Who Writes These

writers and artists will go "this isn't good enough." my brother in christ, you're creating something new out of nothing and expressing yourself creatively. your productivity and unrealistic standards of perfection do not define you or the worth of your art. you're doing great.

workshopping an issue nobody is having (making gradient maps look nicer)

YASS

It might be almost 2 am but I am glad that I actually found out why that cat looked awfully familiar to me. I dare you to spot the difference 😼

Can I request a tasm spider man x reader imagine, where Peter is upset about something and then he takes a shower to try to calm down and then the reader decides to join him and says some sweet words to him to try to cheer him up. Not necessarily sexual content but just fluff and trying to comfort him 😇 pleaaase 🥰

AN | This got a lil but also really soft so I hope you like it❤️

Pairing | tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader

Warnings | Dad!Peter, Mentions of Death [fire, accident]

Word Count | 2.5k

Masterlist | Main | Peter

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You’d known Peter for a long time now. Since you were just kids, really, and that seemed so far away from the responsibilities and life you led now. 

But it also meant that you knew him incredibly well. You knew him on a level so deep that it was almost incomprehensible sometimes. He knew you too, knew you better than you knew yourself which, like most things, was both a blessing and sometimes a curse.

It meant that you knew something was wrong as soon as Peter came home. From the way he opened the window, to how he hopped in and landed on his feet, to the weary sigh that escaped his lips, you knew that something was wrong. Off. 

“Peter?” you kept your voice quiet, knowing he’d be able to hear you regardless, in order to prevent the baby from waking up. He didn’t say anything in response which caused you to frown slightly. You hated the mere idea that he was upset about anything. You looked down at your daughter, still sleeping and none the wiser, and stroked her chubby cheek, “good night, my sweet girl. I love you so much.”

You ensured that the night light was on and left the door open just a crack before walking down the hall to your bedroom where you knew he was. You rapped your knuckles against the door before opening it quietly when he didn’t respond. He was sitting on the bed, half dressed and staring out the window, watching the raindrops hit the window and slide down. He didn’t even turn around to face you.

“Hey my love,” you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to well up and run down your cheeks as you slowly walked over to him. Peter remained silent but turned his head ever so slightly in your direction so you could see his profile. You spied the frown that seemed to be etched on his features.You padded over to him, sitting next to him on the bed, setting a hand on top of his, “Peter.”

He made a small sound in the back of his throat before you noticed his shoulders slump and he leaned into you. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you pulled him into your body as best as you could, peppering kisses to the side of his head. It was then that you noticed he was trembling and shaking, along with feeling cold. 

Usually if one of the two of you had to be strong it was Peter, but tonight it was going to have to be you. And you had no problem taking care of him because you loved him so deeply and desperately. 

You slowly and gently stood up and moved in front of him, holding out your hands to him, “c’mon, love.”

After a few beats he gave you a single nod and put his hands in yours. You only had to tug lightly before he stood up in front of you. Before you could say anything else, he hugged you, hanging onto you as though he was afraid you’d disappear, like this was the last time he’d get to do this. 

You melted into his touch, rubbing his back in soothing patterns as he buried himself into you as best as he could. It didn’t matter that he was taller and larger, you’d be his support no matter what. 

After a few moments, you slowly lowered your arms from around him and took his hand in yours, leading him towards the ensuite bathroom. He followed along wordlessly, stopping in the doorway when you dropped his hands. You turned on the shower and let it warm before slowly stripping off your clothes and tossing them to the side. Peter watched you intently, almost nothing written on his face, but you knew that your Peter was in there somewhere. 

You turned around and reached for the neck of his suit. He’d barely managed to pull the mask off before he realized that the energy it would take was too much. You slowly pulled the fabric down his chest and arms, appraising him to make sure he wasn’t hurt. He seemed to be all in one piece as you finished pulling the suit down his legs and helping him to kick it off along with his boxers. 

“Here,” you took his hand again and ushered him into the shower, letting him stand under the warm spray of water. You could see some of the tension leave him as his shoulders relaxed slightly, “you don’t have to talk about anything, Peter. But I hope you know, and I know you know, that I’m here for you, no matter what and however you need.”

He made a small sound and you took that as him answering your question in the affirmative. You stood behind him but wrapped your arms around his middle, trying to envelope him with your warmth and touch. You pressed a few kisses to his shoulders before resting your cheek against his back. Peter didn’t move, only put a hand on top of yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

After a while, you let go of him and gently turned him around so he was facing you. Brushing his hair out of his face, you reached for the shampoo. You popped the bottle open and gave him a tender look, “may I?”

“Please,” he almost choked on the singular word as you chanced a small smile at him. You poured some of the liquid into your hand before lathering up his hair and lightly massaging his scalp. It was always one of your favorite things - when Peter washed your hair - and you hoped he liked it as much. 

Peter remained still but you could feel him leaning into your touch as you washed and conditioned his hair and scrubbed his worn, tired body. Anything to comfort him, you would try. Really, you would do anything for him, for your husband. 

You made quick work of washing your hair; when you opened your eyes once you were done with rinsing, you found him watching you with tears running down his cheeks. Despite the steady spray of water, you could easily tell that they were tears. 

“Oh, my love,” you didn’ hesitate to pull him into you, clinging onto him like a koala, “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

“It’s my fault,” he choked out, squeezing you a little tighter, “it’s all my fault.”

You found yourself already tearing up as you held him, wishing he never had to feel that way, “let it out, love, I’ve got you.”

“It’s my fault,” he repeated softly, “I was too late. Too slow.”

“Peter,” you pulled back and looked at him with wide eyes. You swallowed the lump in your throat, putting your hand on his face and brushing your thumb over his cheek, “what happened?”

“There was a fire,” it was hard to hear him clearly between his small sobs and that was enough to break your heart, “I was helping a couple of families out of their apartment building…”

Your heart sank further into the pit of your stomach as you tried to control your breathing.

“They had a little girl,” he choked and immediately you understood what happened. If it was possible for your heart to break further it would have done so, “she was trapped and I-I went to get her but I was too late.”

“Peter,” you took his face in your hands, turning his face to meet yours, “my sweet Peter.”

“It was a little girl,” his lip wobbled with effort as he tried not to cry further, “she probably wasn’t much older than our daughter.”

And that was what broke him - and you - and couldn’t contain his grief any longer. There had been many times throughout the years when he blamed himself for an unfavorable outcome, when he took the brunt of the blame for what happened. But you knew this hit home more than anything. That he couldn’t help but imagine it was his daughter.

You’d learned over the years not to say it’s okay because you knew that sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes things were terrible and horrible and not okay. 

"Peter," you whispered, "I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I'm so sorry that her family has to go through that. No one should have to, and I know anything I can say or do won't make it better. But you can't blame yourself for this, Peter. It wasn't your fault and I know you, so I know you did your best. I know that's hard to believe right now, but it's true, and I'll keep reminding you. I love you so, so very much."

All he could manage was a teary nod, as you sighed softly. You hated that he had to go through this, that there was nothing you could do to make it better. It was the worst feeling. All you could do right now was to remind him of how loved he was.

The two of you remained in the comforting warmth of the shower until the water started to run cold. Pulling Peter out of the shower, you dried him off with a big, fluffy towel and helped him into clean, fresh pajamas. It wasn't much, but you hoped it would be somewhat of a comfort. 

“Let’s get into bed,” you whispered, pulling down the covers of the bed. You reached for his hand and pulled him closer, giving him a tight squeeze before shuffling him under the warm covers. He burrowed into the covers, pulling them tightly around his body. You moved to the other side and slipped into your half of the bed. Peter wrapped and arm around your middle and pulled you closer to him, the two of you watching each other, faces close on the pillow.

You offered him a little half smile before reaching over and brushing some of his unruly locks out of his face. Before you could pull away, he grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. The tender gesture was enough to make you relax, even if ever so slightly. 

“Peter,” you whispered, “I know you did your best today, and I know it’s going to hurt for a long time, but it’ll feel better eventually.”

“How?” he croaked, “how do you know I did my best?”

“Because I know you, my love,” you trailed your fingers along his jaw, “and you never do anything without giving it your all. You put everything you have into everything you do. That’s just the man you are - a very good man.”

He fell silent, but gave you a little half nod. The two of you were silent for some time, simply studying each other. You could feel his fingers absentmindedly tracing along your exposed skin, causing you to melt. Eventually you were both almost asleep when you heard a few soft cries and whimpers crackling over the baby monitor. 

You noticed the way Peter’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move. You shook your head before slowly pulling away from, “I’ll go and check on her.”

