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「What Came After Bloom」 Caleb

       ↳ Years after loss and war, Caleb returns to the village where love once bloomed, only to find the son he never knew and the grave of the woman he never stopped loving. In a quiet house filled with memories and unopened letters, he reads your final words and finds peace at last.

The cottage had gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles only when a child is asleep and the weight of grief has nowhere else to go but your lungs.

Caleb stood beside the bed, watching the soft rise and fall of his son's chest beneath the blanket. He looked so small in sleep. Smaller than he ever did awake. It struck Caleb then how little time ten years really was. A blink. A breath. And yet the boy already had your softness in the corners of his mouth, your stubbornness in the set of his chin, and something unspoken. Something his in the eyes that looked too much like his own.

He swallowed the knot in his throat and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ash forehead. The boy stirred faintly, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his blanket and Caleb's hand lingered on the edge of it.

The box, that damn box sat unopened on the nightstand. Still shut tight. Still full of all the years he'd missed. Of all the things you must have tried to say in ink because you knew he might never come. And he couldn't bring himself to open it yet. Not tonight.

Tonight, he had somewhere else to go. So he stepped out into the cold. The wind rolled low through the trees, pulling at his cloak and stirring the lantern light like a memory that didn't want to be touched. But he walked, feet tracing a path he hadn't seen in years. And yet, his body remembered.

The tree was still there. Of course it was. Thick, knotted bark. Wide roots that twisted into the earth like the bones of something ancient and holy. The place where he'd kissed you the first time. The place where you made a promise he couldn't keep. And beneath it now, a stone.

He saw it from a distance and still... Still, his heart tried to lie.

Tried to pretend it was for someone else. That maybe it wasn't real. That maybe it was just a marker. Maybe this was just a nightmare. Maybe if he turned around right now and walked back to the cottage and he'll find you sitting by the fire. Maybe you'd look up at him with tired eyes and that dry smile and say 'Took you long enough, love.'

But the name was carved there. Your name. And once he saw it. Like really saw it. His legs gave out.

Caleb collapsed to the ground like the grief had cut his knees out from under him. Hands clawing at the dirt as he half fell, half crawled the last few steps. He reached out, fingertips trembling as they grazed the edge of the stone like maybe it would still be warm. Like maybe it could hold some trace of you if he just touched it gently enough.

It didn't. It was cold. Final. And he broke.

He didn't cry like a soldier. Not like a Duke. Not like the Commander of Crown's Guard forces. He cried like a man who had waited too long. Like someone who thought he still had time. Like someone who believed happy endings could just be postponed until the war was over.

His hands fisted in the grass. His breath hitched until it turned into sobs that sounded like someone dragging a blade across something already bleeding.

"I thought..." He choked, voice shattering mid word. "I thought it would be alright. That you'd be here." That you'd be waiting. Just like before. He pressed his forehead to the stone, chest heaving. "I was going to come back. I did. I fought, I ended the damn war-"

But the war had already taken you. Quietly. Without a blade. While he'd been spilling blood across foreign soil, you'd been fading. Alone.

"I should've come sooner" His voice broke again. "I should've never left." He cried. "I shouldn't have made that damn arrangement..." He didn't know how long he knelt there. He didn't know how long he cried there.

The moon had risen fully by the time the sobs quieted into a hollow silence, tears drying on his cheeks as he stared at the ground. The grave. The place where the only person he ever truly loved now slept, beyond reach.

The village lights were dim in the distance. And even though no one came near, he knew they heard him. He knew the way grief sounded when it wasn't polite anymore. When it tore out of you, loud, raw and humiliating. When it made you into something that no longer resembled a man. And they heard it.

But they shut their windows. Turned their faces away. Because no one wants to witness the man who once commanded armies. Who was said to be carved from stone, beg the dead for forgiveness.

The wind picked up, brushing through the leaves above like a lullaby too late. He stayed. Until the sky began to pale. Until the world reminded him it still turned. Even if his had stopped.

And when he finally rose, unsteady and broken. The only thing he took with him was a single dried bloom that had sprouted at the base of the stone. He held it in shaking fingers, cradled it like it was your heartbeat. And walked home to the son you left behind.

-

The scent of eggs and toasted bread clung to the quiet.

A pan sizzled lowly on the stovetop, and the kettle gave a faint hiss as it cooled beside him. Caleb stood at the stove, sleeves rolled past his forearms, hands steady even though he had barely slept. He moved with practiced familiarity, not from habit but memory.

The memory of you, in this same kitchen, moving between the cabinets barefoot and humming some half forgotten song. He tried not to look at the empty chair by the hearth. The one that still leaned a little to the left.

Instead, he focused on the task at hand. Cooking. Something simple, something warm. Something that might look like the life he was supposed to have if only for a few hours.

The soft patter of feet across the wooden floor pulled him gently from his thoughts. Ash stood at the threshold of the kitchen, his dark brown hair tousled from sleep, cheeks still creased with the shape of his pillow. There was no greeting. No yawn. No bright eyed curiosity. Just the still, unsettling stare of a child who had seen too much and said too little.

Caleb straightened slightly, brushing a hand down his apron like it mattered. "Morning." He offered, voice low, careful. "You hungry?" The boy said nothing, only moved slowly to the table and climbed into one of the chairs.

Caleb placed a plate in front of him, then one for himself. Eggs, lightly salted. Toast browned just a little too much. A small dish of berries. The ones Ash had picked with his friends in the grove just last week. Caleb had learned that from the headwoman. She doesn't want to tell him anything at first. But grief softened even the hardest lines.

He sat across from his son, watching as the boy stared at the food. "You don't have to eat it." Caleb murmured, trying not to sound nervous. "But I made it the way your mother used to." Ash blinked, then slowly reached for his fork. Still, no words. Just silence. Heavy and pulsing like a second heartbeat between them.

Caleb tried to eat. He managed two bites before the food began to taste like ash. He set the fork down carefully, fingers twitching in his lap. Then he cleared his throat, bracing himself against the chair's edge.

"I was thinking." He said, voice as even as he could make it. "That maybe… you might want to come with me. Back to the duchy." The fork paused halfway to Ash's mouth.

He looked up. Slow, unreadable and stared straight at Caleb with his eyes. "What if I say no?" Caleb met his gaze, trying not to flinch. "Then… I won't force you." He said. "But I wanted you to know the door's open." He added. "I'll stay here with-" Ash leaned back, chewing slowly. Then, quietly. "I'll go."

A rush of something. Relief? Hope? bloomed and then withered just as quickly in Caleb's chest. "But I have a condition." Caleb stilled. "Of course." "I won't call the princess my mother." Ash said flatly. "And I won't treat her like one. My mother is dead. She'll always be my mother."

The words hit like a blade. Caleb swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. "You won't have to." He said softly. "She's not- she never was. We were never married. It was a political arrangement. Nothing more." Ash didn't move. Didn't nod. His gaze was cool, distant.

"That's not what everyone else said." "I know." Caleb's voice dropped. "But the truth is... The only person I ever wanted to marry was your mother." There it was again, the flicker of disbelief in Ash's face. Not overt. Just a tightening of the jaw. A downward twitch in his brows.

You used to do that too, when you didn't believe something but were too tired to argue.

"I know it doesn't mean much now." Caleb continued, quieter. "But it's the truth. I never stopped loving her."

Ash didn't reply. He went back to his plate, taking a few more bites in silence. The weight of it. Of not being believed has settled in Caleb's chest like sand. He pushed back from the table after a while. Clearing some of the plates with a mumbled excuse. "I'll just- clean up."

But instead of heading to the kitchen, he headed to the small bathroom at the end of the hall. He shut the door behind him quietly, like if he made a sound, it would crack the fragile truce between them. And then he broke.

Silently, violently, with his back pressed against the door and his hand clenched over his mouth to stifle the sobs. His whole body shook with it.

Not just for the boy outside the door or the wife he never got to call that or the years lost to silence and war. But for the awful question that haunted him now.

Did you believe it? Did you spend your final days thinking he had chosen honor over you? Duty over love? Did you die thinking he let you go willingly?

His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, trembling. "I came back." He whispered, voice raw. "I swear I did. I just... I didn't know how much time I'd lost." He pressed his hand over his mouth again, trying to breathe.

In the other room, his son cleared the table quietly. And Caleb stayed where he was. Not just because he couldn't face him yet. But because he didn't know if he could survive the answer written in Ash's eyes.

-

Caleb didn't ask to join him. He just followed.

Ash didn't say much, didn’t offer directions. But he didn't tell him to go away either and that, in itself, felt like something. So Caleb walked three steps behind his son through the quiet village letting the boy's smaller boots set the rhythm of their day.

They stopped by the well first. Ash helped the older woman who always came too early and left too late, steadying her bucket without being asked. Caleb recognized her vaguely from years ago. She gave him a long, pointed stare but said nothing. The water sloshed once and Ash kept walking.

Next, they passed the small chapel at the edge of the hill. The priest sweeping the steps looked up sharply, paused mid motion and Caleb nodded politely.

Then came the bakery. A boy around Ash's age ran out and handed him a small bag. Ash muttered something too low to hear. Pressed a few coins into his friend's hand and kept walking, tearing off a piece of bread to share and only handing half to Caleb without a word. He accepted it with a quiet. "Thank you." And tried not to let the silence feel like punishment.

They continued down the lane. Caleb couldn't help but feel the stares. Villagers paused in their chores to glance over their shoulders. Conversations softened when he passed. He heard his name whispered once. Not Duke Xia, not the Commander. Just Caleb. The familiarity stung more than the suspicion.

He couldn't blame them. They had known you in ways he hadn't in seasons he had missed. They had watched you walk with swollen ankles and unspoken worry, raise a child with gentle hands and a quiet laugh, all while waiting. While hoping. And he hadn't come.

So now, they looked at him not with fear, or awe, but with something colder. You're too late. Ash didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't react.

He led Caleb to the riverside where the wildflowers grew. Sat cross legged beneath the tree. Caleb sat beside him, not too close. Just enough to be near. They didn't speak for a while. Just sat in the breeze and watched the water move.

It was peaceful, almost. Or it could have been, if not for the tension lingering in Caleb's chest. The weight of unsaid things, the dread that Ash might never truly forgive him and the deeper, quieter fear that maybe he shouldn't.

But Ash spoke first. "When are we leaving?" Caleb blinked. "Soon." He said. "I sent word to my army days ago. They should be near. Once they arrive and rest, we'll head out." Ash only nodded.

The sun was dipping low when the sound of hooves reached them. The unmistakable beat of trained horses, fast but disciplined. Caleb stood, instinct sharp, eyes scanning the road as familiar banners crested over the hill.

The army had arrived. And at their head rode a man Caleb trusted more than most, his first lieutenant, Sir Ryns, whose armor caught the dying light in silver glints. His expression shifted when he saw Caleb waiting by the road.

"My Lord." Ryns dismounted quickly, bowing once before speaking in a low voice. "We've arrived as ordered. The men are camped near the eastern ridge. We came straight when we received your last raven-" Then his gaze drifted past Caleb.

To the boy standing a little behind him, quiet and watchful. Ryns frowned. His eyes narrowed faintly, curious. "My Lord." He asked cautiously. "Is that…?" Caleb turned slightly. "Yes." He said without hesitation. "This is my son. Ash Xia."

There was a beat of silence. Many of the soldiers exchanged glances. Caleb saw confusion flicker in Ryns' eyes. Ash stood still, his hands in his coat pockets, his face blank but guarded. He looked like he expected the questions, maybe even the judgment.

One of the younger knights finally spoke, hesitant. "My Lord… Forgive me, but... We were told you came to this village to... See her. Is she-?" He didn't finish. The assumption hung in the air. You're alive, aren't you? Caleb's jaw clenched.

Ash looked up at the man and answered before his father could speak. "She's dead."

Silence fell. It wasn't a dramatic thing. There was no gasp, no collective outcry. Just a sharp shift like the wind had suddenly turned too cold. The soldiers' expressions changed. One by one, Caleb saw their eyes fall to him registering the tightness in his shoulders, the hollow in his face.

Only then did they truly see him. Not the Duke. Not the Commander. Just the man who had lost something he'd come too late to claim.

Caleb gave no explanation. There was nothing left to explain. He simply turned to Ryns. "We leave at dawn. Have a carriage prepared, one comfortable for a child. And make sure the escort is discreet. I don't want attention drawn on the road back." Ryns nodded, his voice quieter now. "Yes, my Lord."

The soldiers began to disperse, respectful in their silence. No one dared ask more. Caleb looked down at Ash, who still hadn't moved. For a brief second, their eyes met. Neither of them said a word.

But Caleb saw it. The question buried behind the boy's quiet stare. Why now. And though he couldn't answer it yet, he would spend every day trying to.

-

The carriage rocked gently over the dirt road. Its wheels cutting through the morning hush like a lullaby too tired to sing.

Outside, the house of Xia's banner trailed behind the lead riders. Catching what little breeze the early day allowed. The army rode in disciplined silence. A formation tight enough to shield but respectful enough to keep their distance. No one said anything. No one dared to intrude.

Inside the carriage, Caleb sat across from his son. He hadn't wanted to impose. Had considered assigning Ash a separate space. A smaller, lighter carriage fitted for comfort. But the thought of being even a stone's throw away from his boy made something inside him twist too tightly. So he stayed. And hoped it didn't make things worse.

Ash didn't complain. He didn't talk much either. He sat with his knees tucked close, arms loosely folded, gaze fixed on the passing trees. The morning sun painted his profile in soft gold. His silence wasn't hostile, not exactly. Just… Practiced. Like he'd learned to speak only when the world gave him a reason to.

Caleb watched him in the quiet. Noticed how his shoulders didn't quite relax. How his fingers picked absently at a loose thread in his sleeve. A nervous habit. One Caleb had once had himself.

Halfway through the ride, Ash finally spoke. "What are you going to do when we get there?" Caleb blinked. "To the duchy?" Ash gave a small nod. "Well." Caleb started slowly, choosing his words with care. "The first thing I'm going to do... Is declare you as my son."

Ash's brows lifted a fraction. Not in shock. More like he had expected it eventually, but hadn't thought Caleb would say it so plainly. "And then?" The boy asked, voice quiet. "Then." Caleb exhaled softly. "You'll live your life. However you want to. You'll have a room, a library, land if you want it. But mostly, I just want you to be a child. To grow up safe."

Ash tilted his head. "Don't I need lessons? Or etiquette stuff? Nobility things?" Caleb shook his head gently. "You'll have tutors, yes. But only the basics. No one is going to shove the whole court on your shoulders. I won't let them." He paused. "You've carried enough already."

Ash looked down at his lap. His fingers stilled. "… So I can just live?" "Yes." Caleb said firmly. "That's all I want for you." That's what you'll want for him too.

There was another stretch of silence, broken only by the soft clatter of the carriage wheels. Then Caleb smiled faintly and murmured. "Ash…" But the boy looked up. "Mavius." He corrected, tone neutral. "My name is Mavius Caelum Asher."

Caleb froze. The air left his lungs. He hadn't heard that such familiarity in years. Not since- He blinked once, twice, and looked at the boy more closely. Mavius. Caelum. Asher. "… You named him after her." Caleb whispered.

Ash didn't meet his eyes, just turned to look out the window again. "Yeah." He said, voice distant. "Mama said she named me after someone important. Someone you lost."

Caleb felt his throat tighten. He remembered now. MC, his little sister. Bright eyed, fever sick, too young to go. The necklace he had given you once had belonged to her. You had kept it, even then. Even when things were falling apart. You remembered. Of course you did.

He pressed a hand over his mouth. Told himself no. Not here. Not in front of the boy. But the tears came anyway. Slow and silent. He turned his face to the side, away from Ash, eyes shut tight against the sting.

He had told himself he had no tears left to shed. That he'd mourned enough for a lifetime. But then his son, your son, said that name. The name that came after hers. The grief returned like it had been waiting all along, patient and sharp.

Across from him, Ash said nothing. He didn't reach out. Didn't offer comfort.

He just stared out the window, his profile still and unreadable, as the Duke, the Commander of the Army, the man called a legend in five kingdoms quietly broke beside him.

Outside, the army rode in perfect formation. Inside, a father wept for the love he had lost... And the family he was only now learning how to hold.

-

They stopped in a modest trading town just near the duchy's border. One of the outer territories under Caleb's name, tucked between sloping hills and terraced farmlands. It was quiet but prosperous, the kind of place where news came late but pride came early.

Caleb thought it best to ease the transition here. To soften the sharp edges of what was coming. So he took Ash shopping.

It wasn't extravagant, not in Caleb's eyes. Just enough to ensure Ash had clothing suitable for court, for winter, for meals that didn't happen on wooden benches. But Ash moved through the shops with the same quiet expression he wore on the road. Unbothered, unexcited, composed in a way no child should’ve had to learn so early.

He let the tailor measure him. Nodded when shown fabrics. Said nothing when asked preferences. Caleb finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry." He said, standing beside Ash as a shopkeeper carefully adjusted a collar near the boy's shoulder. "About the suddenness. The change. I know it's a lot."

Ash didn't look at him, but his voice came out flat. "I'm used to change." Caleb's mouth went dry. He tried again. "I used to come here with your mother." He said quietly. "Before the war. Before… before the agreement. It was one of the few places we could go without anyone recognizing me." Ash blinked. Finally turned his head a little, just enough for Caleb to see him.

"She liked the old bookshop two streets down." Caleb added. "Used to complain that they never dusted the top shelves, then spend hours there anyway. I once had to drag her out with her hands and a whole bag of books she swore she'd return." He gave a soft, nostalgic chuckle. "She didn't."

Ash looked at him now, fully, and though his expression remained guarded, he asked. "Did she laugh a lot?" Caleb's breath caught. "She did." He said. "Gods, she did." And so he kept talking.

As they moved through the square and stopped by the cobbler and then a modest jeweler, Caleb told him stories. About the time you nearly got kicked out of a tavern for arguing with a chess hustler. About how you once braided a red ribbon into his hair and threatened to tell the barracks it was tradition if he took it out. About the stolen apples from a merchant's cart, the nights spent beneath a shared blanket, counting stars and whispering names for constellations that never existed.

Ash didn't speak much. But he listened. And for once, Caleb didn't mind the silence. Not when it felt like this, like remembering.

By the time the carriage rolled toward the duchy gates, the sun was beginning to dip behind the tall white towers that stood in the distance. The roads widened. The banners came into view.

And the people. They were waiting. The crowds lined the outer walls, nobles and commoners alike. Some carried flowers, others waved embroidered flags. There were children on shoulders, elders holding lanterns, merchants standing still in the middle of their trade stalls just to catch a glimpse.

Because the hero had returned. Their Duke, their Commander. The man who had come victorious at the war. The man who gain everything, power, status, honour. But he was also the same man who lost everything he had.

Caleb looked straight ahead but he could feel Ash watching him. He didn't wear armor today, but the weight of expectation wrapped tighter than steel ever could. He wondered, faintly, how long it would take before Ash felt it too.

The carriage slowed. Trumpets began to sound. Ash leaned toward the window, just slightly. "… They're here for you." He said, voice unreadable. Caleb looked at him. "No." He replied softly. "They're here for us." Ash didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.

And as the gates opened wide, letting them pass beneath stone arches and golden banners, Caleb let his hand rest. Briefly, gently on his son's shoulder. It wasn't much. But it was a start.

-

The duchy castle was colder than Ash expected.

Grand, yes. Its marble floors and soaring ceilings soaked in light, with chandeliers like frozen stars and banners heavy with heraldry. Every inch of it whispered of history, of victories won by men with unbending spines and names carved into stone. But still, it felt cold.

Caleb, however, moved through it like a man who had shed his armor but not his discipline. He walked with his hand resting lightly on Ash's shoulder, guiding him gently toward the entrance hall before leaving him with Sir Ryns, his most trusted aide.

"I'll be away for a few hours." Caleb murmured to his son. "There's something I need to settle. You'll be safe with him."

Ash didn't argue. He simply nodded and watched him go. Tall, cloaked in command, disappearing into the echoing halls where power liked to gather. Sir Ryns gave a respectful nod. "Shall we?" Ash followed.

In the court council chamber, the temperature was different.

Not the air. The mood. Stiff collars and older men, faces lined not by time but by caution. A place where no voice raised unless it had weight behind it.

Caleb stood at the head of the long table, straight backed, unshaken, in the same travel worn coat he arrived in. He didn't need titles or emblems today. He was the title.

"Mavius Caelum Asher Xia" He said, voice steady. "Is my son. By blood. By name. By will." He didn't smile when he said it. There was no softness in the way he spoke of it, only certainty.

It didn't take long for the murmurs to begin. "My Lord Duke." One of the elder vassals said, clearing his throat like it might buy him courage. "Surely such a proclamation should be delayed until-" "No."

Caleb's eyes didn't waver. "It will be announced before the week ends. The court will bear witness. The documentation will be sealed in my name." "But the boy." Another tried. "He's not been raised in noble society. He may not be-" "He's my son." Caleb said again, this time like it was a weapon.

There was a pause, brief and sharp. "And the mother?" A third man asked, cautious. "Will she be named? Brought forward?" Caleb's jaw tensed. "She died. Years ago." The silence thickened. "Your Grace." Someone dared again. "This decision... May unsettle the houses who've pledged their banners-" "Then let them be unsettled."

The words dropped like stone into still water. "I've served this duchy for years. Given it my youth, my loyalty, my blood. And I have buried every dream I once had for the sake of peace. But not this. I will not bury my son."

He leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the table. "Let me make this simple. I am not here to ask for your approval. I am informing you. As Duke, as Commander, as father, that Mavius Caelum Asher Xia is my heir. You will recognize him. You will show him the respect his name demands. Or you may leave your posts before sundown."

No one spoke after that. There was nothing left to say.

Meanwhile, Ash followed Sir Ryns down a quieter wing of the castle.

"This part of the keep isn't shown to most visitors." The aide said mildly. "But your father asked that you be given access. These halls are his private wing." Ash barely nodded.

He walked slower now, fingertips grazing the stone as if memorizing the shape of it. The rugs here were more worn. The windows opened onto smaller courtyards. It didn't feel like a palace. It felt like someone's home.

They rounded a final corner. And that's when he saw it. At the end of the hallway, tucked quietly across from the Duke's chamber door, hung a portrait. It wasn't regal. It wasn't formal.

You were painted sitting beneath a great blooming tree, one hand resting over your lap, a gentle smile dancing at the corners of your mouth. The sky behind you was warm with color.

Ash stopped. Sir Ryns paused behind him, then gave a small bow. "I'll give you a moment." He stepped away. And Ash stared.

You looked... Alive. Not like the worn memories, not like the soft dreams that blurred at the edges. This was clearer, sharper. He could almost imagine you laughing just out of frame.

And the way the painting was placed, nnot in a public gallery, not in the halls meant to impress but here. Here, where only Caleb would see it every time he passed his chamber.

Ash took one step closer. Then two. And just like that, something broke inside him.

Because all this time, despite everything you told him. Everything you left behind, some small, childish part of him had wondered if it was just a story. If his father had loved you less than duty. Less than legacy.

But this? This was not a thing done out of guilt. This was devotion. Frozen in oil and light.

And just for a moment, he let himself imagine what might've been. You, laughing down these halls. Your hand in his father, watching over him. The warmth of something that wasn't stolen by silence or time.

But it was only a painting now. And Ash? He turned away before the ache could swell too wide.

-

The garden had always been yours.

Even when the rest of the duchy bore the mark of lineage and strategy, marble and bloodline. This garden remained untouched by politics. It was a space you claimed not with words but by presence. By laughter echoing against the ivy. By your barefoot steps on wet grass at dawn. By the scent of jasmine clinging to the folds of your dress when you came in from the evening mist.

Now? It had grown wild in your absence.

The path was nearly swallowed by moss and wandering weeds. The lavender stalks bent heavy from months without pruning. The peonies, once carefully coaxed into bloom by your touch, were wilted. Their heads drooping as though even they were mourning.

Caleb stood beneath the worn stone archway, the sky already softening into late dusk. A breeze passed through, stirring the overgrown hedges, sending petals drifting onto the stones.

He didn't step forward just yet. Because there, between the tangled hedges and forgotten rosebushes, was Ash.

The boy moved slowly, quietly, his small hands brushing against leaf and bloom with an odd reverence. As if, instinctively, he knew this garden had once meant something. As if he could sense that someone, you, had once walked here every morning, humming softly to yourself, hands filled with shears, ribbon and soft flower threads you tucked into your hair.

Caleb swallowed hard. He couldn't bring himself to speak. He just watched, hand tightening around the edge of the pillar beside him, eyes following every movement like they were watching a ghost retrace your steps.

Ash crouched down near the base of the old stone bench. The very one where you had once curled beside Caleb with a worn book in hand. You always fell asleep midway through your stories, cheek pressed to his shoulder, your words slurring into nothing, warm breath fogging the pages.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

Caleb's throat ached from how tightly he clenched it. He hadn't stepped foot in this garden since the war began. It had been years. He had ridden out with armor and banners and men at his back, chasing glory that never filled the hollow parts of him. He never came back. Not until now. Not until everything else had already been lost.

How many things had he missed?

His son's first cry. His first steps. The first time he scraped his knee. The way he might have tugged at your sleeve and asked about the stars. The way you might have lit a lantern when he had nightmares, pulled him into your arms and told him stories about a man named Caleb, far away, fighting for peace.

Did you tell him you loved him for the both of you? Did you tell him he was worth all the waiting?

The wind stirred again. Ash turned his face toward the breeze and closed his eyes. The exact same way you once did. Caleb's heart broke in a quiet, restrained kind of way. No dramatics. Just pressure. Like something cracked deep in his chest and kept splintering.

He stepped forward. Ash opened his eyes at the sound of boots brushing against gravel but didn't turn. Just kept staring out over the garden. Caleb stopped beside him. "I used to come here with your mother." He said, voice low, almost too rough. "She always said this garden looked better wild."

Ash tilted his head. "She came here a lot?" Caleb nodded. "Every day. Before everything. She would talk to the plants. She hated when the gardeners trimmed too much. Said flowers should be allowed to reach for whatever they wanted."

Ash didn't respond. Just reached down and picked up a fallen peony petal, curling it between his fingers. The boy didn't speak for a long time. Then, softly. "Mother told me you were a hero." Caleb swallowed.

"Mother told me stories about you." Ash continued, fingers tracing a small blooming flower. "Said you were brave. That you were fighting for everyone, not just us. But some nights… I think she cried when she thought I was asleep." Caleb closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." He said. "For not being there. For not coming home sooner. For… Everything."

Ash looked down at the petal in his palm. Caleb crouched down beside him, fingers trembling as he rested a hand over Ash's shoulder, tentative, unsure. "I don't deserve forgiveness." He whispered. "But I want to try. For you. For her."

Ash finally looked at him. And for the first time, there was something softer in his eyes. A recognition. Maybe even… A beginning.

They stayed like that for a while, father and son, in a garden left wild by grief and time. And near them, the first bloom of the flower unfolded. Quiet, patient and unafraid to reach.

-

The halls of the duchy were quiet that night, save for the faint sound of torches flickering against the stone walls. The air held a kind of stillness that only came before something irreversible. Not quite dread, not quite anticipation. Just the soft weight of change, gathering like fog on the edge of dawn.

Caleb stood just outside Ash's door, hand hovering over the latch. He told himself to walk away. Let the boy sleep. Let him have the only peace he could offer before the court tried to take it away. But his hand moved anyway.

The room was dimly lit. A candle flickered low on the desk, half melted wax trailing down its base. The boy was curled on his side beneath a heavy quilt, not asleep. Just staring toward the window, as if the stars outside had something more comforting to say than Caleb ever could.

Caleb stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Can't sleep?" He asked softly. Ash didn't turn but his small voice broke the silence. "Too much noise in my head." Caleb pulled a chair close to the bed and sat with a quiet exhale. "I know the feeling."

They sat in silence for a while, just the two of them, the gap between their pasts too wide to be bridged with words. But Caleb was learning that closeness sometimes started like this, not with conversation but with presence. With showing up and staying put.

Ash shifted slightly under the covers. "I don't know how to do any of this." He murmured. "You don't have to." Caleb replied. "Not yet. You just have to be yourself." Ash's brow furrowed. "That's not what everyone else expects, is it?" Caleb smiled faintly. "I stopped caring what they expect a long time ago."

Ash didn't respond to that. Instead, after a beat, he asked. "Do you think mother be proud of me?" Caleb's heart clenched. He reached over, gently brushing a bit of hair from Ash's forehead. "She'd be proud of you for waking up in the morning. For breathing. For surviving." His voice faltered. "She'd be proud of how brave you've been."

Ash looked at him then, eyes shinier than before and with some hesitation. "Are you proud of me?" "I've only known you for a short while." Caleb said, voice rough. "But yes. Every single day, I'm proud of you. And I wish I could've been there sooner to say it."

The boy blinked and turned his face away. But not before Caleb saw the wetness in his eyes. "You're not alone anymore." Caleb added gently. "I'm here. I'll always be here." And for once, Ash didn't pull away when Caleb tucked the blanket tighter around him.

The next morning came with ceremony.

The great hall was transformed into something out of legend. Tall banners unfurled from the rafters, tapestries lined the walls with the crest of House Xia. Black and purple, the colors of night and their eyes. Every noble family of note stood waiting, their formalwear glittering, their expressions carefully controlled.

Caleb stood at the head of it all. The Duke, Commander, war hero returned from the frontlines after uniting the warring kingdoms, take back some throne for the right ruler to lead. All for the sake of peace. And beside him stood Ash.

He wore a suit cut to fit, his brown dark hair brushed neatly though his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Caleb placed a steady hand on his shoulder. And stepped forward.

"My people." He began, voice resonant through the hall. "I have led you through war. I have fought beside you, bled for your families, and returned peace to this land not through conquest, but through righteousness." Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"But I come before you not as a hero." He continued, eyes sweeping across the nobility. "I come as a father." The air shifted, tense, expectant. "I stand here today to name my son. The heir of House Xia. The rightful child of my blood." Gasps whispered down the aisle, hushed disbelief tugging at curious glances.

"He was raised far from the court." Caleb said, lifting his chin. "But not from love. His mother, though not of noble birth, bore the heart of a saint. She raised him with strength, compassion and grace. His name is Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, my son and my legacy."

There was silence. Then applause. Hesitant at first, then thunderous. But even as they clapped, the nobles whispered behind fans and under breath. A commoner. Was he conceived before the war? How could the Duke hide such a thing? Who was the mother? Was it that village woman from the old rumors? Caleb heard it. He always did.

"My Lord." One older vassal began. He must have missed the first meeting. "We mean no disrespect. But surely the title of heir must pass through... Clearer channels. The duchy-"

"Will be inherited by my son." Caleb interrupted. His voice cut cleanly through the chamber. "Not because of his blood, but because of what he represents. He is my future. That is not up for debate."

Another tried. "But his mother-" "Will not be spoken of with anything less than honor." Caleb said, tone sharper now. "She gave her life raising him. She gave me a reason to come back. If you cannot speak of her with respect, then you do not deserve to speak at all." That silenced them.

And in the shadow of his words, no one dared challenge him again.

That night, Caleb sat in his chambers. The old box you left him still untouched on the bedside table.

Ash had long since gone to bed. But Caleb sat quietly, the moonlight pooling across the desk, and whispered your name like a prayer.

"I'm doing my best." He murmured. "I don't know if it's enough. But he's here. He's safe. And I won't let him face this world alone."

The box remained closed. Not yet. He wasn't ready to open the past. Not until he could face it with something steadier in his chest than grief.

-

The duchy was never silent, not even in the early hours.

There was always movement. The shuffle of boots on stone, the hum of court gossip, the rustle of silks as nobility drifted through the corridors like ghosts dressed in gold.

But within one particular wing of the castle, one newly opened after years of being shut. There was a kind of hush that wasn't born of reverence, but of adjustment.

Ash sat stiffly at the edge of the chair, back too straight as though posture alone could hold him upright through this.

The tailor buzzed around him, muttering about hem lengths and shoulder seams, fussing over measurements like his thread held the fabric of the kingdom.

Caleb stood near the door, arms crossed loosely, a patient look on his face. Ash caught him watching. "I can do this alone." He muttered. Caleb only shrugged. "I know." "Then why are you still here?" A soft smile makes its way on Caleb's lips. "Because I want to be."

Ash didn't answer, just looked down as the tailor moved to adjust a sleeve. It was like that most days. Stiff, clipped responses. Ash kept his emotions guarded. His trust locked behind layers of survival. But Caleb didn't push. He stayed.

He was there in the mornings, walking Ash through the halls and introducing him to the staff. He was there at meals, quietly explaining noble etiquette while pretending not to notice when Ash refused to use the proper cutlery out of spite.

He was there during riding lessons. Though Ash already knew how to ride. You had taught him, after all. But Caleb still showed up, still walked beside the horse, still held the reins steady when the stallion bucked just slightly.

Ash never said thank you. But he didn't push him away either. That was enough.

At night, they played chess by the fire.

Caleb let Ash win the first few games. After that, he didn't need to. "You're holding back." Ash said during one match, brow furrowed. Caleb smirked. "Am I?"

"I'm not a child." "No." Caleb said, moving a rook. "You're my son." Ash stared at the board. "You don't know me." "I'm trying to." Caleb replied gently.

For a moment, Ash didn't move. Then he said, quietly. "You missed a lot." Caleb nodded. "I did." Ash made his move. "Why didn't you come sooner?" The words were like flint, soft but capable of sparking every buried grief between them.

Caleb met his gaze. "Because I thought I'd have time." Ash didn't look away. "You didn't." "No." Caleb's voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't."

Ash stared at him a moment longer. Then, finally, looked back down at the board. "Your move."

-

It was small things, after that.

Ash asking him to join for tea in the afternoons. Caleb fixing the saddle on Ash's horse without being asked. Ash staying just a little longer at the dining table instead of retreating to his room. Caleb brushing his hand over Ash's shoulder when they passed in the hall, the way fathers do without thinking.

They didn't speak of love. Not yet. But it was there, beneath the silences. The kind that didn't need words, only time.

-

The snow had fallen without mercy that night.

Pale and soundless, it coated the roofs of the duchy and swept down the narrow roads like a silken veil. It blurred the horizon until the world outside the windows looked like something imagined. Soft, distant, dreamless.

But inside the west wing, there was no dream. Only fever. And the ragged breathing of a child calling out for someone who would never come.

Ash had not been well for days.

What began as a stubborn cold had twisted into a high, searing fever that clung to him like a curse. The court physicians had done all they could. Steam, broths, tinctures too bitter to keep down. But Ash fought them. Resisted, pushed away hands trying to help.

He was crying again. "Mama..." The boy whimpered, thrashing under the heavy blankets, eyes glassy and faraway. "Where's Mama…?" And then. "I want to go home..."

The servants wept quietly in the hallway. They didn't know which home the young lord meant. Be it the one made of wood and warmth tucked at the edge of the forest or the one now buried beneath the tree near the river side. Either way, neither could be returned to.

The physician knelt helplessly beside the bed. "He won't take the medicine." He muttered. "He won't-"

The door slammed open. Boot steps thundered against the stone floor. The Duke had returned.

Caleb didn't say a word as he stormed into the room, frost clinging to the edges of his cloak. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His hands were still red from the reins, his shoulders dusted with snow. But none of it mattered.

Because his son was screaming for someone who couldn't answer.

"Mama-!" Caleb's heart twisted so violently he thought it might finally split in half. "I'm here." He breathed, crossing the room in a heartbeat. "Ash. I'm here."

But Ash didn't see him or if he did, he didn't recognize him. He was somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Somewhere warmer, where your arms still waited and your voice still sang.

The boy's body shook with sobs. "Please- I want Mama- I want- her-" Caleb sat on the bed and pulled Ash into his arms. The boy didn't resist. He clung. Like drowning. And Caleb, for once, didn't know what to do.

He held him tighter, rocking him gently as the boy cried and gasped and called for the one person neither of them could return to.

The physician hesitated. "Your Grace, the medi-" Caleb reached out, took the cup, and held it to his son's lips. Ash turned his head away violently, a sound breaking in his throat like a wounded animal. He trembled, gasped, cried. "No- no- no-"

So Caleb pressed his forehead to Ash's temple. "You want her." He whispered, voice cracking. "I know. I know." His eyes stung. He bit back the tears, but they came anyway, hot, silent and furious. "I want her too."

The boy hiccupped still half in delirium. "I miss her so much." Caleb whispered. "Every day. Every breath. You might not remember it, but I know she used to hum when you couldn't sleep. I know she'll kissed your forehead when you had bad dreams. I know she carry you when you wouldn't stop crying. I know she loved you more than the stars, Ash. She would've fought the gods themselves for you."

Caleb paused. Swallowed. "But I'm here now. And I won't let you go. Please- Let me stay. Let me take care of you. For her. For you. For us."

Ash whimpered. Then slowly like something inside him recognized the grief in that voice, he opened his lips. Caleb raised the cup. Ash drank. Not all of it. Not without difficulty. But enough.

The boy collapsed against him after, exhausted. And Caleb held him through it, through the shallow breaths and the sweat and the half conscious murmurs that still whispered for you.

He brushed the damp hair back from Ash's forehead. Kissed his brow. Wiped away the tears neither of them knew how to stop.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, time stood still.

Later that night, long after Ash had fallen into a fevered sleep, Caleb remained by the bed, hunched forward with elbows on his knees, your son's small hand still wrapped tightly around his finger.

He stared into the fire, eyes hollow. "I should’ve come sooner." He whispered to no one. To you. To the silence. "I should've given it all up. Just for one more year. Just to hold him like this, while you were still here."

The flames didn't answer. But your presence was everywhere. In the scarf folded on the nightstand, the lullaby Ash had murmured before sleep, the faint scent of lilies that lingered on the Ash's blanket.

You were gone. But you were in everything. He looked at the sleeping boy. Pale. Fragile. He was all that remained of you. And he was everything.

-

The fever had passed.

Ash was on the mend, stronger with each passing day, the heat of illness gone from his skin, the distant haze fading from his eyes. But the space between him and Caleb remained quiet, still slightly tense. Not cold. Just… Uncertain.

Ash didn't avoid him anymore. He no longer pulled away when Caleb adjusted his blanket or sat beside him during meals. But neither did he reach out. Not yet. There were no arguments. But no real conversations, either. Not about the things that mattered. Not about her.

He didn't hate his father. He kept telling himself that. But sometimes, when the shadows settled in just right, he remembered the years spent wondering why the door never opened. Why the man in his mother's stories never arrived.

It was easier to pretend he didn't care. Harder to accept that he did.

So one afternoon, while the palace was caught in the lull between meetings and duties and Caleb was tucked somewhere in council, Ash wandered.

Down the halls echoing with memories he wasn't part of. Past portraits he didn't recognize. Through rooms filled with polished furniture and untouched heirlooms. Until he found the door. It wasn't locked.

Not his father's main office, no. This was smaller. Tucked away behind a quiet hallway near the west tower. A study, maybe. Or something older. He hesitated, hand on the latch. Then pushed it open.

The room smelled of aged parchment and cedar wood, soft and worn. Bookshelves lined the walls, dustier than they should be. A map of the old provinces lay unfurled on a desk, corners curled from time. And on the far wall. A painting. He froze.

You, his mother and Caleb. Young. Laughing. Radiant. Your hands in his. His arm around your shoulders, a look on his face that Ash didn't think he'd ever seen in person. You were smiling at him in that painting. And Caleb. His father wasn't looking at the artist at all. He was only looking at you.

Ash stepped closer. His heart beat too fast. Beneath the painting, there were boxes. Not marked. Not sealed. He knelt, fingers trembling slightly, and opened the first one. Letters.

His breath caught. Dozens of them. Some torn at the edges. Some ink-smudged. Some wrinkled as if they'd been carried in the rain. He unfolded the top one.

At the same time. The west wing was quiet. Quieter than the rest of the castle.

Even the wind seemed to hush as it pressed against the high windows, like it, too, knew not to disturb what lay behind that half opened door.

Caleb hadn't been in that room for years. Not since before the war. Not since before everything unraveled and was never stitched back together again. It was a personal room, not the Duke's office, not the public study. It was a room only he had reason to enter.

And now, the door was open. And the silence inside was not the silence of emptiness. It was a silence full of grief. He pushed it open slowly.

Ash sat on the wooden floor, legs tucked beneath him, small fingers curled around a sheet of yellowing paper. Around him lay scattered envelopes, some torn open, some still sealed. The box that once held them had tipped onto its side.

The boy didn't look up. Not even when Caleb stepped fully into the room. Ash's voice was small when he finally spoke.

"You wrote her." Caleb's chest tightened. "I didn't know you ever did." Ash's eyes were red, but dry now. His throat worked as he swallowed. He glanced down again and began reading aloud voice trembling, fragile.

I still see you in my sleep. I wake up thinking I'm back at the old tree, and you're lying beside me with grass in your hair. I reach out, and you're never there. That's how I start my mornings now.

Ash picked up another.

They tell me to forget. They tell me duty matters more than anything. But if they saw you, just once, they'd know why I couldn't.

Caleb froze in place, unable to move, unable to speak. Ash kept going.

I heard rumors you had gone south. I spent a week riding with no name, no insignia. I searched every village. Every market. Nothing. No trace of you. I started to think you were a ghost, sent to haunt me just long enough to remember what love felt like.

Another.

I'm sorry I left you behind. But I would make it right. After the war I'll find a way back to you. I know we had more time ahead of us.

Ash's voice cracked. He reached for another. And paused. This one had your name on the front. Just your name, in Caleb's slanted, uneven script like he had written it in a moment of weakness and haste. He opened it, carefully. His voice dropped. Ash's hands trembled.

I know I wasn't enough. I couldn't protect you. I couldn't choose you. But gods, if I could turn back time, if I could see you one last time… I would give away this title, this honour just to hear you laugh again. To hold you. To say goodbye properly.

The letter slipped from Ash's fingers. And when he finally looked up, his eyes were brimming.

"You didn't know about me." He whispered. "You didn't know I exist." Caleb finally found his voice. "No." He said softly. "I didn't." Ash nodded slowly.

Then like the dam finally cracked, the tears spilled over, full and messy and childlike.

"But why didn't you try harder?! Why didn’t you come sooner?!" He shouted suddenly, voice breaking. "She waited for you! She told me you'll come back! Every year she said it, every year! And then she got sick! And you weren't there! She said you were a good man! She said you'd come back! But you never did! You never came!"

Caleb stepped forward, kneeling down, hands open. "I didn't know-" "You should've!" Ash cried. "She believed in you! And I did too! And you weren't there when she died! She died! She died before you came! And I was alone! I was- I didn't know what to do-!"

He hit him then, small fists pounding against his father's chest. Caleb didn't stop him. "She said you loved us." Ash sobbed. "She said you loved her! And I kept waiting and you never came!" "I'm sorry." Caleb said, voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry."

Ash's fists slowed. His little body trembled with the weight of grief he shouldn't have had to carry alone. Caleb wrapped his arms around him gently. "Everyone told me stories - stories about you- about how you married someone else- that you forgot us- and I didn't know what to believe-! I hated you- I hated you so much-"

Ash finally crumpled against him, the fight falling out of him all at once. "She always said you'd come back." He hiccupped. "I kept believing. I waited. I really… I really did." "I'm sorry." He whispered into his son's hair. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I wrote to her because I didn't know where to go." He whispered. "Every letter was a prayer. Every day I thought I could find her, I thought- gods, I thought I had time. I thought once the war ended-" He couldn't finish.

"I missed your whole life." He choked. "I missed everything." Ash hiccupped against his chest. "She always told me stories about you." Ash whispered. "She said you'd come back. That you were brave. That you had a good heart. But sometimes... I didn't believe her. I thought she was lying. I thought you'd left us."

"I didn't know I had a son." Caleb whispered. "But I knew I had a reason to live. I just didn't know it was you." Ash pulled back slightly, looking at him. "Do you still love her?" "I always will." Caleb said.

Ash hesitated. Then, in a tiny voice, asked. "Can I call you Dad?" Caleb's breath caught. He nodded, one slow, shaking nod. "Yes." He whispered. "Yes. Please." And Ash, still sniffling, wrapped his arms around his father.

"I don't hate you anymore." Ash said. "And I forgive you." He said quietly. "But you have to promise to stay this time." "I will." Caleb said burying his face in his son's hair. "I swear. I won't lose you too."

-

Time had softened the ache, but never erased it.

Years passed, as they do in places built from stone and silence. The Xia Duchy become prosperous from war given the fact that they played a big role taking the princess side who was now the queen of her own kingdom. It was rebuilt beneath its people's pride and their Duke's stern discipline.

And through it all, Caleb ruled with the quiet steadiness he had always been known for. Colder now, more distant perhaps, but respected without question. And beside him, his son.

Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, now older, sharper, taller than before. He had moved through the estate like someone born to its halls yet always with a piece of himself withheld. He was polite in court. Composed in lessons. Exceptionally bright in every diplomatic event or noble function Caleb took him to.

But he smiled less than most boys his age. And he trusted even fewer. His heart, after all, had already broken once. And while it had learned to beat again, it remembered. Always.

Caleb tried not to think about how many nights he had missed. How many birthdays, how many mornings, how many firsts. But in the years since he had brought Ash home, he had never spent another one away. He did not plan to.

