you suspect something’s off when you catch your lover with the hunter girl, so you decide to give him the cold shoulder. his way of winning you back? trapping you in a bet—if he wins this underground fight match, you’re back to being his
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—brief smut, comfort, total fluff, assassin!reader (not l&ds mc), based on sylus' card radiant brilliance
note:
this has been looong buried in my drafts since before my writer's block started :') again, a part of the assassin!reader that started with strictly (un)professional
Your lover— he is definitely hiding something.
“Mmph!” A moan escaped you mid-kiss as his palm suddenly cupped your right breast, squeezing and stroking it, while two of his left fingers thrusted inside you, getting you wet.
His fevered lips and tongue melded with yours, his wicked fingers driving you to the brink of madness—and oh damn, the devil that possessed them felt so heavenly—as he pressed you against the vanity, bending you over its edge.
A knowing gleam flickered in his eyes. “Mm, you talk too much, woman.”
Your thoughts blurred, teetering on the edge of control, yet deep within, a spark of aggravation incessantly burned, especially when you remembered the person you had caught him manhandling earlier this afternoon—
Miss Hunter.
“Sylus—! Stop!”
"Tch." He pulled away with a hiss as soon as you pushed his chest away with everything you had. Just like that, you were left high and dry; the emptiness his fingers had left behind made you instinctively cross your legs. "Why are you so uncooperative tonight?"
"You—" Gasping for breath, you clutched your slipping nightgown, glaring sharply at him despite the discomfort of the hard surface beneath you. "You really think you can shut me up... with sex?"
"I'm telling you, nothing happened." Sylus’ lips curled with a smug hint of satisfaction, only fueling your irritation. "Didn’t know my woman had such a jealous streak until now."
If there was one thing you’d learned from years by Sylus' side, it was that everything he did had a purpose. If it had been some random bimbo hanging around the casino or his resorts, you wouldn’t bat even an eye.
But this was the Miss Hunter—the very girl he had spent decades searching for, the one with whom he shared a bond so profound that he had forsaken everything just for the chance to find her again.
And compared to her, you were just his bedwarmer... who just happened to catch his eye.
"You two were kissing," you accused almost spitefully, the words laced with bitter edge.
His grin vanished, replaced by a look of distaste. "We were not."
You knew what you saw—he cornered her in the furthermost corner of the base, far away from even from the prying eyes of Luke and Kieran, and they were definitely just an inch away from each other. "Then what were you two doing?"
"Can't we talk just like acquaintances do?" The lack of viable answer gnawed at you. If there was nothing to hide, why didn’t he just say so and put your suspicions to rest?
"Will you do her like you do me?" The venom in your voice startled even you, slipping out before you could stop it. "Ha. I should’ve known..."
By now, he had this sour yet stern look in his face that made you almost shudder but you stood your ground. His tone was almost mocking, "Insecurity makes you so bitter, sweetie. Get yourself together."
It felt like a prick in the heart. Oh. As heartless as you were in the face of blood and gore, you still had it apparently when faced with your lover's conniving red eyes and sinful lips.
But more than that... as they said, heartbreak is one thing, but your ego is another.
"To hell with you!" you snapped, sitting up straight. Sylus blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the look on your face—was it showing the hurt? Or just plain defiance? Even you weren’t sure as you spun on your heel and stormed out of his room promptly.
Not for the first time, the very idea that he might be getting on with another woman twisted something inside you, the ache sharper than you expected. It suddenly saddened you to a degree that it brought mist to your eyes.
For the next three days, you ignored Sylus almost completely. He tried to get back to your good graces, but you paid him no mind, acting as if he didn't exist.
“Missus, please— just say yes!”
And caught in the crossfire, poor Luke and Kieran had become his reluctant messengers.
You unconsciously shot a sharp glare at the twins. Perhaps it was the mental strain you were putting yourself under, but you truly hadn’t meant to scare them more than they already were.
"Boss is really cranky when he isn't in a good mood," Luke pleaded, clasping his hands together. "Please just help us this time, will you?"
"He promises he’ll make it right!" Kieran chimed in with a hopeful grin. "As soon as he wins his match this weekend, you’ll see—there’s nothing to worry about!"
Sylus and his penchant for boxing. You knew these underground matches were something he indulged in now and then, and you'd let him be.
But this time...
"How are you so sure he's going to win?" You lifted your chin, a taunting smirk curling your lips. "And no, I'm not going. Tell him that."
"Missus, you have to see reason— there is no way Boss is having an affair—" Kieran insisted, shaking his head in frustration.
"Boss is whipped!" Luke cut in, throwing his hands up. "For you! Can't you see?!"
"..." For a solid five seconds, silence blanketed the room. You arched an eyebrow so high it made Luke look like he'd just spilled the world’s best-kept secret, while Kieran slapped a hand over his mask in exasperation.
And things were obviously not getting better—
"Ha. I'm what?"
You could see the twins visibly gulping the very second Sylus' voice boomed across the hall, and you rolled your eyes.
"Pfft," he let out this low chuckle as he made his way towards the three of you. "Hear that, sweetie? Luke isn't wrong."
"..."
"The little kitty's anger hasn't subsided, I see," he murmured, tilting his head to the side with a playful smirk, arms folded across his chest. "Such little trust you have in me."
You sighed. "Don't tempt me to hate you prolifically, Sylus."
"You wound me," he retorted, ruby-red eyes narrowed. "I have been nothing but honest and transparent."
You turned away, pressing your lips into a tight line. Deep down, you knew how childish all of this felt. Maybe it was nothing, after all. Maybe, just like he said, it was your insecurity twisting things.
And why are you so insecure, anyway?
"Keep your eyes on me, kitten."
Suddenly, caught off guard, you almost yelped as he tilted your chin towards him, forcing you to meet his gaze. Your heart raced wildly, but you fought to keep it in check.
"I win, and you’ll do what I say," his eyes flicking from yours to your lips, his voice a velvety whisper in your ear. "But if I lose... you can have your way—however you want."
Your pride took over. A second later, you jerked your face away, refusing to give him the satisfaction. To salvage your dignity, you let out an indignant scoff.
"Best hope you lose then."
You’d never been fond of crowds, let alone sitting in the stands of a boxing match.
And yet here you were, clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers—the twins had practically shoved them into your arms before bolting away—surrounded by the deafening roar of fans.
You would punish them later, you so would. It was humid and you were fuming. There was nothing interesting here, and to top it all off, Sylus’ turn to the ring was taking forever.
Until it didn't.
When he finally stepped into the spotlight, you caught sight of him on the big screen. And in that moment—when that devilish smirk curled his lips—you could’ve sworn he wasn’t aiming it at the crowd.
He was throwing it right at your direction.
And oh, how the rapid and traitorous thump-thump-thump inside your chest drowned out everything else, as if the roar of the crowd gradually faded at the realization.
How is it that he always manages to get your heart in his grasp?
. . .
When they said this sport wasn’t for the weak, they weren’t lying. No matter how tough you thought you were, you still flinched every time the opponent’s fist connected with your lover’s jaw.
Despite all the aggravation you harbored about him, watching him stumble and get knocked back felt like a punch to your own gut. In that moment, all you wanted was for it to end.
And when it finally was—when the referee raised Sylus’ arm and declared his victory—you exhaled a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief washed over you in a quiet, fleeting wave.
However, reporters and cheers quickly swarmed him, and the distance between you felt even greater then. There he stood, proud as ever, lofty as if standing atop clouds, surveying the world with thinly veiled contempt. Meanwhile, you…
You were still dissatisfied. Sylus had a way of winning everything he set his sights on, while you remained stuck with your own petty grievances and emotional baggage you subjected yourself to.
It was vexing, really. How you wanted him to win and not at the same time. How you wanted his everything and knowing you would never be able to.
“What’s the secret to winning this match?!” one reporter asked, voice brimming with excitement.
Sylus answered with a casual smirk. “I made a bet I absolutely can’t lose,” he said coolly. “So, I won.”
The girls in the stands erupted into deafening cheers at his response, their shrill voices forcing you to cover your ears.
The nerve. You scoffed, irked by his answer and by the crowd’s adoration. You decided you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of you lingering here any longer.
Snatching up your bag and that damned bouquet, you marched toward the exit with long, determined strides when—
“Ooh? And who is this special person?!”
“Ah, look, there she is.”
You froze mid-step as the spotlight suddenly pinned you in its beam. Whirling around, your breath caught as you saw Sylus descending from the arena, his gaze locked onto yours.
What the hell?
For a moment, you froze in utter disbelief as he approached you with that effortless grace, as if the crowd around him didn’t exist. Before you could piece together your fragmented thoughts, he was already standing before you.
“Are you mad?!” you murmured in a hiss, your voice barely louder than a breath over the distant roar of cheers, yet pointed enough to pierce the air between you.
Sylus, however, only let out a snort, swiftly snatching the bouquet from your arms, and pulling you by the shoulders— his breath tickled you ear as he whispered:
“Got you.”
—and before you could react, he crashed his lips on yours in a bold kiss that at sent the crowd into an instant uproar of cheers.
“Whoa, whoa! The champion! Look how manly he is!”
“He has a girlfriend?!”
“Oh, my! To be that girl!”
“—!” You almost pushed him away, only to falter when you realized his kiss was anything but forceful. It was deep but disarmingly gentle.
Sylus pulled back just as quickly, his eyes twinkled with mischief as he took in your stunned expression.
“You’re mine now, sweetie,” he said with a smug grin, giving you a light pat in the head.