You padded out of the room and down the hall to the nursery to see what was going on with your daughter. Cracking the door open, you heard her cries stop for a moment at the sound of the door. 

“Lilly,” you whispered her name as you peeked inside her crib. She was looking up at you, big brown eyes bright and curious. You stroked her cheek, wiping away the few crocodile tears that had run down, “what’s wrong, sweet girl?”

She made a small sound, almost like a huff as though you should have known exactly what was going on. Gently reaching into the crib, you picked her up and held her to your chest, lightly bouncing her for a moment, “I think I know just what you need.”

You walked back to your bedroom, and by the time you made it, she was calmed down and almost back to sleeping. Peter looked up as soon as you walked in, sitting up when he realized you’d brought Lilly with you. 

“Peter,” you gingerly got back into bed, making sure not to disturb either of them. You sat up and looked at him with nothing short of pure reverence, “I think she wants you.”

“I don’t know…” and yeah. He was hurting and upset, but there was nothing he loved more than his daughter - and you of course. He choked up for a moment before gently taking her from your arms. She fussed for just a moment before realizing that it was him and then buried herself into him as much as she could, wanting to be as close to him as possible. That was what broke him, causing him to realize just how deeply he loved the both of you, how he would do anything for you, and that he did his best. What happened wasn’t fair to anyone, but he did his best, always. Because at the end of the day, he always wanted to be able to tell his daughter that he did best, “my baby girl.”

You caught his eye and nodded, stroking over her back before resting your hand on his shoulder, “I love you, Peter Parker. So much, and so does she. You’ll always be our hero.”

“I know,” he kissed her little cheeks before pressing a kiss to your forehead, “you’re my hero too. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Me too,” you agreed, “I know this has been a hard night, but things will look different tomorrow - a new perspective. And we’ll figure out something we can do to help these people, okay? I promise.”

“Okay,” he looked between you and Lilly and sniffled slightly, “okay. I love you.”

“I know,” you promised fiercely, “we’ll figure this out together. You’re not alone, and you never will be, Peter. I love you.”

In his arms Lilly cooed softly before wrapping a tiny hand around his fingers. In her own little way, she was telling him she loved him too. 

Things would be okay - maybe not now or soon, but eventually. Especially with the two of you at his side.

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

Xavier lies on the couch, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His hoodie is slightly rumpled, one arm dangling off the edge of the cushions.

You approach quietly, drawn by an irresistible urge to feel his warmth. Without hesitation, you slide into the space beside him, immediately seeking the comfort only he can provide.

Xavier stirs, his eyes fluttering open briefly. For a moment, his expression shifts—the corners of his mouth lifting slightly—before his arms instinctively wrap around you.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice thick with slumber. “You’re here.”

You press closer, burying your face against the soft fabric of his hoodie, inhaling deeply. His scent envelops you completely—familiar and grounding.

“You’re so warm,” you whisper, feeling the day’s tensions begin to dissolve. “I could stay like this forever.”

Your bodies fit together perfectly, the rise and fall of his chest gradually syncing with your own breathing. The world outside fades away as you focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“I don’t mind if you do,” he replies quietly, his fingers finding their way to your hair.

His eyes close again, but that subtle smile remains—a sight that makes your heart flutter. Here, in the silence between you, words become unnecessary. When he adjusts his position, it’s only to draw you closer against him.

As consciousness begins to drift away, you tighten your hold slightly, unwilling to let go even in sleep. The last thing you register before falling asleep is Xavier pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his silent way of saying everything words could never quite capture, and his arms securing you against him—steady, reliable, exactly what you needed.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The sight of Zayne seated on the edge of the bed, still in his day clothes but with his collar unbuttoned, sends a wave of longing through you. Your body aches with the need to be held—specifically by him.

“I need fifteen more minutes,” he states without looking up, somehow sensing your presence. “Twenty, at most.”

You retreat to the bedroom, arranging yourself among the pillows, the wait almost unbearable. Every minute crawls by as you imagine the feeling of being gathered against his chest, surrounded by his warmth. The pull toward him is almost physical, a tightening sensation that only his touch can release.

True to his word, exactly fourteen minutes later, the soft pad of slippers against hardwood signals his approach. Relief floods through you at the sound.

He appears in the doorway, and you extend your arms instinctively, the need for his closeness overwhelming all other thoughts.

“You’re early,” you note with grateful surprise.

“Apparently, I can do my tasks faster when I know you’re waiting,” Zayne replies.

The mattress dips as he slides in beside you, and you waste no time pressing yourself against his chest, your arms wrapping around him with desperate need. His body is warm against yours, and you sigh with contentment as his scent surrounds you.

“I’ve been needing this all day,” you confess against his shirt, feeling the tension finally release as his arms encircle you.

Zayne shifts slightly, tilting your chin up with gentle fingers to study your face with the same intensity he gives his most complex cases. Whatever he finds makes him pull you closer, adjusting his position to maximize your comfort.

“Better now,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around you before you feel him press a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The urge builds throughout the day—a growing, insistent need to feel Rafayel’s arms around you. You find him by the window, humming softly as sunlight bathes his figure. The sight of him—so vibrant and alive—only intensifies your craving for his touch.

“Rafayel,” you call softly, arms already half-raised in anticipation.

The moment he sees you, understanding dawns immediately. He spins toward you with a flourish, meeting your unspoken need without hesitation.

“Perfect timing. I was just thinking of you,” he says as he closes the distance between you in quick strides.

You collide with him halfway, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressed against his chest. The contact sends immediate relief coursing through you—like cool water after a long thirst.

“You smell like the ocean and sunshine,” you mumble against the fabric of his shirt. “I couldn’t resist anymore.”

His arms encircle you completely, lifting you slightly as he backs toward the overstuffed couch in the corner, understanding your need without explanation.

“Then you shall have me,” he declares, falling backward onto the cushions and bringing you down with him in a tangle of limbs. “For as long as you need.”

You settle against him, fingers clutching at his shirt, drawing him closer still. He smells of turpentine and sea salt, of creativity and freedom. Your body relaxes completely for the first time all day, the desperate need that drove you to seek him out finally satisfied in his enthusiastic embrace.

You sigh contentedly, ear pressed against his chest to hear the steady rhythm of his heart. His fingers find their way to your hair, twirling strands around his fingers as your breathing synchronizes with his. Outside, seagulls call to each other, but neither of you makes any move to break the perfect connection.

“Stay just like this,” you whisper. “I don’t want to let go yet.”

His laugh bubbles up in response, the sound vibrating through his chest against your ear. “Then the rest can wait.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The longing strikes without warning—an intense need to be held in Sylus’s arms. Nothing else will satisfy this particular craving; only him.

You make your way to his room, the journey giving you time to acknowledge how completely this need has consumed you. You find him standing by the window, the city sprawled below.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps, one eyebrow lifting slightly as he takes you in.

“Well,” he says, setting down a glass of wine, “this is a pleasant surprise.”

Words feel unnecessary as you approach him, arms already reaching for him, need written plainly across your face. You press yourself against him, inhaling his distinct scent, feeling your pulse steady at the contact.

“Don’t reschedule on my account,” you say, voice slightly muffled against his chest, though you make no move to pull away. “But I couldn’t wait another minute to see you.”

“Simply my company?” he murmurs against your hair, arms encircling you with practiced ease.

There’s something warm in his tone as he guides you to sit, arranging you both so you’re nestled against his chest, exactly as you’d been craving all day. His fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, releasing tension you hadn’t realized you were carrying.

“Tell me,” he says, tilting your chin up, eyes searching yours. “What brought on this sudden need for closeness? Not that I’m complaining.”

The city lights reflect in his eyes, catching on the edges of his features as he studies you with uncharacteristic patience.

You shake your head slightly, unable to articulate the bone-deep longing that drew you here. Words seem inadequate to explain how completely his embrace satisfies something essential within you.

“Just wanted to be close to you,” you answer simply, settling back against him, feeling the rightness of being exactly where you belong.

“Hmm… I wonder what you might demand next.” Yet his arms tighten around you. Outside, the city continues its evening pulse, but here, in this moment, his attention is focused solely on you, as though nothing beyond this room matters.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Caleb tosses his uniform jacket over a chair, his face lighting up the moment he spots you lingering by the bedroom door. In an instant, his professional demeanor melts away completely.

“Caleb,” his name escapes your lips, arms already outstretched.

“There you are,” he says, voice warm with affection as he closes the distance between you in long, eager strides. “Best sight in the entire galaxy.”

