doesn't tell them soon, I'm going to ask them out myself. That should get him going."
But after that day, you notice that Levi suddenly starts acting strange around you for some reason. He'll get very still every time you hug him or get too close, something he's never done before. When you ask him about it, he doesn't say anything at first, so you ask if you did something wrong.
That seems to catch his attention, and he immediately pulls you close. "Don't be an idiot. It's not you, it's me."
You laugh a little at that. "You know, it sounds like you're breaking up with me when you put it like that." You say it as a joke of course, but it seems like Levi is taking your statement very serious.
"To break up, you have to be together first, you know."
"Right. But you never really saw me like that," you muse, looking away and trying to sound like you don't care when, really, your heart hurts just thinking about it
Again, Levi doesn't say anything, so you look at him again – only to find him staring at you as if you've suddenly grown an extra head.
"Huh? Was it something I said?"
He groans loudly. "You really are an idiot." Then, he flicks your forehead. "I always liked you, dumbass. It used to drive me mad – no, scratch that, it does drive me mad. You drive me mad, but in the best fucking way."
Your eyes light up. "Really?"
"Don't make me say it again."
"Does that mean I can kiss you?"
Levi blinks in surprise, his lips parting. Then, he quickly snaps his mouth shut, only for it to spread into a smirk a split second later. "I'd be pretty fucking stupid to say no to that, wouldn't I?"
You agree wholeheartedly, right before leaning in to kiss Levi. Right on the mouth.
Leon S. Kennedy is a tired man in age where the abuse of his own body strength finally makes itself noticeable. He is not used to that, though, and the idea that his younger girlfriend sees it makes him very self-conscious.
a/n: I've been feeling absolutely awful lately, and I feel like a wreck of a person. the amount of unfinished drafts of genuinely great (but I'm the author so my opinion doesn't really matters) fics that I'm unable to work on is killing mee...
So here's this short something in the meantime. I promise that I'm trying to work on both Leon and AKOTSK fics (including the requests). Stay tuned. Hopefully, it will be worth waiting 🙏🙏
You know the look Leon gives Grace when she throws requiem on the ground? Sure, that man is upset and approaches her with understanding, but above all, he is tired, and his back hurts. Pathetic as it feels.
He is a one-man-war-machine. He knows ins and outs, but his body isn't totally unaffected by age and the spent feeling Leon has been living with for years now. He denied it for a long time, yeah, but finally, he admitted that he's had enough. He is a tired man, his bones ache, and sometimes all he wishes for is a long nap in front of the playing TV.
And what helps him realize that is you. Yet the mere realization doesn't make anything easier.
He keeps himself in shape to survive, to stay efficient in his job, but a selfish, even a bit boyish part of him just wants to impress you. He picks you up in his arms with undeniable ease. He can hold you with one hand when you're supported on his shoulder. He never fails to do all the job to keep you comfortable when he has your back pressed to a nearby wall.
He never struggles, but that doesn't mean he's not in pain sometimes. It's not your weight at all that makes him grimace from time to time. Hell, last week, he even grunted while picking up a bag of groceries just because he twisted his spine in a weird way. What a true old man he was. It scared him more than it should. Truth be told, at first, he reacted like he was suddenly turned into a person unable to live normally – and it was just a bit of pain. Didn't he know the feeling of bullet wounds? Bites? Scratches?
The difference between that and a damn backpain was that with the latter, he never knew if it was going to get worse. It shouldn't, sure, but Leon feared it would.
He told himself he was not unconscious about his age or physical appearance, but it started getting to his head when the signs were evident. It would be offending to you if he felt undervalued – he saw how you looked at him, heard your words, and knew you truly meant them… Still, despite the reassurance, he couldn't help but feel bad.
He didn't jump into avoiding you at once. That would be too suspicious. You knew him too well, after all. Eventually, you noticed that he started wearing an old t-shirt when you lazily rested on the couch together, and he never did that before. He started picking up more and more heavy stuff when you were shopping together, and he sometimes threw a discrete (not so) look over his shoulder to see if you noticed at all – he was damn frowning at his own behavior because how fucking pathetic was that? What was he, twenty?