Ash had become his world now and every day Caleb tried to become the kind of father you would have wanted him to be.

But grief did not stop time. And time did not stop society.

It started with a letter. Then a visit. Then three more. Ladies, noble blooded, marriageable, politically useful arriving with simpering smiles and folded hands, trailing daughters as carefully dressed as they were clearly rehearsed. They came with tea and embroidery, cloaks lined with lace and intention.

Each one mentioned Ash with practiced warmth, with concern, with a motherly tone none of them had earned.

And Caleb? Caleb refused them before they finished speaking. "I am not looking for a wife." He said coldly, every time. "But my daughter-" "Is not her." He cut in once. And that was the end of that conversation.

But then came the bold ones. The ones who sought out Ash. In the garden. In the stables. Near the training fields. With carefully measured smiles and low voices.

Once, a lady bent to place a hand on Ash’s shoulder and said softly. "You must be so lonely without a woman's care. A boy needs a mother to-" "I had one." Ash said flatly, stepping away. "She died. I don't need a replacement." And he walked off, back straight, face unreadable.

Another tried to invite him for tea. Brought a cake she claimed to have made herself. Ash took one look at it, smiled politely and handed it to the kitchen staff without taking a bite. "Looks heavy." He said. "Just like your expectations." The staff nearly choked on their breath.

By the time he was thirteen, word had gotten around the court. Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, the heir of the Duke was not a boy easily charmed. And if you approached him with pity, manipulation or anything less than honesty, you were going to walk away very embarrassed.

Once, someone tried it in front of Caleb. A highborn woman, twice widowed, always circling. Had the nerve to say. "Ash is such a thoughtful child. I've always dreamed of being a mother to a boy like that." Ash glanced up from his book. "You dream too much."

The silence was palpable. Caleb didn't hide his smirk. Didn't wven try to hide his chuckle.

Later that evening, in the privacy of the Duke's study, Caleb leaned back in his chair and looked over at Ash, who sat curled up in one of the armchairs reading. "You know." Caleb said mildly. "There are more diplomatic ways to discourage suitors."

Ash didn't look up. "You want me to stop?" "No." Caleb said. "Just wondering if you took more after me or your mother." Ash shrugged. "I take after her." "Clearly." There was a beat. Then Caleb added, quieter. "She would've liked that."

Ash looked up. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Then Ash said softly. "Do you miss her even now?" "Every day." Ash set his book down, carefully.

"I don't want another mother." He said. "No one could be her." "I know." "Some of them think they can just… smile their way in. Like she didn't matter. Like they can take her place." "They can't." Caleb said. "And I won't let them."

Ash tilted his head. "Even if it helps the court? Even if people say it would be good for your image?" "I've never cared much for appearances." Caleb said, smiling faintly. "I let them say what they want."

"Even if it hurts your reputation?" "Even then." Caleb said. "Because you're my son, our son and has more sense than the entire court combined."

Ash blinked, not used to compliments. He looked away, pretending to read again. But Caleb could see the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. That was enough.

And that night, as they passed each other in the hallway. Ash heading to his room, Caleb to his study and the boy, his boy paused, turned slightly, and mumbled. "I think she would've liked you now." Then he disappeared behind the door before Caleb could say a word.

-

The halls of the duchy were once again filled with light.

Banners fluttered from balconies and carved archways, catching the late spring breeze that danced through stone colonnades and across the open courtyard.

Servants moved briskly. Nobles arrived in their finest. And in the grand ballroom where years ago Caleb had once stood beneath a crown of duty, the people now stood for a different Duke. A younger one. One born of quiet strength and hidden roots. Of love, not arrangement.

Ash stood at the center of it all. Tall, sure footed, his features a blend of both memory and legacy. Dressed in a deep indigo regalia stitched with silver thread, he wore the weight of his title like it had always belonged to him.

But today was not just about ascension. It was also about love.

Because standing beside Ash, hands clasped in his, was a young woman in a simple cream gown. No crown, no courtly title, only a soft look in her eyes that said she saw him not for his name but for the boy who once cried for his mother in fevered dreams.

She was from the duchy. Not noble, not titled. Just kind. Clever. A girl with ink stained hands and warm laughter who had met Ash under an apricot tree, the one Caleb planted all those years ago, with you. And argued with him over books, not bloodlines. And somehow, she became his future.

From a distance, hidden in the far end of the courtyard, away from the clamor. Caleb watched it unfold. He stood in shadow, still in his formal clothing but without the heavy cape. Age had crept into his bones more fully now, silver threading through his dark brown hair like early frost. His posture remained dignified, but there was a weight in his gaze.

The quiet ache of a man who had spent his life carrying the consequence of choices.

But in his eyes… There was peace. Because Ash had done it. He had broken the cycle. He had chosen love. And Caleb, though it cost him years and memories and the warmth of you beside him was here to see it.

When the crowd erupted in cheers and the lovers were announced, Ash looked up. Searched the courtyard. And found him. Their eyes met. Ash smiled. So did Caleb.

Later, after the festivities had dimmed and guests wandered off into courtyards and wine drunk laughter, Ash found his father standing beneath the veranda near the old marble fountain. The air smelled of roses and old stone. His footsteps were soft.

"You're not staying the night." Ash said gently, already knowing the answer. Caleb smiled faintly, not turning. "No." "You really are going back to the village, father?" "That's always been the plan." Caleb said, looking out at the stars. "I kept a promise, once. That I'd live simply. Return to the roots where it all began. It's time I kept it."

Ash looked at him, expression unreadable. "And you're fine with that? Leaving all this?" "All this." Caleb echoed, gesturing around. "Was never mine to keep. It was only ever a placeholder for something I lost. Now… Now, it belongs to someone who still believes in it."

Ash was quiet. Then, quietly. "Will you be lonely?" Caleb turned, finally. "Not if you come visit once in a while." Ash's face softened. "I will." Caleb reached forward and fixed the clasp on Ash's cloak. The way you used to do for him. He stepped back. Nodded.

"You look just like her when you smile." Caleb murmured. "But you live better than I ever did. I'm proud of you." Ash swallowed hard. "She would've been too." They stood in silence a moment longer.

Then as Ash was called back to the celebration, he gave his father one final look, half smile breaking the serious line of his jaw. "Don't forget to water the tree." He said dryly. Caleb chuckled. "Brat." "Old man."

They parted with quiet hearts and full ones. And as Caleb left the duchy that night, cloak fluttering behind him in the wind, he felt for the first time in years. Like he was going home.

-

The house stood at the edge of the forest, just beyond where the village road curved and gave way to thickets of pine and soft grass. It hadn't changed much.

Still weather worn, still crooked in the corners, but sturdier now. As though someone had seen the cracks and mended them with care. The roof no longer sagged. The fireplace, though cold, was clean. The porch steps creaked less than they used to.

Caleb stood at the doorway for a long time, hand on the wooden frame, just... Stare. He had brought little with him. A trunk of clothes. A satchel of books. A few mementos he never quite had the strength to throw away. But most importantly, he brought the box, that box. Still sealed, still untouched after all these years.

He didn't open it yet. He didn't feel ready. He set it on the table where you once used to leave wildflowers in a chipped vase. For now, that was enough.

The village welcomed him quietly. They nodded, offered faint smiles, and went on with their lives. They knew who he was. What he had lost. What he was trying, quietly, to remember.

Caleb spent most mornings walking. Sometimes to the baker, who remembered still sell the kind of bread that you like. Sometimes to the tailor, who once helped stitch Ash's baby clothes. He didn't speak much but his presence was never unwelcome.

In the afternoons, he wandered down the path to the river, the same way you used to. The tree was still there, that same old tree, roots like fingers pressed into the dirt, still standing guard over the world the two of you had tried to build.

He would sit beneath it, right next to your tombstone as if siting right next to you for hours. Watching the way the sun reflected on the water. Listening to the breeze as it rustled the leaves. It was quiet, peaceful. The kind of quiet he used to hate when he was younger.

Now, he craved it. Because in that stillness, you lived again. He saw you in the way the river curved around the stones. In the way the light filtered through the canopy, golden and soft.

In the echo of children laughing in the distance. The same way Ash once did, toddling across these fields before either of them knew his name.

Sometimes, he would hum. A tune only you would remember. The one you used to sing when you were cleaning or when you danced barefoot by the firelight, coaxing him to join you even when he said he couldn't dance.

Caleb never responded to those memories with words. He just closed his eyes. Let them hurt. Let them stay.

Each night, he would return to the house, make tea the way you used to and sit by the window and write. Not letters, he had written too many. It was just thoughts now. Notes. Fragments. Pieces of love, tucked between lines of grief.

He wasn't waiting anymore. He wasn't chasing anything. But every now and then, he'd glance at the box on the table. The one filled with your handwriting. Your last truths.

And he would wonder if maybe, tomorrow, he would be brave enough to open it. Just not tonight.

Tonight, he would light the lamp. Pour another cup. Sit by the fire. And remember you as you were. Laughing, brilliant, alive in the only place you ever truly belonged.

Home. With him.

-

The fire had dimmed to embers.

Caleb Xia sat in the worn wooden chair by the window. The same one you used to claim on restless nights, knees tucked to your chest, voice soft with laughter. The air was still, the kind of stillness that only comes when life has slowed into memory. Even the wind outside hushed for him, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

He had lived many lives in one. Soldier. Commander. Duke. But none of them had ever felt as heavy, or as holy, as being yours. And then, being a father.

The box sat beside him now. Old, weatherworn, the latch loose from travel and time. He had carried it for years, across courts, across time, through years of frostbitten regret. A box he dared not open because some part of him was afraid that once he did, the last thread tethering you to this world would snap.

But now, he was ready. And the lid creaked open.

Your handwriting was the first thing that struck him. Still familiar, still you, the loops and softness of your letters holding time like pressed petals between pages. He read.

Caleb,

If this letter reaches you, maybe I'm gone. Maybe you're back. Maybe you're sitting under our tree again, pretending not to cry. You never did cry easily. Always so composed. Always carrying everything alone.

But I hope you let yourself cry this time.

He smiled faintly, tears already slipping past his lashes. Another letter.

Ash took his first step today. It was clumsy. Beautiful. He fell straight into the garden soil, laughed, and held his hands up to me like he'd just conquered the world.

He looks like you. But when he sleeps, he curls into himself the way I do.

I tell him stories about you. I call you his brave father. The hero who fights so no other child has to lose their home.

And sometimes, when I'm tired and the house is too quiet, I let myself imagine you're just late coming home.

He bowed his head, fingers clutching the edge of the parchment. His shoulders trembled. The words blurred.

Letter after letter, unfolding like spring after too long a winter. Telling stories of scraped knees and lullabies. Of hopes you never voiced out loud. Of a love you never regretted, not even once.

I never blamed you. You must know that. I chose this. I chose to keep him safe. I chose to stay hidden, to keep you from the shame and blood of scandal.

You always said love was dangerous. But I think ours bloomed because of that. It bloomed in the cracks between duty and longing.

It bloomed in silence.

His hand moved to the pendant at his throat. The one that used to be yours. The one he'd found around Ash's neck that day in this village. The moment that changed everything.

If you ever come back here... Tell him I'm sorry. For everything I couldn't be. For every night he cried and I couldn't stop missing you enough to smile.

But remind him, our son, that I loved him. And remind him you loved him too, even before you knew he existed.

I see you in him, Caleb. Every time he looks at me. Every time he stares off like the sky is whispering something only he can hear.

You don't have to carry guilt. Just love. That's what we leave behind, isn't it? What was left to bloom.

Caleb exhaled, long and slow, like his heart had finally been given permission to rest.

What was left to bloom. Yes. That had been Ash. A child born from love that never got to finish saying everything it wanted to. A child raised with stories, not presence. But still full of roots and meaning.

He placed the last letter back in the box. Closed the lid gently.

His eyes drifted toward the window. Beyond it, the tree stood tall. Your tree. Their tree. Our tree. Blossoms just beginning to peek out from its tired branches, defiant against the last bite of cold.

Caleb's breath came slower now. He leaned back in the chair, fingers curled around the box. And there, in the final quiet of early spring, with sunlight pooling at his feet like an old friend, Caleb closed his eyes and let go.

-

Ash arrived just before dawn.

He'd brought fresh bread. He was planning to convince his father to come into the village square for tea. Maybe watch the river again. Maybe talk, like they'd been doing more lately.

But when he stepped inside and saw his father still and peaceful in the chair, the box of letters on his lap, the quiet smile on his face. He knew.

He said nothing at first. Just knelt beside him. Held his hand. Then whispered. "She waited." His voice broke. "And you found her."

-

Outside, the river moved slow and sure. The breeze brushed past the blooming tree with a hush, as if the world itself was bowing.

And in the years to come, when Ash would walk through those woods with his own children, he would point to that house, that tree, and say. "This is where love once bloomed. And this is what came after."

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: not sure if this really hurts or I'm just being dramatic cuz I actually cried writing this. Also, the content of what actually happened in the war would be explain in the other guys fic. Bye.

[anonmeansanon]

「What Was Left to Bloom」 Caleb

       ↳ In which you were childhood friends. Lovers. But now as the grand hall glittering with banners, he announces his betrothal to a princess. He never looks in your way, not even once. Yet you still flinch when he says honor above desire.

The hall glittered like it had swallowed the stars.

The banners lined the high stone walls, royal blue and burnished gold, their threads shimmering with every movement of the chandeliers. Nobles filled the room in waves of silk and armor, murmuring in the language of politics, toast and hidden glances.

You stood at the far end of it all, tucked in the shadow of a carved pillar, half hidden behind a servant’s path. You hadn't meant to come, not really. But your feet had carried you here, anyway. Quietly. As you always did, when it came to him.

Caleb stood at the center, flanked by his knights and high councilors, his posture perfect as ever. The Duke of East. Commander of the Crown's Guard. Future husband of a foreign princess, sent from the West to end a war.

He looked every inch the man they needed him to be. He always had. And he didn't look at you. Not once. But you watched anyway.

Watched the way his hands stayed still even as the crowd erupted in cheer. Watched the way his jaw tightened, just barely, as the princess, elegant and unfamiliar, offered her hand. Watched the way he lowered his eyes only to the scroll as he read his vows aloud.

"By the grace of the Crown, and for the good of the realm, I pledge myself to this union. Not for desire, but for honor." That was the moment you flinched. No one saw it. Not really. But it happened. Like a pulse in your throat, sharp and deep and final.

You had always known this was how it would be. That Caleb would choose the path of righteousness, of sacrifice. That he would do what needed to be done, because someone had to. Because he'd spent his entire life protecting people from pain. Even if it meant becoming a vessel of it himself.

But it still hurt.

So you didn't cry. You didn't make a scene. You just stood there with your hands folded quietly in front of yo. Until one drifted, unconsciously, down to your stomach.

It was still early. No one else could tell. But you knew. And the weight of it made your spine feel too fragile to stand beneath the chandelier's gold.

You waited. Just a little longer. Hoping and praying that he would look. That he would find you. That some part of him would still search the crowd for the girl he once kissed under the tree. For the woman he would whispered promises to under breathless moonlight.

But his eyes never found you. So you left.

You slipped out before the final toast, through the servant halls and into the cold air outside the palace gates. You didn't stop until you reached the old cottage at the edge of the dukedom. The place he once brought you to feel free when you came with him into the duchy. Where you'd whispered about building a life. One without war. One without titles.

That night, you packed nothing but silence. But before you left, you wrote him a letter.

Caleb,

I heard what you said tonight. 'Not for desire, but for honor.'

You've always known the difference better than I have.

I know you didn't choose her. I know you chose peace. You chose your people. You always do.

But I need you to know something. I'm leaving not because I hate you. But because I love you too much to stay and become something else you have to carry.

I'm expecting. I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to look at me and just know. But you didn't.

Maybe it's better that way.

They'll be alright. They'll have my name, not yours. They don't need your title. Just your heart. And I'll tell them one day that you gave that to the world, even when it cost you everything.

I hope it's enough.

I love you. I always will.

But I won't let this be your undoing.

You'll be a good duke. A husband. A leader.

You always were meant to be.

Yours once, (Your Name)

You sealed it. Held it. Pressed your lips to the edge like you were kissing a goodbye. And then you dropped it into the fire.

The flames took it without hesitation. Just like the world took him.

You left that same night, before the snow could fall. No carriage. No escort. Just your hand at your stomach, and the memory of a boy who once told you that if duty were not real, he'd choose you every time.

You believed him. Which is why you never made him choose.

-

Caleb had never believed in love forged at court.

He'd seen too many alliances built on strategy, too many handfastings stitched from political desperation rather than any true desire. So when he was told, ordered, to marry the Western princess in exchange for peace, he didn't expect kindness.

But she surprised him. Not with softness. But with clarity.

"You know why I'm here." He said plainly, voice crisp like frost. "They're offering me to your kingdom because they believe I'm worthless." She answered and he didn't argue. She was right.

She lifted her chin and studied him. Not with challenge, but calculation. "Do you know what I want, Duke Xia?" Caleb leaned forward, hands folded atop the council chamber table. "Revenge."

That made her smile. Small. Sharp. Sad. "Yes." She replied. "I want justice for the disgrace they forced me to carry. For the man that was forced to watch me became a war trophy and do nothing about it because everyone deemed me unworthy of the throne."

Caleb met her gaze. Steady. Unflinching. "Then I will help you take it." The princess blinked. For a moment, she said nothing. "But in return." Caleb added, his voice low. "Do not expect my heart. It was given long ago and it still belongs to her."

"The commoner." She said, without hesitation. "The one the court whispers about." He inclined his head. "Yes."

She didn't sneer. Didn't scoff. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and folded her hands delicately in her lap. "Rest assured, Duke. I have no use for your heart. I have someone waiting for me too. If he's still alive by the end of this game, I'll return to him. That is the only vow I intend to keep."

Caleb nodded once. "There's one more thing." He said. "When the time comes, I will take her into the duchy. She will live safely, untouched by this farce. Any slander, any name. If it touches her, I will consider it an act of war."

The princess didn't blink. "Then I suggest you act fast. Because you have enemies who would rather see your world burn than watch you be happy."

So as the night of the engagement came, Caleb stood beneath the blinding lights of the grand hall, surrounded by the echo of clinking goblets and hollow applause. Everything smelled like flowers and polished metal and power.

It was supposed to be a victory. But all he could think about was you.

You in that sun drenched orchard where he first touched your wrist and thought of forever. You barefoot in the rain with mud on your hem, arguing with a merchant about fair prices while he watched, arms crossed, hopelessly taken. You who never asked anything of himm but who he would have given everything to, if the world had allowed it.

He had tried to send word. Tried to reach you before the ceremony. But something or perhaps someone, was keeping you from him. Every message sent returned unanswered. Every rider sent out reported only silence. And the longer the hours stretched, the more he felt the panic curl beneath his ribs.

As he said the ceremonial vows beside the princess, his voice didn't waver but something inside him cracked. The words tasted like ash. "I pledge myself to this union. Not for desire, but for honor."

When the final toast rang out and goblets clinked like bells of war, Caleb turned fast, desperate and scanned the crowd. But you weren't there. Not in the corner where you always stood, half behind a pillar. Not near the stairwell. Not by the doors. Not anywhere.

He'd hoped, even against reason, that you might come. That you'd let him find your eyes just once. That you'd see him, and know that this was all temporary. But you were gone. And for the first time in years, ever since becoming the duke, the commander, Caleb Xia felt fear press down against his lungs.

The moment the final guest turned their back, he summoned his closest aide. "Find her." He said. "Find her now." The man hesitated. "She's-" Caleb's eyes snapped to him, colder than winter steel. "Then look again. Burn the map if you must. I don't care how long it takes or what it costs. Bring her to the duchy. Quietly. Safely."

But it was already too late. By the time his riders reached your old cottage, it was empty. No footprints. No carriage prints in the dirt. No belongings. As if you had vanished from the world without a trace.

As if you knew he would come for you and made sure he never could.

Caleb stared out the window that night, long after the embers died in the hearth. The engagement had served its purpose. The world believed the lie. Peace had been signed. No war would come, at least not now.

But the only name on his lips was yours. He whispered it once, to the cold glass.

He would not marry the princess. That was never the plan. One year and a half. That was the deal. But the days stretched longer without you. The weeks colder.

And he began to wonder. If you had already chosen never to return.

-

You arrived just after dusk.

The lanterns had already been lit, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the village's narrow paths and stone worn homes. It looked almost exactly the same. Smaller than you remembered. Softer, maybe. But not forgotten by time.

The old mill still turned. The baker's window still fogged with morning flour. A few children ran barefoot through the puddles left by yesterday's rain and someone was singing down the road a lullaby that hadn't changed in twenty years.

You were home. Or at least, back where it all began.

The cottage at the edge of the forest had been abandoned but it didn't take much to settle in. A little cleaning. A few mended curtains. A garden patch revived from the dead.

The neighbors remembered you. Old faces with more lines around their eyes but still the same warmth in their smiles. They didn't ask questions when you said you were staying. Just brought fresh bread. Herbs. Cribs, though you hadn't said anything.

You thanked them anyway. And most days passed quietly just like that. The ache in your chest never fully left, but it dulled, worn into something familiar, like a stone smoothed by years of riverwater.

And sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, you could almost hear your own laughter echoing across the fields. Younger. Brighter. Back when your hands were calloused from climbing trees and your only worry was whether or not Caleb would beat you to the blackberry bushes again.

The tree was still there. The one you always went to. With roots that curled like old fingers and branches wide enough to shelter two young dreamers from the sun.

It was where you first kissed. Messy, surprised, and full of promises no child should make but did anyway. This us where you taught him how to string wildflowers into a crown. Where he sat there the night the knight came, cloaked in black and silver, to tell him the truth. That his blood was noble, that he belonged to a world of titles and things far too heavy for someone so good.

You held him through that. And later, he held you through worse. It had always been the two of you. Until it wasn't.

And now, you sat beneath that same tree, fingers brushing the bark, whispering stories you had no one left to tell. You didn't bring flowers. Just your memories. Because that was all this place needed. It didn't belong to the man he became. Not the duke. Not the commander.

This tree, this patch of sky belonged to you and Caleb, as you once were. And even if he would never sit beside you again, this place would always hold the shape of him.

Your stomach ached when you thought of him too long. Not just from the child, growing steady within you, but from grief. Because this time, when you looked back. You couldn't go with him. You could only carry the love with you. So you did.

One memory at a time. One breath at a time. One quiet, aching heartbeat after another.

-

It started like any other day.

The sun crept in through the cottage windows, warming the floorboards where the cat liked to nap. You were peeling fruit on the porch, legs tucked under a wool blanket, humming an old lullaby you didn't realize you still remembered.

The baby kicked once, hard enough to make you gasp. You smiled and pressed your hand to your belly. "Impatient, aren't you?"

You didn't expect it to happen so soon. But then the pain struck low and deep. A bolt through your spine that stole your breath. You doubled forward, the bowl falling from your lap, fruit scattering into the dirt. Another wave hit. This one sharper. More final.

The neighbors came running when they heard you cry out. They carried you inside, laid you on the old bed. You tried to stay calm. You had always been good at that but the truth was, you were terrified. Not of the pain. But of doing this alone.

The contractions came harder. Quicker. The midwife's hands were steady. The women around her whispered soft prayers. But all you could do was grip the edge of the headboard and wish.

Wish he was here. Wish his hand was in yours, like the first time he held it under the tree. Wish you could tell him it was okay. That you understood. That you still loved him.

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. But you didn't scream. You never did.

You pushed when they told you to. Breathed through the fire in your ribs. Gritted your teeth when the world tilted. And then. A cry. Sharp. Piercing. Alive.

The midwife laughed through her tears. "It's a boy." You were shaking when they laid him against your chest.

He was tiny. Warm. And quiet once he settled into your heartbeat like he knew it already. His fingers curled around the edge of your nightgown.

And something in you cracked open. You cried then. Not from pain, but from something older. Something deeper. He had Caleb's eyes.

You kissed his forehead and whispered his name. A name you chose long ago, before the world pulled you both apart.

You wished Caleb could see him. But when you looked outside, the world was still and golden. And the tree stood silent in the wind.

And you told yourself it was alright. Because this child, this love had bloomed. And it was alive.

-

The sky was bleeding.

Ash and smoke clung to every breath, thick enough to choke. Caleb's side burned where the blade had caught him. Shallow, but punishing. Still, he pushed forward.

There was no time for hesitation. Not when the lines were falling. Not when they had come sooner than expected. Not when peace had collapsed with a single arrow through a messenger's throat.

He ducked a strike, drove his blade into the gap in another knight's armor, and turned in time to catch his men regrouping. His second in command shouted something at him but Caleb didn't hear it.

All he heard was your voice.

All he saw, in flashes between the blood and dust, was the way you used to smile when he failed to catch fireflies. The way you leaned against the tree with dirt on your nose and laughed like you belonged to the wind.

He hadn't found you. He'd tried. Gods, he'd tried. But you'd vanished. As if the world swallowed you whole. And then the war came. He hadn't even had time to breathe.

But once this was over. Once this cursed border was sealed and the treaty rewritten in fire. He would find you. He would. Even if the world tried to hide you. Because wherever you were... That was home.

-

The mornings in the village always came softly.

The mist clung to the trees like a lullaby not yet finished and the dew caught sunlight just enough to make everything feel like it had paused, suspended in that golden hush between sleep and waking.

You were hanging laundry on the line when a tiny whirlwind of energy darted past your legs. "Mavius Caelum Asher!" You called out more fond than scolding.

A small laugh echoed through the garden as he ducked behind the old apple tree, barefoot and already covered in dirt despite it barely being past dawn.

You smiled. Every day, he reminded you of Caleb. The set of his purple eyes. The line of his shoulders. The way he furrowed his brow when he was thinking too hard about something. But it wasn't just the way he looked.

It was the way he moved. Purposeful, determined. How he already insisted on helping the other children. How he stood between the smaller ones when that older boy from the next town got too rough. How he offered you his last slice of fruit without a word, because 'Mama needed it more.'

He was almost three and already carrying the same kind of quiet nobility Caleb wore like armor.

You returned to the house just as Asher ran in before you, tugging at your skirt. "Mama, tell me again about the knight." You crouched beside him, brushing his windswept hair from his forehead. "The knight who fought dragons?" "No!" He giggled. "My knight. Papa."

You hesitated, just for a moment. Then smiled. "Ah, that one." You said, tapping his nose. "Let’s see... once, there was a knight so brave that even the other knights called him Commander. He had eyes like the sky at dawn and a heart so big he tried to protect the whole kingdom by himself."

"Did he win?" Asher asked, eyes wide. You nodded. "He always did. But not because he was the strongest. Because he believed that protecting others, even strangers was the most important thing in the world."

Asher's small hands curled into fists. "I'm gonna be like him." You ruffled his hair. "You already are."

He beamed at you, not knowing the weight behind your words. Not knowing that somewhere, far from this quiet house, his father was fighting a war that had stretched longer than anyone expected.

A war that you read about in town when you bought flour or heard whispered at the market. Hushed tones and trembling voices as wives and mothers clutched telegrams in their hands.

You didn't speak of it often. Not to Asher. Not even to yourself. But every night, after he fell asleep curled beside you, you stared at the ceiling and whispered the same silent wish. Please let him be safe.

Caleb didn't know about Asher. He didn't know about this cottage. But that didn't stop you from telling your son stories. From showing him what honor looked like. From planting a garden behind the house and naming the strongest sapling after Caleb.

Some nights, when the wind changed, you thought you heard his voice. Or maybe that was just the ache.

You stood by the sink as Asher played with a carved wooden sword just outside, chasing shadows and dreams. Then your hand slipped. Only for a second. A tremble. A dizziness that passed almost as quickly as it came.

You gripped the edge of the sink. Steady. But your breath didn't come right away. Not like it used to. You pressed a hand gently to your chest. Waited. Exhaled.

Just a fluke, you told yourself.

Then you looked outside, where Asher was still playing. He had his eyes and everything. His quiet strength, his resolve, the weight he carried even at three years old was his.

And just like that, you smiled again. Even if your days were beginning to slip shorter, this one… This one was enough.

-

The battlefield smelled of iron and rot.

Smoke clung to Caleb's armor like a second skin, thick and acrid, turning his breath into rasped curses as he pushed past the broken shield wall. The screams were dying down. The fight was nearly over. But his blade still shook in his hand. Not from fear, but from exhaustion.

Another kingdom subdued. Another treaty waiting to be inked in blood and ash.

He tore off his gauntlets, hands raw underneath. The war had dragged on longer than anyone predicted. Five years now, maybe more. Time blurred out here. Measured not in days, but in losses. In names.

He hadn't written in months. The letters stayed tucked in his saddlebag, untouched, half finished scraps meant for someone who never answered. He told himself you were safe. That you were somewhere quiet, far from the reach of title and crowns.

But the silence ate at him.

Each night, he dreamed of a place he never dared return to. A small cottage on the edge of a forest, a woman with tired eyes and ink stained fingers laughing as she stirred soup, the warmth of her touch as she reached for him in sleep. You.

He didn't even know if you were still alive. There had been no word. No name in the casualty lists but also no sign of you in the cities he passed. Every village he liberated, every province retaken, he looked for your face in the crowds. Never found it.

"Commander." Caleb blinked. One of his captains had approached, holding a bloodied helmet in one hand. "You're bleeding." The man said. Caleb glanced down. His side was torn, gash already seeping through his tunic.

He hadn't noticed. "Leave it." He muttered. "I'm fine." "Sir-" "I said leave it." The captain stepped back without another word.

Caleb sheathed his sword. Walked toward the ridge overlooking the valley below. The ground was scorched. The wind carried the distant cries of the wounded. But above it all, the sky stretched blue, painfully, impossibly blue.

Like your eyes when you were crying in his dreams. When you told him goodbye, even though you didn't say the word. A breeze passed. Caleb closed his eyes. Are you still out there?

He hadn't stopped thinking about you. Not once. Even when duty demanded all of him. Even when his betrothal turned to alliance and the alliance into war.

He remembered the day he gave you the necklace. The one his sister had left him. Remembered your laugh, your promise to keep it safe. He had given it to you before the title, before the world went quiet.

He wondered if you still wore it. If you ever told stories about him to someone else.

He never dared to wonder more than that. Because if he let himself think... If he allowed the truth in, the truth that maybe you had stopped waiting... He feared he would fall apart completely.

So he still fought. He still bled. Not for glory, not even for peace. This was no longer about that. But for a chance. A single chance that when all this ended, he could find you again.

And maybe, just maybe... He could finally come home.

-

It had been three weeks since the war ended.

The ink on the new treaty had barely dried when Caleb handed over the command sigil, set aside his title, and mounted his horse. No fanfare. No council meeting. Just quiet resolve.

He didn't stop for ceremonies. Didn't stop to say goodbye. Not even to the queen, formerly his betrothed who only offered him a knowing nod as he rode off. "Find her." She had said softly, her crown glinting in the sun. "While you still can."

And so he did. He crossed through forests scorched by battle. Through cities that barely remembered his face. Past the borders of the duchy, riding until the roads became narrow, familiar things. Roots of memory leading him back to the village that had raised him long before the title ever claimed him.

It was smaller than he remembered

The wind carried the scent of old bread and fresh rain. Lanterns hung from the windows like tired stars. A dog barked somewhere near the well. Nothing monumental. Just life.

But Caleb's chest tightened the moment he stepped onto the dirt path. Because this was where everything began.

The tree still stood near the rise. A little older. A little more bent. But it was there like it had been waiting.

He wore no armor now. Only a simple cloak, a travel stained tunic, boots scuffed by months of searching. He didn't want to be a duke here. Didn't want to be anything but a man looking for the person who once held his whole heart in two steady hands.

Some of the villagers glanced his way as he passed. But there was something in their eyes. Recognition, yes. But also something else. A hesitation. A flicker of pity. It unsettled him.

He pressed on, steps slower now. Almost reluctant. Like his body knew something his mind hadn't caught up to yet. Then... A jolt.

A small body crashed into him at the bend of the road. A child running too fast around the corner, stumbled backward and fell with a soft yelp.

Caleb instinctively crouched, reaching out. "Hey, are you-?" But the words died on his tongue. His eyes locked onto the necklace. It was simple. A silver necklace with a very familiar apple pendant. It had been his sister's. The one who died when they were children. Too young. Too soon.

The necklace he had worn for years in her memory until the day he pressed it into your hand, months before everything fell apart. "Keep it." He told you then, voice soft against your hair. "So you know that someone always carries you with them. Even if I'm not there."

His heart stuttered. "Where… where did you get that?" He asked, voice gone thin, too sharp. The child blinked up at him, wide eyed. Dirt smudged his cheeks. He looked no older than ten.

But it wasn't just the necklace. It was the eyes. Gods. His eyes. Dark, sharp and purple. Strangely gentle. The exact mirror of his own gaze in the mirror, years ago before grief and duty dulled the light.

Caleb's stomach dropped. His blood ran cold.

And all he could do was kneel there, frozen, watching this boy who looked like him, who wore the last gift he gave to the only person he ever loved and realize in a breathless instant. He wasn't too late. He had just lost more than he could ever take back.

-

Caleb barely got a word out.

He had reached forward, hand trembling toward the boy, the necklace, those eyes, that impossible familiarity when someone moved between them like a shield.

"Enough." A firm arm pushed the boy gently behind them. The older man stood tall despite his age, back straight, voice like a blade dulled by time but no less sharp. The village head.

Caleb remembered him as he stood up. His beard was grayer now, the limp more pronounced but his presence hadn't changed. This man had taught them how to mend traps when they were still children, taught Caleb how to tie fishing knots, watched over the village like a quiet sentinel.

And now, he stood like a wall between Caleb and the child. His child. "I need to speak with him." Caleb said, his voice soft but strained. "Please. I just-" "You need to leave."

"I came here looking for her." Caleb stepped forward again, heart hammering against his ribs. "I've searched every road, every town, every ruin. I've been looking since the day after the engagement ceremony. I know I was late, I know I should've found her sooner, but I-"

"Too late." The words snapped out of the village head's mouth like a whip. "You came too damn late, boy."

Caleb froze. The boy behind the man peeked around him, curiosity bright in his eyes. But there was something else in his stare too. Something quieter. Like he was studying him. Measuring him.

"I had no choice." Caleb said. "The war-" "And what about before the war?" The village head barked. "What about the months they spent waiting by the river? What about the letter they burned so you could keep your damn title clean of scandal?"

Caleb's breath caught. The village head's jaw clenched. "You should've been here when it mattered." "I'm here now." Caleb said, voice cracking. "I'm here now and I'm not leaving. You think I wouldn't recognize my own child?"

Silence. A heavy, suffocating stillness fell between them.

Caleb's eyes didn’t move from the boy. Not when his stomach twisted. Not when his pulse thundered. He saw it now, not just resemblance. Not just accident.

It was blood. His blood. And he had missed it. He had missed everything.

The village head opened his mouth. Then shut it. Regret flashed in his expression, quick and bitter. "Go." The man muttered, hoarse. "You don't belong here anymore." Caleb stepped forward again. "What do you mean by that? What do you mean-"

But before the old man could speak, a small hand tugged at his clothes. The boy. He slipped past the man's arm and stood in front of him and Caleb, tilting his head. "It's okay." The boy said softly like a secret. "You don't have to fight him anymore."

Caleb move forward without thinking then proceed to lower himself to the boy's eye level, chest tight with something he couldn’t name. The boy looked at him. Really looked. Long and slow and serious. Then asked. "Do you wanna come home with me?"

Caleb swallowed hard. The question shattered something in him. And suddenly, he couldn't speak.

-

The forest was quieter than Caleb remembered.

The old trail wound gently between the trees, dappled with late afternoon light. His boots crunched softly over fallen leaves and small twigs. Beside him, the boy walked in silence, his small figure steady as if he'd done this path a thousand times. Maybe he had.

Caleb kept glancing down at him. The boy's shoulders were squared, hands tucked into the frayed sleeves of his wool shirt. He looked forward the entire time, never once glancing up.

"What's your name?" Caleb finally asked, voice hushed. "Ash." His throat tightened at the name again. Ash. Our son. "How old are you?" "Eight. I'll be nine after the spring."

Caleb swallowed the ache that rose up. His jaw tensed. He almost asked if your birthday had passed, if Ash knew but bit it back. Instead, quieter, he asked. "Where’s your mother?" Ash didn't answer. He didn't even pause. Just kept walking.

They reached the edge of the woods. The cottage appeared just beyond the treeline. Small, sloped, half covered in vines but still there. Still standing.

A hundred memories surged all at once. The spring evenings spent on the porch. Your laughter echoing under a sky of fireflies. The time you argued over who could chop firewood faster. The way your body curled into his when the storms came. The softness in your voice when you first whispered I love you into his hair, like it scared you to even say it out loud.

Caleb slowed at the threshold, hand hovering just beside the door. But Ash reached forward and opened it first. The hinges creaked like they hadn't moved in weeks.

Inside, the air was still. Not stale, not foul. Just... Still.

The table was clean but dust settled in the corners. A few dried herbs hung from the rafters. There was a plate in the washbasin that hadn't been dried. A chair slightly off center from the hearth. A cup overturned near the window.

It looked lived in. And abandoned.

"Where is she?" Caleb asked again, his voice cracking slightly this time. "Ash- Where is your mother?" The boy didn't answer.

He walked deeper into the house. Past the kitchen, through the narrow hall. He didn’t look back but Caleb followed, heart thudding louder with every step.

The bedroom. The door creaked as Ash pushed it open. Everything in the room was familiar, too.

The quilt still had the same stitched pattern. The windowsill still held the cracked clay pot you insisted wasn’t worth throwing out. The wooden carving he made for you still hung crookedly above the bed.

But it was cold. Untouched.

The bed was neatly made. The fireplace empty. A thin layer of dust on the floorboards, just enough to tell him what he didn't want to know. "Ash-" He began. But the boy was already crouching beside the bed.

He reached under the wooden frame and pulled out a small box, smoothed by age and fingerprints. Then he stood and held it out.

"Mother left these." Ash said quietly. "They're letters. Mother wrote them before she died." Caleb blinked. The room spun. "What…?" "Mother said they were for you. In case you ever came back."

He didn't move. He couldn't. Ash stepped closer and pressed the box into his hands. Caleb took it with trembling fingers. The lid opened easily.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Some wrapped with string. Others sealed in wax. Your handwriting. His name scrawled again and again on folded parchment, in ink that looked faded from time, from tears, from waiting.

The air in his lungs vanished. "No." Caleb whispered, clutching the box tighter. "No, no, no-" He staggered backward until his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. "This! This can't be!" The box held to his chest like it could somehow undo what had already happened.

He tried to breathe. But he couldn't. He felt it hit all at once. The years you must've waited. The letters you wrote, not knowing if he'd ever return, look after you. The nights you sat by the fire, watching the window, holding onto hope that kept thinning with time.

He sobbed. Raw, broken. Ash stood silently nearby. His voice was soft, almost too calm.

"Mother died three years ago." He said. "Just after winter." Caleb shook. "I'm sorry." He rasped. "I didn't know-" He hold back a scream "Gods, I didn't know-" "Mother said not to blame you." Ash added, voice still even. "But mother cried a lot. When mother thought I was asleep."

Caleb wiped at his face but the tears wouldn't stop. He looked at the boy, his boy, still standing there with too much pain behind his eyes for someone so young.

"Your necklace." Caleb said barely. "It was mine. My sister gave it to me. I gave it to your mother. I-" "You're my father." Ash said simply. The words felt like a dagger and a lifeline all at once.

"I… yes." Caleb reached out slowly, hands shaking as he never stopped crying. "Ash-" "You can go now." Ash said. Caleb froze, his heart dropped for God knows how many that day. "What"

"You found the letters." The boy said, unmoved. "You got what you came here for. I give you what my mother told me give you. You can leave." "I'm not leaving you-"

Ash's voice rose, sharp and fast. "Then you should have come years ago! Mother waited for you. Every day, every time the sun came up. Even when mother never showed! Mother thought maybe you'd come with the next rider, or the next merchant, or with the rain. Mother waited for you and you never came!"

Caleb flinched. "I didn't know-" "You could've tried harder!" His boy cried. "You could've come before the war. You could've written. You could’ve done something!" The pain in his voice cracked something in Caleb so deep he didn't even know it existed.

"I'm sorry." Caleb whispered. "I'm so- Ash, I'm so sorry." Ash took a step back. Caleb knelt closer in front of him, voice shaking. "I didn't know. I thought I could fix things. I thought there would still be time. I didn't… I never imagined…"

He looked at his son. Really looked. So small. So strong. So much like you. "I should've come sooner." Caleb said. "And I'll never forgive myself for that. But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere without you."

Ash's lip trembled, just for a second. Then he took a step forward and let Caleb wrap his arms around him. It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something.

And in that room, where love once bloomed and then faded, something new took root. Even in the silence. Even through the tears.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: one down, four more to go. I'll also update Heartbeat Protocol tomorrow... probably. This is actually the first time, I think, that I specifically wrote the gender of the reader since I always wrote a neutral one. Hope you don't mind. I mean, there's a child XD

[anonmeansanon]

── in your hand. from my heart. hades! sylus x persephone! female! feader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, dark contentish, mdni: stalking, kidnapping, aphrodisiacs, dark magic, rituals, marking, loss of virginity, slight corruption, obsession, manhandling, multiple orgasms, pet names, size difference, praise, body worship

♱ word count: 16k

♱ synopsis: You never asked for the shadows to love you but the god who rules them has deemed you his obsession. Sylus watches, yearns, and finally steals what Olympus never deserved to keep. You should hate him. You do. Yet the underworld feels less like a prison, and more like a sanctuary awaiting your claim.

author’s note:  I’ve adapted the original Hades and Persephone myth to better suit Sylus’s story and personality. While I’ve strayed from the soulmate bond (since gods don’t have souls) I’ve imagined a sort of darker, ancient thread of fate to connect Sylus and reader

I recommend listening to Even In Arcadia :)

You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me i was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw that the ichor that resides in me demanded its own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” ― Nikita Gill

Many wars begin with a whisper. The God of the Underworld may have never expected to wage war against himself. They are quiet at first, nothing but sultry temptations dancing at the edge of Sylus's mind, enticing him with promises of you, of fate, of the inevitable. Urging, no, commanding him to take what is his.

Sylus resists. For now. 

However, the whispers never cease. They dig their claws deep within his being, weaving their way through his thoughts to haunt him relentlessly until they become a part of him. All sparks kindle new flames, and this obsession sears, cuts, and bleeds into every waking moment, every fevered dream. Always, her . Always, you . The girl embraced by sunlight. The daughter of sky and soil, too radiant to be held by either. She who treads through fields that bow to her, who crafts blossoms with her loving care, who beckons earth to summon spring and chase away the biting cold and darkness of winter. 

A pulse of new life, a being of warmth. Your presence bends the very fabric of existence: your laugh causes the trees of Olympus to shudder in delight, and the tunes you hum bring the rivers to still to listen to your beautiful voice. Treasured, you remain untainted by darkness and desire, by everything that clings to Sylus like a second skin.

Though he has cherished you equally from the depths of his realm, the King of the Dead, meant for an existence without everything you embody, has watched your every moment. He knows you do not belong to the Underworld—you do not belong to him—and yet, he wants your divinity to grace his lonesome heart. 

Neither reason nor logic may be found behind his obsession. How could something so untouched by shadow, so wholly good, possibly stir the hunger inside him unbearably?

────────── ♱

To your ears, the whispers have always been there. They called for you in the rustling of the olive trees, in the wind slipping through wheat fields. But it is at the end of a long day, in the stillness settling just before dusk, when the whispers' embrace finds you again. 

As a child, you mistook them for a fantasy of your lonesome moments, an imaginary friend your mother brushed off. But time removed the layers that painted them an illusion. These are not the voices of imagination. They stir from something older, something waiting to welcome you home. They linger in the shadows, out of reach but ever near, watching you blossom. They are a presence unseen yet felt, accompanied by ruby eyes piercing through the dark.

Two dots, burning like embers, keep you company as you dance through the realms of dreams. Guarding you, cherishing you.

They first caught your attention while hiding in the branches of a forest. You told yourself that the moment had been fleeting, a trick of the light. Yet the sensation of being watched continued to press against your skin and sink into your very bones. 

You never mention them, not to your mother, not to the nymphs, never to your father. Not after the debacle upon the confession of the whispers clouding your mind.

Agreed, it was foolish to believe something could possibly lurk in the corners of your world, to imagine that the unseen figure belonged to something more than a waking dream. But the truth had never been so simple: Mephisto has been watching you for years.

A shadow among fruit trees, a winged guardian keeping its master's gaze locked upon you. The crow found a home on your windowsill, in the canopy of trees—wherever you went, he was sure to follow. Each sighting, each fragment of your life gathered in the folds of darkness, only deepened Sylus's craving. 

Though he remained in his realm. 

After all, the God of the Underworld was not a creature of impulse, no, he was patient, methodical, and ruthless in his desires. 

From his throne cradled by obsidian halls, Sylus watched you grow from an innocent flower into something untamed, something the gods of Olympus could never truly fulfil. It was not merely your beauty—yet he would never deny the allure of your glistening skin under the sun, your hair flowing in the air, or the delicate curve of your lips whenever you smiled. But it was the spirit beneath the surface. You were no ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. Not with the fire you carry within. 

