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yuhuahuaaa · 14 days ago

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A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 6.5k

A/n: This story began with one idea: what if Rafayel existed in a Regency world of whispered courtships, candlelit ballrooms, and dangerously improper strolls through the gardens? And then… well, then it became everything. The fan fluttered. The heart raced. The gloves came off. Literally.

If you love yearning, poetry, burning touches behind closed doors, and the kind of romance that leaves you sighing into your teacup—then I hope you enjoy every soft, scandalous step of this journey. Prepare for aching glances, stolen kisses, and perhaps a few gasps behind a fan. Because this is the Season, after all.

With all my heart, —Lex

Chapter 1

The manor had not known this much noise in years.

Maids fluttered between corridors like startled birds, arms burdened with ivory silk, pearl-dotted gloves, and lace-trimmed slippers. Somewhere in the east wing, a heated debate arose about whether the new French ribbon complemented or ruined the eldest daughter’s gown. In the drawing room, their mother fanned herself with a fluttering hand and sighed dramatically into the air, as if managing two debutantes had taken five years from her life already—and it was only the first day of the Season.

And you? You sat near the window, watching the grey spring clouds roll across the sky, utterly untouched by the chaos. Or at least pretending to be. Your reflection in the glass looked pale, thoughtful, expectant. As if even you weren’t quite sure what you were waiting for.

“Would it kill you to act excited?” came a voice behind you.

Your sister. Eleanora glided into view like a well-practiced scene in a stage play—tall, elegant, every curl in place. Her dress had already been fitted days ago. Pale rose, delicate embroidery, soft gold accents. The kind of debutante gown that said: look at me, then look again. Her confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was simply… inherited.

“I am excited,” you replied without looking at her, chin resting in your palm. “I’m vibrating with anticipation. Can’t you tell?”

She rolled her eyes and sank gracefully into the seat beside you. “Mother’s convinced I’ll receive a proposal by the second ball.”

You blinked slowly. “That’s optimistic.”

“She’s not wrong,” Eleanora said, half-smiling. “There’s already talk. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball. And he—well, you know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah. Him. You’d heard the name whispered since you were old enough to understand what betrothal meant. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt. Promised to your sister since they were both children, in one of those quiet family agreements made with wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and fortunes. You’d never seen him. Never met him. But you’d heard of him.

They said he rarely came to town. That he’d been abroad for years. That he was... peculiar. Brilliant, but peculiar. That he collected ancient art and turned down nearly every social invitation. That he had no interest in courtship, except the one already chosen for him.

Your sister’s.

“I wonder if he’s dreadfully boring,” you mused aloud.

Eleanora snorted. “He’s a duke, darling. I’d hardly be expected to love him. Only not embarrass myself at dinner.”

You turned to face her then. “Do you mind it?” you asked quietly. “That you’ve never met him. That it’s all been arranged.”

Her expression softened, then faltered. Just for a second.

“I mind being married off like a trinket. But… I also mind not having a choice,” she said. “And choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

A pause. “You’ll have more freedom, you know,” she added lightly. “You’re not promised to anyone.”

No. You weren’t. Not the eldest. Not the heir-maker. You were the afterthought in pearls. But freedom felt like such a fragile thing when it was wrapped in expectation and painted in powder and rouge.

There was a knock, then the door creaked open.

“The carriage is ready, Misses,” said a maid, curtseying low. “Your mother says the ball waits for no lady.”

Your sister rose in one graceful sweep. You followed, smoothing your skirts and forcing a smile.You did not know it then. Not as you stepped into the carriage, nor as the first ballroom doors opened before you. Not as your name was announced or champagne touched your lips.

But somewhere in the city, a man named Rafayel Vale had also dressed for the evening.And the Season had already begun.

The ballroom glittered like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloomed overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors. Laughter curled around the violins. Perfumed fans fluttered like butterfly wings. It was the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London had come to play their part.

Your mother had insisted on white for your debut—soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves just off the shoulder. You felt like a porcelain doll being paraded across a chessboard. But Eleanora? She was art. A single glance at her, and suitors flocked like moths to a flame. Her rose-colored gown shimmered with every turn. Her laughter fell in just the right places. She danced as if she’d been born to do it.

She probably had. You didn’t mind. Not really. You sipped at your champagne near the edge of the floor, nodding politely to a young gentleman who’d just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz began.

“She’s rather enchanting, your sister,” came a voice beside you.

You turned. A tall, freckled young man smiled at you, slightly flushed with wine. “But I find myself curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lifted. “Curious, or drunk, My Lord?”

He laughed, unoffended. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”

You hesitated—then took his hand. The music rose, and so did you. You danced. Twice. Once with the freckled gentleman—Lord Daniel something—and again with a kind-eyed viscount who fumbled through small talk but smiled at your wit. You laughed. You curtseyed. You did everything you were meant to.

But it was impossible to ignore how the room revolved around Eleanora. She hadn’t left the floor. A new partner every song. An admiring audience wherever she paused. You caught glimpses of her between turns—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, posture perfect. And then… a whisper.

“Did you see? Lord Ravencourt is here.”

The name slipped between fans like a secret.

“I thought he wouldn’t come.”

“He never does. But this Season—well, everyone knows why.”

“He’s to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he—”

You turned too fast, looking for the voice, the source. But all you saw were swirling gowns and smiling mouths. No sign of him. Your heartbeat kicked just a little faster, for reasons you couldn't name. You’d heard the name all your life, but now… he was here. In this room. Breathing the same air. And yet—You couldn’t find him.

Eleanora laughed again, a musical sound that carried across the dance floor as she twirled in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps not. You watched. And listened. But Rafayel Vale, Duke of Ravencourt, remained as elusive as his reputation. Just a name. Just a whisper. For now.

Another glass of champagne was placed in your hand—your third of the evening, perhaps fourth. The effervescence prickled pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness refreshing but not enough to cool the flush that had crept across your cheeks after so many turns about the ballroom.

You’d danced with no less than six gentlemen—each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh,” said one. “Your sister is lucky to have you by her side,” said another. “Might I call on you this week?” asked a third.

You smiled, curtsied, responded with the appropriate level of civility. But your mind had long since drifted elsewhere—pulled by curiosity, by the weight of a name that kept brushing past your ear like a breeze you couldn’t quite catch.

Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one pointed him out. No introductions. No dramatic arrival. You were beginning to suspect he hadn’t come at all—despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room like a pebble dropped into still water.

You were about to take your leave from the floor when you caught the flicker. A subtle shift. The orchestra hadn’t stopped. The conversations hadn’t paused. And yet— It was as if the air had gone still. You turned. There, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stood a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announced him. He didn’t need it. He stood with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveyed the ballroom below with the kind of expression that didn’t demand attention—but commanded it nonetheless.

He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—elegant, distant, dangerous. His hair was tied loosely at his nape, the soft wave of it brushing against the collar of his coat. His eyes, from what you could see across the distance, were sharp. Watchful. His jaw cut clean beneath the candlelight.

You didn’t need to ask who he was. You knew. The Duke of Ravencourt has arrived.

“Ah, there he is,” someone murmured near you, confirming it.

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. He descended the stairs unhurriedly, greeted no one, and walked with the ease of someone completely uninterested in impressing. And yet, every head turned.

Even Eleanora’s. You watched her gaze snap upward, watched the moment his eyes met hers—just for a breath. Then, with unflinching grace, he crossed the ballroom and offered your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice was low, velvet-draped steel. Refined. Controlled.

Your sister curtsied perfectly. “My Lord.”

And for the first time in your life, you stood mere feet away from the man who had, without even knowing it, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. Rafayel Vale.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t look at you. But something inside you stirred—a thread pulled taut, a chord struck too suddenly. So this is the man my sister is to marry. So that was him. The man whose name had been sewn into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread. The Duke your mother spoke of in hushed tones. The one your sister had been destined for before she’d learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

And yet, you didn’t linger on the sight. You watched long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand. Watched him take it with a bow too shallow to be entirely respectful, too intimate to be entirely proper. Interesting. But not your concern. So you turned away.

“Miss Everleigh.” You faced the gentleman with a smile just sharp enough to cut through the fog of champagne.

“Lord Renswick,” you greeted, dipping into a curtsey. “You’ve finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It’s hardly bravery when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilted your head. “Flattery, my Lord? We haven’t even danced yet.”

“I’m hoping to improve your opinion before I embarrass myself,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You allowed him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble floor. You danced. And laughed. And when he stumbled, you teased. Another gentleman approached you before the music faded. Then another. The evening passed in a haze of pleasantries and compliments, silk gloves and careful steps, and smiles that never quite reached your eyes.

You were being seen. Not just as Eleanora’s sister—but as yourself. And still, somewhere behind the swirling figures and murmured invitations, you caught the occasional sound of his name.

“The Duke hasn’t danced with anyone else.” “He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with her.” “They’re to be married before summer, I hear.”

You didn’t seek him out. But you noticed. He didn’t hover near the punch. He didn’t court attention. He simply existed, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room.

Eleanora had his company almost exclusively. They spoke often, heads bent slightly toward one another. She laughed in that polished way she’d perfected since finishing school. He only smiled once—or maybe you imagined it. He offered his hand to two other ladies for a dance. Out of courtesy, not interest. Both looked dazed when returned to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz played, you found yourself near the windows again. A gentle breeze filtered through the open panes. The sky outside was deep and velvet blue, dotted with the promise of rain.

You pressed your fingertips to the glass, cooling your skin. Behind you, the ballroom glittered on. Your sister was still dancing. With him. So that is the man who will be her husband. You didn’t envy her. Not truly. He was distant, unreadable. A mystery, yes, but not yours to solve. You were only curious. Just a little.

The ride home was quiet at first. Outside the window, London twinkled beneath the night sky, gas lamps glowing like stars trapped in glass. The carriage wheels clattered softly over the cobblestones, a rhythmic lull that always came after a long night of dancing.

Inside, you sat across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand—more habit than necessity now.

Your mother sighed for the fifth time in ten minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage was hardly warm.

“Well, I’d say that was a successful beginning to the Season,” she declared. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” she turned to you, “were charming. I heard Lord Pelham compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love, not just your appearance. A rare thing.”

You offered a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora chuckled softly, her face half-lit by the carriage lantern. She looked pleased—no, content. A strange softness in her expression, one you didn’t often see outside the confines of private moments like these.

“Six dances,” your mother continued. “Four requests for calling hours, and—oh! Did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did,” Eleanora murmured. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stopped mid-wave. Her expression turned reverent. “Ravencourt. Good heavens. I still can’t believe he came. I truly thought we’d have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was...unexpected,” Eleanora admitted, her gaze turning briefly to the window. “Not at all what I imagined.”

You looked at her then. Not sharply, not with envy. Just with interest.

“What did you imagine?” you asked softly.

Eleanora tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose someone older. Colder. Not so… sharp. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never empty.”

You hummed. “And?”

She smiled—small, knowing. “He watches everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug. “Especially me.”

Your mother gave a delicate gasp of delight and resumed fanning herself with renewed vigor. “Well, it’s settled then. We’ll expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps earlier, given how much time he spent at your side.”

“I don’t think he’s the sort to follow expected schedules,” Eleanora said, almost absently.

You didn’t say it aloud, but you agreed with her. You leaned your head against the side of the carriage, watching the lantern light flicker over your gloves.

The Season had begun. Your sister’s future—the one stitched in gold and promise—was unfolding. And in the shadows of it… a man made of silence and storm had finally stepped into the light.

——

The garden smelled of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spilled over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the edges of your teacup as you sat beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hummed lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirred the hem of your skirts, carrying with it the faintest echo of music from last night’s ball.

You swirled the honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and mother seated nearby. They were reading from The Society Pages, lips twitching with every name mentioned.

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta—that will certainly be remarked upon,” your mother sniffed.

“And here—‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

“They flatter,” Eleanora murmured, though her eyes gleamed over the rim of her teacup.

You didn’t comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze. The first caller arrived before noon.

“Miss Everleigh,” the butler intoned with perfect composure. “Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”

You rose, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offered a pleasant smile as the young Lord was shown into the garden.

He bowed. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You didn’t roll your eyes—though it was a near thing. “Good morning, my Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He spoke of the ball. Of your dancing. Of how he hoped to see you again. You responded with grace, with interest even—but something inside you remained still. Unmoved. He wasn’t unpleasant. None of them were.

A second gentleman came not long after. Then a third in the late afternoon, with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller was welcomed, each given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet…

With every charming smile and gloved hand pressed to yours, you found your thoughts drifting. To silence. To shadows. To eyes that hadn’t yet sought yours. By the time the sun began to lower, streaking the garden in amber light, the butler reappeared once more.

You glanced up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat gently and bowed. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nodded, not disappointed, not expectant—only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You returned to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora had set aside her book and was absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers.

“He hasn’t called,” she murmured.

You looked up. “The Duke?”

She nodded once. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem, but... he did say he’d be in town this week.”

You sipped your tea. “He doesn't seem the type to rush.”

“No,” she agreed. “He isn’t.” Her voice held no bitterness. Just observation. Eleanora didn’t chase affection—she expected it to arrive, eventually, on its own terms.

You glanced toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustled the hedges, but no footsteps came. Still. It was early. Much too early to assume anything. By evening, the callers were gone. Your mother was content. Your sister, thoughtful. And you?

You were content to watch. To listen. To wait—not for him, but for the Season to unfold as it always did: slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke was to be part of your sister’s story, he would arrive in time. And if he didn’t? Well, that too, would be telling.

——

The gown was periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You had said nothing when your maid fastened it, only watched your reflection in the mirror with mild detachment while she smoothed the folds. Your sister had gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he’ll be there tonight?” she asked, not looking up as your mother arranged curls at the crown of her head.

You knew who she meant. “I imagine so,” you replied simply. “It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

That was the third time she’d asked this week. He hadn’t called. Not once. Not even a letter. After all the glances, the evening spent in her company, the conversations in corners and near the card tables, the dance others noted… and still, nothing. The Ton had started to notice. Even the papers had commented on it, their tone careful, but curious.

Your mother tried to stay composed, but the tension in her voice betrayed her. “He’s a duke, darling. He’s dreadfully busy, I’m sure. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business—men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlors.”

But it wasn’t poetry Eleanora wanted. It was certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, had offered none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom was suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd was lively, the musicians sharp and practiced. By the time you arrived, the dancing had already begun.

You made your greetings. Smiled when expected. Allowed a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laughed once—genuinely, this time. Eleanora remained composed beside you. Her gown was elegant, her posture perfect. But you knew her well enough to see the flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?

You saw it the moment he stepped into the room. He was dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He didn’t linger at the entrance. He didn’t pause for greetings. He moved straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence. And then, there he was. Standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said with a bow deeper than the one he’d offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister turned. Blinked. “My Lord.”

He reached into his coat. From his gloved hand, he drew a small, velvet-wrapped box and placed it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence,” he said simply. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You didn’t look away—but you didn’t move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opened the box slowly. Inside was a brooch—silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its center. Not extravagant. Not loud. But tasteful. Rare. Beautiful.

“You needn’t have,” she said, voice softer now.

“I did,” he replied. Then, “May I claim a dance, if you haven’t promised it?”

She hesitated—but only for a moment. “Of course.”

You stepped back as he offered his arm. She took it. They moved to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch. And you? You remained at the edge, untouched by the drama, your fingers gently clasped, your thoughts still clear.

He had returned. He had apologized. He had done what was expected. Nothing more. And yet, somewhere—deep in the space between music and silence—you felt the first ripple.Not interest. Just…a shift.

You didn’t watch them dance. Not because it hurt—it didn’t. Not because you were jealous—you weren’t. But because watching felt unnecessary. Predictable. Rafayel Vale had returned, and he’d returned to your sister’s side. As he was meant to. As he had been for years, in name if not affection. So you turned away. And smiled when another gentleman bowed before you.

“My lady,” came a smooth voice, warm like polished amber. “You’ve been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lifted your eyes. He was striking. Not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke was. No, this man wore charm like a perfectly tailored coat. Light brown hair, elegantly curled. A golden signet ring on his right hand. A smile that curled ever-so-slightly at the edge—like he knew something you didn’t. And his title?

“Lord Wessex,” he said with an elegant bow. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I’m told I’m the more tolerable of the two.”

Your brows lifted, amused. “You’ve quite the opinion of yourself.”

He grinned. “Only when justified. May I?”

You placed your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex was a skilled dancer. Not just in form, but in conversation. Where others had asked the same tired questions—What are your hobbies? Do you enjoy embroidery?—he inquired about the books you read. The places you wished to see. The way your eyes lit up when speaking of the sea, despite never having seen it.

He kept you laughing. Thinking. On your toes. And when he led you to the refreshments table, he didn’t hover or smother. He offered you a glass, nodded at your thanks, and kept the conversation moving like a current pulling you along.

“They speak of your sister and Ravencourt as though the match is already sealed,” he said at one point, gaze drifting toward the couple in question.

“It was arranged,” you replied lightly. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged,” he repeated. “That word always leaves such little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him. “You don’t believe in arrangement?”

“I believe in lightning strikes, not family bargains.”

You tilted your head, a little smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

He laughed. “You’ve no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening, you’d danced with him twice more. Once by request. Once by invitation. Both times left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled.

And while your sister ended the night with the Duke beside her—the talk of the room once more—it wasn’t his presence that lingered on your skin as you stepped into the carriage. It was Lord Wessex’s voice in your ear, still echoing,

“Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I’m standing close when it happens.”

——

The sun had barely settled above the rooftops when the butler arrived in the parlor, his expression neutral, but his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”

Your mother nearly dropped her embroidery. Your sister froze, her teacup held midair.

You simply blinked. “Both?”

The butler inclined his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then your mother clapped her hands together as if summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely. That gown is ideal. And you, dear—yes, you’ll stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laughed. Rude, of course.

The drawing room had been polished to near-blinding shine. Fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids had barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men were escorted in.

Rafayel Vale entered with the same quiet command as he had at the ball. Dark coat, silver cufflinks, gloved hands behind his back. He bowed with effortless grace, and his gaze settled on Eleanora with a soft nod.

“Miss Everleigh,” he greeted. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsied, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, my Lord.”

And beside him—light, where Rafayel was shadow—stood Lord Wessex. Smiling, charming, a pale waistcoat and a sunlit presence. His gaze found you immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said warmly. “I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raised a brow. “That would’ve been quite the feat, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper, my Lord.”

He grinned. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often to defend my honor.”

Tea was served. The Duke sat beside Eleanora. Their conversation was soft, low, and polite. Words about estates, travel, the architecture of Bath.

You and Lord Wessex? Laughter. Playful remarks. A small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies. And a question about your favorite poet, which—unlike others—he actually listened to. He watched you speak with a kind of gentle interest that was easy to receive, easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looked your way.

——

The party was held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-colored canopies and strings of flowers that fluttered like silk ribbons in the breeze. There were games set up on the lawn. Plates of sugared strawberries. Lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walked beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels. She wore a lilac gown. You wore blue. And they were there. As they always seemed to be, now.

Rafayel Vale, tall and composed in a dark grey coat, standing close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree. Listening as she spoke. Offering a quiet smile when she made some soft remark. And across the lawn—your suitor. Lord Wessex, lounging like he belonged in every summer painting ever created. When he caught sight of you, his expression lit up immediately.

“Miss Everleigh,” he called, rising with one graceful movement. “You’ve saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”

You glanced at your sister. She gave you the faintest nod. And so you did.

You walked the gardens with him, spoke of travel and philosophy and music you weren’t supposed to enjoy. He offered you a wildflower he plucked from the hedgerow. You laughed and told him it clashed terribly with your gloves.

And when you paused to rest beneath the roses, you found yourself glancing across the lawn. Rafayel was still there, standing just a few steps behind your sister now as she spoke to another couple. But his posture had shifted slightly.

His gaze was no longer on Eleanora. It was on you. Not direct. Not rude. But unmistakable. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath between pages. And then, as if realizing it himself, he looked away. Just as Lord Wessex turned to say something clever that made you laugh again.

The grand hall was glowing. Every window draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmered with perfume and warm anticipation. Music poured from the raised platform where a quartet played their first waltz of the evening.

You had barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appeared.

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex. Handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox. His smile was brighter than the chandeliers. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lifted your chin. “You assume I’d say yes, my Lord.”

He bowed low. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”

You let out a soft laugh—and extended your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

He looked triumphant. The dance was effortless. You moved together as if you’d done it a hundred times before. You knew he’d make a joke right before the turn. That he’d lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm. But never improper. Never forward. He was a gentleman with a wild spark.

Afterwards, he offered his arm and guided you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish Lordling cut in. You spent the next hour beside him—talking, sipping chilled wine, laughing so hard once you had to hide your face behind your fan. He made it easy. He made you feel seen.

Across the ballroom, the Duke stood by Eleanora once more. They spoke in quiet tones. He escorted her to a dance. Then another—not hers, but another lady’s, whom he partnered with as expected. His face remained unreadable. His words careful.

But every time your laughter rang out or your gown brushed past the edge of the room, his eyes found you. Just for a second. A flick. A pause. A look. Not interest. Not longing. Not yet. But curiosity. Not because you demanded it. Not because you tried to steal it. Only because you were there—and something about you lingered, even when you were no longer in the room.

Lord Wessex offered you another dance before the night ended. And you accepted, with no hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asked none of you. But watched—just once more—as you danced away, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

——

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as you stepped inside. It was cooler here. Dimmer. The thick scent of paper and aged wood pressed gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves towered around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings. A world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pulled your gloves off delicately, tucking them beneath your arm as you wandered. Most ladies preferred the modiste. The milliner. Or the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here? Here, you could breathe.

You found yourself in the poetry section—of course. One gloved finger brushing the titles, searching for something half-remembered. Brow slightly furrowed. Alone with your thoughts. Until a soft shift of leather soles caught your ear. You turned, expecting a clerk. And froze.

He stood not three paces from you. Dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves. Simpler than usual, though no less composed. The Duke. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The absurdity of it made your lips twitch—of all places. He regarded you with that same unreadable expression. As if trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said at last. Voice low. Measured. “This is… unexpected.”

You curtsied ever so slightly, regaining your composure. “My Lord. I might say the same.”

A pause. His gaze flicked briefly to the book in your hand—Keats, you realized. Then back to your face. “You favor poetry?”

“On quiet days,” you replied. “And rainy ones.”

Another pause. He nodded, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You waited, wondering if he would say more. He didn’t.

“And you, my Lord?” you asked, a touch of amusement laced through your words. “Are you here for poetry, or politics?”

His lips curved just slightly. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or… anything with weight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that so, my Lord?”

He looked at you for a long moment—still distant, but not unkind.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said finally. “But I’m not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticked once. Then twice.