The way his eyes crinkle as he looks at you... Your cheeks burned, and your heart thundered in your chest, drowning the roars of the swooning crowd—
Because in that moment, you could’ve sworn there was nothing but pure adoration in those mesmerizing garnet eyes of his.
“You've gone and done it... What if anyone recognizes us?”
Later that night, freshly showered and wrapped in silk nightgowns, you sat at the edge of the bed, towel in hand as you dried your wet hair. You cast a glance at Sylus, who had just bathed with you and now lounged nearby with an unbothered grin.
The events from this afternoon still felt like somewhat of a dream to you. You had never been under that much of a spotlight before— too used to a life shrouded in shadows, quietly biding your time, preparing to brandish your blade when the moment came.
But through Sylus, every now and then, you caught a glimpse of what it felt like to stand on the other side of that darkness. And it felt freeing— like you could finally breathe, unburdened by the scent of blood and gunpowder.
"Wouldn't that be fun? Imagine the headlines," he shrugged nonchalantly. "The Onychinus leader and his missus... masquerading as a boxer and his fan for a day."
You huffed, shooting him a stink eye. "That's not even funny."
Despite the public display that Sylus had more or less pulled and made the two of you known as lovers even in underground world, there was still a gnawing curiosity at the back of your mind, feeding your insecurity—
The sight of him and Miss Hunter replayed again in your mind's eye. It was never fun finding them together in such close proximity.
And yet, in the end... he returned to you, still. Unspoken it may be, but Sylus had always taken your side so far.
You let out a long, resigned sigh. That caught his attention as he turned to you. "What is it?"
"Nothing," you quipped, slightly grimacing. "Forget it. I'm going to sleep."
Sylus raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on you. Even when you hid it, he knew what you'd wanted to ask and if you asked it now, he would tell you.
The way your face had fallen bothered him more than he'd like to admit. He rose from the recliner and moved to your side. "No, you won't be sleeping."
"What?"
He knelt beside you, gently taking hold of your leg, and pressed a kiss to your calf, his touch warm and unhurried as he met your gaze with a sly smile.
"Sylus..." you eyed him with incredulity, feeling yourself getting warm.
His red eyes crinkled. "Don't you want to ask me something?"
Your hand reached out to caress his face, and he leaned into your touch. That simple act alone brought a small, intrigued smile to your face. "No."
"Hmph. Really?"
"What?" You traced your fingers on his sharp jaw, admiring it. "You think I'll demand you for answers about whether you're two-timing me with Miss Hunter again?"
Sylus tilted his head, relishing the way your fingers cradled his face, staying quiet, however.
You were really great at this pushing and pulling game. It irked him to see how detached you seemed now when he knew a part of you had been fazed by it days ago.
He disliked it when you tried to hide what you were feeling. He hated it even more when you doubted him for anything. But seeing how unhappy you had been lately rattled him.
"Nothing happened," he said in a low voice, catching your hand and locking eyes with you. "Would you feel better if I had told you that since the beginning?"
"Who knows?" you replied with a soft shrug, a wry smile on your lips. "You didn't tell me before."
What a vixen. The thought simmered in his mind. Mine, though.
Like a cat pouncing on its owner, Sylus suddenly moved, going straight for your lips and pinning you to the bed. Intertwining his fingers with yours, he pried your lips open with his tongue.
Yet despite it all, you felt how gentle he was. The Sylus from before would just fuck you senseless and be done with it, but the one with you now... he treated you with an unexpected tenderness, as if savoring every second with you.
He pulled away only when you were breathless, the saliva string between your lips breaking as he gave you a moment to gasp for air. His gaze softened, lingering on your flushed face, a satisfied smile curling on his lips.
"You will see for yourself tomorrow. Tonight, however..." he trailed off, his lips hovering just above yours.
But you placed one hand on his chest and another on his neck, looking up at him with bleary eyes, the vulnerability in your gaze tugging at something within him.
"Actually, I'm a bit exhausted..." You found his intense gaze and blinked slowly. "So, can you be not as rough?"
"Ha." Sylus let out a snicker at your request, taking the hand you had on his chest and pressing a soft kiss on it.
What a precious little thing you are. Your face right now... It was a look he couldn’t resist, one that made him want to protect you and ruin you, all at once.
His smirk lingered. "Of course, sweetie. I'll go easy on you tonight."
And true to his word, he didn't break his promise.
Even as he pinned both your wrists above your head, capturing your lips in a heated kiss—
—as he dived between your legs, his tongue skillfully devouring your clit—
—and as you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.
And later, when he pulled you into his arms and murmured softly until you drifted to sleep.
When you woke up the next morning, it was because of two things.
One— it was freezing. Your thin nightgown was definitely no match against the biting chill of a winter morning.
And two— Sylus wasn't here.
You wondered where he could have gone as it was his bedtime, but as you pulled the comforter closer to keep yourself from shivering, something caught your eye.
It took you a full three seconds to process it.
There was a ring on your finger.
"Huh...?" You were jolted awake by the sight of the glittering ruby. It was intricate, yet strangely nostalgic, reminding you of Sylus' eyes. How? Why?
You immediately turned to the nightstand, your gaze landing on a small jewelry box sitting neatly atop it. You scrambled for it, the name of the jeweler embossed on the lid caught your attention. It wasn’t from anywhere in N109 Zone.
It clicked to you at all once. So, that was why he was with Miss Hunter?
But more than that, what caught your heart was when you flipped it open and found a note inside, with a scrawled handwriting you would never mistake for anyone else's—
Because forever is too long and boring to be spent alone. So, your answer is…?
CW: NSFW (18+) MNDI, smut, con!sex between married adults, dom/sub dynamic, edging, overstimulation, dirty talk, emotional neglect, angst with resolution, firebending during sex, p in v, fingering,
Synopsis: For months he fulfilled every duty the Fire Lord demanded of him. He forgot the ones that mattered to you. You said nothing, until the night you couldn’t anymore. And Zuko, your husband, finally looked at you. Really looked. Now the candles are burning low in the royal chambers and he is determined to remind you of everything he let you forget.
˚ˋঌ˖
Being the firelord meant a lot of responsibility. Rebuilding his nation, taking care of his people and keeping peace. You understood that, however lately you felt alone in the big palace. Wandering alone down those empty halls, visiting the turtle duck ponds and always accompanied by servants when all you wanted was to be near your husband.
During the day Zuko is always away attending council meetings, the four nations summits, at night he comes tired to your bed chambers and without so much of a word, he would turn over and sleep. By the time you wake up he is already gone. You didn’t feel like his wife anymore, more like a roommate he is simply sharing a bed with.
It wasn’t always like that in the beginning either.
He’d make time for you, go for walks, visit ember island, involve you in the council meetings, but started to slowly stop. You felt like he was drifting away. His warmth gone cold, his demeanour stoic. Even then when he was busy, you were able to tell yourself he loves you and that he is just busy and that it was only for a couple of days.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.
You tried initiating conversations, plan things to do with him, press your hands to his tired shoulders- anything to show him you cared about him, but it was always rejected with his excuse being how tired he was. You don’t even remember the last time he has touched you. You felt so alone until uncle Iroh.
You enjoyed company with uncle Iroh whenever he visited, always giving advice and making jokes over his pai sho. He’d always ask about the both of you and you’d give him a tight smile and say everything is fine. This time he didn’t buy it.
Pouring a cup of jasmine tea for you he spoke, “My nephew, he hasn’t been there for you lately. Has he?” You froze, the reassurance already forming on your lips . “He’s the fire lord uncle, he has important matters to attend to.” You take a sip of the tea avoiding answering the question directly.
Uncle Iroh sighs, “He does. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t important either. Even if my nephew completes his duties as fire lord with ease, abandoning his duties as a husband to you isn’t good.” He takes a sip of his own tea, the silence welcomed as your thoughts ran wild.
“Child, talk to me. You can’t hold your worries to yourself forever.” You hesitate biting your lips and playing with your fingers avoiding his gaze. Uncle Iroh’s calloused and warm hands take yours delicately . His face calm with a gentle smile across his face, “I promise I won’t tell my nephew what you say to me.” As he said that tears you have been holding back welled in your eyes. Everything spilled out before you could stop it with so much ease not realising how much you had to say.
“But he’s the fire lord, I never told him how I felt because I don’t want to add on to his burdens. I’m supposed to be his peace.” You whispered looking back at the pond.
“But if you aren’t at peace with your burdens and yourself, you can’t be his peace either. Because my child, resentment takes time to build in your heart.” You look up at him eyes widening, “I know you love my nephew, and I know you don’t resent him either,” Uncle Iroh clarifies chuckling before his expression becomes serious, “But the longer you hold it in you, it will eventually build up.”
Feeling suddenly small and exhausted by all of it you ask him what you should do. Uncle Iroh clears his throat, “Talk to him tonight, no matter the excuse he makes. Make sure he hears you and don’t hold back. Sometimes what Zuko needs is confrontation.” You carefully take in what uncle Iroh said. You were scared and anxious thinking about confronting him. What would he say? What would he do? Would it change anything? Maybe it was a bad idea- No. Uncle Iroh was right.
Sometimes Fire lord Zuko does need some confrontation.
˚ˋঌ˖
You were waiting for him well past sun down, you planned to talk to him over dinner but you were left alone, again. It only sharpened your resolve.
Going to your bed chamber you got ready for bed with the help of the castle servants. In your silk robe, your hair brushed and braided. Pacing back and forth across the room, your frustration building up.
You were going to speak to him calmly of course, but the anticipation, the weight of finally having decided to say something was eating you alive.
