-when his anger is taken out on the wrong place in the wrong time- angst
You heard the door slam before you saw him.
Heavy, rushed steps. Keys tossed onto the console. His bag hitting the floor with a thud that echoed down the hallway.
He didn’t even say hello.
You were already in the kitchen, apron still on, a dish towel over your shoulder and his favorite food still hot on the stove. You had candles lit — just two, small ones, nothing dramatic. You just… wanted to make him smile. You missed his smile.
So when he walked in, stiff-shouldered and scowling, you tried anyway.
“Hey, baby,” you said, gentle, trying to meet him where he was. “Rough day?”
He didn’t answer.
You took a step closer, hands still in the dish towel. “I made—”
“Why is it so fucking dark in here?” he snapped, voice sharp like glass. “I can’t even see anything—can you turn a goddamn light on for once?”
You froze, blinking.
“I— I just thought the candles would be—”
He scoffed, brushing past you, hand running through his hair, exasperated. “Jesus. I come home to this after the shit I’ve been through?”
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know it would be this bad. I thought maybe—maybe it’d help. I made your favorite.”
You lifted the dish — still warm, perfectly plated, just the way he liked it. Your hands were trembling.
And maybe it was the wrong moment, or maybe he didn’t mean it at all, but he looked at it — looked at you — and said,
“I don’t need you hovering over me. I need space. Just—fuck. Stop trying so hard.”
Silence.
Your fingers shook.
Something in your chest cracked. Not loud — soft. Like the quiet break of something that had been held together too long.
“I was just trying to make you happy,” you whispered.
The dish clattered — not shattered, just dropped onto the counter as your hands fell away. Your breath hitched. The tears came faster than you could stop them.
And then he reached for you.
“Shit—wait, wait—baby, I didn’t mean—”
You flinched.
Like he’d slapped you. Like his voice alone had scorched the space between you.
his eyes widened. His hand froze midair.
You were already turning away — stumbling, shoulder brushing his as you ran past, up the stairs, into the bedroom, the soft sound of a door clicking shut behind you like a final period at the end of a sentence you didn’t want to write.
Downstairs, he stood in the kitchen. Staring at the plate you made. The food untouched. The candles still flickering softly. Pushing back the hair out his eyes
when you shut down after sylus calls you clingy, he tries to make it up to you..
it wasn't often that sylus messed up. he was always so precise, ready for anything and everything that came his way.
that was why when he did mess up, he knew exactly what went wrong, and he was certain he had done the worst thing possible.
it was meant to be a joke. a playful jest, the way he usually would as he smiled that smug grin and called you "a clingy kitten".
but you hadn't laughed at him, hadn't shoved at his chest with that cute pout as you tried to defend your honor. no, what you did was far worse.
shut down. you had shut down on him, and he didn't know what to do about it.
where you would usually be clung to his side, you were distant. where you would talk his ear off, you were silent.
and it was driving him nuts.
every attempt he made at getting close to you, you pulled away. every attempt to talk to you, you were short with him.
he couldn't put up with this for much longer. so of course, he devised a plan.
you got an urgent text from the twins telling you that something terrible had happened to sylus, and of course it sent you into a panic. rushing your way to onichynus, you burst your way into the base with a gasp. "what happened?? where is he??-"
"in his room!" luke provided, moving out of your way.
"he's resting!" kieran added, and only after you were well out of earshot did they start laughing. "oh, boss is gonna get her so good!"
you burst into his room, gasping for air as you looked around. "sy? sylus-"
when you saw him laying on the bed, stock still, his eyes shut, barely breathing, you couldn't help but panic. you rushed to his side, checking his pulse, his breathing, his temperature, everything to get a grasp on what happened to him. "oh goodness, sy-"
when your hand neared his neck to check his pulse, there was a swift movement before you were suddenly pulled onto his chest. you blinked in surprise, looking up to find him perfectly fine, a smile on his lips.
"wh- were you just pretending?-"
"finally," he breathed, cutting you off as he buried his face in your hair. "finally you talk to me."
you blinked in surprise, eyes flaring as you looked up at him. "what the hell, sylus?-"
"you weren't going to talk to me otherwise." he mumbled, leaning in to breathe in your scent. "so i had to resort to drastic measures. forgive me this once, my darling."
you trembled in his arms, gently pressing against his chest. "i thought you didn't like when i clung to you-"
"not at all." he sighed, looking down at you with a frown. "it's the exact opposite, sweetie. i want you to cling to me. i want you in my space. i'm sorry if it came across that way, because i didn't intend it to."
as your eyes welled with tears, he kissed your forehead, a warm smile on his lips. "take up all the space you want with me, kitten. i promise i'm more than happy to oblige you anytime."
The concept of the LaDs men accidentally hurting you with their Evol... hear me out please
TW: I want to emphasize the "accidentally" part. None of these scenarios are meant to be the LaDs men intentionally harming you. Also blame the angst on @zaynezone for her Sylus angst that was meant to be payback for @wetforsylus
Xavier, trying to be helpful, uses his evol to give you more light while you try and work. But, your brain is already on overload and one glance at the light emitting from his hand and you feel the uncomfortable and unwelcome throb of a migraine forming along your temple and behind your eye. The horror on his face when he realizes what he did and immediately jumping to grab your medication and rush you to a dark room for comfort. Muttering repeated apologizes as he just flutters around you, gathering things to ease the pain like a cold compress to press over your eye.
Rafayel, getting a little too daring with his attempts to impress you. Using his evol to toast your marshmallow a little faster, the pretty pinkish-red flames dazzling enough that you barely process it grazing your skin until you instinctively drop the stick you had been holding to shake your hand rapidly. All color would drain from his face, hand grabbing your wrist and dragging it closer to his face. Voice slightly shaken as he asks you if you're okay and if you need first aid, the words tumbling out over each other. It'll end up leaving a scar on the back of your hand, something you truly don't mind but he can't help but feel several emotions when he sees.