He didn't want you to see the beginning of his struggles because he thought you deserve so much better than dealing with an old man.
But perhaps you wanted to deal with your old man, huh? Your tired, older, selfless boyfriend who was always so good to you.
If your okay with it re9 leon with an gn partner who's soooo touch starved but sooooo ridiculously bad at saying anything or asking for anything they just stare at him like their trying to blow him up with their mind till he does something
re9 leon kennedy x gn!reader fluff
1k words
a/n: thank you for requesting! i hope you enjoy ❤︎ . ݁ ˖ NOT FULLY EDITED
⊹˚. ♡
it’s early evening and the two of you have just finished up dinner, the windows open just enough to let in cool air. leon’s at the kitchen counter leaning against it, sleeves pushed up, finishing the last of his fourth coffee while scrolling through an article on his phone.
you’re sat at the table across from him, staring. again.
you’re trying to be subtle this time, resting your chin on your palm and pretending to be thinking very deeply, but your eyes keep drifting to him. you find yourself going back to his forearm every other second, watching how it flexes when he adjusts his grip on his mug. the way he shifts his weight when his leg gets tred. the way he looks so solid and warm and he's right there.
you want to be touching him. badly. but instead of doing anything normal like walking over and putting your hands on him, you just keep staring, secretly thinking 'if you can hear my thoughts, put down the phone and come over here.'
and of course, he doesn’t look up. this almost makes it worse, because despite not receiving your telepathic message, you know he knows.
after a moment, he takes a slow sip of his coffee and says, without lifting his gaze from his phone,
“…you need somethin’, sweetheart.” more of a statement than a genuine question really. you freeze, acting clueless.
“huh?”
he hums like he absolutely does not believe you, and finally glances up. there it is—that tiny, knowing half-smirk he does when he's entertained. he's sooo smug.
“c’mere,” he says casually, fingers gesturing you to get up like he’s asking you to pass the salt.
your heart jumps a little and you hesitate for half a second; you don’t want to look desperate. that’s when he raises a brow.
“come on.” he chuckles, rushing you out of your overthinking.
you stand and walk over, trying to move at a normal pace and not like you’ve been internally spiraling for the last ten minutes.
the second you’re within reach, his arm reaches out and his index finger hooks gently around your wrist, a small tug until you end up standing between his knees where he’s leaning against the counter. he sets his mug and phone face-down to the side and rests both hands on your hips like this was the obvious solution all along.
“hey,” he says, satisfied.
your shoulders drop instantly.
“hi.” you reply timidly. you didn’t even realize how tense you were until now, and leon notices that too. his thumbs start moving in slow, lazy circles against your hips.
“you were doin’ that thing again,” he adds.
“…what thing.”
“your little stare.”
you look away immediately and leon laughs softly under his breath.
“i wasn’t staring.”
“i'd say you were maybe one blink away from combusting.”
you make a small offended sound, but you don’t move away. if anything, you lean closer, and he lets you. of course he does.
his hands slide from your hips around to your lower back, pulling you in until your chest brushes his. he doesn’t move too fast, just rests his chin lightly on the top of your head. you sink into him, your arms instantly finding their way around his waist.
“there y'go. all y'had to do was ask.” he murmurs.
your face heats. “i can’t just ask for a hug.”
“why not.”
“that’s—” you flounder. “that’s too much.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you properly, a calm but inquisitive expression painting his face, wrinkles forming between his brows.
“too much for who?”
you don’t answer, and he shakes his head slightly, thumb brushing along your waist.
“fine, don't ask.”
you stay silent, growing confused on where he's going with this.
“if you wanna be held,” he says, he leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, “just come here.”
your hands settle on his shirt, gripping it tightly, and his smirk softens into something quieter.
“okay?” he murmurs.
you mumble something unintelligible, but you nod at the same time.
he pulls you fully into him this time, one arm wrapping securely around your back while the other comes up to cradle the back of your head, and while you melt, he stands there like this is the most natural thing in the world. because to him, it is,
after a minute, he tilts his head slightly so his mouth is near your ear.
“and by the way,” he says, tone lazy, almost playful, “i can't read your mind.”
