#starry ask

From the moment he met you, there was a disquieting familiarity, as if he had known your voice and smile in another life. "I could get used to this," he’d murmur after hearing you laugh, memorizing the sound like scripture. What began as polite interest grew into an all-encompassing fixation, a quiet, consuming possession that had him tracking your every move, memorizing your routines, noticing even the smallest changes in your breathing or the way your eyes shifted. Every accidental brush of your hand, every fleeting smile became evidence in the case he was building in his mind that you belonged only to him, each glance at you feeding the thought: She belongs here. With me. He pictured you in his home, his world, his life woven into every future he could imagine. Then the changes began, small at first, then sharper. Your gaze drifted past him, as though you were searching for something far away. Your touch lingered, but carried a distance that burned in his chest. Something’s wrong… she’s leaving me, isn’t she? His nights grew long, staring at the ceiling, running through every memory to find the moment you began to slip away. No… please no. If she’s planning to go, I need to make her stay. Every smile became a slow goodbye, every silence a farewell you couldn’t voice. However, he was too late as he found the letter next to a sealed jar of sweets and the two snowmen figurines that he had made for you. As he read the paper in his hands trembled as he clenched the letter tightly. You knew me from a game… You loved me… You left to protect me? His lips pressed to the tear-stained lines. "Foolish girl… You think I care about the story?" His voice cracked, a lonely echo in the empty room. He reached for every connection, old and current patients, colleagues, charity partners, draining every favour until nothing remained. When that wasn’t enough, he threw himself into the Fractal Library, poring over dimensional archives until his vision blurred and his fingers ached from turning pages. "I’ll find you. Even if I have to rewrite every page of your so-called story." When he learned your world was on the brink of war, his heart stopped. The room around him fell away, replaced with visions of you running through smoke and fire, danger breathing down your neck.  The silence in his ears was deafening until panic and rage surged together. No… not like this. Obsession fused with desperate protectiveness, and his mind spun with blueprints for a rescue that could cross worlds. "Hold on for me, my love. I’m coming, and nothing will stop me."

You made the outside of the Fleet’s cold steel corridors feel like home, a place he had never truly believed could be warm until you walked its halls. He pictured you waiting after missions, always there, always his, watching for him with that smile that made even the harshest debrief fade from his mind. In his quiet moments, he found himself mapping the places you went, noting the hours you kept, ensuring he could cross paths with you without you even knowing it was deliberate. "You keep me grounded," he’d say aloud with a faint smile, but inside he thought, You’re mine, every laugh, every glance, every step you take belongs to me. Then you started avoiding his touch, your eyes turning away just as his met yours. No. You’re not walking away from me, please don’t go. His jaw clenched each time your fingers slipped from his. He eventually found the letter in his office, under his favourite aircraft model, the same one you both assembled together. The letter you left confessed love and guilt, a need to fix the damage. His teeth ground together, jaw aching with restrained fury. "The only damage that I see is you not being here by my side." He tore through the Fleet’s database, bullied officers into compliance, and traced anomalies with military precision. "Give me coordinates, or give me a reason you can’t walk tomorrow." When he found your location and learned about the impending war, it was like taking enemy fire, fast, hot, and impossible to ignore. His breath caught, and the urgency slammed into him with brutal clarity. Every instinct screamed to act, to move, to reach you before the chaos could touch you. She won’t die there, I won’t let her. Turning toward the docking bay, he carried one thought: "I’ll bring you back, shortcake, even if I have to dismantle the stars to do it."

Meeting you was like waking into a dream already in motion. You fit into his life so easily, filling gaps he hadn’t known were there. "Stay a little longer." He’d say, making it sound casual, but inside he was already building a life around you, every detail planned, every room in his imagined home already carrying your presence. He watched you with an intensity he masked as fondness, committing to memory the cadence of your voice, the way your fingers curled when you laughed, the subtle lift of your brows when you were amused. Don’t go anywhere. He’d think to himself, a silent command more than a plea, watching you smile like you had no idea how deeply he was memorizing you, how much he was already weaving you into the very fabric of his existence. Then came the shift. You began drifting mid-game, holding your words like fragile glass, picking each one as though it could shatter if handled wrong. She’s pulling away… why? He watched your every movement, storing them away like treasures. If she walks away, I’ll follow. Your letter lay beside the galaxy kid plushie that you won at the arcade with him, your handwriting bleeding apologies. You love me, yet you left? His hand slammed the game console on, the familiar game intro, now a cruel reminder. "The world can burn for all I care. All I want is just you." He retraced every path you’d ever mentioned, repaired and repurposed old spacecraft components, reached out to every friend and old acquaintance, weaving scraps of intel into something tangible.