“Nor am I, my Lord.” you said simply. “But I should let you return to your… weighty thoughts.”

He inclined his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsied, slight but proper. He bowed in return. No lingering glances. No breathless goodbyes. Just two names exchanged, two minds acknowledged. And a silence that somehow said more than the words themselves.

——

It was one of those warm spring afternoons where everything felt too golden. The garden terrace was filled with soft laughter and the rustle of silk skirts. Ladies fanned themselves under shade trees. Gentlemen clustered near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrived beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes—one of the wheels had needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling,” your mother said as she adjusted your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of color in your cheeks wouldn’t hurt either.”

You smiled. You nodded. You adjusted. Eleanora had woken feeling unwell—no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never allow a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair.

“You’ll attend in her place,” she had said. “Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.”

So now you stood in her shadow—only without her beside you to cast it. You moved through conversation with practiced ease. Three ladies asked after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly called you by her name. You corrected him gently, no sting in your voice.

And then you excused yourself, moving toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offered a moment of quiet. You were just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifted behind you.

“Miss Everleigh.” You turned. There he was. Rafayel Vale. Alone.

Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another lady to dance with. He stood a respectful distance away, one hand loosely behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace,” you greeted calmly, offering a curtsy. “I’m surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitched. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

A pause. His eyes studied your face—not in a way that lingered, but in a way that noticed. “Your sister is not attending?”

You shook your head. “She’s unwell, my Lord. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” His voice was quiet. Smooth as ever. But beneath it—something unreadable. Again.

“I hope you don’t feel... obligated to entertain me in her absence, my Lord” you added, careful. Light.

“I don’t.” The reply came quicker than expected. Not curt. Just honest.

Your brows lifted, amused. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, my Lord?”

A pause.

“Curiosity, perhaps,” he said. Then added, almost like a confession, “...You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blinked. And then—smiled. Just a little. “I assure you, my Lord. I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Pity,” he murmured. “It’s becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because someone was calling your name—Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the edge of the terrace with that signature grin.

You turned back to the Duke. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

You curtsied again. He bowed. And you walked away—toward the man who wanted you, and away from the one who had only just started to wonder if he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex asked, offering his arm as you returned to the center of the terrace.

“It was, my Lord.” you replied, fingers brushing the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accepted.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smiled. “Polite. Curious, perhaps. But no frowning.”

He clicked his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laughed, soft and warm, as he guided you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hung low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walked in companionable silence for a moment. Then—

“You always find me,” you said lightly.

“I always look,” he said without hesitation. That stilled you—just a fraction. Not because it was dramatic. But because it was true.

The conversation drifted easily, like it always did. He asked about your favorite lines from the bookshop. You asked about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He made you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.

It was easy, this thing between you. Not dull. Not predictable. But certain. And when he asked you for a dance under the stars, you said yes without thinking twice. You danced in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above. His hand was steady. His eyes never left yours.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured as you turned.

“Apologies, my Lord. I hadn’t realized.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No,” you said truthfully. “Just… present.”

He smiled at that. “Then I’ll consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke danced with another lady. He did not fumble. He did not charm. He did not smile too wide or step too close. He was composed, as always. Fulfilling his role. Bowing when required. Saying the right words. But when your laughter drifted once more across the lawn, his eyes—just for a second—turned toward the sound. And lingered.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

side note: credits for two pictures used for the banner go to their original creators.

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

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yuhuahuaaa · 14 days ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.5

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluff, i’m really in love with this, if you guys have more ideas for this series tell me :D

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your baby girl stands up for you just like her daddy

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The exhibition was yours, a surprise Rafayel had organized in secret. A sprawling, ocean-themed gallery titled “Muse in Bloom”, filled wall-to-wall with pieces you never even realized he’d finished. Every canvas whispered a different part of your life: the way your silhouette looked in morning sun, the softness of your hands holding sea glass, the quiet glow of your laughter beneath the stars.

Rafayel, dressed in a pale, high-collared shirt that made his eyes seem even stranger than usual, put was leaning lazily against a glass column, sipping something coral-colored, deliberately letting his hair fall in that effortlessly messy way. His expression was unreadable, as always.

But all attention was on the real star of the show: your two-year-old daughter. A tiny thing in a puff-sleeved white dress, her purple curls bouncing as she proudly waddled through the gallery with the pomp of a seasoned hostess. She was practically glued to your side, one chubby hand always gripping the skirt of your dress.

People cooed at her as they passed, the resemblance was uncanny: her mismatched eyes gleamed just like Rafayel’s, but softer and warmer, and when she frowned, it was a perfect miniature of his trademark unimpressed stare.

You’d barely made it to a painting of you resting on a seashell throne when it happened.

A man, an overly talkative critic type with round glasses and a too-loud laugh, walked over, gesturing flamboyantly at the piece.

“Oh, how quaint! He’s really leaned into the whole ‘ocean siren housewife’ thing, hasn’t he? Honestly, the saccharine domesticity is almost a parody—”

He didn’t even get to finish his sentence.

From below, a small voice rang out like a warning shot.

“Don’t say mean things about Mama.”

Your daughter had positioned herself between you and the critic like a tiny guardian lioness. Her arms were crossed, her cheeks puffed up, and her tone was deadly serious in the way only toddlers can manage.

“She’s not a pwetty shellfish,” she declared with a tiny stomp, “She’s Mama Queen. And Papa painted her ‘cause he loves her so much and she’s soooo sparkly.”

A pause. Then she turned to you and added solemnly, “You sparkle way more than mermaids, Mama.”

Gasps of adoration echoed through the gallery.

Rafayel, who had silently approached during the commotion, tilted his head and regarded the man coldly.

“…Normally,” he murmured, setting his drink down, “I’d do the slicing. But seems I’m being upstaged tonight.”

The critic quickly stammered an apology and made a swift exit.

You bent to scoop your daughter up, kissing her flushed cheek as she wrapped her arms around your neck like a protective koala. She sniffed proudly.

Rafayel trailed a finger under your chin and whispered with a wry smile, “She’s already better at public relations than Thomas.” Then, with a more amused tilt, “But I’m going to need you to tell her to stop stealing my lines. That smug little head tilt she did? That’s mine.”

Your daughter, still snuggled in your arms, glanced over at him and stuck her tongue out.

“…Definitely mine,” he added under his breath, glowing with the kind of secret fondness he reserved only for the two of you.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The gala was immaculate, an event hosted in Zayne’s honor for his recent surgical innovations, drawing in elites from all across Linkon City. Chandeliers glowed like constellations overhead, and a full orchestra played softly as servers moved in practiced synchronicity.

You stood beside Zayne, your hand nestled in the crook of his arm, draped in a custom dress he had personally commissioned and altered to your figure. He hadn’t let anyone else near the fittings. His glasses caught the light as he dipped his head to quietly murmur something dry and affectionate in your ear.

But your other arm? Occupied by a much smaller escort.

Your two-year-old daughter stood at your side like an adorably serious bodyguard in her tiny formal dress—a deep green number with a satin bow that matched her hazel eyes perfectly. Her black hair had been combed neatly (by you, Zayne refused to let anyone else touch it) and clipped with a velvet ribbon. She looked exactly like her father, down to the faint frown of concentration on her little face as she clutched a plush toy Zayne had “absolutely not” won at the Claw Machine but secretly had.

The three of you were picture-perfect: intimidatingly elegant and quietly untouchable.

Until someone touched.

A woman, a young socialite known for her family’s hospital donations and worse for her gossip, sauntered up and gave a too-long glance down your dress, then at your wedding ring. Then, very sweetly:

“Oh, this is the famous wife? You’re… certainly prettier than I expected. No offense, I just thought you’d be more… distinguished, for someone married to a man like Dr. Zayne.”

You blinked once, stunned.

Zayne had already turned, fingers twitching at his cufflink, hazel green eyes narrowing behind his glasses in that terrifyingly calm way, but your daughter beat him to it.

She stepped forward like she’d been rehearsing the moment for weeks. Plush toy dropped. Chin raised. And in her softest, deadpan voice:

“Are you always this boring?”

The woman blinked. “I—”

“Because Mama said we don’t talk to boring people. They get wrinkles faster.”

Then, quieter, eerily Zayne-like:

“…And Papa said if someone’s rude to Mama, they don’t get to be in the next gala photo. Or the next gala.”

Zayne, standing at full height behind her, didn’t even try to hide the amusement flickering across his otherwise impassive expression.

The woman flushed a shade too deep to recover from, muttered something about needing air, and all but fled.

You bent down, scooping your daughter into your arms, trying not to laugh into her ribbon.

“You’ve been listening to Papa again, haven’t you?”

She gave you a solemn little nod, pressing her nose to your cheek. “Mama’s too sparkly. I protect.”

Zayne finally stepped close, slipping a hand around your waist as he looked over his daughter with a small, approving nod.

“…Efficient delivery. Cold stare. Minimal emotion. I’m proud.”

Then, softly to you, “You know I would’ve ended her faster, though.”

Your daughter squinted at him. “No. I win.”

He looked at her.

She looked back.

You stood between them, watching your stoic husband and your deadpan toddler have a full silent battle of pride and pettiness.

“…God help me,” you sighed, “I’ve married myself into a generation of assassins in dress shoes.”

Zayne leaned down to kiss your temple with the barest smile, murmuring against your skin, “And yet, you glow like it’s the happiest mistake you’ve ever made.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The annual Deep Space Hunter Association Gala was nothing short of otherworldly. it shimmered with translucent panels, suspended gardens, and starfields projected beneath a glassy floor. You stood at the center of it in a custom gown Xavier had chosen, soft pearl white, almost glowing under the lights, with lilac gems woven into the bodice like scattered constellations. He’d said it reminded him of how you looked when he first saw you in the starlight.

Your two-year-old daughter clung gently to your hand, wearing a tiny layered dress of violet and silver that almost matched your own. Her long, silvery hair had been half-pinned with a moon-shaped clip, and her sleepy blue eyes were locked on you like a little satellite, unmoving, vigilant, and completely unimpressed by the pomp of the gala.

She looked exactly like Xavier. Same expressionless stare. Same otherworldly softness. Same unnerving stillness when she didn’t want to be touched.

And just like her father, she was terrifyingly observant.

You were in the middle of a quiet conversation with an Association chairwoman when a young pilot, fresh from some flashy mission, swaggered over with a glass of bluefire in one hand and way too much ego in his voice.

“So you’re the famous wife,” he said, eyeing you with a grin that had no place at a gala this elegant. “No offense, but I thought Xavier’s girl would look a little more… well, dangerous.”

Xavier, standing behind you, blinked once. That slow, unreadable blink that always came right before he uncoiled.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Because your daughter, who had been holding your skirt with one chubby hand, walked forward slowly. Silently. Her tiny soft-heeled boots made no sound. She stared up at the man with her blank blue eyes and expressionless face.

Then, in the calmest, quietest voice imaginable:

“…My Papa sleeps with his eyes open.”

The man blinked. “What?”

She tilted her head.

“He doesn’t talk first.”

The man laughed nervously. “Uh—okay?”

She stepped closer, tugged on his uniform coat with the tiniest fingers, and said with chilling softness:

“If you’re mean to Mama again, I’m gonna tell him to wake up.”

Pause.

“…Then you go where the bad stars go.”

Dead. Silence.

Xavier, entirely unbothered, knelt beside her. “That’s not true,” he said softly, resting a gloved hand on her head. “You don’t have to tell me to wake up.”

Then, still with that deadpan expression:

“I was already listening.”

The pilot quietly excused himself.

You knelt to kiss your daughter’s forehead, heart full. “Where did you learn to say that, sweet pea?”

She pointed vaguely at Xavier. “He say it to scary man last week when he touched Mama’s dress.”

You looked at Xavier.

He blinked once. “Technically true.”

She nodded, satisfied, and then promptly asked for a nap snack.

Later that night, you’d find her fast asleep in your lap on the skystation balcony, curled up in a throw blanket as Xavier sat beside you with his head against your shoulder, one eye lazily open, fingers curled protectively around both of yours.

“…You made a terrifying little moonbeam,” you whispered with a grin.

He murmured, “She’s just like you.”

You blinked. “How?”

“I loved you first. She just loves you faster.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The ballroom was dripping in blood-red roses and gold light, your daughter’s second birthday, and somehow, Sylus had turned it into an elite spectacle that looked more like a coronation than a kid’s party. Crimson banners detailed with crow motifs framed every arch. Live string musicians played a refined arrangement of a lullaby she liked. The cake was a sculpted castle surrounded by edible glass ravens.

It was supposed to be her party.

But everyone in the room knew this wasn’t just a celebration.

It was a statement.

Sylus had invited only the most powerful, wealthy, and influential people, politicians, weapon developers, media barons, and you. You, the centerpiece. You, his beloved wife and queen, dressed in a cascading black-and-crimson gown he commissioned weeks in advance. You were glowing. Loved. Untouchable.

And beside you, your two-year-old daughter sat in her high-backed velvet throne, legs swinging lightly, curls pinned back with the tiniest red brooch to match yours. She looked like Sylus had split in half and handed you the softer one.

…If by “softer,” you meant deadlier at knee height.

Because just as you were thanking a weapons diplomat for the gift he brought your daughter, some absurdly expensive robotic pony, he turned to you and, in a too-casual tone, said:

“You look lovely tonight, though I must say… motherhood’s softened you. I imagine you’re far less fiery than when Sylus first—”

He didn’t get to finish.

There was a sudden thud.

Your daughter had launched herself off her throne.

And now she stood at his feet, glaring up with the most chillingly Sylus expression possible on a toddler. Red eyes narrowed. Tiny fists balled.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t need backup.

She just hissed:

“Don’t say ugly things about my mama.”

The man blinked, laughing awkwardly. “Oh—I didn’t mean it like—”

“You did.”

She pointed her tiny finger up at him like a dagger. “You’re not on the list anymore.”

Pause.

“…What list?” he asked, visibly sweating.

She tilted her head, voice eerily soft:

“The safe one.”

Behind you, you felt Sylus lean against the balcony doorframe, watching the scene unfold with immense amusement. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even looked up from the little raven-shaped wine glass in his hand.

“Darling,” he drawled, “you’re losing your touch.”

You turned and raised a brow. “She beat you to it.”

Sylus sipped lazily. “I didn’t want to ruin her party by making someone disappear. But she—”

He gave his daughter a look of genuine pride.

“She just revoked diplomatic immunity like a proper little empress.”

Your daughter returned to you, lifting her arms expectantly. You picked her up, and she buried her face in your shoulder.

“…I don’t like people who say mean things to you,” she mumbled.

You kissed her cheek. “You’re just like your Papa.”

From behind, Sylus chuckled darkly.

“No, no,” he murmured, stepping in to wrap his arm around you both. “She’s much worse. You trained her to love… I’ll train her to conquer.”

You: “She’s two.”

Sylus, smug: “Exactly. Peak learning age.”

Your daughter, now calm in your arms, tilted her head toward the man who’d insulted you and said flatly:

“You can leave now.”

And he did.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven Fleet Hall gleamed under rows of white lights, cold, clinical, and full of rank. It was a formal gathering: a high-level Fleet recognition ceremony. Uniforms stiff with medals. High-ranking officers and their spouses standing around crystal platters. A raised platform lined with flags of the outer countries. You stood beside Caleb near the front, his gloved hand resting lightly on the small of your back, always possessive, even when subtle.

You wore a flowing purple gown, picked by him, of course, that matched the accents on his ceremonial uniform. The room watched the two of you like you were on display: Colonel Caleb, Skyhaven’s strategic prodigy, and his soft, stunning wife.

At your feet, your two-year-old daughter clung to your leg, wearing a miniature version of your dress, tulle, silk, and a tiny military brooch clipped to the front like a toy badge. Her hair was a perfect dark brown halo and her eyes, Caleb’s piercing violet, scanned the crowd with a toddler’s serious judgment.

She was glued to your side. That had always been the rule.

But then it happened.

One of the wives of a Fleet officer leaned over toward another cluster of guests with a little too much wine in her system and just enough arrogance. She let her eyes wander to you.

“I mean… she’s beautiful, sure,” the woman said in a voice that carried. “But it’s obvious she married up. Colonel Caleb’s status is what makes her shine.”

It was a whisper meant to wound.

You flinched slightly, not at the comment, but at the feeling that immediately radiated from beside you.

Your daughter had heard it.

And she was already moving.

Before Caleb could turn, before the temperature could even drop into his usual cold-blooded “Colonel” tone, your toddler marched across the polished floor. No hesitation. No fear.

She stopped directly in front of the woman and crossed her arms.

“You’re mean,” she said, clear and high-pitched but fierce. “And dumb.”

The entire room paused.

“My mama’s pretty ALL the time,” she went on, cheeks puffed out in indignation. “Papa says so. Every morning. And every night. Even when she’s sleeping.”

The woman blinked, startled. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did,” she snapped, tone sharp enough to cut glass. She raised one tiny finger. “You talk like that again, and I’ll push you off the sky island.”

Gasps. Silence. A clatter of someone’s fork hitting the floor.

You were about to move, about to scoop her up and calm things down, but Caleb got there first.

He stepped beside his daughter and looked down at the woman, expression unreadable. No smile. No warmth.

Just a dangerous glint in those violet eyes.

“…I’d listen to her,” he said coolly, gloved hand resting lightly on his daughter’s head. “She may not have my rank yet… but she’s definitely got my judgment.”

The woman went white.

You caught your daughter’s hand and gently pulled her back to you. She turned into your skirt like nothing had happened, resting her face against your thigh again with a happy little hum.

Caleb leaned into you, voice low near your ear.

“She’s fast,” he murmured. “I was just about to use my Gravity Evol.”

You gave him a look. “She beat you to it.”

A small smirk played at his lips. “That’s our girl.”

And from her position wrapped around your leg, your daughter mumbled:

“Next time I’ll push harder.”

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yuhuahuaaa · 17 days ago

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Y'all have no fucking idea how I weeps at this chapter

🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [chapter four]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn, grief, mourning, loss

a/n — we have finally reached the long awaited reader crashout and are nearing the end… i hope you all enjoy! this chapter was fucking with me for so long and i wanted to take my time rather than under deliver. this story means a lot to me and i’m trying my best to make sure it pays off well<33 but still, 18k words was not easy to edit so please don't mind any slight errors 😓 also, caleb came home in 30 pulls so do expect a birthday fic coming soon ~ (whether it'll be on time for his birthday is the question...)

ao3 | masterlist | series masterlist | part three | part five [coming soon]

chapter four: inevitable — it’s hard to shine when you’re standing between the sun and the moon. wc: 18.6k

The hunter’s arrival is no more than a whisper within the N109 Zone.

Sylus has kept the truth of her existence under lock and key, hiding his weakness under steel and chainmail. As far as the world knows, his interest lies in the protocore attached to her heart — and he plans to keep it that way. Biding his time, preparing for the day he carefully steps into her life.

But, like the force of nature she was, the hunter manages to find her own way in.

He’s the image of cool confidence as he’s informed of her capture in enemy hands, draping a blazer atop his shoulders and instructing the twins to start the car. “Will you be able to hold the fort on your own?” He asks.

But you can see the barest tremor in his hands, the tension in his shoulders, the rising fear of losing her before he even gets to see her with his own two eyes.

“You can count on me.”

This is the only peace you can offer him in the midst of this chaos.

His eyes continue to linger, as if time wasn’t of the essence. Little words have been exchanged between the two of you since the hunter came into the picture. And for a moment, you think he might say something (please, say something). But all he does is grip your shoulder as if to ground himself, nodding in a silent ‘thank you’ before he leaves.

The door shuts behind him.

You know how this story goes. It was only a matter of time before he reunited with his lover in this life, before the story would continue along its tracks and catch you in the crossfire.

Your search for a way home had become painfully futile. You’d think a world altered by the discovery of the Deepspace Tunnel would have more answers to the truth of your presence here, but your search had dug up nothing. Wormholes, dimensional travel, transmigration; from the philosophical to the scientific, all paths led to dead ends.

You sit listless in your chair, fiddling with the necklace Sylus gave you as you wait for your life to be thrown into chaos.

Staring into the metropolitan abyss of the N109 Zone, you sometimes like to imagine what sylus sees. An ant-like web of crimes and deceit, of power-hungry folks looking to get ahead and eat each other alive in the process. But all you ever see is a world beyond your understanding. And here, you wonder where you fit in this ecosystem; what your presence has done to change the story.

You burst into terrible, broken laughter.

You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself.

You were but a drop of water in the ocean. There was nothing that you, with no worth or significance to your name, could do to make more than a solitary ripple.

And so, you keep your longings locked and your love as just thoughts, as you wait in bated breath for the story and their fated reunion to begin.

—————————————————————

“Where are you taking me?” Her voice is biting as the twins bring her to the room you’ve prepared. Ornate, spacious, and windowless, just as Sylus asked. A gilded cage with an open door. You don’t see her but her rage rings through the corridors, something that feels almost like a hallucination after having stepped in her shoes, reading the story you once adored.

Her arrival is a marker of the story catching up to you, of time catching up to you. A reminder that you do not belong in this world.

In the next few days, you become a quiet observer of this tale, watching their fractured reunion play out.

“What makes you think I'd ever be willing to help you?” She snapped at Sylus after their third failure at resonance, a sad attempt at a threat when she lay exhausted, slumped in the fancy chair in his study.

“You don’t exactly have a choice, sweetie. As you can see —” He gestures to the opulent surroundings, “— you’re in my territory.”

You roll your eyes. Trust Sylus to make a shit first impression, even to the supposed love of his life.

You keep to the sidelines, going about your typical routine. But your curiosity gets the better of you on the second day, when you offer to bring the hunter her food.

You can’t help but imagine being in her shoes right now; kidnapped by the man she believes to have destroyed her home and killed her family. To an extent, you think it might not be so different to how you felt, first arriving here.

So, you decide to reach out. Maybe gain her trust and coax her into eating and regaining her strength. Food is the way to the heart, after all. At dinner time, you bring a tray to her room, knocking on the door and calling her name.

“Who's there?” She asks from the other side of the door, wariness lacing her voice.

You introduce yourself, “It’s me, Sylus's secretary. Aren’t you hungry?” You soften your voice, treating her with the gentleness you would a cornered animal, but you’re met with silence. Concern gnaws at you, “You haven’t eaten in twenty four hours.”

She scoffs, the sound muffled by the barrier between you two. “What, isn’t that your plan? Starve me til’ I’m too weak to escape and resist Sylus's demands?”

You stop in your tracks, puzzled. “Escape? You know you can leave, right? No one’s going to stop you.” Even the door was unlocked. But you believed knocking was a basic form of respect, unwilling visitor or not.