Zayne, upset and stressed out about you nearly getting yourself killed on a mission. It had been a close call, closer than others, and it was enough to visibly shake the both of you. You had gotten a bit fed up with his constant coddling after that, finally getting into it with him one night after he declines signing off on you retiring from desk duty and returning to the field. It wasn't until ice nipped at your skin and visibly made you flinch that Zayne realized he had lost control of his emotions. You watch him shut down and close you out, more horrified by his immediate withdrawal than the pain flooding every nerve.
Sylus, panicking during an ambush when you're nearly kidnapped. The rush of movement, the ringing of gunfire as bullets and his evol tear through bone and flesh. You can handle yourself, he knows he doesn't need to be on top of you but he always keeps an eye. It happens so quick he nearly loses his cool. Your yell, the random assailant touching you, dragging you back towards one of the cars they had arrived in. His evol lashes out, ripping the man clean from your body and yanking you towards him in one swift movement. The man is gone before you can blink, turning to Sylus to utter thanks only for him to stare at you with a pained, nearly unreadable expression. Crimson lines of blood well on your skin, his evol had cut you, deep.
Caleb, getting agitated during a disagreement, the bickering had been going on for nearly an hour now. A real disagreement, one that one likely end in you storming away and slamming your door. He sees it coming, sees you huff and puff and suddenly you're not listening to anything else he's saying. You're turning on your heels and making the move to escape. His evol acts before his mind does, weighing you down so quickly that your legs buckle and you hit the floor with a harsh thwack. You can't even utter anything, looking up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He could vomit at the sight, his evol releasing immediately as he jumps to check you for injuries.
CONTENT WARNINGS: death, suicide ideation (most prominent in xavier's), read rafayel's 'when light falls' card so his part makes sense, fem reader in rafayel’s, they're super mean to other people here😭, angst, angst & a whooooole lotta angst
NOTE: my debut post to the lads community! i just wanna say i am SO sorry for such a brutal first smau oh my goodness💔 i would also like to apologize if they're a little ooc, i just started playing the game and im still trying to get a feel for the characters 😵💫 i hope you all enjoy this regardless! :')
masterlist
@kamieow 2025. reblogs are greatly appreciated! <3
Imagine waking up in a game world... A game you played in your last life. Well, how are you so sure? Because you have seen this dark, rich, and mysterious place plenty of times from the game.
You sit up from the sofa, scanning the room, unsure of what you’re looking for.
“So the unknown lady finally wakes up?”
Bam! Your heart almost jumps out of its place. The voice is clear and sharp, but there’s a gentleness and warmth in it, one you’ve always yearned for but never found.
When you look at the source, there, standing as erect and stable as a pillar, you find him.
Sylus.
You gape. He quips his brows and looks at you in amusement. Then something else catches your eyes when you look at him.
Red string.
On Sylus’ pinky finger.
Slowly, your gaze follows where the string leads.
No.
No. No way.
It shouldn’t be possible.
“That’s funny…” You laugh, humourless and dreadful.
As an avid reader, you’re not foreign to fanfiction with this concept. Specifically, soulmate AU—where there’s a pair tied together by a red string of fate on their pinky fingers, said to be destined together in life. Hell, you gobble these kinds of tropes in your past life.
“Why is it tied to me?”
His string connects to you.
A thread wraps around your finger, weighs nothing but glows a vibrant red that might just sear into your skin.
“Have you finished your musings?” He asks.
“...Hi. Sorry about that,” you focus on the man in front of you. His eyes, a glowing ruby that could rival the string, watches you. They never leave you from the start.
You raise an arm and stick out your pinky, “Can you see this?”
Sylus takes a few moments to look at your finger. A breath, a second, a third, then— “Nothing.” He tilts his head, “Why, is there anything that I'm supposed to see?”
You remember spending nights watching his story unfold, the way his loyalty across lifetimes tattoos itself into devotion to her. And yet, now, that same devotion bears a name: yours.
Sh*t.
You retreat your arm and shake your head.
“No, nevermind.”
Another female approaches the two of you.
“You’re finally awake! How are you feeling?” Her face is vibrant, lips lifted into a kind smile. Too familiar, too uncanny as though seeing your favorite painting comes alive.
This is the Main Character—the MC—with the same face you design her to look like in your game.
The main character of this game is fated to be with Sylus. Not you. Never. You did wish for love; you tried and failed, and you cried to have a love as dangerous and beautiful as Sylus' and MC’s; But, you never wish to change the game.
If this is a gift in exchange of the bad luck in your past life, then you will refuse ardently. Who knows? Maybe this is another angst story where you’re going to suffer and watch them be together while the string around your finger slowly disappears. Who knows, right?
You are going to find a way to cut this damn string off.
— Sylus's instincts flare when you are ill, needing to nurse you back to health, whatever it takes... he fails to notice that his boys have his instincts too.
ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: a sickie fic that took my left shoe and ran away fr me. what was supposed to be the fam nursing mama to health becomes a deepdive into Sylus's oversights as a father. phew. enjoys! ❀-urs
important heads up for context of this story: lucian and kyros are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. 2 turning 3 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩
sylus & his family | sylus x reader | fluff, mild angst, comfort. sick!reader, husband!sylus, dragon babies just wanna see mama
tw: imagery of illness/migraine symptoms, vomiting, (past) emotional trauma
Sylus’s hackles rise at the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut at noon.
Lucian and Kyros, positioned on their bellies on the carpet by his feet, pause their coloring with a curious glance. Turning their heads to the sound, they rise to go see who it is. But before they could rush off, Sylus holds them steady with his evol and strides ahead of them.
The big twins were out of town on a mission he’d expected to take a week longer.
You are supposed to be at work. You’d left early that morning. In a panic, having risen a few hours too close to the time you’re expected at the Association. Kicking him by accident when you wrestled against the comfort of your warm duvet.