The doors creaked open and walked in Zuko. His long hair half up half down with his head piece on top, wearing his royal armour. He barely glanced at you as he begins shrugging off his armour, draping it over a chair like he had all the time in the world.
You take a deep breath to calm yourself, before asking him, “How was your day?” His answer short, “Busy.” That was it. No details about his day, not even asking how your day was. You clench your fist against your sides. “Zuko. We need to talk.” You firmly say making him freeze his movements.
You were always gentle and soft with him, never have you ever used a firm tone with him. He finally glances at you, his expression barely shifting . “Not now, I’m tired.”
Something in your chest pulled tight and hollow. You were about to give up and just go back to bed. Uncle Iroh’s words rang through your head loudly before gritting your teeth you said, “No. I can’t handle it anymore.”
Zuko turns to face you, for once actually looking at you, not just a thoughtless glance. He opened his mouth but you interrupted him, “I haven’t spent time with you for months, Zuko. I barely get to see you.” You start off strong, holding back your tears, your voice confident.
“I have my duties to attend to.” He sighed rubbing his temples. “I know that! But what about your duties to me?! ” Your voice cut off ringing loudly throughout the room taking Zuko by surprise.
“What has gotten into—“ you interrupt, “I miss my husband.” You whisper.
Zuko froze, your voice quiet but your words heavy. You continue, looking up at him, “I understand being the fire lord means you will deal with a lot. I have, I really have. But I feel like a shadow now. I don’t remember the last time we went on a walk, you asking me about my day, or the way you used to look at me.” Your voice cracked as a lump begins to form in your throat.
“I go to bed with you yet I feel as if I am in bed with a total stranger. The next morning you are gone.” You lick your dry lips chest rising and falling heavily.
“I have been excusing everything, saying it would be for a few days, but it’s been months.”
Zuko listened in silence his heart clenching at the pain in your voice. He has seen you weathered before but never so broken, not like this. Your smile replaced with a sad expression, your eyes, usually so bright, now glassed with tears. Your strong yet soft voice now breaking and struggling to even talk.
“Every time I reached for you it felt like reaching in to nothing. I was able to convince myself before that you still love me because you made me feel loved no matter how busy you were!” Your cries grow louder as you finally get to say words you have been holding back.
“As much as the fire nation needs their fire lord, I need you too.” You place your hand against your aching heart trying to comfort yourself.
“I-“ Zuko begins but you don’t let him talk. “I dont believe you love me anymore Zuko.” Tears finally spill down your cheeks. You clutched your face in shame as if you could hide from the weight of what you said. Zuko stood there, frozen in the middle of the room, watching you fall apart in a way he didn’t know how to stop.
You were always so soft, so steady — the kind of calm that had always quietly anchored him — but that stillness had cracked clean open, and what poured out of it was so raw, so unguarded, that it almost hurt to look at.
His brows pulled together, shame settling over his features like a shadow, because he had done this, chipped away at you slowly, meeting by meeting, absence by absence, and the proof of it was right there on your face, vulnerable in a way he never wanted to be the cause of. I did this, he thought, the words pressing into his chest like a brand, heavy and wordless.
Zuko crossed the room slowly, to you. He didn’t know what to say, he never did, not for things like this, so he said nothing at first, just reached out to hold you and bring you closer to him. Watching you cry felt like swallowing embers. He knew it was his fault, had known it for weeks, somewhere beneath the council meetings and the dispatches and the endless noise of being Fire Lord.
But for you to think that he didn’t love you ignited a flame in his heart. He was angry, angry because he made you truly believe that he didn’t care, because he was too careless to actually show how much he missed you too.
You felt his warm body envelop you in a hug as you continued to cry your heart out. You didn’t reject his touch, you embraced it. Your shoulders shook against him, he silently waited, his hand cradling the back of your head.
Your sobs slowly quieting, you look up at him, eyes red, puffy and wet from crying, your lips swollen. Zuko looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes intense and unreadable.
His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering at the side of his face. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “You thought I stopped loving you.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was low, rough at the edges, like the words had scraped on the way out.
You lowered your gaze but he caught your chin gently, tilting your face back up to his. His golden eyes searched yours, intense and unwavering.
“I owe you an apology.” He said it plainly, no decoration, no excuse trailing behind it. “I failed you. Not as the Fire Lord, as your husband. And I-” his voice faltered for just a moment, “I hate that I made you feel that way. That you had to convince yourself I still loved you.”
A fresh tear slipped down your cheek and he caught it with his thumb, his hand staying cupped against your face.
“I missed you too.” He admitted, almost quietly, like it cost him something to say it out loud. “Every night I came home and you were there and I said nothing. I did nothing. And that was unforgivable of me.”
“Zuko-”
“No.”
His eyes darkened, something shifting behind them. “You stood there and told me you didn’t think I loved you anymore.” His thumb traced your cheekbone, his touch gentle but his gaze anything but.
“Do you have any idea what that did to me?” Your breath caught. He leaned in slowly, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Let me show you.”
His lips found yours before you could say another word, not gentle, not tentative, but with the kind of urgency that had been building for months.
His hands moved from your face into your hair, tilting your head back, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe. You pulled back just slightly, searching his eyes. They were dark, the gold in them burning low and steady like embers refusing to die out.
“Zuko-” “I know.”
He said it softly, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw.
“I know.”
His arms wound around your waist pulling you flush against him, and you felt the tension in his body, coiled and restless, the exhaustion of the day entirely gone. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for just a moment, his breath warm against your skin.
“I’m not tired anymore.” He murmured, and you understood exactly what he meant. He walked you back slowly until the backs of your knees met the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours, one hand coming up to trace the collar of your silk robe with a deliberateness that made your breath unsteady. He looks deep into your eyes seeking for any form of hesitation.
“May i?” He asked.
You nodded, not being able to form words. He helped you slip out of your night dress, revealing your naked body in the dim lights. His breath caught in this throat, you were more beautiful than the setting sun. Has it been that long?
He takes his time taking your appearance in, making you so shy. You turn your flushed face away when he catches your chin making you meet his intense gaze.
“ I have a lot to make up for.” His voice was low, his golden eyes dark and fixed entirely on you.
“And I intend to.”
You felt it before you fully understood it, a warmth that had nothing to do with the night air, blooming from everywhere he touched you. His hands, his lips, the press of his bare chest against yours. He had always run warm but this was different.
This was him, unguarded, the careful restraint he carried like armour quietly dissolving.
The candles across the room flickered without a draft, their flames stretching tall for just a moment before settling. You glanced at them and then back at him. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, he had noticed too.
“Sorry.” He breathed. “Don’t be.” You whispered.
Something in him shifted at that. His palm came up to cup your face, and you felt it then, a gentle, deliberate warmth pooling from his hand into your skin, tender and unhurried, like sunlight. Not fire. Nothing sharp or dangerous. Just him, choosing to let you feel what he usually kept contained.
“I missed you.” He said it against your lips, quiet and wrecked. “I missed you and I was right there and I still-” He stopped, his forehead falling against yours, collecting himself.
You brought your hand up to rest over his chest, feeling the heat of him beneath your palm, steadier now, like a hearthfire finding its rhythm.
“Then stop missing me.” You whispered.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, golden eyes dark and unbearably focused, and whatever restraint remained dissolved entirely.
His lips to yours, nipping and biting, missing it so much after so long. Heat followed every movement of his hands and lips, the coolness of the room contrasting against each other. A sigh filled with need escapes his lips as he bends down and gently places his head against your globes. Instinctively you reach out and cradle his head in to it. He has truly missed it so much.
His breath was unsteady against your skin, Zuko, who had faced war councils without flinching, undone completely. You felt every exhale like a confession.
His lips moved slowly against your cleavage. Like he was refusing to let a single moment go to waste. Each press said what he’d failed to say across all those long, hollow nights,
I know. I know. I’m here now.
Your fingers tightened in his hair and he exhaled sharply against you, the sound catching in his throat. Less a man in control. More a man finally allowing himself not to be.
He lifted his head, golden eyes finding yours. Nothing guarded in them. No crown, no council, no weight he’d let swallow him whole for months. Just him — the version of Zuko that had always belonged only to this room, only to you.
Your thumb found the scar along his face without thinking. Muscle memory. He turned into it immediately, eyes closing, like something in him physically eased at the touch.
When he looked at you again his jaw was set, not in anger. In intention.
His hands moved to your hips, grip firm and warm, and he guided you back slowly against the bed, following you down without breaking eye contact, caging you in with both arms.
“I’ve got you.” Low. Certain. A promise with no room for doubt.
His lips gently presses against yours once more, hot yet gentle like he is holding himself back. He takes your wrists in his palms moving them beside your head. He pushes your legs apart with his knees and stays in between, his hardening cock brushing against your wetting core. He presses a finger against your lips, “Suck it, my love.”
Your breath caught in your throat, a forgotten name he whispered crashed over you. Staring deeply in to his eyes you take his finger in your mouth slowly sucking it in. Zuko hummed watching you, his cock twitching in his pants, begging to be free.
But tonight was about you, his wife.
You release his finger with a pop, gently he presses against your wet entrance. “Already soaking for me.” He whispers to himself looking down as his digit entered you.
You gasped when he began slowly pumping his finger into you, your walls clenching around him as he curled it deliberately.
“So warm. So tight.” His voice was rough against your skin. “I wonder if you can still take my cock when this is how you feel around just my finger.”
He was teasing you now, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his hot tongue dragging along your jaw, lips pressing slow and deliberate against your neck. A soft moan escaped you as you cradled his head, your back arching sharply when he added a second finger. You were so wet it slipped in without resistance.