His arms are around you before you can respond, lifting you slightly as he spins once, the movement playful despite the strength evident in his embrace. When he sets you down, he doesn’t let go, instead dropping his forehead to rest against yours.

“Please tell me you’re waiting for cuddles,” he breathes, already walking backward toward the bed, guiding you along. “Because after that strategy meeting, I’ve been thinking about holding you for approximately four hours and seventeen minutes.”

Your arms wrap around him eagerly, face pressed against his chest, breathing him in deeply. The contact sends immediate relief flooding through your system, like finding shelter in a storm.

“The entire room feels cold without you,” you confess, clinging to him. “Want cuddles.”

“Then you’re in luck,” he murmurs against your hair, already walking backward toward the bed, keeping you firmly in his embrace. “Because holding you happens to be my specialty.”

The back of his knees hit the mattress and you follow him down eagerly, arranging yourself against his chest, unwilling to allow even an inch of separation. His scent envelops you—warm and comforting.

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he presses a kiss to your temple. Through the view beside the bed, stars streak by in ribbons of light, but his eyes remain fixed on you.

“I could hold you like this forever,” he whispers against your hair, his arms forming a protective circle around you.

In this moment, wrapped in Caleb’s arms, the rest of the universe fades away—leaving only the two of you, connected exactly as you needed to be.

Based on this request.

THIS IS GORGEOUS

two birds on a wire

— on tangled trust and guilt, two little birds—and the ones who raised them—hold fast and balance their way home.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: OR the babies come to papa on a work trip they were NOT invited to 🥺 this. this is the longest, heaviest thing i've ever written for these wonderful characters and im scared and proud and everything in between. i hope this exploration is something worth reading. i'll post an entirely separate a/n should you be interested in my thoughts on this here! hehe. but anyway, i hope you enjoy! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: kyros and lucian are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. around 3-4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | angst, hurt, comfort, boydad&husband!sylus, mom!reader, bigbrother!luke&kieran, sylus cant afford to lose his family tw: children in danger, violence/blood, self-blame/guilt, trauma, tragic tones

“That’s too long.”

Sylus chuckles at your tone over the line. He settles in his seat, feeling the discomfort in his back that begins to make itself known. “Sweetie, we’ve been apart for longer than that.” 

“Yes, and each day was agony.” he grins at the sound of your whining. Immediately matching the tone and twang to Lucian’s huffy-puffy behavior.

“I’ll try to get back in three.”

“Two.” you push.

He laughs now, full bodied and rich like wine. “Beloved.”

“Tonight.” you demand. You don’t notice it, but he does: that firm voice you do since the twins have become more rambunctious. Lower in register and more commanding in tone. It goes so unnoticed by you that it’s a treat when you slip and use it on him.

He wants to devour you every time. 

“Tomorrow.” he promises, relenting. Never truly one to deny you anything. He’d fold the world in half to cut down travel time should you ask. 

You smile, he doesn’t need to see you to know, giddy with the flutters in your stomach that never fail to surprise you no matter how long it’s been. “Y’know, if you really wanted to shave down time, we could have done this trade together.” 

And, oh, Sylus would love that. As much as he adored being bound to you, married in every way imaginable, nothing will ever compare to working with you. Of watching a hurricane in the form of his partner leveling the field of wanderers and enemies alike. To resonate and feel the energy surge through his greedy veins as you both unleash a power more fearsome than any abyss. 

And then you sigh, playful, knowing you’d just riled him up. “But Kyros says he wants to watch Bubble Pals.”  

He grits his teeth, jaw tightening. “I should have brought that whole program and scheduled the concert myself.” 

“You know he’d hate that, the whole point is to enjoy the Bubble Pals with pals, not just him.”

“We can be his pals. Kieran and Luke haven’t exactly outgrown cartoons. They watch those action packed animations—“ 

“—anime?—“

“And does Kyros forget he was born with a pal?” Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lucian is a biological bubble pal.” 

His words begin to crunch in a way that tells you he’s getting a little too worked up about being apart— but you also know him well enough that he’d be missing bubble pals with his sons too. Although endearing, you didn’t want him getting too distracted from his mission. 

“My love,” your tone is honey, placating and calm. “Lucian is not made of bubbles.”

He scoffs. “You’d think he was with all the floating he’s been asking for.” 

Oh, Lucian and his favorite hobby: scaring the life out of his father. Recently, he’d been climbing up high places within Sylus’s proximity and jumping without so much as a warning. Relying solely on his father's instinct to know he is there, and catch him with his evol. “But papa whizzies are so fun!” 

“Don’t patronize me,” he groans, recalling the fear that crumples his chest during Lucian’s split-second free falls. “We need to put a bell on him. He can’t keep jumping off the stairs and expecting me to catch him.” 

“You always do though.”

His heart trips over your faith.

“It doesn’t help that their mother is a cat.” he jabs lightly. “And so they move as such.” 

“Hey, the irresistible charms come from me. Mischief is all from you.” 

“Really now?”

“And the big twins.” you add. “Who, let’s remember, you also raised.” 

He chuckles. Coming from you— the only thing capable of raising his blood pressure up to ungodly heights—it was all highly unlikely. “And I suppose their tendency to send me into a coma comes from…?” 

“That’s debatable.” you say, and he hears the smile he loves so in your voice once more. The crackle of gravel beneath the wheels of your vehicle signal your arrival to home. “I’m pulling up to the house. How’s your flight so far?”

“It’s well.” he says, tone somber as he recognizes the transitioning goodbye. “We can… talk some more. Or, maybe I can say hello to the boys?”

Your heart swells. The day you realized that Sylus was just as needy for you as you were for him was a paradigm shift in your relationship. Suddenly, it was easier to ask and receive on both sides. And you’d promised then to practice just wanting. Requesting, knowing full well your partner is more than willing to deliver. 

“The boys are with the big twins, said they wanted to ride Luke’s Cheeto car.” you inform him sadly. You love eavesdropping on their little conversations when he spoke to the kids over the phone. Unfortunately, amazing, fantastic mama and transformer car papa (Sylus’s voice on the loudspeaker) is no match for Luke’s neon orange sports car. 

“I see,” he says. “And you?”

“I have to finish some paperwork.” you sigh, picturing the dreary and drab documents you’ll be staring at for the majority of the day.

The car door shuts with a muffled thud and your boots on the ground paint him a picture of where you are, coming up to the front door. He listens as you speak into the voice register, scan your retina on the bio-lock, and then finally shut the door behind you. The simple act of arriving home and the thought of you being safe inside helps the tension on his shoulders. 

“Okay,” he simply says, understanding. “Call me when you’re done.” 

“But what if you’re at the exchange by then?” 

“I don’t care.” He says, leaving no room for argument “Nothing is more important to me than hearing your voice.”

You blush, and he knows you’re blushing. He continues and the grin in his voice is annoyingly dear, “Thank you for seeing me off to the airport.” 

“Come back in one piece.” 

“I promise.” A warbled captain's announcement sizzles overhead, but he doesn’t hang up. Instead, he lets the silence that follows be language enough. 

I love you. I’ll come home to you soon.

You hum, and then the line goes dead. Might as well get work done with a quiet house until your twins get home— both sets, who no doubt will inevitably pull you away from your responsibilities as a hunter… 

It would be great if they got here sooner.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus sighs the weight of his chest away when the call ends. The sooner he finishes this mission, the sooner will this longing cease. And before you, Sylus had never known hardship like leaving home. 

It was especially difficult when Kyros had clung to him the day before, as if knowing he’d be gone again. And his scent of baby powder and clean linen is still on the lapels of his jacket, since he sobbed and held his father tight as if doing so would keep the world from turning. Would keep his papa home.

Sylus groans, rubbing his eyes. His career had never been the safest or the easiest, but the security and power it allows him— to be able to give you the world and protect you all from it— makes it all worth it. All he asks is to return at the end of the day, back to you, back to his boys, back home. 

He’ll finish this mission quickly. He’ll end anyone that gets in the way of his expected ETA. He’ll be damned if he misses Bubble Pals. 

The seatbelt sign flickers on overhead, and he raises a brow. He follows anyway, awaiting turbulence or a steeper decrease in the clouds, but none come. 

“What’s going on?” gone is his soft and playful tone he reserves only for you. His voice now comes through the intercom of the cockpit like a harsh assault of hail. Enough for the pilot and co-pilot to stiffen and straighten their postures just at the sound. 

“Low visibility, sir.” 