There’s a trail. There has to be. "Someone’s seen her. Someone knows."

Eventually, while tampering with his old spaceship gadgets, he ends up finding your world’s signature and learning about the looming war sent a chill through him so deep it felt like frost forming in his veins. His breath caught in his throat, and the image of you standing defenceless in a place about to ignite consumed him. The ship’s hum roared in his ears as his hands gripped the plushie. If I fail, her laugh disappears forever. He steadied himself with a vow. "I won’t let it end like this. Not for her, not my moonlight."

From the moment you stepped into his studio light, he wanted to keep you there forever. "Hold that smile, beautiful," he’d say, but it was never enough; he could never capture all of you. You became his most beloved muse, his fixation so intense it seeped into every waking moment, a presence he sought to immortalize not only on canvas but in every thought, every breath. He followed you with his eyes even when you weren’t aware, sketching your profile from memory, cataloguing the subtle shifts in your mood, the light in your eyes. Each brushstroke became an oath and a claim, a silent reminder to himself and a warning to the world: You belong on every canvas I’ll ever touch, and nowhere else but with me. But then your smiles began to fade quickly, your hands fidgeting on the tabletops. Why won’t you meet my gaze anymore? He started painting you with heavier lines, darker colours, as though he could anchor you to the world through pigment alone. One day, he found a letter in his sketchbook that bled truth: you loved him, but you were leaving to protect the narrative. His fingers curled so hard into the paper that it wrinkled. "But…you’re my narrative." He plunged into the shadowed parts of the art world, illicit galleries, private collectors, dangerous clients, and ching in every favour. "Bring me word of her, and you’ll have anything you want." When he learned your world teetered on the brink of war, it was like a blow to the chest. Breath fled from him, leaving him frozen in his studio. The scent of paint and turpentine surrounded him as images of you, alone, frightened, and far from his reach, filled his mind. Not again. Not my beloved muse lost to fate. His hand clenched around a brush until the wood creaked. "I’ll paint over destiny itself if it means that I can keep you in the end, my heart."

You were a contradiction he could never look away from, sweet and sharp, warmth and danger in equal measure, the kind of paradox that hooked itself deep into his mind and refused to let go. Every move you made drew his gaze; every word you spoke became a thread in the web he was already weaving around you. To him, you weren’t just someone to love, you were someone to claim, to keep where no one else could touch you, the perfect mix of allure and defiance that fed both his tenderness and his hunger to possess. I’ll make sure you never leave. He pictured you beside him, ruling the N109, his equal and his possession. "You’d look good here, lil’ dove," he’d tell you, a smirk on his lips and truth in his voice. Then your banter softened, your eyes lingered on his face as though memorizing him. She’s looking at me like she’s all but ready to leave me for some reason. I don't like it His gaze sharpened each time, a silent challenge for you to prove him wrong. Soon he found your letter, next to the vinyl record that you both love to dance to as it played. He read on as you confessed your love and also the desire to protect the story by leaving. He laughed, low and dark. "Protect me from myself? Too late for that." He set the entire Onchinus network into motion, informants, mercenaries, even enemies, roped into the hunt. "Find her. I don’t care how, or what it costs." When he learned your world would be consumed by war, an icy calm settled over him. Beneath it, a storm raged. His pulse slowed, his mind narrowing to a single lethal focus. In his head, he was already tearing through enemies, chaos, and the very fabric of reality to reach you. If the world burns, I’ll pull her from the ashes. His energy evol, surging, he began giving orders, every word a step closer to bringing you home. "Wait for me, angel. Your fiend will bring you home soon. Promise"