She stays tight-lipped for the next few moments, so you continue, “Not that you’d get any further than a couple blocks, what with vultures hanging around the compound at all hours of the day—” Your spiel is cut off as she suddenly swings the door open, doing a double take at the sight of you.

It’s clear she sees the resemblance just as you had, her face contorting from defensiveness to stunned confusion. But for you, seeing her in the flesh only refuted any idea of similarity between the two of you.

Haggard and bruised, the hunter still manages to shine in the gritty underbelly of the N109 Zone.

When you first saw her face projected in the hologram, the likeness was unmistakable. The shape of your eyes, the slope of your nose, and the barely-there difference in the color of your hair and complexion. Anyone could have mistaken the two of you as cousins, maybe even siblings. But standing in front of her now, the difference has become clear as day.

You can’t help but understand how so many have fallen head over heels, enthralled by her and her character. In the shadow of her energy and vivacious presence, you could only look dim in comparison. Standing beside Sylus was no small feat — one that you’d failed to live up to, looking nondescript and ordinary at the side of the most powerful man in the N109 Zone.

But of course, she fits like the missing piece to his puzzle. The dragon and the sorceress, now the criminal and the hunter. You try not to feel inferior, tamping down the jealousy and pettiness festering within you, but it’s hard to shine when you’re standing between the sun and the moon.

The initial surprise dissipates, and she eyes you with the mistrust expected of a kidnapee twice-over. You extend the tray towards her as a sign of good will, “Eat it while it’s still hot.”

“...How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

You huff, taking a quick bite. “Happy now?”

She snatches the tray and slams the door behind her in one quick motion. You click your tongue; so much for gaining her trust.

—————————————————————

Time had dulled your memory of how awful their first meeting truly was.

Really, what was Sylus thinking? You wonder as he treats his treasured soulmate so… menacingly.

You’ve become a bystander to the motions of the story you’re familiar with; the failed resonance, her disdain for him, and his absolute lack of tact in interacting with her. With his every word coated in menace and veiled threats, you’re wondering if Sylus was even thinking at all. Was he like this when you two first met? You try to recall as you get the ick from his unexpected hostility.

You want to know what’s running through his mind, what possessed him to think this was the appropriate way to go about this. But since the hunter’s arrival, your time with him had become even more scarce, any moment together cut off by his work or your urgency to leave.

Guilt washes over you each time you see his face drop, when you make another hasty escape from facing him. But you cling on to the belief that this was necessary, to give you both space to adjust to the hunter’s presence, and for you to learn to live with the fact that he was not yours.

The two return from the workshop, and you stride into the office to give your daily secretarial report — only to find him hunched at his desk with a glass of wine, staring vacantly into the skyline of the N109 Zone.

In the dimly lit office, his eyes, shrouded by the shadows, give away nothing. But you catch the way his shoulders tense, his fingers clenching the stem of the glass.

“Sylus?” You call out gently, announcing your presence with audible footsteps as you approach him, breaking your internal promise to keep your distance. But you could only hold out this one-sided silence for so long, weak in the face of his vulnerability.

He calls your name with a weary tone, “Do me a favor and tell the informant I won't be meeting him today.”

“Are you okay? What happened?” You take slow steps in approaching him.

He fiddles with the stem of his wine glass as he releases a low, bitter laugh, “Well… it seems that our dearest hunter fears me. It was not any bodily dysfunction or injury that was preventing us from resonating, but rather her disgust.”

She captured his heart, bound his soul to hers, and now has no recollection of any of it. Detests him to the point her evol rejects his.

You feign ignorance to the story beats you remember, “Well, it’s only been so long since you’ve met her again… If she’s still the same person, her memories of you are still there, deep down.”

“As if the world hasn’t made me wait long enough.”

You don’t know what to say to that — heart torn between feeling bruised and feeling sadness for him.

“I'd like to be alone.” He takes a deep breath, a subtle command as returns his gaze to the skyline, guarding his vulnerability, unwilling to bare more of his weaknesses than he already has.

The world sees Sylus as an unstoppable force, as the supreme authority in the criminal underworld. But though the dragon may be fierce and capable, the human underneath was just that — a human. One that got frustrated, whose skin bruised, who had weaknesses that he guarded with veiled ferocity. But somehow, somewhere along the way, he’d chosen to strip the curtains of that vulnerability to you.

Maybe in another world, you would have taken him into your arms, refused to leave him as he quietly fell apart. But in this reality, it was no longer your place to do so. As it was, he had promised his heart to another, leaving yours too tender to comfort his.

The only peace you could offer him now was the privacy to crumble in solitude.

Still, you couldn’t bear to leave him so quietly. “You’re not a hard person to love. You know that, right?” You whisper, a quiet admission of your feelings. For all his gruff and intimidating nature, it was not his power, money, or looks that earned him your affection. But rather, all the softness he guards from the harsh world he lives in.

You shut the door before he can acknowledge you, trying to wipe the mental image of his conflicted expression. You mute his email for the next hour, redirecting it to your inbox, offering him a brief moment of peace to ruminate in his thoughts.

You laugh silently, bitterly to yourself, for giving so much of yourself for a man who was devoted to another. Despite having been set aside, you still can’t help but show your love for him in the only way you know how. (In the only way you can).

And you wonder to yourself: could you ever touch the part of him that hurts? One of the most powerful men in this world, having his world shaken by the hunter’s disdain. If it were your spite, your hurt that he faced, would it even feel close to the gravity he feels now?

You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.

You had found yourself in the deep end, and it was high time to swim back to shore, to back out of this one-sided race. Because you may have received his affection, but you will never receive the depth of his devotion.

—————————————————————

Hostility melts into mischievous affection as the hunter’s dynamic with Sylus takes a sudden pivot into unfamiliar territory. The visit to the shopkeeper marked a turning point in their relationship as Sylus came to his senses, and their relationship evolved for the better. The truth to their tied souls, you think, as you bear witness to the connection quickly blossoming between them.

You’re fine. Really, you are.

(At least, that’s what you tell yourself each time you see the soft smile on his face, melting in adoration for the hunter.)

You stop avoiding him, after catching a glimpse of the vulnerability he attempts to hide. His face lights up whenever you approach him, breaking the silence you kept for so long. And not for the first time, you feel guilt wash over you for how you added to his existing turmoil.

But still, you’re left wondering about your place in his life now that the hunter has arrived.

The pages turn one after another as the two of you fall back into old routines, nurturing the friendship and camaraderie you built over the past year. But not everything stays the same.

You maintain your boundaries, keeping your nightmares and worries to yourself — settling for long, lonely nights, when the alternative is setting yourself up for a painful road.

One night, you find a rare moment of peace in the recent chaos. The two of you battle over this world’s version of Monopoly in a high-stakes, cutthroat bet to determine who will have the first taste of Luke and Kieran’s slightly… dubious creation in the kitchen.

They had taken up a class in baking after catching you one too many times in the dead of the night, making midnight snacks. A fact which warmed your heart, at first, until you realized that neither twin has ever touched a stove in their lives. The clanging of pots and shouts coming from the kitchen only serve to fill you with dread.

You try your best, but eventually resign yourself to your fate. You know a lost cause when you see it. You didn’t exactly expect death by food poisoning, but when you think about it, it wasn’t a bad way to go.

“Can’t you let this poor salaryman pass through? Just this once?” You pout on the second hour of playing this stupid board game, putting on your best puppy eyes as you implore him to pity your little player.

“That wouldn’t be fair to you, sweetie.” He smiles as you begrudgingly hand over the play money for landing on his property.

His attention is focused solely on you, a rarity since the hunter’s arrival. But even with the scarce time you’ve spent together, you can’t pretend not to have noticed the growing bags under his eyes, the constant furrow in his brow. He’s handled the chaos in the N109 Zone with the stride of a man who knows his word is law; but at the expense of his own health and rest.

In perfect timing, the game ends just as the twins exit the kitchen, dressed in matching aprons and holding a plate of mini strawberry shortcakes. You end up losing, as expected, but Sylus is a good sport — taking a bite right alongside you.

It’s… not bad at all, especially for a beginner. A little wonky and undercooked in the middle, the edges slightly burnt. But it’s edible. “Not bad,” You say — and immediately correct yourself, “Not that I thought it would be! But it’s good. Better than my first go at it, at least.” You leave out the age you were when you first touched an oven — all worth it to see their eyes shining from your praise.

”Awe, thanks, Miss Secretary! It was all in a day’s work,” Luke grins as he fixes his crooked apron.

Of course, Sylus is Sylus. Eliciting his praise is like pulling out teeth. “It’s… acceptable, I’ll admit,” He says with a satisfied hum.

Still, it’s enough for the twins to celebrate with a high five, “Hell yeah!”

The four of you clear half the tray, before bidding the twins good night, the two suddenly tired from the sugar crash. “Amateurs,” You tease. They probably kept taste-testing the ingredients.

“I hadn't expected baking to become such an… outlet of energy for them.” Sylus comments, stealing a strawberry from your piece. You retaliate by getting a scoop of his whipped cream.

“Well, most people I know started baking as some sort of distraction or stress relief,” You eat a forkful of cake and nod in approval. Every storm in your life has been followed by the creation of more pastries than you could possibly eat. “If it distracts them from the pranks, then I wholeheartedly approve!” You cheerily stake your fork into the air.

“Knowing the twins, they’ll just find a way to incorporate it,” He eyes the kitchen doors skeptically, not wanting their mischief to bleed into the food they eat.

With all the sugar you just consumed, it was clear you wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. “Wanna clear this batch with me? Before they go and stock the fridge with the rest of their projects.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check on that,” He says as he puts on his blazer again, standing up from the dining table.

“Hm? But there wasn’t anything on the calendar, last I checked. Did I miss —”

You’ve already brought out your phone to view the shared calendar when he explains, “I’ll be meeting with the hunter regarding a little… deal, that she’s brokered.” He leans down to match your height and ruffles your hair. “Don’t worry, Miss Secretary. Your schedule’s still intact.”

You roll your eyes, trying to muster a smile as you remind him, “Be nice.”

He raises an eyebrow, “When am I not?” Tch. When is he ever?

Soon, you settle in the silence of an empty kitchen — and the thought of more cake doesn’t sound so appealing anymore. It’s never easy hearing of the two spending time together, much less seeing them in the penthouse everyday. But you’d rather have a friendship with Sylus than nothing at all. And you can only hope that with time, one day, it won’t hurt at all anymore.

For a brief period of time, you have hope of that possibility. You think if you hold these boundaries in place and protect your friendship, things might just return to normal. Even if it means the end to anything more.

That is, until the arrival of the auction.

The Solon Hotel celebrates its 15th annual auction, a Myriad of Nights. The crinkled invitation has been pinned to your corkboard for months, a dreaded reminder of all the preparations you needed to make.

The event has kept you on your toes; dutifully studying the list of guests, keeping an eye on keen bidders and Onychinus rivals. This auction is one of the N109 Zone’s most important events of the year, with the grossly rich and the violently powerful alike having a stake in this auction.

One week before the auction, Sylus strolls into the office, a sly smile plastered on his face, “I come bearing good news.”

You roll out your chair to face him. Without missing a beat, you ask, “A raise? World peace? Luke and Kieran outgrowing their terrible twos?”

“I'm not a miracle worker,” He smirks at that last one. “No, I've come to tell you that you’ve been granted a night off on the 17th.”

“The 17th?” You question — and he amusedly spins your chair before striding over to his desk, ready to start the work day. But you’re left dazed, stopping the wheel as you pull up the shared digital calendar, confirming your suspicions. “But that’s the night of the auction.”

“Miss Hunter will be covering for you.”

“Oh?” Your face falls in an obvious dismay you can’t hide.

The auction. Like many things from the story that have become hazy over time, the auction had slipped your mind. With how far back preparations had started, you completely overlooked its connection with the hunter’s arrival.

“She has her own agenda for the night,” He continues, “One that promises bloodshed. So, I want you to rest easy for the night. Take a well deserved break.”

By all accounts, you should be glad. You can’t blame him for making this decision, as you vocally detest going to these events. It’s easily the least enjoyable part of your job. But even with the foreknowledge you had, the thought of her taking your place weighs like a heavy brick in your stomach.

He realizes you’re not exactly pleased. “You can still come if you’d like to, of course,” He’s quick to assure you. “I thought you might enjoy the night off since you despise dealing with these affairs. I didn’t take you for being such a workaholic,” He chuckles affectionately, motioning to ruffle your hair — but you pull away, a little too abruptly.

You see his face fall, and you quickly brush it off and pretend to be unaffected, “Ah, ah, ah — no can do, slave driver!” You dramatically make a letter X with your arms. “You can’t take away a day off once you’ve given it.”

He rolls his eyes, but the concern doesn’t leave his face as he tries to coax you into opening up, eyes filled with a quiet honesty, “There’s no need to pretend like you’re not bothered by this. I know you’ve worked hard for this event.”

“Sylus, you don’t need to worry about me. You have bigger fish to fry. Besides, why would I be bothered by a day off?” You try to play it off.

He sighs, accepting that you’re not going to talk about this any further. “Well, you know that there’s no one who can do your job better, right?” He places a hand on your shoulder, “I just don’t want you getting caught in the trouble that’s bound to ensue.”

You muster a smile, “Of course. After all, what would you do without your dearest secretary?”

He smirks, mind flashing to a night that now feels further than the sun. “Descend into chaos, no doubt.”

As though you were a scorned lover, you watch them from the mezzanine of the penthouse, dressed in your frilly pajamas and sipping a hot mug of tea as they leave dressed to the nines. The criminal and the hunter, two souls cut from the same cloth.

As much as it hurts you to stay behind, there was no way you would be able to stomach the picture perfect image of them together.

“Ready?” He offers his arm with the mannerisms of a perfect escort.

“It's showtime.”

“You lovebirds leaving without me?” You can’t help but be a little dramatic and interrupt their moment — though, Sylus definitely sensed your presence long before they entered. “Could’ve saved me a dance, at least.”

The hunter’s face scrunches in disdain at the mention of lovebirds, but she quickly recovers. “Oh, I think there’ll be more than just dancing, Miss Secretary,” She cheekily lifts the slit of her dress, showing a peek of the pistol strapped to her thigh.

Despite already knowing they’ll have a safe return, your brows knit in worry, “Stay safe out there, you two.”

“You know we can’t promise that — but we’ll make a good effort,” Sylus smirks at you, a hint of concern in his eyes at the idea of leaving you behind.

You nod, a silent way of saying you’ll be okay. You wave goodbye and the hunter returns it eagerly, having warmed up to you in the past week. But the concerned, knowing look never leaves Sylus's face until they depart.

The elevator doors slide shut, and it feels like a coffin closing over your heart.

You laugh at how dramatic you’re being as you hold back a slight tear. It’s just an auction, you keep telling yourself. But it’s not the auction, isn’t it? It was seeing her take your place, and knowing this won’t be the last time.

You pick yourself back up, resolving to make the most of your night off. You make yourself comfortable in the living room, blanket and couch all to yourself, a movie running as background noise as you try to distract yourself with all sorts of hobbies. But you find yourself listless, unable to keep your mind focused on one thing.

The movie ends, and it becomes quiet.

With Sylus gone and the twins on a mission, the silence becomes all consuming. You leave a light on for when they return, trekking through opulent hallways until you reach your room, where once again, you stare into the city skyline stretching out into the distance.

There’s rarely ever an opportunity to be alone in the Onychinus base. But when you are, it never ends well. You used to be able to appreciate solitude in your old world, but maybe you’ve become a little spoiled here, in receiving the constant companionship you had once lived without as a student living away from home.

Here, solitude is when the lines between your dreams and reality begin to blur. Hours dazed in the possibilities of the past, the possibilities of a world where you had stayed. Graduated, diploma in hand as your family stands proudly at your side. Starting your career, devoting your passion to the field you love.

In comparison, this place feels like a lovely yet imprisoning dream. You’re fascinated by the wonders of the world you live in now, but each day that passes is a reminder of your place — or rather, lack thereof — in this world. A reminder of losses beyond comprehension. The loss of chance. The loss of possibility. No opportunity for you to grow, no winding path to change and evolve. And you ask yourself: are you even living?

This world feels like dreaming in a far-too-long nap. And not for the first time, you want to wake up from it.

It's currently March, the last of the winter chill before the snow melts, marking more than a year since your arrival. You feel like a broken record, looping back to the same hurts in an endless loop of grief; your doomed love, severed home, rootless soul. You can no longer fool yourself into thinking you can continue like this. You can no longer pretend to have a reason to stay.

You need to spare yourself from this grief, before it consumes you.

—————————————————————

The auction reaches a chaotic conclusion, one that is whispered about through the N109 Zone for weeks after. You feel the ripples of their actions even from the safety of your office. Luke and Kieran are sent to clean house at The Nest. Meanwhile, you’re swamped with associates from Onychinus’s complex web of loyalties, scrambling to reclaim their spot in Sylus's good graces in light of the recent power struggle.

Eventually, the dust settles. The pages of the calendar turn as the snow melts and warmth pours into the Onychinus base. And alongside the sunshine is Miss Hunter, whose presence becomes a permanent fixture in the penthouse.

It has only been a year since your arrival in this world, but your life has been completely upended, you think. From being a broke, burned out college student, to a tired secretary and mother of three.

Who were those three children, one may ask?

“Miss Secretary!” You poke your head out to see what the fuss was all about, hearing the twins snickering not too far away. The hunter stomps her way to your room, face cringed and seething in disgust. “Luke and Kieran gave me a cookie filled with toothpaste!”

“Ah — see, your first mistake there was trusting anything they gave you.”

Luke and Kieran warmed up extremely quickly to the hunter, as they did in the story. They enjoyed her presence around the base, but you couldn’t tell if it was more for her personality or the fact they had a new target for their trickery. A part of you was relieved; it meant you were no longer on their roster of victims (not that they particularly like pranking you, as you stare them down in disappointment each time). But their determination to mess with the hunter was going to send you into an early grave.

“I didn't even know they could feed themselves, let alone bake,” She pouted, crossing her arms. “In fact, they told me you made them!”

Ah. “Well… there may be some truth to that…” Your voice descends in volume to hide your guilt, but the hunter manages to hear quite clearly.

“You knew about it, and you didn’t tell me?” She gasps, face contorting into mock betrayal. “I can't believe you had it in you to be this… deceitful!”

In your defense, they had only asked you for baking lessons on how to make a cookie sandwich. You had no part in the actual crime. (Though, you may have turned a blind eye at them squeezing toothpaste in the frosting bag. Your patience can only go so far.)

As penance and apology, you promise to bake her actual, edible cookies in return for the monstrosity she just ingested, when you suddenly have a stroke of genius. “I wonder if they have any left.” Your face contorts into a shit-eating grin, “Don’t you think Sylus would appreciate a sweet treat right about now?”

The two of you cackle and rope the twins into it, sending Miss Hunter as the messenger. (He sees right through your ploy, but still takes a bite because she’s the one offering.)

So maybe you’re not as mature as you preach to be. However, your headaches aren’t exclusive to the humans in the penthouse.

Mephisto's permanent return to the base was a spark of joy in the bleak few months you’ve had, as he’s released from the duty of monitoring the hunter 24/7. It surprised you how much you missed the crow, realizing you’d taken his presence as one of your constant companions for granted.

The first week after his return, he sticks to your side like glue. Displeased at the hunter’s continued presence, continuing to report about her to you. Each time he catches her with Sylus he goes to show you the footage — almost like a son tattling on his father’s misdeeds. It’s a sweet gesture; clearly he’s smarter than given credit for, enough to decipher why you’ve been so downtrodden in the recent weeks. But as much as you appreciate his concern, you’re also not a masochist.

“What is it, Mephie?” You groan, abruptly woken after three grueling hours of trying to fall asleep. You would have thrown hands had you not discovered Mephisto, flapping his wings urgently.

He pecks at your cheek, showing you a hologram of Sylus and the hunter in his room, shoulders pressed together in a close proximity you were not prepared to see. “What, you want me to do something about it?” He flaps his wings in earnest, and you promptly turn around to bury your head in the pillow.

“It's none of my business!” You stubbornly burrow yourself under the blanket as he continues to squawk, “I don't want to know about the time they spend together, okay? It’s just rubbing salt into the wound.” You groggily explain, voice muffled by the pillow.

You didn’t need Mephisto to report on them — you already knew Sylus spent all his free time with her. As recalling her memories was a long shot, he turned his efforts to slowly build up their relationship again. What were once free slots in his calendar are suddenly blocked with the simple notes of ‘Miss Hunter.’ Your work dynamic has never been more out of sync, with his adjustments to the hunter’s daytime schedule after you had originally adjusted to his nights. Gone are the nights you could find him downstairs, spending the night chatting away your fears. Now, all you find are the lights turned off and a motorcycle gone from the garage.

Your voice must have taken a sad turn as the crow whimpers, nuzzling his beak into your neck to comfort you, almost like an apology. “It's okay, I know you just wanted to help.”

You let him roost on your bedside drawers, watching as he mechanically shuts down to rest. Mephisto's presence usually helps you fall asleep but tonight, you sigh as you resign yourself to a night of overthinking.

For a while, you thought that Mephie’s grudge against the hunter was one-sided. A rebellious phase, like a son’s poor reaction to his father’s new partner. So imagine your surprise when you realized she returned the sentiment.

You’re knitting on the couch, nodding along and reacting accordingly to Mephie’s squawks and accusatory pointing of his wings to the disgruntled hunter across the room.

“She said that? Oh, I’m so sorry you had to hear that…” You dramatically cater to the crow’s concerns, “I'll talk to her for you, don’t you worry.”

“Sylus should’ve fed him to the wolves,” The hunter pokes her tongue out at the crow, who squawks in horror. “Of all the adorable, fluffy, non-feathered pets he could’ve had —”

“Ah, ah, he’s not a pet,” You correct her to appease the bird who looks as if steam is about to leave his butt. “He’s the best reconnaissance agent we have at Onychinus. Aren’t you, Mephie?” You coo at him and he flaps his wings in agreement.

But of all the changes the hunter’s arrival brought to your life, the most unexpected development was your friendship with her.

In hindsight, it was no surprise. She may be a hunter — cutthroat and fearless, storming into the N109 Zone, wreaking havoc in the city’s most powerful crime syndicate — but you find there’s a certain bond between all freshly graduated college students. A little burned out, a little lost in life. Your similarities run deeper than your appearances, finding common ground in interests and life experiences despite having come from two different worlds.

She turns to you as a refuge within Onychinus, and in the process, she becomes yours.

Although you loved your newfound family, a year spent with only them had perhaps led you to become a little stir crazy. You almost forgot how it was to interact with normal people your age, as your current situation and job didn’t leave you with a lot of room to feel carefree. But the hunter steps in as a breath of fresh air, taking you along on her various escapades.

