#lover boy

He puts on the tough exterior because it’s expected of him, and it’s necessary. The big crime boss and leader of the N109 zone (who is an excellent employer, by the way) is supposed to have this untouchable air about him. He’s supposed to be tough and cocky and unreachable. He’s supposed to be cold and nonchalant. That is the façade he puts on, but we know otherwise.

Sylus is a loverboy.

He has this hard exterior around him, at first with mc as well. His words are different from his actions. He is loving and kind and supportive. He is gentle. He is generous. He is not afraid to show his affection, and is willing to announce it to the world.

Sylus craves the affection and attention. He needs it like air. He needs the attention in bantering, and the little jokes just between him and his lover, he needs it. His words may deny it, but the way he leans into touches, how his eyes soften, how he carries himself in a totally different way and becomes SKYE a fucking fruit vendor because mc is worried.

He does not want to control or particularly manipulate his lover. He does not lie, and instead avoids because he can’t find it within himself to willingly lie to mc. He waited for her, and remembers everything. He left hints to try to help her remember him and find him.

He doesn’t turn to violence unless there is no other option. He adopted two young men that he saw were trying to assassinate him, and he simply asked them to prove themselves. He built a little bird for a reason that hasn’t been fully communicated yet, but most likely for easy surveillance. He loves Mephisto, and treats him with dignity and respect, like a living being.

He is a good man.

Lover boy season 💞

* pairing: thriller!era soft possessive!michael x reader

* wc: ~3.5k

* summary: michael has never understood why people call him possessive. to him, reaching for you has always been as natural as breathing.

* warnings: established relationship, excessive physical affection, possessive behavior (non-toxic), fluff, romance, domestic intimacy, no y/n, reader is loved aggressively, flowers, love letters, michael being hopelessly obsessed. loverboy!michael

an: if he isn’t reaching for me every six business seconds i don’t want him!!!!!!! had to write some fluff so i don’t catch strays on mjtok lololol

there existed a peculiar tenderness in the way michael loved you. the sort that lingered. the sort that refused to keep its hands to itself. he possessed an almost incurable habit of reaching for you. not because you needed guiding. not because you would disappear if he let go. simply because every instinct he had insisted you belonged somewhere beneath the warmth of his hand. a palm resting against the small of your back. fingers absentmindedly hooked through yours.

his fingers gently grazing your waistline whenever he walked behind you, as though touching you was as involuntary as breathing.

michael never announced himself as possessive, he had no need to. it revealed itself in subtleties - in the unconscious shift of his body whenever another person stood slightly too close, in the quiet way his hand found the back of your neck before anyone else had the opportunity to occupy the space beside you.

he was never loud about it.

that was what made it enticing.

he smiled.

he laughed.

michael shook hands and thanked strangers and held doors open with impeccable manners, like the gentleman he is, then, without interrupting a conversation, his long fingers would hook through one of your belt loops and draw you back to his side with such practiced ease that you hardly realized you had drifted away until you were against him again.

as though gravity itself had changed its mind.

people mistook it for undying affection. you knew better. affection asked. this simply happened.

he collected pieces of you throughout the day without ever taking anything tangible.

a strand of hair wrapped absentmindedly around his finger while you spoke.

your perfume clinging stubbornly to the collar of his jackets because you’d borrowed them weeks ago.

the indentation you’d leave in the car seat next to him.

the coffee mug with lipstick stains you used that morning.

he noticed everything. the ring you’d moved from one hand to the other. the chipped polish on the third finger of your left hand. the fact you’d tied your hair three inches higher than usual because it was too warm outside.

he stored these observations somewhere no one else could access.

like evidence or reminders that you were real.

if someone looked at you for too long, his eyes found them before his thoughts did.

he never caused scenes.

he simply appeared.

one hand settling lazily around your waist. always your waist. sometimes he’d trace ‘i love you’ onto your thigh while you sat next to each other.