His pace began to build — slow, intentional pumps that found the same spot and refused to leave it.
“Zuko- it feels so-nghh! So good!”
He smiled against your skin, something quieter than a smirk. “Good. I was afraid I’d forgotten how.” The words carried more weight than he probably intended.
He kissed his way down your chest, taking a hardened nipple into his mouth like it was something he’d been starving for, sucking slow and deliberate, his tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. His breath came out scorching against your skin as he pulled you deeper into his mouth.
The combination of his fingers and his tongue was unraveling you thread by thread. You shuddered, goosebumps rising across your skin, toes curling into the silk sheets beneath you.
His face was flushed when he pressed his nose against you, inhaling slowly like he was grounding himself in you.
“My love.. hmm- you smell so good.” A groan, low and helpless. His cock was throbbing and ignored in his pants. That didn’t matter. Not yet. Not tonight.
Pressure began to coil low in your stomach. Your moans came faster, less controlled, your body shuddering in waves. The dual sensation of his mouth on your chest and his fingers deep in your core was euphoric, and then his thumb found your clit, pressing slow, gentle circles against it.
You whimpered, startled by how sharp it hit.
“So needy.” His voice was soft. Not mocking, almost apologetic. “Has it really been that long? Don’t worry, love. I’m here now.”
Your hips lifted instinctively, chasing him, and he gave you exactly what you were asking for, driving his fingers deeper, thumb never faltering. He leaned over you then, his dark hair cascading around you both like a curtain, blocking out everything that wasn’t him.
“My gorgeous wife.”
He said it like he was reminding himself. Like he needed to hear it out loud.
He captured your lips and didn’t let go. Your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders as his fingers drew you closer and closer to the edge. Every moan that left you he swallowed hungrily, his quiet hums vibrating through your chest, his tongue sliding against yours, his body a furnace pressed to your skin.
The fire in your stomach crested, violent and sudden.
“Z-zuko.. hah! I’m coming—” A whimper into his mouth.
He pulled back just enough. “Come for me.” Barely a whisper against your lips. “Come for me, my wife.”
Your vision went white. Your body arched and shook, walls clenching around his fingers as he worked you through every wave, slow and steady, refusing to let go until you had given him everything.
You were still trembling, still buzzing with the aftershock of your release, when Zuko spread your thighs apart.
His touch was warm. His face was flushed. Every exhale left him in a faint curl of steam, involuntary and telling. He rutted his cock against your core, still clothed, just barely, a damp patch darkening the fabric, and the groan it dragged from him was low and pained. His fingers pressed firm into your thighs. Your lips shaped his name over and over without permission.
Then he pulled back and stripped slowly, deliberately.
He wanted you to look. So you did.
His body was all hard lines and warm brown skin in the candlelight, a thin sheen of sweat tracing every muscle, the deep cut of his hips drawing your eye downward to where he was hard and heavy and wanting tip flushed, veins prominent, aching for you.
He lined himself up at your entrance. His voice, when it came, was trembling.
“Tonight I’ll show you how much I love you.”
One thrust. That was all it took.
The stretch of him knocked the breath from your lungs, overwhelming and achingly familiar all at once, a feeling your body remembered even when your heart had begun to doubt. A broken sound escaped you before you could swallow it, and his arms tightened around you immediately.
He didn’t move. Not yet.
He couldn’t — not with the way you felt around him. Warm and real and his.
He had forgotten. Somewhere between the councils and the correspondence and the weight of a crown he never asked for, he had let himself forget this existed. That you existed, like this, wanting him, taking him in, still here after everything.
A stuttering breath fell from his lips.
“I’ll show you how much I’ve missed you.” Unsteady. Fractured. Like the words cost him something.
Then something shifted in his eyes.
His large hands spread your thighs wider, his gaze dropping, dark and consuming, stripped of everything but hunger. When he spoke again his voice had fallen to something low and rough and barely restrained.
“You’re going to take all of me tonight.”
He drove forward and didn’t stop
No hesitation. No easing in. His hips snapped into a punishing rhythm like a dam finally breaking, calloused hands locking your waist in place, holding you exactly where he needed you.
Your walls clenched and yielded around him in turns, pulling him back in with every withdraw like your body refused to let him go. Your eyes rolled. Coherent thought dissolved entirely.
“Ngh!!.. Zuko- ah! h-harder-”
The word had barely left your lips before something in him broke completely.
He pinned your wrists to either side of your head and fell apart. There was no other way to describe it, the way his hips rolled into you, hard and desperate and utterly without restraint, like a man with nothing left to protect.
His cock drove into you at an angle that made you jolt, a croaked moan tearing from your throat at every thrust. When your body began sliding back with the force of it he caught you immediately.
“No, no, nooo, my love,”
His hand found your throat, pulling you back onto him. “You wanted this, remember?” A deep, fractured groan. “So take it.”
He swallowed whatever sound you made next with a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness, biting at your lips, his tongue sweeping in and claiming every moan before it could escape.
You arched into him without thinking, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, refusing to let him stop.
“So needy for me, aren’t you?”
He released your throat and your wrists all at once, hands finding your leg instead, hauling it up against his chest like a claim. The shift rolled you onto your side, and the new angle stole whatever breath you had left. He drove deeper from here, harder, relentless in a way that blurred the line between pleasure and ruin. You fisted the silk sheets and held on.
His veined shaft dragged against your walls with every movement, slow enough on the pull back to make you feel every ridge of him before he drove forward again. Every thrust was enough to make your vision white at the edges.
Zuko tilted his head down, watching himself disappear into you, from the tip all the way to the base, your body taking him completely, greedily. His jaw was tight. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, obscene and relentless.
“My lovely wife.” His voice was wrecked. “Do you feel how much I love you? How much I missed you?”
He pressed a hot palm flat against your stomach — feeling himself move inside you from the outside, and something about that alone made your breath hitch.
“You were- mhm… made for me.” Low. Reverent. “Only ever for me.”
“Zuko- ahh!… it’s- it’s too much!” you whimpered.
“It’s not.”
His golden eyes found yours and held them. Unflinching. Certain.
“It’s not.”
He kept going, and all you could do was take it and unravel beneath him. The candlelight carved him open above you, every muscle thrown into sharp relief, sweat gilding his skin, making him look devastating and unreal and entirely yours.
You got wetter just looking at him.
“Tell me you love me.” He groaned the words more than spoke them, hips merciless, relentless, driving you into the sheets. “Tell me, my wife.”
“Oh!- o-oh god! ” you gasped when his tip grazed that spot, white flooding your vision.
Zuko’s jaw tightened.
“Wrong words.”
He drove forward — again, and again, and again.
The words spilled out between broken gasps, slurred and unguarded.
“I- I love you, Zuko-”
Like your mouth had stopped asking your brain for permission entirely.
He exhaled shakily against your calf, lips pressing a reverent kiss there.
“Say it again.” Barely a whisper.
But he didn’t wait for an answer — his thumb found your clit, pressing slow firm circles that made your whole body seize. The coil in your stomach snapped without warning.
“Zuko! Nngh!!… I’m coming-“
“Yeah?” His voice was wrecked, undone. “Come for me. Come on.”
Your back arched clean off the sheets. Broken sounds poured from you as your walls clenched around him, tight and desperate, pulling him in and refusing to let go. He groaned at the feel of it, deep and raw, like it had been dragged from somewhere he didn’t know he was holding.
The room was warm. Then warmer. Steam curled through the air around him, rising from his skin like something he could no longer contain. His pace grew sharp and precise, chasing both your highs with singular focus, hips stuttering as he began to unravel.
And then-
A sound tore from his throat that carried heat.
A small burst of flame spilled past his lips, involuntary, unstoppable, gone in an instant. His whole body shuddered and surrendered at once, spilling into you, filling you completely, his forehead dropping as the last of his control burned away entirely.
He had never , not once, lost it like that.
He collapsed beside you. The room was quiet except for the sound of you both breathing. The candles flickered. Steam still clung to the air around him, slow to dissipate, like even now his body hadn’t fully come back to itself.
You lay limp and undone beside your husband. Your husband, who had kissed your calf like a prayer. Who had said say it again like your love was something he was no longer sure he deserved to hear.
He turned his head toward you in the dim light, and for a moment he just looked at you, golden eyes soft and unguarded in a way the Fire Lord never allowed himself to be.
“I’m sorry.” Quiet. Rough around the edges. “It won’t happen again.”
You turned toward him slowly, body still warm and heavy with the afterglow.He was already looking at you. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to still be here.
You reached up and found his face in the dim light, thumb grazing the scar beneath it without hesitation, palm settling against his cheek. He exhaled slowly and leaned into your touch like something in him finally let go.
“Zuko.”
His eyes closed.
“I forgive you.”
He didn’t speak. He brought your hand to his lips instead, pressing a long, quiet kiss to your palm. Then he drew you into his chest without a word, arms wrapping around you with the quiet certainty of someone who intended never to let go again.
His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.
“Sleep,” you murmured, already drifting. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”
“I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
The candles burned low around you both. And for the first time in a long time, you slept soundly, tucked against the warmth of your husband, who held you through the night like you were the most precious thing in his keeping.
Because you were.
˚ˋঌ˖
A/N: This has to be the longest fic I have written so far omg. I wanted it to be soo perfect when I publish it for you guys.
Hope you liked what I did with involving Uncle iroh!! More writers should include him deadass!
I really hope that you guys liked it ! Love you byee
❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
❥ status: COMPLETED - 1st of April
❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.
⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕
ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵💫
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist • extra part of the story here
New York City does not care about your feelings.
This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.
You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.
What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.
The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.
You are fine.
“Good morning.”
His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.
Like he was waiting.
“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.
“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.
“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”
“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”
“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”
“You could.”
“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”
The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.
You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.
“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.
You turn back to your tablet and breathe.
Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:
He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.
He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.
He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.
He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.
He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.
This is the problem.
This is the entire problem.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”
“Clear it.”
You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”
“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”
You pause. “You want me to choose.”
“Is that not what I said?”
“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”
“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”
You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.
“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.
“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.
He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.
Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.
“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”
“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.
“You barely ate this morning.”
You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”
“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely—”
“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”
Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.
You close your mouth.
You book the table and then pick up your tea.
It is perfect.
You are in so much trouble.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.
Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.
He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.
The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.
“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.
“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”
He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”
“Three years,” you say simply.
Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.
“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”
Your heart catches.
I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.
“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”
Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.
“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”
A long pause.
“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.
You blink. “I just—”
“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.
And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.
Sylus listens to every word.
When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.
“What’s the address?” he says.
You study him. “Why?”
“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”
The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.
You give him the address.
You don’t know what he’ll do with it.
You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.
It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.
He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.
Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.
❝ You finally cave into letting Sylus take you shopping so he can spoil you, and it ends up making you discover something about yourself that you both end up enjoying... ❞
— 2.5k words | One-Shot (smut) | Sylus x Fem!Reader
[ cw: sugar daddy!sylus, daddy kink, semi-public sex, soft dom!sylus ]
Ao3 Link — ✦➳⋆
You stared at the obnoxious price on the beautiful, flowy, pink dress that you had been drawn to.
10000 gold.
Ten thousand gold. For a dress. Normally, you wouldn't even consider it. Normally, you wouldn't even be in a store that had these kind of prices. But…
"I see your eyes have caught something."
…You were currently shopping with a man where that sort of money was merely pocket change.
Sylus had already waved over one of the employees, informing her to add another dress to your selection in your reserved dressing room. Then, he looked at you with fond amusement. "Anything else catch your attention?"
You huffed. "Sylus, we've already picked out like…twenty dresses. I don't even want to know how much they're going to cost all together—"
"Kitten," he said, raising an eyebrow, "Last time I checked, you're not the one paying."
Your face flushed with heat. Yesterday, you had reluctantly agreed to let him finally take you shopping. It wasn't that you didn't like the things he bought, or that you didn't like shopping with him—it was that every time he spent his money on and spoiled you, you felt a fluttery feeling in your chest along with a haze in your mind that left you feeling…taken care of. And it scared you. "Shh! Not so loud," you hissed at him.
That made him chuckle, and he closed the gap between you. His fingers drifted across your cheek while he said softly, "There's no need for you to feel shame, sweetie. I like treating you to nice things."
Your close proximity in a public place made your palms sweat, and you had to advert your eyes from his. "I think I'm ready to try things on," you managed to say.
"Alright. If you're sure."
One of the employees led you both to your dressing room that was behind a white door. The reservation card had "Mr. Qin" in elegant lettering printed on it, and you don't know why, but it made your heart flutter. You pushed that feeling aside and followed Sylus into the room.
You couldn't stop the shocked gasp as it left you.
It was the size of your living room. There was a small couch and a fluffy rug in the middle of the floor, and a large full-body mirror with a gold frame was placed in front of it. All the dresses you and Sylus had picked out were off to the side, ready for you to try on. None of the tiny, cramped dressing "rooms" (more like stalls) you had been in could even think about being compared to this one.
You looked to Sylus, who was watching you with an amused smile.
"The dresses aren't going to get tried on by themselves, sweetie," he teased you.
You rolled your eyes, about to think of something to retort with, but as you looked over the dresses, and the ornate decorations, and the rug that was probably more expensive than your monthly rent, you were suddenly left feeling overwhelmed. You had no idea what you were doing. You didn't know where to start. Was there a specific, weird, rich person etiquette you were supposed to follow—
"Kitten?"
Your voice was timid as you finally spoke, "…I don't know what I'm doing."
You expected him to tease you over it, but instead, he was silent as he walked over to stand in front of you. His hands drifted up and down your sides, and his tone was soft. "You don't need to do anything. Let me take the lead, sweetie. Let me help you." His gentle fingers reached up to tilt your chin, making you look up at him. "The purpose of this is to spoil you, after all."
When he said things like that…it was impossible to resist. You nodded silently, leaning into his touch.
Then, his hands started to drift to the bottom of your shirt, slowly lifting it up off of you. And you let him. His eyes never left your face, observing every little change in your expression. Next was your skirt, and you knew that, but you still couldn't help the surprised noise that escaped you. At his raised eyebrow, you mumbled, "I can't help it…"
"Relax, kitten." He smirked. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."
You gave him a look before sighing. "I know, I know. It's just…We're still in public. Technically. I feel…exposed?"
His hands were firm on your hips. "No one is coming through that door without your permission. It's just you and me."
His words managed to calm some of your nerves, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself. With that, he slipped the fabric down your legs, leaving you in only your undergarments.
He looked over your body with heat in his eyes. "I almost don't want you to try anything on. You're perfect. Just like this."
As you blushed, you swatted at his arm, making him chuckle and pull away from you. Once he did, he moved to pick up one of the dresses. It was one of the more "casual" ones—relatively, at least—that you had picked out. A dress you could see yourself wearing on a fun date with him in Linkon during the day. "Let's start with this one," he said.
He guided you into it, and there was reverence in his touch as he made sure it was zipped and properly tied in the back. Then, once he finished, he smoothed the fabric down your hips with his hands, watching you in the mirror. "It looks very you, kitten."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" you jokingly asked.
His hands tightened their hold on your waist, and your heart fluttered in response. "Always a good thing. Always." His tone lost some of its weight as it turned more light. "I can see you excitedly spinning around in this after finally getting whatever plushie you set your eyes on."
"…I don't do that," you mumbled.
His chuckle brushed against your ear. "Whatever you say, sweetie."
With every dress you tried on, the more you got lost in Sylus' touch. You slowly grew addicted to how he was so careful as he dressed and undressed you. How he looked at you with utter devotion in his eyes in the mirror and complimented how beautiful you looked in every one. The chill of the store's AC couldn't take away from how warm you felt from the safety he made you feel.
Now, you were wearing an elegant, gorgeous dress in Sylus' colors: silky black with ruby accents. He had picked it out for you to try on, and now that you had, his hold had grown more possessive over you. "You don't have to get it if you don't want to," he whispered, "But I needed to see what it looked like on you. Just once."
"I take it you like this look on me?"
"Of course, I do, kitten. You look like mine."
Your breath stuttered at that. "I…I like it, too."
He sighed against you, nuzzling his nose against your cheek, and in the mirror you could see his pleased expression. "Yeah? You'll wear it for me the next time I take you to an auction?"
You didn't trust your voice and instead only nodded.
His hand traced across your skin around your collar bone. "Then we'll make sure to pick you out a matching necklace at our next stop."
Your eyes widened, and the haze that clouded your mind temporarily lifted. You turned to look at him and stepped away so you could place your hands on your hips. "Really? More stores?"
He raised an eyebrow at you. "I told you I was going to take you on a proper shopping trip, didn't I?"
"But…" you trailed off, not able to come up with an excuse that didn't reveal how you truly felt.
"Sweetie. I want to do this for you. And don't lie—I can tell you've been enjoying this, too. Be a good girl and just let me pamper you, won't you?"
There it was…that feeling again. What you had felt ever since you walked into the dressing room and let him take control. But now, it was even stronger, making your skin prickle and your bones feel like jelly. You tried to push it down, to ignore its terrifying existence.
You crossed your arms and let out a reluctant sigh, preparing to give in. But then…
"Yes, Daddy."
Immediately, you slapped your hand over your wretched, traitorous mouth. You had no idea where that came from. Had you said it to antagonize him? Or…had it come from your own desire, something you kept deep down, hidden away from yourself? Either way, your face was hot with embarrassment.
His eyes had widened slightly at what you called him before a fire lit in them. Suddenly, his evol was around you, pulling you back to him, and you gasped once your back was flushed to his front. One of his arms encircled your waist while his other reached up, hand gently holding your neck. His breath brushed across your ear as he spoke in a low tone, "Say that again."
"I…"
His low chuckle made a fire light inside you. "Don't tell me you lost your boldness already." Then, his voice dropped to a whisper that made your body shiver. "Won't you be a good girl for me?"
A pitiful whine managed to escape you, and all you could think was, "Fuck it." There was nothing you could do to take it back now, and the way he was holding you was making heat start to pool in your lower body…so you finally surrendered completely to the floaty headspace that had threatened to consume you ever since you walked into this store.
"Yes, Daddy," you whispered back.
"Fuck. The things you do to me, kitten…" he pressed against you harder, and you felt the proof of his arousal press against your back. His hand slipped through the slit of your dress and started to rub at your cunt through your underwear. At the wetness he found and the way you reacted to the sudden pleasure, a pleased hum escaped him. "I see I'm not the only one enjoying this. You like it when I spoil you, sweetie? When I take care of you like my good girl deserves?"
Your hot breath came out shaky. "Mm, yes, Daddy." You moved your hips back to press against his dick harder. "Please. I need you."
His finger moved the thin piece of fabric in his way before rubbing it across your slick cunt, making you moan. "You need me, hm? Need me how?"