“i know—”
“right.”
his fingers squeeze gently at your waist.
“just say my name. i'd drop everything for you, you know that.”
“but... it's hard.”
“why?”
“i don't know... i don't wanna ask you for too much.”
your problem really is that simple. you love leon's touch, especially when he's gentle (which he always is with you). but for some reason, there's a little voice in your head whenever you feel like you need a hug or a kiss or something, and it tells you that leon would either “be too busy” or “wouldn't want to hug you right now”.
but leon knows you. he knows the look you get. he knows the tiny degrees of change in your posture when you’re craving touch but don’t want to admit it. and he doesn’t think it’s too much.
if anything, he finds it endearing. leon is hungrier touch than you'd assume, but he's more confident about it. more forward. he knows what he wants and how to get it. as a result, you both want the same thing.
“you’re allowed to ask me for anything you want,” he adds casually, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “s'kinda my job.”
you look up at him at that.
“your job?”
“yeah.”
he shrugs faintly.
“if i'm gonna retire, gotta stay useful somehow.”
you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, and he smiles a little wider at that, satisfied with himself. he pulls you even closer, arms tightening just slightly.
pressing another soft kiss to your temple, he murmurs, “and i like when you need me.”
this time there’s no edge, no cockiness, just, like, of course he’s going to hold you. course he’s not going anywhere.
so next time, you probably still won’t say anything. you’ll just stare at him again, and he’ll sigh, shake his head, and open his arms before you even have to ask.
(I literally love older Leon I need him bad, this is pure fluff )
————————————-——————————————
Leon sleeps like a man who’s spent half his life pretending he doesn’t need rest—one arm locked around you, forehead tucked against the back of your shoulder, as if letting go would invite the world back in.
He runs warm—warmer than he should—and it keeps the sheets kicked halfway down the bed.
You wake up to that heat, to the steady drag of his breathing against your spine, and to the quiet weight of his fingers, hooked in the waistband of your sleep shorts like he anchored himself there in the night.
The room smells faintly like coffee dark roast, the one he pretends he buys for you but secretly prefers.
You shift, just enough to breathe, and Leon tightens his arm before he even opens his eyes.
“Don’t,” he mutters, voice rough, scraped with sleep and age. It’s not a command more like a plea.
You smile into the pillow.
“It’s morning. People get up.”
“Let people,” he says, finally cracking one eye open. “I just want five more minutes.”
You turn under his arm until you’re facing him. His hair’s a mess—silver threading through the brown, falling into his eyes. He squints at you like he’s still processing the sight of you awake. Then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—up your back, thumb brushing your spine.
Leon always touches like he’s relearning you: warm palm to your ribs, fingers sliding along familiar landmarks, mapping the softness he never quite trusts is his.
“Morning,” you whisper.
He dips his head and kisses you not rushed, not hungry just a slow press that lingers long enough to say everything else. His stubble grazes your chin, your cheeks, warm and a little scratchy.
That’s what you love most about him now he’s gentle in all the ways life refused to be with him.
“You made coffee,” you say against his mouth.
He hums a quiet yes and kisses you again—your top lip, your bottom lip, the corner of your mouth—lazy, like he’s got nowhere else he’s expected to be.
“Thought you’d smell it and come running,” he teases.
“I didn’t,” you shoot back. “You dragged me.”
Leon smirks at that, brushing hair off your forehead.
“I’ll drag you anywhere you want.”
You shove his chest lightly and climb out of bed, but he catches your wrist, tugging you back long enough to pull one more kiss—slow, deep this time, thumb angling your jaw open just a little.
He’s not dramatic about it—no breathing hard, no tension—just a man who has finally learned softness and refuses to ration it.
In the kitchen, the morning light spills through the curtains. You barely reach for your mug before Leon slides in behind you, hands smoothing over your hips, chin finding your shoulder.
He kisses the place just below your ear—slow, lingering, like he’s warming his lips on your skin.
“That your good-morning plan?” you ask, leaning into him despite yourself.
“Want something else?” His voice is low, teasing, but his arms tighten just a little.
You place your hands over his and squeeze.
“No. This is enough.”
He exhales through his nose—a quiet, honest sound, like he’s relieved by the simplicity.