A fire Sylus longed to set ablaze, longed to hold in his cold, empty hands.

It took Sylus longer than he first anticipated to weave the strands of fate in his favour. His influence may stretch long and deep, seeping into the world above like rotten roots blighting the earth. However, abducting a goddess required planning. But he yearned to see you through his own eyes, to touch you with his own hands, to hear your voice rise in ecstasy and anger. 

The golden light of the late afternoon leaves its loving kiss on your skin to craft a creature of warmth as you move through fields of endless gold. You stray far from the others, lost in the simple pleasure of the breeze, of the flowers, and of the rivers greeting you. 

The moment is peaceful until it isn't. 

Suddenly, the world itself seems to shift as even the wind stills.

A shadow darker than any you have ever witnessed spreads like thunderclouds over the once sun-kissed lands. They chase away the light and its warm hold, replacing it with something cold that wraps around your senses like a viper ready to strike.

A chill chases down your spine while your widened eyes search for the true reason for your distress. It is only upon another turn that you finally see him. 

Standing at the edge of the fields, as if undaring to breach the final boundary between your bodies, he watches you. A figure of impressive, near looming height, dressed in flowing black garments with shadows dancing at the edges of the seams. Long hair cascades down his back and frames his shoulders, its silver-tone a stark contrast against the twisted horns curved atop his head to frame a face too sharp, too cruel, too impossibly beautiful. His intense eyes smoulder like burning coals, causing your gaze to drop to the blood-red ruby in his chest.

Neither a fight nor a flight response kicks in as you realise his familiarity. Those eyes—you know them from the darkness of night—remember them staring at you as you caught them from the corners of your eyes.

"You," nothing but a breathless whisper, but oh does it tug on Sylus's heart to finally hear your unfiltered voice—in recognition at that. He ignores the tentative step you take backwards. A part of him perhaps pities you for the freedom you are about to lose.

"You've been watching me," you dare to accuse. While your voice may not shake, the tremble in your hands is as evident as the longing in Sylus's eyes.

But he can't lose his composure just yet. He can't scare away his prey through his own foolish greed. A slow, knowing smirk on his lips is his attempt to act nonchalant. 

"Of course."

Revulsion battles with another deeper, more twisted emotion buried in your bones. And finally, finally , your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but upon the first turn of your ankle, a snap of fingertips follows, and darkness shoots out like tendrils all around you. Not to split the earth beneath but to finally bring his world into awaiting arms. 

The mist pulls you forward, closer to the being at the edge of the field. Panic claws up your throat, causing your voice to become a broken, raspy screech as you struggle against the pulsing shackles around your figure. "Let me go!" You try to warn him, fighting and clawing at nothing but shadows.  But your struggle doesn't hinder Sylus. If anything, your fighting spirit amuses him. 

Yes, he seems magnified by the racing rise and fall of your chest, by the widened pupils and blazing anger flashing across your features. "You fight like a young wildcat," he muses in a sultry voice, tilting his head as if admiring you in deep thought. "Claws bared, teeth flashing."

A scoff follows from your lips while you twist and turn with all the strength you can muster up. And still, his expression remains one of idle fascination. As if this, too, was exactly as Sylus had imagined.

"Mhm, you shine brightly, my dear," Sylus teases before one finger curls toward him. It is a simple gesture that sends another wave of black and red force to come crashing around you, steal the breath from your lungs, and cause your fighting spirit to falter in exhaustion. 

The world may turn blurry; your knees may give way, but you do not crumple into the ground. Not when strong arms can finally cradle you. Sylus moves fast, almost too eager yet incredibly fluid to catch you. One arm wrapped around your waist is enough to cradle you against him. A gentle, near-ticklish touch glides along the back of your thighs before lifting your feet off the ground. 

He carries you like an offering he already claimed. "Hush now," a mumble in a way that could render you willing, that should convince you to find comfort in his arms. 

At least to his calculations. 

But you do not.

How your body twists in his grasp, how your fists hammer against his chest—it is almost enough to infuriate him. Of course, it does not hurt, not physically, but your vehement rejections land piercing blows to his ego. Part of him believed you would willingly run into his arms and would recognise this connection you share.

Oh, was he wrong.

"Put me down!" Sylus assumes that the command is the first of many to follow in the future. 

But he is quick to understand the need to act it off. He has to pretend to be unbothered by your distaste for him. So, after steeling his resolve, crimson eyes glance down to face your glare head-on. Newfound amusement dances across Sylus's features, accompanied by a burning passion whirling through glistening flecks of gold in his gaze. "I would, but I fear you might run."

"I will!" you bite back while struggling harder against the confident hold of your captor. "I will run, and I will never stop!"

Something akin to a purr rumbles inside Sylus's chest. His smile widened, slow and indulgent, at the prospect of a game. "Don't tempt me so…" he mumbles in adoration while leaning in to nudge the tip of his nose against yours. 

Fury seems to burn brighter than your fear by now, though it did not change the scene that unfolded. 

The fields, the light, the warmth of the sun— everything vanishes into the abyss. Only him, only the darkness, the scent of smoke and myrrh remains as the blackened energy whips around your entangled bodies and pulls you down. 

Sylus hides his face in the crook of your neck, and as much as you drown in darkness and despair, does Sylus finally drown in warmth and sweetened notes of fruits and florals. 

No matter how much you struggle in his loving hold, ultimately, there is no escaping the force that drags you downward. The sun becomes a distant memory before it is gone entirely. The home you knew and cherished is no longer a place to return to.

────────── ♱

Now everything is new. No, it is not new; it is different. Other . This silence seems suffocating, so unlike the gentle hum of life or the breeze in the leaves, it feels like finality. It presses against your skin like the desperate hands of drowning souls trying to grasp their chance for life anew. 

Vast and endless, a silence that does not belong to the living.

"You're awake."

Your breath falters at the commanding voice reverberating inside these grand, dark halls. The only source of light falls from the flickering glow of lanterns filled with ethereal blue fire. The shadows in this realm appear to stretch longer across the polished floors, and at the heart of it all, he sits on a throne made to be feared and cowered before.

The figure that has stolen you from the world above. The God of the Underworld. Known to the mortals as Hades, known among gods as Sylus .

He waits for you with bated breath. Hoping for you to speak, to move, to give him anything he could work with. Perhaps you sense his hidden distress, at least that is what Sylus tells himself, since you finally part your lips. 

"Why am I here?" Your voice is hoarse, raw from the screams of your fight. 

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Sylus's lips while he watches your impatience sprout like weeds. So unlike the gentle goddess, you present yourself to be. 

"I concluded it was time for you to come home."

The words slam into you, twisting and turning until anger surges to victory and leads you to stagger to your feet. "This—" You pause right after the first word to allow yourself another glimpse at these forsaken halls. " This is not my home!" There's so much bark for such little bite, you look entirely endearing to Sylus.

So, unsurprisingly, he does not fall for your temper. Instead, he remains unmoving. His lips are sealed, and no arguments follow. He only watches patiently, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out of this tantrum. 

It's almost like he already knew the end of your tale.

"Take me back." The demand leaves your lips with a confidence Sylus has not yet seen. Oh , and this look, the determination in your eyes, awakens the desire he tries to keep at bay. 

Why not coax the spark into a blaze?

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, followed by a gentle sigh of satisfaction. There is only one word, two syllables, and its meaning is distinctive: "No."

The thundering echo of father's famous rage appears to ring true inside your frame as your fingers curl into fists and the ground of the Underworld starts to shake. Perhaps it already recognises its queen. "You have no right!" Is your angered accusation towards the god who remains unbothered by your distress.

Sylus is indeed unbothered, but for differing reasons than one might suspect. His mind is distracted by how willingly his home, his realm, welcomes you in, bends to you, and kneels at your will. 

Shadows darkened his face upon the tilt of his head, and the amusement that once danced across his features vanished in the blink of an eye. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but cuts through the air all the same. "I have every right."

The weight of his words presses down on you, heavy as the walls of this palace. You try to find reason and desperately make sense of the situation you find yourself in. But there is none. Only panic, worry, and fear are your newfound companions through the dark reaches of the Underworld. 

Your mother will search for you; the gods above will not stand for this, and there will be consequences.

Yet any possible consequence means little to Sylus. 

Eventually, he rises from his throne in a slow and graceful motion, serving as a reminder of his prominence. He is tall, impossibly so, and his form casts a long shadow over you, staging as claws of a predator while they reach for his prey.

You flinch away from the outstretched hand, but something so feeble could never stop a god possessed. Sylus's fingers brush against your cheek—light, worshipping—before he pulls back too soon. Though his eyes, warm and filled with unspoken wishes, remain on you, to study you like the most precious treasure. 

His treasure.

"You were always meant to be here," Sylus eventually murmurs, breaking this seemingly still moment between you two. Even if you don't see it yet," he adds, before halting not just his words but also the fingertips that almost brushed against your shoulder. "You are made for me."

With these words, Sylus turns to leave and vanishes into the endless corridors beyond. Though your words of hatred become his companion, they echo off the palace halls.

"I will never belong to you!" A vow, a promise, a warning spoken with conviction.

How much truth rings true may only be deciphered in the future, but Sylus seems already sure of the outcome, judging by the small, knowing smile spreading on his lips after he mumbles, "We shall see," like a secret between himself and the darkness around him.

You stand motionless, every muscle in your body tense, perhaps even trembling, as you remain stubbornly unwilling to accept the cold finality of your circumstances. The grandeur of the palace is impressive, though to you, it feels like a cage. The polished black stone reflects your form in taunting echoes as you wander through forgotten halls and corridors. 

Your anger seems to boil like a volcano about to erupt, a force even nature yields beneath. You are a goddess, not a helpless mortal ready to be toyed with. And yet, you were taken, stolen in the bright afternoon sun. 

────────── ♱

Time moves strangely here. Day and night have no meaning when neither the sun nor moon chase another across the sky. Instead, you are suspended in the void, accompanied by an ever-burning firelight. You have lost track of how long it has been since he stole you away, but the hunger inside you sharpens with each passing hour.

In silence, you defy Sylus. Sealed lips, empty stomach and eyes filled with hatred render the God of the Underworld near helpless. The plates of ripened fruit and honeyed delicacies tempt yet do not manage to break your will. The air, filled with sweet scents of pomegranates, figs, and golden-crusted bread, is in equal amounts ignored as the goblets of wine. 

Hunger gnaws at you; it scratches against the hollow of your stomach, but your resolve is stronger.

Through it all, Sylus watches. He does not force you, does not plead or beg for you to see reason. But he also does not take pity. No, he simply leans against the framed passage to your chamber, muscles bulging from the fold of his arms across his chest. 

He only watches.

It is infuriating.

"Refuse me all you want." Sylus's words snap you out of your trance-like state. You haven't even realised his movements, but he sits across from you by now. The ruby on his chest pulses in the dim light as though it has a heartbeat of its own. 

He might as well pass a statue, a thing of immortal beauty and cruel stillness, were it not for his eyes—those endless red depths, watching you with emotions akin to something patient and knowing.

"Starving yourself won't help," he continues in an attempt to break your silence. Perhaps you only need a nudge in the right direction? The domineering aura relaxes once Sylus leans back against the cushioned chair, literally opening himself up to you and your scrutinising gaze. 

There it is. That familiar glare he has come to appreciate. 

His fingertips drum against the chair's armrest, seemingly anticipating whatever you finally offer him. 

"I want to go home."

The words surprise him, though do not infuriate. Instead, he appears concerned at your undying defiance. A slow blink follows a momentary freeze of his figure before a lick across his lips wet them. "You are home," Sylus reassures you with a quiet, seemingly compassionate voice.

It further fuels your anger. "This is not my home!" The words bounce off the palace once more, as they have for the past days since Sylus brought you here.

He exhales a puff of air while pinching the bridge of his nose. Silver strands of hair slip forward upon the tilt of his head, accidentally catching the firelight to illuminate the piercing rubies beneath his bangs. "And yet, you were meant to be here. Can't you feel it?"

You can, which is the most terrifying part of all. Something disturbs your peace within whenever Sylus is near you. It should not be there, this pull, this inexplicable gravity that makes it hard to look away. But it is always there, and it only grows stronger with each passing day.

You try to push it off as nothing but the old magic of this place, the way the very walls seem to recognise your presence. But it is not just the Underworld that calls to you.

It is him. And you hate him for it. Even more so hate the realisation of your influence over him: Sylus hesitates on the rare occasions you say his name out loud, as though it carries a power even he does not understand. His gaze always lingers too long; his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He is the God of the dead, ruler of this forsaken realm, feared by all—and yet, you begin to wonder if you are the one meant to rule over him.

While these thoughts may not change your anger, grief, or longing for the world above, they shift something within you.

Until one night, your hunger eventually wins.

Perhaps the servants left the plates out on purpose. The truth may never be revealed, nor is it important in the grander scheme of things. The only thing that mattered now was the intoxicatingly sweet scent of fruits that lingered on throughout your sleepless night. The warning voice inside your mind rings hollow; it pales in comparison to the glistening cuts of fresh harvest tempting your restless figure teetering at the edge of your bed.

You should not.

But your stomach twists, your body weakens, and the scent lures you in to take step after step until you stand in front of the silver platters. Without thinking or comprehending your mistake's finality, your fingers close around a small pomegranate seed, glistening like a drop of blood. 

The moment it slides down your throat, the air in the room changes. It is a subtle shift at first, a whisper, then a gust of wind, usually unbeknown to this isolated place.

One pulse is all it takes for Sylus to stand in the archway of your chamber once more, like he has done many times before—watching, waiting. Your breath is unsteady, the weight of your actions sinking into your stomach like lead. And unlike the despair coursing through your body, victory curls Sylus's lips into a small, satisfied smile.

"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is low, almost gentle, perhaps influenced by the horror visible in your helpless gaze. You swallow hard as you try to find your voice, your reason, yourself . But the only possible solution is to blame it all on Sylus. 

"What have you done?"

Now you irritate him. His brows crease upon your accusation, though his calm demeanour does not crumble. "What have you done?" he much rather returns the question right back to its sender to watch your defiance finally break.

Trembling hands appear tainted to your blurry gaze as you look down in disbelief. They are clean, but to you, each tip seems stained with the juicy remnants of your sin.

The truth is an unbearable thing.

You cannot leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

Never again.

The realisation crackles like the fireplace, though you have never felt this cold. With slow steps, the distance you so fiercely fought for diminishes until Sylus stands right before you. 

This time, you refuse to flinch when his hand reaches for you; his fingers trace the air in between before closing around your wrist. Skin to skin, you realise the chill that clings to his touch, though an unfamiliar fire courses through your veins, a traitorous response you loathe yourself for. 

Sylus turns your hand over and lifts it to his lips. The first gentle brush of lips against your palm is enough to send shivers down your spine. It is a kiss as soft as the brush of a feather; however, the warmth of his breath lingers, seeping into your flesh and marking you in ways deeper than any chain could.

"You belong to this realm," he murmurs into your palm, his lips grazing each word into your skin. "And you belong to me."

Irritation in its purest form hardens Sylus's features as you yank your hand from his hold. You should really stop fighting; you should stop despising him. "The damage is already done," he whispers beside your ear, though he does not touch you this time.

You can feel it—this invisible thread that ties you to him, to this place, to the very darkness that seems to sprout within you. "I hate you," you whisper in return.

Momentarily, a flicker of hurt passes through those crimson depths before Sylus takes a step back, and you might even start to regret your declaration until a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth.

"You say that now," he says softly, "but you have already begun to change."

────────── ♱

His words ring true.

The air in the Underworld is different now. It hums with an energy that wasn't there before, a certain pulse in the walls, the ground, and the air you breathe. You feel it around you; it seeps into your bones and reshapes something deep inside you. It is a dark and restless presence that lingers like the weight of your mistake, like the warmth of his lips against your palm.

There is no time to mourn your fate in silence and isolation, not with Sylus. He comes to you more often now, no longer content to watch from the shadows. His presence is as constant and inevitable as the burning torches that line the palace halls. 

Sylus never forces, but he does not relent either. He pushes, always pushing the boundaries you fight so hard to uphold. But his endurance might be one of his most impressive qualities. 

The pursuit is a slow, insidious thing that sneaks into your veins like the pomegranate's curse. He touches you more deliberately—a palm at the small of your back as he guides you through the corridors, fingers graze your wrist when you pass him in the grand halls, a featherlight brush of his knuckles along your jaw when you glare at him too fiercely.

It is maddening.

And yet, your pulse races when his lips hover near your ear when his voice spills honeyed words against your skin. 

He seeks you out, always, even in your chambers, especially in your chambers, where the air is heavy with your sweetness.

"You are avoiding me," his musing tone catches you off guard. If it weren't for his proximity, for the body looming behind your back, you would whirl around to glare at the uninvited guest. "And you fight so hard," Sylus's breath is warm against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

How his lips yearn to taste you. 

It's as though he enjoys your rejections more than an open welcome. You're too adorable this way as if you truly were to believe your acts of defiance could help against fate itself. 

"I have no desire to entertain you" is a grumble as you turn further away from Sylus. But for each step you take away from him, Sylus takes two in return. 

"That is a lie." His presence presses against your senses, unrelenting in his pursuit. Sylus happily witnesses the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake with the gentle ghost of his fingertips along your arm. "Your body betrays you so very clearly, my beauty."

Your heart thrums within your chest, so loud it nearly succeeds in drowning out the teasing lilt in his voice—almost, but not quite. Because you're too attuned to him now, too ensnared by the pull of his presence to resist for much longer. Whether caused by fury or the desire to look into crimson eyes, you turn and face Sylus, drawn as if by fate itself to those infernal, beautiful features. "You tore me from everything—my life, my mother. How could I ever—"

Oh, you are ravishing like this, even more so with that sinful glare upon the knowing, near-cheeky smile on Sylus's lips. "Because you are mine." A light touch weaves its way through your fingers, tickling your palm and wrist to brand your skin with his longing. 

A nudge from Sylus's free finger tilts your chin up, effortlessly forcing your glare to focus back on his eyes. That little gasp from your lips beckons him to close the scant distance between your mouths. "Hate me, curse me, reject me," Sylus murmurs with a voice as dark as the abyss itself, "it will only deepen my love for you."

The heat in his stare makes your stomach twist in ways you fail to comprehend, in ways you refuse to acknowledge fully. You do not answer, cannot answer, because some terrible, secret part of you shudders in delight at how right his claim feels even as your mind rebels against him.

He is too close to the point that his scent clouds your better judgment while silver hair falls past his shoulders to tickle your skin. Momentarily, you consider running your fingers through the long strands.

Instead, reason calls upon you to press your hands against Sylus's chest to push him away—but he feels so good beneath your touch that you fail to pursue your goal. 

And he notices, of course, he does. His muscles give way beneath your palms as Sylus leans in a fragment closer. "You are fighting something inevitable, my love," he whispers against your temple. "Do you not feel it? The pull?"

You do, and you loathe yourself for it.

Long, greedy fingers trail along your collarbone; it's nothing but a ghost of a touch meant to unravel. "I could make this easier for you, little goddess," a gentle murmur of affection, though his voice remains laced with amusement, with something far more wicked. "Or you could keep resisting. Either way, you have me wrapped around your finger."

Despite the raging pulse that betrays your resistance, you snap at the God of the Underworld. Once more, forever more, Sylus's own heart skips a beat at the rejection of his feisty goddess. "I would sooner wither."

The words could have caused him to fall apart in this instance if he had lower self-control. 

Perhaps it is this very realisation that causes Sylus to chuckle. Low and deep and true, the sound vibrates against your skin. "Would you?" His lips nearly kiss the shell of your ear. "Tell me, do you truly despise this?"

Worshipping hands slide down your arm; they trace the curve of your wrists and ultimately entwine with your fingers. A moment passes before your hands are lifted to his mouth for Sylus to press kisses across your knuckles. 

Only now do you realise the beautiful and heavy set of his lashes and the gentle crease of his brows as if this act alone could convey the undying embers of his love, which burn hotter than his breath against your skin. 

The sensation sends a sudden jolt through you, something unfathomable if you remain insistent on denying your own affections. This tender moment ends with a sudden yank to free your hands from his reverent hold, though it does not darken Sylus's mood.

"You are insufferable," you grumble all over again, to which Sylus chuckles. The sound is neither cruel nor mocking. No, it is like the weightless reassurance of a man who knows you will come to him in the end.

────────── ♱

The Underworld is not the lifeless void you once assumed it to be. Its unexpecting offer is more impressive than what you first granted: Through the dark pits of Tartarus, the paradise of Elysium and the barely noticeable meadows of Asphodel flow rivers like silver snakes, their surfaces rippling with unseen currents, only disturbed by Charon transporting souls across the Styx. Shadows curl and move, whispering in the voices of the hopeless and lost. And the sky here? It's not black but a deep, endless twilight speckled with stars that do not belong to the world above.

And rather than simply accepting your fate, you embrace it now. 

Your reflection reveals it first. In the land of the dead, you flourish. Your skin shines with renewed energy while a new-found hunger lingers in your eyes, craving more than sustenance. Your gowns are also different now: darker, tighter, more opulent, and made for the station Sylus insists is yours. Jewels glint at your throat, wrists, hair, gifts, all of them, from him . 

You tell yourself you wear them only because you have no choice, but deep down, you know better.

The realm accepts you now. It bows to you in small ways—doors open before you touch them, whispers grow soft when you pass. The Underworld does not take just anyone. It takes queens. One queen. His.

Sylus does not bother to hide anymore. He is not just waiting for you to succumb—he is guiding you toward it, coaxing you, moulding you. His every interaction carries intent: every touch is a test, every word a step closer to something inevitable.

One evening, he corners you in the dim glow of the throne room to tease and tempt you until you want to flee. Your steps back ultimately cause you to stagger into his chest through the calculated tug on your wrist. Grasped between his thumb and pointer finger, your face is directed towards his own; your head tipped back for your lips to part invitingly.

"You wear my gifts well," Sylus murmurs the compliment while rendering you defenceless thanks to the simple brush of his thumb against the swell of your lower lip, "they were made for you, and you were made for me," a hushed promise spoken against the shell of his ear.

Shamelessly, his head dips lower, and you feel his nose against your jawline, feel him inhale your floral scent deeply as though attempting to fill his entire being with you before pressing a singular kiss filled with longing against the racing pulse dancing beneath the thin skin of your neck.

"What?" He continues this solitary conversation. "Are you not going to hiss at me?" The quirk of his brow is infuriating—infuriatingly attractive. 

"I was not made for you," you force the reply, a sweet attempt to seem as repulsed as before, but the words come weaker than you intend.

At that, Sylus can't help but laugh. The sound is low and rich, and it's exclusively for you. 

The grand finale of tonight's pursuit follows in the shape of Sylus's lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but rich enough in intensity to make you wonder what it would feel like if he truly claimed you.

────────── ♱

The arrival of Hermes shatters the fragile dynamic that has begun to blossom from your connection with Sylus.

He appears without warning, a figure of golden light and refined grace,  with flaxen hair and eyes of near-luminescent blue. Xavier. His movements are effortless, fluid, a beacon of hope in the heavy stillness of the Underworld. With him, he carries the expectations of Olympus, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it felt like to breathe in fresh air, to feel the sun's kiss upon your skin.

Yet there is something sharper about him here in this place of no belonging—his smile is edged with mischief, his ivory tunic ripples with divine energy. A calculative gaze flicks to you, then to Sylus, who remains seated on his throne, utterly unbothered by the unwelcome interruption.

The messenger neither bows nor cowers. "Well," Xavier says, his arms moving to cross as he leans against a pillar. "The king of gods has spoken."

Sylus tilts his head at the mention of your father, clearly unimpressed. He eyes the messenger amid his grand hall, mustering the God of trade and luck. "Has he now?" Despite the calm tones in Sylus's voice, there is a dangerous edge lurking beneath its surface. By now, you can tell as much.

Xavier's gaze momentarily returns to you. Emboldened by the solemn vow to bring the harvest goddess's beloved daughter back to the realm of living, he speaks. "Your mother grieves. The earth withers in her sorrow. You are to be returned to Olympus immediately."

Freedom? A return… home? 

For a fleeting, breathless moment, the words cause a flutter to take wing inside your chest—like a bird stirring from its slumber after a long night. Hopeful, fragile, aching to believe. But then you notice how Xavier speaks of you. Not to you, no over you. 

To be returned, not to return.

You move slowly and find Sylus already watching you. His attention pushes down on you with unspoken words and painful longing while restless fingers drum against the jet-black glass of his throne. Then, without looking away, he plays his final card.

"She has long eaten the fruit of my realm."

Xavier sighs dramatically at the desperate antics from the God of the Underworld. "Yes, yes , and you've tied her to you now. Very clever." He glances at you once more before meeting crimson head-on with cerulean. "But the world above cannot survive without her. You know this."

Sylus lifts a hand, demanding immediate silence from the messenger without another glance in his direction. Rising from his throne, he crosses the chasm between your bodies with purposeful steps until the distance wanes and bends like fate itself. He does not stop until his presence surrounds you and his hot breath ghosts over your lips. 

Gentle fingertips find your jaw for a touch equally sinful as tender. Possessive. Worshipful. The pad of Sylus's thumb lingers beneath your chin, tilting your face for him to adore your every angle. "You are mine," he murmurs, low and intoxicating. "Even if I let you go, you will return."

The certainty of his claim causes your heart to falter, and you feel yourself falling apart, unravelling beneath his acts of devotion. You hate him for it. You hate that a part of you knows he is right.

Xavier watches the exchange with an arched brow. "Charming as always" is a mockery of God, who never showed romance to any being prior to you. 

Though the words fly past the bubble created by Sylus's longing for you, you're enthralled by the hypnotising allure of tender lips that, once more, press slow kisses onto your hand. "My queen," he speaks the title into your skin as though searing your being with your future power and might.

Eager to escape this scene of lust and devotion, Xavier attempts to break this tension by clearing his throat before speaking: "Then I assume we have reached a compromise."

"A compromise?" Sylus echoes in wonder, though neither of you flees from the ensnaring heat crafted through your eyes as if the very act of looking at another was a ritual in itself.

"You will release her," Xavier declares, the decision carried by the weight of Olympus. Sylus already parts his lips to retort, though the messenger beats him to it. "And she will return to her mother, as the divine law demands. However…” Xavier's gaze moves to you, seemingly softer, mournful almost. "Since she has tasted your realm, she is now tied to it. Therefore, she shall walk between both worlds. She will return to you for half of the year until duty calls for her to step into the light of Olympus for the remaining months." 

Sylus's grip tightens on your hand; a faint tremble to his fingers betrays his opulent presence. The smugness he wears like armour fades into a scowl. Turning to Xavier, Sylus pulls you to stand behind him with a possessiveness akin to a dragon threatened to lose his treasure. 

His body turns into a shield between you and the final sentence of Olympus.

"She will depart with me today," Xavier continues unconcerned, "And until her eventual, unfortunate return to the Underworld, you shall be tested. Your patience, your virtue, the purity of your devotion to the Goddess of Spring," 

Xavier's conclusion leaves no room for arguments. A flicker close to triumph dances through the messenger's eyes as the God of death and shadows has been brought to his knees, even if only for a season.

"So be it," Sylus murmurs before, all too soon, returning to gaze upon you. As though you are the only vision that matters, the only beauty worth witnessing.

His free hand rises for his fingers to trail along the column of your throat before curling around the back of your neck. However, he would never use force on you. No, instead, Sylus draws close to you, so close his words become a secret between you two. "Enjoy your time above, little one, while I wait for your return to me."

It's a promise, a threat, and a certainty all at once. And truthfully, a part of you already misses him.

────────── ♱

Sylus had never realised how deafening the silence of the Underworld could be. It stretches through the empty halls of his palace and seeps into the very marrow of his existence. Once filled with your anger and fire, the throne room is once more cold. The grand halls echo only with his own footsteps. And even the torches seem to burn a little dimmer.

You are gone, and he hates it. He should not feel like this. He has ruled the Underworld for aeons and has never known loneliness, not in a way that mattered. But now, now he feels it.

You are in the world above, in your mother's arms, beneath the golden touch of the sun. You are in a place where he cannot reach you, and the realisation gnaws at him like a slow, festering wound.

His patience wears thinner than ever thanks to sleepless nights or haunting dreams of nothing and no one but you. Always you. Of your lips parted in anger, in surrender. Of your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He imagines your return and how you will look when you finally stand before him again. Will you be softer? Will your time above have reminded you of all the things you once thought you wanted? Or will you have come to understand the truth? That you belong to him.

He waits and watches once more. Never would Sylus have ever suspected to be forced to witness you again through the crow's eyes, but here he was—dependent on his messenger. Mephisto is his eyes in the upper world, a shadow against the bright skies. The crow perches in high branches, on windowsills, in the eaves of the great temple where Demeter holds you close, whispering reassurances that all will be as it once was.

But it will never be as it once was because you have changed, too.

While at first you revel in your freedom, the world above seems a little too bright, vibrant, and bursting with life in a way the Underworld never could. The fields bloom beneath your mother's touch, and the air is warm, filled with the scent of ripening fruit and fresh earth. You are surrounded by love, by the warmth of familiar arms, and by the laughter of those who missed you.

And yet, on the first night already, you awake to search for something which isn't there. On the second night, you dream of silver hair, hands trailing along your skin, and a voice murmuring your name in the dark. On the third night, you catch sight of a shadow moving along the tree line, and your heart stutters in your chest—not with fear, but recognition at the familiar gleam of red eyes.

Mephisto does not leave, and you do not want him to.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. You fill them with laughter, with long walks through sunlit meadows, with the comfort of your mother's presence. But there is a hollowness inside you now, a quiet, insidious ache that only grows with each passing day. It is not enough, you realise. 

None of it is enough. Nothing measures up to the feelings Sylus brought to life within your shell. You are not the same as you were before. Confidence, stubbornness, and greed are qualities you happily embrace by now. 

Your mother notices the change. One evening, she catches you staring out at the horizon with distant eyes while watching the setting sun. She sees how your hands trace absent patterns against your skin, as if recalling a touch is no longer there. She does not speak of it, but you can feel her watching, worrying.

When the leaves turn red and yellow, you wake with the remnant taste of pomegranate on your tongue, with an anticipation that brings your heart to pick up its pace at the prospect of returning to him .

────────── ♱

The descent is not the same this time. You are not stolen, not wrenched from the world above in a flurry of fear and resistance. No, this time, you go willingly. Your heart pounds with anticipation as the air around you grows heavier, the sun's warmth fading into the cold embrace of the Underworld's shadows.

And then you see him. He is there already, long awaiting. 

His silhouette emerges from the fog like a memory-made flesh, tall, terrible, and heartbreakingly familiar. His eyes devour you. They do not blaze with conquest, though they burn with aching relief, with desire tempered only by the agony of restraint. A god undone by the absence of the one thing he could not command: your return.

"You came back," he says, and it is not a statement of triumph. His voice sounds fragile, relieved. The evidence of a desire stretched too thin over too many empty nights.

All you manage to respond is a quiet "I did," since the weight of this moment, of your joy, presses into your lungs and bones. 

Sylus says nothing in return; the longing in his eyes is louder than any verbal confession. He rather steps closer, slowly, carefully, to chase away the forced distance of the past months. He has not changed, not truly. But the sharp edges of his obsession have softened. 

He looks at you like you are someone he is afraid to lose, which makes your next step easier as you extend your hand toward him. Without hesitation, he encases your offer in his palm and lifts your hand to his lips, though a deep exhale of relief escapes his lungs long before pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles. 

This time, you do not pull away. This time, you let him. This time, you welcome him. 

The gates close behind you with a soft sigh, like a breath exhaled after being held for too long. The Underworld waits. Not as a cage this time, not as a prison of shadow and stolen freedom. No—it waits as something altogether different. Your kingdom to rule.

────────── ♱

For the first time, Sylus leads, and you follow. You allow him to bring you to a garden that does not need sunlight to blossom; it's hidden beneath a silken canopy draped in silver threads. It glows from within, lit by fireflies not belonging to the world above. The flower petals here are as dark as night, and their stems shimmer faintly with iridescent dew. They are beautiful in a way that defies logic.

You sit on cushions of satin and velvet, a low table between you, and a feast of things not found in the upper world. Black figs bleeding golden juice. Pomegranate seeds are like rubies scattered on porcelain. Honey-soaked cakes with petals pressed into their tops—slices of moon fruit, with shimmering flesh like opal.

"Does it please you?" Sylus asks, with a voice as gentle as a lover's caress. You glance at the spread and then at the man sitting across from you, his broad frame draped in a tunic of deepest black threaded with the night sky that barely conceals his impressive build, exposing well-defined muscles inked with faint, ancient markings.

Sylus's lips curl into a smile upon the motion of your head, the simple nod rewarding him with a sense of relief. "It's strange. But yes," you admit with a gentle tone. 

"One could consider yourself strange in this surrounding, too. And yet—you please me." Sylus's honesty strikes somewhere low in your belly. You should be used to his intensity by now, but thread by thread, it continues to unravel you. He is open with his intent, never hiding it, not the want, worship, or way his eyes trace the line of your throat or the corners of your mouth when you speak.

For a while, you sit in silence. A peaceful quiet, as though both of you are learning how to be something other than what you were. Not captor and captive. Not hunter and prey. Equals, lovers . The final thought may lead your fingers to finally reach for a slice of fig and hold it out to him. 

Sylus's gaze flicks to yours, something akin to amusement pooling in those crimson shades as he momentarily hesitates.  "You're feeding me now?" Though he regrets the words quicker than he has spoken them once, the sweet reward is being snatched away from Sylus's lips with a huff of mild exasperation over his daring, teasing response. 

Mind you, the God of the Underworld is not one to have his treats taken from him. A firm touch around your wrist, a breathed chuckle and a brush of soft lips follow all too soon before Sylus welcomes the fruit from your offering hand. 

His actions are deliberate and intimate, causing your breath to catch and your cheeks to grow warm beneath his intense gaze. Through thick lashes, his crimson eyes bask in your reaction, though his mouth remains occupied until a murmur of "Why, aren't you sweet tonight?" falls from glistening lips that seem to beckon you to lean in.

It is only at the last moment that you notice your desire. You catch yourself and pluck one grape off its vine instead of reaching for the God of the Underworld. 

However, Sylus takes it from your fingers and presses it to your lips instead. "Your turn," a gentle command and challenge dusted in this low, sultry tone.

Parted lips allow the grape to burst on your tongue—sweet and tart, while Sylus's attention remains on your mouth. He doesn't budge, not when he knows you have grown aware of his stare, not when you chew, not even when you swallow.

"I missed you," he says in a whisper that carries a longing stretched too thin. His expression is nearly vulnerable, tender, and a little insecure, perhaps. 

This newfound softness suits him. Leading you to allow your eyes to roam over his sharp features to find further gentle details. From his cupid's bow to the golden flecks in his eyes and the lines on his face when he smiles at you, for you. 

"Did you?"

"Every night," Sylus murmurs, possibly a little rueful. "I dreamed of you walking back into my realm, of your voice echoing through my– our halls. I imagined…"

He stops himself at the last moment. A hint of a blush dusts his features, bringing a charm to his looks you would have never granted him before.  

"Imagined what?"

The heavy set of his jaw causes his held-back confession to stir worry in your mind; Sylus can tell as much as he takes in the slight crease of your brows. It may be time to jump over his shadow. 

His smile returns, though it appears rather self-deprecating this time around while avoiding your gaze.

"You. Smiling at me like you meant it. Touching me because you wanted to," Sylus admits with a purse of his lips, evidently cringing at his confession. This was ill-befitting to the ruler of the Underworld. 

Yet, your fingers befit him very well. How they begin to trace the lines of his hand, from the back of his hand to the calloused pads of his fingers? Sylus stills beneath your touch as if afraid a single move might cause you to vanish again.

"And I missed—" he continues but swallows the rest.

You are the one to smile now. You didn't expect to coax so many confessions out of him tonight, though he appears to be in a rambling mood, which makes it impossible not to tease, not to probe and test your luck further. 

With a tilt of your head, you let your eyes flick up to his own, a glint of amusement dancing in your gaze. "Tell me."

His eyes dart away almost immediately, lashes fluttering against flushed skin, while Sylus seems to contemplate whether or not he shall make a grander fool of himself. But you seem receptive, accepting of him... 

"I missed the sound of your voice even when you cursed me. Especially then."

You smile at that, a real one. "You deserved every word."

"I still do," Sylus replies, unbothered at that and well aware of his own 'shortcomings'. 

The conversation finds a tranquil close through shared chuckles and lingering eye contact before the fruits call for attention. 

You eat in slow, quiet indulgence. Feeding another slice of moon fruit and seeds of pomegranate accompanied by a brush of his thumb across your lower lip or the hitch in Sylus's breath as your fingers graze his mouth. 

The air seems to thicken with something you do not dare to address, a sweetness far beyond the decadence of the fruits. 

When juice glistens at the corner of Sylus's mouth, you reach without thinking to wipe it away. The gentle moment deepens once long fingers catch your wrist to press your palm against Sylus's cheek. 

He leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth and love, turning his head for his lips to brush against the warm skin of your hand. "I've waited," Sylus murmurs, "I've tried to be good. I did not drag you back, though every shadow begged me to," his words are paused to nip into your palm while amusement dances in his gaze upon your soft sound of surprise. "I wanted to see if you would choose me. Not as your captor—but as your other half."

Your heart stumbles at the confession, and you allow yourself a moment to look at Sylus, really look at him. He is still dangerous, still secure in his power and confidence—but beneath it all, he is trembling.

"For nights, have I imagined this," Sylus continues upon your flustered silence. "This canopy. This moment. You, beside me. Willingly ."

At that, you finally reach out to brush a strand of silver hair from his cheek. Your fingers trail along Sylus's defined jawline, down his throat to witness him swallow before being drawn to the ruby in his chest, where you allow your fingers to rest.

Though the touch lasts briefly before you rise to claim your throne, Sylus watches you unmoving as you settle into his lap. His arms come around you as if instinctually, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your nape.

Surrender. You see it in Sylus's eyes, in his body language. So, you conquer. A touch along his cheek before your fingertips drag from his jawline forward to his chin to pull him in, to make him chase until your lips meet.

Soft. Tentative. A whisper of longing finally answered.

Sylus groans—it's a low, broken sound—and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. The heat of him surrounds your body; his hunger devours your lips while his hands glide along your waist, over your shoulders and back. 

Every touch is a question Sylus does not dare ask aloud.

You answer with your body, tilting your head and opening your mouth, letting him taste the sweetness you've withheld for so long. This ignites the deep pull of your bond, the magnetic ache that has hummed between you from the start. But now, it sings.

It is only once you're breathless that your lips part, though Sylus chases you once more—one more time to kiss you deeply until his confession clings to your skin as his mouth moves down your neck. 

"I'm shameless with you," nothing but a hot breath, a roughened rasp. "You've made me something undone." 

At first, only silence follows. A silence that seems to weigh down on Sylus's shoulders as he slumps into you, his embrace on you tightening as though he may fear you were to disappear into fine dust. 

But then he feels you lean in again and grants you complete control. So you guide his head to tip back while your lips brush along the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw before your words find their way into his ear. "And I like it." 

You kiss him, not on the mouth this time, but under his ear, along the line of his jumping pulse. You mould him with every breath and shift of your body in his lap. 

"Is that so?" Sylus asks in quiet, curious amusement while shooting you that confident smirk alongside a quirk to his brow. 

He is powerful, yes—but tonight, you are the one who holds him in your palms.

And you know it, you abuse it. Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his again, gentle, faint, teasing as you whisper, "It makes me feel powerful." 

Sylus is patient. He waits years to welcome the lost to his realm, watches calmly over the mishaps in the upper world and waits for the cards to play in his favour. 

But your teasing? Oh, it all causes Sylus to grow impatient. 

He craves the promise of relief from your lips, wanting to taste the sweet haven. The denial is almost too much to bear when you lean back, the disdain manifested with a groan vibrating through Sylus's chest and the flex of his arms around your figure. "You are," he assures you so willingly, "you could command me with a single word."

"Then behave," you whisper before pulling away enough to let Sylus see your smirk and that awful challenge in your eyes. 

You didn't expect Sylus to laugh at your little display of power. A sound low and dark, self-indulgent even when he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "I've been fighting my hardest. You have no idea how much. But you're not making it easy, my little goddess."

To make matters worse, you indulge Sylus by threading your fingers through his long silver strands, scratching past the base of his curled horns to steal a soft grunt as you whisper in his ear: "I'm not trying to." 

He hums in delight as though your torture was the purest love of all. 

"Good."

The tension snaps at that, causing your lips to seek out another kiss and another until pecks turn to a passionate exchange of breathless sighs and saliva. 

You guide Sylus's hands to your waist, your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently as your kisses turn urgent. 

Sylus groans—an unguarded sound, shameless and beautiful—and his grip tightens again, grounding himself through you, needing you to anchor him as much as you need to feel him unravel.

You feel the restraint in him teeter on the edge of collapse, but it does not break tonight.

Instead, you curled up against him, your fingers brushing the ruby in his chest as if it were a second heart. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, but his touch remains gentle, cradling you like something sacred.

You lie together beneath the silken canopy as torchlight flickers against your skin. He tells you of the garden he grew while you were gone. Of the starlight dome he had built to mimic the sky you miss dearly. Of every small hope, he fed his heart in your absence like embers waiting to be fanned.

You listen, and you stay until sleep finds you. Enveloped in Sylus' arms, where you belong. 

Home.

────────── ♱

With that, the time has finally come.

Hades has passed his trial from the gods above and earned the right to wed his spring queen. He kneels before you, succumbing to his love and burning desire for the one true love. 

A pulse moves through the obsidian caverns, across black rivers and beneath skeletal trees. The dark realm stills in anticipation. Even the air tastes of omen. Stones whisper in a tongue long forgotten by Olympus—born of death, longing, and devotion.

Tonight, the god of the dead weds his queen.

There is no mortal spectacle, no divine applause. The ceremony unfolds deep within Domos Haidou, an ancient grove untouched by time, where even the moon dares not look. Only ghostly embers and violet fireflies shimmer, illuminating the sanctum where the veil between sacred and sinful has worn thin.

Here, beneath a sky of nothing but velvet void, where only the faintest glow from ghostly fireflies and floating embers light the scene, the ritual takes shape.

You are dressed not in fabric but in falling petals—obsidian lilies and pale mourning blooms cascading from your shadow-cloaked figure. The scent is intoxicating. Crushed orchids and roses bleed sweet perfume into the air, mingled with the deep, honeyed pull of burning amber, cracked myrrh, and the lush, ripe promise of pomegranates split open beneath a blade.

Incense swirls in winding tendrils around your ankles, carried by a wind that seems to breathe only for you.

Sylus waits.

He stands at the altar made of stone and root, his tall frame outlined by flickering braziers lit with violet flame. His tunic clings to him, dark as pitch, draped loose over his strong shoulders, revealing the ridged definition of his chest. A crown of black laurel rests upon his silver hair, his curved horns framing the impassive mask of his face—until he sees you.

And then he breathes again.

The firelight deepens the red in his eyes, and his gaze—tender yet hungry—devours the sight of you. Not like prey. Never that. Like devotion, like something sacred, he has been waiting for eternity to touch.

Your steps, unhurried and deliberate, carry all the words your mouth does not say. You are no longer a frightened girl ripped from her world. You are a woman who has tasted the Underworld and claimed it alongside its ruler. 

You place your hands in his, and the world shifts.

From a chalice forged from volcanic crystal, you share the ritual drink—a dark elixir of wine and crushed blossoms, thick with enchantment and laced with the bite of something older than lust. It slides down your throat like fire, and immediately, the air changes. It prickles against your skin, magic thickening like fog. Your limbs are warm, your head light, and your breath shallow.

The circle around you ignites. Flame spirals from the ground, blooming outward, as though the Underworld itself recognises this union. Vines coil around the altar, pulsing in rhythm with your breath. The ruby at his chest flares, and a low hum answers from beneath your skin. You are bound now. Not by force nor by fate. By choice.

That choice leads you to step closer while Sylus remains still as a statue. However, his tension is unmistakable. His knuckles are white from holding back, yet his hands do not move without your invitation.

You lift one to your lips, leaving a kiss on his palm. Sylus exhales your name like a prayer, like a curse, as you trail your fingers up his chest, letting your touch linger to tease the dip of his throat and the line of his jaw. You watch how Sylus shudders under the weight of your attention. 

The power you feel is intoxicating. You realise now how far you've come.

Once, he ruled the stillness where nothing grows.

Now, you bring the bloom that breaks it.

Your lips brush the corner of Sylus' mouth—not quite a kiss, but the hint of one. In return, he tilts his head, drawn in immediately to chase more, but you retreat with a teasing smile. It wrecks him how helpless he has become, though Sylus can only laugh softly at his misery.

"You've changed," he murmurs, his voice is low and full of awe while his eyes and fingertips adore your beautiful features.

"I had to," your touch leads down his ribs. "To match the man who waited for me."

At that, Sylus sways into you, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. You guide him down onto the silk-lined altar floor, settling in his lap as the folds of your ceremonial robes slip open around your legs. When your lips meet his—tentative at first, a question, a test—he doesn't devour, only responds with slowness. 