He drew torturous circles around your clit, making you thrust against his hand without even thinking about it. "Need—ah! Mmm…need Daddy's cock."
His fingers started to spread you open, and the pleasureful stretch would have made your knees give out if he hadn't have tightened his hold around your waist. Moans spilled from your lips, and you reached up to clasp a hand around your mouth.
"Don't," he gritted out, and you could tell he was already started to lose his composure. "I want to hear you."
You whined, and your thighs quivered as he started to fuck you open with three fingers, massaging that spot over and over. "But…but what if they hear…"
"Don't worry about that."
His assault on your most sensitive nerves was making it difficult to get any words out. "Don't—fuck, Daddy, please don't stop—don't tell me you…you own the store…mmhm."
He was starting to grind his dick against your back, and his voice sounded breathless. "Would you like me to?"
By now, you were a woman possessed. "Yes, Daddy."
You felt him shudder against you and suddenly his evol was wrapped around you to strip you of your dress. The red mist that was normally precise and deadly now had a frantic, desperate edge to the way it moved. Once you were completely naked, his fingers slipped out of you, leaving you feel needy and empty. You heard the sound of his zipper being undone, and then you were being lifted in the air by his arms.
In one swift motion, he sat on the couch and lined your cunt up with his cock, slowly pushing it in. "Fuck, kitten," he said. "I can never get enough of you." He started to play with your nipples and you arched your back, slipping further down his cock. He let out a low groan before speaking again, "You want me to buy this whole store? Just for you? You want Daddy to have you try on every single dress with no else to see? To fuck you in them in front of this mirror?"
You nodded desperately. "Yes, Daddy. I want…I want you to buy me everything." You sunk further down on him, and the stretch made you see stars. "Daddy…" you whined.
In his own way, he was just as wrecked as you. "That's—fuck. That's right. I'll buy my good girl everything. Everything she wants." He grabbed your hips tightly and lifted you up slightly before pulling you back down again, and you both moaned in blissful harmony. "Just say the word, and it's yours, kitten."
Your surroundings blurred around you as you got lost in the feeling of him filling you up. "I…I want you, Daddy."
He started to press kisses against your back. "Shit—…Yes, I'm yours. You have me, kitten. Always. Fuck."
You could feel your orgasm building as your core tensed up. "So close. So close, Daddy."
His pace quickened. "Then cum for me. Be a good girl and cum for Daddy."
Finally, you tipped over the edge and your body started to spasm as waves of pleasure rolled over you. You knew you were moaning loudly, but you could barely hear yourself through the haze of white in your mind. Distantly, you could hear Sylus start to join you as he pulled you down hard on his cock one more time, and his cum started to spill into you.
"That's my good girl," he whispered in between deep moans.
Once your highs passed, he carefully moved you off of him, and before his cum could spill out of you and make a mess, his evol was already taking care of it. Once you felt the gentle touch of the mist dissipate, you turned around in his lap to face him. His face was flushed, and his eyes were half-lidded as he stared up at you with pure love.
He smiled up at you and spoke softly, "You're perfect, kitten."
His praise made you feel even warmer, and you curled up on his chest, letting his arms wrap around you. "I love you…Daddy." While you had both orgasmed, the fog in your mind was still there.
You felt his breath hitch before he whispered, "I love you, too. With everything I have to offer." He started to rub your back soothingly and placed a kiss on your forehead. "There's nothing I wouldn't give you. Even if what you wanted was my soul."
You hummed happily and snuggled in closer to him, making him chuckle softly. You knew you needed to get dressed so you could continue shopping, but in that moment, you just let yourself be his.
♱ summary: Your sister abandons her sons with a worthless brooch and broken promises. Twelve years later, you are desperate and bleeding, and you accidentally summon the archfiend trapped inside the brooch. He saves your dying nephews. Between magic and survival, between rose gardens and freedom, you learn some bonds transcend death and time.
♱ c/w: MDNI; non-mc reader; female reader; fairy tale au; mix of rumpelstiltskin/aladdin/beauty and the beast; historical au; fantasy au; sex worker!reader; archfiend!sylus; DARK ELEMENTS including: tw implied noncon (not with sylus), tw underage prostitution, tw underage pregnancy (not reader); mc is mei; reader has a sister; HEAVY ANGST (only in part one); angst with a bittersweet/hopeful ending; major character death/s; reincarnation; also inspired by sylus' third myth; most of the tags (dark) here will only be in part one, unbetad & unedited, 12k words.
♱ a/n: please mind the tags. the first part of this fic is going to be dark and angsty. the title is inspired by aimer's song hana no uta/花の唄 and partially by fate heaven's feel iii: spring song
♱ part one ➤ part two
♱ lads masterlist ♱ fairy tale aus masterlist ♱ AO3
I
There is a rose garden in Velmure that belongs to the merchant families on the hill.
You have never been inside it, but you know it exists because Amara brings home stolen petals sometimes.
Pink and white and deepest red, tucked in her pockets from the mornings she works in the merchant quarter.
She lays them on the windowsill of your shared room and they curl and brown within a day, but for those few hours they make the space smell clean instead of unwashed bodies and chamber pots and the acrid stench of poverty that gets into your clothes, your hair, your skin.
Your mother kept a rose cutting once.
A single pale stem in a cracked porcelain cup, roots suspended in water she changed each dawn. You remember watching her tend it, the gentleness in her roughened hands as she touched the thorns.
She died before it could take root properly.
The cup shattered three days after they buried her. You were six years old and clumsy with grief, reaching for it without looking. The cutting died on the floorboards in a puddle of cloudy water as you stared at it with teary eyes and helplessness.
Amara swept up the pieces without speaking.
Your father would be dead by the end of the week and neither of you knew it yet, though perhaps Amara suspected. She was always better at reading the signs.
He holds on longer than your mother, perhaps because he is stronger or perhaps because he is stubborn, but the outcome is the same.
The neighbours bring soup that no one eats and offer sympathy, but by the following Tuesday, a week after your mother died, the visits stop entirely.
People in the lower quarters cannot afford extended mourning.
There are living mouths to feed and rent to pay and the dead do not care whether you weep over them or move forward.
Amara understands this before you do.
She is ten years old and she sells everything.
The table your father built from scrap wood he traded for at the harbor. The cooking pot your mother brought from her village when she married him. The jade comb that belonged to her mother and her mother before her, its teeth worn smooth from generations of use. The bolts of silk your father imported from the Southern merchants, the ones he swore would make your fortune once the right buyer came along.
She sells it all to pay debts you did not know existed.
She keeps one thing.
A brooch, another one of your mother’s heirlooms.
A ruby set in tarnished silver, old enough that the origins have been forgotten. The clasp is sharp and catches on fabric and draws blood if you handle it carelessly. Your mother wore it once a year during midsummer celebrations and kept it wrapped in cloth the rest of the time, tucked in a drawer like a secret.
"We should sell this too," you say, watching Amara wrap it back in its cloth. "The jeweller said it might bring enough for two months' rent."
"No." Your sister’s voice leaves no room for argument.
"But we need..."
"It is ours." She closes her hand around it, careful not to be pricked by the clasp. "Everything else belonged to them, to the debts, to the people who are owed. This is the only thing that is really ours. We are keeping it."
She puts it in her pocket and that is the end of the discussion.
You move to a room in the almshouse in the streets behind the harbor, a space barely large enough for two sleeping mats and a small cooking area. It has one window that faces the alley, the glass is cracked and does not close properly, so wind comes through even when you stuff rags in the gaps. The walls are thin enough that you can hear everything from the rooms on either side, the arguments, the crying, the rhythmic creak of bedframes, the endless coughing.
Amara holds your hand on the first night and makes you a promise in the dark.
"I am not going to leave you," she says and her arms wrap around you and pull you against her chest, her voice earnest despite the way it shakes. "We are all we have now, just us. Do you understand?"
"Just us," you whisper into her shoulder.
"We are all we have," she says again, and it sounds like an oath. "Always."
You fall asleep believing her.
The lean years teach you what it means to be hungry.
Really, truly hungry.
The kind of hunger where you learn to make five copper coins last seven days through careful rationing and making choices about which meals to skip.
Amara works.
She is eleven, then twelve, then thirteen, and she works every hour the sun touches the sky and many hours after it sets.
She washes silk robes for the merchants' wives, standing at the public washing stones with her hands raw from the harsh lye soap they provide. Her hands are raw within the first week, red and swollen, knuckles split, fingertips cracked so deep you can see the pink beneath. The wives inspect her work with critical eyes, pointing out spots she missed or places where the fabric has been rubbed too hard. They pay her in copper that barely covers the cost of the soap.
She carries crates at the harbor where the trade ships dock. The work is brutal and the men do not want to hire a girl, but Amara is strong for her size and willing to work for half the pay. She hauls boxes of tea and spices and bolts of silk that smell like the East. She always comes home walking stiffly, her shoulders hunched forward, one hand pressed to her lower back.
She mends fishing nets for the old men who work the boats.This is the work she likes best because they are kind to her, these old men with weathered faces. They pay her in coin when they have it and salted fish when they do not. They tell her stories about the sea while she works, and sometimes she comes home smiling.
You help where you can.
You are small but you are quick, and quick has value in Velmure's harbor district. You run messages for merchants who need errands done. You sort through damaged goods at the market stalls, separating what can still be sold from what must be thrown away. You collect the roses that fall from the garden carts on their way to the merchant quarter, gathering petals for Amara because you know she loves them.
The work brings in copper, sometimes silver if you are lucky, but never enough.
Amara teaches you to read even though she can barely read herself.