He had no fight against you wriggling out of his persistent hold, no matter how much he whined at your absence, and was forced to accept the hasty kiss you plant on his lips before rushing out of the bedroom. You promised to be home by dinner.
He had half a mind to go after you and pull you back for his own selfish reasons, but his boys waddled into the bedroom to take your space and curl up against him. Cementing him in a warm pile of baby fat and the scent of blueberries.
Anyway, you’d said dinner.
So it was a surprise to him to see you at the door just before lunch. Toeing your shoes off, your coat half off your shoulder and your workbag dangling in your loose grip. You meet his gaze from the wall you lean against for extra support, and offer him a smile that lacks it usual depth.
He clocks it immediately. Zooming in on the details of your features like a machine built to know you. The sheen of sweat on your brow, the heavy droop of your eyelids, the paleness of your lips. It was as if something inside you had made itself at home where it was not welcome.
Black and red tendrils dissipate from pudgy bellies when his sons start to complain at not being able to reach you.
He confirms your condition in the way you squeeze your eyes shut briefly at the excited squealing and tittering of your children. The usual melodies feeling like a clap of thunder in your skull.
Sylus is able to move only an inch towards you. And you are already shaking your head and mouthing his least favorite words. “I’m fine.”
Your arms are cooked pasta around Lucian’s waist. Your knees trembling rocks holding back a landslide as you lift him to your height. You are reluctant to reduce the support and give Kyros your other hand as he guides you in the living room.
All the while Sylus stands at the ready to lighten the load he worries you refuse to lend him.
The smell of your living room is a balm to your aching sinuses, clean linen and fresh citrus blossoms. The warmth of the filtered sun through the windows is a live wire through your shivering bones. And the heat of your husband’s body as he slots himself between you and the corner of the couch is exactly what your numb skin has longed for the entire morning.
“Go upstairs.” he whispers in your ear. Unkempt hair in your eyes, features taut and tired— he suffers at the look of you. Lends you his strength to tidy you up with featherlike touches.
Your neck twinges when you shake your head.
“Boys.” you reason, pressing the weight of Lucian closer to your chest as he talks about his new doctor’s tool kit toy.
Kyros’s hand had made its way beneath your sweater and onto the skin of your belly, rubbing circles gently. For his own sensory need, unknowing how helpful it is for you too.
Sylus understands, but frowns in disapproval anyway. “Beloved…”
“Mama, hot.” Kyros murmurs, continuing his gentle ministrations. “Otch! Hot.”
“Oh no.” Lucian adds too, unintentionally slapping his hands on either sides of your face a touch too hard, making you wince. Sylus doesn’t mean to scowl, but he does. “Mama, tick?”
“Gentle, please.” their father almost begs, peeling the tiny hands that squish your skin off. You sigh gratefully at him, your skin beginning to feel uncomfortably tender.
“No—no tick, pease.” says Kyros, climbing up the cushions to get up close to your face. Sylus is quick to intercept his hand, mold his against the little one silently, to guide gentle combs through tendrils of your hair. “Mama, well.”
“Just a little dizzy, baby.” you reassure him— but the hypo-nasality of your voice and the light pop! from the top of your spine does little to your case.
Your family’s face remain unchanged—frowning in worry, staring in concern.
You swallow. The back of your throat feels dry no matter how many times you do so. Only Sylus can see the strain on your face and he’s digging his nails into his palms to keep himself from overreacting.
Instinct tells him to switch on survival mode. As if you’d come home with a bullet wound or a broken leg. His muscles itch to take you away, hoard you, encase you in a bubble of safety until you feel better once more. Claiming it his single-handed responsibility to nurse you back to health.
He’d done it before. Confident to a fault, he’ll do it again.
Lucian protests when Sylus lifts him out of your arms, while Kyros frowns at him in confusion. To placate their watery eyes and erupting sobs, he quickly says, “Go show mama your drawings.”
Their mind shifts. Papa is suddenly correct, and they rush off to collect the loose leaves of doodle-pressed papers scattered around the room. Lucian also hops off to retrieve his doctor set.
Buying Sylus the time and space to draw you near his orbit and cage you in his embrace.
“I’m fine, really.” is what you say and it drives him mad. He’d puff a cloud of smoke through his nostrils in another life with the way he scoffs.
He is calmed by the way you curl against him anyway; your clammy back to his middle, your heated forehead against the curve of his neck. You are driftwood in a raging stream with the tightness at which hangs on to you.
“I don’t appreciate it when you lie to me,” he says slowly. Not understanding why you insist on still acting tough. “Even if you mean well.”
Sylus sighs, “Haven’t we agreed? You can lean on me.”
His sentiment contests your fever as it melts your heart twice as fast. You run your fingers along the blunt stubble on his chin. “I know. I am.”
But you aren’t in the mood to get scolded. Not when every breath is like shards of glass through your mouth, your nostrils are vestigial and your brain pounds behind your heated eyes.
You sigh, your gaze trailing after your scampering children. “Don’t scare them.”
Hardened by experience, the rational side of Sylus’s brain knows you are fine in the grand scheme of things. With a paracetamol, a good sleep and hydration, you’ll be back on your feet at a normal temperature in no time.
But the side of him that feels— the one you bring out with little to no effort— it aches at the sight of you still fighting against your already protesting body. It makes him calloused to anything else that doesn’t involve benefitting you.
So, intentions far from ill but single-minded, he grumbles. “They should know.”
And ever patient you, with a heart so big and generous, push back. “But they don’t. Not yet.”
You take his hand. He frowns at your searing touch. A kiss is pressed onto his knuckles and he is ice beneath it at your request. “Gentle.”
One breath through his nose is sighed out his mouth and he nods. Gentle.
He doesn’t let you go when the boys return. Subtly keeping them from climbing back onto you as they present their scribbles with calculated stretches of his limbs coming in between you and them.
The boys are none the wiser.