Leon’s never needed fireworks.
Just proof that the world didn’t burn everything.
You turn in his arms, looping yours around his neck. His shirt is soft—gray cotton, threadbare, clinging to shoulders broader now, heavier with time.
He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth again. Small, almost domestic kisses—habitual, affectionate, grounding.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs against your skin.
“I like the silver in your hair.”
He huffs a laugh. “Thought it made me look old.”
“It makes you look like you survived. That’s better.”
Leon pauses just for a heartbeat then presses his forehead to yours like he’s absorbing that. His hands slide up your spine, fingers curling in the back of your shirt, holding not tight, just close.
“You’re good for me,” he says quietly. Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just true.
You kiss him again slow enough he can feel how sure you are and his hands settle at your lower back, thumbs stroking small circles like habit.
Coffee cools on the counter.
The world waits outside.
But Leon keeps you right there held close, kissed warm, loved in a language that never needed words.
Hey! I love the way you describe Leon! If I may, I’d love to read an angsty/fluffy fic where Leon (r9) comes home after a mission—tired, hurt (not too badly, of course), and dirty. The reader helps him with a warm bath, cleans him up, shaves his stubble, takes care of his wounds, then makes him a proper meal (this man is big—he needs to eat a lot lol). After that, she massages his sore muscles and lulls him to sleep :3 He really needs to be pampered. Thank you in advance!
re9 leon kennedy x fem!reader fluff
1.3k words
c/w: mentions of blood and descriptions of injury
a/n: thank you for your lovely request! i hope you enjoy, this one really tugged at my heart. re9 leon deserves this kind of peace, and more! NOT FULLY EDITED
⊹˚. ♡
when leon gets home, the first thing he notices is that the house is quiet, and he couldn't be more glad.
it’s late, very late, and leon expects you to already be sleeping. the windows of your home are dark and reflective, the only light coming from the lamp you left on in the living room, and he catches a glimpse of his own wounded silhouette.
a few more steps forward, and he sees you.
you tried to stay awake on the couch, but the sound of the door unlocking and his heavy boots pulls you up before you even realize you’d drifted.
he steps closer slowly. he looks exhausted.
there’s a bit of dirt smeared along his jaw as if he tried to wipe it away in a rush. there's dried blood at his collar, which definitely isn’t all his. his shoulders are tense like they’ve forgotten that "calm" is an option. and when he sees you sitting there in your soft sleeping clothes, his whole expression shifts.
“hey,” he says, voice gravelly.
you leap from the couch, sighing in relief, “leon,”
you cross the room before he can take another step.
“oh honey, what a mess,” you chuckle in a whisper, hands hovering his arms like you’re afraid to break him.
he lets out a slow breath through his nose, breathing out a weak and sarcastic “thanks”, but his thoughts are louder than his voice.
'god, i missed you. i’m so damn tired.'
you reach up carefully, fingers brushing the side of his face. he leans into it without thinking. just a fraction. just enough that you notice.
“what hurts? besides everything,” you murmur.
“i'm fine. i've had it worse,” he says automatically. he always says that. you give him a look.
he huffs, “nothing serious. i promise.” but despite his words, he’s swaying a little, and he smells like smoke and metal and cold. just cold.
“i'll run you a bath,” you say softly. “come on.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
the bathroom is warm, heat curling in steam against the ceiling. you added epsom salts and a little bit of the oil he likes—it smells clean, woodsy, grounding. the kind of scent that makes leon feel safe. he sits on the edge of the tub, already peeling his shirt off while you help him out of the gear strapped onto his legs.
his movements have slowed down, the adrenaline nearly gone his system. it started to dwell the second you touched him. as you help him take his shirt off, his hands find your hips. you see the bruising blooming along his ribs, a shallow cut near his shoulder, scrapes along his arms, and a nasty, drying deep slice on his neck.
you wince, terrified by the sight, but you hide it, keeping your hands gentle. his thoughts, however, are not.
'she shouldn’t have to see this. i should’ve been more careful.'
but when your fingers brush the angry bruise along his side, you don’t flinch. you don’t even look scared. you just look focused.