She trades a full week's washing for a water-stained primer, the pages swollen and the ink faded but still legible. Every evening she sits with you by candlelight, sounding out the words slowly with her finger tracing each letter.
"You are going to be smart," she tells you one evening when you are struggling with a particularly difficult passage. She taps the page with one finger patiently. Her eyes are tired and she barely has any sleep but she is determined to teach you. "Smarter than me, smart enough to do something better than this."
"You are smart," you protest.
"I am stubborn." She grins at you, and for just a moment she looks her age instead of decades older. The grin makes her look like a child, and you suddenly remember that she is also a child like you, still just thirteen years old. "Stubborn and smart are different things. Smart finds a way out. Stubborn just survives."
"Then I will be both."
"Good. “ She taps the page again, more firmly this time. “Now read the next line."
You smile and read the next line.
You develop rituals.
Small things that make life bearable, things that belong to just the two of you.
Every Sunday at dawn, before the market crowds gather, you walk to the harbor together. Amara saves one copper coin each week for this. You buy two steamed buns from the vendor by the docks, the kind with pork and cabbage filling that are still hot enough to burn your tongue. You sit on the sea wall with your feet dangling, watching the fishing boats return, and eat your buns in silence.
This is your time, sacred and separate from the hunger and the work and the endless calculations about what you can and cannot afford.
Amara always gives you the bigger bun.
"Yours is smaller," you point out the first time you notice.
"I am bigger. I need less." She bumps her shoulder against yours. "Eat."
You eat, but the next week you try to give her the larger portion. She refuses. This becomes a small war between you, each trying to ensure the other gets more. Eventually you compromise by tearing each bun in half and trading pieces so you each have an equal share.
"There," Amara says, satisfied. "We are all we have. We share everything."
You laugh, and the sound feels strange in your throat, like something you have almost forgotten how to make.
On winter evenings when the wind howls through the cracks in the walls, you sit close together for warmth.
The cold is always brutal. Your room has one threadbare blanket and no fire. You cannot afford firewood and the landlord does not allow fires in the rooms to prevent the risk of the building burning down.
You lean against each other, shoulders touching, sharing the single threadbare blanket you own. Sometimes Amara tells you stories she remembers from your mother. Sometimes you read aloud from the primer, stumbling over difficult words. Sometimes you just sit in silence, listening to the wind and the distant sound of the harbor.
"What do you think about?" she asks you one evening when you have gone quiet for a long time.
"Different things. Better things." She squeezes your hand. "A place where we do not have to be cold. Where there is enough food. What about you?"
"I will be there too." Her voice is certain. "We are all we have. I am not going anywhere without you."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
The words become a mantra, a promise you make to each other in moments both ordinary and terrible.
When Amara comes home with split knuckles from a client who got rough, you clean the wounds with water you boil on the communal fire. You wrap her hands in strips of cloth torn from your own spare shirt. You sit with her while she stares at the wall, not speaking, just present.
"We are all we have," you whisper.
She squeezes your hand.
"All we have."
When you catch fever when you are nine and spend three days delirious, Amara sleeps sitting up beside your pallet. She bathes your forehead with cool water she pays precious coin to have brought from the well. She does not eat so she can afford the herbalist's remedies. She holds you when you thrash and cry out, murmuring the promise over and over.
"We are all we have. I am here. I am not leaving you. We are all we have."
You survive.
Amara had not doubted you would. She has a way of willing things into existence through sheer stubborn force.
You are ten when you realize Amara has stopped growing.
She is still getting taller, still changing, but something inside her has hardened into the shape of a much older woman. She moves with the weariness of someone who has lived decades instead of years. Her smiles come less frequently and the light in her eyes dim a little more each month.
Amara is sacrificing herself.
You can see it clearly now.
Piece by piece, bit by bit, she is trading parts of herself, her youth, her hope, her chance at anything better, to keep you fed and safe.
You want to tell her to stop.
You want to scream that she should save herself, that you are not worth this, but you are ten years old and you know that if you said this, it would hurt her worse than any client ever could.
So you become useful instead.
You take every job you can find. You stop asking for things. You make yourself as small as possible so you cost less to keep alive. You learn to read faster, work harder, need less.
If Amara notices, she does not say. She just pulls you close at night, her arms around you, and whispers, "We are all we have."
And you whisper back, "All we have."
You are eleven when you start to understand what Amara does after the sun sets.
She does not tell you directly, she does not need to.
You hear the fishwives whisper while you are folding their linens in the next room. Their voices are low but not low enough to hide the words. Whore. Harlot. You do not understand all the words, but you understand the judgment that sits heavy in their voices.
You see the way they look at your sister when she passes in the street, their eyes sliding over her with disgust barely concealed.
You notice the money that appears when there should not be any. You notice the bruises she tries to hide beneath long sleeves. You notice the perfume she wears that is not hers, cheap and too sweet, the scent so cloying it makes your nose itch. You notice the way she scrubs her skin raw in the public bath as though she is trying to wash away something else apart from dirt.
One evening she comes home later than usual with bread from the baker on the hill.
It is the expensive kind, with honey baked into the crust and sesame seeds scattered across the top, the kind you have only ever smelled from a distance but never had enough coin to buy. Now, the smell of it fills your small room.
You sit together on the floor and eat it without speaking. The bread is still warm and sweet and the honey is sticky on your fingers. You lick them clean, not wanting to waste a single drop.
Amara's sleeve has ridden up her arm and you can see the bruise on her wrist, finger-shaped, and another on her forearm that looks older and already fading.
She notices you staring and pulls the fabric down quickly.
"It is nothing," she says.
You set down your piece of bread. You reach across the small space between you and take her bruised hand in both of yours. You hold it carefully and you meet her eyes.
"We are all we have," you say. "Remember?"
Her breath catches.
"You cannot," she whispers. "You cannot follow me there. That is not..."
"I am not asking to follow. I am asking you not to carry this alone."
"I am the older sister, I am supposed to protect you."
"You are protecting me. You have been protecting me since I was six years old. I know what you do, Amara." You squeeze her hand. "And I am telling you that it does not change anything. We are all we have. Even if I cannot follow, I am still with you. You are not alone in this."
She pulls you into her arms, and she is trembling, you can hear her heartbeat against your cheek, hard and fast.
"I am so sorry," The words come out strangled and she presses her face into your hair."I am so sorry you have to know. I wanted to keep you safe from it. I wanted..."
"I know." You wrap your arms around her, holding her as tightly as you can. "I know what you wanted. I know what you are giving up, and I am telling you it is not your fault. None of this is your fault."
She cries and you hold her through it.
When the tears finally stop, you are both exhausted. You lie down on the sleeping mat together, your bodies curled close for warmth. Amara's cold, trembling hand finds yours in the darkness.
"We are all we have," she whispers.
"All we have," you whisper back.
After that night, things shift between you.
There is a new honesty now, a shared understanding. Amara stops trying to hide the bruises. You stop pretending not to see them. You develop a system.
On the nights when she comes home shaking, you heat water for her to wash with. You sit with her while she scrubs her skin. You hold her hand after, gently and patiently, giving her time to come back to herself.
On the nights when she comes home with extra coin, you let yourself eat a full meal without guilt. You understand now that refusing the food would only make her sacrifice meaningless.
On the nights when she cannot make herself go out, when the thought of another stranger's hands makes her shake too hard to stand, you do not judge. You just sit beside her and hold her hand and remind her that tomorrow exists. That she has survived every terrible thing so far. That she will survive this too.
"We are all we have," you say.
"Even here?" Her voice is so small, so childlike, she sounds like the ten year old girl who swept that broken teacup.
"Especially here."
The neighbourhood women start to respect Amara in a new way after you turn twelve.
They see how young she is and how long she has been doing this work. They see how hard she fights to keep you fed and housed. They see that she has not given up, has not disappeared into drink or powders the way some women do when the work becomes too much.
An old woman named Agnes starts leaving soup outside your door sometimes. The widow Maeve slips Amara an extra coin when she can. The women at the washing stones save the easiest work for her, the cleanest garments, the ones that do not require as much scrubbing.
They are all poor, they are all struggling, but they recognize one of their own, a girl trying to protect the most precious thing she has in a world determined to take it.
"Your sister is tough," Agnes tells you one day at the market. "She will survive this. She will survive anything."
You want to believe her.
You do believe her, mostly.
But you also see the way Amara is starting to go somewhere else. The way her smile takes effort and how she flinches sometimes when someone moves too quickly near her.
You are twelve years old and you are watching your sister disappear one piece at a time.
And there is nothing you can do to stop it.
The lover appears when you are thirteen and Amara is seventeen.
His name is Jian.
He is different from the start, and the difference is what makes Amara believe him.
He is wealthy, not merchant-class wealthy but comfortable, a man who works in the Eastern trade and has access to imported goods. He dresses well without being garish. His hands are clean, the nails trimmed, the calluses in places that suggest he handles ledgers instead of cargo.
He is kind to Amara.
This is what catches her first, not the gifts he gives her. His kindness and the way he speaks to her like her thoughts matter, like she is a person whose opinions have value.
Amara is beautiful.
This is not vanity or imagination, it is a simple fact.
Men have been watching her since she was too young for such attention, their eyes following her through the market. The establishment where she works most often keeps raising her rates because clients will pay whatever the madame asks.
You are pretty yourself.
People have told you this, but you are not Amara. There is something about your sister that draws eyes, something that makes people want to possess her.
And Jian wants more than possession.
You meet him on a summer evening when Amara brings him to your room.