They flit around you like humming birds wearing white coats. Lucian has the plastic heart-shaped stethoscope plugged to his ears. Kyros holds a baby-blue otoscope he insists is a hammer.
They ping-pong from being art curators and doctors. One talks about his drawing, while the other assesses your condition with a plastic medical tool.
“Dis ‘Pisto with hat.” Says Kyros, as Lucian bends over Sylus’s arm barrier to stick his stethoscope on your chest.
When Kyros is knocking your knee with the otoscope-hammer, Lucian narrates, “Dis mama, dis papa, dis Wookie and Kee-wan. And ‘Pisto have shoes. And Kee-wo and me—Woosian have cotton candy.”
The little ones show you their interpretations of the world through whorls and zigzags of color. When you try to listen closely and your mind doesn’t drift off, you catch that Kyros has drawn a field of flowers he sees in his dreams, and Lucian’s new fascination on distant planets. And that your temperature is “three-six” on the plastic thermometer, and you get a shot of “coffee” on your shoulder.
But you can only do so much. Powerless, thanks to Sylus’s weight on your arms and his lulling scent in your nose; beckoning like home, like rest.
Soon, your eyes droop and your head bobs back onto Sylus’s shoulder. Just as Lucian is telling you of the beach and Kyros is explaining how m’s can look like birds.
Sylus seizes their attempts at waking you back to attention with a look, which they take positively. With understanding nods, mouths rounded in quiet “oh…”s, they step away from poking you back awake.
Little fingers are raised to little lips and they murmur shushes and lovely things in your silence. And later, they tail after their father like minnows in a stream when he lifts you down the hallway and carries you to bed.
-
Kyros knows what papa is saying is important. He knows also, that whatever papa is saying, that papa is right.
And that he should listen to papa.
But the door to your bedroom is open.
“Make very little noise, because mama’s head…”
And he hasn’t seen you in an hour (which feels like a million years if he knew how to count past five).
“… go play on your own for a while…”
And he wants to know if—
“Papa.” He blurts right in the middle of Sylus’s very important reminders. Sylus turns to him patiently, taking his hand in his and massaging his palm in acknowledgement. “Roro eep with mama.”
Sylus frowns. “No, angel. You can’t.”
“Ah-huh. Can.” He nods, disagreeing with Sylus and tugging his arm back. Sylus steadies him, catching his shoulder and maneuvering him away from the door.
“Kyros.” papa says, voice deep and strong. Kyros is startled by the tone. “Mama is going to be okay.”
“But… tick.” He frowns. His eyes water, catalyzed by the sternness that has befallen this exchange. “Feel better. Need—need huggies.”
Sylus swallows nails as he stares back at his son. “Mama needs quiet right now. To rest.”
“I quiet.” He insists, pushing fruitlessly against Sylus’s embrace. “P’omise.”
Lucian, placing his own foot in the mix, chimes in. “Please, papa?”
But the decision is made. Sylus nudges Kyros to his brother, who welcomes him in a consoling hug. They stare helplessly at papa who stands and turns away. “Maybe later, hm?”
He shuts the door.
And with a heavy heart, they listen to papa.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
The first time you stir from your fevered haze, you notice that you are out of your work clothes and are wearing one of Sylus’s shirts. His scent refreshing and comforting, engulfs you in a phantom hug.
The glass of warm water on your dresser is almost knocked over in the dark, but you successfully drink it along with the pills in a small dish just to its left.
Then you lie back down, drape an arm over your eyes, and drift off.
Or at least try.
It wasn’t quite a sleep— you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, too conscious of the distorted sound of your breathing, and the persistent pulse in the back of your left eye feels like how pebbles do beneath your boots.
Not to mention it was too cold, but you were sweating and shivering all the same.
Frustration holds hands with sickness; you feel your insides gang up on you to attack. When the nausea hits, you sit up blindly and scramble out of bed into the bathroom to hurl out your already empty stomach.
Sylus, the shadow you married, is already holding your hair back as soon as your knees touch the ground. “Easy.”
The headache is maxed to a hundred on its own richter with each seize and each gag. Your one hand waves Sylus away, asking him to go, to save whatever dignity you had left in his eyes.
But he refuses. A statement he makes as he stays.
When it passes, you lean back on your calves and try to get a grip of the spinning world around you. Sylus is already getting something damp and cool to press to your face.
Disgusting, you think as you brush your teeth and wash your face. But the act leaves you feeling better than you started off, paradoxically.
“Sy—“ you rasp as he guides you back to bed after you’ve cleaned up.
“Not a chance.” is all he says, lifting your shirt and slipping on a fresh one. His again.
“You’ll catch it.” you murmur.
He shakes his head, a ghost of a chuckle in his words. “It’s not that bad.”
He finds it a wonder how you’re akin to a soggy piece of lettuce right now, and still have the wits to tease him. “You’re a doctor now?”
The chuckle materializes as he tucks you back beneath the covers. “Yes. Family medicine.”
“Ooh, well look at you—AH!” you yelp, blocking his kiss with your palm as he targets your forehead. “No!”
“What do you mean ‘no’?” he gasps, swooping in for another with a impudent grin. You duck out of the way with a chiming giggle. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Stop it! I’m gross.”
He pauses at the declaration and shoots you a dangerous look. “I’ll warn you not to speak of my wife that way.”
You sniffle in disbelief. “Sylus!”
He dodges your hands expertly and successfully lands a peck on top of your head before bouncing back up to his feet with a victorious grin. You harrumph, tossing a pillow square at his face. He lets it land and laughs.
“You’ve broken your fever,” he says lightly, bending to brush sickly sweaty hair out of your now glowing face. Taking a moment to caress the plump of your cheek with the pad of his thumb.
Great. At least that was out of the way. But your mouth still tasted weird, and there’s a little creature knocking albeit politely at the back of your eyeball.
You groan. “The last time I was this bad was—“
“—The twins.” he smiles fondly, recalling the earlier days of your pregnancy. “You’ve done well keeping yourself healthy for three years then.”