“you did good,” you tell him quietly, like you can hear the guilt creeping in.
he looks up at you slowly. “you don’t even know what happened.”
“no, but...” you pause, “you came back.”
that shuts him up.
you help him ease into the bath, and the second the hot water reaches his shoulders, he exhales, long and trembling, like he’s been holding in his breath for days.
“feels good?” you tease softly.
“hey,” he mutters, eyes closed. “i'm trying to relax here.”
you kneel beside the tub and start washing the grime from his skin. the water darkens, but leon's heart and mind lighten immensely.
you move deliberately, careful around the cuts. he opens his eyes to watch you for a little. he sees the way your brows pinch when you see a deeper scrape, and guilt runs through his chest.
“i can do the rest myself,” he murmurs, but doesn't move.
“just shut up and let me.” you smile, reaching up and tilting his chin so you can clean the dirt along his jaw. “i want to.”
his body tenses in a way that has nothing to do with bruises.
when you reach for the shaving cream, he raises his brows in amusement. “seriously?”
“you’re scratchy.”
“it's 5 o'clock. at most.”
“right, well, you’re itchy.”
he scoffs, but he lets you.
you work slowly, one careful stroke at a time. you hardly ever do this for him, but he trusts you, keeping very still, eyes on your face instead of where you're putting the blade. when you’re done, you wipe the last of the foam away and smooth your thumb over his jaw.
“there,” you whisper. “much better.”
he catches your wrist gently before you pull away, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.
“thank you,” he says simply.
you grin, pushing his hair back and pressing a kiss atop his eyebrow.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
after you dry him off and bandage what needs bandaging, you walk him to the kitchen. (well, you walk to the kitchen and he follows you like a clingy puppy).
he begins to protest weakly. “can i—”
“you can sit,” you interrupt, pointing him into a chair.
he doesn’t bother arguing. by now, he realizes he's not in charge tonight.
he doesn't really mind though. watching you cook is one of his favourite things. the way you move around the kitchen like it’s a choreography only you know. the warmth of the candles you light to hide the smell. the normalcy of it. it feels unreal after where he’s been.
you make him a hearty and filling meal, his favourite, breakfast for dinner. you pile his plate high with pancakes and eggs and sausages, sneaking in a few slices of tomato and cucumber.
he gives you a look.
“what?” you say.
“you feeding a small army?”
“you are a small army.”
that makes him laugh, low and warm. “thank you, honey.”
he eats like he hasn’t in days, because he probably hasn’t. you sit across from him, chin in your hand. every so often your knee “accidentally” brushes his under the table, just to remind him he’s here. he tells you about the mission, about grace, but he purposefully leaves out the scariest details. all the times he nearly didn't make it. he always does that—tries his best not to worry you.
by the end of the conversation, he finished everything.
“feel better?” you ask.
he leans back in his chair, studying you, a small satisfied smile painting his cheeks.
“yeah,” he admits. “i do.”
but it’s not just the food.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
later, in the bedroom, the lights are dimmed low. clean sheets, like you might've been anticipating his return.
leon lies on his stomach, shirtless, head to the side, while you straddle his hips gently—careful of his tender ribs—and start working your hands into his shoulders.
he groans before he can stop himself.
“that bad?” you murmur.
“you have no idea.”
your thumbs press into the tight knots near his spine, and he feels himself unraveling, inch by inch.
'so worth it if this is what i come home to,' he thinks.
but he doesn't just mean massages, he means you. everything you are, everything you do, your love. he feels so spoiled.
“i missed you a lot, leon,” you whisper.
that does something to him. he opens his eyes slightly, staring at the dark wall ahead.
“you too.”
your fingers slow, turning into gentle strokes instead of deep pressure. you trace along his spine, and his eyes grow heavier under your touch.