Then, the kiss deepens and shatters the last barriers of restraints.

His hands explore your waist, back, and hips as if memorising each curve. You feel his strength, not in dominance but in surrender. Sylus lets you set the rhythm and mould him into what you need.

And you do. 

Your touches are not hesitant anymore—they command. You tilt his head where you want it, angle his mouth to yours, and drag your teeth along the seam of his lips until he groans, gasping your name like it's his salvation.

And still, he waits because there is no rush to this moment. He has forever with you. But the Underworld grows impatient in the way magic winds around your entwined limbs, tugging, twisting, binding. Your hips roll together in an instinctive rhythm, and the scent of burning flowers and fruit envelops you like a shroud. 

You are both drunk—on love, on hunger, on power.

Sylus' mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, your ribs. He speaks your name between kisses like it is the only word he has ever learned. His restraint is thin, stretched taut with every passing breath, and when you push him beyond it when you finally press him down and whisper, "Take me," he falls apart.

The vines around your promised bodies seem to dance in a song older than the gods themselves. The flames bloom higher, flicking beautifully on the crimson depths of Sylus's eyes.

You're magnified by the molten longing pooling inside, entranced and enthralled. You watch the way he looks at you.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak but cannot. Because how does a god, a ruler, a creature of death and punishment, explain what it means to be undone so completely by love?

"My love," you whisper as your fingers guide his palm between your breasts, lower to your belly. The air around you grows heavier as he follows the trail of your skin.

His hand continues downward. Over the rise of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the curve of your hips, until finally, finally , his fingers move between your thighs, cupping your most intimate part with the size of his palm.

When you arch into his hand, and your head falls back, Sylus watches it all with greed and worship. An approving, low rumble tickles your skin upon his discovery. You're wet, throbbing, already so unbearably ready—your arousal a product not just of the intoxicating magic in the air but the weight of everything that has passed between you. 

The ache, the longing. The vow that, tonight, you would be his.

He turns you then, gently but without hesitation, lowering your back into the dark grass beneath like a holy offering. 

His figure looms over you—broad and protective—as if he wasn't the danger himself. Twisted horns cast long shadows that flicker in the torchlight, while silver hair cascades over broad shoulders like a waterfall spun from moonlight. 

The width of Sylus' thighs parts your own effortlessly once he settles. Accompanied by a gentle touch that glides along the sensitive skin of your legs, with fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs, his gestures are worshipful as he stares down at you, naked and glistening with want. Beautiful.

Yet still—he waits. 

He does not take.

You're the one to set the tone.

Your hands lead crimson eyes to follow the curves of your body, slow and shameless; you rake your nails down your chest, teasing your nipples until they pebble before dragging your touch lower over your stomach and down to the place that aches for him most. When your fingers dip between your folds, and you moan softly at the contact, you keep your eyes locked on his.

Sylus watches, transfixed and with monumental restraint, as your fingers work your slick folds. A traitorous flush spreads over his neck, across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that almost makes him look innocent–if it weren't for the lust pooling in his eyes.

How willing you are for your husband.

And then, you reach for his hand. Smaller fingers lace around Sylus' wrist to guide him back to your body until his chest hovers just above yours. He is so close now; his breath mingles with yours, his lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes search yours, and what he finds leads Sylus to give in. Soft lips crash against yours in a deep, hungry kiss before his teeth nip at your bottom lip, demanding entrance and surrender.

A warmth spreads over your skin thanks to the heat of Sylus' palms sliding up your body, eager to replace every touch you have left on your figure with his own. He spoils your breasts with attention, kneading the soft mounds and tweaking your nipples until they are hard, aching peaks. 

"So soft, so warm and needy…" he murmurs against your breasts before his tongue drags heavy over skin littered with goosebumps. Sylus rocks his hips forward, the hard, thick length of him pressing against your core before staining your skin with more whispers of desire. 

"Tell me you want it," he mumbles while the delicious drag of his length would already be enough to make you say yes to all and any of his wishes. But he seems desperate for your consent, for your dependence on him. "Tell me how much you need me, my goddess."

Your thighs twitch from the delicious stimulation Sylus offers, the sounds following seem natural, like a sweet symphony of a tune you've never sung before. "Sylus," you sigh for him, so sweetly, so fragile, as your fingertips trace the ruby in his chest.  "I want to be one with you," you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"My love," you search his eyes with an expression so soft and tender that Sylus didn't even dare to dream of before. "Can you help me? Can you guide me? To be all for you, only you forever and always..."

It's incredible how you effortlessly play with Sylus' heartstring—a heart most people deem nonexistent. Yet here you are, toying with the God of the Underworld as though he could never be a real match to you. 

This is the power you hold over him, the control you have over the darkness that dwells within. You managed to tame the untamable, to make him kneel at your feet like a loyal hound. 

Sylus brings your entwined hands to his lips and presses a lingering kiss, gentle yet filled with devotion, to your knuckles. Crimson eyes remain glued to your own, as though his gaze alone could convey all the feelings he holds dear inside. 

"I will guide you, mould you, make your body fit mine like it was crafted for me alone," a whisper breathed along the veins running down your arm, sealed with kisses.

When he finally sheds his tunic, it is a teasing, slow gesture meant to draw your attention to nothing but him. The silver clasps snap open under Sylus's touch, revealing a defined figure made for your exploration. Every line seems to be carved by divine hands. 

But it's his length that steals your breath—thick and heavy; it stands proud and pulsing, the flushed tip glistening with need. It intimidates. It arouses. It makes something flutter inside you.

Sylus's pupils dilate as he takes in the sight beneath him: His wife, his goddess, spread wide for him, your stomach stained by his fluids. 

"Beautiful creature of sin…" The words escape him in nothing but a whisper while his tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you, creating sounds of desire as he lowers himself again, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Breathe for me," he says, soft and commanding all at once, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Take a deep breath, and let me in. Let me fill you. Stretch you. Make you mine."

And you try. You truly try to obey. But the moment his thick head presses past your entrance, your muscles tense. The shock caused by the unfamiliar stretch steals your breath, and you let out a cry—not of pain, not quite.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, Sylus pushes forward, deeper into your velvety sweetness. He groans deeply, affected by the stretch of your walls when they try to accommodate him. Ah, the feel of you, so hot, so tight, so perfect . 

You're so wet; he can't refuse to push in deeper, to conquer places nobody has ever been.

Sylus groans—a sound torn from deep within his chest—as your walls flutter around him, your body drawing him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Your heat envelops him like velvet soaked in flame, your core yielding and trembling around his cock. The stretch is near unbearable, your breath caught in your throat as your body struggles to adjust to his size.

He is thick, unrelenting, the burn making tears swell at the corners of your eyes, though you never look away from him. His hand braces your hip while the other cups your jaw with infinite care, his thumb sweeping away one of those traitorous tears.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathes with his eyes locked on yours, hunger and adoration swirling in those crimson depths. "Pull me in deeper, let me feel you clenching around me. Let me fill you like I was made for this."

Your thighs move on instinct, curling around his waist, and he catches them with both hands, holding you steady. When your hips roll—desperate, seeking—you impale yourself further onto his cock, inch by aching inch, until you're gasping from the pressure, the fullness.

"S-Sylus," you sob, your voice trembling at the edge of a moan as he stretches you deeper, wider. Your head tips back into the ground, fingernails clawing at the obsidian cloth beneath you while the tremble of your thighs highlights the effort of holding back the pleasure threatening to consume you.

"Shh, my love," he murmurs in a gentle tone even as sweat beads on his brow from the effort it takes not to move too fast, not to thrust in and claim you all at once. "Breathe through it. You're doing so well. Taking me so deeply, so perfectly."

His lips brush your temple and jaw to soothe the tension wracking your trembling form. He presses his forehead to yours, allowing his breath to mingle with yours as he grounds you, anchors you, and helps you through the storm of sensation.

"How much more?" you gasp, though you do not dare look down—too afraid of the answer.

Sylus huffs a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief and adoration. "A little," he murmurs, lies, while distracting you by pressing kisses on your cheek. "I'm halfway in."

A sob melts into a moan as his mouth claims yours, a kiss that leaves no space for thoughts. Hungry lips swallow your cries while a domineering tongue explores your mouth with depraved hunger. Large hands never stop moving—stroking your thighs, palming your breasts, coaxing your body to surrender.

"Breathe with me," he pleads against your lips alongside the gentle rocking of his hips in a slow, deep roll, easing in. You feel every stretch, every throb, every heated inch as he fills you further. "Feel how your body welcomes me."

You try—gods, you try—but your breath breaks as his cock finds something inside you that makes you seize, makes your nails dig into his arms, dragging across the tense muscles of his biceps. "N-Not there—Sylus, not there—"

But that's precisely where he presses again, with deliberate force, and the high, breathy sound that escapes you is half protest, half plea.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, with his tongue licking away the taste of salt from your tears as he groans against your skin. "There, right there," Sylus retorts with a sudden sharpness, causing his words to cut through your weak protests. 

The defiant words are punctuated with a selfish, more brutal thrust of Sylus's hips. The head of his cock kisses your velvet depths as he stills, gently rolling his hips against you to spoil the spot made for you to see stars even in the depths of hell. "That's it. That's your sweet spot, isn't it? The place only I get to touch."

He sets a steady rhythm then—thrusting deeper, grinding his hips in such a way that the head of his cock kisses that spongy spot again and again until your moans become desperate, until you writhe and pant beneath him, your body burning alive with pleasure too immense to hold.

"Let it take you," he urges, his voice low and thick, laced with command and affection. "Don't fight it, my love. Allow yourself to feel; take what you need."

Your fingers scrabble across his body in search of purchase—dragging down his forearms, gripping his shoulders, clutching at his back. You can feel how he stretches you, how you pulse around him, how your arousal coats his length in slick, shameless heat. And yet still, he moves, driving into you with the kind of worship only a god could offer.

"Too much," you whimper, though your hips chase him and reveal the lie all too soon. "So deep, Sylus… you're too deep."

He groans in response, driven to madness by the way you tighten around him, by the way, your body submits and fights all at once. He watches your face, mesmerised by every flicker of pleasure, every helpless twitch of your body.

"Too deep?" Sylus breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and rough, saturated with love and possession.  "I'm going to fill you so deeply that you'll forget everything but me."

With that promise, Sylus begins to move harder, faster. His hips snap forward, his cock plunging so deep it feels like he carves himself into you. And all around you, the Underworld responds—flames dancing higher, flowers smelling stronger, vines curling tighter around the altar in a frenzy of magic and bliss.

His moan makes you shiver, the vibration of his voice against your throat paired with the brutal honesty of his rhythm as Sylus continues to thrust into you with devastating precision. The words, the sounds, the act—all of it ensnares you, makes you pulse around his cock in pleasure, your body clinging to him like it's forgotten how to exist without him inside.

He hits that spot again—again—and each time, your body tightens, jerks, your thighs trembling, your lips parting in a choked moan that only serves to spur him on. You scramble across your own body for support, your hands fluttering desperately over your breasts, your stomach, down the slope of your hips and thighs, fingers searching for anything to anchor you as Sylus's hips snap forward relentlessly in their devotion.

Your moans, your cries—praise wrapped in trembling complaint—are music to his ears. And every word, every broken syllable, only serves to make you wetter, to make his cock slide in with less resistance and more heat, slick and obscene.

Sylus can feel everything—your desperation, your pleasure, your helpless submission to the sensations he's pulling from you—and he welcomes it all. He welcomes the pain you mark into his flesh with your nails, the way your pussy clenches as though trying to milk him, your walls fluttering as your orgasm builds. He knows your body is teetering on the brink, stretched and overwhelmed, yet still greedy for more.

"Shh," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble barely disguising his unravelling. "Let it happen, my love. Let it take you. I'll hold you through it—I'll catch you when you fall."

He leans down to let his teeth graze your throat before finding the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder, and he bites—not cruelly, not gently, but with the kind of claiming pressure that leaves no doubt: you are his. The pain sings through you, a sharp counterpoint to the constant, throbbing pleasure. 

Your body arches beneath him, shuddering violently as your nerves threaten to fray. At this moment, the only salvation seems to be proximity as your arms wind tight around Sylus's neck to tug him down, clutching him close, your face buried in his skin, your breath hot and gasping against his jaw. 

The drag of his cock over your sweet spot makes you cry out, helpless against the sensations that storm through your body. You cling tighter, whimpering, shaking, your sounds muffled against the column of Sylus's throat. You don't even try to speak anymore; you only feel everything he gives you: every thrust, every grind, and every pass of his length as it fills you.

And then, your head falls back into the grass, exposing your throat to him once more, surrendering everything.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the sight. The moment you hiccup out one word: "Faster," in a voice small and desperate, Sylus's control unravels.

He grins—a dark, wicked thing.

"Your wish is my command."

Sylus's hands tighten on your hips, and he fucks you harder. Faster. The rhythm turns punishing, perfect . Each thrust slams into you with wet, smacking force, your breasts bouncing wildly from the force of it, your moans turning ragged and sharp. You think you might scream, might beg, but all you do is fall deeper into the heat, the rhythm, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding.

Sylus's mouth finds your throat again, his tongue dragging up your skin, tasting sweat, tasting tears. His groans echo in your ears, low and hungry.

You feel like you're being devoured—worshipped—and still, you crave more. With your body rising to meet his every thrust now, your walls fluttering around his cock in a rhythm that betrayed your surrender to him, to this act, to the darkness curling around your bodies. 

The ritual may have begun with devotion, but now it breathes life due to the pleasure of possession and want.

Sylus watches the hypnotic bounce of your breasts with every impact of his hips, watches the way your body arches and quakes beneath him like it was offering itself to be consumed. Sylus lowers his head, his breath hot and panting as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping your skin.

"You look divine like this," he whispers. The praise is nearly lost beneath the wet sound of skin on skin and your rising cries. "Undone. Broken open by me."

You gasp when his mouth latches onto a hardened nipple. A sharp graze of teeth follows, and his tongue soothes right after. You can feel it building again—not just the orgasm, but something darker. A bloom of divine intoxication takes root in your belly. Sylus finds that spot inside you once more, and the groan he lets out against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You're slick, swollen, trembling, stretched to the brink and somehow still aching for more. You don't need to beg; Sylus would give you everything. And he was far from finished.

"My goddess," Sylus murmurs with lips wet from your sweat and the salt of your skin. "What a perfect vessel you've become."

As his hips grind into your sweet spot again and again, the coil within you finally snaps with a sound of pleasure torn itself free of your throat. You clench down, pulsing in frantic waves as you come apart—loud, messy, utterly divine.

Sylus exhales a moan as you spasm around him, slick coating his cock whilst your cries melt into broken moans. The magic thickens in the air, the vines twist tighter around the altar, and flowers burst open in wild, fevered bloom. His hold on you becomes unrelenting, grounding you through your climax while Sylus continues to move, each motion pulling you deeper into bliss. You cling to him like your sanity depends on the rhythm of his hips.

And still, he moves inside you.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses hold a kind of hunger that strips the air from your lungs, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he owns the space, tasting every sound you try to make and swallowing them down like they are the only offering he has ever desired. 

"Again," he murmurs at your throat, dragging his mouth along the damp curve of your neck. "I want to feel you fall apart once more until your body forgets everything but me."

Sylus is everything now: your altar, your sin, the ruin you've come to love—and you, soft and pliant beneath him, offer yourself with nothing left to hide.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To admire the glow of your skin, the way your chest rises in shaky gasps, the tremble in your hands as you drag them over your own body like you can't quite believe how wrecked you have become, how much Sylus has wrecked you.

"There is nothing more beautiful than this," Sylus says, voice thick with something heavier than pride as his eyes drink you in. "Nothing is more beautiful than you."

Your lashes flutter as your body can no longer keep up with your mind, and though your limbs tremble, you manage to hold his gaze, even as his cock throbs inside you with growing need. The tension in Sylus builds steadily; his body is tense, his jaw locked, his control fraying beneath the weight of how badly he wants to finish inside you—but still, he holds back. Still, he is waiting because he needs more from you first.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear, the line of your throat where your pulse stammers beneath the skin. "Tell me what you want. Speak it, and it's yours. I only exist to please you."

Your vision blurs, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of him, but your hands still find his hair, threading through it as your legs curl around his hips, pulling him closer, offering yourself without shame.

"Show me," you breathe, your voice hoarse, and your mouth barely forms the words. "Teach me what you like."

Sylus stills for a heartbeat, something shifting in his expression into a flash of pure and empty-headed desire.

And then he moves. The shift is fluid, your world tilting as Sylus turns you onto your stomach, one hand guiding your hips back into position as if you were meant to be there, presented like an offering no god would dare refuse.

He watches for only a moment, taking in the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs, the way you present yourself, and then he slides back inside you with one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs, steals the cry from your lips, and buries him in the heat of your body once again.

Sylus breathes your name into the crook of your shoulder as his pace deepens, your cunt clenching around him so tightly his hands have to grip your waist with bruising pressure.

"Yes… just like that," Sylus exhales, his voice rasping against your ear as your walls tighten around him. He leans over you to press himself closer, to reach around your front and embrace your breasts whole. His fingers knead your soft mounds, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you whimper without meaning to.

Each cry feeds his hunger for more of you, for everything and everything. Your effect on him roughens Sylus's voice. "You're so soft... you take me so well..." he murmurs into your hair while he seems to drown in the sensation of your body welcoming him again and again. 

You can't reply. You can only gasp and sob as each thrust pushes you deeper into the grass, into the magic wrapping around your body, into the unbearable fullness that makes your thoughts scatter.

"Sylus—, Sylus—" your voice cracks as his name escapes you like it's the only word you remember how to say. And each time you try to repeat it, Sylus pushes in harder, dragging another broken sound from your lips until you fall apart in stuttering cries.

His voice dips, hushed and dangerous by your ear. "That's it… Come again. Let me feel you break for me. Let your body beg—so I can spill inside you like I was meant to."

You shake your head, though it's barely defiance. The pleasure is too close, too sharp, and your sobs spill between whispers of longing and disbelief. "It's too good… I don't want it to stop… I c-can't—"

"All night," Sylus breathes and sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

Your entire body seizes as your release washes over you while Sylus's teeth stay anchored, not cruel but claiming, holding you in place as he continues to thrust, to coax every pulse of your climax from you. The dark magic around you grows in its potency and ties you together in blood, lust and devotion.

"Forever," he whispers into your flesh.

While your shoulders slump into the grass, boneless with pleasure, your hips stay high, your walls still fluttering helplessly around him. Sylus towers above you, a monument of muscle and shadow, watching your arousal drip down your thighs, the scent of your union wafts thickly in the air.

"A glutton," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Just like me." 

Then, ever so effortlessly, Sylus lifts you. One hand slides between your breasts to press you flush against his chest. Your head tilts back against a firm shoulder with a gasp as his cock pushes deeper from the new angle, the stretch all-consuming.

His lips stretch into a grin against your temple, one hand slipping down to cup your breasts again, to tease your sensitive nipple until you moan, each twitch feeding his delight. "Truly insatiable," he hums in approval.

You clench around him without meaning to. He feels it—the tremble of surrender. The way your body opens for him all over again.

"Tainted skin," Sylus whispers as his lips graze your ear. "Tainted body… all mine."

And then, he slips out, slowly, unbearably so, to leave you gasping as you grow aware of the emptiness inside you. Your body aches from the absence even while Sylus eases you down among the grass as though handling something sacred only he is allowed to touch.

There are no words left in you—only a breathless nod, parted lips, trembling limbs caught beneath the weight of everything he has given and everything he now promises to take. It is not just want. It is far more consuming—need, surrender, devotion in its most unholy, exquisite form.

"Please," you whisper, a word that sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

A goddess's offering to her God, and of course, he answers.

Sylus's hand wraps around the base of his cock as he strokes himself above you, the flushed tip leaking and twitching, swollen with pressure as crimson basks in the view of your awaiting body. Your skin is kissed with sweat, the grass clinging to your curves, the darkness wrapping around you like a blanket.

And then Sylus breaks the heavy silence. The sound brushes against your ear. "Now... I will give you everything."

Fingers trail slowly down the trembling expanse of your thighs, the tips of them sink into their softness as though he means to memorise you by touch alone. 

The contrast is stark—your yielding body beneath his strength, held back only by the need that you alone summon from him with every breathless sound you make.

"You offer yourself," Sylus murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked at the edges, the kind of tone that drips not from worship but hunger. "Like a promise whispered where no god dares to listen."

He watches the way your hands lift to your chest, fingers trembling as they trace over the peaks of your breasts, your body bared to him not in submission but in power, in invitation, and he is helpless before it.

His cock twitches in his grasp, flushed and throbbing, veins thick with desire as though every inch of him aches to return to the place he knows belongs to him. Sylus's breath stutters, his eyes hooded, his body tight and straining, forged by a need that only you have ever been capable of drawing forth without lifting a finger.

"Only you," he chokes out, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep and private, "Only you could bring me here. Pull me down. Make me beg. Make me break."

Sylus sinks into you again, his mouth seeking out the marks he left behind along the curve of your shoulder, the vulnerable dip of your throat. His teeth press into the skin not to wound but to keep, to seal, to remind you that you are his. His tongue follows and drags slowly over your heated skin until your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer and dragging him back deeper.

"My beloved," you whisper, your voice thick with amusement and awe as you glance back at him, your eyes catching his like a spark in the dark. Come for me."

The words break him.

"You're a vision," Sylus breathes against your neck. Sylus drives forward with sharp, selfish thrusts, then another, and another still, burying himself to the base with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The pleasure ripples through him. It scorches everything he is, everything he was and thought he will ever be as if your body is the vessel he was crafted to spill himself into. His release comes in waves, each thicker and hotter than the last—a vow carved into the softest parts of you.

He cannot be gentle. Not now. Not when your walls clamp around him like they never intend to let him go. His hands are firm on your hips, his teeth press into your shoulder again, and every motion of his body tells you the same thing—you are his. His end, his beginning, his undoing.

Your name slips from his lips, whispered in need for more.

And the Underworld responds.

The altar lights with fire too bright to be natural, and the vines wind around your entangled limbs as if even the ground beneath you seeks to hold you in place.

Voices long dead hum secrets beneath the surface, recognising what has happened for what it is: a binding not made with rings or sweetly spoken promises but with desire and darkness.

Still, Sylus moves. He shifts only slightly; his hips are rocking with slow, shallow thrusts as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm. You feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his muscles as firm arms curl you into his chest.

Forehead pressed against forehead, you remain as one. He is still inside, thick and full and twitching as if your body is the only place that can hold him now. You feel him leaking from you, slick and warm as it drips down your thighs.

"I am ruined," he whispers into your skin, the words frayed and aching with a breathless chuckle of disbelief. "And I never want to be whole again. Not if it means letting go of this. Of you."

He presses his mouth along your shoulder, jaw, and the corner of your lips as you finally turn into him, and the look on his face is no longer that of a god. There is no king here—only Sylus— yours.

He lowers himself beside you on the shadow-kissed grass, the dark flowers blooming around your tangled limbs as he pulls you into his arms. You remain joined, still one, and then he kisses you softly.

"I won't stop," he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, deep with something he never says aloud. "Even if doomsday arrives outside this sanctuary. Even if the skies burn and the world forgets our names. I will still be yours."

Magic winds around you both like a second skin, soft and warm. It is a promise that will never fade: you are his queen, and he is your King.

And the Underworld will remember the night it bore witness to gods falling not into ruin but into something far more ethereal.

You are lost in the petals that never stop falling, the heat between you, and the spell crafted from skin and union. 

And Sylus holds you like the world has narrowed down to this—just you, just now. 

You are no longer something stolen, no longer taken from the world above, but something claimed—willingly, completely—and he is yours, now and always, bound to you in a way that even eternity cannot sever.

feedback & reblogs would be deeply appreciated | dividers by @/cafekitsune

[anonmeansanon]

The crow's song

Chapter 1 - Early goodbyes

Chapter 2 - Unfulfilled wishes

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

[anonmeansanon]

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication), mentions of alcohol and getting drunk , use of Y/N wc: 5.4k | part 1

a/n: thank you to everyone who has interacted with and enjoyed part 1! i sincerely hope that this final part does not disappoint. stay safe and hydrated, and i hope you all are well <3

You can do this for as long as you need to, no matter how draining it may be.

When you wake in the morning, you find yourself tucked into your blanket the way that Zayne would often do if he felt the material wasn’t doing enough to keep you warm. A pang of guilt makes itself known when you come to the realization, and it’s clear that Zayne had to leave early again. The side of his bed is cool beneath your fingers, but after a single grip of the cotton, you fling the blanket off your figure and get up to start your morning routine.

It’s a tiny hassle to make your own coffee and figure out a quick breakfast without Zayne – tiny in the sense that you had done it yourself before having moved in with him, and you shouldn’t be so reliant on a partner whose schedule is as crazy as his. There had been a time when things were more consistent and regular, but ever since Emcee returned…

Like clockwork, you step on the scale in your shared closet, letting the device gather all the numbers it needs. It gives you a chance to observe the sorry state of your feet. The bandaids that you slapped on are worn at the edges, your toenails looking a little rough, wrinkles and blisters decorating other parts of your toes. You feel the roughness on the balls and arches underneath. When you step off the scale, you move towards the counter and lean back against it so you can lift a foot up and get a better look at the backs of your heels.

The sight of them makes you wince internally, bloodied and skin peeling. Once pristine, the cotton pads of the bandaids are splotched with crimson, paint from yours truly. You take little care in replacing the bandages and dolloping some antibiotic ointment on them to make you feel like you’re doing something at least. After getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and deciding to buy coffee on the way instead, you’re out the door in your most comfortable pair of work flats.

As you walk towards the nearest bus station, your phone vibrates, and the music in your earbuds softens before returning to its original volume. The notification tone sends a spike of anxiety through your system, your fingers shaking as they push things around and fish your phone out from your bag.

Husband 💙: Have you left for work yet? I can come back and drop you off.

It’d be rude not to reply.

You: I have, so no need. Thank you though.

An immediate reply.

Husband 💙: Don’t walk around too much today, and replace those bandaids when you’re on your lunch break.

You: Okay, I’ll try.

Needless to say, you don’t – more like, you can’t. No one in your office has bandaids for some reason, nor can they remember where the first-aid kit is. To be fair, you hadn’t planned on changing them had Zayne not said anything.

The hours tick by, and your boss stops by your desk to ask if everything was okay yesterday. You thought you could fake it, but your voice is telling when you reply, “Oh yeah, everything’s just fine. We’re fine.” Your boss cocks an eyebrow at your tone, and you assume a facial expression that screams, “Really, we’re not fine but there’s nothing you can do about it, so thank you for even asking.”

Just as you’re putting your stuff away to leave work for the day, your phone buzzes.

Husband 💙: Don’t forget to eat dinner. I have a late surgery. Also, kettle corn is not a meal.

You can’t help but quirk a smile at his words, as they rarely fail to elicit a reaction from you. But you’re tired, still feeling the effects of everything that happened yesterday, and you type out a quick response.

You: Okay. Good luck.

In another part of the city, a man with hazel eyes reads his phone for a little too long, his eyes squinting slightly as they circle around those three words. Your bland, unfeeling response is highly unusual and unsettles him. But he has to toss it aside somewhere in his mind so that he can focus wholeheartedly on saving this upcoming patient.

You, on the other hand, have decided to camp out at the bookstore again until late. Unable to hide forever, you slip back outside and are greeted by a slight chill in the air. It seeps through your thin blouse, and it isn’t until your head hits your pillow that it is, in fact, the middle of a hot summer. 

-

Zayne has texted you more this week than he has in the last month.

At first, you thought things may be returning to a sense of normalcy, and that whatever you heard come out of his mouth that fateful day was just a fluke. But when he mentioned offhandedly that Emcee was gone for a week or two because of a mission a few hours away, you deflated and berated yourself for even hoping.

The second choice, weren’t you?

Every day, there is something. A reminder to change your bandaids, dry humor, some slightly snarky comment about the highly incompetent doctor in the neurology department that he swears must’ve bought his way to become board-certified, the occasional picture of his makeshift meals, general questions about your day – you don’t know how to feel about all of it. Because what happens when Emcee comes back?

What happens when you can no longer be the priority again?

The very question makes you throw a shot of soju back at this company dinner to celebrate someone’s promotion. You had taken it as a chance to, once again, stay away from your actual sanctuary, while also getting a free meal. A win in your books, right?

Even in your drunken haze, when your phone, face down, vibrates on your table by your chopsticks, you know immediately who it is. When you flip your phone over, your husband’s face greets you, and you have a slight moment of panic. Did you ever get around to telling him you were at a work dinner tonight?

“Fuck,” you murmur before nonchalantly swiping up the green circle.

“Hello?” you quietly answer, your voice already a little heavy.

Zayne seems to pick up on it almost immediately. “Is everything okay?”

Before you can answer, a crowd roars at some drinking game happening two tables down, and your phone cannot be bothered to filter it out.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Work dinner,” you reply while trying to step away from your table and towards somewhere quieter.

“Was it an impromptu dinner?”

“No,” you say, tone sheepish and sluggish, much like your steps towards the bathroom. “I think I forgot to tell you about it.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? I’m about to leave the hospital.”

You pull your phone back and search for the time. Was it already 10:30PM?

“You don’t have to, it’s late. You should go home and get some sleep.”

Several miles away, a tiny layer of ice decorates Zayne’s right hand.

“I can’t imagine you need to be there any longer. Surely your boss would understand. Where are you?”

For the life of you, you could not recall the name of the restaurant. Looking around, you hum, almost lackadaisical, until you catch sight of a flashy sign. “I think it’s called Chodang? Korean barbeque.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“No,” you nearly whine, “it’s okayyy.”

There are the jingling of keys and two quick beeps in the background. “Y/N.”

His voice is final, stern, and sobers you just a tiny bit.

“Thank you,” you surrender with the cadence of an apology, your tone sheepish.

“Wait inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t forget to gather all your things.”

“Yessir,” and fingers mock salute to no one before hanging up. Well, at least you can finally be done with this event. If you’re lucky, you won’t have a hangover in the morning.

When you start grabbing your jacket and bag, your coworkers ask if you’re leaving, and you have to pretend that you don’t want to. “My husband’s picking me up.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about that then. See you tomorrow!”

You wave goodbye to everyone and do your best to remain as steady as possible. The warm summer night is a nice contrast to the aircon that had no business blasting as hard as it did. Your mind drifts off into another world as you stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused and slightly glazed over. Without any warning, you find yourself thrown back to the day you walked aimlessly around the park.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-ifs.”

That was not a “what-if” you could ignore. How could you, you think to yourself, a half-sob sitting lodged in your throat. Would you even be here in this position now, waiting for Zayne, your husband, to pick you up late at night out of love and concern? Would you have been a spectator at their wedding instead of his bride? Everything that you had built with him would be nonexistent – a life devoid of love, hazel eyes, tender care, and icy hands that could be so warm.

A sleek car pulls up in front of you with a gentle purr of its engine, causing you to blink and remove yourself from your stupor. How interesting, that’s the same color as Zayne’s car. And make. What are the odds?

Oh, the person even looks like your husband, too. What a coincidence.

Are you forgetting something important?

“Y/N,” the person says as they approach you. How do they know your name?

Cold hands hold you by your upper arms in an attempt to steady you. But your vision blurs, and you feel the desperate need to hide. You drop down to a crouch which is not wise in your dress, but there’s very little else you can do at the moment.

“I have a husband, and he’s coming to pick me up,” you announce with false bravado, voice barely loud enough for the person to hear because you have your head tucked against and your arms wrapped around your knees. To further bolster your argument, you throw up your left hand and turn it so your ring is visible. “See?”

The person in front of you lets out a deep sigh as if they’ve been dealt with the most cumbersome inconvenience possible, which makes you frown because how dare they display exasperation when they, themselves, of their own volition, approached a drunk person. A rustle of clothes, a shadow overcast, and against better judgment, you peek over your crossed limbs. The person is now crouched in front of you to meet you at eye level, which must be painful for someone so tall. However, it is not the time to feel sorry.

“I do see. In fact, I gave you that ring.”

You splutter and fail to scoff. “No, you didn’t. My husband gave me that ring, and I don’t even know who you are!” you argue and whine, failing to pull back when a cold hand rests against your head to pat down stray hairs.

“You’re telling me I don’t look familiar?”

With a pout, you shake your head, petulant and stubborn. “Nobody can really look like Zayne. He’s suuuper handsome, and no one,” you emphasize before wagging a finger in front of you, “can compare.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkle with mirth and affection, and he can’t help but indulge himself just a little bit more.

“Is that so? Anything else I should know about this…Zayne?”

Your eyes remain closed as you turn to the side, resting a cheek against your forearms. “He’s really, really sweet, which is funny because he’s – hiccup – like, obsessed with sweets. Annddd, he’s the best car–, cardi–, cardia–, heart doctor in the whooolleee world. Zayne saves lots and lots of lives all the time.”

“And what if I told you I was a cardiologist as well?”

“Doesn’t matter, because Zayne is the best. No one is better than Zayne. He’s really funny, and he makes me laugh a lot. He’s…he’s the best person I know.”

And he is. He really, truly is. The fondness brings you back to the earlier existential dread that you had been spiraling down before this man appeared in front of you. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself as your eyes begin to water, and you can’t help the sniffle that ensues.

The sound sends Zayne into a world of panic. He has long been able to differentiate between your crying sniffles and runny-nose-flu sniffles, and he knows you’re not usually an emotional drunk.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” – sniff – “and if he…if he ever left me, I know exactly who he’d leave me for.” Your voice warbles and shakes more and more with each word before you’re thrown into a fit of sobs. “And I wouldn’t blame him be – hic – because,” you try to elaborate before pausing, “because..”

Oh god, you can’t even get yourself to say it. The thought plagues you as the cries plague your chest, leaving you defenseless with no other option but to let it all out. It’s the last thing you do before you proceed to pass out from exhaustion.

Zayne catches you just in time and brings your barely conscious body home with a heavy heart. Any other day, he would’ve found your groggy voice and minor complaints on the way home to be endearing. But now? He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do besides taking off your shoes, changing you into your pajamas, and tucking you into bed. He doesn’t know what to do besides feeding you honey water by the mouthful because you refuse to drink from a cup like a sober person. He doesn’t know what to do when you so readily accept his kisses and the soothing liquid in your sleepy state.

When he finally lays beside you, all he does know is that you two urgently need to talk.

(He hears the last few grains of sand start to trickle through the neck of his glass timer.)

And soon.

-

Your eyes shoot open the next morning, and after recalling everything you word-vomited last night, you want nothing more than to plant yourself six feet under and turn into a tree. That way, you would never have to see Zayne again without being riddled with guilt, stress, and disbelief in your boorish behaviors. You two can never talk about this.

-

Zayne is this close to stabbing a cadaver from the nearby medical school’s anatomy lab with a scalpel in a manner that would laugh maniacally in the name of science. What does a man need to do to have just one – one, whole, uninterrupted – day to spend with his wife?

It has to be karma, at this point. He must’ve done something horrific to have emergencies land in his lap at the most inconvenient times possible. After all, it seemed that at every available opportunity, something unavoidable called for his attention. Whether it be an urgent consult, some patient code, nurses knocking urgently at his door, covering for someone at the last minute, Yvonne paging him, literally anything –

At this very moment, one could find Zayne leaning down in surrender at his desk – back hunched over, elbows on the glass, forehead resting against intertwined hands, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples, glasses cast aside atop a messy pile of folders in a haphazard fashion – all while muttering to himself, “I just need to talk to my wife, for the love of Astra.” After a long sigh, he rubs his eyes and looks up, his fingertips now meeting over the bridge of his nose. In his peripheral vision, a glass sand timer sits. To anyone else, it is an innocent decoration – but to him, its very existence now mocks him.

A cherished gift from you, despite its simplicity. But as he reaches over in a daze to turn it on its axel, he cannot help but wonder if it meant anything deeper. When you gifted this to him two years ago, was it supposed to remind him that time with you was finite?

“It’s a three-minute sand timer,” you had said, bouncing in excitement on your feet as you stood in front of his desk and watched him open the box. “I know you’re endlessly busy, but you should at least be able to have a few minutes to yourself when you want or need it.”

Zayne’s vision focuses on the grains of sand trickling through the neck and into the bottom bulb. As usual, he is mildly fascinated by its unique frosty blue hue, its looks more akin to snow gently piling up in a pristine tundra. He remembers the cheeky smile spread across your lips, the adoration in your eyes, the way your hands were crossed behind your back. He remembers holding out his hand, gently gripping yours when it had found its home in his, and pressing his lips against your knuckles as a gesture of gratitude, love, and respect.

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

Grayson’s words had unnerved him more than one could realize.

Zayne had never questioned his marriage before. Though there had been some hesitancy in moving on from Emcee and acknowledging that he felt some type of affection for you, the one he hadn’t been enamored with for many years, he learned to love you. It was easy, in hindsight, and it still is. Even when Emcee had come to the wedding, Zayne had felt nothing but appreciation that she had made it all the way out there despite her busy and chaotic schedule.

But what if she had stayed? What if she never moved across the country?

He groans and leans back in his chair, his head slightly hanging over the top edge. His shoulders protest, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders ache. If there was anything he could wish for at this very moment, it would be your presence behind him, your fingers kneading methodically to relieve him of his discomfort. “You’re too good to me,” he would say, and you would chuckle. “Nonsense,” you’d reply quietly. “If anyone is too good to me, it’s you.”

“See, that’s nonsense,” he’d argue and look over his shoulder, a hand reaching back to cover yours. And you would laugh before placing a tender kiss on his forehead, almost Spiderman style. He would relish in the tiny gesture, so wonderful and full of pure bliss, and know that he could make it through the rest of the day.

The pride in his gait as he has you on his arm during awards ceremonies, the peace in his eyes as he watches you snore in deep sleep, the reverence in his touch when he keeps a hand on the back of your neck as he kisses you with all abandon, the trained ear to hear your voice in a noisy crowd – every moment, every memory, every bit of life that he has lived with you, he would never trade it for the world. It doesn’t matter what would’ve happened if Emcee had stayed put six years ago.

And he really, really, wishes he had told Grayson that.

Zayne wakes his computer screen and pulls up his calendar to see what his schedule looks like for the afternoon and tomorrow. It’s relatively light compared to the last few months, and he feels like he can finally breathe. Reaching into his whitecoat pocket for his phone, and without looking, he uses your speed dial – 2, and only because 1 is occupied by his voicemail inbox. Each dial tone causes his anxiety to spike, but somebody must be answering his prayers because you answer right before it’s forwarded to your voicemail.

“Yes, Zayne?”

“Do you have any meetings tomorrow?”

“Oh, umm,” you hum, and he can hear the faint mouse clicks in the back, “there’s nothing urgent. What is it?”

“Take the day off tomorrow,” he suggests in a gentle tone. “Call in sick, and spend the day with me.”

Zayne receives a few moments of silence, and he can practically hear the gears grinding in your brain, even miles away.

“I miss you,” he adds, his voice like a confession, and you cannot mistake his tone for anything but pure, genuine longing.

“...I miss you, too,” you reply, your own tone just as yearning as his. “I’ll do it.”

Zayne’s absolutely thrilled, already logging into his employee portal to submit his sick day absence. “We’ll sleep in, cook something together. Is there anywhere you want to go or do?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

Good. That’s what he was hoping for.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from work.”

“Will do. I’ll see you later.”

“One more thing, Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“...I love you, too.”

“Goodbye, dear.”

“Bye, A-Shen.” Call ended chime.

Despite the selfish desire to keep you on the phone until it’s time to leave work, he cannot help but smile at the use of his Chinese nickname. You’ve always said it so affectionately, so full of care and tenderness. His heart rate never fails to spike and simultaneously melt at the sound of it, even after all these years.

Who knew that, to get one free day with his wife, it takes one drunken rant, the impatience of a toddler, and two individuals playing hooky?

-

Part of you wishes you never have to wake up. You have a very, very bad feeling about this day off, seeing as Zayne, of all people, was the one to propose such a day. For the first time in months, you feel his presence as soon as you awaken. You stir, and lithe fingers brush away a few baby hairs with precision and care. Your eyes stay shut. You desperately beg yourself to fall back asleep, to deny reality for just a few more hours.

But Zayne has other plans – he kisses you on the cheek before moving slightly to murmur in your ear, “Good morning, dear.”

Fuck.

“G’morning,” you mutter. At the very words, your eyes flutter open. His smile is incredibly gentle and so rife with adoration that you find it almost…blinding.

 “What do you want for breakfast?”

God, even the thought of eating makes you nauseous. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

Zayne frowns. “But–”

You take an abrupt turn and roll out of bed. “Let me start the coffee and whip up something for you.” Anything to get you away from him, or you might just combust.

A few minutes later, you definitely are.

Zayne has caught up to you now, arms wrapped around your middle as you poke some eggs frying in a pan. His chin rests on your left shoulder, and you’re panicking. It has been so long that your body barely has the muscle memory to act at this moment. Do you remain slightly stiff? Do you relax in his hold? Do you nuzzle your cheek against his? Do you turn to kiss him on the cheek? Do you start light conversation and exchange sweet nothings?

“When was the last time we had a day like this?” Zayne asks, his voice soft against your ear.

“It‘s been a while,” you reply and attempt to mask the bitterness in your tone.

“I know,” he sighs and squeezes you a little tighter. “The hospital has been occupying too much of my time.”

Amongst other things…and people.

Your hands tremble slightly as one lifts the pan and the other uses the spatula to push the eggs onto the empty plate next to the stove. Right on time, two pieces of wheat toast pop out from the toaster, and you place them with the eggs. Zayne reluctantly unlatches himself as you grab the plate without a word and walk them to the round dining table. You place it at his usual seat, a silent gesture for him to sit and wait as you grab a knife, fork, and cup of coffee with a little too much sugar and cream. The best you can do is send him a half-smile before retreating to the sink and busying yourself with the dirty dishes. Washing a frying pan should not take long, but your motions never stray from slow, thoughtful, and methodical.

There’s a part of you that never wants this day to end – but the other part wants it to end now. You’re not ready for this conversation that you bet he’s trying to have.

-

Usually, Zayne would give you some time to settle before sitting down and having serious talks. But today? He’s restless, abuzz.

The two of you are cuddling on the couch with a random documentary on, his fingers tracing patterns across the length of your arm. They leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and Zayne takes it as a sign to drape the blanket from the back of the couch over both of you, but mainly your legs and lower torso. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Better?” he murmurs in question.

You hum and nod, allowing yourself to snuggle just a bit further.

Several minutes pass before Zayne bites the bullet.

“Do you…remember that work dinner you had last week?”

You gulp, and it’s not exactly subtle.

“Mhmm.”

“Do you remember what happened when I picked you up from the restaurant?”

Well shit. “Umm…it’s a bit fuzzy…”

Zayne hums, his fingers now running through your hair. “You said something to me.”

“Did I?”

He stays silent before grabbing the remote, pausing the show, and turning to look you in the eye.

“I think you’ve been avoiding me,” he lets out, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your face and studying every little reaction of yours, “and I think it has something to do with what you said that night.

“Well first, there’s the situation where you couldn’t even recognize me, but I also understand that inebriation can greatly affect one’s vision. What concerned me the most was,” he pauses before continuing, “this idea you had in your head that I would leave you for someone else.”

Zayne lifts his free hand to softly grasp your chin between his thumb and index finger – not too harshly, but not soft enough that you could escape him.

You watch all pretenses fall from his face, and something in his eyes breaks.

“Why,” Zayne starts, his voice gravelly and raspy with disbelief now, “would you ever think that?”

Is he serious?

“Have I done something, Y/N? To make you doubt me?”

You snap, “Think for maybe five seconds about that before you ask me again. You know I wouldn’t be irrational enough to be upset with you over nothing.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, the crease between them becoming more and more pronounced. “I…”

Perhaps there was no use to beating around the bush. Your voice trembles as you confess, “I heard what you told Grayson in your office a couple weeks ago.” Even as Zayne’s eyes seem to widen, you push through, “I was going to drop off lunch, but then I heard him ask about Emcee, and if anything would’ve happened between you two had she stayed all those years ago.

“And you said, ‘Perhaps’, Zayne.”

Even in the most harrowing surgeries, his hands could remain stable. But now they shake as they move to cradle your face, and you push yourself completely off the couch. “Tell me, Zayne Li. Tell me what things would be like if Emcee never took that job six years ago. Would we still be here today?”

“Of course we would–”

“Then why?!” you yelled, whirling on him with fresh tears tracking down your cheeks. “Why would you say that to Grayson if it weren’t true?! Obviously, there’s some truth to it!”

“Please, listen to me–” he begs, but you cut him off once more.

“How can you sit there and lie to me? You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it, Zayne. You are rarely, if ever, unintentional in your words. So, the fact that ‘perhaps’ even slipped out of your mouth means something.”

“I,” he starts then pauses, his brain fighting for the right words. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

His words trigger a sharp pain in your chest, and your cries begin to worsen. The feeling like you’re on the verge of hyperventilating draws closer and closer. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“No!” Zayne immediately fires back. “Not in the way you’re thinking, and not in the way that I love you.”

“She was your first love, Zayne, and it wasn’t the kind of first love that anyone can easily brush off. You,” your lungs scream for air in between your words, “you only went out with me because she left. Had she not…”

Zayne shakes his head with vigor. “No, I would still be here. With you.”