There is no reply and they sigh a breath of relief. And yet they sense it, something in the clouds lurking, just out of sight. Watching, waiting for them.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus feels it like he does every other time and the fear spears his heart. A shuffling, a grunt and then— 

He nearly misses— with an inch between the carpet and his nose, the little boy floats by the crumpled points of his clothes where Sylus’s evol has haphazardly tangled and pinched itself around like a careless net.

“Lucian?!” Sylus hisses, drawing his son closer with his power. Thoughts running a million miles a minute, bewildered that he is here.

Here and giggling. “Papa whizzy!” 

“What are you doing here?” he can’t help the harsh growl in his throat as he undoes the seatbelt and grabs his son from the air. 

“Wan’ta fly with you.” Lucian says, like it was obvious, not yet sensing the trouble he was in. Just happy to have finally found Sylus in this big plane.

But Sylus is frantic, now looking around and underneath the seats, knowing that one does not come without the other. “Where’s your brother?” 

“Kee-ro losin’!” Lucian cheers, wrapping his arms around Sylus’s bicep. “I found papa first.” 

“Lucian.” Sylus groans through gritted teeth. And then the plane bounces, a small wobble of turbulence hitting from below. Sylus tilts forward as he loses his footing, but catches himself with an hand on a headrest. 

Thankfully, it draws the other one from wherever he’s hiding. The quick pitter-patter of running little feet come from the other end of the cabin, and his son is screaming. “Ahh! I don’t like it! Cian!” 

“Kyros!” Sylus calls, voice deep and loud, beckoning the little boy’s attention to him from down the aisle.

Kyros says nothing as he runs to his father, arms clinging to his neck immediately when Sylus bends to pick him up. “Papa, don’t like it.” 

Sylus is so confused. He’s confused and distressed and fuming that these two have manifested in his very dangerous plane on the way to his very dangerous mission.

He wonders if it’s a prank, if it’s truly your mischief that they inherited and their maternal source is also on this plane hiding somewhere he has yet to discover.

But by the looks of the two unblinking eyes staring up at him with guilt written all over, he’s sure it isn’t. His heart sinks to his stomach and he feels the sudden urge to throw up.

And the boys know that look, rare as it is, it is distinct and unmistakable. Papa mad. 

The plane dips again, this time more abruptly and violently. Lucian actually freezes this time, fists tightening around the fabric of Sylus’s jacket, and Kyros buries his face in the crook of Sylus’s neck. 

The speakers crackle to life. “Sir, we’re under attack.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ 

Sylus is cool headed in every situation, only because he knows he can get out of anything in one piece. He is always with the upper hand, always at the advantage even when it seems like he isn’t. He expected an attack, eventually. With the high profile protocores he’s transporting in his jet, it’s only appropriate for his enemies to intercept the exchange and bypass payment. Maybe even try their hand at destroying the head of the serpent Onychinus. 

If that were the case, he wouldn’t mind. He’d been prepared after all. 

What he isn’t prepared for is the presence of his two most prized possessions being on board alongside the greed-bait in his cargo hold. He can regenerate, redirect energy into his cells to heal, manipulate particles in the air to fly— but his children cannot. 

And as much as he was livid that these two were now in this with him, his mind is divided by the strategies he conjures in his head to keep them safe. To keep them alive. 

And to keep them calm. 

Lucian is already taking quick, nervous breaths and clinging to him like a vice, asking questions about their safety and survival— are we bad? gonna to be dead? Is it hurt, papa? Don’t want hurt! 

Kyros is silently shaking in his hold. Both already so small, shrunken even smaller in their fear. 

“No attack, don’t like ‘tack.” Kyros begs, his voice trembling as he weeps. Sylus has to take a deep breath to collect himself. 

“I sorry. I sorry, papa.” Lucian is wailing, hiding in the collar of his shirt. 

“Listen to me.” He finally says, securing them both within his inner shirt and jacket. “It’s going to be loud and dark. Do not let go of papa. Do you understand?” 

They nod and warble out wet yeses, finding purchase anywhere their fingers allow them to in the small space. On the fabric of Sylus’s clothes, in each other’s arms. Their arms lock together unprompted, unwilling to let go. 

With that, Sylus marches to the cockpit and takes the helm.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You’re going to kill him. 

You’ve done it once, you’ve tried that second time— both times he’d pulled the trigger.

But this time, this time you’ll do it all on your own.

He’d never experienced the hardships of flying a burning jet with a screaming toddler on his chest, whilst simultaneously constantly checking if the other is still even breathing with the silence he’d shut himself to. By all the mercies of the universe, he’d managed to land the plane safely without any casualties or injury, just irreversible trauma to his sons. 

Which you will kill him for.

He sighs a deep breath, eyeing his men not to say a word about the sobbing little lumps in his clothes. He’d landed on a secured plot, a territory he’d acquired long ago. Not too far off target, but it will buy them time. 

The silence stretches as he walks with his sons into the cabin.

He unlatches them one at a time and places them on his lap. Lucian first since he was already looking up at him, asking if it was over. Kyros next, harder since his little nails had dug into the skin on the nape of his neck. 

And despite the anger that simmered beneath, his first instinct is to soothe. He knows neither of them will answer his questions in this state, nor will appreciate his scolding. So he gathers them into his arms, and presses his face between them, guiding their cheeks onto either side of his and whispering in their ears. “Shh, shh…” 

“Papa, no more.” Kyros gasps though his tears, hiccuping painfully as he cries.

“Want mama.” Lucian sobs, finding comfort in clutching Sylus’s ear to bring him closer. Seeking comfort like a moth to a flame. “Mama, mama please.” 

“I know, I know.” He shushes, rocking them to calm. Squeezing their arms to ground. Brushing tears away and showing his face, modeling even breathing and an encouraging expression. And when they relax— when Kyros is wiping his own tears away and Lucian is no longer tugging on his ear, he pulls away. 

“You are not supposed to be here.” He says sternly. The tearful eyes he wipes at are downcast, and their cheeks puff at his tone. Neither of the twins like being scolded by papa, but this time they knew they deserved it. Sylus continues, despite the ache in his heart, the need to let them know how dangerous and wrong it is to have snuck away from their mother, to have followed him here without anyone else knowing rises above all of it. “Do you see what happens?” 

“Papa mad.” Lucian points out. Not to mock or appeal, just to process. 

“Yes, I’m mad.” Sylus swallows to keep his voice from rising, still just recovering from the throes of adrenaline himself. Recovering from the poisonous fear that paralyzed him at the thought of failing to protect them, at the thought of them… 

He shakes his head. None of those thoughts are welcome in his mind, and he will burn every single one that attempts to enter at the stake. “I’m mad because I almost lost you.” 

“We here, papa.” Kyros tries. Always, he tries to mediate and reassure. A mirror, a reflection of how his parents comfort him when he is panicked and anxious. 

Sylus crumbles. His face open and vulnerable, every crease and twitch visible and unguarded as he holds his sons’ small hands in his, as if forcing them to look— see, see and understand that I cannot afford anything happening to you. 

“Yes, Kyros, but what if I hadn’t found you in time? What if the plane—“ his voice breaks, and he has to swallow again to reel it in. “What if the plane went down? Without me knowing you were here?” 

Kyros sniffles, looking down, realizing in his own little way that they could have been lost still under the chairs. That their game could have ended with neither of them finding papa. “Kyros— me and- and Cian hiding.” 

Sylus prompts. “From what?” 

“Didn’t want you to go ‘ishun.” Kyros’s lips starts to tremble, as if his body is processing how shaken he actually is before his mind does. “Wanted to come.” 

“Why?” Sylus begs, trying to make sense of it all. Retracing every lesson, every rule of survival and safety he’d given to them. “You wanted to watch Bubble Pals. Why are you here?” 

“Papa, I—“ Lucian murmurs. He is tugging at his father’s hand to reenact he movement and to bring his attention away from his brother. “I pull Kee-ro. I pull. And—and I say hiding from mama and biggies.” 

Sylus’s jaw trembles as he tries to control his breaths. Here are his sons before him, confessing with fear in their eyes as if they’d been convicted of a crime. Speaking their reasons, protecting each other in the face of their daunting father, so soon after being scared to death. 

And what courage that takes for such little souls. Despite it all, beneath the burning in his chest, he can’t help but be proud. 

“What did we tell you about getting lost?”

“Don’t.” they speak their script together, equally as sorrowful and ashamed. 

He watches their eyes, scrutinizes for any sign of understanding. If not the weight of their actions, then the stones of consequences settling in. He takes in their shaking hands and their stuttering breaths, their tear stained cheeks and their swollen eyes. And the longing on their face for him to stop being angry, now, and hold them. 

Please. 