“so much.” he adds in a murmur, already half-asleep.
you shift beside him, letting him roll carefully onto his side. he pulls you in close, one big arm wrapping around you like it’s instinct. eyes still shut, his face tucks into your hair.
he smells more like himself now. soapy and something uniquely leon.
his breathing evens out within minutes, but just before sleep fully claims him, he mumbles, voice thick and soft and unguarded:
Ok sooooo….thankfully I’m a Levi guy but asmo still part of the dude I have in my blunt rotation. And , god I can’t watch this eye strain mess of an outfit everytime he appear
SO out of pure rage and hatred I went ahead and redesigned that mess , kept element design , toned down and reused some colors but generally something that waaaay more like what our dear asmodeus would wear. ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡
If anyone like his design its absolutely f2u !! I just ask to be credited or have this post linked back somewhere , even simply tag me !! I would loooove to see artwork using this ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜)
About half a year ago I got into an accident, a crash with a tram (small train for those who don't know) while I was on my bike. Back then when I told my bf (now ex) he replied with: You always get hurt, no word of consolation at all
So to soothe my poor soul, how would Sylus react to the reader getting into an accident? And how would he care for her?
I love your work as always <3 it brings me joy in my life
- 🐉 anon
nine lives
sylus ⋅ 1.1k ⋅ sfw ⋅ comfort ⋅ soft ⋅ banter
❝ knowing there are a thousand things out there that could hurt you, and i can't control a single one. ❞
links: masterlist ⋅ publishing schedule ⋅ recommended reading
a/n: first of all, i’m so sorry that happened to you. genuinely. no one should be met with indifference when they’re hurting. and thank the stars that boy is an ex now, because my god—he didn’t deserve you then, and he sure doesn’t now.
─── “𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭, don't you?” Sylus said it softly, but not the way your ex once had. Not weary. Not detached. Sylus's version carried restraint. Like a steel thread pulled too tight, thrumming with everything he wasn't saying.
You sat on the edge of his couch, knees pressed together, palms raw where the gravel had kissed them. The helmet beside you was cracked clean through. It looked almost accusatory.
“I'm fine,” you started.
“You're not fine.” His eyes drifted from your hands to the bandage at your elbow. “You bled through that.”
“I said it's nothing...”
He was already moving—no dramatics, just that purposeful stride that always seemed to belong to him. When he came back with the med-kit, there was the faintest tremor at the hinge of his jaw. He crouched in front of you, shoulder brushing the couch. The world seemed to narrow to merely the click of plastic snaps and the uneven cadence of your breathing.
“You could've been killed,” he murmured.
“I wasn't.”
“That's not the point.”
He cleaned your palms in silence, cotton cool against the sting. You tried not to flinch. He caught your wrist, thumb resting at your pulse.
“Stay,” he whispered. “Please.”
The word landed heavier than any reprimand.
Sylus worked with careful precision, the kind that looked practiced. Like he'd studied first aid videos at three in the morning. When he finished, he didn't move right away. Just stared at your hand, tracing the edge of the gauze like he was making sure it held.
“I hate this,” he muttered at last.
“What?”
“Knowing there are a thousand things out there that could hurt you, and I can't control a single one.”
You huffed a laugh—half a sigh, half an attempt at levity. “Planning to build an anti-tram shield next?”
His mouth twitched. “Don't tempt me.”
He still hadn't let go. His thumb kept sketching slow, absent circles over your skin. For one quiet moment, your pulse matched his.
“Next time, you call me,” he said. “I don't care if it's a scratch or a meteor strike.”
“That's quite the range.”
“I can handle range.” His gaze met yours—steady, almost too much. “What I can't handle is hearing about it after.”
Something inside you gave way then. Some ache you hadn't noticed until it eased. He saw it immediately. Of course he did. He always noticed the small things.
“Come on.” He straightened, hand brushing your arm. “You're shaking.”
“I'm not...”
“You are.” His tone softened, coaxing. “Up.”
You sighed but obeyed. His palm was warm, grounding. He guided you into the kitchen like you were something fragile he refused to admit was breakable.
He poured water into the kettle, and slow but steady, it hummed to life. A faint static from the radio threaded through the silence, making the apartment feel almost domestic. Almost.
“Chamomile or peppermint?”
“Surprise me.”
“Dangerous.”
“So is cycling, apparently.”
He glanced back, grin flashing before he hit it behind a small shake of his head.
“Too soon?”
“Maybe.” He chuckled under his breath and reached for the peppermint.