“Maybe I’m pregnant again.” you joke.
He freezes. His world tilts. Are you? You couldn’t be— could you? Had he been so busy, miscalculated—
Your hand squeezes his tightly. His face is a picture you wish you could paint, one that makes your heart flutter. “I’m not.”
The thickened air thins and he releases the breath he hadn’t noticed he’s held in. His brows knit together as he breathes. “Don’t… don’t do that.”
You search his expression for anything negative, but find only a plucked sense of excitement and wonder in his shining eyes. “Too many kids?”
He almost laughs at your assumption. “No, not at all.”
“Then—“
“Not enough.”
The grin he flashes you lingers with mischief and allure, sharp lower fangs almost twinkling at you seductively. Heat crawls up your face and you’re sure this isn’t the fever. You shove any part of him you can reach with all your might in hopes to relieve the tension.
“Go. Watch the kids. You’re a headache.” you say. Turning on your side to dismiss him… or, really, to hide the flush on your face.
He leans in, the weight of his hand on your hip. Takes the opportunity to kiss you again. Your head, your cheek, your shoulder—before leaving you to drift off.
This time— you sleep. And sleep is smooth, quiet and deep.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
Sylus can’t figure why his boys are extra rambunctious now, when he specifically asked them not to be.
Usually self-sustaining, Lucian and Kyros are perfectly trained to entertain themselves when the adults are too busy. But today, it’s as if all training has flown out the window, and Sylus is suddenly caring for three people and not just you.
While striding in and out of your shared bedroom, the chances that he’d have an encounter with a silver haired little boy was a hundred percent doubled.
He’d caught Lucian by the scruff of his shirt and turned him around. Two giant stuffies in his arms, far larger than his on height along with him.
Kyros had dragged books and your favorite couch blanket to your door. Sylus had to physically dig through the row of indoor plants to find him and his stash and send him away.
And at some point, Lucian snaps first. Crying when Sylus carries him off to the kitchen on his way to refill your bottle of water.
“Wanna to see mama!” He performs a full-blown tantrum in the space of his father’s one armed embrace. Pushing and shoving the unmovable force that holds him captive. “Let me go! Let me go!”
And Sylus only grumbles. A hair away from losing his own composure. “Lucian, mama is sick.”
“I doctor mama better!” He shouts now. Fueled by the expression on Sylus’s face giving absolutely nothing away. Just sheer indifference. Done with the conversation before its even started. “Let me go!”
“Lucian!” Sylus seethes. Done. Firm. Final.
Lucian freezes. Shock flooding sobering his nerves.
And then helplessly, he sobs, leaning into Sylus’s chest. Earlier shouts and shoves now faltering in the face of his father’s anger. And that hurts him more than being denied.
“I sorry.” He murmurs. No flourish, no drama. Just sorrow and regret. Sylus’s shirt is clutched in his small fists, a lifeline to keep his father tethered to him.
And Sylus is thawed in a flash. His shoulders hunch at every sniffle, his arms curl closer at each hiccup.
Then Sylus crumbles too. Bending at the waist and burying his face in his son’s hair. “Just… wait, okay?”
Lucian nods, smearing snot and salt onto Sylus’s sweater. “Love? Love Lucian, papa?”
Sylus has to clench his jaw to keep himself together. For now he finally realizes how his actions are being received by his children. And though he means well, the struggle between what he thinks is best for you and indulging in his children is like finding a shadow in a fog.
And he bears the back-breaking weight of it as he looks into glassy red irises. “Yes, of course I do.” He nuzzles his nose, wipes tears away with the swipe of his thumb. “I love you. I love Kyros. But mama is sick right now. And I just… she needs rest. So, wait, okay?”
Lucian doesn’t fully understand. But he listens still.
Sylus finds Kyros sitting by your locked door, wrapped in your blanket from the couch.
He can’t find it in himself to feel anything but endearment at the look of him. Not after the spat with Lucian still a stone in the pit of his stomach.
“Kyros.” He sighs.
“Mama need blanket?” Kyros asks, rising from his seat.
“No, angel she has enough.” He says, setting the tray of medicine and snacks to the side and picking Kyros up.
“One more!”
“No, Kyros.”
“Pease?”
Sylus shakes his head. The look in Kyros’s eyes is pitiful, but Sylus’s resolve is stronger today. Running on fumes from the stress and worry of it all, fluttering lashes and big puppy eyes just won’t make him budge.
So when Kyros’s face changes from pleading to anger, Sylus is take a back. “What are you doing?”
“Hmph!” the little boy takes a breath, mouth posturing into cry but no sound comes out. In fact, no air comes out.
Sylus turns rigid.
“Kyros,” he keeps his calm, rubbing his back with one hand and blowing steady streams of air on his face. But his heart races just beneath the surface. “Breathe, come on now.”
Kyros heaves again, taking in more air but not exhaling it out. Sylus blows again. “Please, angel. Come on.”
And with another puff of air, Kyros breaks out of the spell and cries. A loud wail that sinks into silent, frustrated hiccups. Sylus has half a mind to join him.
“Wanna go the inside!”
“Only sick people in the bedroom.” He states again, standing firm while gently rocking him side to side. Fumbling with clumsy fingers as he tries to reassure the hearts he keeps breaking.
“Wait for mama to feel better, okay?” He asks of him, pleads, holding his crying child to his chest. Drowning in the sorrow of causing both of them such pain in a day.
When he’s settled, he takes Kyros to Lucian in their bedroom. Sitting with them for a while to jumpstart a play sequence before slipping out to check up on you.
And in his act of righteousness, he fails to see the pile of your favorite things gathered by the doorway of the twins’ bedroom. Awaiting patiently to be transported to your side.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
You vomit again. Sylus sticks with you until the waves of nausea calm and you tread the waters of dreams once more.