He nods once, deciding this is enough for the time being. There are still forces beyond the battered walls of the plane that will try to get to him, and now two of his most critical weaknesses are on board. 

His arms circle around each back, crowding them close to his body and he holds on to them like his life depended on it. Spreading his fingers over their ribs to feel the tidal movement, shutting his eyes to listen to their hiccups, absorbing their warmth to let himself know: they are alive. They are still alive. 

“I sorry,” Lucian is the first to murmur, to take responsibility. Like a good older brother, like the good soldier he likes to pretend to be in his games. 

Kyros follows, speaking for both of them when he whispers. It echoes in Sylus’s mind, stiffens his muscles and leadens his bones. “Love you, papa. Love you.” 

“I love you.” Saying it was sandpaper and rubble in his throat, but butter and milk to the ears that listen. He kisses both their foreheads tenderly. Then he rises. “I’m calling mama.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

His blood runs cold at the thirty missed calls on his phone that had flown at the end of the plane. With each twin holding onto his pants, it takes a while for him to locate it. And when he does, it’s a few minutes too late. 

“Sylus! Sylus, I can’t find them- they, they—“ he hears your sporadic intakes of breath, knows you’re shaking and on the verge of tearing your hair out— “please pick up. I’ve lost them, I’m so—“ 

He doesn’t continue the message, he calls you without a second thought. You pick up by the second ring, with a distressed yell. “Sylus—!” 

“Breathe.” His voice is rumbling thunder over stormy seas. “Beloved—“

“The boys.” You’re sobbing, your voice is raw and raspy, no doubt from screaming. “They’re gone, I can’t—“ 

“They’re with me.” He says quickly, detesting prolonging your worry. Hating the sound of your pain. “They’re safe, beloved. They’re with me.” 

He hears you take deep breaths, hauling in as much air as you can in your lungs even as your body rejects it. He hears a thud— imagines you collapsing against the wall, the weight of panic and relief dragging you down.

“Head between your knees.” He reminds gently, pushing against the image of your agony. Feeling the twinging in his own heart at your torment. “Let me hear you counting.” 

He listens as you count to ten, as you come back to the ground and then finally find your footing. “Where? How?” 

“We’re on the plane, we landed a few minutes ago.” He explains, absentmindedly placing a hand on one of the heads looking up at him in worry. To reassure them mama is okay. To reassure himself they are still there. 

“I want to hear them.” You beg. Your limbs are jelly, heart still racing and you’re about to throw up. Still just recovering from being prepared to burn the entire world to get your children back from wherever they’d wandered. 

You wait with bated breath, eyes squeezed shut, breathing in through your nose and panting out through your mouth. Until you hear a little voice wrinkle the phone line. “Mama? Hi, mama.” 

“Mama, it’s Kyros, mama.” The voice says, and your eyes burn. Your hands shake as you press the phone to your ear, as if doing so would squeeze you through the other side, where you can hold him. 

“Kyros.” You sob. Kyros frowns and his eyes well up again. “Kyros, stay with papa, okay? I’m coming.” 

“Lucian, can you hear me?” 

“Yes, mama. I sorry. I sorry!” He’s crying again too. “I go home, wanna go home!” 

“I’m coming, angel, I’m coming. Stay with papa.” You swear, already starting to get the feeling back in your legs. As soon as you do, you get up and rummage through your essentials, getting ready to go.

Sylus calls your name on the other end. You stiffen and then relax, a rushing stream of cool water washing over you at the sound. 

“Sylus, are you okay?” You ask, overlapping him asking you the same question. 

His voice is frayed, wary and brittle at the edges. “They aren’t hurt.” 

“I know.” you sound sure, like he’d just told you the sky is blue. Your voice softens as you clarify, “Are you?” 

Your faith in him to keep your children safe is indisputable, and that very fact pummels him to the ground. He doesn’t lie. “No.”

“I’m coming.” you insist, genuinely expecting him to stop you.

But instead, fear no different from your children, he breathes. “Please.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Between the moment you hang up and the moment you arrive, Sylus’s hands are tied at the demands of the mission he’d committed to partake in.

His men warn him of the oncoming enemies, of the people who’d tried to knock him out of the sky now dressed in elegant suits and brandishing clean hands.

On any other occasion, he’d welcome it. To have him be seen as a threat to eliminate, to let his enemies think they have the upper hand when in reality there is no situation they will ever be, not when he is a player on the board. He’d let them have their fun, endure the hassle, stretch his muscles and feast on the conflict. Indulge in the mind games they try to wield to manipulate him, which are nothing but mild entertainment at best. 

On any other occasion, he’d draw it out, play with his food before he swallows them whole.

But on this one, he’s not in the mood. 

The little ones, now dwarfed in blankets, have finally found comfort without clutching onto his clothes. They sit together on one seat and talk quietly amongst themselves. Kyros had sculpted a blob from the tinfoil of his inflight sandwich. Lucian is stabbing arms and legs onto it with the toothpicks. 

Sylus sits across them, fingers on his temples, watching silently as they interact. Going over every scene that had led him here, silently torturing himself in the midst of his children’s slowly returning normalcy. And frankly, he doesn’t care to be disturbed. 

Lucian sticks another toothpick in. Kyros tells him to be careful because it’s sharp. They share a laugh when they are able to get the blob to stay upright. Sylus is fuming beneath his skin, every nerve alight at the fury he feels for the people who dared touch his sons.

The click of the cockpit door is enough for him to move. He stands before the captain of the aircraft is even able to lay eyes on his children, taking up the entirety of the aisle with his ominous presence. 

“Speak.” 

The traders are awaiting for him to step out of the fuselage, to present them with what they’d asked for and more— now that he’s been “intimidated”. He doesn’t need the report, he knows how this goes. He’s done it a million times before that by now it’s a chore.

Except for this. This was an offense.

“Let them wait.” he doesn’t need to say it again. He refuses to leave his sons alone, or with anyone else that isn’t their mother. 

“They’ll force entry, sir.” the pilot points out.

Sylus gives him a deadpan stare. He’d like to see them try. “Then let them.” 

“But—“ 

The insistence and blatant defiance of his command makes it click in Sylus’s mind. It should have clicked the moment the seatbelt sign went off. A swift moment of clarity as the smoke is sucked into the void and he realizes the betrayal. His right eye flares as he taps into his evol to confirm, to burn through the soul of the man before him and reveal his greatest desires.

Power. Wealth. Vengeance.

Fool. 

“I should commend you, captain. My nose is usually sharp when it comes to traitors, specially when they stand right beneath it.” Sylus says, menacingly low and irate. “But you’ve managed to get this far.” 

“What—“

With a flick of his finger, the pilot’s limbs are bound by the slightest rings of energy. The gun he held behind his back falls to the ground, and Sylus is quick to obliterate it to nothing but the dirt beneath his feet. 

Sinewy mist like blood and shadow dance around the traitor in a mocking comfort before the end of his life. It curls around his arms and caresses the veins on his neck, seducing him to his doom.

“Unfortunately, you’ve caught me on a bad day. I have those too, I should let you know.” Sylus steps closer, slowly. His fingers flutter ever so slightly, and he sews his lips shut with dark thorn vines and watches him writhe in his misery. “I almost died. You understand, right?” 

Sylus has never felt more anger than he has in this moment. In the face of the man who thought he could rewrite the route, give away their position for them to lock on, send the signal for the missiles to fire. To end his life, to take the loot for his own. 

But with the worst of luck— which Sylus tends to bring— two little boys snuck into the aircraft and turned this, what was an equivalent to a harmless prank for Sylus alone, into the gravest of sins against a monster, a fiend, a father. 

Sylus stares, eyes widening ever so slightly as he watches the fear in the vermin’s eyes as he squirms. So different from the fear in his sons’. So deserving of him who dared take what was his. He’s sure, deep down, he’ll enjoy this. He’ll revel in the vision of him turning into ash, mere atoms devoid of a soul. And he’ll make it hurt too. 

“Boys.” He calls over his shoulder. A slight tilt of his face to the two faceless lumps in his clothes earlier. “Peek-a-boo.” 

The pilot scowls, trembling in fear at the mad look in the crimson eyes that hold him.

And on command, unaware of what is going on behind their seats, the boys shut their eyes in excitement. “Peek!”

Sylus snaps. The man barely has time to scream before he is reduced to dust. “A-boo.”

“A-boo!” Lucian hops up on the chair a split second later, looking over the headrest to find Sylus staring at now empty space. He waves, reaching forward but not quite catching him with his short arms. “Papa, I over here.”