The first time you saw him get cornered, you were eight years old. Sylus stood there, back pressed to the wall of the schoolyard, fists clenched but not raised. His white hair caught the sun, stark against the dust-brown bricks. His crimson eyes, eyes you thought looked like rubies, glittered as the other boys jeered. "Ghost boy." "Demon eyes." "Bet he isn’t even human." Your stomach twisted. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t weird or scary. He was your older brother’s best friend, the one who always let you tag along even if he pretended to be annoyed. He was kind in ways no one else saw. "Leave him alone!" your voice cracked, higher than you wanted. The group turned to look at you. Your cheeks burned, but you stomped your foot anyway. "He didn’t do anything to you! You’re just mean!" A few laughed. But it broke their rhythm, and soon they were scattering, muttering under their breath. You ran to him, tears already brimming. "Are you okay?" Sylus blinked down at you, his usual cool mask slipping. "Why’d you do that?" "Because," you sniffled, wiping your face with the back of your hand. "You didn’t deserve it. And if no one else will, I’ll always be on your side." His throat bobbed. He turned his head away like your words embarrassed him, but you saw the way his hands relaxed. "Idiot..." he muttered, though his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. That night, Sylus walked you home, his hand brushing against yours in a way you didn’t quite understand but knew you’d never forget.

The years hadn’t been kind. He drifted away when high school ended, following paths you didn’t. You built walls around yourself, taught yourself not to cry for people who wouldn’t stay. And then, fate decided to laugh in your face. The marketplace was busy that evening, full of vendors shouting prices and kids tugging at their parents’ hands. That was when you saw him. Taller now, his shoulders broader, hair still that impossible white. His crimson eyes swept the crowd, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. But so did someone else. "Man, what’s with your eyes?" a stranger sneered. "You some kind of freak or something?" The words sliced through the crowd like knives. Sylus stilled, shoulders tightening, but before he could speak, you were already moving. "Say that again," you snapped, stepping between them. "And I’ll make sure you regret it." Your voice was cold. Colder than the evening air, colder than the years you’d spent trying not to care. The man blinked at you, startled, then muttered something and backed off quickly. The crowd melted away, and suddenly it was just you and him. Sylus stared at you like you were something impossible. "You…" His voice was low, rougher than when you were kids. "You’ve changed." You crossed your arms, though your heart thudded against your ribs. "Hello, Sylus. As for your statement... Not really. Just got tired of crying for people who didn’t know how to stand up for themselves." For a long moment, silence hung between you. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. Quiet, shaky. "Still the same," he said, almost to himself. "You remembered." You frowned. "Of course I did. It was you, Sylus." Something shifted in his gaze, softening, breaking. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly awkward in a way you never thought he could be. "I… thought you forgot about me." Your breath caught. "I couldn’t. Even if I tried."

The years between you seemed to collapse. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he had the right.

You sighed and tilted your head. "We should… talk, right? It’s been years."

He gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Let’s talk."

You ended up at a quiet bench near the square, away from the noise. He sat beside you, close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him, but not touching. For a while, you just sat there. Finally, he broke the silence. "I used to think about that day," he said. "When you cried for me." Your cheeks heated. "That was forever ago." "Still," he murmured, red eyes fixed on you. "No one had ever done that before. It… mattered." You swallowed hard. "It mattered to me, too. That’s why I was so angry today. I guess some things never change." His lips quirked, half a smile, half a grimace. "And some things do. You’re stronger now. Colder too." "Yeah, well," you muttered, hugging your arms around yourself. "It hurts less if you pretend not to care." The silence stretched again, but this time it felt warmer. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Do you still care?" Your throat went dry. He was too close, too intense. But lying was impossible when those ruby eyes pinned you in place. "…Always." His breath hitched. And then, slowly, carefully, his hand covered yours on the bench. His fingers were rough, calloused, but the touch was gentle. "Me too," he admitted. "Always." Before you could speak, he turned your hand over in his, his thumb brushing across your palm as though memorizing it. Then he lowered his head, pressing a lingering kiss there, tender, reverent, almost aching. The simple touch sent warmth flooding up your arm, straight to your chest. You stared at him, wide-eyed, and he didn’t look away this time. It wasn’t a kiss on the lips, not yet. But it was a promise. The kind that said you had time now, to rebuild, to explore, to finally let this thing between you breathe. And for the first time in years, you believed it.