“What, leaving without me?” Sylus asks with a touch of playful offense, when the hunter arrives at the Onychinus headquarters — not for him, but for you, to his comical surprise. You can see the silent question in his eyes as they flit between the two of you, and you shrug.

“Yes, now go shoo,” The hunter flicks her wrist, motioning for him to leave as she grins and slings an arm over your shoulder. “It's just me and Miss Secretary today.”

This had all began when the hunter had been rambling about Kitty Cards, and you had stupidly made the off-hand comment, “Oh yeah, I’ve never played that before.”

It wasn’t a lie; the real life edition of the game would be a vastly different experience to the virtual one. But the appalled look on her face sent waves of regret coursing through you, as she immediately booked a session at her favorite cat cafe.

Of course, Sylus still manages to pull one on you as you’re promptly greeted by two bodyguards from the pool of new initiates.

Your jaw drops as you turn to him, “Excuse me, do you not trust me to go out on my own?”

“It's not you that I don't trust,” His gaze drifts over to the hunter, who glares at him in offense. “Our dear hunter, on the other hand, has a talent for finding trouble.”

The hunter in question scoffs, “Well, why else do you think I keep you around?” She tilts her head cheekily at him, as he rolls his eyes, breathing an affectionate sigh.

Like always, it’s a casual punch to the gut.

His gaze travels to you (almost knowing, you think) but you brush it aside and keep the neutral expression on your face. “Let’s wrap it up, you two.” You walk forward, lightly shoving your shoulder against Sylus’s, interrupting their moment. A rare moment of pettiness from you, but you think you’re entitled to it every now and then. “Shall we go? I’d like to see the Linkon sun before nightfall.”

You spend the day in Linkon where she crushes your ass repeatedly, and you’re not even offended. You were only here to see the cats, after all. It’s the perfect duo; she’s way too competitive and you don’t care about winning at all — the best of both worlds as you share the winnings, anyway, at the badge counter.

In your small world consisting of your newfound family at Onychinus, you appreciate the new friend you’ve made. An appreciation that surpasses any of the petty jealousy you may have. Time spent with the hunter means the opportunity to be a little less mature, to be silly in a way you haven’t been in a long time. You appreciate the brief reprieve, as this world has forced you to remain at 100% — keeping you at constant guard in the wake of your transmigration.

Alongside kitty cards, she introduces you to the pop culture in this world, something you were never given a glimpse of in the game. One afternoon, you two decide to steal a set of speakers from Sylus’s study, putting on a playlist she made after learning how little you knew of mainstream music.

You’re sitting on the floor of your room, surrounded by papers as she switches the song to a soft acoustic track. “I like this one,” you comment, making a mental note to add the artist to your own playlist.

“You don’t know them? Huh, I guess I shouldn't be surprised since you didn’t know any of the fifteen others before this…” You laugh awkwardly as she sends you the link, murmuring a soft thanks. “Did you grow up under a rock?”

“Something like that. I grew up really far from Linkon, it’s like an entirely different world there.” It wasn’t a lie.

She never questions you further than that, to your relief. “You know, three months ago I wouldn't have dared to step into sylus’s study unless my life was at stake,” The hunter reminisces, sprawled out on your bed. “But here we are, committing casual theft.”

“You’ll learn over time he’s not as scary as he thinks he is. Especially when it comes to you. You could — I don’t know, spill your coffee on his desk, or stage a revolt against him in Onychinus, and he wouldn’t even bat an eye.”

She rolls her eyes, but you can see the faint blush coating her cheeks. “You’re exaggerating. Honestly, I was scared shitless when I first met him. Don’t tell him that,” She stares you down, and you motion to zip your mouth closed. “But I guess he’s not that bad, the more I get to know him…”

You smile, partly out of affection and partly out of bitterness. The hunter is so obviously smitten, and you know it’s only a matter of time before she opens her heart to him.

By all means, you should be happy for them. You should be happy that your dearest friend in this world is finally getting the love and happiness he desires, that he deserves. You promised to back out of this unspoken race and let the story continue as intended — but here and now, fiddling with the beautiful necklace given to you many moons ago, you realize you have a habit of clutching onto things for far too long.

Long after the hunter leaves, you shuffle papers and calendars around to an unnecessary degree of perfection, lingering on these thoughts. Your friends, your family, your dreams, had made up the beautiful, imperfect mess that was your life. But here, beyond the walls of this place, the sad reality was there was little reason for you to stay. Little reason for you to live.

And you wonder, when she finally takes the place you hold in Sylus’s life, in Onychinus — what will be left for you in this world?

—————————————————————

Early April showers take over the dark skies of the N109 Zone, a soft drizzle pattering against the windows of Sylus’s main office. It's a slow day, spring taking its course as Onychinus returns to a new normal with the hunter.

Stoic and focused he may seem, but Sylus’s mind is anywhere but work, drifting to the hunter and their blossoming relationship. He’s taken any and all opportunities to spend time with her. His schedule — once filled with free nights and weekends spent cozily in the penthouse — are booked back to back in any free moment he and the hunter can spare. His text messages, typically relegated to his work, become full of silly little moments as she continues to take a larger place in his life.

It’s what he wanted, isn’t it?

So why does he feel his heart fall every time he sees the distance that’s grown between you two?

It's the 17th of April, and despite the little time you’ve spent together, he knows you already have something planned for his birthday. You haven’t breathed a word about it, but he knows that you would refuse to let it go uncelebrated, if the twins’ hushed scheming around him isn’t enough to go by.

He rests his chin on his hand, scrutinizing you, as if he could read your mind if he tried hard enough. You type away on your computer like a machine, so focused that it takes an awfully time before your eyes drift over to him, a bit alarmed at the intensity of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason at all,” He barely holds back the smirk threatening to curl at his lips.

He can practically see the thoughts running through your head. Is he mad? Is he planning something? Can he read my mind? Until you finally look away with a resigned sigh.

He chuckles under his breath, thinking he’s ready for whatever you have planned, when the door swings open, revealing the hunter — who was supposedly busy with work today — on a surprise visit.

“Knock knock!” She raps her knuckles against the open door, “Good evening, Miss Secretary! Or — good morning, I guess, for the both of you?”

“Did I say you could come in?” Sylus asks with his typical drawled snark.

She scoffs, throwing a smile at you before occupying his visitor’s chair, crossing her legs and making herself comfortable. “Is that any way to greet your favorite hunter, who’s so kindly come to you since you’ve been busy all week?”

He narrows his eyes, “You want something from me.” A statement, not a question.

She sticks her tongue out at him, having clocked her immediately before she even got a word in. “A little birdie may have told me that you own an RX–116 —”

“You’re not riding it.” The answer comes automatically, eyes mechanically returning to the paperwork he’d been previously neglecting.

“You haven’t even let me explain why…!”

“Alright, tell me. Why should I let you take Treasure — my most cherished motorcycle — out on a reckless joyride into the N109 Zone?” He crosses his arms, patiently waiting for her answer.

“Because you’re a fun–loving soul at heart, who values the happiness of his friends?” Her tone is light, fingers crossed, only to receive his deadpan stare. She huffs, “Oh, come on. I promise I'll be careful. What if you drive? If Miss Secretary can survive it, I definitely could!”

His eyes drift over to you, and you barely glance up from your screen, deigning him with a shrug. “Sorry, she asked.” He continues to stare intently at you, a silent plea he hopes you’d understand if only you’d just look up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“…No meetings? Deadlines? Overdue paperwork? Tell me what’s on my schedule today.”

You grant him an almost knowing smile, rolling your eyes. “Since when have you cared about paperwork?” Still, you flick through the digital calendar, lazily pretending to indulge his request. “No, there’s nothing keeping you. You’re free from the clutches of work. For today,” You emphasize that last part as a subtle threat.

Still, he continues to look at you skeptically — it’s almost like he wants you to hand him more work. “I mean it, go have fun. Take a break. Since when did you care so much about skipping work?” He can almost hear you muttering, “The privileges of being a rich bastard…” as you breathe a tired sigh.

It's true that Sylus's position affords him the privilege of passing up on the workday for his whims. Whether it be upgrading Mephisto, waiting on online auctions for vintage records, or in this case, a day out with the hunter.

It unnerves him, this side of you. Despite the stark gap in power between you, you’ve never failed to scold and banter with him, thumping him on the head more than a few times after he’d neglected the calendar. But lately, you’ve been almost… complacent with him, as if you’ve accepted something inevitable.

It's a jarring realization when he thinks about how little time he’s spent with you since the hunter’s return. Especially considering how close you had grown, how you’d spent almost every free moment with him before. A part of him knows that for one reason or another, you’ve kept your distance, and he hates it — but at the same time, the hunter was slowly opening her heart to him.

But were you really going to let him go this easily, on the eve of his birthday, when you clearly had something planned already? It was moments like these that made him wish for things to return to normal. (That made him wish to see the side of you that cared.)

“Fine,” He gives into the pleading eyes of the hunter, who cheers as he tosses her the keys. “Meet me in the garage. Careful not to go too wild, kitten.”

He shakes his head as she skips out of the room, catching one last look at you before muttering, “You two will be the death of me…” He leaves the office without looking back.

The evening is spent racing through the outskirts of the N109 Zone, wind and rain rushing past them as Sylus takes the opportunity to show off the motor’s maximum speed. She screams, and it echoes through the empty roads. Joyously carefree, still carrying the same fire and spirit she once held in their previous lives.

But, not everything was the same. The hunter’s life was by no means easy, but she grew up in a much kinder world than the sorceress, untouched by the horrors that he and her previous iteration were irrevocably changed by. Does he even want her to remember? Would it still be love if he forced her to relive those horrors?

His devotion to the sorceress has always been overwhelming, all-consuming. But in this life, he does not feel the same intense love, but more so a quiet affection, a desire to protect. And so, he’d rather the hunter live in peace. Never knowing the horrors of their past, even if it means that he’ll be forgotten, as well.

She urges him, “Go faster!” and he obliges with a smirk, revving up the engine to go at maximum speed. She cackles, letting go of his waist and letting her arms caress the midnight breeze. He can’t help but breathe an affectionate sigh — her dauntless, the opposite to your wariness on this very motorcycle.

Miss Secretary. His thoughts have once again spiralled back to you, a habit that’s slipped out of his control. He's always been unwavering in his desires, but your arrival had upended his world and the foundations of what he knew about himself. And now, he no longer knows where his heart lies.

He knows it’s not fair to either of you. He feels guilty for the hunter’s oblivious nature — clueless to what almost was (what could still be) between you and him. And for you, you have done your utmost best to keep the boundaries he wasn’t strong enough to.

He's a shameless man who’s never been afraid to take and take. But every time he sees the pain that his indecision — his choice — has caused you, he can’t help but tread carefully, wary of hurting you any more than he already has.

The clock strikes twelve, marking the beginning of April 18th. They return to a base shrouded in darkness, where they stumble around for the lights, only to be greeted by a garishly decorated living room and the twins dressed in red and black.

“Happy birthday, boss!” The twins blow party poppers as he walks into the living room, “Didn’t expect this, did ‘ya?”

He’d been so conflicted at leaving before his birthday, when little did he know, it was all an elaborate ruse to distract him while you and the twins decorated.

“…It seems I've been deceived.” This is the first time you have ever left him truly dumbfounded.

“Surprise!” The hunter slaps him on the back, a satisfied smirk on her face. “Did you really think I was bugging you for a ride out for nothing?”

“Well, not nothing, considering you commandeered the vehicle halfway through.” She swats at him playfully in response.

His eyes search for you, and just in time, you carefully step out of the kitchen, holding a two-tiered cake with a candle lit atop. What ensues is an off-tune rendition of happy birthday, as you step closer, careful not to extinguish the flames, “Make a wish, Sylus.” You smile.

Since the tragic end to his life as a dragon, he’s only ever had one wish. But this year, he hesitates.

For the first time, he wishes for something else. Something new and precious.

The flames dance in the wind before being snuffed with a single breath, smoke trailing with the promises of what’s to come.

Once again, you‘ve planned an elaborate celebration, just as you did the previous year. Something simple here at the base, but still catering to his preferences. From the tasteful red, black, and gold decorations, his favorite meals laid out on the dining table, and a pile of presents wrapped in a mishmash of patterns and ribbons.

When he takes the first bite of the cake, he lets out a hum of satisfaction, immediately noticing the gleam in the twins’ eyes.

“What, did you like it?” You smile at him cheekily, chewing through your own bite. “Luke and Kieran baked it, red velvet cheesecake with a bourbon coating.”

The hunter scowls, still not over their previous attack on her taste buds. “Oh, so Sylus gets a fancy, artisanal cake and I get toothpaste cookies?”

Kieran grins, lightly punching her shoulder, “Don’t worry, Miss Hunter. Just wait til’ it’s your birthday.”

”Yeah! We’re more than ready to top the last one," Luke chimes in, a sinister promise no one wants to hear.

Sylus's gaze follows the hunter throughout the night. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to closure, he thinks, seeing her slot into his close circle (family) like a perfect puzzle piece, celebrating a day that never mattered to him until they made it matter. In their previous life, they had never been afforded the time or peace to celebrate these mundane milestones.

But despite the jovial atmosphere, his eyes can’t stray from your strange mood. You do a good job of pretending that everything is alright, going about the motions and matching the merry of the occasion. But though you may be able to fool others, you can’t fool him. After the party has come to an end, he doesn’t leave your side — determined to know what’s been bothering you.

“Hey, no cleaning for the birthday celebrant!” You lightly shoo him away with the broom as he tries to take over cleaning the living room.

“Oh? I say the birthday celebrant gets to decide that for himself,” He easily swipes the broom from your hands, and you huff, relegated to picking up the wrapping paper strewn about the floor.

“Stubborn bastard,” You mutter under your breath.

“A little louder, dear. I couldn't hear you.” You scowl at him and he laughs, “I can't let you do all the work, no? What kind of boss would I be, then? Tsk, if only you had just left it to the cleaners like I told you to.”

Still, you resolve to finish cleaning. It’s a bit comical seeing him with a broom and dustpan, and on his birthday, of all days. Still, you assert that it would be too rude to leave all this work for the cleaners’ shift come morning. With the two of you working at it, by the time the hour’s up you wouldn’t have been able to tell a celebration occurred.

“Let's go to the rooftop,” Sylus suggests, after taking out the trash. “I feel like taking a breath of fresh air.”

The two of you walk up the familiar staircase to the rooftop, the highest point in the N109 Zone, where you’ve spent many nights deprived of sleep and spilling your deepest fears and nightmares.

“Watch your head.”

“What are you— ow!” You bump your head on a new exit sign that hadn’t been there the last time you came.

He laughs breathily, rubbing your forehead with his thumb after he perfectly ducks under the sign. “I did warn you.”

“It feels like forever since we’ve been up here.”

“It's also been quite a while since I’ve seen you.”

You laugh shakily, “What are you talking about? We’re in the office every day…”

“Don’t act like you don’t understand, it’s unbecoming of your intelligence,” He brushes a stray hair from your face.

“Well, what can I say? We’ve all been so busy lately… But you seem happy, though.” He remains silent, so you continue, “You’ve waited so long to reunite with her. I've never believed in soulmates or anything like that, but for you two, I just might. I’m happy for you,” A timid smile paints your face, and he can’t tell if it’s out of bitterness or soft appreciation.

He doesn’t know how to feel, receiving your approval — feigned as it may be. “If that's so, do you believe it for yourself?” You look at him strangely. “Do you think you could have a soulmate?”

The question seems to weigh heavily on your mind as you look away, dangling your feet aimlessly, “Maybe so… But I like to think that love is a choice. Something that’s earned, built up over time. That's the kind of love that I want, at least.”

His heart has been conflicted for so long — but all of a sudden, you feel unreachable, slipping from his grasp into a territory uncharted. (All of a sudden, he wants to give you everything you wish for.)

“It's been a while since we’ve talked like this. It’s nice being able to spend time with you again.” You stand up, brushing non-existent dirt off your thighs. “But I better head to bed.”

It’s a lie, you both know you’ll spend the night tossing and turning into the hours of the night; so he tries to push at the walls you’ve put up. “Come on, dear. It's my birthday. Just grace me with your presence for a few more minutes…”

He tries not to sound desperate, but all he wants to do is reverse time, to return to a period where you weren’t wary of spending time with him. He'd been spoiled by the affection and friendship you once offered so freely, and now he couldn’t bear this distance you stubbornly held in place.

He reaches to grab your hand, but you pull yours away.

You hesitate before turning around, “I'm sorry, Sylus. But maybe another night.” Your voice is soft as you say good night, his eyes stuck on the image of you walking further away until you disappear from sight.

He wants so badly to pull you back, yearns to grab your hand once again, to feel the warmth of your palm against his. But he knows he has no right to. The presence of the hunter a few doors over says it all, says his choice. He can’t bear to hurt you any more than he already has. But at the same time, he can’t bear to lose you.

So instead, he watches you walk away, knowing that he’s chosen the hunter, his soulmate. But a part of his heart continues to yell at him, telling him he’s making a grave mistake.

—————————————————————

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the overstimulating atmosphere of the underground ring. The flashing lights, the all-consuming noise in the hours before a match starts. It's been months since you’ve been here, but it’s clear that anticipation runs high in the crowds, with this being Sylus's first game since last year’s loss.

You sniffle, holding back a sneeze as you approach the ring with a bouquet of flowers, waiting patiently for Sylus to break from his pre-game focus as the coach gives him a last minute pep talk.

His eyes eventually drift over to you as he takes a sip of water, “Oh? Look who showed up." He smirks at you, arms leaning against the barrier, “And here I thought you’d be a no-show after last year’s disappointment.”

“What can I say? It’s a crime to pass up on an easy bet.”

“I'm touched by your faith in me,” Unlike his words, his tone is deadpan.

You mockingly scoff, “Who said I placed my bets on you?” You say this, but both of you know who you’re rooting for. “I just thought I might as well wish you good luck, considering I used my PTO on this.”

“Trust me, dear.” His smirk is one of confidence, as he leans past the barrier, face inching towards yours. “By the end of the night, there’ll be a new champion reigning this ring.”

A sudden screech comes from behind — some sort of ongoing venue prep — and your face scrunches up, another headache coursing through you.

“Are you okay?” His brows furrow as he calls your name, concerned at the deep circles under your eyes, the pale sheen to your face. “Maybe you should sit down. You don’t look well.”

“I'll be fine,” You wave him off, “It’s just a headache. I can champ through it.”

“But is it wise for you to stand in these crowds?” He removes his glove, pressing a hand against your forehead. “Go sit down in the locker room, they’ll be airing the match inside. I don't need you in the stands to know you’re supporting me.”

The increasing dizziness you feel is the only reason why you nod, picking up your things and doing as told without so much as a fight. His eyes follow your sluggish form until you make it past his sight, settling inside the rundown locker room to watch alongside other competitors and coaches.

Even though you’ve been continuously sneezing and feel like knocking out, you’re on your toes the entire match, even from the low quality screen delegated to the locker room. The crowd is just as enthusiastic, roaring for his revenge match. You know nothing about boxing, but even you can tell from the first few minutes alone that he’s doing well, performing better than he ever was as the cheers of the crowd pound through to the walls of this secluded room. The camera shifts as he overtakes his opponent — and that’s when you see it, a glimpse of the hunter cheering at the front row.

You already expected her presence, was anticipating to sit by her side as the both of you cheered Sylus on. But a part of you feels sick, lightheaded, progressively dizzier as the match continues. Not just because of the hunter’s arrival, or the anxiety of seeing Sylus getting socked in the face — you realize as you feel the bile rising up your throat.

The match ends as you walk out of the bathroom, contents of your stomach flushed down the toilet. You missed the final blow, the crowning moment, the television having switched to an interview. His voice fills the room, the audio muffled and crackly, “Someone came all the way here to watch me. Said she didn’t want to see me lose.”

You recognize that look of adoration, reserved only for the hunter. And once again, you feel your stomach lurch.

It's a weak moment for you — you want to stay, to cheer him on as his friend and supporter (the only things you were and would ever be to him). But it was too much for you, seeing her take the place that maybe, in another life, could have been yours.

You guiltily leave the bouquet in the locker rooms, slipping away easily into the swarm of crowds leaving the venue. You pass by the ring as you make your way to the exit, seeing him at the edge of the barricade, swarmed by reporters.

In the ring, he shines like a star far out of your reach.

Was this penance for your pride? For believing you could take the spot of someone who was long destined to be by his side? The last image you see is of his arm wrapped around her waist, lips pressed to her forehead — his attention, his gravity, tethered to her.

You leave the underground stadium guilt-free, feeling a little silly for having doubts about your departure affecting him. You realize that no matter what you do, he’ll be fine.

He has the hunter now.

—————————————————————

The moment he steps out of the ring, lights flashing and reporters crowding to get his interview — the first thing he sees is the hunter, standing front row in the bleachers, cheering him on with her fist in the air. His arm stays around her waist as they celebrate his win, answering nosy interviewers and being crowned with the champion’s ring.

He should be filled with nothing but happiness, satisfaction. But right now, all he could think of was finding you.

He fiddles with the champion’s ring, a nervous tic he’d never dare show to the naked eye as he makes his way to the locker room, where he finds an intricate bouquet of flowers and a congratulatory note, written in your familiar penmanship.

It seems his greed had become far too overwhelming.

Faced with all his wishes coming true, he still yearns for more. Everything he ever wanted was coming together, but none of it felt right — not with your absence creating a gaping void in a picture perfect image.

Disheartened by your absence, the dim mood follows him as he returns to a quiet home. He carefully steps inside, your snores filling the space as he finds you sprawled on the living room couch, still dressed in your outside clothes, skin dull and face tightened in discomfort.

He lifts you up, beginning the trek to your bedroom to let you sleep away the rest of the night, only for you to stir awake in his arms. “Sylus?” You peek at him through bleary eyes, “You’re home…”

He places the back of his hand against your forehead, “You’re burning up. Did you take any medicine before falling asleep?”

“I'm sorry I couldn’t stay for the match…” In your drowsy state, you don’t hear his question, instead nuzzling your head into his chest. He savors the feeling of your warmth. “Did you get my flowers?”

“I did. They were a beautiful choice.”

“That's good. You deserve only the best, after all.” Your voice is a little breathy, soft and tender in ways you never reveal to him anymore — and he couldn’t help but be a little lovestruck.

“You know just how to flatter me, don’t you?” He lays you down gently, tucking the covers over your form, as he musters the courage to follow through with his thoughts. “But since you brought me flowers, I should give something in thanks.”

He slides the champion’s ring off his finger, delicately placing it in your palm, closing your fingers over it. “I believe this should be yours.”

“Sylus, what is this?” Your face is still unnaturally pale, but you seem more lucid now, staring at the ring with an unreadable expression on your face.