When the water boiled, he poured it over the leaves and slid the mug toward you. Steam curled between you, scented with mint and something faintly sweet—honey, you realized, when he dipped a spoon and offered it across the counter.
You arched a brow. “You're going to feed me now?”
“Do you trust me?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you're the oversweetening type.”
His mouth curved. “You'll live.”
You took the spoon anyway. The honey tasted floral, grounding. Sylus leaned on the counter across from you, elbows resting, gaze fixed.
“How's the shoulder?”
“Sore.”
“How's your head?”
You sipped, smirking. “Haven't had any complaints.”
He paused mid-breath, a flicker of surprise cutting through the worry. Then, inevitably, one corner of his mouth lifted.
“Cute,” he said. “Flirting as a distraction tactic?”
“Working?”
“Maybe.” He tapped the rim of your mug. “Keep it up and I'll start taking your blood pressure just to make a point.”
You grinned. “Kinky.”
That earned a laugh— a low, warm, and genuine laugh. The kind you felt in your chest more than you heard. For a moment, you just watched him. The tension had eased from his shoulder, but the worry still hummed beneath the surface.
Then his voice dropped, roughed now. “When you didn't answer my message this afternoon, I kept checking the timestamp. Told myself it was bad signal. That you'd call later.”
He hesitated. “And then I saw the city alert about a tram crash near the square. I don't even know why I looked, but I did. And when I saw your bike...” His throat worked around the words. “I think you heart just... stopped.”
You set the mug down carefully. “Sylus—”
“No, let me finish.” He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I know you hate being fused over. You hate feeling small. But when I saw that photo, all I could think was... If I'd lost you over something so stupid—”
He broke off, eyes closing for a second. “I can't even say it.”
The room suddenly felt too small. You reached across the counter and covered his hand. The contact startled him; you felt the small jerk before he went still.
“You didn't lose me,” you murmured. “I'm right here.”
His fingers turned under yours, threading through. “You better stay that way.”
“I plan to.” A pause, then a wry smile. “For purely selfish reasons. You make excellent tea.”
That pulled another laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“You like impossible things.”
“Still your line.”
Sylus shook his head, but the smile lingered, soft at the edges. He squeezed your hand once—period, not question.
Silence settled again. Comfortable this time. The kettle clicked as it cooled. The mint had gone sweet on your tongue. He studied your face, gaze tracing every tiny bruise as if memorizing proof of life. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost shy.
“You scared me,” he admitted. “More than I’ve been scared in a long time.”
You didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. “I know.”
He leaned closer, voice dipping low. “Don’t do that to me again.”
“I’ll try,” you whispered. “But no promises about trams.”
“Then I’m building the shield.”
“You’d really do it, wouldn’t you?”
He smiled. “If it keeps you safe? Absolutely.”
You laughed, but it broke halfway into a sigh. The sound seemed to ease him. He rounded the counter, stopping in front of you.
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. He reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your jaw—careful, as if your skin were still breakable.
જ⁀➴ synopsis: Superman isn't always saving the planet from world ending disasters, sometimes he simply just helps you breathe.
જ⁀➴ contents: reader is stressed, established relationship, kinda short.
જ⁀➴ Hope you enjoy lovelies! <3
“Come on, pick up, pick up, pick up.” today had been just one of those days straight from the pits of hell, the type that drags on like a never-ending nightmare full of constant little inconveniences that kept throwing you off your path and minor annoyances that were pricking under your skin.
The office was way too packed, too stuffy and everyone needed something and apparently you were the only damn soul in the entire building who was able to print, sort and file papers as well as scurry around like a fool to make coffee and deliver lunch, without spilling or mixing up orders— you were so glad to be out of here at the end of the month.
You need space to cool off for a while without being nagged at or ordered around like you were some kind of robot instead of an extremely overworked human who was running off of fumes and bitter coffee and on the brink of a breakdown.
You press your phone desperately to your ear, murmuring under your breath whilst you listen to the jarring call as it rings once, then twice— three times…
“Hey, sweetheart, you on lunch break?” the sound of Clark’s voice was like a light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. you breathe out a sigh of relief at the sound of his smooth voice, stumbling outside of that hellish office building and into the crisp autumn air.