Once your breathing is even and your pupils no longer shift beneath your lids, he goes to check on your boys.
He thought they’d given up after that with the silence that followed after a while. But he clearly didn’t understand how persistent your children actually are.
“Papa.” Lucian frowns up at Sylus, large eyes twinkling with unshed tears at the wetness of his shirt. He’d tilted his sippy cup a little too much and spilled all the sticky fruit juice on his tummy. He intercepts Sylus just as he exits your bedroom.
Sylus exhales through his nose, assures him it’s okay, and gives him a change of clothes.
“My tummy cold.” Lucian tells him, guiding his father’s heavy hand to his middle. Then he heaves, “Blegh. Eugh.”
Sylus’s voice rumbles with amusement. He rubs his belly in soothing circles until he’s a little warmer and kisses his forehead.
“Better?” He asks. But Lucian doesn’t seem too happy when he nods and asks to be put down.
But just as soon as he places him down, Kyros waddles up to him with a tissue up his one nostril. “Pa.”
What is going on?
Sylus picks him up slowly. Seeing no urgency or panic in the little one’s eyes, so he’d rather not introduce the emotion to him. “You okay, angel?”
“A-choo.” He says. Says, like a script he’d planned and produced. Like someone behind Sylus had cued him with an action! The rolled up tissue flies out of his nose unceremoniously, dry as a feather.
And then it clicks.
“Oh.” He nods, understanding fully what his two clever little copies were trying to do. “I see.”
Lucian, who hadn’t gone too far away, who was idling “subtly” in the corner of their bedroom pushing a wooden car back and forth, looks at Sylus just as Kyros does.
“Are you two… sick?”
Kyros bobs his head vigorously, and Lucian is giving thumbs ups from where he sits.
“Poor angels. Sick too when mama is sick?” Sylus pouts, playing along, smothering the wheezing laughter clawing its way up his chest.
“A-huh. And—and tick babies go in— the inside room.” Kyros supplies, leaning his head on Sylus’s arm, really selling his story all too well. He points towards the direction of your bedroom and squeezes his eyes. “Achoo. Achoo! Pease.”
“Uh! Me too.” Lucian grunts, rushing over to drape himself dramatically over Sylus’s legs. Squeezing his eyes shut, hands over his very-much-okay-belly and moaning in pain. “Ow! Tummy achy!”
The laughter is far too strong to suppress now, and he gathers his boys to his chest in an adoring embrace. His caring children, he wonders where they get it from. He makes a show of a loud, defeated sigh as he brings them down with him, backwards onto the bed where they chorus his giggles in return.
“Miss mama so soon?” He asks, tilting his head forward. He brushes their bangs out of their faces to look into their eyes.
Too little to be filled with so much worry.
But understandably so— they’d never seen you sick before. Don’t know how to process seeing you act differently from their usual, put together mother figure.
And the way he carries himself doesn’t help to reassure them either. Briskly trudging around with a dip in his brow, quick and urgent. A sudden obstacle between them and their mother; equally as worried, equally as distressed. It wasn’t until the fever finally broke and he heard you joke with him once more that his lungs had regained its full capacity.
His boys haven’t had that closure yet. Their last image of you was your fluttering lashes and loosening grip on their crayon-scribbled sketchbooks. To them, it was a cartoon-swoon into an endless slumber— sudden, unexplained, too odd to feel alright with.
And here Sylus was, keeping them from seeing you. Barely providing them with an explanation outside of “mama is sick”. Underestimating how much they understand and how much they actually care.
Guilt gnaws at his heels. Faced with failing to calculate balance between caring for you and helping your sons.
Gentle, you asked him. And instead he dismisses them outright. Preferring them out of the way instead of letting them offer their helping hands to usher you to health.
He combs his fingers through their hair, marveling at how much they exude you while looking so much like him.
A wish he’d made when they were born—grant your prayer for them have his features, but let the world be kind and bless them with your heart.
“I’m sorry,” the words are brittle glass beneath a roaring flame. Broken. Fragile. The talons of his mistake dig deeper into his chest as they continue to wear their innocent hearts on their sleeves. Hearts he’s been taking for granted.
How could he have been so excited at the prospect of having another one with you earlier, while all day he kept pushing his first loves away?
“I’m sorry for hiding mama from you.” He says, cradling soft cheeks in the hard edges of his palms. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Your heart, your beautiful heart— resonates in twin chests. So easy to love. So quick to forgive.
Kyros is the first to touch his face, mirroring his own movements and brushing his own silver hair out of his eyes. “It okay. It okay, papa.”
Lucian follows suit, cradling Sylus’s cheek with his palm.
His jaw trembles. He bites his lip to steady it. He’d found tears closer to the surface since having sons. Thinks it’s still one of the strangest feelings to have evoked so easily. But he’d also learned to stop being so surprised by the wonders his little ones do for him.
“Can go the inside room?” Kyros whispers when he finally sits them all up. Unaware of the mountains Sylus has conquered in his mind in that little moment they shared.
It was a battle he was never meant to win.
He shakes his head in defeat. He eyes the pile of yours and their favorite things by the door. “One thing before we go.”
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
The next time you wake is after hours of a soul-deep slumber.
Gone is the stiffness in your neck, and the dryness of your throat. Thanks to the heat-pack cradles your skull. On the bedside, a humidifier fizzes out your favorite scent.
This time, you do not wake to a pounding skull or nausea.
This time, you wake to the sound of the whispers that sent you to sleep the first time. Shushes. Lovely things.
Something hard rests beneath your fingers, it crackles and crunches when you flex. It takes a while for your blurry vision to make sense of it—and the nest of things around your bed—but when the picture comes to clarity, you cant help but smile.
Whorls of spirals in a shape of a flower in an obscure vase. A little queen made of circles and boxes and sticks wears a crown and lies in a heart-shaped bed.
And in spiraling, elegant handwritten script it is says: Feel better soon, Queen Mama.