his chin brushing the top of your head while he held you close.

a quiet smile.

a conversation politely interrupted with,

“there you are, my baby”

as if he’d been searching for something he’d misplaced.

as if everyone present already understood you’d belonged beside him all along.

there was something unnerving about how calm michael always remained.

possessive men, people assumed, were volatile.

he wasn’t.

he was patient.

patient enough to stand beside her in complete silence, fingers tracing absent circles and hearts against the fabric at your hip while someone else tried desperately to keep your attention.

patient enough to wait.

because eventually… you always looked back at him. and every single time you did…

there it was.

that smile, small, satisfied. almost imperceptible.

as though he’d won a game no one else realized had been played.

michael was never interested in ownership.

ownership implied uncertainty.

objects could be stolen.

claims could be challenged.

no.

michael operated with the quiet confidence of a man who had already decided the world revolved around the simple fact that you existed beside him.

you wandered, he followed.

you stopped, he arrived.

you reached absentmindedly for something on a shelf, only to discover michael had already placed it in your hand before you’d spoken the request aloud.

it wasn’t controlling. not toxic.

it was instinct that turned into ritual.

the unsettling thing was…

you had stopped noticing.

you leaned into him without thinking.

your fingers sought his wrist in crowded places. hid behind his arm when you felt shy around all the cameras. you spoke to him before anyone else entered a room. you slept closer to his side of the bed than your own, just to smell him. stealing his shirts out of his laundry basket to sleep in, or cuddle with while you lay down. somewhere along the way, his orbit had become your own.

there were moments he'd simply stop speaking.

not because he'd forgotten what he wanted to say, but because he'd caught himself watching you laugh.

and suddenly whatever story he'd been telling no longer seemed nearly as important.

your friends teased you for it.

“michael’s obsessed with you.”

he never denied it.

never laughed it off.

never pretended otherwise.

instead he’d glance toward you from across the room - that slow, unreadable look that lingered a heartbeat longer than politeness required and answer with the smallest shrug.

“i know.”

not defensive.

not embarrassed.

merely factual.

as though obsession was not a flaw to be hidden, but the most natural consequence of having met you at all, not that michael couldn’t let you go. but that it had never once occurred to him that he ever should. so when later that evening there were roses waiting for you, it wasn’t shocking

they were not arranged with any remarkable precision, not tied with expensive ribbon.

just placed carefully upon your pillow, as though they’d been left there by someone who was far more concerned with where you’d discover them than how they looked.

beneath them rested a folded note.

your name was written on the front in handwriting you’d recognize anywhere.

inside, it read-

my love,

i don’t think i’ve ever told you this before.

sometimes i reach for your hand before i even realize i’ve done it.

i’ll be walking beside you, talking about nothing at all, and somehow you’re already tucked into my side.

i don’t remember deciding to do it.

it just feels wrong when there isn’t something between us keeping us close.

i’ll fix a strand of your hair without thinking.

i’ll straighten your necklace because it isn’t sitting right.

i’ll brush my thumb across your cheek just to make sure you’re really there.

you always giggle when i do that.

i hope you never stop.

i know people tease me.

they say i’m always touching you.

they’re right.

i don’t really know how not to.

if you’re beside me, my hand finds yours.

if you’re in front of me, my hand finds the small of your back.

if you’re sitting next to me, somehow your legs end up draped over mine before the night is over.

i suppose i’ve made a habit of keeping you close.

truthfully…

i don’t think i’ve ever wanted to break that habit.

so if i steal another kiss while you’re talking…

or pull you back against me because you wandered a few steps too far…

or look for you in a crowded room even though i know exactly where you are…

forgive me.

i’ve loved you for so long that being near you stopped feeling like a choice.

it simply became the most natural thing i’ve ever known.

sleep well, sweetheart.

i’ll be right beside you when you wake.

if you wake before i do... don't go very far.

i sleep better when i can reach for you.