“— Clark, I-” your words form only to get stuck in the back of your throat, and he could hear the choked little noises that escape your lips from the other end of the line, the ragged breaths you fail to take.
He utters your name, heart dropping to his stomach in worry. “Honey, you okay?… answer me please?”
“No, sorry— I’m fine, m’fine just…” you trail off with a hiccupy cry. The day was finally catching up with you, kicking you square in the chest, and you struggle to find your voice in the midst of the tears that were suddenly welling up in your eyes, and the gentle, sincere lilt to Clark’s voice wasn’t helping much either.
“I’m on my way, baby— just breathe for me.” then he’s on the move to get to you as fast as possible, which is pretty damn fast because he's already zipping through the clouds like the fate of the world depended on it, that familiar blur of red shooting overhead and now you just feel silly… really silly.
“I’m sorry-” your words come out all punched as you watch him stride towards you, expression soft with concern.
“Stop, none of that, honey— I’ve got’cha, come here.” He soothes, voice all slow and sweet as he closes the distance between you both. his hands reach out for you, bringing you into him— red cape rippling behind him, one wayward curl falling across his forehead.
You don’t hesitate to collapse against him, the rough texture of his suit felt oddly comforting against your warm tear-stricken cheek— his fingers find the base of your neck, slowly massaging away the tension that had built up there throughout the day, whilst you sniffle against his chest, trying to calm yourself down.
“Easy, baby, there we go, slow breaths— just like that.” He murmurs against the top of your head as you follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, focusing on nothing but him.
He doesn’t move or say much else until you’ve stopped trembling and your breaths are no longer stuttered or choked up by emotions that are far too big for you to handle right now. The only thing you’re left with is the terrible burning of embarrassment that sits heavy on your chest, you don’t look at him even when he gently nudges your head back by your chin, your eyes stay fixed on that ‘S’ that splays across his chest.
“Now I feel stupid— you were probably really busy and I—” you break the silence and he quickly hushes you before you can spiral further.
“You’re not stupid, you’re just really overwhelmed. And this,” he loosely gestures to his chest, “this is my job, sweetheart, and you’re just as important as everyone else, full stop. I’m here, always.” he replies back without missing a beat, sealing his words with a kiss to your temple, then another to your warm cheek before brushing away any stray tears and you cant help but to preen under his touch.
“you’re taking tomorrow off… and the rest of the day.”
“I can’t—”
“You can, you will— I say so,” he declares and you could practically hear the gavel coming down. jury’s out on this one it seems. “You deserve at least one day to relax. they’ve been overworking you for months now, baby.”
He’s right, you know he is. It’s not the first time he’s said it, even threatened to have a small talk with your boss about ‘ethical workplace practices’ in what he called ‘superman mode’ but you declined— you know you’re underpaid and overworked but you were just an intern and didn’t want to overstep in fear of losing a really good opportunity so you’ve grin and bared the snide insults and the never ending to-do list up until now and now that Clark has given you an out… well how could you so no?
You lean into his palm as he gently cups your cheek, his hand practically engulfing one side of your face, you nod softly in agreement, letting your eyes flutter close.
“I’ll fly you home, c’mon— you can take a nice bath, light some candles, then get yourself some lunch and take a long nap.” and before you could even think of protesting, he’s already curling an arm under your thighs and the other around your waist, lifting you up bridal style like you weighed nothing at all.
Your arms curl tightly around his broad shoulders, face tucked into the side of his neck, and he takes a moment to brush a lingering kiss to your hairline— holding you securely against his chest in those big arms of his, his embrace impossibly protective.
“Mm, you’ll stop by tonight?”
He smiles against your temple, murmuring a hushed, “and bring dinner with me.” with that, you’re both off up into the clouds, the heaviness in your bones melts away into nothingness because your Superman had saved you.
This is going to stay rent-free in my head forever!!
The way my man is yearning here, that quiet ache of desire, wanting her so badly, and the way he takes that breath while nuzzling into her… he just can’t get enough of her. He’s burning with desire for her, yet the faint whiff of her soothes the fire inside him, The Sylusyearning supremacy!!!
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