“Then why–”

“Even if she had stayed, if anything had happened between me and her,” Zayne interjects, looking straight at you. It takes everything in him not to crack at the sight of your grief-ridden gaze. “I firmly believe that I’d still end up here with you. I meant what I said to Grayson when I said there was no use in dwelling on the what-ifs. The words didn’t come to me at the time, but I said it because I knew that no matter what, I would still be married to you.

Always encased in subtle pride and unwavering willpower, Zayne slides off the couch and plants his weight on buckled knees. He takes hold of your hands and is beyond relieved when you don’t pull away. There is no way to count the number of times he has held your hands with love and reverence – but he hopes, he prays, that this is the only time he will ever need to hold them in repentance, a sinner seeking divine forgiveness.

“Please believe me,” he implores, and you’d have to be deaf and blind to miss the desperation in his grip, tone, and eyes. “I love you, Y/N,” Zayne professes. “I told you on our wedding night that there isn’t a single moment when I’m not thinking of you, and that hasn’t changed at all. Astra permit, that will never change.”

Your silence terrifies him, but at least he hasn’t been greeted by an onslaught of fresh tears from you. “You were promised the world from me, and I have failed you,” he said softly, almost drowning in self-disappointment. “I’ve neglected you these past few months, and I am so, so sorry.”

Zayne can’t bear to look at you and drops his head in your hands. He presses venerating kisses on your fingertips and palms as he waits for your answer.

You can’t look at him either, begging on his knees like he would be nothing without you. It’s hard to imagine that of someone as established and renowned as him, but…

The sunlight that pierces through the blinds catches just right on a sliver of your diamond ring that hasn’t been covered by his hands.

You take a quivering breath, another, and then another.

“If you ever,” and Zayne lifts his head with the speed of light, “give me reason to seriously doubt what we have ever again…”

His heart pounds, and he waits with bated breath. God, is this what they feel like in all those romance movies?  

 “...I’m dragging you to marriage counseling, and if you refuse to cooperate with even one of those sessions, I will leave.”

A torrential wave of relief passes over, causing him to release all the tension in his bones. “Thank you,” he whispers against your hands, “and I understand. You will never be taken for granted – never in this life or the next.”

And when your fingers are running through his sweaty strands, his face pressed against your stomach, his arms wrapped around you,  his hands grasping firmly onto your shirt – really it’s his, but everything of his belongs to you and you only – you allow yourself to forget the insecurity that has laid dormant within you for all these years.

Zayne did not settle for you.

[anonmeansanon]

You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 2

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.6k

NOTES: people. if you want to be tagged please please please just leave a comment under the masterlist post because it's really hard to keep track of who wants or does not want to be tagged. please it's a request.

part 1 | MASTERLIST | part 3

two years ago

It started, like most things in your marriage, with silence.

Zayne’s back is to you, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The navy-blue sheets have slipped low on his hips, leaving the smooth expanse of his back exposed in the soft, amber wash of early morning light.

He looks so peaceful like this. Sleeping. His features are unguarded, carved free of the cool, impassive mask he wears in waking hours. His lashes rest against his cheekbones. His lips—so rarely parted in anything but clipped conversation—are slightly parted now, soft and pink and so heartbreakingly human.

Your hand hovers halfway between you.

There’s an itch in your fingers you can’t scratch. A need you can’t name.

You want to touch him.

Brush the dark strands of hair away from his forehead. Trace the strong, elegant line of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the stubborn angle of his jaw. You want to learn his face like a map you’ve been handed in the dark.

And his lips.

You wonder if they’d yield beneath your thumb. If they’d part for you, just once. If the same mouth that barely speaks your name could be coaxed into something more.

But your hand doesn’t move. It stays frozen in the space between you. Caught on the edge of an invisible line he never drew aloud but made damn sure you understood.

You lie back down, folding your fingers against your own chest.

There’s a ring on your finger. A symbol of permanence, of intention.

You wonder what it means to him.

Because he sleeps in the same bed as you but never touches you. Wakes up before you do and leaves without a word. Comes home late, eats dinner at the hospital—if at all—and disappears into his study like the thought of sitting across from you might drown him.

You’ve asked yourself a thousand times why he married you.

You know the reasons the rest of the world believes. A good match. A stable alliance. Respectable. Practical.

But you still remember the way your heart had stuttered when he slipped that ring onto your finger. You’d told yourself it meant something. That surely no one would vow themselves to another without hope buried somewhere under all that ceremony.

You were wrong.

And is there anything more cruel than intentional neglect?

Because there are moments—glimpses—that keep you tethered. When he refills your tea without asking. When he checks if your car tires need air. When he walks you to the elevator and presses the button without looking at you.

Care without closeness. Duty without warmth.

It’s not enough.

But still—you stay.

You stay through the quiet dinners you eat alone. Through the long stretches of silence when the only sound in the house is the clock ticking into midnight. You stay because some traitorous part of you believes this is just the prologue. That the story will begin soon.

So instead of leaving, you learn to dream.

And in your dreams, Zayne is different.

In your dreams, he looks at you like you matter. Like you’re something he’s chosen, not inherited.

He speaks your name with weight—like it tastes like honey on his tongue, not obligation. There’s laughter. Real, full-bodied laughter that shakes his shoulders and lights up his eyes. There are inside jokes. Shared looks across rooms. His hand on the small of your back when someone looks at you too long. The brush of his fingers against yours when he passes you tea in the morning.

He listens in those dreams. Not like it’s a chore, but like your voice is a favorite song he’s trying to memorize.

And at night?

Dream Zayne touches you like he’s drowning and you’re the air.

He kisses you like he has something to prove—like he can’t believe you let him touch you, and he’s terrified it might be the last time. His hands are everywhere—possessive, reverent, hungry. He doesn’t just make love to you—he claims you.

He whispers your name like a prayer. Like it hurts to say it, but he can’t help himself.

In dreams, you are his home. His haven. His choice.

But with the inevitable sunrise, morning always comes.

And with it, the rustle of Zayne’s footsteps across hardwood. The quiet zip of his bag. The soft click of the door closing behind him.

When you open your eyes, the bed is cold.

The dent where he slept is already fading.

And so, you lie still, the echo of a kiss you never received still burning on your lips.

The boutique is elegant—marble floors, high ceilings, and racks of designer gowns arranged like works of art. You trail your fingers over silky fabric and shimmery beading, pretending not to notice the way Zayne hovers a few paces behind, hands shoved in his coat pockets like he has no idea what to do with them.

He’s clearly out of his element, but you catch him stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Does it have to be long?” you ask, turning toward a rack of slinky, floor-length options.

He shrugs. “It’s formal. Wear what you like.”

You hum under your breath. That helps. Not.

Zayne doesn’t offer opinions, just follows you silently, occasionally brushing past you in narrow aisles. Every time he does, there’s a static hum in the air—an awareness of nearness that sits too close to your skin.

You pause by a velvet dress, running your hand over the soft material. When you glance at Zayne, you catch him watching your fingers, his gaze unreadable.

It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing.

You step away.

And then your eyes land on a display tucked slightly behind a pillar.

It’s not part of the formalwear section.

It’s... lingerie.

Your gaze sticks before you can pull it away. Among the sheer lace and silk, one piece stands out—midnight black, scandalous in its cut, with delicate embroidery tracing along the edges. The kind of nightgown that whispers promises just by existing.

You don’t mean to stare.

You definitely don’t mean to lean in a little.

But you do.

And that’s exactly when you feel him come up behind you.

His presence is quiet, but unmistakable—his breath warm against your temple, the subtle shift in the air as he steps close enough for your senses to latch onto him.

Zayne’s voice is quiet, rough-edged. “Do you... want to get that?”

You flinch, turning so quickly your bag nearly smacks him.

“What?” you choke, mortified. “No! I mean—what would I even need it for?”

Your voice is too high. Your face is on fire.

Zayne’s ears flush pink. He looks slightly stunned that he even asked. His jaw tenses like he’s mentally cursing himself.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts.

“You meant exactly what you said,” you mutter, trying to will the ground to swallow you whole.

“I just... saw you looking at it.”

“And?”

“And I thought maybe... you liked it.”

You do. You do like it. That’s the problem.

But there’s no way in hell you’re admitting that—not when your heart is thundering and your skin is betraying you with every shade of red imaginable.

And then—

As if summoned by the sheer mortifying timing—a saleswoman walks up, bright and chipper. “Oh, that piece is very popular with newlyweds! Especially for honeymoons or staycations,” she says, beaming at the both of you. “It’s from our Moonlight Temptation collection. Very sensual, very soft. Would you like to try it on, dear?”

You make a strangled sound in your throat.

Zayne doesn’t say a word. But his hand rubs the back of his neck, ears still visibly flushed.

You shake your head rapidly. “Nope. No, thank you. That’s—uh—not why we’re here.”

The saleswoman glances between you both, smile widening as if she sees something neither of you wants to admit. “Of course,” she says, brightly. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll pull a few gowns I think will suit you.”

You don’t dare look at Zayne as she walks away.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. That was... awkward.”

You finally meet his gaze, still flustered, but curious despite yourself. “You really thought I’d buy that?”

He doesn’t tease. Instead, his voice dips—low, honest.

“I thought it would look good on you.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Not flippantly. Not as a joke. But like the truth he’s only just realized himself. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it either.

You say nothing, heart pounding in your ears, because what could you possibly say?

Instead, you turn back toward the rack of gowns, fingers fumbling with the fabric to hide the way they’re shaking.

Eventually, Zayne moves back to the front of the boutique, giving you space. You try on a few options, thankful for the privacy curtain and the moments to catch your breath.

But even as you pull a deep maroon dress over your hips and smooth the fabric down, your mind drifts—

To the warmth of his voice in your ear.

To the way he looked at you—not with clinical indifference, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Something tender.

And you can’t help but wonder...

If he really meant it.

If he wants more than a dress and a date for a night.

If maybe—just maybe—he’s finally beginning to see you.

You tried on four dresses after the maroon one.

The first was too frilly. The second, too stiff. The third had promise until you looked in the mirror and saw someone trying too hard.

But the fourth?

The fourth was different.

It slid over your skin like it belonged there. Heavy but fluid, with a neckline that didn’t scream for attention, just whispered confidence. The sleeves barely brushed your shoulders, and the fabric pooled at your feet in a way that made you stand a little taller without realizing it.

It was green.

A deep, quiet green—rich like the forest after rain.

You weren’t thinking of his eyes when you chose it. You weren’t.

But standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps, you felt it creeping in anyway.

That familiar, impossible shade.

You swallowed.

It didn’t matter. The color didn’t matter. His eyes didn’t matter.

Not when they never looked at you long enough to leave behind anything real.

You drew in a slow breath, trying to steel yourself. Then you pulled the curtain aside.

Zayne was seated in the corner, elbows resting on his knees, scrolling through something on his phone. He didn’t notice at first. The saleswoman did. Her eyes widened subtly.

You stepped out fully.

Zayne looked up.

And froze.

His phone slipped slightly in his hand, fingers going lax before curling around it again. He said nothing at first, but his gaze didn’t waver. It dragged over you slowly—shoulders to waist to floor and back again, lingering a fraction too long at the curve of your collarbone.

His lips parted. Just slightly. Like there was something he wanted to say but didn’t have the words for yet.

And then, softly, “That’s the one.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That’s the dress,” he said, straighter now. More certain. “It’s… perfect. You look beautiful.”

Your mouth went dry.

Zayne wasn’t the kind of man to throw around compliments. Especially not like this—low, reverent, honest.

You wanted to say something light in return. A quip, a brush-off. Anything to defuse the weight of his words.

But you couldn’t.

Not when he was still looking at you like that.

The saleswoman clapped her hands gently. “It’s stunning on you,” she said, stepping closer. “Would you like us to hold it at the counter?”

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

Back in the fitting room, you rested your hands on the vanity. The dress still clung to you, warm from your skin. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment, unsure of the person looking back.

She looked...hopeful.

You hated that.

When you stepped out again, changed into your regular clothes, Zayne had already paid for the dress. You opened your mouth to protest, but he took your hand and the bag with a firm look.

“Let me do this.”

You exhaled through your nose and didn’t argue.

The walk back to the car was quiet, your steps echoing lightly in the underground parking lot. He opened the passenger door for you, and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

Inside the car, the silence stretched.

He didn’t start the engine right away.

“I didn’t expect today to go like this,” he said quietly, fingers drumming the steering wheel.

You gave a dry laugh. “Neither did I. I came in for a dress and walked out completely humiliated over lingerie.”

He huffed a breath. “You weren’t. Humiliated, I mean.”

You glanced at him. “You turned pink.”

“...I didn’t,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek. “That was just unexpected.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap. “I wasn’t looking at it for any reason. It just caught my eye.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“If you ever did want something like that,” he said, voice slow, deliberate, “I’d want to be the one you wear it for.”

You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.

He stared straight ahead, like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud.

The tension tightened again, dense and warm and impossible to ignore. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

So he started the car instead.

And the dress sat quietly in your lap like a secret neither of you were ready to say out loud.

You had no business being this nervous.

You told yourself it was just a hospital gala. A formal evening, full of handshakes and speeches and finger food no one actually liked. You’d show up. You’d smile. You’d leave. Simple.

And yet, here you were, in front of the full-length mirror, heart pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

The dress lay draped across your body like it had been born for it. Soft and sculpted. Modest but magnetic. The color deepened in the dim light of the bedroom, pooling in folds at your feet and tapering upward to delicate straps that swept across your shoulders.

The only thing between you and perfection?

The zipper.

You grunted under your breath, tugging at the stubborn fabric. It caught just at the middle of your back—too far down to see, too far up to reach properly.

“Need help?”

You turned at the sound of Zayne’s voice.

He was leaning against the doorway, half-dressed in slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. Dark strands of hair still damp from his shower fell over his forehead. The sight punched the air from your lungs in a way you refused to acknowledge.

You hesitated. “It’s stuck.”

He walked in slowly, unhurried. Controlled.

“Turn around,” he murmured.

You did.

His hand found the base of your spine first. Just resting there. Warm. Heavy.

You tried not to react.

Then—deliberately, achingly—he dragged the zipper up.

It was a slow climb. A whispering slide of metal against fabric. His fingers brushed up along the line of your spine with every inch, trailing fire in their wake. You felt his breath fan against your nape. Close. Too close.

You shivered.

He didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he said lowly, “This dress was made for you.”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “You’re just saying that.”

He shook his head. His fingers stilled between your shoulder blades, not letting go just yet. “No. I’m saying it because I won’t survive the night if anyone else sees you in it.”

You stared at him, pulse thudding in your ears.

His gaze burned. Hungry and unreadable. It made the air feel thick and too tight against your ribs.

“I was supposed to be divorced by now,” you say quietly, breaking the silence, your voice tighter than you want it to be.

He pauses behind you. You don’t have to see his face to know his jaw clenched.

Then, low—measured—unapologetic:

“Not anytime soon.”

You inhale, sharply, ready to fire back, but he steps closer before you can speak. His chest brushes your shoulder blades.

His voice is right beside your ear now, velvet-wrapped steel.

“And I promise you…” he murmurs, “…it’ll be you who tears them up. Willingly.”

Your heart stutters.

You hate how it rattles you. Hate that your pulse trips like a caught rabbit. Hate more that you can’t—don’t—move away.

“You clean up well,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

His eyes flicked to the mirror. “So do you.”

You swallowed.

Neither of you looked away.

The moment drew out too long. His hand still hovered at the middle of your back. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just resting. Like he couldn’t make himself let go.

Like he was trying to memorize what this felt like.

And then—his voice, softer than silk. “You’re shaking.”

You closed your eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Liar,” he breathed.

You felt him step closer—so close that the heat of him seeped into your skin. His free hand came up to gently brush a curl from your shoulder. The back of his fingers grazed your collarbone.

You shivered.

He noticed. His eyes darkened.

“I don’t want this to be pretend anymore,” he said quietly, looking at your reflection.

You gripped the vanity edge.

“Zayne…”

“If you tell me to stop, I will.” His breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. “But don’t lie to me and say you don’t feel it too.”

You turned, barely, enough to face him over your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I feel,” you whispered. “You’re the one who spent all this time acting like I didn’t exist.”

Regret flickered through his features.

“I didn’t know how to have you without losing you,” he murmured.

You frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does to me.” His voice cracked slightly, his hand finally falling from your back. “Everything I’ve ever cared for has slipped through my fingers. I thought if I wanted you too much—if I reached for you the way I wanted to—I’d ruin it.”

You stared at him.

At the vulnerability he didn’t often show. The grief he tried to carry alone. The love you never saw in words but now finally recognized in his silence.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

He smiled. Not out of amusement. Out of something far more tender.

“You won’t always be. Not if I keep doing this wrong.”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

But you did take a breath. One shaky inhale. Then turned fully, letting the dress rustle around you like a secret. You reached up and fixed his collar for him.

“Let’s not be late,” you said gently.

Zayne’s jaw clenched. Not from anger. From restraint.

“Right,” he said, voice thick. “Let’s go.”

You walked out the door together. But neither of you said what hung between your lungs:

You’d never been more dressed up.

And never felt more bare.

The event was exactly what you expected—opulent, polished, and exhausting.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above a sea of suits and gowns, everyone wearing their best smiles and most neutral opinions. Strings played softly from the corner, the delicate hum of a cello echoing against marble floors. Waiters circled with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres that looked more like abstract art than actual food.

You stood beside Zayne, who looked maddeningly comfortable in his element. Crisp tux, silk tie, not a hair out of place. Calm, unreadable expression. Like this wasn't his seventh sixteen-hour surgery week. Like he hadn’t just confessed things in your bedroom you were still trying to process.

Socialites and colleagues floated by, eager to shake his hand, congratulate him on the recent research breakthrough, ask about future conferences. He handled them all with clinical politeness, his palm resting lightly on the small of your back whenever someone new approached.

You didn’t speak much.

You smiled. Nodded. Sipped water and counted down the minutes until you could leave.

Until he appeared.

You didn’t even catch his name the first time—he spoke it too quickly and too close, leaning in without invitation. Mid-forties, sharp suit, smug confidence of a man too used to hearing yes. An investor, he said. Big donor to the hospital. Enthusiastic about “Dr. Zayne’s innovative direction.”

But none of that interest was on Zayne now.

It was on you.

“You must be the wife,” he said, his smile bordering on a leer. “I’ve heard so little about you. A shame, really.”

You offered a thin, polite smile. “That’s probably because I prefer to keep a low profile.”

“Modesty. I like that.” His eyes scanned the length of your gown. Lingered. “But you shouldn’t hide something so… stunning.”

You took a step back, nearly bumping into another couple. “Thank you, but I—”

“You know, Dr. Zayne’s lucky. If I had someone like you on my arm, I’d never make it out of the house.” A chuckle, like he thought he was charming.

You stiffened.

He didn’t take the hint.

Your eyes darted toward Zayne, but he was deep in conversation with the hospital director across the room, his back to you.

“Do you dance?” the man asked smoothly. “Tell you what—why don’t we give the good doctor a break, and I’ll borrow you for one song? It’s just a dance.”

You could feel the heat rising in your chest, but not from flattery. From sheer, cold discomfort. You didn’t want to cause a scene. Didn’t want to embarrass Zayne in front of his colleagues. So you opened your mouth to decline—diplomatically, gently—

“I believe my wife said no.”

Zayne’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Low. Calm. Terrifyingly sharp.

You blinked.

He was suddenly beside you. Standing too tall. Too still.

The investor turned, surprised. “Ah, Dr. Zayne— I didn’t mean any harm—”

“No,” Zayne said again, with a frosty expression that sent chills down your spine. “You meant to ignore the discomfort on her face and corner her under the guise of a compliment. There’s a word for men like you, but I’m trying to be polite.”

The man’s face turned a mottled red. “I think you’re overreacting—”

“I think you should go find someone who actually wants to talk to you. Which isn’t her.” Zayne stepped forward slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. Protective. Possessive. “And definitely not me.”

The man muttered something under his breath and retreated fast, disappearing into the crowd with his ego tucked between his legs.

The hum of conversation resumed.

You stood frozen.

Zayne turned to you, brows furrowed. “Did he touch you?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled, jaw still tight. “Good.”

Silence stretched.

Then, quieter: “You should’ve signaled me.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” you said, voice hushed.

“I don’t care about scenes,” Zayne snapped, more emotionally than you’d ever heard from him. “Not when you’re uncomfortable.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

His eyes softened. “Because you’re my wife.”

It wasn’t said with ownership. It was said with reverence. A claim wrapped in vulnerability.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you looked down at your shoes, trying to collect your breath. “Thank you.”

“I should’ve been watching you more closely,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“You’re not my bodyguard, Zayne.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I am your husband.”

And for once, he said it like he meant it.

Not like an obligation.

Like a vow.

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He offered his arm to you, and after a beat, you took it.

“Come on,” he murmured near your ear, “let’s dance.”

You blinked. “Wait—you dance?”

He smirked. “Not well. But I’d rather you be stepped on by me than leered at by anyone else.”

A laugh escaped you—genuine, light.

And just like that, some part of the ice between you began to thaw.

The music shifted to something slow and sweeping, a soft waltz that melted through the golden lighting of the ballroom. Zayne’s hand rested at your waist, the other curled gently around yours as he led you toward the center of the dance floor. You hesitated only for a breath—then let him pull you close.

Your bodies fell into rhythm surprisingly well. He wasn’t lying—Zayne wasn’t exactly a graceful dancer, but he made up for it with focus. Precision. As if he was memorizing your every movement and adjusting for it. The small crease between his brows deepened when he accidentally stepped slightly to the side. His thumb skimmed over the back of your hand.

“I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, eyes fixed on you.

“I know,” you said, unable to keep the smile from your lips. “That’s what makes it endearing.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Endearing. Great. Just what every man wants to hear.”

“Would you prefer infuriatingly hot?” you teased softly.

His fingers tightened just a little at your waist.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The tension coiled between you was no longer just a thread—it was a live wire, vibrating with the kind of electric heat that made your skin flush.

For a moment, the world softened. The music drowned out the buzz of conversation. Zayne looked at you—not through you, not past you. At you. Like you were something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold.

Your heart started to ache with it.

Because just as you let yourself settle into that rare, precious warmth—

“Is that really her?” someone whispered, too loud to ignore.

You didn’t recognize the voice, but the words struck like a slap.

“I mean, she’s pretty, but… for Dr. Zayne?”

“She wasn’t even at the last two galas. Maybe she’s just a placeholder. The family probably wanted someone traditional—quiet.”

A scoff. “Can’t imagine her fitting in here long-term.”

Someone laughed.

Your stomach dropped. Ice flooded your veins. The music dimmed in your ears as white noise took over.

You froze mid-step.

Zayne’s hand on your back tensed. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you slowly turned your head and locked eyes with the pair of women standing near the bar. They immediately looked away—but not before you caught the smirk. The judgment. The quiet condescension.

You couldn’t breathe.

The past few months—your loneliness, the silence, the empty dining table, the aching questions about why he married you—all of it surged back in a single wave.

You pulled your hand from Zayne’s.

“Excuse me,” you said, tightly. “I need some air.”

“Wait—”

You were already walking away. Not fast, but with purpose. Each step burning, each breath harder than the last. You could feel the stares, feel the whispers lingering like perfume in the wake of your departure.

Zayne caught up just outside the building, where the night air bit sharp and cold against your flushed skin.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing your arm gently. “Talk to me.”

You turned around, eyes stinging. “Why? So I can pretend to be graceful while your world watches and whispers about how I don’t belong?”

Zayne blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t hear them?” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you didn’t. Because you do belong here. They all love you. They admire you. No one questions your worth.”

“I don’t give a damn what they have to say.”

“But I do!” you snapped.

The words came out louder than intended. You saw him stagger.

You lowered your voice. “I do. Because I already feel like a ghost in your life, Zayne. Like I’m always waiting in the background, watching you exist in this perfectly curated orbit that I was never meant to touch. And tonight, when those women looked at me like I was… disposable? It felt true.”

His expression shifted—anger, confusion, something more vulnerable.

“You’re not disposable.”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

The wind whispered through the trees lining the parking lot. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your heart slamming against your ribs. Zayne looked at you like he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming fast enough.

You shook your head and turned toward the curb. “I’m calling a cab—”

“No.” His voice was low, steady.

You turned back, startled.

“I’ll take you,” he said, already pulling out the car keys from his pocket.

You didn’t argue.

You spent the second anniversary of your marriage burning with a fever.

A cruel twist of irony, really. You'd managed to go your entire life dodging sickness with near supernatural luck, but all it took was one chilly evening, a forgotten shawl, and rain-soaked clothes to send your body spiraling into a fever that left your limbs weak and your head pounding.

At first, you thought you'd sleep it off. Wrapped tightly in all the blankets you could find—you let the fever burn through your skin in silence. You didn’t call out for help. You didn’t expect it. Not from him.

But Zayne noticed.

Of course he did. A man like him didn’t miss details.

When he came home that evening, he found you curled up, shivering beneath layers of blankets, your breathing ragged and uneven. You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't see the flowers, the gifts. You didn’t see the expression on his face when he stood in the doorway, brows pinched, jaw tight.

But you did feel his fingers, cool and clinical, touch your forehead.

"You have a fever," he muttered, more to himself than you.

Your eyes cracked open, lashes damp with sweat. "It’s nothing. It'll pass."

"You're burning up. How long have you been like this?"

His voice wasn’t cold. Not warm either. Neutral, but threaded with something you hadn’t heard from him before: urgency.

"Since last night, maybe. I didn’t think—"

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

You blinked up at him, dazed.

"Because you don’t want me to bother you."

There. The words landed between you like a glass shattering on tile. Zayne went still. For a long beat, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, "That’s not what I meant."

You closed your eyes again, too exhausted to argue. "Didn’t you?"

He stood, his footsteps echoing out the room. You thought that was it. The end of whatever strange moment had bloomed between you.

But then he returned. With a cold compress, a thermometer, and a bottle of medicine that rattled as he uncapped it.

He didn’t say anything as he pressed the cool cloth to your head. As he helped you sit up and pressed the glass to your lips. As he waited, silently, for you to swallow.

You watched him through bleary eyes.

He didn’t have to do any of this.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Zayne looked up from where he sat beside the bed.

His eyes searched your face like he was trying to decipher something written between your freckles. He looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like carrying the weight of his silence had cost him something.

"I never wanted this marriage to hurt you."

You flinched. Not from the pain—your head was already screaming—but from the admission itself. A truth, finally. You clung to it like a rope.

"Then why do you act like you’re not in it at all?"

Zayne’s jaw tensed. He looked away. "Because I’ve only ever ruined the people I loved. I thought... if I stayed away, I wouldn't ruin you too."

Your breath caught. That wasn’t an answer you were expecting.

"You think loving someone ruins them?"

His gaze flicked back to you, dark and unreadable. "In my experience, yes."

You let the silence sit for a beat. Then: "That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard."

Zayne didn’t flinch at your honesty. Instead, he sighed, the sound low and tired. He stood then, slowly, his hand hovering at your shoulder. You didn’t flinch. He tucked the blankets around you more securely.

"Rest. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better."

You nodded faintly. But before he turned away, you reached out and caught his wrist.

"Zayne."

He looked down at you, startled.

"Don’t disappear again."

He nodded once.

"I won’t.”

Liar.

Because as soon as you recovered, he returned to work with a vengeance. Longer hours. Empty dinners. More silence.

That night, you saw the man Zayne could be.

But like everything else in your marriage—it was temporary.

Like a pulse.

Here, then gone.

You stepped into the house with your jaw set, your heels clicking a little too sharply against the tile. Zayne followed, quiet as a shadow but twice as heavy.

Your clutch hit the hallway table with a soft thud. Without a glance back, you turned down the hallway toward the guest bedroom.

“Don’t go to bed angry,” Zayne said behind you.

You stopped. Laughed—short, bitter. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Your fingers had barely grazed the handle when it happened.

A thin, crystalline film crept across the surface, shimmering pale blue in the dim light. The doorknob let out a crackle as frost bloomed over it like a warning.

You blinked.

Tried again.

Solid.

Frozen shut.

You turned slowly.

Zayne stood a few feet down the hall, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just weaponized his Evol against you. His expression was infuriatingly unreadable—except for the small, dry quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, like he’d just noticed it himself. “Seems like you’ll have to sleep in our bed after all.”

You stared at him, disbelief crashing into your ribs like a wave.

“I’ll take the couch.”

He tilted his head.

A beat.

Then, without a word, he flicked two fingers behind his back. You heard it before you saw it—that same sharp, cold whisper of ice forming.

You darted to the living room, half praying he hadn’t—

The couch was a glistening sculpture now. Icicles hanging off the armrest like smug punctuation marks.

“Are you serious?” you snapped, whipping around.

He leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, absolutely nonchalant. “It’s out of service.”

You glared at him. “Now what, then? You’re gonna freeze the floor?”

His brow arched—just a fraction. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

You dropped to the ground in protest, but the second your fingers brushed the hardwood, a shiver shot up your arm.

Ice.

The entire floor was now ice.

You scrambled back to your feet, livid. “Are you going to turn the whole house into a damn ice rink?!”

He shrugged, and you hated how casual he looked. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “Our bed is an exception.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t look away.

And that—that was what stopped you. Not the ridiculous pettiness of his power trip. Not even the childish escalation of it all.

But the way his eyes softened, just slightly, in the quiet. Like he was hoping you'd see something underneath all the frost. Something unspoken.

You exhaled, sharp.

He didn’t move. Just watched you from across the hall, standing in the middle of a house half-entombed in ice, like this was the only way he knew how to ask.

Not with warmth.

But by freezing every escape.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sigh. “This is psychotic,” you muttered, stalking past him toward the bedroom.

He moved aside, silent.

You stopped at the door. Paused.

Then turned your head, your voice flat. “Touch the blanket with your ice, and I’m adding carrots in every single meal.”

His mouth twitched, that almost-smile back. “Duly noted.”

You stepped inside.

The room is steeped in silence. Not peaceful silence—weighted silence.

The kind that vibrates in your chest like thunder that never breaks.

The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting golden light against the walls. Shadows flicker gently as the breeze from the open window stirs the curtains. The bedsheets feel too crisp, too heavy. You’ve been lying there, backs to each other, for what feels like hours. Both awake. Both pretending not to be.

You stare at the same patch of wall, your thoughts spiraling. He’s just a breath behind you. Warm. Still.

Too still.

Then his voice breaks the quiet.

“Do you really want us to divorce?”

The question doesn’t come sharp. It’s… soft. Careful. Like he’s not sure what he’ll do if the answer is yes. Like the very act of asking might splinter something already fragile.

You don’t answer. But you breathe—deep, just once. Enough to say: I hear you. 

He doesn’t fill the silence. Not yet. And for a moment you almost think maybe he’s done, maybe he’s going to let it drop.

But then he speaks again. This time quieter.

“Do you despise me? Do you hate the very thought of me near you? Is this what I’ve driven you to?”

His words crack at the edges—like he's been rehearsing them in his head for days but saying them aloud costs more than he expected. There’s no accusation in them. Just... damage control. The kind of questions a man only asks when he's already built the worst answers in his head.

You press your eyes shut, your throat tight.

You should speak. You should end the misery. But it’s hard, trying to sort through all the mess in your chest. You want to scream at him some nights. And others, like now, you just want to understand him. To figure out why he’s the way he is—why he disappears behind walls he doesn’t invite you through.

But even when you hated the silence, you never hated him.

You roll over, just slightly, so he can see your face in the lamplight—shadowed, but open.

Your voice doesn’t lash out. It lands soft.

“I don’t hate you.”

You pause. Let it sit between you like a bandage being pressed against a bruise.

“I'd sooner hate a thousand sunsets than ever hate you.”

And the way his breath leaves him—slow and shaky—isn't relief exactly. It's grief. It’s longing. It's all of it.

“But… if there's one thing I hated, it was the wedding. The grand venue, the unfamiliar people, the dress”—you stopped abruptly before your voice could take on an ugly tone. You didn't want to sound ungrateful. Or spoiled. 

You could still hear her voice sometimes whispering—at times even screaming in your head. 

Men don't like ungrateful women. So don't ever complain to him. A good wife speaks pleasantly—

“Continue.” Zayne turns toward you—no hesitation now. He closes the space between you like a tide claiming the shore.

One arm wraps around your waist. The other threads beneath your neck, pulling you gently, but decisively, into the curve of his chest. You feel the press of his mouth in your hair, the slow inhale like he’s memorizing the scent of your skin.

He breathes you in like you’re medicine. Like you’re salvation.

His fingers splay across your stomach, not possessive, not demanding—just present. Anchoring.

You stay stiff for a second—surprised. Then… your spine softens, your head leans back into the hollow of his throat.

Your fingers—clumsy and unsure—find his where they rest against your waist. You don’t squeeze. You just touch. Lightly.

“...I'd much rather have preferred to elope instead.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do you.

But there’s an unspoken agreement in the way he holds you—tighter than usual. Like he knows what he’s done. And maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop hiding behind it.

Your heart beats in quiet rebellion.

You don’t move.

You don’t forgive.

Not yet.

But you stay.

And that’s the first truce you’ve had in a long time.

TAGLIST: @animegamerfox @sweetcalebb @ciaradream8 @hwangintakswifey @nm4565natty @zaynieinsanie @inzayneforaj @aara08 @multisstuff @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @yellowxiaotae @harmlesscouch @ourgoddessathena @dwuclvr @asilaydead @thelittlebutton @idiots0up @crazyzombieblaze @cordidy @storiesbyparadise @whosthought @sylustabbykitty

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[anonmeansanon]

Haha deserve (no u cannot have her back)

LET YOU BREAK MY HEART AGAIN

THE AFTERMATH

Izzy notes: well..i was NOT expecting people to like it that much and to those that had similar experiences i hope you know that are the people who truly love you and won’t make you feel like that. If you ever feel like you’re in a situation like that then i advise that you leave those people and take better care of yourself because it’s not worth your time and effort spending it with them. This also took so long because i WAS STRUGGLING not to add to much so now this fic will have 4 PARTS + mayyyybe a little alt if yall will like the later chapters..

This chapter focuses on caleb mostly and his thoughts after what happened, careful guys he’s rabid.

p.s i kmow ya’ll think zayne is terrible but i promise you he’s just a funny guy, like he’s really funny.

P.p.s this fic WOULD’VE been 12k if i didn’t control myself, but if you guys like it looong(heh) then the next chapter might be 5k+ or more so….

CW: CALEB, of course, cursing, hurt/comfort, a lot of angst and caleb losing his mind, regretting himself because yaayy taking accountability? Somehow?? ALSO BIG WARNING CALEB IS STILL TOXIC AND DOESN’T THINK HE’S IN THE WRONG DESPITE FEELING BAD. Anyway did i mention caleb is bad news? Small bit where mc realizes she’s a bitch.

A year passes and he hasn't seen you since.

Seasons changed and with every holiday that comes and goes he can’t help but look for you in anything he sees.

But it was no use, after your shitty break up (courtesy of his pathetic excuse of a reason why), you disappeared from everyone, like a ghost. No update on your social medias, explaining why you’re gone, No texts to your close friends or classmates explaining why you decided to ghost everyone, or at least a letter explaining your side!—whatever you could give them.

No one had even see you leave! Not a hair nor hide of you was seen at school—no matter where he looked or waited, it’s like you became a fucking spy with how good you got at avoiding them.

And he knew it was all his fault.

At least..he thinks it is….after all you became like this just after the breakup..

The guilt hung over him like a noose—every question, every concern people threw his way because you guys were always together! surely he knows what happened, but he’s too much of a coward to tell them the truth and mc doesn’t want to talk about it either. She changes the topic every time he tries to talk and threatens to ignore him like she did last month if he ever says your name again.

The of fear of being alone grips him like a vice and he shuts up about it soon after.

But that doesn’t mean he stopped looking for you. So He’s tried contacting you himself, messaging you at all hours waiting with bated breathe that his screen will light up with your name popping up to playfully send him a text, going to all your favorite places in the hopes he’ll see you there…because honestly?

He’s regretting what he did the morning he broke your heart.

Every night, he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, the mental image of your pretty face struggling to hold back tears striking a painful chord in his heart the moment he lets his mind wander too much. He tosses and turn, the sheets crumpling from their once-pristine shape, trying to sleep and stop thinking about it but the memories of your relationship, the years you have spent together….

It all echoes back painfully…like a hammer slamming down the nail in his heart with a blunt end, he wishes he could say he made the effort to fix it, that the messages were enough, that waiting for you was fine and he did his best! All he could—

Oh who the fuck was he kidding—he couldn’t even man up the courage to man up and go to your house which was mere blocks away from his! his feet refused to turn in the direction and face you, scared to see how what he caused affected you. Hoping with whatever little hope he had, that you could be the bigger person and meet him halfway instead.

Coward..

But…. it was fine right??

Because you promised! You promised to stay friends!, you said that it was fine… so why? Why weren’t you around, to show him that pretty smile that makes his heart beat a little too fast and laugh at him for looking so gloomy, ‘you look like a kicked puppy!’ You’d tease and he’d laugh and you’ll all go out for ice cream and enjoy the evening until nighttime comes and wait—what was your favorite flavor again?

What it strawberry??— no that’s mc’s. Maybe triple chocolate? No that’s Zayne’s favorite… what was yours?

His minds cloud, trying to remember what your usual ice cream order was—-

What was your flavor??

Why couldn’t he remember?! Weren’t you friends for years?? He tries to remember what else you liked but to his crushing horror nothing comes to mind. All blank, a vast emptiness that fills him with shame.

It’s so hard to breathe.

A blank canvas, there was a ringing in his ears, the sound so loud yet so silent piercing his brain yet at the same time it was so fucking quiet he wants to scream. He felt like he was hyper ventilating, clutching at whatever he could beneath him, his body racked with sweat. Why was he reacting so bad?

When was the last time he asked you about your preferences, your usual coffee order, do you like it with milk and sugar?? or maybe you preferred it black like him? were you into shooting games like him? do you prefer musky scents or orange blossom for perfume? Did you actually like plushies?! What about the ones he got you..?

When was the last time they celebrated your birthday??

His brain racked for whatever he could remember and he feels himself spiral, it couldn’t be— how could he not, you were in a relationship for fuck’s sake and friends for even longer! how could he not know?!

Was there even a time he made an effort to chose you first?

Did he ever make you his priority?

He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood but the pain doesn’t register, the realization of exactly how terribly they’ve treated you, when all you wanted—all you needed was to be treated with the same love and care they’ve shown each other, a close friend to them, and all they’ve done was push you away til you couldn’t handle it anymore. Mock you with their closeness until you decided to stop cutting parts of yourself just to fit into a puzzle that’s already complete.

With every passing day, he felt like he was going mad, he thinks he sees you but with every turn it’s someone else, the color of their hair strands makes him more upset every time it’s not your particular shade of hair color. The familiar scent of what he thinks is you makes him whizz around to look only to get hit with the same disappointment that it’s just someone else.

…

He gets the courage to finally go to your home, nerves electrifying his veins with restlessness when he knocks on the door; he waits one minute, two minutes then footsteps, his heartbeats faster.

Is it—

Only to once again be met with disappointment when it’s just one of your parents telling him you aren’t home, he goes again the next day and they hit him with the ’you’re busy’, ’don’t want to talk to them’ and his personal favorite ‘ she’s not at home’ but he knows you’re there by the shuffling of your silhouette moving through the curtains when he glances up your window, wishing you’d peek through just so you can see him, let him see your soft face and sweet smile. He begs them, saying it won’t take long but they only shake their head and tell him to come another time when you’re ready.

Why?

What did you need to be ready for?! Did they know? Did you tell them what happened between you two? Does your parents hate him now?? Blame him for everything?

What did he even do wrong??

He doesn't understand! But he’s trying—please just talk to him!

He continuous going to your house at the oddest hours, when people should be sleeping, instead of resting for the next day he’s there beneath your window, hoping you‘d peek through just like old times, He’s tried calling out your name, throwing pebbles at your window to get your attention, only for silence to greet him.

Then the dreaded day comes and all he gets is the gut-wrenching feeling of regret to spread through his body, reaching his knees, making them weak, threatening to collapse beneath him when he gets the news that you moved away. Just like that. Packed up your things for the summer and left wherever you needed to go with telling anyone.

Moved away after graduation without informing anyone,

Away from them. You didn’t offer up an explanation,

No last words, no tearful hugs goodbye, Nothing.

You left them with nothing.

But….

But didn’t they deserve it?

Summer has officially started but he felt cold all over. Like a mindless zombie going through the motions, he doesn’t know where you went, where you’d gone to escape from the personal hell they created for you..were you eating well? Did you sleep nice and have the sweetest dreams?

He doesn’t know anything anymore, he wants to leave everything behind and go look for you, to ask why you left them—why you left him until his grandma—Josephine had had enough and knocked some sense into him.

‘she wouldn't want you to be like that, hunting nothing but smoke’ she scolded, Caleb barely felt the whack she gave the side of his head. ‘if you truly care for her, you’d stop chasing after a memory.’

He sniffles at that, eyes starting to well up, he didn't know what to do—he was just a stupid nineteen year old who just graduated high school and lost the most sweetest girl he‘s ever met, a girl whose smile he tarnished, a heart of gold he rusted all because he couldn’t choose between what was more important to him at that time.

Yes you did a voice hissed,

You just didn’t choose the right one

He squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his head back into the couch he sprawled upon, ‘grow up to be an better person, my child it’s too early to waste away,’ his grandma’s voice floats through the kitchen entrance, ‘become someone she would choose once more, a greater version than the you now—then maybe, maybe.. someday when she comes back. You’ll have the courage to say what you need to say.’

A shiver leaves him, body heavy and cool despite the summer heat coming in, he imagines himself meeting you when he gets older, will you even spare him a glance? Does he deserve that?

‘What if….’ he mumbles, he watches his grandma walk in with 2. tall glasses of cold juice, apple—his favorite, freshly pressed from the full-grown apple tree in their yard, perhaps?

The same tree you guys planted at mere 8 years of age for his birthday after you found out apples where his favorite fruit, he remembers you coming over to water the plant til it was big enough to support itself, spending the day under it with you both, watching you braiding each other’s hair with happy smiles. Until the day it finally bore fruit and you had the pleasure of taking the first bite into the crisp juicy apple.

He still remembers those days—what happen to them?

‘what if what, Caleb?’ Josephine’s voice breaks through his thoughts, shaking away the memories he wishes to return to. He swallows but his mouth feels dry, ‘what if she doesn’t want to hear? To listen to me? To—what i have to say?’ He exhales a shaky breath, accepting the glass Josephine hands him.

The cold glass cools his hand, condensation dripping. ‘What if it’s too late?’Josephine is quiet for a while, taking small sips to cool herself before she settles into her armchair.

‘then you accept her answer and move on.’

He bites his lip, he doesn’t like that answer. That look on your face flashes through his mind once more and he makes a promise to see you again.

Fix the past so that it isn’t the last memory he has left you both traumatized with.

————————————————————————————————————————-

All throughout summer vacation, He focuses on improving on himself, working out twice as hard at the gym, He knows you have a liking for muscles on guys, he hopes you’ll find his attractive enough, he flexes in the gym’s mirror thinking what your reaction will be, will you be bold enough to squeeze his biceps? Maybe stare at him while he does pushups, offering sweet words of encouragement, perhaps sit on his back and let him show you how good he can take care of you, strong enough to lift both of you so you always see him as strong and dependable. That you can rely on him and see that only he can protect you.

He spends time watching those cringy K and C-dramas mc always begs him to watch with her, observing the males in the episodes, he remembers you are fond of some of these types, will you like him more if he was more like them? He misses going to the beach with you, getting into water fights and building sandcastles, do you still have the shell he got you?

Would you prefer it if he brought you flowers everyday, a bouquet of the ones you love so that you could decorate your space with the essence of his care for you? God he just—misses you.

There were nights where he can’t sleep for hours, he spends it crying his eyes get so sore during those nights, snot clogging up his nose and non-stop tears running down his face at the emptiness that continues to fill him with every passing day you’re not around to comfort him with your gentle voice and soft hugs. He misses you so much, do you miss him too?

Does he deserve to be missed by you?

A male protagonist from the fifth drama he watched created an entire fashion line for his lover because she felt insecure in the industry’s view on what clothes should look like and who it fits, would you like it if he made you clothes that you like? sweaters of the softest fabrics, cashmere, the finest wool, he’s heard that crocheting is hard work and a true act of love if one makes the effort, will you forgive him if he made you hundreds of those? Stitch til his hands cramp and his fingers bleed from the needles just like the man in the films? Will you run to him with one of your warmest hugs and kiss him full on the lips?

like you never got to do?

He feels like the devil who has corrupted your sweetness, turned you wary and unable to believe in true love, oh—he hopes you still believe in love, he hopes he didn’t ruin it for you, you are worth every bit of love in this godforsaken world and he’ll gladly tear his heart out of his chest if you just—came—back!

He misses your late night-calls, he often clutches his phone tight, never leaving it out of his sight in the hopes one day it’ll ring with your name on it and he’ll answer and he can finally tell you how sorry he is and how you both can start all over, he’ll treat you right this time if you’ll have him—!