“Took an hour to do that.” Sylus’s weight dips the mattress as he draws near to you. He moves various stuffies and plushies aside just to make space.
He catches the moisture from your eyes with his finger and finds no resistance this time when he leans in to kiss your forehead. “Boys were debating what color flowers you’d like.”
“For an hour?” Your mouth tugs downwards despite your joyful disposition. Sylus nods, curling around you like a beast and guiding your head to his chest.
He gestures to the red whorls overpowering the rest of the colors. “Lucian was very persuasive.”
You finally crack a smile. “How were they?”
“They take after you.” Is all he says, nodding towards the other edge of the bed where two curious heads with two pairs of careful eyes wait. Little crocodiles in the water.
Waiting, testing whether to approach or retreat.
Now, when have they ever held themselves back like this?
Your heart aches when you realize Sylus’s small movements— his one finger held up and cueing them to hold, his brows raised to prompt them to ask.
“How’a you, mama?” Lucian asks softly, his voice unused to speaking at such a volume. One hand comes up with the end of his plastic stethoscope, hovering, waiting to be used.
Kyros rasps, “All better?”
“Mhm.” You coo, and with one gesture from you to come nearer, they’re already overriding protocol and clawing at the beddings, climbing over the edge. Sylus uses his evol to nudge them up the incline. And they close the space between you.
You sit up against Sylus and watch each twin assume a position. Lucian balances himself on the bed and backs up bum first to sit on your lap and Kyros squeezes himself in the nonexistent space between you and Sylus.
Just before you’d fallen asleep, you remember their little voices telling you about their drawings. The presentation you so rudely dismissed with your slumber.
You have every intention to apologize, but Kyros is already starting a new story. In hushed tones and a practiced volume you can only guess is their papa’s doing.
“Papa make mama better— ‘ike, ‘ike eepy beauty.” Kyros says, pointing to the little queen on your ‘get well soon’ card.
You shoot Sylus a look and he promptly avoids your gaze. “Is that how the story goes?”
“Ah-huh! And—and papa too be da dragon that,” Lucian curls his fingers into claws and swipes them around to fill the space words cannot reach. “Roar! Roar! Go ‘way, little twinnies!”
You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest in melodrama. Not at all surprised that Sylus had barricaded the bedroom to give you space. And though you don’t think you’d have minded the little ones, you appreciating his thoughtfulness nonetheless. You didn’t think it was possible for your heart to swell more than it already has. “Oh no! How did you get through?”
“Hat twicks!” Lucian grins proudly. He taps his finger on to his temple, while his twin nods in affirmation, echoing, “Mm. Twicks.”
When you tilt your head in confusion, Sylus clarifies. “Mind tricks.”
“Mama sickie and—and go in the inside room.” Kyros says, playing with the fabric of your sleeve as he explains. Partly in fascination with the fabric, and partly to make sure you don’t drift away again. “So—so Kee-ro and Woosian sickie too!”
“Sickies!” Lucian cheers, tapping Kyros’s foot with his hand. Kyros’s delayed tap back to the back of his head tells you it was supposed to be a high-five.
You hum in understanding, letting each emotion on your face be clear as day. Corners of your mouth lifting at how adorable it must have all been to witness.
“And papa cry.”
What?
You gasp—wish it was an overreaction for the littles, but it wasn’t— and your head snaps to Sylus. His palm cradles your nape instantly, steadying you before the headache could return.
His eyes are blown wide, pupils shaking as he begs his son—don’t with just a look. But Lucian wasn’t briefed for this before he came into the sick room.
So he misses it, and blurts anyways, “He say—say sowee.” He reaches out to pat your face like he did Sylus’s earlier. Soft, syrupy-warm fingers tapping to soothe against your skin. “Sowee be hide mama.”
“Oh.” you swoon, nuzzling your nose against the column of your husband’s neck. While he drops his head in defeat, shoulders hunched as if he’s bracing for judgment. One that never comes.
Instead, you say, “Papa’s a good castle dragon, no?”
Both of them nod, heads bobbing with effort from the waist enthusiastically to drive the point home.
Fingers once drumming against the skin of your arm, Sylus reaches out to tap each child’s forehead. Activating them like sleeper agents with his command. “What else wakes the sleeping beauty?”
Their postures straighten, eyes alight and in a blink of an eye they are climbing up the blanket, over your limbs, exclaiming. “Kissies!”
Your shrieks are pleasant and warm as you receive a sloppy wet kiss on both your cheeks from each of your children. A sweet barrage of happy “mwa! mmmwa!”s are reimbursed back to them by your own kisses pressing onto the marshmallowy round corners of their face.
You overdose in their giggles and screeches as they roll around the sheets, finding home once more in your presence.
Sylus watches with the intensity of a hawk, but softened features of a father nursing his own wounded pride. Holding himself back from joining the fray, swimming in his spiralling thoughts—
For how could he have missed this? Deprive you of the most effective cure of all?
Soft lips press hard on his cheek, and he snaps out of it. Blinks to ground himself back in the moment to find you in focus. And offers you a halfhearted smile.
One you don’t buy.
“Doctor…” you says slowly, testing the waters for you know they run deep. You try again when he only scoffs in mild amusement. Evoking more from him with a softened, “My love.”
And as parched earth does touched after a drought, he crumbles.
“They begged to see you all day.” He confesses, watching distantly as Kyros and Lucian finally do what he’d been wanting them to do. Just play. Entertain themselves.
“They snuck into the plants. Lucian cried. Kyros even did the breath holding thing—“ he breathes through his nose. A wince in disguise. “I told them no, not now. Wait—until you’re better. Wait until I’m not busy. Wait… because I thought I would be all you needed.”
He winces now for real. The reality of his words said out loud like nails on a chalkboard; crashing cymbals on a porcelain floor. A humorless scoff, filled with disdain and disbelief chokes him. “How cruel.”