It takes a moment for him to turn. But when he does, his eyes are bright and playful, a ghost of a smirk curls the corner of his mouth. “I see you.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

It registers immediately when you hop out of the helicopter. Luke flanks you. Kieran lands somewhere nearby. The sight of your husband’s aircraft curdles your stomach and twists your heart into something unrecognizable. 

Scorched panels, chunks of metal missing from the wings and fin, burnt rubber marks on the tarmac despite being perfectly parked. It doesn’t take a genius to know they’d been attacked, and your heart stops at the thought.

Your family. Your boys.

Instincts kick in and your eyes zero in on the men lurking around the plane. None of them which you recognize, but by the way they walk with their guns at the ready and energy of their evol irritating your resonance, you know. You know. 

Sylus is rubbing off on you. You’d admit to it proudly, knowing Luke will bring it up later. Because then you say, low and controlled. “Take the vermin out.” 

Luke is quick to move, Kieran hears the command through his brother’s ears and they get to work. 

You walk, slowly but not inconspicuously, letting your presence be known in the space you enter. Declaring war by your presence. You see the people stiffen to attention at your appearance. Guns drawn, cocked and aimed at you.

In the corner of your eye, you see the twins take out their first victim in the shadows. A scream— an alarm— and then chaos befalls.

You draw your weapon from thin air, and charge at the first person that comes in between you and your family. 

You are known for your many talents and endless compassion. Mercy, you are well acquainted with, kind enough to offer it unprompted, when you can. 

A gallant, lawful hunter. 

But tonight, in the secluded island of traitors and thieves, away from the eyes of the law, you are no better than the ruthless filth that thrive in its darkness. 

Not when they attempt to steal from you. Not when they try to take what’s yours. 

You’ll wash your hands of the blood before you hold your son’s faces in a moment. For now, you fight. You dispose. You kill.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Sylus knows the carnage is done once the taps on the hull are to the rhythm of your favorite song. The one you haven’t stopped humming since you heard it three weeks ago, the one you buzz in his ear like a mosquito just before you go to sleep just to mess with him. And he’s never felt more relieved to hear the tune.

He opens the cabin doors, telling the boys to stay in their seats as he does. He’s sure it’s you. But the just-in-case is the wound that’s beginning to fester.

He feels you before he truly sees you, when you crash into him like an avalanche and wind your tired arms around his shoulders and cling. His strength takes leave entirely at your touch, except for the vice he holds you with around the waist with his arms.

“Sylus,” you breathe, finally. Feeling the air push all the way down to your lungs ushered by his scent. His name is a prayer on your lips, desperate and raw. “Sylus.” 

He’s silent when he embraces you, holding on tight like you were his only lifeline. Like he’d collapse if he loosened even just that little bit. He’ll release when you complain, but for now, he needs your presence. He needs you. 

When you have your fill, or at least enough for now, you tap at his shoulders to make way. He understands completely, peels himself off you like burnt skin and watches you sprint to a kneel before your children. 

“Mama!” they cry, whispers turning to pitchy screams as they tackle you in a hug. Over your head, around your waist. “Mama! Mama!” 

Kyros is sobbing, he doesn’t know why— he doesn’t feel sad or scared anymore. The opposite, really. But he doesn’t dwell, just curls up in your chest and grabs onto your clothes. Lucian has his arms around your neck, squeezing enough to choke— but you don’t mind. You don’t dare complain or pull them off to right their positions. Not now when your mind is only just registering that they’re okay. Realizing they’re alive. 

“I sorry.” Lucian is still saying, feeling the guilt deep, deep in his little heart. He’ll carry it forever, but you’ll work on helping him understand how to lighten the load. 

You shake your head. They watch as hot tears stream down their mama’s pretty face. “I’m glad you’re safe. I love you, I love you. I’m glad you’re okay.” 

And so he cries too. And it carves you right open, drives a hook in the center of you heart— such little babies falling apart at the seams for a mistake they didn’t mean to make. 

No one knows how long the reunion lasts, but you come to your senses once Kyros and Lucian are asleep in your arms. Sylus is no where in sight, having excused himself to deal with any more scum that linger. But you know better. His distance isn’t just because of the precautions. You know he is drowning now, too. And he is scrambling for something to pull him back to shore.

And your heart breaks that it isn’t you he reaches for.

Aside from your initial embrace, he hadn’t approached when you held your boys. He didn’t fall against the pile when you cried with your children. He didn’t dare touch any of you. And despite being busy checking little limbs for wounds or bruises, you see clear as day, in the corner of your vision, how Sylus’s hands tremble, how his hard eyes look far away— searching for something beyond comprehension. A balm, a reason to not feel shame. 

And you will die a thousand deaths before you let him believe he’s alone. With a grunt, you push your legs to stand, supporting a twin on each arm and wander to the cabin doors. But just before you reach them, a wall of muscle blocks you from the exit. 

You release a breath of relief, unaware he was within the cabin with you. “Kieran.”

“He asked you not to go out there.” he says simply. You don’t miss how his gaze lingers on the sleeping figures in your arms. You see the agony behind his front too. 

You had thought earlier that the little ones were safe with him and Luke. But when they arrived empty-handed, they watched as your world fell apart— and theirs did just as fast. Hardening like machines, predators on the prowl, they march out to track their brothers down, without a hint of forbearance for whoever they find accountable for their disappearance. 

Your heart squeezes at the look in his eyes, and you prop Lucian up your hip. “Take him.” 

“You can’t possibly trust me.” he mutters, unable to look at you. “Not after…”

You guide the boy in his arms, taking in no argument. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw tightens when he grinds his teeth. “I should have been keeping an eye on them.” 

“No, you were prepping for Sylus’s departure.” You point out. It was true. Before they’d gone, Luke and Kieran were securing the cargo within the aircraft. 

But Kieran was raised by a stubborn beast. You know because you married that beast. “They said they were coming with us.” 

And I didn’t take them, was what didn’t follow. 

“They had every intention to go with their father.” Lucian had said so, apologized for, he’d tugged his brother away into the plane as soon as they saw the stairway to the aircraft on the way to the twins. 

“We should have seen them. I should have noticed—“

“Kieran.” you sigh, exasperated and tired. “No, it’s not your fault.” 

“He is my ward.” The declaration is whispered. It burns on his tongue as he watches the little boy stir in his arms at the rising voices. Then he looks at Kyros, Luke’s. The assignment was not outright, but internalized the moment the boys were born. They’d each protect one if not both. That was the oath they took and sworn their lives to. The more than they’d sought for their entire lives. “They are our brothers, and we failed them.” 

You swallow. A haze in your mind as you struggle with the want to understand, the need to understand and be the comforting figure Kieran quietly asks for. But right now, you have no energy left to extend compassion, for your own misery has started to consume you whole as well. 

Their brothers they’ve failed. Your sons, you’d lost.  “How do you think I feel?” 

Kieran’s lips press into a thin line and surrender dawns on his face. He can’t. He can’t imagine how you might feel, but he doesn’t regret speaking his thoughts to you. Doesn’t regret telling you that he’d lay his life down for your sons without question. So he lets it go, silently bowing his head in apology. 

He accepts Kyros without a word when you hand him over as well. His muscles twitching at the effort to be gentle with these bodies after harming so many others. Others who deserved it. Others who caused them all pain. 

Lucian shifts in his arm, turning his face to his chest and holding onto his clothes. From scent, or touch or voice, he’ll never know, but Lucian recognizes him and presses himself closer. Murmuring sleepily, “Kee-wan…” 

Kieran feels the ground give way beneath his feet. He places a careful hand on the back of Lucian’s head and presses his forehead against his small one, like a lion repairing a bond. 

You know he’ll protect them. He’d declared it so brazenly, and you never once doubted him or Luke, no matter how upset you get. You pray he sees that in the way you brush the blood of his cheek with your thumb, before you set off to find your husband. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

There is a jet in a nearby hangar. Smaller, cleaner, darker in color and sleeker in design. Enough to cloak itself and its passengers in the cover of the night. 

He always feels you before he sees you. This time with the tug on his soul, like you’d been following the thread and pulling on it until it led you to the other end. To him. “We’re leaving in a moment.” 

You step into his space. “Sylus…“

He doesn’t turn to face you from where he stands, within dead air and hollow cold, with shoulders locked and movements mechanical, preparing something else in his hands. Something small— deathly and incredibly cataclysmic. 

You frown. “You’re going to burn the protocores?” 

His voice is low, tone clipped. “The island.” 

Your brows draw together in disapproval. “Sy—“ 

“Get the boys on the jet.” He practically snarls, grabbing another tool from a bench and walking away from you. 