“There's only one reason I left as a champion today, and she’s standing right in front of me.” His eyes are glued intently to yours, water still streaking from his hair after the quick shower he took before leaving. “Last year’s match was a blow to my pride, I'll admit. But how could I ever stay down with you by my side?”

It’s rare for him to display his fondness on a silver platter — not painted in wit or banter, but with the clarity of an open window into his heart. But something about you wills him to take steps he never has before.

You stay silent for an unnerving amount of time, turning away from him, overwhelmed by the depth of his gaze. Your face contorts into a fractured smile, “I think we both know who you should really give this to.

He stares at the ring, refusing to take it from your outstretched hand. a strained laugh leaves his lips. He gently grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him once again, “You won’t even accept gifts from me, now? How much will you pull away from me before you’re satisfied?”

“I can't accept this, and you know why.”

He knows. Just like he knows why you stray from his touch, why you avoid his gaze. He knows, but he refuses to accept it.

“I went into this match for you. I won it for you, not the hunter.” A frantic sort of grief fills his features, imploring you to open your heart to him. “So why is it that you keep telling me to run to her? What makes you believe you’re undeserving?”

“Because it shouldn’t be me. I just—” The words fail to form on your tongue, twisting and turning until the intention is lost. “Please, sylus. I can't do this right now.”

“I didn't think your cowardice was stronger than our friendship.”

You come to an abrupt still, your eyes glazing over in stifled shock. “Well, I'm sorry to have disappointed you.”

Regret immediately courses through him as he realizes the harshness of his words, and the guardedness of your tone. He hates causing you hurt or pain, but he can no longer bear to ignore the distance that's grown between you. (But does he even have the right to confront you about it? When he knows his actions are the root cause.)

“We can't hide from this forever, so why won’t you just talk to me?” He's just about ready to beg for you to look at him again, to talk to him again, without the inhibitions that separate you now.

You take a deep breath, a hundred thoughts running through your mind before you settle on simple words, “Because things can’t go back to normal, and I don't know if they ever will.” You turn around, effectively ending the conversation and drawing that dreaded line. “I'd like to be alone now, please.”

It’s not irreparable; at least, you don’t think so. But regardless of the place the hunter now holds in your life, you had crossed a turning point in your relationship, one that made it impossible to turn back. This was the price of his choice; he couldn’t have his cake and eat it, too.

Despite how much he wants to confront you, more than anything he wants to respect the boundaries you’ve set in place. And so, Sylus is left to stew in his thoughts in the living room, fiddling with the ring and wondering why he wouldn’t just give the ring to the hunter. Why he caused all of this mess. (He knows exactly why.)

The bond he had with the hunter transcended lifetimes, giving his soul a first taste of human connection and love. He grasped at the seams of that bond, holding on for dear life and desperately seeking the peace they were never afforded. But your arrival broke the monotony of his days, and in the process, treated him to that connection, that genuine acceptance and care so freely. You easily slotted into his life, and now that you were trying to walk away — he couldn’t just bear to let you go.

He may have fallen in love with the sorceress in their previous life, but now, it was time to face his current reality.

In this world, his heart had chosen you.

—————————————————————

You feel like you're being replaced, being pushed out of the picture you were never meant to be captured in.

For the longest time, you’ve felt the petty urge to hate the hunter. To pick out her flaws and shortcomings to make yourself feel better. But that wouldn’t be fair to her, who’s done nothing but unknowingly capture Sylus's heart. And it would only fan the flames of bitterness and hurt that were already burning inside you.

You stomp at the petty jealousy taking root in your heart — because what right do you have to feel that way? What right do you have to mourn a love that was never yours to begin with?

You feel rather foolish. You thought you knew what his affection felt like, but it was nothing compared to seeing his devotion. You never believed in soulmates — but how could you deny the cosmic connection before your very eyes? Like a planet and its moon, they orbit each other — his harsh edges softening in her presence.

Sylus gave you hope for a future in this world. But to him, you must be just one of many, a buffer while he waits for his lover to finally come along in this life. He was someone who had never known peace, never known the warmth of love before he met her. In the grand scheme of things, what was your rust to her gold?

These fantasies have become fatal, cutting open old wounds and deeply hidden thoughts. Never have you felt so untethered. No place where you belonged, no place to call home, no connection that was meant to be truly yours. Your world had been shrouded in static in the wake of losing your loved ones, life becoming grainy and distant in your grief. The loneliness had been dampened by new connections, by a blossoming love, but was now coming back in full force as you watch the image of how it should be, without you.

You were never meant to be here.

(Thus, it was only right to return things to how they should be.)

—————————————————————

Thunder rolls in, casting gloomy skies over the N109 Zone. it’s one of those days where you can’t muster up the energy to do anything but curl up on the couch with a blanket, paperwork left forgotten on the coffee table, watching raindrops dart against the tall windows overlooking the city.

The twins are similarly sprawled across the living room floor. With Sylus and Mephisto out on a mission, it’s just the three of you in the penthouse, spending the last of the spring showers working by the warmth of the fireplace, before humid summer storms take over.

The dreary atmosphere did nothing to quell the persistent grief that weighed heavily in your chest. Not even the comforting presence of Luke and Kieran could muster a smile on your face, these days.

Your eyelids start to flutter, the movie and the twins’ chatter becoming hazy as you drift into slumber, where once again, you dream of home.

You find yourself thinking about home much more, nowadays. You miss the sun, you miss the food, the warmth of company (the lack of doubt of your belongingness). But as always, you wake up to the cars and gunshots typical of the N109 Zone, the rain having slowed to a soft drizzle, pattering against the window.

You spend a little while with your eyes closed, savoring the taste of home only a dream can capture, a feeling that slips through your fingers before you can truly grasp it. And once again, you wish for a clue, a hint, an answer to a way back home.

Little did you know how soon this wish would be granted.

You stretch your arms out, coming to a slow rise from the couch, remembering the pile of paperwork that awaited you on the coffee table. You sigh as you see the other half; it seems the twins hadn’t gotten much done either, their papers getting mixed up with yours during your short nap. you take quick, mindless glances at the papers — your events and supply documentation, the twins’ mission reports — as you sort through them.

One in particular slides out from the pile, and you pick it up, intending to place it on their side of the table — only to stop in your tracks, catching a single phrase. Dimensional travel.

You shouldn’t be snooping. As Sylus's secretary, you’re already privy to most of the ongoings in Onychinus. You know that if something’s been kept from you, it’s for a reason. But as your mind flits over all the dead ends you’ve run into in your search to go home, you think — what’s the harm in taking a look?

Your blood stills.

What greets you is the twins’ hasty scrawl, recounting their findings as they led a reconnaissance mission at an EVER lab on the outskirts of the N109 Zone. Test subjects who were found in public, on the brink of death. Who spoke of “other worlds.” Unfortunate individuals who were found somewhere more public, deemed a nutcase, and left vulnerable to the hands of EVER. In Kieran’s more formal penmanship are the words, “These findings are supported by the classified dimensional travel studies at Prestara University…”

And when you see the date of the mission — it’s from the previous year.

Why did no one tell you about this?

All of you were smart enough to connect the dots. Near-death experiences, tales of other worlds. Here you were, searching on what seemed to be a fool’s errand, when the people you slept under the same roof with held the very answers you’d been so desperately seeking.

An eerie feeling settles over you (you don’t want to name it as betrayal) as you look over the papers, reading them over and over, thinking there’s no way this had been just out of reach, all these months.

On the dot, the twins return to the living room with bags of snacks in their arms, Luke with his typical cheer as Kieran stills, seeing the papers in your hand. “Miss Secretary, you’re finally awake. Do you want a snack —”

“What is this?” You cut him off, uncharacteristically stoic as you raise up the stapled reports, still reeling from shock at the words you’ve just read. “Your mission reports… These are from a year ago. Why didn’t I know about this?

The two worriedly look at each other in silent communication, before you ask again, fed up with the lies and secrecy. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Luke, she read the reports. She knows.”

“But the boss said — Fine. But don’t blame me when this ends badly.” He sighs before giving in, turning to look you in the eye. “I think it’s better if we show you. But… Please don’t be mad at the boss.”

“No more than you already are,” Kieran adds, and you look at him skeptically. “We know you two are fighting. It’s been torture seeing you guys mope! The boss has been burying everyone in work and you… You’ve been a shell of yourself.”

You open your mouth, ready to spout excuses, but he interrupts you. “Don’t deny it, we can see it for ourselves. Especially with the way the boss has been grovelling.”

“Sylus has not been grovelling. He has better things to do with his time.” You roll your eyes, but they continue to stare at you in doubt, until you sigh and let up.

“Alright. so we may have had a… slight disagreement. But really, I've just been in a funk. A little homesick, and a little actually sick. That's all. But you know what will help me?” You raise up the reports once again, flipping to the research page. “Show me these case studies. Show me everything there is to know about this.”

“Well, we tried.” Kieran lets out a tired exhale, “If knowing this will help you, then we’ll do it.”

The twins lead you into their wing of the penthouse, a territory you never dared to venture unless it was dire circumstances— which it very well feels like it is now.

“Welcome to our little abode!” Luke cheers as he swings the doors open.

“Oh, how… charming.”

You tiptoe around the communal living area, unable to distinguish what is a weapon for Onychinus and a personal invention they’ve made for an elaborate prank. Frankly, it’s a mess. Apparently teenage boys are the same type of disgusting in any universe, you cringe as you find a smelly article of clothing on his desk that's definitely overdue for a wash. Only the promise of answers holds back your urge to hand these kids a broom and force them to clean.

“Over here’s my desk. Go wild, I guess. I'll be in the other room if you need anything.”

Your heart races as you’re left to your own devices, inputting the related mission code — and there it is. A wealth of information answering the questions you’ve had.

You skim over the articles, all from the same research team, studying the phenomenon of dimensional travelers, as they’ve so aptly put it, and their possible connection to the Deepspace Tunnel.

But the most damning implication of them all, was that there was a way for you to return home. The researchers are positive they’re close to a breakthrough, they write, as they cite the commonalities between these travelers. If a close encounter with death is what brought them all here, then it only makes sense it can bring them back.

But this is where the trail ends. The last article ends with the researchers discussing potential experimentation — the risks of being lost in the unknown boundary between worlds, ripped to shreds by the force of gravity, or better yet — just dying. With it, your hope dims.

But it’s something. Nothing concrete, but enough to prove you weren’t crazy. Enough to have hope. Enough to try.

But the question remains… how could this have possibly slipped past you? You’ve researched every corner of info available to you in the Onychinus database.

As Sylus's secretary, you’re granted the privileges to access almost everything in Onychinus, including the information databases which contain a wealth of information from various sources (legally and illegally obtained, many inaccessible to the public yet). And when you check the status of the articles — you see that your access has been blacklisted.

As it was, there was only one person in Onychinus with the power to do this.

“Sylus put you up to this, didn’t he?” When your eyes turn to Luke in question, he only nods grimly in confirmation.

“The boss asked us to keep it from you,” He almost looks like a sad puppy wagging his tail, trying to appease your increasingly irate mood. “He was only worried about what you might do if you found out about this.”

“He should’ve worried about what I’d do if you kept this from me.” You spat bitterly, and immediately, guilt coils through you for misplacing this anger on Luke. The twins might have been in on it, but despite all their mischief, they would never have had the heart to lie to you. No, this was all Sylus's doing.

You walk away, as overwhelming waves of betrayal course through you. You don’t want to make assumptions, but there is no other possible truth. It’s almost uncharacteristic of him, you think. He's always supported whatever you wanted to do. So why would he do this now?

Why hide the answers that would lead you back home?

And if he hid this from you, what else could he be hiding?

These thoughts continue to plague you into the late hours of the night. Hours of tossing and turning in the sheets, before giving up on slumber entirely. Before, you would tiptoe in the marbled halls in search of laughter and company. But things were no longer the same. Now, you lock yourself in silence, refusing to bare any more of your heart.

But there still comes some nights such as now, when you can’t stifle the dark creeping in. Like a sheep heading into the wolves’ den, you tiptoe out of your bedroom, making your way to the kitchen where you cope as you always have: by baking.

As you pull out the ingredients, Sylus eventually comes strolling in, as if he had a sixth sense to your presence.

“Can’t sleep again?” He asks groggily. Hair mussed and robe crumpled, it was clear he had already been in bed. His tone is careful, still tiptoeing around you after the mess of a conversation you last had after the match.

You nod tiredly, “Too much to think about.” You’re being uncharacteristically cold to him, not even turning around or looking at him in acknowledgement. But if he notices, he doesn’t show it.

All you want is a moment alone. But already, he’s coming far too close to you — invading your space like he’s entitled to it, when all you want is to be as far away from him as possible.

“Let me help you.” He says, grabbing the bowl from behind you and rolling a whisk in his other hand. “It'll just be like old times, don’t you think? Miss Baker, with her apprentice running the ovens.”

You can’t help the anger simmering beneath you as you slam the cupboards closed, alarming him. Can you not get one moment of peace in this fucking household? “You know what? I think I'll just go to bed, actually.”

He lets out a breath of frustration. "Alright, it’s clear that there’s a problem here.” He grabs your hand to stop you from leaving, only for you to rip it from his grasp. He steps back, “I admit that I said some hurtful things before, and I'd like to apologize properly. But can we sit down and talk about this like civilized people?”

You know it’s wrong to lash out like this, but this betrayal had you reeling and acting out impulsively. A crash-out long in the works, tipped over by your recent revelation. “Always one to ask forgiveness rather than permission, aren’t you?”

“What?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, utterly confused. “I don't know why you continually insist on shutting me out — but I assure you, nothing productive will come out of this.”

A bitter laugh escapes you, “Well, I don’t know why you insist on lying to me. But I'm not the one asking questions here.”

“What are you talking about?” His blood runs cold, gaze steely as he begins to tread carefully through this volley of words.

“Did you think I'd never find out about the information you hid from me? That you ordered Luke and Kieran to lie to me about? How much have you hidden from me?” You seethe, the words spilling out of you like an overflowing kettle.

His silence says it all.

“Gosh, I guess it figures.” You don’t know whether to laugh in irony or cry in defeat. “The one person I trusted the most turned out to be a lying bastard… I don't know why I expected any better from you.”

Sometimes you forget the person Sylus truly is, beyond the softness he’s shown to you in confidence. He may be flowing with unspoken affection for those he cares for, but in the end, he was still a criminal. The leader of the world’s most notorious crime syndicate, gifted in the art of deceit.

But despite this, Sylus was still the person who took you in when you had nowhere else to go. The one person you trusted more than anyone in this world. Although his blossoming relationship with the hunter sprouted thorns over your friendship, you thought that you’d at least have total honesty.

But your expectations crumble into disappointment.

Sylus treats this exchange flippantly, at first, trying to stave off a fight he doesn’t want to have. But you’re so frustrated, you can’t even look him in the eye. Though his face gives away nothing, a storm was brewing inside as the consequences of his actions dawned on him.

And so, he decides to tell you the truth.

He whispers your name carefully, like an apology in itself. “I'm sorry I lied to you. It was never my intention to deceive you, or to hold you back from finding answers — but I know I've hurt you nonetheless. But please, let’s not fight about this. Let me explain myself, first.”

You turn to him, waiting for an answer that will resolve the hurt in your heart.

He doesn't know where to begin, so he starts with an explanation.

When you first arrived, Sylus had done the research. Tried to find a way to send you — this anomaly who’d landed in his backyard — back to where she belonged. But all he could find were dead ends. As far as he knew, there was no way to send you back. You, this stranger, who he wanted out of his life. (Oh, how the thought hurts him now.)

Almost a year later, when the dimensional travel research came in — he immediately marked it as classified. A spur of the moment decision, where he blocked off your access to these files in fear of you discovering them. He excuses it as the danger, the potential recklessness that might possess you in the face of this revelation.

But the truth was: you were no longer just a stranger, you were Miss Secretary. A core part of his life, regardless of the short time you’d been here. Maybe if he was less in-deep, if the reality of you slipping from his grasp wasn’t so tangible, he wouldn’t have resorted to deceit. But as it was, there was no way he was letting you go now.

After all, the fear of lying to you was nothing compared to the fear of losing you forever. (But now, he may just lose you because of it.)

His explanations ring through your head, but all you hear are excuses. You fire back, words slow and tense like a string stretched thin. “You think you’re always right, but you’re not. That's not an excuse to withhold this from me. Living in the N109 Zone is a danger in itself, so what’s so different about this?”

He scoffs, “The difference is that here, you are by my side. Do you think I can't protect you?”

“It's not your responsibility to protect me. In fact, I've long overstayed my welcome here.”

“Says who?” His eyes stare intently into yours, as he opens his arms, “Look around, dear. The only person who wants you to leave is you.”

He shakes his head, frustrated, “Do you even understand what could happen to you if you pursue this path? This not only blurs the boundary between our worlds, but the boundary between life and death. You could die before ever seeing a glimpse of your old world,” A frantic panic shadows his eyes as he moves forward, shaking you by the shoulders, almost begging you not to do this.

“At least I'd finally have some peace!” You spat out like a bullet that’s been lodged in your chest, a truth so hard to bear. Every day in this world has been an uphill battle, and no connection — whether familial or romantic — could make up for everything you had lost, or the closure you had seeked.

“You don’t mean that.” He murmurs in disbelief, the broken look on his face enough to have your shoulders slumped in guilt.

He tries — you know he does — to close the distance that you have placed. But a sadistic part of you likes to see him hurt, likes to see him struggle to repair what he unintentionally broke. But the other part of you just wants to spare yourself from any more hurt.

You’ve never been the type to cling to your pride, but not even you can acquiesce to this when you feel so wronged.

“Do you even understand what this information means to me?” Your voice trembles in desperation, “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything. I cared about my life. I had dreams, I had plans! My family and friends, they all probably think I’m missing or dead — when I'm just here, trying to get back to them. Yet you have the audacity to pretend like you did this for my sake?”

To him, your arrival was a miracle. Another surprise fate had thrown his way, something he was determined not to let slip from his grasp this time around.

But to you, your arrival in this world was your greatest tragedy.

In spite of it all, he puts his foot down, refusing to put your life on the line. “No, this is where I draw the line. You will not be pursuing this — this death wish, and that’s final.” He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s gripped your shoulders until he steps back from the sheer betrayal in your eyes.

For the first time, you look at him as if he were no more than a stranger. Like you didn’t know him, hadn’t held him in your arms in his lowest moments. He could handle the hunter’s anger and distrust, your distance and aloofness. But your fear? It breaks him.

Still, he swallows this heartbreak in favor of your safety. “Ignore me, hate me — I'm willing to put up with all of it so long as you don’t hurt yourself.”

“Well, what fucking choice do I have when you control everything in this goddamned place?” You close your eyes and laugh bitterly, whispering, “I guess I never knew you as well as I thought I did.”

You walk away, and he knows better than to chase you.

All this time, you had felt guilty for hurting him with your distance, for being an obstacle in the space that was meant for the hunter. Meanwhile, he had been the one barricading you from going back. But why? You cannot comprehend as to why he would be selfish enough to try and keep you here, not when he has everything he’s ever wanted.

Your thoughts continue to spiral as you return to your room– and for the first time, you feel more peace in the silence than in his company.

—————————————————————

He sits in the kitchen until early noon, stewing in disappointment and anger towards himself.

Sylus is hailed for his ability to read people. His target’s desires, his enemy’s weaknesses, his loved ones’ needs. Yet when it comes to you, he finds himself lost at sea, in conflict with himself in a way he hasn’t been since he was unused to the world and its dangers.

For the past millennia, he’d had a clear focus, a clear goal — until you strolled in and completely upended his world and everything he thought he knew.

And what’s worse? He would let you do it as many times as you wanted.

He knows this won’t be resolved so easily. Both of you are the type whose true feelings cannot be encapsulated by mere words. And when the storm inevitably rolls in, he’s afraid of what might be lost in the collateral. Because now, he was far too gone.

Losing the sorceress had nearly broken him once, sent him on a search that had clouded his realization of the place you’d taken in his heart. The realization that he couldn’t bear to live without those mundane moments with you.

He knows, here and now, that he needs to fix this. Right his wrongs, clear things with the hunter, and maybe beg at your feet for you to look at him kindly again, after all he’s done to push you away. Before it's too late and he lets love slip from his grasp once again.

—————————————————————

The ballroom is lit under the warm glow of the numerous chandeliers, casting light over your stone cold face. The opulent celebration — a business partner’s 40th wedding anniversary — was a complete juxtaposition to the storm raging inside you, uncaring to be approachable as you swirl your wine.

In a twist of cruel irony, another event had delegated Sylus to bring a partner for the evening.

“We'll be leaving at 8 o’clock. Use my card for the dress — and treat yourself, while you’re at it.” He informed you, placing one of his cards on your desk along with the invitation. You raised an eyebrow in skepticism, he never spared time for frivolous events such as anniversaries, especially for people he barely knew.

“What, the hunter wasn’t free this time around?” You can’t help but ask, the snark evident in your tone.

He sighs and walks away, not even deigning that with a response. “Don’t be late.”

You shove the invite into a drawer, fully intent on ditching him. But alas — he added it to the calendar himself.

You were expecting him to hand you another half-hearted apology, to add to the growing pile that was already accumulating. Apology flowers left at your desk, paperwork submitted on time, deliveries of chocolates and your favorite food at the office, as his eyes suspiciously don’t meet yours.

“If you think you can bribe me with material things, then you don’t know me very well,” You bitterly threw these words at him then, before clocking out for the day. But Sylus was never one to give up easily.

Throughout the night, you feel the constant prickle of eyes on your back. At first, you assume it’s because of past events, people’s curiosity towards the secretary Sylus was so quick to defend. Your insecurity has you turning around each time — only to meet your employer’s gaze across the room, his eyes lingering on you even with the conversation in front of him. You scoff and look away.

Eventually, he approaches you with your coat in hand, “I believe it’s time to take our leave.”

“So early?” You reply, your words short and cutting when it's necessary to speak.

“This night has already proven to be a disappointment. No reason to waste any more of our time.”

“I'll call for the driver then,” You’re about to dial when he plucks your phone out of your hand.

“No need, I've already given him the night off. I'll be the one driving us home.” You squawk in indignance. Once again, this man has managed to corner you into a situation where you can’t escape him. “But, dinner first, shall we?” He extends a hand, which you resolutely walk past.

This seething ignorance follows him the whole way to the restaurant, into the dimly lit private room where the two of you are seated. Had it been any other occasion, you would’ve taken the time to appreciate the florals adorning the tables, the band playing jazz in the corner, and the delicious food. But your anger clouds your enjoyment, as you channel your frustrations into blindly ordering the most expensive items on the menu.

It isn’t until you’re about halfway through the meal and down one bottle of wine when he finally gets you to speak up, “You can’t stay mad at me forever, darling.”

You take a heavy breath through your nose, “Maybe not, but I can certainly try.” You take another sip of your wine, burying your hurt and sorrow into another bottle.