But it never happens.

He always goes to your hill, when the sun rises he goes, every step he climbs up has a wish in it that he hopes to see your form sitting there relaxing, waiting for him, but it’s only him every time.

He tries to reads self-help books, and books that focuses on relationship advice, Every line, every sentence, every time a paragraph calls him out for how much of an asshole he truly was and is. He wishes to change and be better.

He wants to be better for you—no he needs to be better for you. He wants to be the best decision you ever made.

So please, will you come back to him?

——————————————————————————————————————————

Time passes by and college admissions began, after applying to their dream colleges, all they had to do was wait for their acceptance letter.

Mc didn't want to go to a college far away from him but he convinced her to chase her dreams, in his head he thinks it will be better for her to find people she can call her own. To find other people to depend on so it isn’t just them. He thinks it’s time for there to be space between them now, so that they can find their place in this messy world.

They spent their remaining days going to places and making new memories..all the while he thinks of you in every place they go promising to take you there as well.

But there was always…a feeling in the air. a conversation they didn’t want to have—the both of them didn’t want to acknowledge their wrongdoings. A cut they didn’t want to bandage yet. So they just pretned they don’t feel the aching space between them.

Both of them had done you wrong, they know that. Mc feels responsible for everything that has happened, although Caleb tries to placate her, convince her it wasn’t just her in the wrong, that they both had a part, but she knows the truth.

She sees it in his eyes when he thinks she isn’t looking. He blames her for it—that she knows, maybe not everything, maybe not all but in some way she did ruin your life, she knows how much you liked him, seen it in the way you trail after him nonstop, so she tries to make Caleb focus on her, call her everytime she thinks you two are doing sometime together without her, cause she was scared that the moment he looks to you—pays attention to you and fall in love with you and your stupid smile and boring fashion sense—

You will abandon her. Leave her in the dust while she stares at what could’ve been.

But was this feeling of regret better than whatever she could conjure in her scared mind? Was it worth it ruining your relationship for her own insecurities?, thoughts of the future that will never even happen because she burned that bridge from the very beginning…

She didn’t know what she was thinking when she sent Caleb that message. But you both were pulling away and she didn’t know what to do. So she thought of the only solution—if you two broke up, you would all be friends again and it will all go back to normal..

Of course what she didn’t expect was for her ‘genius’ plan to blow up in her face.

She did not expect you to disappear.

She didn’t mean to..!

She hopes wherever you were, you’re better off without them, and if you do come back, maybe you both can have a well-deserved screaming session, let her explode her heart full of remorse before hugging it out like old times.

though a small part in her heart she wishes you’ll let her see you once more, she’s starting to miss that stupid smile of yours..

So please..hurry up and come back already..

——————————————————————————————

Whew that was a rollercoaster wasnt it? I hope you guys notice this isn’t canon-compliant, ssoo no trauma, no one dying and caleb does not go through a makeover~! But he will be having a crisis meltdown and maayyybe yandere if ya’ll want it in the upcoming chapters! Remember this might become 4-5 parts long since i wrote so much(lol) anyway zayne comes back in the next chapter..

TAGLIST: I WILL ONLY TAG THOSE THAT EXPLICITLY SAY THEY WANT TO BE TAGGED, I WON’T TAG YOU OTHERWISE TO AVOID ISSUES.

@mentaltrouble2201 @leftpoetrymoon @aboobie @violentriddlehoard @thirstblogforaparchedgirl @gigikubolong29 @animegamerfox @slimearchon @cockiiess @anonmeansanon @mcdepressed290 @makingfanfictionstosleep @sleepisfortheweakpooh @sillyfreakfanparty @potania @noxus123

[anonmeansanon]

Let you break my heart again~

Izzy notes: was working on the other fics until i started blasting ‘let you break my heart again’ by laufey for an hour while crying and this scenario wouldnt leave my head so you all should suffer with me.

CW: Pain, just pain, OOC caleb and mc (shes kinda mean here sorry), you are a very ‘normal’ girl and people are terrible, not canon, mc and caleb are not siblings but have very close families.

A story about Caleb and Non!mc. You

Where you grew up as mc and caleb’s childhood friend, you fell in love with caleb ever since you first saw him, a dashing smile on his face that made your heart beat unaturally fast. You became fast friends them, having move into the neighbourhood when you were 7, itching for adventure in a new place, with new faces.

You were a year older than mc, and a year younger than caleb, making her the baby of your trio and you both always made sure she was well-taken care of.

Come second grade and you and him were in the same class, with mc in 1st grade. Despite this, he never left her alone, every lunch break and reccess was spent with her, feeding her her favorites and buying her snacks while you tagged along awkwardly, not really knowing how to add yourself to an an already well-established dynamic.

But you really wanted to be their friend.

Although they dont seem to share the same idea , your presence sometimes being ignored for their other childhood friend. A boy with the prettiest green eyes that seemed cold around everything but mc and whose ice evol was much cooler than whatever you could bring to tthe friendship.

Like the third wheel you are.

You watch them sometimes walking ahead of you after school, their shadows melding together in a perfect trio. It makes you question if they even wanted you around…

It got even worse in high school, although zayne had moved away for college, since he graduated first. It didnt feel like you had gotten any closer, Mc had her own cliques that were more like….her. Preppy, trendy, the popular type that gets all the boys and just..cute all over, while you stood there out of place in your old worn-out sneakers that you keep because you loved that pair and comfy sweaters with holes that you’ve picked out of anxiety, overthinking your place in this friendship you’ve had for years.

do they even like you?

These thoughts plagued your mind like a bee hive, buzzing incessantly, but It seems too late to questioned that, the countless sleepovers, secrets you’ve all spilled during ice cream hangouts, food court trips, and visits to the beach, it all must be proof of your closeness to each-other—isitnot?. You still have the pretty shell caleb had given you that day, it was a beautiful white conch shell, one of your prized possessions still sitting on your caleb shrine…

Yes.

You have a caleb shrine.

That’s not weird at all! Dont people have collections of things they love??!

….

Okay maybe you are a little weird for having a small shrine of him….

But you promise that there’s nothing weird going on—-! You don’t follow him around or anything!

Sure you were a bit too clingy, but you like your new friends, even though there are others, the three of you together felt special, like the three muskateers or something..

You loved making plans with them for little study sessions, and you pretend not to notice how they often have them without you, you pretend you dont feel the pain of being left out everytime your scroll past their recent photos they’ve uploaded on Moments.

Matching outfits,matching drinks..where they in a relationship? You wonder, the caption says otherwise “studying for finals with my bestie~❤️“, your finger hovers over the photo, wondering if you should heart it.

But then you see it, a piece of your pink sweater sticking out of the supposed ‘perfect couple’ photo and you feel yourself shrink in disbelief.

You were there with them, yet they didn’t even bother to take a picture with you..when did they take it? When they were sure you weren’t looking so you wouldn’t ask to be in it?

Looking through both their profiles, you bite your lip, noticing the lack of you in them, even though you had them in yours.

You don’t think they hate you, after all you’ve spent your entire childhood with them. You three were the best of friends.

Yet it seems not everyone at school shared the same idea, as though you ruined the perfect duo that they were, a stain on the Prince and Princess of Linkon high.

‘they look soooo perfect for each-other’ you remember some people gush over them whenever they were picked to play as beauty and the beast for the school play.

And you?

A fucking broom.

Not even the main one, just a background broom.

They were always so in sync with in each-other, his eyes always look for her in a crowd, always the first to call out her name and wait for her no matter how late she was. Makes sure to win her gifts at amusement parks, and the stupid claw machine you’re sure is rigged. Until he comes to win her plushies to add to her ever growing collection while you wait there with your hands empty and heart waiting.

He would pack her favorites and keep snacks that she likes just in case she got hungry. He always—always shared his answers with her, taking the time to teach her material she couldn’t wrap her head around and there to console her when she failed.

but you?

You never first in his eyes.

you were never his first priority. But— you were okay with it, after all they were close before you even came around, being the youngest you understand caleb’s soft spot for her. But you can’t help but be jealous when they would walk ahead of you, running after them, calling out and playfully hitting them for not waiting up, but the slight pang in your chest never left. The gifts he would give you—a cute sheep plush. At first you thought it was sweet precious even- the happiest you’ve ever been at fifteen—only for the hope to crush you when mc comments that she had a duplicate of that so she gave it to caleb instead.

The same plushy you begged caleb to give you after he was done winning mc multiple prizes at the arcade, but one look at her puppy eyes and he told you he would win you one the next time.

They didn’t even invite you the next time.

You held back tears that day-smile wobbly and nodding.

You never expected much after that.

You nodded when caleb told you he couldn’t wait for you, ‘ i need to walk mc, she gets scared of alleys when walking back home—you understand don’t you?’, you held your tongue when they didn’t wait for you at lunch, their food done and finished as you just arrived, you didnt even speak up when they shared your umbrella when it was raining on the way home, you had to use your own bag to cover yourself because caleb was worried mc would get sick from the rain.

Yet you couldnt help but like him.

You feel so stupid for liking someone that will never have eyes for you. Too busy watching out for his little angel in case she trips over her own two feet for the third fucking time in a row.

But you can’t help it, he was never really rude to you, he was just too focused on taking care of mc, that’s what he was used to.. he did his best to include you in things, conversations that where you discussed topics you were passionate about and he would just listen, midnight calls where he comforted you after terrible nightmares and anxiety attacks.

A hill you both found after a day of exploring, one that overloooks the beautiful sunset you both love to watch and unwind. A spot that you both promise was your ‘special hiding spot’, a spot he hasn’t even told mc. You go there every time you feel nervous about an exam, or if you’ve had a fight with one of your parents and he was always there, to comfort you and be by your side and encourage you with sweet words—

Making sure you both share a ride on the rollercoaster, even though he rode the teacup with mc for the sixth time that day while you only got one ride before she started complaining she wanted to go home. You didnt want to, asking caleb if she can go home by herself so you two can enjoy yourselves on the rides a little longer but he shut that down quick ‘pipsqueak can’t walk home alone’ he says, grabbing her hand ‘ i’ll be back’

He never came back.

You waited for hours until the sun went down, two cotton candies ignored in your hand while you waited for his message, only for him to say that mc and him were watching her favorite show and he couldn’t come back and for you to walk home alone

By yourself.

But you can’t hate him. You wish you could..

He was always so kind, so helpful, he never raised his voice at you and wasn’t the type to leave you behind…

Unless it came to mc of course.

You liked him for who he is as a person, a hard-working grandson who loves his family, who uses his free time volunteering at the animal shelters, and teaching the local kids how to play basketball.

Which is why—you decided to finally do it!

You were gonna confess on your last year of senior high.

You don’t want to hide your feelings anymore, you wanted him to know just how much you liked him.

So on the 1st week of October, you stood in front of him, nervous. It was a cool friday, a nice breeze flowing through the air and drying the sweat the dripped from your temple.

The sun was setting behind you, it was quiet since there aren’t that many students around. You—with your messed up, homemade chocolate that you stayed up all night the day before, so many trial and errors, chocolates you are very sure you burned twice before finally, finally getting it right-

Only for the chocolate to spill all over the floor, you let out a squawk before a curse leaves your mouth, banging your leg against the side of the table, it leaves you reeling in pain, you almost cry out in the comical fashion, because— what the fuck!?

You just wanted to make chocolate for the boy you love!

You heave a heavy sigh, no use crying over spilled chocolate(see what i did there?), you start over, eyeing the amount of dishes growing in the sink and mentally crying at the consequences that you will be washing all dat.

You sigh in exhaustion and look over your ingredients, you have enough to make one more batch and you hope to whatever god was out there it goes right this time.

And it’s like luck has shined down upon you, because it turns out perfect!—you actually cry this time because damn it, it took you like 6 fucking hours to make 5 chocolate hearts!

You packaged it up all nice and cute, a orange heart-shaped box with purple ribbon, you thought it fit well since it was October for the color scheme but honestly it’s because the purple reminds you of his eyes.

And now you stand before him. The boy of your dreams for years, you stutter just to get the words out “ w-will you go out with m-me, Caleb?!” You say the last part out a little loud, cringing at the volume, it was silent for a while, before a warm hand pats your head, you open your eyes, not realizing how hard you had them clenched, he takes the box you held out and smiles, so bright “sure!”

You blink, not sure you were hearing right—you were so sure he was gonna reject you…a big smile shows on your face, maybe this time..

He’ll choose you first.

You don’t realize how much you’ll regret thinking those words.

When you both got together, everyone was shocked, like they didn’t expect it, nervous eyes darting over between you and her. were they looking for animosity? maybe her giving you both the cold shoulder. But she didn’t react when caleb broke the news to her, ‘congrats guys!’ Was all she said as she laughs, not a hint of anger in those angel eyes of hers.

But you saw it—

A slight quiver in her lip, the shakiness in her eyes, a strained smile.

But you couldn’t feel bad, ‘you’re such a bad friend’ you hear a terrible voice whisper in your head. But it’s not fair. She’s had him her whole life and now he’s finally yours—! You ignore the guilt creeping up your throat because it wasn’t fair…

Everyone had mixed thoughts about your relationship

Mc’s group of friends avoided you, talking about you behind their back, how you ‘stole her one and only light’ and mc didn’t do anything to refute, she stayed silent, as though…agreeing to it all.

People at school were not expecting you both, you can tell they saw mc with caleb instead, he didn’t say anything to defend you, you didn’t say anything either.

At first it was fun—the first few months were bliss, you went on dates, walks to the park, and multiple trips to the beach, Mc was always there of course, for some reason caleb always had a reason for why mc just had to be there, but you didn’t mind. It wasn’t like it was on purpose right? Besides-It felt just like old times when the three of you would go everywhere together. She wasn’t ruining your dates becuase she didnt want you two alone—right?

Right?

You had never once said anything bad about mc. You couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t.

Because Mc was Perfect, she was an angel and she could do no wrong, even if she ignored you on purpose, made everyone pick her over you and always, always wanted caleb to help her with whatever the fuck she needed helping because she was oh so helpless while telling you that ‘you can do it yourself, you’re big enough’.

But now you want nothing more than to curse her name a bit.

Because she just. Kept. Appearing.

A few times was fine—then it just kept happening, she was already there despite you not telling her where you two were going and you suspect caleb was telling her where you two where headed, maybe she asked, but you were frustrated at the blatant lack of privacy that you both had a fight about it, yelling that you both need to have your ‘alone time together’ since you’re in a relationship now and mc can’t just keep barging in. he tried to calm you down until you couldnt take it anymore,

“she just wants you for herself caleb?! Can’t you see? Shes trying to break us apart!”

…

At those words you saw caleb’s eyes darkened, you freeze. It was silent now, heavy breathing leaving you after all the screaming.

“Don’t you EVER say those words” he hissed, you flinched back, why was it so venomous?

“She didn’t do anything to make you so paranoid, so stop being so fucking delusional and understand that you can’t monopolize all my fucking time and energy”

.

.

He left right after but you stood still, shook to your core, it was the first time seeing him so…angry.

——————————————————————————————————————————

After that incident it became tense between you and caleb, you tried to bridge that gap with jokes, good morning messages and texts to take care of himself and snacks he likes but he didn’t seem like he was all there, he zoned out often, not listening to you speak for minutes, gazing at something you couldn’t see.

You will never truly have his attention. A voice bites in your head.

It sounds just like her.

You were sure she was laughing at you.

You had a bad habit of being clingy to things and people you love so you can’t help it if you wanted to be around him all the time…but maybe it wasnt helping him.

Mc started avoiding you and caleb got worse, he became quick to anger, losing focus on his tasks and school work leaving his grades to plummet and a screaming session where his coach yelled at him for 30 mintues straight when he couldn’t get his head in the game.

His friends who were worried for him, said that maybe he should break off the relationship, take some time fro himself since he started becoming like this when you got together. At first he refused—calling them rude and crazy for even suggesting that but then they threw their explanations at him and he couldn’t help but think ‘they’re right’.

You were clingy—well you always were but it tripled when you got together now he couldn’t go anywhere with you and you liked having calls at night that messed up his sleeping schedule.

You wanted to go somewhere all the time, he didnt have time for anything else as though you were trying to make for something—lost time perhaps?

Study dates, study dates—study dates!vyou always wanted to have one in the library after school and ask him for help on subjects he’s sure you aced at.

You were apparently very weird—they saw you saving candy wrappers from sweets he would discard and rumours of your shrine containing pieces of his hair and tissues he used to blow his nose.

Okay that one was kinda creepy—but cute at the same time.

But he understood their concerns, he sees it everytime he looks in a mirror, baggy eyes and pale skin, his muscles were disappearing since he couldn’t go to the gym without you tagging along and it was frustrating him that his phone was blowing up at all times of the day and it’s been days since mc spoke to him. She was angry and he didn’t know why, countless messages sent only for her to leave him on read.

He doesn’t notice the messages you sent. The last one reading ‘i love you caleb, please get some rest’.

She finally messages him, late at night with one sentence.

“Break up with her, then we’ll talk”

The coming weekend, he comes over to formally end your relationship, ‘ it’s better to do it early man’ his friends say. So here he is, at nine in the morning.

To break up with you.

At first he didn’t know what to think, why was pipsqueak telling him this, she offered no explanation despite multiple messages from him asking for a reason, he thought his friends were kidding when they said to break it off but now…

He liked you, you were sweet and kind but…that was all. You never struck him as someone to catch his eye through the years you’ve grown together, too plain, too simple. meanwhile mc flourished under his watchful gaze, growing more beautiful and he couldn’t help but feel his heart quickened everytime they meet eyes.

Why did he even accept your confession? Was he bored? Or maybe he was tired of waiting for her…

But if she was messaging him like this—then maybe it meant…

He knocks and waits for a while. Practicing the words in his heads, shoving down the guilt he’ll feel knowing it’ll break your heart but he can’t take it. Mc’s face flashes in his mind and he steels his resolve.

You finally open the door and is surpised before a smile takes over “come in” you usher, but he stays put, “this won’t take long” he says fists clenching, why does he feel so guilty?

“Huh?” You tilt your head, sleepy and still in your pajamas, “yn..” he breathes,

“Let’s break up..”

.

.

.

At first you didnt process it, mind moving slow from the sleep clouding you, before you laughed “oh caleb, it’s too early for jokes” your smile strains.

“I’m serious yn” he sighs, eyes tired. “ I want to break up with you”

It was quiet, the nieghbourhood was silent on a weekend like this, you stood there in shock and disbelief, the crushing weight of your heart dropping to your gut at his words “b-but…” tears well up “why..? W-what did i do?” You look up at him, bottom lip wobbling “it’s not you…you didn’t do anything” he looked away, “it’s…me i’m sorry for leading you on, i dont think i was ready for a relationship” his shoulders sag as he said this, like a weight has been lifted—or added?

You open your mouth to say something but he interrupts—“ so let’s just…end this okay? I do love you yn but i don’t i ever saw you like that..” your breath hitched was it mc again? You wanted to scream, was it mc you thought of?!

It wasn’t fair! Not fair at all!

NOTFAIRNOTFAIRNOFAIRNOTFAIRTHATSTUPIDBITC—

“Okay” you smile, hoping your tears don’t fall, making you look more pathetic “but…” you shove down a sob “ we can still be friends right? Just like old times?” You shiver, but it’s not from the cold.

“ yeah “ he nods “i’ll..see you around yn” he turns and walks away, leaving your house, leaving you, all alone.

Like many times before.

Months pass and it’s already june, and the entire time he doesn’t see you, doesn’t look for you too busy patching up things with mc and keeping her happy, enjoying his incoming graduation, partying the days away, too drunk and satiated to think how much of a hypocrite he was, a fucking liar.

It wasn’t until the last 2 weeks of school did he notice how you didn’t show up anywhere, you were always active around school, helping with events and staff but now even your friends came up to him to ask how you were.

He tried to remember the last time he saw you, but all he could see was your face full of pain on that morning, when the morning dew permeated the air and he stood in front of you to break your heart into little pieces and leaving you with the shards to fix.

No one had seen you, no one checked up on you and you don’t respond to anyone’s texts.

He tries to send a few during class, checking every period to see if you’ve responded, you usually did and panic only fills him with every hour.

what happened to you?

Are you ok? Were you hurt?

Where are you?

Should i make a part 2? (Might be a time skip with lots of steamy scenes tho lol)

[anonmeansanon]

My dearest Jasmine.

Dawnbreaker x non-mc.

Thank you so much for giving me this wonderful idea @plzdonutpercieveme😊😊

Tag list:- @silver--47

A lost soul who brings death.

With that name he lived his whole life.  Some may say 'He gives a final mercy to those who turned into wanderers.'  But for him? It was pure hell.  And that hell was his daily life.

Children are full of life.  They brought our inner soul to peace.  But his childhood started with death that he had to do.  Not many of us have the luck to live with both of our parents.  But we live with them because they gave birth to us and we learn to love them no matter how harsh they are.

Because we love them.

That's how his life had been went until that day.  The day where many souls lost their lives.  That day was a tragedy to everyone.  But for him? It was worse.  Everyone watched their loved one die.  But he had to kill his loved ones.

Say, can you kill someone who you love so much?  you can't.  But he had to.  He had to kill his parents because that was the only way to bring save them. Tears streaming down from those innocent eyes, he watched his parents smiling at him despite of the pain they are going through.

They were turning into one of them.  And the way to save? To kill.  And he was 6 years old.  His mother wiped his tears and started to cry with his father.  He was leaning against at the door with blood on his shirt watching his parents cry.

"Please, don't cry Zayne... You know we always love you right?"

His mother placed him on her lap and leaned her head on her husband's shoulder.  She started to rock him gently and hugged him tightly.  He can feel it.  He can feel his mother's heartbeat started to beat abnormal.  He turned his head to see his father only to see him clutching his heart and was crying silently.

They don't have much time left.

His mother and father kissed his forhead and placed him back on the cold floor.  Both of his parents looked at each other with a pained smile and pressed their forehead against each other.

"Mom, dad... where are you guys going?"

He said those words as he watched them slowly walking towards the door before they lost control of themselves.  Both of them looked at him one last time as his parents.

"If there is another life,  let us be your parents again Zayne.... and don't forget this we love you so much..."

And those were their last words.  And that was the moment his nightmare begun.

Suddenly both of them charged at him with an abnormal force which is not so normal for a human being.  Out of self defense he used his evol.  

Silence.  Too much sickening.  He slowly opened his eyes and saw his evol pierced both of their heart.  Blood was dripping from their mouth.  His eyes widened by the scene whic he created.  Both of them were holding thier hands tightly in thier final moments.

"Mom?... Dad?...." He slowly crawled towards them and placed her head on his lap.  Hoping that they were still alive and they were sleeping.  But fate is a cruel one.  He can feel their warmth fading away to coldness.

Out of their house he can hear the screams.  People dying hoplessly.  Changing to one of them.  But what they can do?.  No one would have thought a disaster would struck them on this day.  A castrophe that would change their lives.

"Mom, dad please wake up.. you guys promised me that you'll be spending time with me since it's my birthday today... right?"

That innocent voice was full of fear.  He hugged both of them tightly inspite of their blood was soaking his shirt.  Suddenly he can feel somthing changing.  He looked at them and saw them turning.  

A silent sob followed by scream.  He ran away from the scene and hid on his wardrobe.  Silent gasps escaped his mouth and tears started to fall.  He was only 6 years old.  At that only one thought was going through his head.

"I was the one who killed them.."

===============================

"What? you can't come?..." you heard his sigh on the other side of the call which means the reason must be her.  Looking at the dessert you ordered you held back your tears and shooked your head.

"Please, Zayne- it's been two weeks since we last saw each other.. can't you come to me?..."  You really want to cry but you want to hear his response this time.  "Please y/n, you know she have a heart condition right?  and I can't leave my patients alone-"

And that was the moment tears started to fell down.

"Patient? or is it because she's your patient?"  You heard him completely went silent on the other side.  Both of you know that, your relationship started to fail the moment she came back in his life.  

"Y/n, please don't do this today-" You had enough.  What's the point of holding him when it doesn't feel like you were not enough?  

"Let's meet tonight at the cafe."

Without hearing his response you ended the call and started to cry.  Tears blurred down from your face and started to fell.  Where did it all go wrong?  Everything was going well.  He always seeked your attention all the time.  

You two have been dating for more than 4 years then why does he had to do this now?  You remeber how he like to kiss you and hold you in his arms after that nightmare every single time.  Afraid that you'll vanish.  Afraid that you'll leave him alone.

Then why he is the one acting like he's going to leave you forever?  Why he's giving her the same look that was given to you?  Why does everysmile is going to her?  Why does it feel like she's his girlfriend?  Why does it feel like you were a replacement all this time?

You laughed at the thought.  You were trying to deny the truth all this time.  He was never yours to begin with.  You tried so hard when his eyes fade to someone's thought when he's holding you.  Like imaging someone instead of you.

That bastard was using you a replacement all this time.  But you stayed like the fool you were.  Because of ehat?  Because you loved him too much to let him go.  

You angrily ate the desert infront of you.  But you don't know that someone was watching you with a sad look on his face.  A man who had been loving you all this time.  When you were looking at your Zayne, he was always watching.

Wishing that he was the one who's holding you instead of his  other version of him.  Wishing that he was the one kissing you and holding your hands tightly.  But that was the wish that he can never have.

In his life that was the only wish he'll ever ask for.  To be yours and yours alone.  But how can you look at him?  He was just someone watching you loving someone who clearly don't deserve you.  He hated him for making you feel like you were the second option.  Hated how he made you feellike you were not enough.

If only.  If only......  

Can he be happy for one time?  Seeing his past self from another time hurting you....

"Huh? Zayne?...." 

Startled by your voice he looked at you and to his surprise you were looking at him.  Looking right at him.  His body went still as he proceed what is happening infront of him.  You can see him?  How?  All this time both of you can never look at the other.....

Bracing his self he extend his towards you and placed it on your cheek.  You looked at him with tears in your eyes.  He looked like Zayne but different.  He looked like he's carrying death.  Someone who's broken into pieces hanging on their last hope of life.  

But before he can do anything- he felt it.  He's back.  "No... please, just one time let me touch her..."  He fell on his knees and hugged himself.  Finally getting notice by the one that you love but only for a moment?  Can't he be selfish for one time?  Tears started to fell from his eyes as he cried.  In the same room where once his parents slipped away right in front of him.

You were frozen in your place.  Who was that?  Why does that person looked like Zayne?  Maybe you were hallucinating?  But that warmth was nothing like the one you've been receiving all this time.  He felt sad and distant.  Touching your cheek you wiped the tears and remembered his warmth.

"Just what is going on?... Who was that?"  And little do you know that you will meet him soon..

"I'll defientley come to you now yhat i have felt your warmth.  And give you the love you deserve instead of watching you fall apart for him..."

[anonmeansanon]

ceo x secretary au with caleb except he's the fresh face, unusually chipper and unfairly attractive new hire who has interns tripping over their words and forgetting tasks. always greets you with a very enthusiastic 'good morning, boss!' and you can't even find the energy to be annoyed at him being happy at work because he's genuinely incredibly helpful. cracks stupid office jokes to get the younger interns much more relaxed and everyone loves him. so he kind of becomes notorious for being incredibly aloof about people hitting on him.

someone touches his shoulder and compliments his arms? "thanks, being really tactical about my work out schedule really pays off! want help with a routine? :D" someone asks him to get drinks later? "for the floor? i'll ask the boss to see if we can have a small party or something for reaching the quota :)" an intern leans over his desk in an embarrassingly seductive way? he's a little weirded out, but asks if they needed something and that their shirt looks very tight and uncomfortable to wear in a tone that expresses genuine concern. again, you can't even be mad because he's really sweet about it.

but you? you notice he's been working really hard on making your life and managing the entire floor a lot easier, staying late after hours and even falling asleep at his desk sometimes, and it tugs at your heart a bit. so in the midst of him passing by with a stack of printouts for a meeting with the higher ups scheduled for the following week, you offer a little smile and thank him for his hard work. an interaction that would normally go unnoticed by everyone else.

except caleb flushes a comical shade of bright red, all the way to the tips of his ears, and drops the stack of papers. he trips on absolute air, banging his knee against the wall, and scrambles to pick up wayward pages flying everywhere while apologizing profusely.

when you crouch down to help him and your fingers brush reaching for the same paper, he squeaks. everyone is staring in varying degrees of surprise, disbelief, and amazement.

[anonmeansanon]

A Silent Bond

(Sylus x NonMC!Reader)

Chapter 1 “Want and Found”

A/n: Hello! Hello! I finally got the first chapter of this story out! I will say this is going to be a bit of a big project for me so bear with me here! I’ll still be working on my Big Brother Malleus Series along with my other stuff! I don’t have an actual set schedule for when chapters are going to come out so everyone is going to have to be patient with me on this! Sorry!

Chapter warnings: some angst, funny moments though, not a lot of warnings for this chapter to be honest. Oc characters pop up.

Song for this chapter: All I Want by A day to Remember

The sound of hands clapping and people hollering from the audience nearly deafens you as you and your friends all prep for your performance. 

You couldn’t help but look at the band that performed before you as they smiled and waved to the audience, thanking them for allowing them to play their songs and for listening. A few of them were sweating from all the movements they did on stage, and it was showing through their clothes. 

Even though it was gross, it showed the dedication and passion they had for their performance. 

The venue was taking place in one of Linkon’s many parks. Allowing a larger audience to have space to move around and relax. 

And it was a beautiful night to see the full moon, too. 

You hid yourself in the dark shadows off stage with your hands in your pockets, scanning the crowd in hopes you would find a familiar face.

But you didn’t see any. 

“Hey, are you looking for ‘He who should not be named’ again?” 

You glance over at your bandmate, and long-time friend, Alfred. He was the band's main guitarist and the person who asked you to join their little side gig…

More like begging you to become the lead vocalist. 

He heard you singing a song at the convenience store where you worked and practically threw himself over the counter while asking you to join him. You kept declining until he started talking about the payments you would be receiving for each performance. 

You couldn’t deny high-paying gigs if it meant you could pay rent and groceries. 

The redhead pats your back, bringing you back from your thoughts to the present. You let out a sigh at how right he was about looking for someone in the crowd. You were hoping that maybe he would show up. That maybe he cared at all, or that he regretted what he did. 

That’s what you hoped, but over time, that hope started to dwindle. 

Before you worked at the small convenience store that had shitty pay-

Before doing the side gig of being the main vocalist of a band with old friends-

Before struggling to make a living, you were the second in command of one of the most feared organizations in the N109 Zone, Onychinus.

How could someone who had so much power, so much influence, and connections end up as an outcast from such an organization? 

“Hey! Good luck out there!” You drew your attention to the band that just finished their performance as they smiled and waved towards you and your bandmates as they walked past you all. 

Alfred waved back as he wrapped an arm around you, helping ground you from your thoughts.

“Come on, superstar. What you need is to scream your emotions out, and throw yourself into the crowd, surfing away from your troubles.”

“The last time I did that, the crowd parted and I landed flat on my face.”

Alfred sniffs and turns away from you, taking his arm back, and begins to go grab his equipment and the rest of the band members. 

You chuckle and follow suit. As you walk behind Alfred, another friend and band member of yours, Mathew comes up to you and ruffles your hair. 

“Oui!”

“Wanna be punk, gotta look punk.” 

“Dude, it took me two hours to style my hair!”

Mathew doesn’t say anything as he ruffles your hair again, and combs his fingers through to get out any knots and tangles. He takes a step back to look at the clothes you have on, silently judging your dark green cargo pants and your navy blue ribbed tank top. 

“… if it were me, I would add some spikes. And studs.”

“Totally some studs. How do you feel about piercing your nose?”

Alfred playfully grabs your nose with his middle and index finger and gently pulls on it. You whine and slap his arm to get him to let go of you. 

Both the blonde and the redhead chuckle as they lean over and pinch your cheeks. You only give them a deadpan look as you were not entertained by their antics. 

“Dragons Static! You're up now!” One of the venue workers waves you guys over to get on the stage. 

“Come on (Y/n). Time to shred some strings and blow some eardrums!” Alfred smiles as he hooks an arm around you, and your bandmates go up the steps. 

The audience claps their hands as they see you all make it up on stage. One of your bandmates was already waiting up there, adjusting her Bass Guitar. Ottie was her name; you didn’t know much about her. She wasn’t a childhood friend like Mathew and Alfred were, but turns out she dated Alfred for a bit before both of them broke up on good terms, seeing as they were better as friends than a couple. 

And also because it turned out Alfred was gay. 

But Ottie was such a delight. By just looking at her, you didn’t think she would be part of a punk-rock band. She wore pastel colors and always had some type of ribbon or bow in her hair. When she heard another girl was joining the band, she screamed in delight and hugged you on the spot.

She made eye contact with you, and a smile adorned her face, practically blinding you on the spot, besides the spotlights. 

Each one of you took your places on stage and grabbed your piece of equipment. As you walked up to the microphone, you scanned the crowd one more time, hoping to find that one person, just him. 

Unfortunately, you never did. 

Mathew takes his seat over at the drum set and spins his own personally made drumsticks in his hand before slamming them against one of the cymbals. He starts off the tempo as Alfred uses his pick on the strings of his guitar, and Ottie does the same. Eventually, the melody comes together. 

You take one last glance around the crowd and suck in a breath before beginning your part of the song. 

“I'm always screamin' my lungs out 'til my head starts spinnin'

Playin' my songs is the way I cope with life

Won't keep my voice down

Know the words I speak are the thoughts I think out loud.”

You watch as some of the audience members in the front begin to headbang along with the music, following the beat and cheering too. 

You couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm. You remember being in their place back when you worked in Onychinus, just wanting to support local bands and businesses on your off days. 

There are times when you think, what would happen if you weren’t kicked out of your second home in the N109 Zone. If there were a way to undo the heartache that followed after the events. 

Though, as you look back on it, you don’t think it was your fault in the first place. How could it be? You couldn’t stop your growing emotions and feelings for your Boss. 

“Let's leave no words unspoken

And save regrets for the broken

Will you even look back when you think of me?”

You breathe as you try to focus on singing the lyrics, blinking back tears as you think back on old memories. 

“All I want is a place to call my own

To mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone

Whoa, you know

To keep your hopes up high and your head down low!”

You kept telling yourself to stop looking at the crowd. To stop scanning for a familiar head of snowy white hair. But you did it every time, either way. 

“Keep your hopes up high and your head down low!”

As you scanned the crowd one more time, you saw two familiar crow masks. You started to feel a sense of joy seeing the twins. They’ve tried their best to continue to keep in touch with you after you departed from the N109 Zone, and when you mentioned you're in a band now doing some gigs, they did their best to at least visit every concert you were a part of. 

Nobody questioned their onyx colored masks or their get-up. It was a punk-rock concert, and nobody was going to judge that type of style. 

“Still got something left to prove, it tends to keep things movin'

While everyone around me says my last days are looming overhead,”

You recall Luke and Kieran were just outside the room when Sylus was talking to you about how it was your last day working under him and the organization.  

There wasn’t any room to argue either. Every time you tried to defend yourself, Sylus would glare at you like you were a pest in the way. And it hurts, it still does. It truly hurt you to know the man that you fell in love with, which you didn’t mean to do, was treating you so coldly. And for what? Because he found his lost love, Ms Hunter? That didn’t give him the right to just treat you like shit. 

“But just what the hell do they think they know?

My head's above the water while they drown in the undertow!”

Irritation begins to fester inside you as you recall the last thing he said to you. 

‘Our relationship was purely professional. Whatever fantasy you were conjuring up in your head would never happen.’

You gritted your teeth as his words echoed through your head. 

‘So that’s it? After all these years of working with you, Ms Hunter shows up and prances around, and you wish to kick me to the curb just because you heard something which was a huge-,’

‘Don’t you dare speak down about her.’

“Let's leave no words unspoken

And save regrets for the broken

Will you even look back when you think of me?”

Red eyes glared down at you as you just stared up at your boss. Your Former Boss now… 

‘I wasn’t trying to-,’

‘I expect your stuff to be out of here by the end of the night.’

Your eyes widen at the command. He’s just going to kick you out, just like that? Is he serious?

‘Sylus, be reasonable! You're just going to treat me like shit because of what? A small crush I have on you? Because you heard me say something to her that was taken out of context?’

‘It’s more than just that. It’s unprofessional and your emotions will be a distraction in the long run if you were to stay here longer.’

You couldn’t stop the tears running down your face.

You stared at the man before you. The same man who allowed you to work under him. The same man who saved your family’s home from being bought out by the city. The same man who allowed you to cry on his shoulder when he learned of your grandfather's passing. The same man who allowed you to take time off to support your brother in his surgery. 

Sylus supported you throughout your time working for him. Yet as soon as Ms Hunter comes into the mix and your emotions are laid out for him to witness, he wishes to get rid of you. 

“All I want is a place to call my own

To mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone

Whoa, you know

To keep your hopes up high and your head down low!”

You didn’t even hate Ms Hunter. You got along with her when she was first brought in. She found comfort in you because you weren’t trying to mess with her emotions or hide anything from her. Any question she had, you did your best to answer, even if it annoyed your boss in the process. 

“Keep your hopes up high and your head down low!” 

You even remember greeting MC that day before the whole thing occurred. She was still wary about being in the N109 Zone, and she was still untrusting of Sylus. But you saw her relax when you went to say hello to her. 

It was like running into an old friend and finding comfort in them. 

“If you take it from me

Live your life for yourself!”

You take a shaky breath. 

“'Cause when it's all said and done

You don't need anyone else, come on!”

MC greeted you with a hug, something that you started, and she grew used to the point where she grew comfortable initiating it. 

‘I’m guessing you're here for a mission? Sylus is out at the moment, but he should be coming back soon,’ you smile at her as you get your phone out to send a quick text to him. Just letting him know Ms Hunter was here.

‘Yeah, sorry for just popping out of nowhere. I still don’t have your number. Oh! Also, I got you something!’ 

You watched with interest as MC pulled out a small keychain from her pocket. In closer examination, you see it's a Heartbreaker plush charm. 

‘Oh my gosh, he’s so cute! I’m going to put it on my car keys!’

MC hands it to you as you hook your new keychain with your car fob, smiling brightly at the new gift you were given. 

“So let's get back to when everything seemed perfect

Not a worry in the world, tell me, was it all worth it?”

You never got the chance to get MC’s number, even after the incident with Sylus, you couldn’t keep in contact with her. The only time you saw MC was on TV when news stations wanted to interview the Hunters. 

You wonder if she's ever been to one of your concerts. Probably not since it doesn’t seem like her type of music she would be interested in.

Did Sylus even tell her what happened to you?

“I get what I want, so everyone's always judgin' me. 

Not afraid of anything, I've got the whole world in front of me!”

You eyes Luke and Kieran in the crowd as those two were easily getting lost in the music, jumping around and waving at you when they saw you looking in their general direction. 

You couldn’t help the small smile that formed on your lips when you faintly heard them screaming your name. 

Dorks.

“All I want is a place to call my own

To mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone.”

You feel bad. They did their best to come visit you every free chance they got. There was one time when the twins arrived at your concert, and they immediately had to leave because Sylus called them back.

Dumb bastard. 

“Whoa, you know

To keep your hopes up high and your head down low!”

You want to hate him. You WISH you could hate him. But some part of you didn’t want to curse him for what he’s done to you in the aftermath of it all. 

“All I want is a place to call my own

To mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone

Whoa, you know

To keep your hopes up high and your head down low!”

The song was coming to an end. You recall Alfred’s words of screaming your emotions out, so you prepare yourself to do just that.

You tilt your head back to stare at the night sky for a second before throwing your head down to the microphone. 

“Keep your head down low!”

You take a deep breath and do the same thing again.

“Keep your head down low!”

Get all your frustrations out…

Get everything out…

“Keep your hopes up high and your head down low!”

You hang off that last note, screaming into the mic as you let your voice give out just when you finish. The roar of the audience deafens you as you stare off into the distance. You stood there trying to catch your breath while your bandmates soaked up the cheers from the onlookers. 

Two familiar faces were already gone.

The one you hoped would be there never showed up…

Ottie threw herself onto you after she put her Bass down.

“Honey, you did fantastically!”

“Ottie, we aren’t even done yet. We have like two more songs to do,” you chuckle from her cheerful energy.

“I know, but I just wanted to let you know!”

Alfred walked over and playfully shoved Ottie off you so he could give you a side hug. 

“Feeling better, punk?”

You look up at your old childhood friend, who smiles down at you, but you can see the concern in his eyes.

You couldn’t blame him, Alfred is like a second older brother to you, even your dad declared him as part of the family. 

A gentle smile spreads across your face as he goes and messes up your hair again. 

“That’s my girl.”

The rest of the night was filled with cheers, screams, and a lot of headbanging. At one point, the band got the crowd to form a mosh pit. Ottie and Mathew both jumped into it when they saw an opening.

Both you and Alfred waited for the two to be finished, talking about your show next week at a different music venue. After 12 minutes have passed, Ottie comes back with a bloody nose and a bright smile on her face, while Mathew has a bruised upper lip. Neither of them seemed to mind it, but that didn’t stop Alfred and you from fretting over them while scolding them. 

When the event finally came to an end, Alfred offered to walk you home, just to make sure you made it back safely.

It totally wasn’t because he wanted to see your older brother.

“So… how’s Sebastian?” 

“I fucking knew you would ask that,” you couldn’t help but tease Al and playfully shove him as you both walk over to your apartment complex. 

It was already 11 pm. People were still walking around Linkons trying to either get home or somewhere to meet up with friends or family. 

There were times when you couldn’t help but compare Linkon’s busy nights to the  N109 Zone nights… or if they could even be called ‘nights’ since it was always dark there. The N109 Zone always felt chaotic in the later hours; illegal deals out in the open, gunshots being heard every half hour, and don’t forget the speed chases!

When you first started working in Onychines, it did bother you knowing about all the things going on around you. But over time, you’ve grown numb to the smell of gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood. 

Through those times, Sylus understood that you were doing your best to adjust 

An arm wraps around your shoulder, and you're pulled into a warm body, startling you from your thoughts. You look up to see Alfred, who then flicks your nose with his free hand.

“You're lost in thought again. Stop that.”

“What? I’m not allowed to daydream?”

“You and I both know you're not daydreaming.”

Damn him and his ability to read you. 

You eventually make it to the outside of your apartment complex, saying goodnight to each other before you enter the building. You let out a long sigh as you slowly drag your feet through the main floor, passing the “Out of order” elevators and heading straight up the stairs. 

7 flights. 

7 flights of stairs to get to your family’s apartment. You all moved into the city when your family’s property was bought out by the city. Your old job was the only thing keeping you from having to sell the land and property. Sylus gave you enough that you were able to pay the people off who kept bothering you and your family. 

It was a beautiful house, too. Something your great-grandfather built for his wife. It was passed down to your grandmother, and then passed down to your mom. 

Unfortunately, your mom didn’t want to keep the property. She was tired of country life and wanted to be in the city. Your grandmother did her best to try and reason with her, but all it did was end up in a huge fight. The property was then passed down to your father, who was more than willing to take care of it. 

Your mom walked out on you and the family when you started your first year in high school. She was traveling more often to the city and would stay there longer and longer, eventually went out and just never came back. 

It broke your father's heart knowing that the woman he fell in love with willingly abandoned her kids and family. But he did his best to hide it to take care of you and your brother. 

You were so lost in thought and thinking about your old life that you didn’t realize you made it in front of your apartment door until you heard the locks on the other side being undone. 

The door opens to reveal your brother standing there in baggy sweats and a Linkon University shirt that he stole from your grandfather's closet before he passed away.

Both of you stare at each other for a long while before he closes the door in your face.

“Ah, uh- hello?!”

“Sorry, the person you're trying to reach is unavailable at the moment! Come back never!”

“Seb!” You began to bang on the door and try opening it. You hear laughter on the other side as you feel your brother leaning against the door, causing you to use all your strength to push it open. Eventually, he moves away, and you lose your balance, falling onto the floor face first. 

Sebastian snickers as he watches you peek your head up to glare at him. “Was this what you wanted?”

“Not really. I was expecting more screaming and cursing,” he says, and gently nudges your shoulder with his foot. “By the way, Dad already left for work. It’s just me and Granny here.”

You hum to let him know you acknowledge his words as you get up from the floor, dusting yourself off and closing the front door behind you as your brother slinks over to the living room couch. 

The apartment where you live with your family is small for four people. Only two rooms and a single bathroom were affordable. Sure, there was enough money you had left over from working for Sylus, but you and the rest of the family wanted to save most of the majority of it for emergencies. In case something happened to your grandmother or your dad.

Your father gave up both rooms, one for your grandmother and the other for you and your brother to share. It was always sad to see your father prep the pullout couch for when it was time for bed.

“Oui, rockstar,” your brother snapping fingers breaks you away from your thoughts once again. 

“I have a buddy of mine coming over later to pick me up so we can go to the library.”

“This late at night? Seb, it’s nearly midnight, what reason will you be needing to go to the library?”

Sebastian lets out a sigh as he rests his head against the armrest. “I… wanna go back to school.”

Medical school was what he wanted to go back to. But since he wasn’t on any scholarships, everything was coming out of his pocket. When he learned about the property being sold, Sebastian decided to pause his education to help with the family by looking for a job. 