A mistake. To cut you off, firstly, and then to ignore you. You scow, grab his arm and turn him to meet your anger. His eyes burn at your audacity, and it fuels the fire already simmering in your chest. 

No. Not after everything you’re going through. He does not get to do this. To bear the load, to corrode inside and let you watch. Not when you almost lost your boys, not when you almost lost him too. You hiss through gritted teeth. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

The darkness that has taken captive his soul burns, scalding and heavy in his anguish, responds to you. He feels it take form of the beast he was, then bow its head low and curl around your point of connection. Your skin on his, your hand on his wrist. 

His eyes soften ever so slightly, not much, but enough for you to see. To calm the rage you are beginning to feel at the stubbornness that is manifesting within the crevices of the people you love. He mutters, “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m here. Look at me.” You ask, firm. The tone you use on the boys when they are irrepressible. The tone you now use on him when he refuses to let you in. 

He does, as he always will, and you see for the first time tonight the wreckage behind the rubies that used to shine. There is a sheen of glass that coats his gaze, the lights on the runway reflect on them devastating. His corneas are almost as red as his irises, and his eyes are lost— helplessly screaming, begging for justice, purgation, revenge. 

You’d have collapsed if you didn’t take his face in your hands. Yet, you couldn’t afford that now when he needed you to hold him as his sanity is the crust of a planet’s about to implode. 

“Get on the jet, please.” He pleads softly, his own head bowing down now to press his forehead to yours. Grounding himself in you, finding leverage in the other half of his soul. 

“We got them all. It’s done.” You whisper, breath fanning over his lips. “Let’s go home.” 

“It’s not enough.” He grits. Anger wild and untamed, itching to destroy— to level the world and rid it of filth. To rid it of people of who’ve tried to hurt his family. To rid it of putrid traces of what has happened so it can never happen again.

To spare himself of this memory.

“It is. It is.” You cry, caressing his cheeks with gentle fingers. You want him to come back—you need him to come back with you so you can gather your family close into your arms and keep them all away from harm. So you beg, brushing his hair to circle your palms around his jaw. “It is for now.” 

He shakes his head, you grip him tighter as if that would make him stop. Enough, enough, enough please— or else you’ll slip and you’ll fall and you won’t be able to hold him up anymore. And you refuse to let him fall.

“I have to— they almost died.” His hand comes to squeeze your wrists, bringing your hands to his skin harder. Silently asking to hold, to bear unbelievable pain he cannot endure. Pain that slips through in the way his voice breaks, and his shoulders begin to unravel. “The way— I can’t, I can’t get it out of my head.” 

“What, beloved?” 

“The way they looked at me.” he chokes. 

When Sylus breaks, he breaks in pieces. Like little flakes of paint of an old rusted pipe, fluttering in slow twirls in the wind as they fall to the ground. His undoing is quiet, it’s unnoticeable until the paint leaves entirely for the rust to weaken the pipe. Until the water breaks through and bursts from the flood awaiting inside. 

You feel the weight of him increase in your hold as his knees buckle beneath. You feel him snake his arms around your waist and hold as if he’s being taken from you, pulled away by a relentless current in sea. 

In place of tears, there is trembling. Shaking so profound he might affect the ground. His breaths are hard and heavy and effortful as he forces his lungs to work. And it is agony to watch the strongest man you know force himself to be stronger when he is clearly falling apart. 

You let him, you hold the parts that break, pocket the pieces and patch your palms over the holes of his cracking vessel.

He lets you in. Married to you in every way, bonded to you beyond the universe’s laws. He lays out his sorrow, with a quivering voice only you have ever heard in this moment alone. “Lucian cried the whole time I landed the plane. He was screaming for you— begging me to bring him to you. And all I could think of was… what if I couldn’t? What if he never got to see you again because of me?”

“And Kyros—“ he rasps like he’s drowning. 

“I— I didn’t even know if he was still breathing.” his teeth grind at the memory. Gripping the yoke and pulling the jet up from its nosedive, while simultaneously palming Kyros’s back to check if he was suspiring. “He was so still. He was so quiet. But I felt his tears, and I kept wondering if it was blood—if it was blood—“ 

Across the runway, beyond the carnage and chaos, the damaged plane waits. Your sons inside— safe, asleep, alive. But the man who saved them, their father who laid his life on the line to ensure their survival punishes himself before you. 

And it is unbearable. Like a stone to your chest bearing down, to see him believe that he could ever fail in protecting your children. The dagger of this situation is now at your throat, you feel it break through the grip you held it at bay with in the face of Kieran. But now it pushes past muscle and bone, clean across at the sound of Sylus’s despair. 

“I should have—“ 

You choke, nails digging into your palm. “I should have been watching them, I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry I let this happen. I’m sorry we almost lost them. I’m sorry I did this to you. 

The reaction is a bullet in a wasteland. He stiffens and then— sudden and abrupt, his fingers grip tight on your shoulders. He doesn’t mind you falling apart with him, but blaming yourself was out of the picture. He knows you as well as you know him, and he refuses to let you believe you are point zero. “Don’t.” 

“Sylus.” you’re helpless. All roads going back lead to you— your negligence, your carelessness. He saved them, you let them wander into the crossfire.

“Do not.” The command rumbles in his chest like a furnace. “I won’t hear it. It’s not.” 

And like you told Kieran, he insists on you too. It’s not your fault. 

And now neither of you know who’s holding who. All you feel is that wound— that what if that will haunt you until the end of time. 

The silence washes over you both as the wind blows colder and yet you stay warm. Visions become clear, trembles cease. The scale’s shifting has stopped and a balance is met between the two hearts that have gathered together and held firm. It recedes for now, enough to melt the numb, enough to help you rise to your feet. Then—

“We must press on.” He says once you learn how to breathe again. When he no longer shakes and your tears have dried. The pain lingers, bitter on your tongues— a demon gnawing at your ankles no matter how far and how hard you try to run.

But he presses a kiss to your forehead, tugging you back along with him, wading the shallows back to shore hand-in-hand with you. You dove into his depths, reached for his hands and now he is saying, come back. 

You have me now, come back with me. 

 It is humid and dim back on land, but you arrive, and you survive.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Kyros opens his eyes first to the blurred vision of a familiar face looking straight ahead. He escapes the sharper edges of a nightmare he now cannot remember. The pressure in the arms that hold him help him regulate his breathing. His hand comes up to touch the face of his cradle, drawing attention to himself with a soft bap. “Wook.” 

Luke glances down, his face twisting into something unreadable for a toddler to recognize when he meets Kyros’s half-lidded gaze. 

He swallows down the emotions that come with realizing he’s holding someone he could have lost today; with facing the innocent eyes of someone he failed. He takes the little hands on his face into his palm. His voice comes out, rough and unused, “Hey, Roro.”

Kyros scratches his belly. “M’hungry.” 

“Oh, yeah? What do you want to eat?” 

Kyros thinks in his sleepy haze. Luke watches each expression on his face, taking in the shifting of his eyes and the dip in his little brow, following the tiny hands that rub bleary eyes. His own lip wobbles as the thought of never seeing him again overwhelms him, and his sinuses flood with fire. 

“Mashy ‘tatoes,” says Kyros finally, and Luke pulls him up from his belly to his chest in a tight embrace. Kyros giggles at the quick motion. “Ah!” 

But then he hears the sniffling, and the bear hugging him is trembling. Kyros frowns, fingers fidgeting with the hood of Luke’s uniform. “Wook— is crying? No cry, Wook, s’okay. See? See?”

The day Luke executed the perfect deep-pressure hug for Kyros was a turning point for him. That day, he took it upon himself to memorize every flexion and extension of each and every muscle in his arms to recreate it. And soon enough, Kyros has been running to him to receive the grounding hug the most when he is scared or upset.

But now, the roles have reversed. No longer does he have the strength in his arms to deliver Kyros the comfort he’s so used to giving. Instead, he has the fear and the distress. It is Kyros who is using his short arms to draw him in a soothing embrace.

“When ya sad ’n feelin’ boo…” Kyros starts in a whisper and hums the instrumental that follows. It crushes Luke and he sobs even more. “Lemme pop sum bubbles wi’f you…” 

Kyros is a mirror of all he loves. He watches and then does, and now he mirrors the way he is loved back. 

Luke feels the movement and recognizes it despite not seeing Kyros’s hands. The little boy plants little pokes on his back, singing, “Pop, pop, pop…”

Luke lets out a soft snort, unable to stop the fond smile that emerges from the devastation. He pulls away and wipes at his tears to meet Kyros’s owlish, expectant look. Kyros places a few more pokes on Luke’s cheeks and chin, as he urges. “Pop, pop, c’mon, Wook.” 