“You should realize that I'll do whatever it takes to earn your forgiveness.”

“You broke my trust. You lied by omission, letting me continue on a wild goose chase when you were withholding the answers. Pretty words and extravagant gifts aren’t enough to earn my trust again.”

He gently reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “I know that, and I'm willing to do it all to earn your forgiveness. Not only for my deception, but all your hurts that have gone unnoticed.”

It’s too much, your chest feels too heavy with all that’s bearing down on you. Your voice takes a shaky note, “Sylus, all I want is to go home. That’s it.”

You put up the boundaries he never had the heart to, kept your heart at bay for both of your sakes. But now, he wants to pry open your walls, to reveal the fears that plague you at night.

“I know, dear. I know. And if that’s what you truly want, then I promise to do everything in my power to help you —- so long as it doesn’t result in you getting hurt.” He looks into your eyes, grasping your hand tightly, “All I want is for you to feel safe in confiding in me again — to share your worries, your fears, as you once did. Allow me to carry the weight of your grief with you.”

He knows how much your arrival in this world hurt you, and he carries the guilt of being selfish enough to keep you here despite that.

“I can't anymore. It hurts too much to confide in you, to have a taste of what I know I'll never have. What we’ll never be.” You don’t know what possesses you to admit this yearning. Maybe the intoxication from the wine. Maybe his pleading eyes, or his sweet talk, saying all the right words you’ve wanted to hear for the longest time. But you don’t have any fight left in you to keep your distance.

“What you can’t have? Darling, I would lay the world at your feet, if that was your wish,” He strokes your cheek with an intimacy surpassing friendship — but you haven’t been just friends in a while, have you?

Maybe you both drank a little too much, scooted a little too close in the booth, got too caught up in each other's presence (something you've both been starved of for a while). You don’t know who moved first — but one of you ends up breaking.

You share a starved kiss, hidden under the privacy of dim lights. All at once, the chatter of the restaurant and the rushing of cars dissipate, and all that's left in this universe is you and him and cosmic dust, orbiting around each other.

He explores your mouth, brows furrowed, hands gripping your waist and pulling you to his lap — as if he could meld the two of you by the flesh. It’s like a taste of heaven on your lips, tasting what you had yearned for, denied yourself for so long.

And for a moment you think: what was stopping you from being together? What was so wrong with this connection — so powerful that it wracked your body with shivers and tethered your soul to his presence?

And then you remember: the hunter.

The reality of what's happening dawns on you, your eyes widening mid-kiss as you abruptly push him away, leaving him stunned; his tie crooked, lipstick staining the corner of his lips.

Your hands tremble, still hazy from that searing kiss as you try to hold back the tears welling at your eyes, “Sylus —” You choke on your tears, unable to form the words.

He grasps your face, breathing your name, trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Sylus, oh god, what did we just do? I — fuck, what about the hunter?”

You run outside the private room, the voices of the restaurant and servers fading in the distance as you hastily escape from the implications of what you’ve just done. You try to hail a taxi when he catches up to you, calling your name.

He may be in front of you but all you see is the hunter, her face riddled with betrayal and hurt. Unlabeled as their relationship may be, she’s just spent the past few weeks opening her heart to someone only for it to be betrayed. By a new friend, at that.

You don’t know what possessed you to kiss him back, to deepen it and lose yourself in his lips. Love struck your head, ridding you of logic. Made you give in to the sin of yearning for something that isn’t yours. And now, you were facing the guilty consequences.

“Sylus, we’ve done enough. Please, let’s just forget that any of this ever happened —-”

You’re cut off by his hollow laugh, his chin tilting down for his eyes to stare directly into yours. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

“This is gonna ruin everything you’ve wished for, don’t you see?” You’re desperate for him to see the wrongdoing in your actions.

“No, it’s you who doesn’t see what’s in front of you.” He grasps your wrist, pressing it to his chest, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the fire in his eyes. “Do you feel this heart? It races in your presence, melts at your touch — and if you disappeared? Well, it would simply stop beating.”

His other hand rests on your clavicle, fiddling with the necklace that has remained on your neck since the night of your birthday. He's a man who never says please, but for you he’ll get on his knees and plead.

His words, such heartfelt words that want to make you give in to all of his wishes are one thing. But his actions are another. You’ve witnessed firsthand the way he looks at her, melts in her presence. And you’re not ignorant to how she feels for him now, once heated frustration turning into the adoration she feels now.

“How could I ever believe what you’re saying?” You feel almost hysterical, with the weight of your emotions crashing down on you. “You’re telling me that you’ve waited hundreds of years for the love of your life, the person bonded to your soul, and you’re going to push it all away for some fleeting connection?”

“Don’t reduce it to something as frivolous as that,” His face darkens, and he grips your hand tighter. “You know that what we have runs deeper than both of us can describe.”

”But what is it to a soulmate?” Your voice is despondent, resigned, “What is this compared to a bond transcending time and space? I know that regardless of what happens here, you’ll choose her. I know that very well, Sylus.” Your voice breaks as you reach your tipping point.

His heart stills, because he himself doesn’t know what he can say to prove himself.

“Please don’t cry,” His voice softens at the sight of tears welling in your eyes, becoming all but putty in your hands. As of this moment, he knows there’s no convincing you, no making you believe that his words ring sincere and true. But he still can’t help but motion to wipe your tears, until you harshly block his hand.

The sorceress and the traveler, Miss Hunter and Miss Secretary. The dragon resting inside of him couldn’t bear to let go of his mate — after all, what was a centuries-old love compared to a new, fleeting connection? But the threads of fate had woven together to bring you to him, and the man he was now couldn’t bear to cut those ties.

You swallow the hurt, trying to put into words the burden that’s been weighing on you for so long, “I don't want to live in her shadow. I don't want to see this through when I know that one day, you’ll regret what you’ve lost.”

His face falls, and you feel a bit of satisfaction in seeing him carry even a smidgen of the hurt you’ve felt. But for the most part, it just hurts you to see him in pain.

”You think so lowly of me, as if I don't have the autonomy to make my own decisions. But you need to face the facts, dear —- the only one holding back is you.” He’s laid his heart on a silver platter. The only obstacle here was your own doubts, your own insecurities.

You reel back as he steps closer, “So tell me, why do you prevent us from having what we both want?” He brushes his hand gently against your cheek.

You take a deep breath to say the words you know will end this for good. “Because I deserve better than to settle for second place in your heart.” You give him no time to refute before you turn around, heart bruised and battered. “Please, just leave. Don’t follow me. I don't wanna speak to you anymore, not tonight.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in this city —”

“I'll call someone.”

And that’s how it ends.

You walk away, deciding to call Kieran to pick you up. You can’t bring yourself to be in close proximity with Sylus right now. You know he hasn’t actually left, hearing the conspicuous whirring of his motorcycle in the distance, engine alerting you to his presence from a mile away. In the corner of your eye, you can see Mephisto's red, beady eyes from the pedestrian light across the road, watching you.

Still, you continue to walk aimlessly in this false notion of solitude, carrying your heels as you wait for Kieran to arrive. Now that the haze of alcohol has cleared, and you’ve let out all that was building up since the hunter’s arrival, you can’t help but feel hollow. Completely drained of all the anger and sorrow that you’d been carrying in the past few weeks.

The streetlights cast these roads in an artificial light, the moonless sky and desolate streets feeling emptier under its warm glow. Midsummer was fast approaching, a period once marked by sunshine and cicadas. The N109 Zone was the antithesis to everything you’d ever known and cherished — and for a while, you thought that maybe it could be enough.

But now, you yearn for the sun to rise after the long night you’ve endured.

A familiar car eventually pulls up, the window rolled down for you to see the concern on Kieran’s face. But he says nothing as you enter, haggard and spent, with no energy to hide your woes or muster up small conversation. The lights of the city dissipate as you head into the outskirts of the N109 Zone, and you can only hope the darkness is enough to shroud the silent tears streaming down your face.

Kieran says nothing as you silently cry in the backseat, offering you the grace of asking no questions.

—————————————————————

Sylus watches painfully as you walk away, ashamed by this seemingly forbidden act — when all he wants to do is pull you in for more.

For the longest time, he'd been in this foolish delusion that things could be the same between him and the hunter. If he got her to remember, if he got her to open up. But the truth was, it’ll never be the same. Both of them were two entirely different people in this life, and now… now there was you.

He had been desperately latching on to the love that was robbed from him centuries ago, and blinded himself to the way you’d fully taken root in his heart.

Now, he needed to cut off these loose ends and find a way to make up for his mistakes, his indecision — and only then, could he even try to give you the love that you deserve.

But the next few days prove to be a trial as the world seems keen on keeping the two of you apart. You have a talent for avoiding him, finding increasingly elaborate ways not to cross paths with him. And when an important mission arises, requiring him to go into the field himself, it felt like fate conspiring against him.

He finishes the mission in record time, completing it in detached efficiency as he ponders how to go about speaking with you — something he plans to do as soon as he returns home. But as he nears the entrance to the Onychinus headquarters, he can immediately sense that something is wrong.

A flash of light strikes through the heart of the N109 Zone — devoid of the accompanying rumble of thunder to be lightning — when dread fills his bones. He realizes he's seen this before.

On the day that you arrived.

He rushes into the building, immediately approached by his lackeys reporting of traitors lurking in Onychinus, who thought it wise to attack the base in his absence. But all he can think about is finding you.

He rushes to his office, finding the twins equally distressed, after they’d cleared the floor for traitors. “Boss, she’s gone.”

“Explain it to me clearly. Who's gone?” His heart is racing — struck by horror at the blood pooling at your desk. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to confront the devastation about to tip over.

“Miss Secretary. We apprehended the traitor, but there was a stray bullet and then — she just vanished.”

Rage blinds him. Suddenly he wants vengeance, retribution, ordering his men to apprehend the shooter. All he can do is imprison and torture the man who dared shoot at the woman he loves, making him suffer for what he’s taken from you.

But it's not nearly enough. Not when your absence is so palpable, not when you’ve left his life as easily as you entered it.

In the end, your departure is but a whisper in the N109 Zone, leaving behind nothing but a pool of blood and a mark on his heart.

—————————————————————

are we gonna talk about the way it took me a whole car crash, the national elections, and a loved one's terminal illness to finally finish this chapter? maybe another day. but for now i'm going to play death and rebirth (i didn't let myself until i finished this LOL) i'll see you all on the next chapter where we pick up where this chapter left off and (maybe) see things from sylus’s perspective!

some things i’d like to share since i took off for a month

i've started a new term with new professors — and one of them is literally named GOJO??? my class calls him “professor gojo uwu~” behind his back its hilarious

hot chocolate does not mix well with vodka (don’t ask me how i know)

filipino lads artists are goated and i spend more money on their merch than on the actual game

i fear i’ve become too delusional because why does my dad’s doctor look like ZAYNE —

p.s. if any of you are interested, i've linked the playlist i made for this fic in the series masterlist :>

taglist — @mangooes @mentaltrouble2201 @animegamerfox @crazy-ink-artist @phisen @jeondyy @t4naiis @wifunozomi @munimunni @blessdunrest @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @paintedperidot @mansonofmadness @pillarofsnow @sylususeyourevolonmepls @angelichiaro @mephisto-with-a-knife @crimsonmarabou @hikaru-sama @flamedancer13 @tati-the-fangirl @ameili @poptrim @caramelizedpopcirn @cupid-gene @vvonunie @lunia-likes-pomegranet @iamawkwardandshy @tinyweebsstuff @astolary @vyntheria @theloveofnagiseishiroslife @velourmobius @beaconsxd @hon3yydew @kira-loves0905 @codedove @that-lost-one @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @kaiii07 @bohoooitsme @everythingistaken00 @rmjace @red-raf-sy @goddexxluv @seris-the-amious @stellisangelicus-world @alhaith4ms @young-adult-summer @junrui

feel free to dm/comment on the series masterlist if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist 💕comment and reblog if you enjoyed!

#novthirty-writes #out of bounds 🐦‍⬛#sylus x non mc #sylus x non mc reader #love and deepspace sylus #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #lads sylus #love & deepspace sylus #qin che #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x mc #love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #lads x reader

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yuhuahuaaa · 27 days ago

Text

I just realized that I haven't actually posted the rules or tidbits of my stories...lol imma do that real quick.

Rules and Tidbits:

If you use my ideas, tag me, I wanna read it ❤️

The Reader or you in my stories will be named MC even if they are non-mc! In the title because its easier to write than (y/n) every time.

If I write angst, unless stated, they will always have comfort in the end...even if stated that there will be no comfort I will write a second part with the comfort.

I will NOT be writing for Caleb yet, yandere vibes throw me off and I kinda don't like the manipulation and gaslighting.

I will only write about the LADS on this blog thingy. I have another that I have yet to post on because I'm obsessed with LADS rn.

My MC- or OC for the game is named Jolie. I will hardly, if ever, write her in the actual stories. Unless stated lol

If I see multiple notifications of the same person back to back...I will consider us married 🤣 jk but I love that please continue ❤️

And that's about it with the 'rules and tidbits' of my account blog thingy

I will update this when needed

Images aren't mine**

Master List

Imma do all 4 LADS boys, it will take some time tho be patient

Snapdragon-

Sylus

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Stingray-

Rafayel

Part 1

Part 2

Snowflakes-

Zayne

N/A

Pluto-

Xavier

N/A

Defying

Caleb

N/A

...I just realized that everyone's except for Xavier's starts with S lololol I would change it to Saturn but I already have the Story started (not posted yet) and and...Pluto 😢

Love and Deep Country

Part 1

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yuhuahuaaa · 28 days ago

Text

fairies, goblins & crows

— too many cooks... scare children currently losing teeth.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: OR the littles are in the middle of a milestone and all their caregivers are messing with them >< from this lovely ask from @fvckcare about them losing their first tooth that kinda snowballed into this hehe. enjoy! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: kyros and lucian are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. around 6 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | fluff, silly family dynamics, mentions of blood and teeth wiggling (just in case that makes any1 squeamish!), twin on twin violence (affectionate)

“Kyros, stop wiggling your tooth, your fingers are dirty.” you scold, tapping his forehead as you walk past him towards the stove.

“Mama, iths comin’ off!” he says, wiggling it instead with his tongue. He climbs the small step ladder to the sink to wash his hands.

“Shall we pull it out then?”

“No!” he exclaims, wet little hands slapping his mouth closed, soaking his cheeks. He shakes his head rapidly.

“Then stop wriggling, angel, and come eat your veggies.” you bid, turning to place the bowls of food on their spots on the table. Stir fry vegetables and a triangle of cinnamon toast for dessert (as they requested).

Just as you lift Kyros into his seat, Lucian walks in from the garage, wriggling his own loose tooth. Mephisto on his shoulder, neck turned curiously as he ogles at Lucian’s mouth.

“Fafa showed me nets!” he announces. “For the night fishies.”

You smile at him, gently guiding his hand down from his mouth and helping him sit too. “Is he taking you with him anytime soon?”

“Mhm, when I’m seven.” He nods happily, showing the number on his fingers. “I’m not there yet becaaause I’m still just—“ he knocks one down.” —six.”

Mephisto bends down a little more and brings his beak closer to Lucian’s mouth— wanting to help. Lucian gasps and slaps his mouth shut with both hands. Despite the bird’s good intentions (he’d do anything for the children) you reprimand him. You click your tongue, “Mephie, we’re not doing that.”

He squawks like he’s angry and flutters away.

You kiss the top of Lucian’s head. “Eat your food so you can be seven quicker, angel.”

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and the twins watch as you leave them to their snacks. Alone, they take a moment to silently show off their wriggling teeth. Kyros his left bottom front tooth, Lucian his right.

“Lucian, does it hurt?” Kyros asks, examining the way Lucian seems to be able to twist his a lot more than he can bend his. “Mine doesn’t hurt. Does- does yours hurt?”

Lucian shakes his head. “Mine doesn’t hurt. Mine just tickles. The under part scratches my tongue too.”

“Lucian, are you scared? Are you scared of—of your toof to have the blood?”

Lucian’s jaw drops, tongue halting its movements on his fragile tooth. “It’s going to blood?!”

“Lukey said so.” Kyros says thoughtfully. He gulps down the nerves he’s starting to feel, prickling his skin, building in his throat. “Lukey says there’s gonna be bloods and—and the toof goblins gonna come into the house to take us.”

“Toof goblins?!” Lucian is near tears. He clasps his hands together as if holding himself from wiggling the tooth further.

Kyros tries to backpedal at the sight of distress on his brother’s face. And to calm himself down too. “No, no! but— s’okay because papa would not let goblins in the house because goblins have dirty feet and no shoes. And we takes shoes off at the door so we have clean feet in the house, but goblins don’t have shoes.”

Lucian grimaces, letting all of that sink in. Somehow, that makes complete and perfect sense to him. He nods, fear subsiding at the idea of his father’s preferred state of foot hygiene indoors. “Papa doesn’t like dirty feet in the house.”

That seems to ease whatever apprehensions they have about the “tooth goblin” for now, enough to resume their meal. And despite their slow and careful bites on their carrots and baby corns—

Sylus is phasing away from the garage into the hall to localize the panicked screaming. You stumble out of the bedroom in your robe, hair dripping wet from the shower you’d just started and meet your husband’s wide eyes.

“Boys!” Sylus bellows, already running by your side into the dining room.

Kyros’s mouth is open wide as he wails in devastation. Lucian is pulling his own hair, screaming. Blood dribbles out both their mouths and pools into their bottom lips.

On each of their plates, sit a baby carrot and a baby corn— each with a single tooth protruding from them.

You sigh a breath of relief as you compose yourself. You’d definitely assumed the worst.

So did Sylus as he sighs through his nose before approaching the twins and bending down at the waist to wipe at their chins with his thumbs. “Alright, okay— shh.”

“It’s bleeding! There’s bloods!” Lucian’s voice breaks as he screams. He points at Kyros in terror, failing to notice his own bloody gums. Consequently spooking his brother more than necessary.

“Fafa! Fut it back! Fut it back!” Kyros begs, mouth open like a baby bird, handing him the baby carrot his tooth was sticking out of with trembling fingers. “Fease! Fease!”

It takes everything in Sylus to hold back his laughter in the face of their misery. He takes the table napkins you offer him to help with the clean up. “I can’t do that, Kyros.”

“No!” they cry. It doesn’t help that the napkins Sylus is using for their gums are now stacking up before them in a blossoming rose-red pile.

“Papa, did you know—“ Lucian hiccups. Tears now have made way down his cheeks too. “—if-if you lose too much bloods, you die, papa?”

Sylus snorts. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“I don’t want to die!”

Sylus scoffs in surprised amusement.

Kyros scowls, bapping Sylus’s shoulder. “Papa, don’t laugh. Is not funny!”

“Lucian,” Sylus sighs, his shoulders relaxing but his cheeks twitching into a repressed smile. “You’re going to be alright.”

He inspects the vegetables before his children— your dish— and his gaze falls on you. Too quiet, with an all-too pleased expression on your face as you wipe at Kyros’s wet cheeks.

“Sweetie…”

“Well, isn’t this what we wanted, boys?” you say enthusiastically, ignoring Sylus’s suspicious glare. “Now we’ll have a visitor tonight!”

Truth was, you couldn’t take another day of the children coming up to you and wriggling their teeth in your face. And with every offer to pull it out yourself declined, you’d taken matters into your own hands. Besides, you told them about the tooth fairy… right? They should be looking forward to that.

Kyros and Lucian give each other a look at the mention of a guest and then scream at the top of their lungs— inconsolable for the rest of the afternoon.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You give them each a cold jelly pop to help stop the crying and put each tooth in old ring boxes so they can carry them around.

Sunset proved to be difficult for the pair, restless still, but unwilling to share why. Instead, Kyros asks Sylus to hold him as the sun dips from the horizon and Lucian climbs his cat-tree like perch on the window to watch the outer gate.

You frown from your spot on the couch. “What’s going on with you two?”

Kyros shudders. “Lucian is watching for the goblins.”

Sylus snorts. You click your tongue. “That’s not a very nice thing to call your brothers.”

“No, mama, the toof goblins!” Lucian clarifies, gooseflesh rising at the name. He slips down from his spot as the sky turns dark and the automatic lights turn on. He runs to your lap and snuggles himself between you and Sylus. “They gonna take us tonight.”

Sylus raises a brow, hackles rising slightly at the implication. “Take you?”

“Because our toofs are gone.” Kyros’s sniffles sadly, like he’s being forced to say goodbye. “The toof goblins doorbell rings when little boys lose their toofs and they— they come to take them to work and make stinky old shoes.”

Oh, he looks devastated. He looks ridiculously, hilariously devastated. And you should feel bad, you should feel more empathy for your angel as he goes through such a difficult process to weigh out what is fact and fiction. But you gasp, hand covering your mouth to hide the giggle.

Sylus is no better, struggling the same as you feel him grab hold of your fingers and squeeze tight.

“Who told you that, angel?”

Kyros’s eyes are glassy and reminiscent of black pearls in the dim light. “Lukey.”

Sylus purses his lips. “Did he now?”

“Will you miss us when we’re gone, mama?” Lucian’s bottom lip quivers at the question. “Will you call us in—in the stinky shoe shop?”

“Oh, my baby.” you pout, smoothing his hair down his head and curling your fingers over his round cheeks. “Of course I will.”

“Beloved.” Sylus chastises, although his shoulders shake and his chest rumbles as he denies himself a good laugh.

“Don’t let them take us, papa, pease! Pease!” Kyros shouts suddenly, pressing his face into Sylus’s chest. Clinging as if the goblins have already taken hold of his ankles and are dragging him away.

You and Sylus usually take turns messing with the twins, just so they know no matter how big or small a problem, they’ll have a parent on their side. So you’re surprised to see Sylus wince and pat Kyros’s back in sympathy and say, “I’ve never fought goblins before, I don’t know if I’ll win…”

“You will!” Kyros shrieks, demands into his chest, pressing himself closer. His voice breaks in defiance and desperation. “Papa, you are strong, you will win!”

Sylus can’t help the full belly laugh that escapes his lips as he circles his arms around Kyros. “Okay, I’ll try my best. Mama will help if I can’t handle the goblins.”

Kyros nods. “Mama will help.”

Lucian has clung onto your neck now too, and you can’t help but sprinkle his head with kisses. “Have I never told you about the tooth fairy?”

“There’s another one?!”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Kieran says they’re running a little late,” Sylus informs as he readies himself for bed. Stretching his aching muscles and stiff neck. Like clockwork, he crawls over the covers— using a gentle knuckle to knock your book out of the way— and he lays his head on your lap. He sighs, content, “Says there’s trouble with the negotiations.”

Your fingers find their spot in his hair, nails raking gently over his scalp. “Are they alright?”