When you first heard of it, it killed you inside to know that your brother put his dreams on hold just to help everyone out. 

“My buddy is the one from the university. He can help me get into the library. I’m just going to study! They have the textbooks I need there along with access to the archives I need to look at-,”

“You don’t need to explain it to me, Seb,” you walk over to the couch and ruffle his hair. “I’ll support you in anything you want to do. Furthering your education? You think I’m going against that?”

“Yeah, but I’m kinda breaking into the university.”

“You're not breaking in if you used to be a student there. It’s still your place.”

Sebastian smiles at you as he gets up from the couch and walks around it, grabbing your face in his hands before squeezing your cheeks. “When did you become so caring?”

“Bitch, I’ve always been like this!” You swat his hands away, and he just snickers at you.

A knock on the door pulls both of your attention away from each other, and Sebastian walks over. He looks through the peephole before opening the door. “Damn, you're early, though you said you’ll be over in another hour.”

You looked over Sebastian’s shoulder and saw a guy nearly about to pass out and panting heavily, probably from having to walk up all those flights of stairs. 

“Dude, we gotta go NOW. Doctor Zayne is doing a free late-night lecture at our university. If we want to get seats, we gotta go NOW!”

The words sink in, and Sebastian turns to you. You just shooed him away with your hand, encouraging him to go. 

Sebastian smiles and gives you a quick side hug before rushing out the door with his old schoolmate.

“How did you learn about this?”

“I heard the professors talking about it in the parking lot when I was preparing to pick you up! I shove through 3 red lights just to get here on time!”

You listen to the two of them as they run down the hallway to the staircase. You don’t doubt that they were going to skip some steps and probably jump a flight of them just to get to the bottom quicker. 

A chuckle escapes you as you close the door and lock it. 

You were happy for your brother as he went out to continue to pursue his dream. You were happy that even with all the changes, he was still doing his best to help the family and you out. 

But why did you still feel miserable?

Maybe it’s because you felt like all of this was your fault. 

The small voice creeps inside your head as you let out a groan. It was just a reminder that if you still had your old job, nobody in your family would feel like they were struggling with money. 

Just as you were about to walk away from the door, you heard a knock. Did he forget something? It wouldn’t be the first time Sebastian ran out of the house without his keys or wallet. 

You couldn’t help but smile and shake your head as you walked towards the door and opened it.

“Ok, what did you forget this time-,” you pause and look at the tall, looming familiar figure that stands before you. 

There stood a man with long, snowy white hair that was wrapped up in a high ponytail. Two horns protruded from his head, one of which looked shorter than the other. He looked to be wearing what could only be seen as “Medieval” for some type of Halloween event… his eyes, though… You knew those crimson eyes anywhere. 

“Sylus?”

The figure tilts his head to the side and lets out a deep chuckle before shaking his head. 

“So that is what I am called here…”

What???

Sylus, or… whoever this man was, smiles down at you with such warmth and adoration that it makes you forget to breathe for a second. 

You couldn’t move from your spot as you stared up at the familiar man before you. All Sylus(?) did was just smile down at you, and shift something in his arms, which caused you to break your gaze away from him and what was in his hold.

In his arms was a giant egg. 

Was that really an egg???

The main color of it was ebony, and on it were scarlet streaks painted around it that made it look like they were veins. Scales littered all around the surface of the egg, giving it a reptilian look. The size of it had to be a smidge bigger than an ostrich egg.

Just looking at the egg, you began to feel… a sense of relief? Why? 

Before you were able to mentally question yourself over the emotions that washed over you, Sylus(?) pushes himself through the doorway, which forces you to take a few steps back. The door shuts behind him, and in that moment, you notice a tail that leads to his lower back. 

More and more questions buzzed around in your head. Any answer that you might be given was only going to be more confusing. Before you were about to ask why Sylus(?) was here in the first place, he spoke first-

“I finally found you, my Song Bird.”

Taglist: @leftpoetrymoon @quill-for-glory @kiraydarkness @flameo-hotman12 @whosthought @whimsiecat @animegamerfox @poptrim @dreamlesssleepsaga @huuvu

[anonmeansanon]

Imma be honest,,, when I listened to that professor AU of Azeru (IYKYK) ,,, I imagined the prof would look like Sylus and this art speaks volumes for me 🤭

Professor Sylus~ because Sylus assuming positions of authority is my favorite take ♥ More art on Patreon~

[anonmeansanon]

Professor Sylus~ because Sylus assuming positions of authority is my favorite take ♥ More art on Patreon~

[anonmeansanon]

quiet time | sylus

cw: royalty au, king sylus, knight/bodyguard reader, femme reader, romantic tension, cheesy, cliche, a pinch of self-loathing, sylus might be ooc, 2.5k wc notes: cleaning up my drafts. takes place in the same au as serve & protect after sylus’ meal with the queen but before the revelation. thanks for reading! tracklist: je te veux - erik satie

Of the many ways for a young woman to find herself in peril…

Well, you know the lot of them thanks to a certain white-haired monarch.

You figure he’s the most beautiful thing ever to grace this kingdom. Watch him with childlike wonderment as he sits hunched over his desk, silver brows pinched over the wire frames of his glasses, lips thinned with concentration. 

His Majesty’s been like this for at least an hour, working through the stacks of paperwork littering his study. He occasionally releases a thoughtful hum, tapping his fountain pen against the lacquered surface as he flips through a binder housing official documents. 

Rafayel must’ve really gotten to him today.

The royal advisor cornered you in the king’s study following your brush with danger. 

He huffed something about ball preparations and coral reef preservation, hands on hips as he demanded that Sylus “sit still and do some actual work.” 

You couldn’t help the snicker that tore itself from your body, watching the two bicker from the door like an old married couple. 

Not much has changed about their dynamic since your childhood.

Rafayel threw his hands up with resignation, and Sylus turned up his chin over crossed arms. 

“I’ll handle it,” His Majesty clipped, clearly done with their conversation, inspecting an adjacent wall. 

Rafayel sighed and marched to you, pinning you with an iridescent glare. He thrust a finger in your face, his irritation emanating off him in waves. 

“Make sure he doesn’t leave this office until all of those documents are signed. And no making googly eyes at each other, you hear me? You know he has the attention span of a goldfish.”

You replied with a curt nod, stepping aside to allow the exasperated advisor to leave. 

The heavy door slammed behind with finality, leaving you and your charge in prickly silence.

A part of you wished that Rafayel stayed to maintain the peace. Because the moment he left, the air shifted, weighted like storm clouds rolling over the horizon. And you felt like a sheep that had wandered into the maw of a wolf’s den.

“A picture would last longer,” says Sylus, drawing you back to the present. 

He scrutinizes the documents laid out before him, not once looking up. He knows your silences—their different meanings—too well. Parses through them like the yellowed pages of the books on his shelves.

Straightening, you clear your throat, tamping down the heat in your cheeks. You’ve been caught staring again—a regular occurrence between you and your king. 

Can it be helped, though?

The man is gorgeous in every sense of the word, glowing like the cinders he was forged from. And you would be a fool to deny that, though you’ve barely succeeded in reining yourself in thus far.

You swallow. Try to tear your eyes from the pulsing veins in Sylus’ forearms—he discarded his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows a little while ago. Unwound his tie and undid the first two buttons of his shirt; his waistcoat wrapped snugly around his torso.

Gods bless his tailor for their precise and patient hands. And curse them for being so meticulous. 

The sun swathes Sylus’ silhouette in its ethereal glow, its rays pouring through the ceiling-high windows of his study whilst it seeks refuge behind the horizon. 

He’s something like an angel in this light. Someone untouchable. And if he knew you were comparing him, of all people, to something ethereal, he would have you turned into a saddle. 

You lapse into the disorder of your thoughts as your charge works quietly, face impassive, yet your hands wrench tight at your back.

You don't deserve his affection, what with the grime caked beneath your nails and the scars littering your body. His Majesty should court someone as beautiful as he is. Someone who will bring honor to his kingdom, who will help him rebuild and unite a world torn asunder by darkness.

Not you—a commoner. His sword. Someone “noble” by happenstance and not by the blood coursing through your veins. 

As if sensing your inner turmoil, Sylus sighs, fetching another set of documents. He pierces through your ruminations again with that smoky voice fringed with amusement.  

“How long do you intend to stand there gawking at me?” 

He levels you with those brilliant eyes, pilfering the air from your lungs. His lips curve into a challenging smirk, chin resting on his palm like you’re the most intriguing thing.

You stiffen, cursing your wandering eyes, throat constricting. “I’m not. I mean, I-I wasn’t, Majesty—”

“How do you expect me to focus with you so far away?” he interjects with a raised brow. 

“Huh?” 

“Sit,” Sylus beckons, motioning to the crimson, velvet chaise beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world to invite the help into the most intimate bits of his world.

You swallow. No good will come from this. It never does. You were already so dangerously close to losing your composure earlier. 

“I shouldn’t—”

“Sit.” 

And there it is—that tone which leaves no room for argument. A command layered beneath a friendly coaxing. You have no choice but to obey.

You pad to your king’s side after he showed no signs of letting up. Sighing defeatedly, you fall onto the cushions, folding your hands together in your lap, spine stiff as steel. 

This is also routine between the pair of you.

He’s always had something against you standing guard at his door—like that isn’t your sole purpose. So you’re often held captive while he works, still as the paperweight on his desk. 

It most certainly has nothing to do with him being irrevocably taken by you.

You slightly puff out your cheeks, eyes skittering every which way but on your wayward king. You feel his gaze drilling into the side of your head. See him shamelessly staring at you through your periphery, and it takes all of you not to shrink into yourself.

Fine. If a staring contest is what His Majesty wants…

You throw caution to the wind, fixing him with your own stare. His lashes flutter behind his lenses, eyes wrinkled at the corners. And then he smiles, a disarming, boyish thing boasting those perfect teeth, those rounded canines. 

Wordlessly, he squeezes your rigid hands settled on your thighs, his hand big enough to engulf them. So pleasantly warm and roughened from years of wielding a blade. 

You tense, your breath lodged in your throat, heart jackhammering in your ears.

Hot. 

Terribly hot. 

He always is. The action alone is enough to make you lightheaded, whilst his thumb makes slow expeditions over your knuckles.

“Now I can focus,” he says. Couples it with a deep chuckle as you sputter, the sound of it vibrating your spine. He then retracts his hand to take up his pen with renewed vigor. Like you are his battery pack, recharging him with a simple brush of skin. 

You silently simmer, a ghostly pout descending onto your lips. You’re bereft of the loss of contact, but what for? This is nothing new—the fleeting touches and stolen glances. So, what’s got you so out of sorts today?

Though your nerves flare from the proximity, you’re thankful for it. From this angle, you get to see all of him. Greedily take in the sight before you—this work of art. Temptation forged by the gods. 

His Adam's apple bobs whilst he swallows. The faint scent of citrus overhauls your senses. Biceps ripple beneath his snug, silken dress shirt, tendons in his neck jumping enticingly. 

You battle a sudden inclination to kiss his throat, saliva puddling in your mouth. You wonder what pretty sounds you can emit from him. If you can turn him to mush the same way he does to you each day. But as if tuned to your less than savory thoughts, your shoulder pulses, quietly reminding you of your place—you’re his prey. 

Silly woman, you chastise, shaking your head. What in the world are you thinking about? Where did these primal thoughts suddenly come from?

You sit like this in silent contemplation for a beat, transfixed on every twitch of his muscles. The scribbling of his pen is the only sound exchanged between you. You pick at your nails, feeling obligated to fill the stillness. 

It’s strange—you’ve known each other for decades, yet it’s become nearly impossible to speak comfortably with him these days. What, with him growing more bold with affections, and you slowly whittled down by them. 

“Are you—”

“Do you—”

Scarlet eyes flit to yours over the interruption. 

Sylus huffs a soft laugh, leaning back in his seat. Your lips quirk the slightest, butterflies skittering about in your stomach. You’re beaming inside, because who else gets this level of attention like you?

“My apologies,” he says, turning to give you his full undivided attention. “What were you about to say?”

“Ah, nothing. Um, what were you going to say, Majesty?” 

Suddenly, the onyx buttons of your uniform are so fascinating, warmth flooding your skin as you pull at them.

“Do you have plans for the long weekend?” 

You perk up. Find it hard to meet his gaze, but you admit, “Not really.”

“Really.” He taps his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes, Majesty.”

“You are free from your duties tomorrow, yes?” There’s a hint of a pout in his voice. How dare you do anything but be at his beck and call. 

You nod in confirmation. Honestly, you need it, what with you working tiring hours as a glorified babysitter. You care deeply for your king. However, keeping up with him and his wayward spirit is taxing on its own. Couple this with your unchecked feelings for him, and you have quite an exhaustive cocktail.

Your only warning is the rustling of paper.

Suddenly, the couch dips beside you. He’s moved faster than you can process, a blur of white and black. No doubt a product of his inhuman characteristics.

He swaddles you in his overwhelming heat and commanding presence. A gasp rends itself from your throat. Your knees bump, thighs graze. He is uncomfortably close, and it’s become much too hot again. You feel restricted by your uniform. Has it always had this many layers?

Your king looks to you with impish delight. Drapes an arm across the backrest, closing in until your skin prickles from the static charge. “Will you be accompanying me, then?”

You reel back, spine colliding with the chair’s arm. “Accompanying you? Where?” 

Impatience meddles with his voice. He leans away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I assumed your boss would’ve informed you of tomorrow’s excursion.”

The mere mention of your commander causes your brow to twitch. “He hasn’t told me a thing, Majesty.”

With an exhausted sigh, Sylus forges onward. “Well,” he begins, leaning forward with his elbows pressed into his powerful thighs. “There is a bazaar in town. On the outskirts of the citadel.” 

He scans your features to gauge your reaction. Searches for any opposition. You urge him forward with inquisitive brows.

“I planned to go to...browse.” Sylus wets his lips, looking elsewhere, an incredulous laugh in his throat. 

Had he been anyone but your king, you might’ve mistaken his sudden shift in demeanor for bashfulness. Since when has he been uneasy about buying cheap trinkets?

“Your commander was more than enthusiastic about joining me. I figured he would’ve invited you as well.”

A pang strikes your chest, searing like white lightning. 

And you thought you were all friends. 

Though you’re never too keen on the idea of His Majesty leaving the citadel alone, you also know that he prefers to travel discreetly. A ring of bodyguards and staff looming around would only draw attention. Besides, it isn’t too often that he gets to leave the castle without some official business tacked onto it. 

And Caleb is more than capable of fending off any attempts on your king’s life, the cocky bastard. 

“I wouldn’t want to impede, Majesty,” you say haughtily. Since the offer had slipped Caleb’s mind, you felt it best to take it out on your king.

“I want you to come,” he insists, patting your hands, a disarming lilt to his voice. “That is, if you would like to join us.” 

You sigh, lips twitching into a small smile. Try as you might, you’ve never been able to resist him like this. “I would love to, Your Majesty.”

The tight line of his shoulders loosens, and he’s yet to let go of your hands. The air shifts when his eyes find yours again, and the world grows fuzzy and muddled around you. 

 “Might I make one final request since you’re feeling generous?”

You nod, tuned to his every movement. “Don’t push it. But, sure.”

Without warning, your hair waterfalls onto your shoulders, spilling from the crude bun you had fashioned it into after Sylus had so graciously stolen your mother’s hairpin. 

You stammer, an astonished look taking up residence on your features.

He’s done it again.

Sylus’ expression melds into one of endearment. He beholds you with boyish fascination, engraining every spasm of your lips selfishly into his memory. 

“I prefer you like this,” he whispers, breath wafting across your molten cheeks, followed by the cautious scrawl of the backs of his fingers. “You should wear your hair down more often. It’s pretty.”

You cannot help the warmth that wades over you at his request. Your heart swells with something indescribable. He always knows how to disorient you with his satiny, manipulative words.

You resist a whimper whilst Sylus slides his knuckles up your face, twining one of your coils around his finger. He wears that look again—the one he dons before trying to kiss you. Love drunk and mesmerized 

Something in your slowly frays. Maybe you will let him get away with it this time. Your tongue darts from betwixt your quivering lips to dampen them. Eyes half-slit. You glance at his mouth, watching with bated breath as it pans in.

To hell with it, you resign as his fingers creep like spindly spider legs around the nape of your neck. He threads them in your tresses, drawing you closer into him. 

To hell with being his bodyguard. To hell with his monarchy and your feeling like the lowest on the totem pole. 

You’re hyperaware of his mouth so close, your breaths fusing, mind reeling. 

If not for the door thrown open noisily behind you, you might’ve finally let your king have his way—might’ve finally succumb to your own desires. 

[anonmeansanon]

Pretty Little Babies

[anonmeansanon]

Elysium [Sylus/Reader ★ 16K words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Beneath the azure sky and across the luscious green grassland, a love story unfolds. A/N: AO3 user InsomniacForevermore planted an itsy bitsy seed in my head, and…it grew...out of control, actually… 👁👄👁 My Grassland!Sylus Childhood friends/Arranged Marriage/Soulmates AU is finally here and I only had to sacrifice four nights of sleep for it. 🥹 (btw, not necessary, but…listen to DJ Sammy’s Heaven – Candlelight Mix while reading...or post-reading, whichever)

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

elysium — n. a place or state of ideal happiness

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The warriors are home!

You first heard the excited cries while tending to your flock of sheep on the grassland. All around you and from far away, people were already abandoning their tasks and chores to rush to the village entrance to greet and welcome the returning warriors.

“Sylus is also back!” one of the young maidens cried with delight.

Your heart paused at hearing his name, your breathing coming out uneven. Instinctively, you also rose to your feet. You left behind your flock to idly graze as your feet took off running at a breakneck speed back to the village. When you had arrived, a large, dense crowd had already formed at the square. The elders and the chief—your father—were praising the warriors’ heroic victories against opposing tribes, but among those who was lavished with the most praises was Sylus. His build larger than the other men and his intimidating height towering above others. Even from the back of the crowd, you could see him clearly.

Your heart quickened, seeing his sharp eyes surveyed the large crowd, going from face to face. The moment his eyes locked in on your petite form, his cold expression broke, the intimidating glare softened completely as he pushed through the crowd and rushed to you. In just seconds, he had gathered you into his arms, lifting you high above the crowd.

Laughter and cheers broke out at the sight of Sylus holding you up high, his strong arms wrapped around your thighs. You steadied your balance, hands resting on his shoulders, gasping and laughing, “Welcome home!”

He smiled back lovingly and murmured for your ears only, “I’m home.”

“Today, let us feast and praise our young men for the glory they have brought upon our tribe!” the chief declared, his words met by loud cheers and thunderous applauses all around.

You were helping bringing the food to the banquet when you felt a strong grip on your arm, tugging you gently back. You steadied the basket of flatbreads you carried and looked up, meeting Sylus’ gaze. He smiled at you mischievously.

“Let the other girls handle this,” he said, tossing a look to the other young women behind you giggling and smiling with envy. “Come with me.”

You couldn’t get a word out as one of the girls came over and took your basket from you, all of them laughing and prodding you to leave with Sylus, much to your embarrassment.

“Go on, we know how much you have been missing him,” one of the girls said, batting her eyelashes teasingly at you.

“It’s a wonder our sheep didn’t get stolen away by wild beasts while its shepherd was so lovesick,” another teased as she exaggeratedly patted her heart rhythmically.

“Was she now?” Sylus asked, amused. He gave you a knowing glance and you glared right back at him.

“Oh, hush, all of you.” You rolled your eyes at your so-called friends before grabbing Sylus’ hand and dragging him away, your ears burning as you could still hear the laughter and cheering.

You paused in your steps once you both were out of sight. You looked up at Sylus, feeling sheepish now. “Um…Actually, I don’t know where we are going…”

He laughed and shook his head. “I was wondering where you were dragging me off to.” He leaned down and pinched your cheek, his grin widening. “The chief’s daughter still gets so easily flustered when others talk about her betrothed, hmm?”

“Sylus, quit it!” You rubbed at your sore cheek with a pout.

“I can’t help myself,” he said, pulling you closer into his embrace. “I have missed seeing you and hearing your voice these last few months.”

Your arms slowly encircled around his waist. You looked up with a bashful smile. “So…you felt the same?”

“Do you doubt me, my beloved?”

He leaned down and kissed your lips. It felt just as sweet and tender as you remembered when he last kissed you goodbye months ago. He parted, but his gaze remained on you, searching—beseeching.

“I would never,” you responded, standing on your toes and stealing another kiss from him, much to both his surprise and delight.

“Come,” he said, breaking away and smirking at your disappointed pout. “I have the horses ready.”

“The horses?”

“We have much to catch up on, my beloved,” he said, taking your hand in his, “And I do not wish for prying ears to listen in on our conversations.”

You rode upon your chestnut-colored mare while Sylus rode his stallion, its black coat sheening in the sunlight on the grassland. The horses walked leisurely across the plane side-by-side as their owners idly conversed. You excitedly rambled on and on about the most mundane events that had happened in his absence, only becoming acutely aware of his silence when you caught sight of his smirk.

“…I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

He shook his head in disagreement. “I have missed your voice,” he answered, “Won’t you tell me more?”

You felt embarrassed by how much you were talking, and even more so when you realized he was listening and watching you with such rapt attention. You shook your head fervently. “No, it’s your turn to talk.”

“It won’t be nearly as entertaining as your story of the goat herder getting drunk and falling asleep in the goat pen while his goats took over his home.”

You rolled your eyes. “I will not be swayed by such weak flattery.”

“Then shall I serenade to you instead, my beloved?”

You covered your ears. “These mortal ears are not worthy of such…unearthly…singing.”

He huffed. “My men have enjoyed my singing these past few months,” he responded proudly, “Surely, my future bride would as well.”

“They’ve truly earned their feast tonight then,” you murmured more to yourself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing—” You paused, your playfulness disappearing instantly the moment you caught sight of several small colorful pouches in the saddlebag on Sylus’ horse, items meant to proclaim affections for the receiver of them. You didn’t even think before blurting out, “Who gave you those pouches?”

You silently cursed the moment you realized what you had asked. You tried to look away nonchalant, missing the smirk rising on Sylus’ face.

“Jealous?”

“No…” You nudged your horse, urging her to walk faster.

Sylus did the same with his horse, matching your pace. “These were welcome home presents.”

“Were they?” Even though you tried to maintain a façade of indifference, you felt your skin crawling at the thought. Against your better judgment, your mind was already racing through the names and faces of all the village girls that could have gifted him those pouches. You played out possible scenarios of how the events could have transpired. You pictured those girls giggling and blushing as they handed him their homemade pouches that they had spent so much time on for him.

You pictured him—smiling. At those girls. Smiling, as he received their gifts. Smiling, as his hand might accidentally brushed against theirs. Smiling…

At others.

Sylus called your name, and you found yourself breaking out of your self-imposed stupor. You turned away to hide your red cheeks, embarrassed by your sudden behavior change. You tried to speak calmly, suddenly becoming very aware of how stiff your voice sounded, but it was better than to let your actual emotions come through. “It will get dark soon. We should head back.”

“Are you jea—”

You kicked your mare’s sides, urging her to take off at a gallop. You didn’t want to hear him finish that sentence, didn’t want to think further about what had transpired. You knew you were behaving irrationally and immature, but you felt like you couldn’t face him, couldn’t stand for him to see you in such a vulnerable, ugly state.

Sylus chuckled as he watched you atop your mare, racing away across the land in the direction of the village. He tugged at his stallion’s rein, yelling, and his own horse took off after yours. Even though he had allowed you a head start, it didn’t take long for Sylus’ horse to close the distance.

You could hear the heavy hooves of the stallion behind you, and you urged your mare to run faster. It was a futile attempt to evade the approaching party. In a matter of seconds, Sylus’ stallion was running side by side with your mare again.

Your eyes widened when Sylus leaned over, his strong legs still keeping him steady on his horse. He grabbed you by the waist from your horse and easily carried you over to his, ignoring your panicked cries. The stallion had slowed to a halt, giving Sylus a chance to settle you and him more comfortably atop the horse. You watched with dismay as your mare continued galloping back to the village, leaving you trapped with Sylus. You looked up, shooting Sylus a heated glare.

“Why did you do that?!”

“Why are you glaring at me?”

“Why did you grab me like that?!”

“Why did you run away?”

“Why—why—”

He waited, his arrogant smile making you even more flustered and angry and emotional. Your glare wavered; you could feel the hot tears brimming in your eyes. You hurriedly blinked them away, but now you could also feel your chest tightening with pain, your breathing coming out ragged. The longer Sylus looked at you and the more you struggled to keep your emotions in check, the worse you felt, knowing a dam was about break and you could do nothing to stop it.

“So why—" Sylus stopped. His smile faltered when you finally broke down crying:

“Why…did you accept them?”

“What?”

You buried your face in your hands, crying, unable to calm yourself or keep the hot tears at bay. You shook and sobbed, your words tumbling uncontrollably out of your mouth, “Why did you accept those girls’ pouches?”

Sylus looked down at you, shocked, not expecting to see you crying, your voice holding so much hurt and pain, he felt guilty for putting you in such a state. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back to rest against his chest. He shushed you softly as he whispered apologies while you cried. You felt him burying his face in your hair, his chest pressing closer to your back, and you couldn’t understand why, but the act itself just made you cry harder as you wrapped your arms around his, hurt and scared and angry.

As dusk settled in, painting the sky in purple and orange, the air felt heavy. In the wide expanse of the grassland, the plane stretched for miles and miles, seemingly endless. You were but a speck in the field, and in that moment in his arms, you truly felt so small and insignificant.

As you returned to the village, nightfall had already descended. You and Sylus had ridden back in silence, the awkward atmosphere only worsening with each passing minute. Sylus had kept an arm protectively around your waist the entire time while his other hand held the rein. You looked down, eyes following the horse’s hooves as he trotted back to the village.

“We’re almost back,” Sylus’ soft voice broke through the tensed atmosphere.

You looked up, seeing the huts that lined the outskirt of the village and your mare quietly grazing in the distance. You wriggled a little, but that only made Sylus tightened his hold. You looked down at his arm around you and you said softly, “Let me down. I can walk back.”

“No,” he answered.

“Sylus—"

He suddenly yanked the rein, forcing the horse to turn around in a different direction.

“Sylus?!” you looked up, panicked, not expecting this sudden change in pacing. Sylus’ sight remained ahead, and your heart sped up at the view of seeing his handsome face from this angle, bathed only in moonlight.

Sylus commanded his horse skillfully and you both rode atop the stallion at a brisk pace across the grassland. The cool night breeze brushed against your cheeks, drying your earlier tears. You even found yourself starting to smile and laugh, the adrenaline taking over and stealing away your earlier anguish.

Eventually, Sylus took you back to the village once he had seen that you had calmed down. The horses were returned to their stable. After giving your mare a comforting stroke down her mane, you turned just as Sylus handed you the saddlebag. You looked up surprised.

“They mean nothing to me,” he said resolutely, “Burn them.”

“I’m not going to…”

He stroked your cheek with the back of his hand, making you swallowed your words. “I had never meant to make you upset or have you cried like that, nor did I mean to make you jealous…”

“I was not jea—”

He leaned down and kissed your lips, silencing you. You dropped the saddlebag, the pouches spilling out on the ground. “Sy—”

He lifted you into his arms and you looked up in surprise. “What are you—"

He carried you out of the stable before letting you down again. You looked at him exasperatedly. “You always do what you want—this is not fair…”

“What’s not fair?”

“It’s not fair…how…I’m the only one…feeling insecure…”

In the village square, you could hear the celebration dying down as people started making their way home. The bonfire in the center still blazed brightly.

“You are right,” Sylus responded, “I don’t feel insecure.”

Your shoulders slumped and you kept your eyes lowered. You suddenly felt Sylus’ finger under your chin, tilting it up so your eyes met his.

“You were promised to me,” he said, hushed, “And I to you.”

He kissed you. “We are meant to be, and were we not, I would rewrite the stars, to change the course of destiny and weave a new tapestry of fate to make you mine.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “My beloved,” he held his gaze with yours, “I will always choose you, in this life and the next. Whether we are meant to be or not—”

He kissed you again, and the last remnants of your jealousy and hurt faded away.

I will always choose you.

The following morning you were lazing in the field as the flock of sheep grazed peacefully all around you. The warm sunlight had you yawning, already feeling yourself being lured by the tempting sun into drifting back to sleep.

As the time passed, your eyes felt heavier, and you nodded off a little. Another yawn escaped before you decided a few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt. Slowly, you closed your eyes, letting them rest for a few minutes.

“Is this what you do when I’m not here?”

You immediately opened your eyes when you heard Sylus’ approaching voice. You let out a soft surprised squeak when he knelt down next to you, his face looming just mere inches from yours. He was smirking. “Lazing around and sleeping? What if your sheep gets stolen by wild beasts, my beloved?”

You glared at him. “I was not sleeping. I…was blinking.”

“Your eyes were closed for far longer than a blink should be.”

“I had some dust in my eyes.”

“I’m quite sure I heard you snoring.”

You blushed and shoved his face aside, glowering when he started laughing at you. “Did you come all the way out here just to tease me?”

“Mmhmm,” he answered with a pleased nod as he sat back with his legs propped up. His elbow rested on top of his leg while he cradled his chin in his hand. You noticed in his other hand was a wreath crafted from leaves and berries.

Your heart quickened and you gasped softly. You looked at him expectantly, wondering if this meant what you thought it meant. It was at that moment, though, that you noticed the dark bags under his eyes. You crawled over to him and he sat back, allowing you to settle in between his long legs. You reached up and touched his face.

“Did you not sleep last night?” you asked him worriedly.

He simply smiled and shook his head. Without a word, Sylus placed the wreath on top of your head. You reached up and touched it tentatively as you looked at him confused.

“I wanted to finish this for you,” he explained, smiling, “Just as I had thought. This suits you.”

“R-really?”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed again, nodding. He leaned in to steal your lips. “You look beautiful.”

“Sylus…” You could feel your cheeks warming up as he spoke.

“Now everyone will know you are mine and I am yours.”

You felt touched by his gesture. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, surprising him into losing his balance. Sylus laid on the grass with you on top of him. You grinned and kissed him happily. He looked up, gasping softly when he saw the sunlight had formed a radiant halo behind your head.

How…ethereal...

He smiled, his hand gently grasped your chin, his thumb brushing over your soft, trembling lips. “We are already promised to one another,” he said, “but if I may be presumptuous, I would still like to ask.”

You looked down at him confused.

“My beloved,” he said, voice soft and sincere, “will you be my bride?”

You stroked his cheek, and as you leaned down closer to his face, your wreath tilted on your head. “What do you think?”

He smiled. “Your wreath is going to fall off.”

“You’ll put it back on for me, right?”

He huffed in amusement at your audacious question, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said lightly, reaching up to fix the wreath for you, “I will…my bride.”

For that brief moment, you felt like your heart had stopped, your mind replaying what he had just said over and over again. Slowly, you smiled again as you leaned in and kissed him, feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and holding you close to his body.

“This is my vow to you, my bride” he said, your faces just barely apart, “There is only you in my eyes. In this life and all of the lifetimes afterwards, I will always choose you.”

“Same for me,” you answered, gazing back at him fondly. You stroked his cheek, letting yourself willingly and helplessly drown in those passionate crimson eyes.

“I will always find you,” you promised, “In all of our lives together, I will always find you and choose you, my love.”

Your ardent words beckoned his lips to yours, and for the rest of the day, you lay together under the warm morning sun on the grassland, lost in your own world of bliss.

Hands intertwined, you returned to the village with Sylus, his handmade wreath worn proudly on your head. There were envious looks directed at you and sighs of resignation heard here and there. You felt a squeeze from Sylus’ hand and you answered back with your own.

His love for you had always been true and steadfast.

When you looked back on your years together, it seemed he was always there, always yours.

The boy who was promised to you and you to him. An oath had been formed between two powerful families long before either of you came into the world, but perhaps it was always meant to be, because never once did either of you seemed to rebel against your destiny.

You grew up alongside him on the grassland, running barefoot and riding horses across the endless green pasture under the sun. It was a rich childhood filled with laughter and smiles, skinned knees and clumsy first kisses, with the boy who had carried you on his small back home. With the boy who had promised to grow up and become the strongest warrior on the grassland. With the boy who had sworn he would always keep you safe and protected.

The same boy, one day, had become a man, who had unwittingly stolen many young maidens’ hearts, but his own he had safeguarded and kept for you alone.

The man who would always find his way back to you no matter how far his duties may take him.

The man who would soon become your husband, the promise made so long ago between two families would now be honored.

You tightened your hold on his hand, and he smiled down on you.

That smile alone seemed to have banished any lingering insecurities you had. As you stared into his eyes, falling deeper and deeper, you knew nothing could ever sway him, could ever tear him from you. Likewise, there was no one else in your eyes and heart.

It was always going to be him.

There was much to celebrate in the coming weeks. Weddings after weddings took place across the village as one after another, couples were married off.

In the middle of spring, on a warm and sunny day, you were the last to be wedded, but your wedding ceremony was the most extravagant. As the only daughter of the village’s chief, you were the pride and joy of your father. From birth, you and Sylus had already been matched, your future destined together, and now as young adults, the day for your wedding was finally here.

Dressed in red and gold, the colors symbolizing love and prosperity, the elder women prepared you for your groom. You pressed your lips between a lipstick paper, staining them crimson as your cheeks were painted in a similar shade with the rouge made from the scarlet flowers gathered in the grassland. Your hair had been cleansed, fragranced, and styled with gold and red flowers decorating your tresses. You were the very image of a new bride, and now the time had come for you to go meet your groom.

As you made your way through the village, passing cheers from well-wishers, your eyes honed in on Sylus waiting for you at the end. Your breath hitched, your heart speeding up. Dressed in a matching red/gold ceremonial robe and trousers, he waited for you with a smile. You couldn’t help but noted appreciatively how the robe he wore brought out the beauty in his eyes.

His crimson eyes were always so sharp and piercing, able to strike fear into his enemies’ hearts, but when he gazed upon you, there was only soft, gentle joy, love, and gratitude.

The happiness he felt in this moment, knowing soon, by the day’s end, you would be his wife from now until the end of your time on this earthly plane.

The love he felt for you was deeper than the ocean’s depth, unmatched by any force in this world. He would lay down his life for you, rebel against the gods for you, he would submit to you time and time again.

The gratitude he felt for being born into the same lifetime as yours, to be able to have you as his, to build a life with you. He couldn’t begin to express the depths of his gratitude, but he would gladly spend the rest of his life trying.

As you approached him, his gaze seemed to soften even more. You stood facing him, your heart beating faster than normal. One large hand cupped your face and you smiled, leaning into his touch, feeling your heart steadying again.

Soon, he and you would be tethered together in matrimony, your bond witnessed by your village and the heavens above.

You exhaled slowly as the priest began the ceremony.

“May the gods and goddesses bless this pair, allow their union to be fruitful and their happiness endless.”

You stole a glance at Sylus, startling when you met his crimson gaze already settled on you. The fond smile he wore quickly transitioned to a smirk at your flustered expression. You started to look away out of sheer embarrassment, but you caught sight of him quietly mouthing to you: “Eyes on me.”

You found yourself obediently listening to him, your focus entirely on the man you were marrying. Likewise, Sylus kept his own eyes on you.

Time felt sluggish as the ceremony wore on, your body moving through the motions and unable to truly comprehend anything that was said. You didn’t even remember when the ceremony finally ended, only breaking out of your daze when the whole village erupted in cheers as even more scarlet flowers were tossed and thrown in the air to celebrate.

Now husband and wife, you linked arms with Sylus as you made your way back to the square, smiling and laughing as everyone cheered and blessed your marriage. You looked up just as Sylus leaned down and captured your lips, his sudden public display of affection causing a commotion.

While you were hyperaware of the many eyes on the two of you, Sylus appeared unconcerned. To him, there was no one else around. It was just the two of you.

“My bride…”

From morning to sundown to nightfall, it seemed like the celebration would never end. The feast was plentiful, the alcohol abundant, and all around you, people enjoyed the festivity to their hearts’ contents, feeling encouraged to engage in gluttony and merriment for this one special day. It was not every day that many would witness such a blessed union as this marriage between the most powerful warrior in the village and the chief’s daughter. There was much cause for celebration, much joyous anticipation for the bright future that was to come.

While everyone was taking part in the merriment, you and Sylus sat at your own private table, idly chatting and dining, unable to tear your eyes away from one another. You were feeding him some fruits when the village herbalist brought forth a tray with two wooden bowls filled to the brim with a specially prepared wine for newlyweds, the alcohol laced with a potent aphrodisiac. You took one of the wooden bowls hesitantly while Sylus grabbed the other. You took an uneasy glance at your new husband.

He smirked, meeting your gaze. Without any hesitation, Sylus raised his bowl to his lips, downing the wine in mere seconds. You felt a flutter in your belly before you drank from your own bowl, feeling the alcohol burning down your throat. The wine itself rushed to your head, already causing you to feel a little tipsy.

With your inhibitions suddenly lowered, Sylus pulled you to him, his lips seizing yours, and you tasted the rich wine still staining his lips while he tasted yours. You were told the wine would take some time to take effect, so you wondered why you felt so lightheaded in that moment from just a mere kiss.

“Come away with me,” Sylus murmured, his lips just a breath from yours. Taking your hand in his, Sylus dragged you to your feet, steadying you, before leading you away.

He spirited you away to the field on the outskirt of the village. You both left behind the raucous celebration, hearing the drunken laughter and singing fading with each step you took. As the other villagers continued in their festive merriments, no one noticed the absence of the newly wedded bride and groom.

On the outskirt of the village, there was no lamp or bonfire to light the way—only the distant stars overhead to guide you through the darkness. You passed the slumbering flock of sheep, all clustered together for warmth and protection.

“They need to be sheared soon,” you remarked, laughing as you pointed out the fluffiest of the bunch.

He smiled and grabbed your hand again, fingers intertwining together. He led you far away from the village, across the grassy plane.

How strange. You had run barefoot on these grass as children, and now you were walking side-by-side as husband and wife. You not-so-subtly leaned closer to him. He smiled.

“Where are we going?” you asked, looking up at your new husband.

Sylus shrugged. “Away,” he answered, “It’s too noisy back there.”

You laughed. “Celebrations are supposed to be noisy.”

He shrugged again. “I do not care for them.”

“How ironic, coming from a man who has been celebrated for his many feats all of his life.”

He chuckled, but decided not to deign a response to your quip. Instead, he paused in his steps, turning to face you, asking, “Shall I take you away from this place then?”

“And go where?”

“Wherever you would like,” he answered, making suggestions, “The sea, the mountains—”

“And if I say I enjoy our life on this grassy plane?”

He smiled. “Then I will build the biggest hut worthy of my bride.”

You giggled. “Such a powerful boast,” you said, humoring him. “What if I don’t like it?”

“Then I will build a new one.”

“What if I they all displease me?”

“I will still have a lifetime to please my fickle bride,” he responded, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to him. You both stumbled back, rolling down on the grass until you laid beneath him. Your cheeks suddenly felt warmer. Sylus peered down at you with a knowing smile. “My bride is suddenly silent…”

You looked up, wide-eyed and mouth slightly parted. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your senses suddenly heightened as you became all too aware of the close proximity of Sylus to you. He leaned down and nuzzled his cheek against yours.

Above him, the dark night sky loomed overhead, millions upon millions of stars scattered the heavens, bearing witness to the sacred union on the grassy plane. You felt a slight warmth in your body, but you brushed the feeling aside.

“The moon…” you murmured, gaze looking past him at the bright, full orb in the sky, “She is beautiful…”

“Indeed,” he answered, hushed, eyes fixated only on you. His long, slender finger trailed down your smooth cheek as he spoke softly, “Have I stolen a goddess to be my wife?”

“Such sacrilegious words,” you chided him, but Sylus responded with a roguish grin, stealing your lips and taking your reprimand with delight.

He hummed and murmured in between the sweet kisses, “Am I wrong? Would the gods not bow down to your beauty? Would goddesses not become green with envy and wish to covet the love I have for you?”

You gasped for breath, unsure if your racing heart was spurred by his relentless kisses or the feverish words he had so sweetly uttered. You panted softly, voice still scolding, “The hubris of this mortal man…”

He pressed his forehead to yours, laughing, “I speak of only the truth—my truth.”

“The gods will surely punish you for such loose lips.”

“To bear punishments simply because my only crime is that I wish to lavish my bride with praises and love?” He kissed you again, a haughty smile graced his face. “Then let them punish me.”

The warmth in your body spread. Surely, such words couldn’t have this much of an effect on you, right? You vaguely noticed Sylus’ own expression seemed more heated, his eyes darkening with a look of desire and longing.

He kissed you again, but you felt it was different from the previous light, affectionate pecks. He was practically ravaging your soft lips to the point you felt like you would bruise. You moaned against his mouth, this burning inside of you worsening as you kissed him back just as eagerly.

As the night wore on, you began to notice the effects of the aphrodisiacs settling in, feeling the warmth spread in your body and seeing the flushed look on your new husband’s face.

“Sy-Sylus…” you called for him, and his lips and teeth grazed along your neck. You panted and tugged at his ceremonial clothes urgently. “I…I feel so warm…”

“I know,” he husked back, hand cradling your face. He breathed in sharply. He himself was also beginning to feel the effects of the aphrodisiacs on his body, and coupled with the erotic sight of your flushed expression, he could feel himself hardening, needing you just as much as you needed him in this moment. He kissed your lips again, his voice coming out in soft pants, “I cannot wait to go back to our hut. I must have you now.”

You nodded, your body was aching, yearning for him in a way you had never felt before. You tossed your head to the side, your arms reaching up to wrap around your body, your own hands tugging at your clothes impatiently. “It’s so hot…Sylus…my body…it…it feels…it feels like…like it’s throbbing…I…I…”

He groaned at your words. He pulled away, and you looked upset at the sudden loss of contact, already missing his heavy weight on you, his warm heat against you, his soft touches on you. You whined softly, needing him on you again.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, breathless.

“With my life,” you answered immediately, and he smiled.

He knelt before you, like a devout follower, your body his temple to worship at. He offered you his kisses, words praising your beauty. You watched, eyes glazed over, your throat drying, as he removed his clothes tossing them to the side unceremoniously. You felt the ache inside you worsened as you took in the magnificent appearance of your husband, your eyes raking up and down his glorious body. Your breath hitched as you bore witness to his manhood, feeling both trepidation and excitement swirling inside you.

He reached out and disrobed you, his own eyes greedily taking in the sight of your exposed body. There was no other beauty or treasure in the world that could entice him the way he was feeling for you in this moment.

“Lay back,” he ordered, and though you were confused, you obeyed him. Suddenly, your eyes widened when he had your legs slung over his powerful shoulders while he settled between your parted thighs. You felt his warm breath trailing along your thigh, reaching your core.

“Sylus, what are you—ohh…” your head fell back as you let out a moan, feeling his mouth pressing against your most intimate area.

His mouth…he is… “Ahh…!” You covered your mouth, embarrassed by the unexpected noises you were making.

“Don’t.” Sylus looked up, chiding you gently, “I want to hear more. I want to hear how good I am making you feel.”

“Ohhh…” You could feel him parting your slick lips, his tongue diving in and stroking against you in all of the right places. Your hips moved on their own, wanting more of this stimulating sensation he was bringing to you.

You opened your eyes a crack, barely able to see him, but you did catch a glimpse of his hand, seeing it wrapped around his magnificent manhood, pumping it urgently as he continued to pleasure you. You could feel your body pulsing at the sight, your breathing coming out in quick gasps and moans.

“Sylus…ohhh…”

You whimpered, feeling an unfamiliar sensation happening to your body. “Sylus—I…I feel strange…ahh…ahh…”

“Do you feel good?” he pulled back just a moment to check in on you, a smirk on his face. You whined in frustration at the sudden loss of attention. He laughed and continued. You cried out when Sylus’ other hand pressed against you, brushing over an area that had you bucking against him. He continued stroking that same spot, feeling that sensitive little pearl, that was making you cry and moan so desperately, the erotic sounds you were making had him stroking himself harder and faster. Your helpless cries rose in pitch, coming out faster…and faster…and—

Your hips bucked up, your head tossed to the side as you let out a strangled moan, fingers finding only grass to hold onto as your body experienced the most euphoric sensation you had ever felt.

Sylus lapped at you greedily, forgetting his own pleasure as he wanted to only extend yours. You had never felt this high, this searing, hot pleasure coursing through your body. You focused on the feeling, wanting to hold onto it for as long as you could.

You were panting so hard, body trembling uncontrollably with pleasure. You didn’t know how long the heavenly feeling lasted, but when you felt the haze starting to subside, you realized Sylus was lavishing you with kisses. You hummed back tiredly, feeling his hands explored your body. You moaned as he squeezed your breast experimentally.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was soft. He pressed a kiss into the nape of your neck.

“So…so good…” You said, but then you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer to him again. You still felt so hot inside, still not fully satisfied. You whimpered to him, “Sylus…the wine…”

He panted, his hand cupping your sex, the friction from it only easing your ache a little. You needed more. Instinctively, your hips moved on their own, your body trying to seize whatever friction it could to satisfy this agonizing ache inside you.

“You are still so wet,” he murmured, laughing softly to himself, “This is good…”

You were confused by his words, but Sylus immediately kissed you again, reassuring you. “I’ll quell the fire inside you.”