You consider him. The man who’d spent the whole day at your beck and call, catching you before you even fall, nursing you from sickness to health, all the while keeping your children entertained no matter how ridiculous it had gotten—still, still finding impurities in his actions.
And while he could be right. While he could have hurt them in the process of figuring it out—you can’t help but think it inevitable. “Sylus, you’re figuring it out.”
He grumbles, “I should have known.”
Damns himself with his voice of venom, “But I dismissed them. Forced them to understand without helping them understand.”
Acting exactly like the ones he despised, the ones who cast him out when he knew nothing else but to live.
“You asked me to be gentle with them.” He breathes.
Yet despite it all, gently, you take his trembling chin in your fingers and turn his face to his sons. Grounding him, reminding him where he is. Where he stands. Who he is. “You are.”
“I didn’t…” he holds his breath. Swallows the confession, but it rises up anyway. Needing to be said. Needing to be witnessed, to be heard. “I didn’t know what to do.”
That’s what he hates the most.
All the power, the strength and certainty in every area he chooses to stride; for all he has conquered— here he is. Helpless, scrambling, grasping at straws to make decisions where it matters most. With you. With his family.
“Oh, Sylus.” his hands are bound together by yours, fingers burrowing in each space. You guide his forehead down to press against yours, letting him feel you here with him.
“Now you do.” you whisper kindly. So kind, terribly sickly kind to him so monstrous.
For the first time, faced with greed he now feels shame holding.
He squeezes your hands tight as if asking for penance.
Flipping it on him—you say, “They didn’t understand. But now they do… because of you.”
He glances back at his children at your command. Play fighting across the expanse of the bed, gasping giggles and lifting little fingers to little lips when their volume gets too high, pulling each other away from you when they stumble too close.
Lucian pauses when Kyros clutches his eye, catching his brother and quietly apologizing. Planting kisses on his hair, squeezing him tight in an embrace.
Echos of his own words. Mimics of his own actions. Lessons they’ve learned from him.
“No one wants you to know everything. Not with us.” You assure him, combing disheveled bangs back to reveal his tired eyes. “We just want you.”
He stares at you. Reverently, wistfully— takes your fingers to his lips and presses hard, worshiping you for breathing. Thanking you for being.
“Gentle edges and all.” You say, the last nail to his coffin. For he has died again and again in your arms, but you bring him back to life each time.
He nods. Scars tender and seen. Swallows the lesson, digests the truth. You are well, and so are his boys. And whatever mistakes he makes on the way of keeping you this way, he will spend the rest of his life making it up to you. No matter how hard the storms wreak havoc, he swears to emerge victorious.
Until his wings are clipped. Until his soul is dragged thin. He will keep figuring it out and making things right.
His children offer the levity he needs when they stumble over each other to catch him off guard. They squeeze themselves between him and you, and heal him with kisses as well. The little ones settle themselves within the nest of huggable tokens and memorable trinkets they gathered under Sylus’s command.
For they hoard his words; they treasure his verses.
They do not tally his sins. Only his love.
𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ
Later, when the headache drags you under once more, Sylus does not fight it.
With a finger to his lips, he slips out of bed to make you dinner. Kyros follows, Lucian stays.
Kyros is slow in his movements when he plucks an egg from the fridge. When he squeezes the lemon into the soup. When he arranges the spoon and chopsticks on the wooden tray.
Lucian lays silently beside you, caressing your hair gently until he too slips on his dreams.
And when you wake the last time, Sylus is there, waiting for you.
And so are your children, with their own breakfast trays and silicone bowls with the octopus grippers to hold them in place. With their spill proof bibs and messy cheeks, already elbow deep into the soup that is served.
Clumsy hands overshoot spoons into their mouths, trying their hardest to do it on their own. Making space for Sylus to feed you instead.
“I can eat by myself, you know.” you inform him, but open your mouth for another spoonful anyway.
He smiles, shy and boyish, caught in his own indulgence. “I doctor you better, sweetie.”
You snort. “I wouldn’t mind being sick if it means this.”
He nods, watching Kyros tilt his bowl into his open mouth and Lucian’s fingers dive to retrieve his sunken spoon. A captured beauty in making their mess, with no hurry to be put away.
Your laughter, despite your exhaustion, melts something in him—peeling back the old ache layer by layer, until he can finally let go.
“Now, I know.”
✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡
Imagine Sylus standing by the hospital crib, arms frozen at his sides, eyes locked on the tiny bundle swaddled in white. The nurses keep asking if he wants to hold the baby, but he just... stands there. Silent. Unmoving.
Because he's scared.
Scared that his hands; hands that have drawn blood, broken bones, held guns and knives, will somehow ruin this pure little being. That even touching them would be some kind of sinful contamination.
He’s done so much wrong. Hurt so many people. He never thought he deserved you, let alone a child.
But then the baby opens their eyes.
Ruby red. Just like his.
It knocks the breath from his lungs. He’s never seen anything so small, so perfect, and to think they carry a part of him? It’s almost unbearable.
The nurse gently places the baby in his arms, and Sylus panics, even then. He holds them like they’re made of glass, as if one wrong move will cause the heavens to shatter.
He has been handed rare jewels, precious ores, and materials worth millions over the course of his life. But nothing, nothing—has ever compared to the weight of his precious baby being placed into his arms.
Because this? This is priceless.
And despite his anxiety, the baby just... coos. Nuzzles into his chest. Like they know him. Like they trust him.
And suddenly, the walls around his heart crumble.
The infamous Onychinus leader, feared across cities and whispered about like a living nightmare, he’s crying. Silently. Reverently.
He didn’t know love like this existed. He thought he gave you everything. Every bit of softness he had left.
But now?
Now he knows, his heart had one more piece to give.
POV: You are the non-MC wife. You thought the marriage would save you, but the moment you crossed his precious MC, you became nothing more than a target. He didn't even hesitate.
God, the angst of being the disposable villain in someone else's love story is unmatched 💔