Luke shakes his head and a chuckle finally bubbles out of his chest. He pokes Kyros’s cheeks too. “Pop, pop, pop.” 

Kyros smiles. Luke’s world raptures all around him, but the little boy in his arms anchors him in place, tiny fingers refusing to let him go. Together, they sing, “Pop, pop, pop.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Kyros and Lucian, who wakes not soon after, follow the trail of lights on the ground to the cockpit. The big twins hover, but allow them to lead the way. They only help to slide the heavy door open. 

“What is it?” Sylus asks, assuming only either Luke and Kieran can open the cockpit door. He doesn’t turn from the expanse of the sky, all too focused on bringing you all home. Beside him, neither do you as you co-pilot the craft. 

But you both do when two voices chorus a wonderous, “Woooooow.” 

Before you know it, a little twin is climbing over each of your legs and settling themselves on their selected parent. 

“Stars, papa!” Kyros says, pointing as if Sylus was the one who’d just gotten here. 

“And clouds! Wow!” Lucian howls, bouncing on your knees. His small hands rest over yours on the yoke. “Can I try? Can I try, mama, please?” 

Before they’d come in, you’d started to feel the tired tugging of fatigue beneath your salt-crusted eyes. Sylus had chided you to go to sleep, but you refused to leave him alone. 

Lucian takes all of that away. The weight of him on you, the warmth his beating heart gives his body radiating off on yours and his bright carmine eyes twinkling back the lights on the console. You feel something in your chest loosen, and you’re wading water again with ease. 

You nod, kissing his forehead tenderly, and give him the handles. Discreetly, you flip on auto-pilot as you drop your hands to keep him in place by the waist.

He wiggles it like a steering wheel of a car. It’s rendered useless for actually flying the jet, but he feels like he’s in control and that mattered to you more. 

“This how papa do!” he exclaims suddenly, followed by an exaggerated actions of tugging and twisting. “Then—then, n’yeroowww!” 

You find Sylus staring at him in awe. The crumple in his brow makes you wonder if he is hearing the screams of terror in the background of this too sudden joy. 

“What did you think of papa, hm?” you ask Lucian, wanting to know, but also wanting to show Sylus that his children are what you raised them to be— children. They will be scared, and cry and do foolish things they know not are foolish, but they will come back to him with love every time. Just as how they were taught. Just as how you taught them.

“Papa was cool! He drived like—like this—“ he jiggles the yoke again, more enthusiastically this time. Grr-ing and roaring like he’s straining. “And I cryin— wahh!— I think, I think we was gonna to fall, and clouds gonna eat us!—but papa was drivin’ driving fast. Like this—“ 

The cycle goes on— papa was cool, he was driving, Lucian was crying, but papa was cool and he was driving. 

Sylus is still waiting for that pin to drop, for Lucian to say something he believes— that papa was scary, papa was mean, papa made him cry.

But he never does. And the lump in his throat melts, the pounding in his ears quieten— the cut is still fresh, tender to the touch, but it no longer bleeds. 

Half of the battle is won for now, until Sylus looks down at the twin on his lap. Kyros has turned to face him, legs tucked neatly to his chest as he waits for papa to look at him.

“Kyros,” Sylus rasps, lips as always drawn to his baby’s head. He murmurs, “You okay?” 

He nods the way he usually does, using muscles in his torso to rock along with his head. “A-huh.” 

“Were you scared, turtle?” Sylus asks. His fingers brushing over squishy cheeks and moon-touched hair, ritualistic and grounding for both of them.

“A-huh.” Kyros nods, always painfully honest. 

Sylus feels his heart seize. “I’m sorry—“ 

“But—but, listened to papa. I listened to papa’s heart,” he says quickly, placing both hands over Sylus’s chest. Sylus stops, tilts his head in confusion, not understanding what he means. 

“Like dis. See?” Kyros climbs, reenacting his hold on him earlier, underneath his clothes, when Sylus couldn’t see or feel him breathing. Kyros circles his arms around Sylus’s neck and positions his ear on his chest, then promptly hums, “Bum, bum, bum.” 

And at last, for the first time today, Sylus feels the earth return beneath his feet. Benumbed before, he now feels the sting of the cold air on his face and a syrupy relief drain through his veins. His voice is broken when it emerges, “Did that help you, Kyros?”

“Yes. I follow mama.” he says, pointing at you who he’s seen the trick from. Who stares at him, listening in— eavesdropping as you so loved to do. He is referring to when you’d have bad days and lay yourself over Sylus’s heart to gather your thoughts. Unaware of the curious eyes watching and learning from your ways.

Sylus nods, failing to keep his emotions at bay. He hides his face in Kyros’s hair and kisses him over and over and over. “Good. Good, you did good.”

You feel it together, you and Sylus, the knot unraveling from your chest. Your heads breaking the surface tension of the heaviest of waters to take one full, real breath. The wrinkled tether between your souls stretched and righted to feel open and safe again, even if it’s just that little bit. All because of this, of them— your boys, of their forgiveness, of their love.

“Lava!” Lucian yells excitedly, seeing the blue hues of the sky transform to its melding yellows and oranges. You follow his reference and look forward. Despite his sensitivities, Sylus peeks over Kyros’s head to look too.

There is a line in the horizon, painted bright and slow; the emerging sunlight creating pools and craters of molten amber— lava—in the canopy of clouds. 

Sylus still doesn’t know if he deserves any of it— the compassion, the kindness, the forgiveness in its purest form, in the shape of two little boys who’d stared into the eyes of death and placed all their trust into their father. Neither do you who they sought out for despite losing them. You will bear the wounds and the shortcomings from this for the rest of your life. 

But when the dark clouds are turned golden by the light, you learn that you never had to ask for it. For once, there is a love purer than his and yours— theirs. 

The sunlight washes over you all as you cruise the clouds above. The littles have never seen a sunrise from this vantage point, the bigs have forgotten what it looks like. 

You and Sylus know what it means, what this feeling that settles in your bones as the morning offers refuge to the unfinished sorrows of the night. 

A dawn, another chance. As the sky breaks open like your hearts have, you vow— today, you will try again. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Papa?” Kyros whispers. You all turn to listen to what he says and revel at the beauty of his dark eyes made light in the sunshine. 

“Hm? Angel?” Sylus replies. 

Kyros understands mornings to an extent too. A morning comes after sleep, and after ‘one sleep’ you promised him a special day. “You comin’ to Bubble Pals now?” 

Lucian gasps in excitement, eyes glowing suns on their own, as he realizes too. 

Sylus smiles, wide and genuine it almost hurts. And you see it, his hands catching their joy, their hope and their love. Without fail, as he always does and always will.

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you so, so much for reading!

Bucky Barnes

Honey Girl. by @violentdelightsandviolentends

Pie-eyed over you by @themorningsunshine

Marked what’s mine by @daxisyzz

It’s been calling me by @godmadeaterribleerror

Timeless by @mandoalorian

Hold on by @aquaticmercy

Don’t touch the tech girl by @aquaticmercy

How to impress a 21st century girl by @brunchable

Jackass by @aquaticmercy

First base by @writingunderneathawillow

Let it happen by @flowersforbucky

Marked what’s mine by @daxisyzz

Have we met before ?by @aquaticmercy

Late night shenanigans by @navybrat817

Some time ago I was like "After all... why not? Why shouldn't I redraw Bakugan screenshot in Sk8 The Infinity style?". Finished it and adore the result~

The screenshot:

a redraw from error 143 💗

crush (peter parker)

summary: peter has been visiting you as spider-man long enough to develop a crush on you. the problem? you have a crush on somebody else.

notes: u guys…i love peter parker so much okay!!! also this is a short fic bc i have a longer one in the works. yes i realize this is 4k words but like, that’s short for me ok bye happy reading! 

warnings: typos, probably.

Peter Parker sat on the ledge of your fire escape, careful to avoid the patches of snow from the previous day. It had been a long night of patrolling and his lower back ached to no end. The familiar space spread warmth to Peter’s chest as he attempted to collect his breath, the inside of his suit scratching against his skin. 

It had been dark out for a few hours. Peter knew that May would be going to sleep in an hour, leaving the perfect opportunity for him to slip back into his bedroom undetected. He had lied to her earlier, saying that he’d be studying with a group of friends he had made at university earlier that semester. But he had other places he needed to be. 

He would be lying if he said his only reason for patrolling was to keep his city out of danger. While that was a big motivation for him to put his suit on, the other reason was because he wanted to see you.

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