“Not as bad as they will be when they get home.” Sylus shuts his eyes, rolling his shoulders as he settles on you. “Why would they scare the boys like that?”

You chuckle. “You tell me, you raised them.”

“They were like that when I got them, I don’t condone being the instigator of this.” he turns to his side and presses his face into your stomach. Muffled, he jabs, “And you encourage them…”

You tug his ear. “I do not!”

“Speaking of, care to explain the baby corn?” his one eye peeks up at you, a humorous glint in it as it pins you to your spot. Red eyes reflecting you caught red-handed.

Nose to the sky, your huff. Your hand comes up to shield your face from his vision. “Don’t know what you mean.”

He chuckles, buttery and warm, and intertwines his fingers with yours to bring down the barrier. “You know exactly what—“

And you cave so easily under his touch. “—it’s natural! it’s a natural tooth-removal—“

There is a sound. You both clock it at the same time as you freeze and hold your breaths.

He nearly knocks into your chin with the speed at which he sits up. His hand mindlessly cups your jaw in silent apology. But his mind is elsewhere, “What’s that?”

You’re sitting up as well. He’s first to move, hopping up and checking Mephisto’s feed on his phone. The bird was stationed in the kids’ room, as per their request.

It showed nothing out of the ordinary. Just two little lumps on the beds, fast asleep.

But there’s another clank in the house. So imperceptible only Sylus could hear it. His hackles rise, he bares his teeth. “Someone’s moving around.”

“Twins?”

“They’re across the city, they shouldn’t be back yet.”

You feel an irrational chill run down your spine. “Goblins?”

He gives you an amused glance. “Let’s hope not. I haven’t fought those yet.”

You gather your weapon, Sylus’s evol-vined hands rests at the ready on his sides as you descend the stairs quietly. Before you approach the hallway to the front door, there is a loud thunk! from the living area. you flinch and aim your weapon to the window— where Lucian’s perch has lost its bearings and toppled over.

You relax. Sylus glances around. “Good thing he wasn’t on it.”

Once the coast is clear from all rooms in the house, you return to your bedroom to find two little surprises beneath your sheets.

You hide your weapon. “Hello?”

“Hi, mama.” Kyros blinks, large eyes peeking out from the top of the blanket. Beside him, his brother is under the covers, close to dozing off, but waves weakly.

Sylus enters after you, equally startled at the shock of white hair peeking from his silk sheets. “Kyros.”

“Papa, I sleep here.” he says, then pets Lucian’s round tummy over the sheets. “And Cian sleep here.”

Sylus glances at you, but you’re already so taken by the two little babies in the middle of your big bed that he doesn’t even try to convince them to try and be brave in their own bedrooms. No, not when you’re diving into bed and gathering the sleeping Lucian in your arms.

“Alright,” he shrugs and does the same. Under the blanket, he curls his arm over Kyros’s middle, knowing his son appreciates the weight. “Where are your teeth?”

“Safe,” is all he says before cuddling up to Sylus’s side. Lucian had stirred awake just enough to wrap himself around you as well. Sylus doesn’t ask, just kisses the boy’s hair and holds him close.

“Are you here because of the goblins?” You ask, reaching over to brush Kyros’s cheek with your thumb.

Kyros nods his head. “I think—think we safe now.”

“Oh?”

“Cian and I made sure.” he nods to himself, mostly. “Mhm. Made sure.”

You and Sylus share a look. “Okay, baby.”

“Did mama tell you about the tooth fairy?” Sylus asks on your behalf. Again, since the first few times they were too spooked to even talk about it. Which only meant you either did and they fear her nonetheless or you didn’t.

Kyros nods. “Lady come to take the toof and leave a moneys.”

You perk up. “Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

But Kyros shakes his head. “Don’t want people in my room. ‘cept mama and papa. and big twins. and Mephie… oh, and Cian. and me.”

Sylus boops his nose. “What if Mephie gets your tooth and gives you a gold coin? A tooth Mephie.”

Lucian giggles, startling you slightly as you’d thought he was asleep. But he heard. “I like toof Mephie. Mephie can put the toofs in his piles.”

“Yeah,” you nuzzle his sleepy cheek. “That’s fun, right? Doesn’t have to be goblins.”

“Goblins won’t be a problem anymore.” Kyros says again. Sure and confident.

Although he is impressed at the sudden surge of courage, Sylus’s brows knit together. “You’re awfully sure for someone who cried about them earlier.”

Lucian yawns. “Papa, we borrow the nets, okay? Thank you, papa.”

“What nets?” You frown, poking his cheek. But it’s a little too late— he’s drifted back into sleep. You look up at Sylus. “Sy, what nets?”

He shrugs, snuggling closer to Kyros who looks absolutel adorable with his half-lidded eyes and his nodding sleepy head. Happy that the little boy is warm and fits just perfectly in the space between his arms. Really, as long as he can keep his family within reach, he couldn’t care less about anything else. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Something itches, just doesn’t seem… done. But when you check your children’s fingers for any cuts or scrapes to find nothing, you shrug it off for now. Your instincts do not flare up despite the cryptic messages from your children and the noises from earlier. Maybe it’s the confidence of having Sylus around to not worry with you. Maybe it was the fact that you’re in the presence of peace in this moment and you want nothing more than to fall into it. Whatever it may be, you settle, cuddle up to your designated twin and fall asleep.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Luke groans at the tightness in his neck and shoulders, tugging painfully when he rolls his head. He swears something under his breath and walks the final few steps to the front door of the house.

Kieran follows, unclipping his mask and scanning his retinas so the door opens quietly for them. Leave boots by the door.

Shoeless feet drag across the carpet, knocking away spiked LEGOs left by the door. Odd, the littles always clean up after themselves now, but they couldn’t find it in themselves to care. Not when they’re exhausted and safe within their own home.

“Ouch!” Kieran winces as he steps over one. Luke snickers.

They push on, and then let their bodies deflate on the nearest leather couch. Luke feels the poke of a wooden peg on his side, and flinches. “Ow!”

He takes it and flicks it away. It knocks against the pulled apart remnants of Kieran’s cat-perch piled against the window, almost as if to board it up, illuminated by the moon. through the window. Luke blinks at it sleepily. Thinks the littles might have played a strange game today.

“Boss mama says the goobers lost their teeth.” Kieran announces, scrolling through unread texts on his phone.

Luke makes a tired yet enthusiastic sound. “Yeah? That’s nice.”

“Remember when you lost your tooth?”

Luke snorts. “You mean when you knocked it out of my head?”

Kieran smiles to himself at the memory. A necessary fight to ensure they’d live to see the next day. Make it look real, his brother had said, and so he punched his jaw hard enough to make his head fly back and knock him off his feet. The tooth falls to the ground in a single quiet trickle. He yowls at the pain that mirrors his Luke’s as their connection makes it shoot up his nerves too.

They both got necessary sedatives and a week’s bedrest from the experiments.

“Sorry about that.” his mouth curls. Now more fond than resentful of the memory at their age. “It did work though.”

“I’m just happy you felt it as much as I did, dweeb.” Luke says, getting up to stretch his back.

Kieran watches. “Going to…?”

“Check on the boys.” Luke says. Kicking away the strange trails of toys left on the ground. “Gonna leave a shoelace by their pillows to mess with them.”

Kieran groans. “The goblin thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Pushing it too far, maybe?”

Luke thinks. Remembers the terrified look on Kyros’s face, Lucian’s insistence on not being able to make shoes for the tooth goblins… “It’s enrichment. A canon event.”

Kieran shrugs. “If you say so.”

The little twins run hot like their papa so there is a noticeable drop in temperature when their brothers push open the nursery door. Masters of stealth, they’re able to creep up to each bed and maneuver around the sleeping lumps without waking them.

Or so they thought.

Luke slips his fingers under the pillow and grabs the small box— silently commending the packaging of the tooth. He doesn’t think when he pulls it out, and so it bursts into a blinding assault of cinnamon onto his face.

Luke yells, sneezes a million times over and falls back on his bottom. Kieran stands frozen as he watches the mechanical crow caw overhead and deploy a large net, draping his twin in sharp nylon—a cinnamon twist.

“Kiera—“ Luke screams, coughing profusely as he struggles in his net.

Kieran is speechless. Quick eyes scanning the situation, the trap, the makeshift ring box bomb. He’s impressed. “Oh, wow.”

They hear the footsteps coming before the door bursts open. Two silhouettes, proud and menacing stand against the light of the hallway.

“Got you, goblins! Got you!” Kyros cheers.

Lucian deploys a finger. “Papa! They gots dirty feet— Whack them!”

“No!” Luke and Kieran chorus in alarm.

“It’s ugh—s—“ Luke coughs. The lights come on, and Sylus squints at his eldest. You peek over his shoulder, sleep mused hair and bleary eyes trying to make sense of the shapes in your sons’ bedroom.

“Lukey? That’s for the goblins.” Kyros frowns, coming in to help him out the net. Sylus overtakes him with long strides, just that little bit to grab onto the sharp nylon himself.

“I got it, Kyros.” he grumbles, lifting the tangled net off Luke, who gives him a bashful look. Sylus blinks at him sleepily, “You did this to yourself.”

“I know.”

Unscathed, Kieran picks Lucian up and presses on his cheek. “Let me see that gap.”

Lucian shows him the space where his tooth was. Kieran grins and squeezes his cheek. “Keewan, did you see the goblins? Did they come?”

Kieran tilts his head, glances at his poor twin and nods. “Yeah, they were here. Luke and I told them to back off. Poor Luke just stumbled into your trap— nice job by the way.”

Lucian smiles proudly. “Papa show me the night fishie nets.”

“So no more goblins?” Kyros asks, helping Luke up from the floor.

“No more.” Luke sneezes, painfully playing along. Kyros launches himself into his arms. “Oof!”

“I knew they weren’t gonna take us!” he sighs in relief. Thanking the older twins for defending them, apologizing to Luke for getting caught in the trap. All the while, you give tired glares to your first set or twins over grateful heads.

“Look.” Sylus calls, lifting Lucian’s pillow up and revealing a gold coin. “Someone else came to take your teeth.”

“Ahh!” Lucian scrambles off of Kieran and launches himself on his bed, grabbing the coin from where it rests. Engraved on the gold circle are the words: Shiny Tooth Coin (1). “A treasure!”

But Kyros is thoughtful, eyeing the bird on his perch in the room. His red eye glints as if he’d winked and Kyros smiles to himself, clutching his new prize to his chest. “Toof Mephie.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Later, you tuck your boys back under your covers (theirs are a mess), and nudge Sylus’s shoulder. He smiles at you fondly, knowing exactly what you’re about to bring up. “Hm?”

“Golden engraved tooth currency?” you say, incredulous. You turn on your heel to face him fully. An accusatory finger poking at his sternum. “You wanted those teeth out as much as I did.”

He doesn’t try to hide the grin that curls his lips. His hands travel down your arm to cradle your elbow, which he uses to tug you closer to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmph,” eyes roll at the proximity. cheeks flare at the look in his eye. “Tell me your plan.”

He scoffs. “The plan you sabotaged with your vegetables?”

“Ohh, so you’re jealous my plan worked and yours got scrapped.”

“Not jealous, beloved,” he says, although the bitter denial in his tone is music to your ears. “Especially when yours was luck.”

“Which you have zero of.” You tease. He dodges the fingers that come up to pinch his cheeks, but your persistence catches him anyway. “Tell me.”

“I show them my first tooth coins and get them to want their own so bad that they just ask me to pull their tooth out.” He says plainly. A full psychological heist dedicated just for his sons, with 13 steps in total that would have taken up to 3 days.

“That’s cruel.”

“That’s encouragement.” He defends.

“You were going to brainwash our children," you point out. though you think it's adorable that he's gone through this whole process to keep the milestone from being traumatic for the twins.

Unlike you, who— “You weaponized baby corn.”

You shake your head. “That’s natural.”

He laughs, genuine and hearty, as he pulls you into his chest. His lips meet the top of your head and he smiles. “It was for the greater good.”

And you nod. “To save us all from the wriggling.”

He agrees and then rests his cheek on your head. You hover over your children and bask in the silence of your usually chaotic lives. Both little boys sleep peacefully, heads knocked together, small fists gripping tightly onto their crow-gifted trinkets.

Peace washes over you as the smoke clears from the chaotic battlefield this day has been. Comfort comes in the form of your husband's caress, and you murmur against his chest, “One down.”

He sighs, heavy but loving. “Nineteen to go.”

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

thank you for reading!

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yuhuahuaaa · 30 days ago

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hello my girl

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yuhuahuaaa · 1 month ago

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I CAN NOT NOT REBLOG THIS GRAAAAA

Random thought, but what's the least favorite foods for Lucian and Kyros. Cuz mine was kiwis and figs.

And I'm pretty all of us had that phase where we hated a food enough to fling it across the room 😂 i'm so curious what the little twins would do if they were served something they didn't like eat but mama and papa made them eat it (parents: but its good for you!! Little twins: 🤢)

hehe i love this question! the twins are very polite and persuadable on normal circumstances, but they do have those foods that they just cannot stand ><

lucian inhales almost anything. the schmeeties (sweeties), the healthies, the snacks, the leftovers off kyros's plate, anything you're eating, anything papa is eating— he kinda wanders over to you and opens his mouth Ö just waiting for you to break off a piece and let him taste. most of the time, he really does enjoy the snacks you give him and he just doesn't leave you alone with the expectant Ö (like kirby huhu). but one thing makes him clamp his little mouth shut, bear down and ignore you when you try to feed it to him— tomatoes.

you tried once, when he was younger. his face scrunched up into a displeased grimace, his tongue trying his hardest to understand the tang, the popping sensation, the gooey aftermath but with remnants of skin?— none of it makes sense. he spits it out little by little like he'd been confused about how it ended up in his mouth in the first place.

you give him a pass when he's younger, but when he's a little older, you'd hoped his tastebuds have changed just that little bit. you slip it into a meal.

"ew..." he does that thing again, the little spits of confusion into a paper towel. "no like dis one." "it's good for you, cian." sylus urges, showing him he's eating the red abomination of a fruit too. and so lucian hands him his soiled paper towel. "here you go, papa. s'good for you."

kyros is a picky little angel. he likes the soft foods, mashy tatoes (mashed potatoes), squash soups, applesauce (but apple juice on top forever), mac and cheese. something he doesn't really appreciate eating are the harder to chew foods, the ones that take just that little bit more to masticate that at the end it is just tasteless mulch in his mouth— the hard bread papa likes with his cheese and wine hmph.

he'd try it overseas, on a little vacation where you and sylus took them along to enjoy the sun and some beaches. on a particular evening in one of Sylus's many properties you've been staying at he wanders over you and papa having a late nightcap. just wine, cheese and bread over stories and some quality time once the boys had fallen asleep.

but kyros is up and he's hungry. so he goes out onto the balcony where he hears your voice, climbs sylus's lap and idles on his chest, waiting for his turn to be spoken to (sylus was in the middle of telling you a story). mid-wait, his stomach grumbles. sylus mindlessly breaks off a piece of his baguette and places it in kyros's hands.

sylus takes a little while to finish his story, but by then your attention is already on your son, gnawing angrily at the snack he'd been handed ages ago.

"can't do it!" he cries, chewing helplessly. clutching not even half of what was given to him. it might still be his first bite. "papa, help! help!" sylus's apologies were sanded with chuckles as he allows kyros to spit out the mulch in a napkin on his hand. he massages his jaw silently as you resume your conversation. in the end, kyros settles for the soft cheese and popping grapes.

the next time he's offered any kind of hard looking bread, he's already rubbing his cheeks and shaking his head... good thing lucian's good with leftovers.

#re: little twins #dad!sylus #love and deepspace #sylusmc #lads sylus #sylus qin #sylus #sylus fluff #lads #sylus x reader #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x mc #lnds sylus #sylus x you

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yuhuahuaaa · 1 month ago

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Something something, arranged marriage to a beast of fables...

#tgcf #This is so hot wtf #GEGE AND A-LANG AKDBSJAAALWWAAAAAA #KNDKSBDHSJSNSNS #tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing #hua cheng #fox spirit hua cheng #xie lian #hualian

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yuhuahuaaa · 1 month ago

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Eros, Cupid, Juno

1/2

yandere!romangeneral!Ghost x crossdressing!AFAB!reader

wordcount: ~6100

tw: MNDI, yandere, obsessive/possessive behaviour, crossdressing, violence, misogyny, stalking, sum explicit bits, injuries description, slavery, Ancient Rome AU, age gap (Ghost is in his late 30's the reader is in her early 20's).

(If you find some more, please let me know.)

Foreword:

Honestly, I was totally flabbergasted by your feedback to this little post. I wasn't expecting this much encouragement, since I started writing literally half a month ago and I'm still struggling to figure out my style.

Still, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!

Anyways. How often do you think about the Roman Empire?

This fanfiction is NOT suited for minors. Author does not endorse nor condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes. Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Playlist:

Mree - In the Kitchen

Hozier - NFWMB

Aidoneus - Persephone in the Garden

Notes:

Impluvium - shallow sunken basin in the center of the atrium of a traditional Roman house, designed to collect rainwater.

Imperial Legate - the head of several or more legions (large attacking units in the army of the Roman Empire). Ghost’s position, but in this fic he will be mostly called "General".

Praefectus praetorio - commander of the Emperor's guard in Ancient Rome.

Soap being "one of the descendants of the Celt tribe" - I'm well aware that he's canonically Scottish. However, when I tried to research how and why in the Roman Empire (closer to Rome) a Scotsman could appear, I learned that this ethnic group as such emerged only in the Early Middle Ages, which is much later than the era in which the fanfic takes place. The Scots, on the other hand, are descended from the Celts among others, who just might have existed and been under the influence of the Roman Empire in those centuries. That's why Ghost refers to Soap like this.

You could hear your mother's dreadful weeping. Father remained silent, stoic as ever. Younger brother settled on the floor and cradled his head in his palms. He stifled his sobs, trying to maintain what he called his "man's pride". Older sister hugged him with both arms, as if attempting to somehow share his suffering.

And you stood apart, behind the wall, near the impluvium, the water in it was still. Your gaze drifted over its surface – empty, unblinking. Soon, that water would be drawn for bathing, scrubbing wool, watering herbs – a cycle of use, dirtying, and disposal. In the end it would be poured out upon the front garden soil, as all things are in time.

Your brother would follow the same path.

He was a little younger than you – still soft, like unfired clay. And though his heart may not be as clear as spring water, the world would churn him into the complete mud so soon. The army would grind him down, break his boyhood into blood and bone, and scatter what remained across some distant field far from the hearth of the home.

You bit the inside of your lip. That little idiot. He'll be crushed in his first battle, won't he? Clever enough to survive the drills, perhaps – the endless marches, the barked orders, the rhythm of discipline.

But what if… war?

He had always been weak. Yet whenever the village brats mocked your threadbare tunics or the worn soles of your sandals, it was he who marched to defend your name.

"At least my sister bears the face of gentle Venus and the heart of chaste Diana – that's why you scorn her when she turns away from your honeyed affections," he’d say, chin lifted like a defiant little praetor.

After that, he'd return bruised, limping, face stained with blood and tears, trying so very hard not to weep – just like now. And you'd tend to him, something warm aching in your chest. He never backed down.

Old Agatha would come with her oils and strips of cloth, swearing like a soldier as she patched him up, though her voice betrayed a tenderness she’d never admit.

"Keep an eye on him," she’d mutter, eyes dark as storm-swollen skies, her hands slick with salve. "Men... They throw themselves before blades for what they believe in, foolish and loud. But our hand… ah, that is quieter. More patient. Sometimes it takes but one woman's will to outmatch a thousand swords. After all, even the mightiest sons of Rome began their journey screaming, wet and helpless, born from the nurturing womb of our kin," she chuckled.

So you did what you had to.

You became him.

That was the right thing after all.

At least that's what you tried to convince yourself, lying in the barracks with two other men who were snoring so hard the ground shook. You rolled over onto your back and covered your eyes with the back of your palm. Your bandaged chest ached unpleasantly. It felt like if you breathed a little deeper than you should, your ribs would crack like walnut shells.

"Great Diana, lend me your strength", you whispered, as salt pricked your lashes.

It's been two months since you've seen your family's faces. You imagined how they'd reacted when you vanished. Were they afraid? Angry? Or perhaps only mildly inconvenienced. You were the middle daughter, after all. The eldest was about to be married off well, and your brother was the heir to the family's business.

You were a shadow between stories. Nothing was expected of you.

It was hot. The kind of heat that clung like a funeral shroud. The nape of your neck was damp, tunic glued to your spine with sweat. You craved water. Maybe even a bath.

Well, the river was not far away. The main thing was to sneak out of the room itself, which wasn't hard, considering how loud your roommates were. Especially the one with the mohawk. You took your hand away from your face and opened your eyes. Sleep seemed to be getting the better of you tonight, so the decision was made.

You quietly threw off the blanket and sat up.

He was not born into command.

He was not born into anything, really – no noble line, no proud father, no birthright but a collar. Born in chains, raised on scraps, taught to keep his eyes low and his mouth shut. His earliest memories were of cold stone and the sharp sting of a whip, of faceless voices barking orders, and of hunger, always hunger, gnawing like a second hollow void inside him.

As a child, he was sold from one master to the next, too thin to be of use, too quiet to be noticed. But time and cruelty hardened his frame. When he was just a boy, they threw him into the arena – not to fight, at first, but to bleed, to entertain, to die for someone else's coin. Yet he did not.

A festering hatred of everything helped him survive. Back then, he moved like a cornered animal, fast and wild, all instinct and fury. He broke the rules of the game - and then he broke bones. Cutting flesh like a skilled butcher.

He didn't stop even when the enemy begged for mercy. Survival of the fittest. It was his whole life.

He killed not to win, but because there was no other way forward. The crowd adored him, cheered for the silent boy who showed no mercy. The more he killed, the more they fed him. Training, weapons, armor. A new name, forged from the ashes of the old.

They began to call him "Ghost" – not for any cowardice or flight, but for his silence, his spectral stillness in the heat of battle, and the dread that clung to him like a shroud.

The Emperor saw him fight once, and that changed everything. "By Ares word, a man who fights like that", he said, "belongs on the battlefield, not on the stage of this bloody theater."

And so the chains were exchanged for a soldier's belt. He was sent to the edge of the Empire, where real blood was spilled, not for applause but for territory and, more often than not, for the sake of pure violence.

There, among the disciplined legions, he found something close to peace or perhaps, purpose. The sword felt just as heavy in his hand, but now each strike had meaning. He did not fight for Rome. He fought because fighting was all he knew. And war, unlike the arena, did not pretend to be something beautiful at least.

He climbed the ranks with terrifying speed. He did not ask for leadership, but it was thrust upon him, again and again, after commanders fell and he alone remained standing. His reputation grew like a shadow in the setting sun.