Your eyes widened when he aligned himself to you, the head of his massive manhood pressing into your slick folds. You bit down on your lip, wincing from the unfamiliar sensation as you felt more and more of him entering. You gasped, tensing.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “Bear with the pain a little, my bride.”

You arched forward, voice scared. “Sylus—!”

He hushed you softly as he pressed more of himself into you slowly, groaning as he felt your walls stretching to accommodate him. He gauged your reaction closely, pleased as you became used to the feeling of him penetrating you.

He watched as your expression slowly changed, your arousal coming back stronger as he sheathed himself fully inside you. For a moment, he remained still, buried completely inside you and letting you adjust to the feeling. His lips found yours again, his hand slipping into yours.

“Ahh…m…more…”

Sylus’ ears perked up the moment he heard your soft plea. He began moving. Slow, careful movements at first, and then he slammed into you, making you cry out as stars filled your vision. Once he was sure you were enjoying yourself, he picked up his pacing, setting a hard, fast rhythm.

You writhed beneath him on the grass, moaning as he spread you more, taking you in deeper. His kisses trailed down your neck to your chest, his mouth finding your nipple to suckle. You squirmed when his tongue teased the sensitive nub, swirling around it until it hardened. “Sylus!”

He groaned when your fingers found his hair, tugging at him, urging him on. His voice was heavy with arousal when he spoke, “Taking me so well…my beloved beautiful bride…” He kissed your neck, his hands explored your body, learning and memorizing all of the curves that only he would ever know and trace. He memorized the way you sounded, the way your body was trembling with pleasure as it felt every burning touch and thrust from him.

“Sylus…more…more…please…”

He smiled and kissed your lips, swallowing your pleas hungrily.

Every powerful thrust had you calling his name, begging and pleading for him to go deeper and harder and faster. He answered your desperate pleas, giving you everything you were begging for. “Sylus—I am…ahh…it’s…close…”

He grunted. He could feel it too, knowing you were so close to coming undone again by him. That sweet, mounting pleasurable feeling you had felt earlier was almost here, just within reach, a little more, and—

You could feel your world tipping over, a white-hot searing pleasure coursing through your body, more powerful than the last. You didn’t know which god or goddess to praise for the intense pleasure this man was bringing to you, but you continued to cry out anyway. You gripped the grass, tugging until you pulled them free from the ground. The grass blades slipped from your fingers and scattered in the wind.

Sylus continued to rock into you, his own climax nearing. His hands gripped tightly your hips as he pounded into you with enough force that your breasts bounced. His hand skimmed over your flat belly, already imagining it growing heavy with a new life inside.

“Going to have you bear my children,” he murmured against your ear, his large hand gripping your much smaller one.

You moaned at his words. This was to be your role. You had always known it. The women were expected to bear their husbands’ children, the future of the village depending on these fruitful unions. For a powerful warrior like him, there was even more pressure for you to conceive, to bear him many strong sons who would inherit and carry on his legacy.

“Yes, yes,” you answered him breathlessly. You held onto him as he drove into you, his words reigniting the fire inside you. You whined softly into his shoulder. “Please, Sylus…”

“Oh, gods,” he grunted, “You are going to look so beautiful, my beloved.”

You mewled at his words. “More…ah…tell me more…”

His breath hitched, but he continued, his own words making him dizzy with pleasure. He was smirking as he panted, “Would you like that, my beloved? Would you like to grow big and round with my baby in your womb?”

You whimpered. It was your role. It was your duty. However, the way he asked, the way his deep voice sounded, rasping with desire, made you realized that you did want to have his babies—not out of obligation, but as an expression of your sincere love for him. You gasped and cried out, “Yes!”

That one word seemed to have driven Sylus wild. He spread you more and drove in deeper, his powerful thrusts unrelenting as he neared his own release. Your cries echoed in the dark night sky. You practically squealed, unprepared for this sudden aggressive switch.

“You’re going to carry my baby,” he murmured, nearly delirious with desire, “Grow big and round with my baby. Everyone will know. Everyone will know it is my baby in your womb, my baby that I fucked into you.”

You panted and moaned, your hands searching desperately for anything to hold onto, anything to keep you grounded as he took you for himself. Normally so sweet and affable with you, his sudden lewd words had you throbbing all over again. You didn’t realize you could get so aroused by such obscene words, but you found your body was craving more. You wanted to hear him say more of these perverted words, wanted to hear these indecent thoughts spoken aloud by his deliciously and sinfully deep voice. You wanted him to act on his lascivious desires, wanted those words to come true, wanted him to actually fuck a baby into you. You whimpered his name, gasping and pleading.

Sylus leaned in closer to you and you instantly encircled your arms around his neck, holding onto him tightly. He wrapped his own arms around you, lifting you off the ground, your legs locking around his waist as he penetrated you deeply, hitting that sweet spot that had you feeling that same euphoric feeling approaching again.

“You are going to look beautiful—so fucking gorgeous—heavy with my baby in you. Going to keep feeling you, going to fuck you over and over again while you are pregnant.”

His movements had become hurried and graceless, his own words mixed with your reactions had him close to the edge. “Gonna fill you up, gonna keep you full, gonna make sure my seed take.”

“Oh, Sylus—I am going to—ahh, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

You felt it, it was coming again, it was mounting, getting tighter, so close, so close, so fucking close—

You screamed your release into his shoulder, your nails scraping frantically along his back as you felt him emptied into you, filling and flooding your womb full of his seed. You bit down into his shoulder, and he hissed with pain and pleasure. There was just so much.

“Sylus—ahh, I…I feel so…full…”

He groaned and buried his face into your neck. His voice was low and commanding, “Take every last drop.”

“Ahh…Sylus…Sylus…”

He lifted your head from his shoulder, and he leaned forward, your lips his to take. You trembled against him, the aftershocks of your release still coursing through your spent body. You stayed in his arms, boneless and satisfied, the effects of the aphrodisiacs finally wearing off.

You looked at him with half-hooded eyes, meeting his own satiated gaze. His lips found yours again, his kisses more tender this time as you stayed in each other’s embrace longer as you both slowly came back down from your shared climaxes.

You lay with him beneath the stars, the cool spring breeze a welcoming presence after your heated lovemaking. You nestled into Sylus’ embrace, sighing softly when he tightened his hold. He covered you both loosely with his ceremonial robe as you basked in the afterglow.

You prayed for this moment to last, to always remember every single detail of this night. Among the million stars above, you hoped at least one would hear your silent prayer and make it come true. You closed your eyes, letting yourself be enveloped by Sylus’ warmth. As you slipped into a deep slumber, you could hear Sylus’ rich, deep voice murmuring softly:

“My beloved bride…I love you.”

As daybreak came, you found yourself waking up on top of fur, feeling a strong, protective arm wrapped around you. When you looked up, you didn’t see the sky. You looked around and realized you were inside a hut.

You heard soft snoring and looked up, seeing Sylus’ sleeping face close to yours. You smiled as memories of the previous day rushed back through your mind, your cheeks tinging pink as you remembered the passionate night beneath the stars with him on the grassland.

You snuggled into his embrace, his now familiar warmth enveloping you. Sylus stirred when he felt your movements. He looked down and smiled, kissing the top of your head.

“Good morning, my bride.”

You smiled, answering him, “Good morning…my husband.”

The one word seemed to have robbed Sylus of all thoughts as he seemed to sleepily replayed what you had just said again in his head. Slowly, happily, he smiled and pulled you into a kiss.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your lips.

“My husband.”

“I love you,” he whispered back, his words making you swelled with joy. He rolled over and had you trapped beneath him. His feverish kisses covered you and you struggled to keep up.

“Sy—Sylus, the sun is up—!”

“I do not care,” he murmured, nibbling your neck, “Do not worry. Just let this happen, my bride.”

You mewled softly, feeling his soft lips all over you, his hands roaming your body brazenly. Helplessly, you gave in to his wicked temptation and to your desires, surrendering yourself completely to him that morning.

By the next moon cycle, many of the new young brides had fallen pregnant—yourself included. The men had already departed for their hunting trip, already prepping for the cold winter months to come. They would not be receiving news about their expecting brides until they returned—hopefully with a bountiful hunt.

You had all conceived around the same time, so everyone’s growths were only slightly different. Even though, you were the last to lay with your husband, everyone noticed how fast you were growing, belly rounding out bigger and faster than the other new brides and mothers.

Oh, worry not, that is normal, one woman said.

The women in Sylus’ family all bear big, strong sons, another explained.

That’s right. You should be proud that you are already this big, you were told.

Child, do not fret, you were made for this, an elder assured you.

At night, you lay in bed, hand smoothing over your growing middle. Though the women in the village had offered you their wisdom and experience, you still felt unsure and worried about your fast growth. Your heart beat softly, your worries mounting. You turned in bed and stared at the empty space next to you, missing and yearning for your husband’s warmth and comfort.

You closed your eyes, hand cradling your belly, and you prayed for Sylus’ safe and quick return.

When the summer heat crept in unexpectantly, the village resounded with joyous cries as the men returned with wild games and fowls. Some were to be feasted on in the coming days while others would be cured for the winter months when food was scarce.

You raced through the village as fast as you could in your current delicate condition, arriving at the square just as you saw the imposing figure of your husband. A large wild boar was slung over Sylus’ strong, broad shoulders as he entered the square, but the moment he saw your approaching figure, seeing your rounded belly, he dropped the wild beast and rushed to you, gathering you into his arms, laughing joyously.

He carefully steadied you on your feet, dropping to his knees as he cautiously felt your belly, surprised when he was already feeling faint movements. He looked up at you adoringly, “You look breathtaking, my beloved.”

You covered your mouth with both of your hands, suppressing the laugh and cry threatening to rise. He looked at you concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve missed you,” you confessed, feeling tears brimming in your eyes.

He smiled. “I’m home.”

“Welcome home,” you said the familiar words you had said so many times in the past, but this was the first time you had uttered them as his wife. You sighed, relieved, repeating, “Welcome home.”

Nightfall arrived once more, and throughout the village, families settled in for the night one after another.

“I’ve missed you,” Sylus murmured as he climbed into bed with you, his lips already finding yours. You hummed softly, feeling your heart beating fast when his large hand rubbed against your belly, feeling the faint movements of the baby inside.

You could hear his soft, disbelieving chuckle as he parted from you. His forehead pressed to yours, his lips still near yours. “This is really happening,” he murmured, overjoyed “How do you feel?”

“Good,” you answered with a smile.

“No sickness? No discomfort?”

You shook your head. “The herbalist had given me some medication to help with the sickness.”

Sylus nodded in understanding. “That’s good then,” he murmured. He kissed your forehead, and he apologized softly. “This won’t be easy on you, so I want to ease your discomfort as much as I am able to.”

“Sylus…”

He leaned down and kissed your belly. “You are giving me the greatest gift I could ever ask for.” He rubbed your belly fondly, delighting in feeling his child responding to his touch, “Thank you, my beloved.”

The fears and unease you had felt about your changing body disappeared the moment you laid with Sylus. The flames in the lamps had long been extinguished, but you felt like in the dark hut, you could still see him clearly, see the love and desire in his eyes.

He worshiped your body the same way he did on your wedding night, reveling in the beauty and changes happening. The stretch marks that had started to appear around your stomach were caressed and kissed with revere, his voice full of praises and gratitude for the sacrifices you were making to carry his child.

When he gripped your soft, widened hips, you let out a low, deep moan, your body welcoming him in. The night air was cool on the grassland, but within this hut you both called home, there was a heat unlike any other as sweat-slicked bodies moved together with familiar ease. The air was thick and heavy with the sounds of your intense lovemaking, and where your moans ended, his began.

You kissed him, your ardent words coming out in between gasps and moans, “Welcome home…my love…”

He smiled against the sweet kisses, greedily taking them for himself. His forehead rested against yours, his movements reaching you where you needed most, and as you came, trembling so beautifully with pleasure beneath him, he breathed against your neck:

“I’m home.”

The once vibrantly green grass of the plane had begun to yellow, drying out as the weather started changing. The morning air had been chilly, and within Sylus’ warm embrace in the early hours, you both felt reluctant to leave the comfort of your shared bed.

You could hear stirring outside your hut as one by one, many of the villagers were getting up, ready to start the brand-new day. You burrowed into Sylus’ embrace, ignoring him when he laughed.

“Are you not going to get up, my bride?”

You shook your head. “It’s still early…”

You felt his hand brushing aside your hair, hearing a soft agreeable hum from him. You perked up when you heard him speaking again, “I will have to leave soon.”

“No,” you said, grabbing his arm and preventing him from getting up. “Stay with me a few minutes longer…please?”

He chuckled and shook his head in amusement. He leaned over and kissed your head, his hand smoothing your hair to the side. “So needy this morning,” he teased, though you didn’t care. You did feel needy, wanting him to stay and coddle you a little longer.

“So what if I am?” you challenged him. You attempted to sit up, but the heavy weight you carried made the once simple task much more difficult. Sylus immediately helped you as you cradled your large belly. You wondered just how big you could get for the remainder of your pregnancy. You already felt impossibly large, almost embarrassed by your size compared to many of the other expectant women in the village. You leaned back against the wall, sighing as you rubbed your belly restlessly.

He smiled sympathetically and kissed you again, his own hand resting over your stomach. “The baby is already so active this early in the morning,” he said, astonished.

“He must take after his father,” you said wearily as you shifted uncomfortably, “He doesn’t let me rest at all at night.”

Sylus smirked; his expression wickedly lewd. “Is that so?” He felt your belly again, feeling nonstop movements from the baby. He glanced at you, seeming intrigued by your earlier comment. “You said ‘he.’ What makes you so sure it’s a boy?”

You shrugged. “The women have told me that I am carrying low, which they said all points to me carrying a boy.”

Sylus looked puzzled by your explanation. “And you believe them?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, “But I thought you would be pleased to hear the baby might be a boy?”

“I wouldn’t care if it’s a boy or a girl,” he said firmly. He leaned closer, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of your head, keeping you trapped. He smirked and kissed you. “Besides, I have no intention of just having one child with you.”

You blushed and tried to look away. You gasped when he went in and kissed your cheek, his lips traveling further south as he continued down your neck. “Sy—Sylus…”

“I knew it. You look so beautiful like this,” he murmured, his hand continued to caress your belly, delighting in feeling his child moving inside you. “Carrying my baby, having my baby…”

“Mmm, Sylus…”

He laughed again when he felt a particularly strong kick. “I see we have a fighter,” Sylus said, smiling, “Maybe he does take after me—or she.”

You looked at him curiously. “‘She’?”

He nodded and laid back down next to you. He kissed your belly, stroking it fondly. You felt a warmth in your chest when he did that, his look of adoration and delight making you smiled fondly.

“I want both sons and daughters,” he said firmly, looking up at you. He stroked your cheek, “I want daughters as pretty as their mother. As sweet as their mother. As loving as their mother.”

You smiled, your cheeks colored a pretty shade of pink. You decided to play along with him, teasingly asking, “Does that mean I want sons as strong as their father? As dependable as their father? As free-spirited as their father?”

“Is that how you see me?”

You nodded. You tilted your head and looked thoughtful. Sylus raised a brow at seeing your sudden quiet disposition.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stroking your cheek again.

“Do...do you…”

“Do I what?”

Your cheeks brightened further.

“Tell me,” He demanded. “What is it?”

“How many children are we going to have?”

Sylus wasn’t expecting that question, so it took him a few seconds to register what you had asked him. He then laughed, making you feel embarrassed. He quickly apologized, kissing you reassuringly. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “But I want to have a lot of children with you.”

He sat up, his hands cupped your face as he leaned in closer. “As many as my beloved will allow me to have.”

“Then,” you started hesitantly, feeling your heart pounding in your chest, “If I say…I want to give you as many as you want…”

Sylus looked surprised, and then he smiled again, his lips brushing against yours. “Then, I feel like the most blessed man in the world.”

He pulled you into his embrace, showering you with sweet words and kisses.

Outside the hut, life had already begun again as people went about their day and chores. You both could hear the laughter of children running outside, mothers scolding their little ones, and men already laboring away to provide for their family.

For this particular morning, you and Sylus both decided to idle, to lounge around and enjoy the comfort of each other. As you lay in his arms again, Sylus lulled you back to sleep with stories of the future. You drifted to sleep, his deep voice describing a memory yet to come: beneath the azure summer sky and across the luscious green grassland, your children raced barefooted, their sweet bell-like laughter carried away by the playful wind.

“I feel like I am being kicked in all directions at once,” you sighed one cold evening, your hands rubbing restlessly all over your stomach. “Surely, this is not normal.”

Sylus wrapped his arms around you from behind. He looked down at you, your pout nearly making him laugh out of complete adoration for you. He couldn’t help but found you endearing whenever you looked frustrated and upset.

“You must be close to giving birth now, right?”

You nodded as you grabbed Sylus’ hand, guiding him to where you felt the most movements in your womb. You smiled when you looked up, seeing his surprised expression when he felt the baby’s strong kick. You answered his inquiry, “The midwife said it wouldn’t be long before the baby drops.”

As soon as you finished saying that, your expression faltered. Sylus noticed the change and he questioned you gently. You tried to brush it aside, but Sylus persisted, demanding to know what was upsetting you so suddenly.

You reluctantly relented. “Sylus,” you started, your voice growing smaller as you prepared for your confession, “I’m…scared.”

His expression softened. He turned you around to face him, but you kept your sight downcast. You could feel Sylus rubbing your cheek in comfort.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, “Speak to me.”

“What if…something goes…wrong.”

Sylus was immediately silent. You slowly looked up. His lips were a tight line, his eyes hardening. You could see him inhaling sharply as he seemed to try to keep his emotions under check for your sake. You then felt him guiding you to your bed.

You both sat down and Sylus was holding your hand tightly in his. At first, he didn’t say anything, almost as if he was trying to gather his thoughts and choose his words carefully. After a few beats, he began to speak:

“I do not wish to lie to you,” he said, mindful of his words, “But…I also do not like thinking of the possibility. All I can do is believe that everything will be fine.”

You looked unassured; your expression still anxious.

He pulled you into his arms. “I refuse to think otherwise,” he continued, his hand rubbing the back of your head soothingly, “You are strong and capable. Our baby is healthy and active. I have no reason to think differently.”

“Sylus…”

He leaned down and kissed your forehead. He looked apologetic as he spoke, “I wish I could take away your worries.”

You rested your cheek against his chest, eyes closed. You could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. This was…calming, you realized. His presence alone was comforting you, easing your fears. You opened your eyes and looked up at him, hesitant.

“Will you…stay with me? When I give birth?”

He looked at you confused.

“Please…”

He gave you a small smile, his hands cupping your face as his thumbs massaged little circles on your cheeks. “You know men are not allowed in the room.”

“Since when do you follow rules?”

At this, he laughed, conceding immediately. “You’re right,” he said, nuzzling his face against yours, “I will gladly stay with you, my beloved. I don’t want you to ever feel like you are alone, especially during this time.”

You smiled against him, feeling as if the worries you had been shouldering silently was easing. You still felt scared, felt so unsure of yourself, but you knew with Sylus by your side, you could find the confidence to believe that everything would work out in the end.

“Oh!”

“What’s wrong?” Sylus looked down at you, his face hardening.

You laughed as you peered down and felt your belly. You gasped again, laughing louder, “He is really not making it easy on me!”

Sylus relaxed, smiling with you.

“Or she,” Sylus reminded you, his own hand covering your stomach. He stroked it lovingly as he continued to speak, “She could be upset that her mother is scared and anxious.”

Sylus nuzzled his face against yours again, kissing your cheek. “But I hope her mother will feel better knowing I am here.”

You smiled, touched by his attempts at comforting you. “I am,” you answered. You then poked his cheek playfully, your expression puzzled. “But why are you so insistent that the baby is a girl? I thought you said it didn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sylus reaffirmed, grinning, “But we don’t know for sure yet if it is a boy or a girl. I don’t see why we can’t entertain the idea that we could be having a daughter.”

You laughed softly. You wrapped your arms around your large belly. “You say it doesn’t matter, but why do I get the feeling that you are really hoping for a girl?”

He smirked. “Am I?”

He pulled you down into bed, helping you lay on your side, your back resting against his chest. Sylus rubbed your stomach soothingly, his warmth encompassing you. You closed your eyes peacefully as you listened to his calming voice:

“We could have a pretty little daughter,” he began, his smile infectious. “Perhaps she will be as feisty and sweet like her mother. She would be the brightest jewel in the grassland, our precious little treasure.”

“We would have to find a good husband for her,” you quipped teasingly. You opened your eyes and looked up just in time to catch Sylus’ look of utter disdain. You giggled and poked at his cheek again, making him frowned even more. “What is with that look?”

“The very idea displeases me.”

“What about it displeases you?”

“Just…everything.”

You tsked at him. “Be honest,” you said, amused, “what do you not like about this?”

Sylus groaned and looked down at you with a light glare. “You are really going to make me say it?”

You nodded with a grin.

“No boy will be good enough for her.”

You laughed.

“You’re laughing at me,” Sylus said, offended. He had genuinely thought you would be on his side on this matter. “You are actually laughing at me. How impudent.”

You rolled your eyes at him, saying, “I am sure we can find her a perfect match. After all, we were matched perfectly by our parents, right?”

Sylus looked at you defeated. “You are being very unfair.”

“I am being as fair as I can be when we are discussing about our baby, who we still don’t know for sure if it’s a boy or a girl.”

Sylus sighed. “Very well,” he conceded, still unhappy, “You really ruined my good mood.”

You looked at him with mock-pity. “And your baby keeps me up at night. And it’s your fault I can’t see my feet any more—and they are swollen because of you, too. And also—”

“Alright, alright,” he relented, amused, “I know when to call it quits.”

He pulled you back against him, his hand resting over your stomach. He murmured into your ear, “Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. The baby is already the greatest gift you can give me, so thank you, my beloved.”

You closed your eyes and smiled, letting his gentle ministrations eased you to sleep as you felt the baby you carried calming down, seemingly also lulled by their father’s presence and voice.

One by one, many of the young mothers went into labor with their child. Day after day, week after week, the painful wails and desperate cries of laboring mothers were heard throughout the village as a child was brought forth into the world.

You were the last, and everyone waited with bated breath for your child’s birth. You were already the biggest, and with each new day, you continued to grow uncomfortably bigger. The cold winter month was also settling in, stripping the grassland of its once vibrant colors and life.

On this particular evening, the first snowfall had arrived, already blanketing the grassland in a layer of snow. You had heard the laughter from children as they played, attempting to catch the falling snowflakes on their tongues. You looked down at your belly, rubbing it as you wondered what your child’s first reaction to snow would be like.

“Please come out,” you pleaded to your stubborn baby, “Don’t you want to see the snowfall, too?”

You felt a strong kick, almost as if the baby was responding negatively to your plea and question. You sighed, and huffed resignedly, “Already stubborn like your father…”

“What about me?” Sylus entered the hut just as you finished speaking.

“Nothing,” you lied, giving him a poorly-disguised smile. He knew you were fibbing, but decided it was perhaps in his best interest to not antagonize you during this time. He knew the last couple weeks had been rough on your body and with so many women having already given birth to their babies, he knew your anxiety was also increasing as your own child seemed adamant about prolonging your discomfort.

“Do you want to eat something?” Sylus offered, but you shook your head.

“I think I want to walk.”

“It’s snowing outside,” he answered.

“I know,” you responded, “Maybe I can just walk around the hut. It will help with the pressure around my hips.”

Sylus nodded.

You paced your hut restlessly, one hand on your lower back as the other cradled your large belly. You breathed in and out slowly, wincing in discomfort. Sylus walked up behind you, his hands settling on your hips as he rubbed soothing circles.

“Do you think it’s almost time?” he questioned, worried.

You were about to shake your head, but you winced again in discomfort. “I don’t know,” you admitted, as your hands rested over his appreciatively, silently urging him to press in harder. He complied.

“The last three days have been false pains,” you said, frustrated, “Does the baby not want to be born?”

He chuckled and leaned down to nuzzle his face against your cheek. “The baby probably feels safe inside you, so it doesn’t want to be born yet.”

“I would feel touched by such lies,” you started, turning to peck his cheek to his amusement and delight, “but, Sylus, I am too uncomfortable to put up with your thinly-veiled flatteries.”

“When have I ever flattered you?” he remarked with a teasing grin, walking around to face you. He rubbed your overdue belly with a sympathetic smile. He couldn’t help but found your frustration endearing, though he knew better than to voice such thoughts aloud during this time. Instead, he guided you to bed.

You sat down in between his legs, your back against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, his hands rubbing soothing circles around your gravid middle as he leaned down and nibbled on your neck, whispering huskily, “I know this has been tough on you, my beloved, but I have adored seeing the changes that you have been through to carry our child.”

His brazen touches felt so possessive, as if it made him proud to know that the many changes that had happened to your body was his complete doing. You whimpered and sighed as he continued, seemingly growing bolder with his intents. The featherlight kisses he peppered along your neck felt like such a stark contrast to the lustful words he whispered to your ears.

“So beautiful, so fertile,” he said, his voice so honeyed and sultry, you felt like you were pulsing inside. You could barely keep your breathing steady or your voice quiet. Sylus gazed at you intensely, his scarlet eyes seemed to shimmered with satisfaction. He appeared almost pleased by your flushed doe-eyed look. He continued in the same hushed, sensuous voice, his hands practically groping you all over, “And so voluptuous. You have filled out beautifully, my beloved.”

“Sylus…” Your voice sounded breathless as you reached down to grab at his mischievous hands. You felt a building warmth in your body, his devilish voice and tantalizing words igniting a fire inside. With his teasing ministrations on your sensitive body, you began to crave for more from him. You squeezed his hands.

“What is it?” His breathing stopped for a moment, seeing the aroused look in your eyes.

He smirked.

Sylus leaned in and kissed you, his touches shameless and greedy.

He helped you lay down and as he continued to trail kisses down your neck, his hands were already working on undressing you. You tugged at his own clothes, and he chuckled in amusement at your impatience. He began undressing himself as well, letting all of the clothes fall to the ground. He lay down behind you, his lips trailing along your shoulder as his hand rubbed your much overdue belly. You whined as you felt him rutting against you from behind, his hard member pressing against your slick entrance.

“P-please…please, Sylus…”

You felt your insides throbbing, desperate to be filled by him. You gasped into a pillow as he answered your plea, his massive manhood slowly easing in, drawing out your heavy moans. You felt his hand pressing into your hip, gripping you tightly as he buried himself in you.

You were practically crying with relief, just feeling him sheathed inside you was easing the discomfort you had been feeling these past few weeks. You rocked back against him, a silent invitation. Sylus smirked.

He began moving, but compared to your previous lovemaking with your husband, this time Sylus was careful, his movements slow but precise, still able to draw out your pleased moans. He gauged your reactions, his own pleasure secondary as he was more concerned about your comfort.

“Sy—Sylus…m-more…”

“Are you sure?” His words came out in soft pants. Seeing you so heavy, so close to going into labor with his baby, was arousing him in a way he never knew it could. He wanted nothing more right now than to fuck you like a wild beast, to make you writhe and scream with pleasure. He was only holding himself back for your sake.

When you nodded, unaware of his inner desires, that was enough to break his restraint. You gasped as you felt his thrusts getting harder, feeling it reaching you deeper and deeper. Your fingers curled around a blanket, gripping it tightly as your face was buried against a pillow as you felt him driving into you with more force than before.

You groaned and moaned into the bed, your grip around the blanket vicelike as you felt his length piercing you with precision over and over and over again. You called out his name, your pitch higher than normal. Sylus groaned deeply at the heavenly sound, his arousal clouding his mind with only thoughts of claiming you again and again until you went into labor.

Sylus’ pants grew heavier, his eyes darkening with lust as he took in the sight of you. In his eyes, you looked absolutely perfect like this. On your side, heavily pregnant with his baby, your leg held up by him as he fucked shamelessly into you. Your cries and moans were the sweetest noises he had ever heard.

Sylus reached around you with his other hand, groping your heavy, tender breast, kneading and teasing until your milk leaked and dribbled openly down your chest. At this point, you were too far gone, completely lost in this thick haze of pleasure to even feel any embarrassment or worried about your modesty. Whatever he was doing, you wanted even more from him.

“Don’t stop…don’t stop…ahh…please, Sylus, more, more, more…!” you whined over and over, his name spilling shamelessly from your lips. You could feel your pleasure was cresting, reaching new heights. “…Sylus…Sylus!”

“Fuck!” he hissed as he felt you cumming around his cock. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, one hand squeezing your breast as his other gripped your hip so hard, you would surely bruise by morning. Without a word, he spilled into you, hot and heavy.

Your eyes squeezed shut, lost in this state of euphoria. You moaned, feeling so full. He was cumming into you so much, you felt his release dripping out of you.

You gasped, feeling a twinge in your belly.

“Oh, gods, ah…ah…ah” you panted as you reached for his hand over your breast. You whimpered as you felt an unfamiliar tightening around your stomach, the pain intermingling with the residual pleasure you were feeling. “Sy—Sylus…”

You called for his name weakly, and Sylus was immediately alerted. He looked down at you in concern, feeling your nails scraping against his hand. “What is it? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t stop the whimpers from escaping your lips. The cramps were worsening and you just wanted to curl up. “Ah…Sylus…my belly hurts…”

At those words, Sylus pulled out of you slowly and more of his release spilled out obscenely. His breath hitched the moment he realized his seed wasn’t the only thing dripping out of you and down your thighs. There was a growing wetness on the bed beneath where you lay.

Your water had broken.

You gasped and clutched your belly, feeling the first pangs of labor as well as the baby descending lower in your womb. There was so much pressure in your hips, you began to panic. Seeing your distress, Sylus immediately dressed and rose to his feet, rushing outside the hut, his deep voice bellowed across the quiet village, “Call for the midwives! It’s time!”

Night descended over this small village once more, and the first snow of winter continued to gently fall, the ground already accumulating several inches from the past hours. The village was quiet, giving the illusion of tranquility, but within one lone hut, the atmosphere was tensed as you labored while several midwives tended to you.

“It won’t be long, child,” a midwife commented, checking the progress of your dilation. Another wiped at your sweat-soaked face with a cooling cloth, giving you a look of sympathy.

You whimpered and gritted your teeth as you breathed through the next pains.

“Easy, easy now,” you heard Sylus’ voice behind you. Cradled in between his long legs, you leaned back against his chiseled chest, panting heavily. You were grateful that he had insisted on staying with you in spite of the midwives’ initial opposition. With only one sharp glare from Sylus, he had everyone yielding to him, none daring to oppose the fearful warrior.

You felt Sylus caressing your small fingers in his hand, this simple act already keeping you grounded and calm. You whimpered quietly, “It hurts so much…”

He looked down at you helplessly. “I know, my beloved, but you’re doing so well. Stay strong.”

You moaned softly as you felt Sylus large hand massaging your hips, easing some of the pain, if only a little. As the minutes ticked by, you felt the pains getting closer and closer until you finally heard the words you were desperately waiting for:

“She is ready to deliver.”

You leaned further back against Sylus as he helped you get into position to start pushing. With your legs spread and propped up, you began pushing at the midwife’s urging. Your eyes widened as you felt the baby shifting inside, dropping lower.

“It…it feels so…big,” you gasped.

Before one of the younger midwives could make a quick remark regarding the genetics in Sylus’ family, he silenced her with a cold glare, making her cowered back. He looked down at you warmly, your hand in his. “That’s it, keep going…”

You pushed for several seconds longer, but honestly to you, it felt like an eternity. You could have sworn the pressure was intensifying, feeling the weight so heavy in your pelvis. Quick, short grunts left your lips as you bore down again. Once the pains ebbed, you collapsed back against Sylus, crying in frustration, “Nothing is happening!”

Sylus shushed you gently as the midwife reassured you that you were progressing well. You found it hard to believe. You panted softly, already feeling your energy drained. Sweat glistened down the sides of your face as you shut your eyes again, body tensing as the next pains arrived. You instinctively started pushing once more, feeling more progress being made this time. All around you, you heard hushed gasps and whispers, but you couldn’t comprehend anything said as you concentrated on birthing your baby.

Without a word, Sylus guided your hand lower and you felt between your legs. You opened your eyes in shock. “So much hair!” you exclaimed, laughing in spite of the agonizing pain you were feeling. Your fingers felt the little tufts of hair again. You couldn’t believe it. This was your baby’s. Your baby was right there.

For this brief instance, you felt your energy renewed as you gave your everything and bore down again, your laboring grunts heard throughout the room. As you pushed, your hand found Sylus’ again and you squeezed it tightly, his presence giving you the strength to persevere through this arduous ordeal.

“Just a little more,” he said, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck. “You are doing so well.”

Your efforts yielded slow result, feeling the baby emerging little by little. When the contractions subsided, you leaned back against Sylus for a brief reprieve, but instead of resting, you whined in frustration when you felt the baby receding a little and negating all of your progress just now.

Sylus whispered praises and encouragement soothingly to you as the midwives also assured you everything would be fine. You barely registered any of the voices, your body demanding your full attention again as you felt the next urge to push.

“Oh, gods…”

You panted softly, your eyes clenched shut as you put all of your focus into pushing out your baby again. You unconsciously squeezed Sylus’ hand, and then you let out a tired cry when you felt the baby’s head emerging fully. You trembled and sobbed, feeling a strange mixture of pain and relief in that moment. You could hear voices all around you encouraging you on, but the words meant nothing to you as you could only focus on the excruciating pain you were enduring.

“Here comes the shoulders, push, child, push!” the midwife’s voice rang loud in the room. You reflexively shook your head, begging silently to any merciful goddess who would take pity on you and end this suffering now.

“Please…I can’t…!” Your grip on Sylus’ hand tightened, your nails digging into his flesh. If he had felt any pain, he did not voice or show it. Instead, you felt his warm breath close to your ear, his soothing voice low and only audible to you.

“I know it hurts, my beloved, but you can’t stop now.” Sylus’ voice pulled you back, and you leaned against him crying softly. He rubbed you up and down, whispering more words of comfort and encouragement. “You’re so close, so close, a little more, my beloved, just a little more…our child is almost here…”

Your breathing was ragged, but you tried to gather what little strength you had left. In spite of your exhaustion, your body was already acting on instinct, already pushing again and you groaned lowly, feeling like you were being spread more and more, feeling each shoulder painfully coming out one at a time.

“Hah…hah…Sylus…ahh…”

“I’m here, I’m here, I won’t leave you,” he whispered, his eyes darting rapidly from your face to his baby slowly emerging from you. He seemed to have stopped breathing as he watched, awestruck, as the baby was born.

You collapsed back against him, sobbing in relief.

Not too long afterwards, the room resounded with the loud cry of a newborn.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife declared after cutting the cord that connected you and your son. The baby was immediately cleaned and prepared to be swaddled.

Sylus stilled at the announcement, the reality of the situation slowly settling in. His face broke out into a wide smile as he looked down at you. “A son, we have a son—”

The joy in the room was short-lived. Sylus was the first to notice you straining again, hearing your soft grunts and whines and seeing the pained look still on your face.

He was immediately tensed. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

You gritted your teeth and then let out another strangled cry. “It still hurts!” You turned, burying your face against his chest again, sobbing. You couldn’t even rest for a moment as you felt the now all too familiar urge to push. You gasped and panted against Sylus’ chest. It couldn’t be…this couldn’t be happening…you had just given birth already…this couldn’t be happening—

“Another child!” One of the younger midwives cried out, alerting everyone else in the hut. There were shocked gasps and mutters as many crowded around while others continued to focus on your first baby who continued to cry.

“Twins,” another muttered, shocked, “She was carrying twins.”

The eldest and most experienced of the group quickly accessed the situation, already barking out orders, “Don’t just stand there! Hurry! Prepare for the second child!”

You did not know whether it was because of the first baby or not, but your second child was coming much quicker. You had no time to rest as your body was already straining again, already feeling that painful ring of fire as your next child started to emerge. Using the last of your strength, you leaned forward, chin to your chest and you bore down, your voice strained as you struggled. You rested for a few seconds and you continued again, and within just another three hard pushes, you delivered your second child, its cry almost immediately joining its older twin.

You fell back against Sylus once more, completely spent both physically but also emotionally. Sylus leaned down, his cheek nuzzling against yours, his praises plentiful.

“Twins?” he questioned, amazed. He kissed your cheek. “Rest, my beloved, rest, I love you.”

Not too long afterwards, the afterbirths were expelled from your body. You were immediately tended to, cleaned and cared for and showered in endless praises for your remarkable feat. You smiled wearily, barely conscious and barely registering any of the competing voices in the room. You had never felt an exhaustion such as this one.

Perhaps it was because of the long, strenuous hours of labor, but it felt like you were drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to decipher what was a dream and what was reality. You were drained entirely, but you knew you could not sleep just yet. You didn’t want to go to sleep right now. You wanted to see your babies. Babies.

You opened your eyes wearily, sensing an approaching figure. You looked up, confused, when the midwife handed you the two swaddled babies. You nervously took them both into your arms, staring down in amazement at the two small red-faced newborns fussing and cooing quietly.

You let out a choked gasp, your tears barely held back as you smiled down at your children. Your children. How surreal, how sweet, those words sounded to you.

“Identical sons,” the matronly midwife said, praising you warmly, “You did well, child.”

She helped you adjust to holding your babies, patiently explaining to you everything you needed to know. When one of your sons started crying again, she helped guide both babies to your nipples, and you gasped softly at feeling both of your sons latching on and suckling hungrily for their first meal. You could feel your milk flowing, entering hungry little mouths. You half-laughed and half-sobbed, unable to even comprehend fully the current surreal situation.

You felt so overwhelmed. You had given birth to not one, but two babies, and they were identical boys. You were now a mother to identical twin boys. You just could not seem to register that thought no matter how many times you repeated it in your head. You looked up at Sylus, and he smiled back just as helplessly, also unable to wrap his head around the current situation.

“Thank you,” he murmured instead, kissing your lips. He smiled tenderly as you gazed at him wonderstruck. “My beloved bride, you have given me not one but two sons.” He kissed you more deeply, drawing out your soft moans. He kept you in his warm, protective embrace for just a few minutes longer as the midwives cleaned the room and prepared for their leave.

He peered down at you and his children, his smile unwavering. For Sylus, there was no greater treasure in the world than the three treasures he now held in his arms. For you and for his children, Sylus was willing to face Heaven and Hell’s wrath, to do everything in his power to keep his beloved family safe and protected.

As he watched you nursed his children, his hand reached up, his finger gingerly stroking one of the twins’ cheek. The baby’s skin felt so soft and smooth and delicate. He was enthralled that these two beautiful little babies came from you, that you had went through such an arduous trial to bring his children into the world, and now you cradled them protectively against your breasts, letting them suckled the precious milk your body was providing for the newborns.

He had never seen such beauty and strength as this, and so it seemed the only thing he could do was willingly let himself fall deeper and deeper in love with you, his beloved.

In the center of the hut, there was a firepit. Flames danced within the space, warming the quaint home.

It had been a few hours since you had given birth, and after making sure both you and the babies were taken care of, everyone had left, including Sylus, leaving you alone with just your sons.

It was still so dark outside. Dawn would not break for a few more hours, so you wondered absently where your husband could have gone this late in the night. You did not idle on those thoughts for too long, your attention focused entirely on the babies you had just birthed hours ago.

You sat up in bed, gazing in wonder at the two sleeping babies sharing the wicker bassinet, still in awe that these two little ones came from your body, conceived from the love between you and Sylus. You smiled as you watched your babies sleep, unable to ignore that they were indeed bigger than most babies born in the village, but not so drastically as many had you fearing for months. You chuckled to yourself, unable to fully fathom how these two babies were inside you just this morning, and now they were asleep right next to you.

One of the twins started hiccupping, breaking you out of your spell. Instinctively, you took him into your arms, carefully holding him over your shoulder. You gently patted his small back, softly comforting your son with soothing words.

“Motherhood looks lovely on you.”

You looked up when you heard Sylus’ voice as he entered the hut covered in a light dusting of freshly-fallen snow. You noticed he was carrying a basket of food in one hand and an extra bassinet in the other. There was also a fur blanket strewn over his shoulder. You raised a brow in confusion, and he chuckled in response.

“Everyone’s been so kind,” he explained as he set everything where they needed to be. He adjusted the second bassinet next to the first one before turning to face you. You handed him the baby in your arms, watching as he carefully placed the infant in his own bassinet.

Almost immediately, both babies started fussing and crying softly. You laughed quietly as you leaned in closer to Sylus, your arms wrapped around his. “They have never slept away from one another before,” you remarked, finding the situation heartwarming.

Sylus nodded, smiling softly. He helped you back into bed to rest before he knelt down on the ground between the two bassinets. He lightly rocked both bassinets at the same time, pleased when his sons calmed down, the gentle motion lulling them back to sleep.

As you lay on your side, watching this sweet scene, you felt so much love and joy in your heart. You yawned softly, and at Sylus’ gentle urging, you allowed yourself to succumb to sleep as well.

When you opened your eyes again a few hours later, you saw the two newborns tucked in Sylus’ arms as he cradled and rocked them while pacing around the hut. His deep, gentle humming was joined only by the warm crackling fire in the hut and the soft whistling winter wind outside.

You felt at peace, as if the world had quieted down. This moment in time felt so surreal, like a sweet dream you never wished to wake up from.

“I love you,” you found yourself saying sleepily, alerting Sylus.

He smiled back and walked over, settling down in bed next to you. You sat up, taking one of the babies from Sylus. You leaned closer to him, gentle eyes flitting back and forth between the two identical babies you both held with so much love and adoration.

Warmer than the fire, you heard Sylus’ gentle murmur, “I love you, too, my beloved.”

The years had rolled by on the grassland, life remaining, more or less, unchanged. This era of prosperity continued with the village now under Sylus’ leadership. You had seen six springs passed since your marriage to Sylus, and from this union, you two were blessed again and again and again.

The warriors are home! came the familiar words from the village and carried all the way down to the field where the sheep grazed.

“Mother, Mother, Father is home! Father is home!” your children ran by you barefooted, many already leaving you behind to rush to the village entrance.

Your twins helped you to your feet, and your hand settled on the large, round bump you carried once more. Another child was on the way. Your seventh.

Swaddled and resting on your back was your sixth, barely ten months old. He cooed happily, seemingly sensing his older siblings’ excitement. You smiled, always delighting in hearing your children’s sweet laughter.

You carefully made your way back to the village, listening fondly as your twins chatted and laughed. They were the spitting image of their father from head to toes, and while they inherited little of your physical appearance, they gained many of your mannerisms and quirks instead.

When you and the twins finally arrived at the village square, a crowd had already formed. After months apart, families were reunited again. This familiar scene had played out so many times before in the past, and yet you never tired of it. As always, there would be a celebration, for the glory and victories these brave men have brought home, but more importantly, to celebrate families reuniting once more.

As you and the twins treaded through the dense crowd, you saw your beloved husband towering in the center. Sylus already had his youngest daughter—barely three—sitting on his shoulders, her little legs swung over his shoulders and her small hands tugging at his hair happily. Your other daughter and son danced circles around their father asking for their turn to be held by him. You laughed softly as you witnessed Sylus’ overjoyed but helpless expression as he tried to accommodate his children.

At the sound of your familiar laughter, Sylus looked up. Seeing your approaching figure, his crimson eyes lit up with joy. He carefully set his daughter down to join her siblings. The twins immediately left your side and ran to their father cheering and already showering him with questions and praises. He greeted his sons affectionately, kneeling down to embrace all of his children and accept their kisses.

Your youngest son was now held in your arms, balanced on your hip as you stood in your place. You gazed at Sylus with the same love and joy as the spring when you had married him. Sylus slowly stood up, sighing blissfully as he took in the sight of you round and heavy again with his child.

“I’m home,” he said the familiar words warmly, and your heart swelled with happiness and love.

“Welcome home,” you responded fondly, smiling as he crossed the distance with just a few short strides. He gathered you into his arms, enveloping you in a familiar warmth and scent only he possessed. You sighed happily against him, only broken out of your daze when you heard your youngest son giggling. He squirmed against you as he held his little arms out for his father. You smiled as Sylus took the baby boy from you, easily holding him in one arm.

Beneath the azure sky, in his loving embrace, you remembered a story Sylus had once told, a memory that was yet to come. The sweet bell-like laughter of your children was carried on the playful wind across the luscious grassland. Surely this moment must be it, you thought, unable to fathom a greater happiness than this.

Sylus knelt down before you, his lips touching your growing belly fondly, his touch gentle and loving.

“My beloved.”

You looked down lovingly at your husband, your heart beating quietly for him as he gently guided your youngest son’s hand to your round belly. He spoke softly to the baby boy, his voice sweet and tender. Sylus looked up, the depths of his love for you reflected in his crimson eyes.

In this moment, you also recalled the elders had long ago told tales of a paradise after life, but you wondered how there could be a greater heaven than the one on the grassland with your lover—your destined half.

Sylus.

[anonmeansanon]

ykw would be peak? sylus x non-mc!roxana agriche!reader, because GOD who doesn't love a good villain x villainess story? i want a non-mc fic where reader is a TRUE villainess, who isn't afraid to kill, who's so intelligent and witty and has people at her beck and call with just a simple snap of her fingers.