By thirty, he was an Imperial Legate.

Not through birthright. Not through favor. But because no one else could do what he could. Even the Emperor, once so distant and divine, now spoke to him as one speaks to a trusted blade.

He has no wife, no lover, no children, no family. No household to return to, no land to claim. Rich comforts of Rome – wine, silk, laughter – disgust him. He has seen too much rot beneath gilded masks, too many soft men speaking of honor with bloodless hands.

He wears a crude, grotesque, and unforgettable mask now. A shroud of rough sackcloth pulled over his head, stitched with sinew and bone. Fixed into the center, like a grisly emblem, is the shattered frontal plate of a human skull – that of his first true kill on the battlefield. A trophy. A warning. A memory.

It hides the man. Protects what little remains.

The soldiers fear him, though he rarely raises his voice. His silence is heavier than shouting, his gaze sharper than sword.

He could have left this life long ago. The Emperor offered him land, concubines, gold, even the position of Praefectus Praetorio. He declined it all. Not out of pride, but because peace holds nothing for him. It is the battlefield where he feels most like himself – where the world is honest, cruel, and burning into ashes.

Yet lately, something foreign stirs in him.

As you crept past the one-story barracks – hastily built, crooked in places, smelling of sweat – your thoughts began to sink into that all-too-familiar mire of self-pity.

Damn the conscription. Damn the Emperor and his cursed laws. Damn the war and every foul thing that crawled out with it. Damn the watery soup that made you gag. Damn the chafing armor and the weight of a sword you barely knew how to hold.

And damn yourself – for listening to that old hag, for stealing your brother's name, for stepping into a life that wasn't meant to be yours.

You stopped short at the corner of the building. Your eyes stung, and you blinked hard, wiping the tears away with the back of a trembling hand. No time for crying. No one would pity you here. If you got caught now – sneaking out after curfew – it wouldn't just be a slap on the wrist.

You'd be dragged before The General.

Most likely, you'd be forced to report to him, who was very fond of discipline, and was famous for his harsh punishments for breaking the former.

And that's what you were doing now.

You shrugged. You'd seen him up close only once. That was enough. The General was a cruel bastard.

He ruled his army like Pluto ruled the Underworld – with silence, shadow, and pain. A man who preached discipline with a fist, who saw mercy as weakness. You'd heard stories. Whispers passed over the firelight: a soldier caught stealing bread had his fingers broken one by one. Another, late to formation, was forced to stand naked in the rain until he collapsed from exhaustion.

His cruelty wasn't hot like rage – it was cold and methodical, like a butcher sharpening his knife with quiet care.

And his eyes. They were brown, yes, but not warm like earth or honey or old wood. No. His were the color of dry blood or scorched earth or desert stone. And when they fixed on you that day – when you'd fallen, face-down in the ground during drills – they burned even worse than the sand under your bruised cheek.

Lying there, face full of mud after losing in a mock battle, panting beneath his gaze, you remember thinking: "Brown isn’t supposed to feel like that."

A dry, joyless chuckle almost slipped from your throat – more breath than sound.

Then you kept moving, pulse loud in your ears. The forest loomed close now, dark and indifferent. The trees did not ask questions. They did not pry. Unlike men, they would not care what name you stole or what truth lay bound beneath your tunic.

The first time he saw the boy, Ghost felt nothing.

Another recruit, slight of frame and slow to salute, like so many soft-handed sons of fishmongers or failed scribes pressed into the Emperor's service. A round face beneath an ill-fitting helmet. Eyes too wide and lashes too long. No beard, not even the promise of one. The boy's name, barked during roll call, had sounded plain enough and his posture was terrible.

Ghost barely glanced, barely noted him – until that very evening, when the boy, covered in dust and streaked with blood from a gash above his brow, stumbled into the training yard slowly like a shade pulled from the Underworld.

Something caught in the general’s chest then. A knot, a twinge, a weight. Ghost could not name it, but it rooted itself deep. This filthy and wounded little solider looked almost serene in the dying sun, as if the gods had dipped him in war and found him untouched by its filth. Blood trickled down from the bruise on his knee, glistening like wine spilled on polished marble, and The General found his gaze lingering far longer than it should.

It was the softness that unsettled him.

The boy was wrong. Wrong in the way a flower is wrong in a field of ash. His limbs were long and lean, but without the bulk of muscle that carried real strength. His hands were so delicate they might have plucked a lyre better than a bowstring. Those hands trembled when handed a sword, but became unnervingly steady when drawing an arrow. The General watched him in the drills, day after day, expecting him to fall, to break, to vanish under the weight of armor and command.

But he didn't. The smaller male moved like a shadow. When others struck with brute strength, he weaved and darted, slipping through blades like smoke. He lacked the force of the seasoned men, but he danced around them with a serpent's grace. In the mock skirmishes, he won not by overpowering, but outthinking. Outspeeding. Outsurviving.

He bested three men in a row one morning. Not with pride, not with the ego of a young cock, but with quiet desperation. The whispers in the camp began to stir.

"The little one's got a rabbit’s luck," some muttered. "Or the gods' favor," argued others.

The general's rib cage swollen every time that boyish face emerged triumphant – not with the rage of a superior outdone, but with something more ancient, more insidious.

Then he felt it for the first time.

Desire.

Dark and coiling, it struck him like a viper in his gut.

Ghost began to notice too much. The way the boy’s legs stretched beneath his armor when he knelt, kissed by the sun and slim as a column carved by Apollo himself. The curve of his neck when he tilted his head in question. The way sweat clung to the hollow of his throat. His voice, too lovely, too melodic, like a harp plucked by some unseen muse.

And the general loathed him for it.

Loathed the way he had to look away when that smooth thigh flashed beneath the tunic. Loathed how his eyes betrayed him, slipping, darting, lingering on glimpses of soft flesh, on those impossibly flexible arms, on the radiant skin of the boy's hips when he bent for his arrows.

By the end of the first month, The General cursed Eros for being attracted to this pathetic weakling. Cursed the god for dragging desire through the mud, for tethering it to a fragile, trembling wretch with soft hands and a haunted gaze. What kind of god cursed a man like Ghost with hunger for weakness?

Ghost avoided him. Tried to. Gave orders from afar. Assigned other officers to oversee the drills of that group. And still, his eyes found the smaller male in the crowd, again and again, drawn like a moth to an open flame.

Ghost began to follow him. Not consciously. Never openly. But wherever the boy went, The General found himself not far behind.

Once, at night, during a training trip to the woods, he caught the glint of candlelight beneath the makeshift infirmary tent and paused to look through the slit in the canvas. The boy was bent over another soldier, who was sitting. One of the descendants of the Celts tribe, with a ridiculous crest of shaved hair. Smaller figure of the fragile soldier was mending a bloody tear in the bigger man's sleeve. They were talking about something. The Celt's voice was low and pained. The boy's voice was soft and gentle.

And suddenly, his little solider smiled.

The only other time he'd seen a smile like that was on his mother's face, the day they took her from him. She was tired, bruised, and hollowed by suffering, yet her smile was soft, unwavering, meant to soothe a frightened child and promise that everything would be all right.

He never saw her again.

It struck Ghost like lightning. The warmth of it. The sweetness. The tenderness. As if the moon had leaned down and kissed the boy’s face. The General clenched his fists until the knuckles cracked.

After that the dreams began.

Dreams where the boy came to his room willingly, where soft lips parted without resistance, where there were no questions and no shame.

In the privacy of his walls, with the torches outside burning low and the scrolls left unread, Ghost found himself dreaming things he should not.

The boy, pressed beneath him, gasping in desire. Cheeks flushed, neck full of his possesive marks. That tender voice whispering his name – not out of terror, but out of desire. Skin soft and gleaming in a pale moonlight. Little solider's hands too small to fight, were clutching at his broad back like ivy on an old wall. The boy's thighs were shaking, wrapped tightly around his waist. He was chanting beneath Ghost’s massive figure. Singing. Desperately begging for more. Whispered the name that was given to The General by his mother. Pressed his soft lips on the scarred temples, where his blond hair was freshly shaved. Prayed to all the gods whose names Ghost hadn't bothered to learn since he'd been released from shackles.

Each time he woke enraged, panting, sweat-slicked, swearing vengeance on the gods.

Eros, a wicked little demon, had made a mockery of him. Ghost felt even more unclean beneath his armor, as if even Vulcan's forge could not burn them from his soul. He clenched his jaw, slammed fists into wooden beams, bit the insides of his cheeks until he tasted iron.

No one should make him feel this weak.

He was not one of those patrician degenerates who plucked still-too-smooth-for-battle boys from the legion like figs from the vine. He was a true warrior. His hands had crushed skulls, not caressed cheeks. He had carved a path to glory, step by bloodied step, and now this. This cursed child was undoing him with a glance.

The General, once a slave, once a gladiator – whose name alone made grown men tremble – was now plagued by lust for a trembling creature barely fit to hold a blade.

Ghost hated him. Hated him more than he had ever hated anybody.

Another day, after a long march, he caught the boy rinsing blood from his face in a basin. The cut was shallow, near his temple. The water ran red. The General stared and something inside him twisted.

He wanted to touch that face. Not to bruise it, but to cradle it. He wanted to press his lips to that wound, to taste the sweetness of the skin, salt and iron of the blood. Ghost wanted to possess him. To pin him to the wall and strip him bare and see what truths hid beneath the tunic. And yet, gods help him, he also wanted to protect this tender creature. To hide this fragile soldier from battles, from pain, from everything that had shaped Simon into the Ghost.

By the end of the second month, Ghost's heart was a pincushion of Cupid's arrows, each one lodged too deep to remove without tearing something vital. Simon feared that if he ever pulled them out, there’d be nothing left inside his rotting chest.

You had slipped past the night watch like Mercury in flight – quick-footed, breath shallow, heart drumming with each cautious step. It hadn't been easy, but speed and silence were on your side tonight. And so, now, you found yourself wandering alone beneath the weight of the stars, feet tracing a narrow, dusty path that sloped toward the river.

The bank spread wide and slow before you, dark as Lethe, and just as silent. Trees lined it like sentries, offering you some privacy. You dropped to the flat stone with a weary sigh, tugging your sandals off and curling your toes inward from the cold. Selene hung above you in the heavens like a dimmed coin, casting pale silver across the water’s skin. Her eye was mournful tonight, and her gaze felt too tender to bear.

You leaned forward and met your reflection in the shallow water. A stranger’s face gazed back at you. Some boy's. Short hair, bruise-smudged cheekbones, mouth drawn tight with the weight of silence. You hardly recognized it. What was left of your name was hidden beneath tunic and lies and the ache in your ribs that never quite faded.

Suddenly, then the tears broke loose, hot, hard, and undeserved. They slid down your jaw, stinging your throat where they fell. You folded into yourself, face in your palms, shaking, though you didn’t dare let the sobs out too loud.

Your body was failing you. It was cramped and sore, sick in the belly. Your moon cycle went off right after arriving in this damn place and you didn't know what to expect from your own flesh, so every day you had to stuff rags into a sewn-in pocket in your underwear. It wasn't pleasant, everything got very sweaty, but at least it looked like you had a bulge that men do. Gods, if only anybody could understand you in this damned place. You hadn’t spoken to a woman in weeks. Even the nurses in the infirmary were all men.

When you asked the second man who shared a room with you, a kind soul with beautiful bronze skin and a voice gentle like finest silk, "Why?" he'd smiled and said, "So women wouldn't seduce you with their gentleness." The words were casual, almost teasing, but they sent a cold tremor down your spine.

Seduce with gentleness?

Gods. You wanted to go home so bad.

But all you could do now was take a deep breath, calming yourself. There was nothing to do right now. All you had to do was keep going.

You exhaled quietly, finally suppressing another sob. Damn, you stank. By now, the smell of male sweat and stink had soaked your skin. You pulled back the neck of your tunic in disgust.

Ew…

You couldn't even wash this. First of all, you didn't have a change of clothes with you, and secondly, how would you explain wet clothes to your roommates in the morning? You'd have to put it back on. Well, at least you can get the sweat off your skin.

You stepped off the rock, hissing as the small pebbles dug into your bare feet. If you're quick, you might even be able to get some sleep. So you ran your hands under the hem, grabbing the fabric of your panties and slid them down your legs, then placed them on the rock, not wanting to get them dirty. After that, carefully grabbing the hem of your only shield against the night's coldness, you pulled the tunic over your head and placed it on the rock over your panties.

An unpleasant chill ran down your back.

Apparently the waters were colder than you thought. You shrugged, and the bandages rubbed unpleasantly against the tender skin of your breasts. You wanted to get them off as quickly as possible, which you did, grabbing the edge of the bandage with a quick, honed motion. They followed the tunic and panties.

You cupped your own tender breasts with a hiss, trying to massage the pain away. Oh, it felt so good to breathe normally again. In the very beginning, it hurted a lot, but after the second week you got over it and stopped going off to the side to cry when your opponent hit a sensitive area during training. You learned to hold back the tears and stand up every time. But come evening, the feeling was awful. The problem was that you could untie those bandages in moments of solitude, which were terribly rare. You even had to sleep in them.

…

Stop relaxing, you've had too little time until the sunrise.

So you stepped into the dark waters of the river.

The dream had woken him again, choking and bitter. He couldn't recall its details, only the residue it left behind. Phantom softness pressed to his chest, a kiss on his ruined brow, a voice like woven silk whispering words he never deserved to hear. Always the boy. Gentle, obedient in action, desperate in want. And Ghost, shamelessly hard and drenched in sweat. Alone. Gods above, he was sick of this.

He sat up, teeth bared in a silent curse, fingers curling into the blankets like he might tear through them. His whole body pulsed with a rage he couldn't name. A part of him wanted to march to that boy's room, drag him out by the collar, and shatter that lovely, infuriating face until blood replaced the silence between them.

Instead, he rose and pulled on his mask. The river was near. He would cool his head, douse the poison thoughts. The night was still, save for the whisper of leaves and the hiss of his own breath beneath the sackcloth.

Yeah, he definitely could use a bath right now.

He moved like a wraith through camp, his steps silent and unseen. Then, a flicker. A shadow brushing the edge of his vision. He halted, pressed to the wall of a barrack, and peered around the corner.

You.

His little soldier. Alone, at night. One hand against the stone wall, the other curled close to your body. You looked around nervously before darting toward the thicket.

…

An overnight date?

That had to be it. You were sneaking off for some secret, sticky little nighttime tryst, weren't you? Something sweet and illicit, the kind that left heat on the skin and perfume on the sheets. Perhaps with the mohawked Celt, all shoulders and swagger, or that pretty boy from the southern parts of the Empire who never shut up about his father's vineyards.

Ghost's mind poisoned itself with the image almost immediately.

Your head bowed, knees in the dirt of the shore, lashes lowered further, fingers trembling not with fear, but with anticipation. That awful, saccharine smile he'd seen only once. You had smiled at another man like that, hadn't you? Soft and shy, like honey on the tongue. He hated it. He wanted to claw it off your face. Gods, he wanted to destroy it, grind it beneath his heel until your mouth remembered only silence.

Something monstrous coiled and writhed in his chest, like a serpent twisting around his ribs, tightening with every breath. He didn't give it a name – names gave power, and he would not grant this disgusting feeling a shrine. It burned through him, searing hot and sharp, rising up from his gut to the back of his throat, where it tasted like iron and old blood.

You dared.

Gods damn you, you dared to glance his way like a startled doe in the brambles, to leave him pacing his own thoughts like a madman, drunk on the impossible smoothness of those long limbs slipping from beneath your tunic like something sacred. You, with your feather-light steps and that maddening curve of your neck, crept off into the dark like a whisper meant for someone else. To offer yourself, unwrapped and smiling, to another? Vivid and vile he saw it again: your tunic tugged aside by dirty hands, your breath catching for someone who was not him. That treacherous softness given freely to another mouth.

He would not have it.

Oh no.

He would not allow it.

So he followed, a shadow among shadows, fury coiling around his limbs like living flame. No sword. He wanted to feel every crack of knuckle on flesh, every snap of bone under his palm. That would be enough. More than enough.

He would find your little lover, whoever he was, whatever smug face dared to touch what had become sacred in Ghost's mind, and he would rip him apart with the precision of a hunter and the joy of a god. He would shatter the delicate cartilage of the nose, crush the mouth that had dared to kiss what's his, reduce the bastard's ribs to splinters and bury them in the mud. He would paint the trees with blood until Mars himself looked away in shame.

And you?

He didn't know.

Yet.

Ghost swiftly reached the trees and melted into their cover, his broad form pressed behind a wide trunk like a hunter stalking a deer. He crouched low, breathing shallowly, until the shore showed from behind the trees.

He had imagined the worst. Tongues tangling, tunics falling, flesh meeting flesh and the poison of that thought had nearly driven him mad. But instead of laughter or whispered sin, he heard something else.

Sobbing. Small, broken cries, the kind a child might make when they believe they are truly alone.

Everything in him stilled. The rage curdled, thick and nauseating, the heat of his imagined violence smothered by the sound of your tears. The jealousy, the venom, the hunger; all folded in on itself, collapsing like a lung punctured by guilt.

Your sobs were soft, broken things, but they struck him with the force of a catapult. His hands, which moments ago had ached to ruin someone, now dangled useless at his sides. He wanted to move, but his body refused, as though the very act of witnessing your sorrow had turned his bones to sand.

What could he offer?

He, who had never been cradled in grief, who had never once been held when the world hurt too much to breathe. He, whose hands had only ever wielded ruin. He, shaped by silence and steel, left to weather on the edges of men's prayers. And now, in the face of your quiet devastation, he stood like a fool, scared.

So he crouched in the nearby bush to take a look, heart hollowing itself.

And then he saw you.

You sat on a stone near the water, sandals discarded, knees drawn to your chest, shoulders shaking with the effort of not making a sound. Even now,in your misery, you tried to stay silent. To stay strong. As if you didn’t deserve to cry.

He wanted to reach out. To kneel beside you, slow and reverent, as though he were approaching a lost fawn rather than a soldier in mourning. He wanted to cradle your head against his chest, to shield you from the cold with the same hands that had only ever dealt pain, and whisper that you were safe now.

That unlike the gods who had forgotten you, he would not. That you could cry until Helios stops mounting his chariot and the hooves of his sun-dragging horses stop rolling the celestial torch across the sky. Until Jupiter shatters the stars in his fury. Until all the flames in Vestal temples throughout the Empire are extinguished.

Simon would hold you as long as breath remained in his body.

And even after his body decays, he would want to grow into a strong olive tree for you to curl up on in your sorrow.

But he stayed where he was. Because he didn't know how to.

His mother had kissed his forehead once or twice before she vanished and since then, it had always been the sword and pain. Always blood, always steel. He did not know how to be soft.

So Ghost watched. He watched as your fingers, slender and uncertain, brushed your face, wiping away tears he hadn't known he feared.

You rose slowly, still trembling, your hands dropped, first to slide down your panties, then to the hem of your tunic. The motions were simple, but not crude. Not hurried. Each motion is like a priest tending to a sacred rite.

And in that instant the illusion fell.

From the hem of your tunic, the curve of your hips emerged, gentle and divine, kissed not by armor or dust, but by moonlight itself. Skin smooth, unmarred, no longer obscured by lies or shame.

The bandages came next, unwound with a single, almost desperate pull. They fluttered to the stone like a surrender flag and he saw the raw red lines they had carved into your skin, bruises blooming across your ribs and spine like cruel wreaths.

Simon forgot how to breathe.

Not from lust, not entirely, but from the overwhelming tide of truth. His eyes, sharpened by battle and blood, softened without his permission. That face, that softness he had long mistaken for youthful beauty, now revealed its true origin.

There she was.

She.

Woman.

Every urge he had wrestled with in silence, every stolen glance at your too-small hands or your too-smooth jawline, the way your voice wove through the air like a harpstring – it all made sense now. The grace. The agility. The way you endured pain without any show or sound. You weren't hiding weakness. You were surviving with a strength so fierce it stunned him.

A nymph. Soft and gentle dove, wrapped in numerous fabrics and trying oh so desperately to pass for a ferocious eagle.

The shame struck him like a piercing javelin. He should not be watching. He had no right. But his knees trembled beneath him, slowly lowering his massive frame closer to the earth. No longer a crouch of a hunter, but a posture of something else entirely. A worshipper, maybe.

And all Gods above, how beautiful you were.

Not like the painted courtesans of Rome, not like the wives of senators draped in silk. Your beauty was something else entirely. It was living. Bruised and battered, marred by the brutality of the world, and still unspeakably breathing through the skin of your flesh.

The curve of your back gleamed beneath the touch of the moon. Your hips bore the memory of motion and burden. Gods, those legs, long and muscled and kissed by the sun, had carried you through drills and marches and agony, and still they held you.

You were the hush in a temple before a storm, the shimmer of Venus rising from seafoam, the tremble in a hymn sung alone at dusk.

You had moved to the water's edge now, bare feet kissing the river stones. You waded in, arms out, as if greeting the moon herself, and let the cold bite your skin. Simon watched as you tilted your face to the heavens, silver tracing the curve of your shoulders, and for a moment, he imagined reaching for you. Not to take, not to claim, but simply to touch. Just once. Just to know what it felt like. Just to see if the world would allow something that perfect to be real beneath his hand.

Simon felt his throat tighten. His hand twitched at his side, aching to reach, to caress, to press his forehead into the mud before you and beg forgiveness. Not for what he'd thought, not entirely, but for what he had put you through.

Never again.

What was the bird like you doing in his legions?

What madness had led you here, into the gaping maw of violence? You were no soldier. And no ordinary woman, either. You were something else – something wrought beneath a gentler sun. A flower cloaked in flesh and steel, bandaged and bruised, playing at survival in a world that did not deserve you.

Whatever heat had once lived in his loins twisted now into something else. Not lust, but hunger of another kind. Hunger to be near. To be allowed to stay. To be seen by you and not cast away.

He no longer wanted to conquer.

He wanted to cherish.

Wanted to offer you his sword, his name and his hands, which had done nothing but destroy, to be used for once to protect. If you'd asked him there, from the water, with your eyes red from weeping and your skin glistening, he would have handed you his armor, his title, his life. Without hesitation.

He had seen many things in his lifetime. The screams of dying men, the grandeur of the Colosseum, the glittering halls of imperial Rome. But nothing, nothing compared to this.

You, bare in the river, washing away your pain beneath the eyes of the Gods, were the most holy thing he had ever seen.

And he, beast that he was, could no longer remain in the dark.

Simon rose slowly, reverently, like a penitent at an altar and stepped out from the shadows.

"You wear lies better than armor, little one."

You turned to look at him, eyes wide with the sheer horror.

Dive deeper (now - WIP)

The second part is already in process, my loves! Also, reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

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