She is nervous. You can see it in the way she smooths her skirt repeatedly, her hands fluttering without settling. This means he matters to her and that she cares what you think.
Jian bows to you when Amara introduces you, a gesture of respect that takes you by surprise.
"Your sister speaks of you often," he says. "It is good to finally meet you."
He brings food.
Fresh vegetables and cuts of meat and autumn pears not scraps or day-old bread, the only food that you and Amara can usually afford. He brings a blanket for you, thick wool dyed deep blue, and when you stare at it speechlessly he smiles and says every person deserves to be warm in winter.
He also brings books.
Bound volumes with sewn pages and intact covers, not the damaged castoffs you usually find in the trash. He asks what you are studying and when you tell him about the primer, he returns the following week with a collection of poetry and a history of the Western kingdoms.
"Knowledge should not be locked away," he says. "Take these, learn what you wish."
You watch the way Amara looks at him and your chest aches.
She is glowing.
After years of exhaustion and emptiness, she is alive again, and the transformation frightens you because you know how fragile happiness is and you know how quickly it can be taken away.
For the first time in years, Amara talks about the future, an actual future with plans and possibilities.
"Jian says he can buy out my contract," she tells you one evening, her voice hushed like she is afraid saying it too loudly will break the spell. She is sitting on your shared sleeping mat, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. "It will take time. The madame will not want to let me go. She makes too much money from my work, but he is saving. He promised."
"And then?"
"Then I will have a trade. A shop maybe. He says I am good with numbers. I could keep books for merchants, or I could do fine sewing, embroidery for wealthy families." She is talking faster now, excited. "Something respectable and safe, and you could apprentice somewhere, and learn a proper trade. We could have real lives."
"We?"
"Of course we." She takes your hand, threading her fingers through yours. "We are all we have. Remember? That does not change, even when things get better."
You want to believe it so badly it hurts.
You watch them together over the following months and you cannot find fault with Jian.
He is consistent. He visits regularly. He keeps his promises. He does not press Amara for anything she is not ready to give. He treats her with respect, speaks to her with affection, and includes you in their plans.
He describes a house with a red door and a small garden where Amara can grow things.
"Roses," he suggests one evening. He looks at her, his eyes soft. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "You like roses. We could plant them, as many as you want."
Amara's eyes fill with tears.
"Roses."
"Dozens of them, hundreds, every color that exists."
She laughs and cries at the same time, and Jian pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Over her shoulder, his eyes meet yours.
"You will have your own room," he says to you. "With a proper window and a door that closes. A place to keep all those books I keep bringing you."
"You do not have to..."
"I want to." You can hear it in his voice that he means it."Amara loves you, that means I want good things for you too. It is that simple."
You believe him.
This is your mistake.
You let yourself hope. You let yourself imagine it.
The three of you in a house with a red door. Amara finally free from the work that is slowly killing her. You with books and time to read them. Safety. Warmth. Enough food that you do not have to think about every bite.
You let yourself believe that maybe, finally, something good is allowed to happen.
Amara stops taking as many clients.
She is saving herself, she explains. For Jian. For the future they are building. She still works enough to pay rent and buy food, but she is more selective now. She refuses the rough ones, the ones who leave her shaking. She sets boundaries she has never been able to set before.
The madame at the establishment is not pleased, but Amara is beautiful enough that even working less, she brings in more than most of the other women. The madame tolerates it because losing Amara entirely would cost more than allowing her this small rebellion.
You watch her come back to life.
It is like watching spring arrive after an endless winter. She smiles more. She hums while she works. She talks about what kind of flowers she will plant, what colors she will paint the walls, whether the market is better on Tuesdays or Thursdays for buying fabric.
One evening she takes your hand and says, "In the new house, we will have a proper kitchen. I will learn to cook real meals, the ones Mother used to make. Do you remember?"
"I remember." You still remember the smell of them. The warmth. Your father’s laughter in the small kitchen in your old house and the way your mother hummed while she cooked.
"We will make them together. You and me. Just us. Like always."
"We are all we have," you say.
"Not for much longer." She squeezes your hand. "Soon we will have more. Soon we will have everything."
You lean against her and let yourself believe.
The establishment discovers Amara is pregnant in late autumn.
You are not there when it happens. You are at the market, trading your morning's work for rice and vegetables, when Amara's friend Cassia finds you.
"You need to come," Cassia says, her voice shaking. "They threw her out. The madame found out about the baby."
You run.
You find Amara standing in the alley behind the establishment with everything she owns stuffed into the same canvas sack you have carried since your parents died. Her face is blank, empty of emotion, and that terrifies you more than tears would have.
"What happened?"
"The madame found out I am carrying a child." Her voice is hollow. "She says pregnant women damage business. She says we owe her money. For the room. For the clothes. For breathing her air while I worked. The debt follows us."
The amount she names makes your stomach drop.
You reach for her hand, her fingers are ice cold.
"Did you send word to Jian?"
"I sent word this morning." She is staring at the wall across from you, her eyes unfocused. "He will come. He promised he would take care of us. He will come."
He does not come that day.
Or the next.
Amara writes letters on paper she can barely afford, ink she borrows from a scribe who takes pity on her. She addresses them to Jian's place of work, to the trade house where he said he keeps an office.
The letters return unopened.
The red wax seals are intact, unbroken. He has not even looked at them.
You watch the light drain from Amara like watching a candle burn down. Slowly at first, then all at once, until there is nothing left but smoke.
She stops talking about the house with the red door. She stops mentioning the shop he promised. She stops saying his name except in moments when she forgets and reaches for hope that is no longer there.
She sits with her hands on her swelling belly and stares at the wall for hours. You try to talk to her and she does not respond nor does she react if you try to touch her shoulder. It is as though she is not quite here anymore.
"Amara," you say one evening. "Talk to me. Please."
She does not answer.
"We are all we have," you try desperately. "Remember? You and me. We are all we have."
She turns to look at you finally, and her eyes are empty.
"I know," she whispers. "I am sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"For believing we could be more than that."
Winter comes.
You find a room in the streets behind the pleasure district. It is smaller than your last place, barely large enough for two sleeping pallets, but the rent is cheaper and the landlord does not ask questions.
The neighbourhood is dangerous.
You learn this quickly.
Men who drink too much and get violent. Women who disappear and are found days later in the harbor. Children who vanish and are never found at all.
You start taking precautions.
You walk home before full dark whenever possible. You keep a gutting knife tucked in your boot, the one you stole from the fish market, small but sharp, enough to injure and give you time to rum. You make friends with the other women in the building, trading favours and information, who to avoid, which streets to never walk alone,where to hide if someone comes looking for you.
You bar the door at night with a plank of wood wedged beneath the handle. You check it twice. Three times. You do not sleep well. Every sound makes you jolt awake, your hand already reaching out to the gutting knife.
Amara is too pregnant to work.
The weight of the child, or children, as the old midwife who examines her suggests, makes movement difficult. She cannot stand for long without her back aching. She cannot lift or carry. She cannot do any of the work that kept you both fed.
You take over everything.
The washing at the public stones, your hands cracking and bleeding from the soap. The hauling at the harbor, crates that make your shoulders scream. The mending, working by candlelight until your eyes blur and you fall asleep with a needle still in your hand.
It is not enough.
You eat once a day and give the rest to Amara because needs to keep her strength for the baby. You skip meals until the dizziness becomes normal, until hunger stops being a sensation and starts being a state of existence you cannot remember being without.
An old woman named Aislinn lives in the room next to yours.
She is ancient, her face a map of lines and her hands knotted with age, but her eyes are kind and she easily notices things.
She notices when you go days without eating. She notices when Amara cries quietly at night. She notices when you come home limping because you twisted your ankle hauling cargo and could not afford to stop working.
She brings you soup sometimes. Thin but hot, made from bones she boils multiple times to extract every bit of flavour. She asks nothing in return. She simply appears at your door with the pot, hands it over with both hands, and then walks away.
"I had daughters once," she says one evening, handing you a bowl. "They are gone now, but I remember what it was like. Trying to keep young ones alive when the world is determined to take them."
"Thank you," you whisper.
"No thanks needed, child. Just promise me you will eat it instead of giving it all to your sister."
You promise, though you still give half to Amara.
The twins are born in early spring on a night when rain hammers the roof of your rented room.
Amara's water breaks just after sunset. The pains start immediately and she grips your hand so tightly you feel bones grind.
Aislinn comes when you knock on her wall, appearing in her nightclothes with her grey hair loose around her shoulders. She takes one look at Amara and starts giving instructions.
"Boil water. Find every clean cloth we have. Bar the door so no one disturbs us."
You do as she says. Your hands shake. The fire will not catch at first because the wood is damp. You have to blow on it and waste precious time waiting as the water takes forever to heat.
The labour lasts hours.
Amara screams until her voice breaks.
She curses Jian, curses you, curses the gods who let this happen. She begs for it to stop. She cries for your mother.
You hold her hand through all of it. You wipe the sweat from her face. You tell her she is strong, she is doing well, she is almost there. You lie when necessary. You tell the truth when you can.
Aislinn remains calm throughout, her weathered hands steady as she guides the babies into the world.
The first twin comes just after midnight.
He is loud from his first breath, wailing, his face red and furious. His fists clench and unclench like he is already preparing to fight.
The second follows minutes later.
He is silent and does not cry. His eyes open immediately, dark and watchful, as if taking measure of the world he just entered.
Aislinn cleans them and wraps them in the cloths you found, old shirts torn into strips, worn but still clean. She tries to place them in Amara's arms but Amara turns her face to the wall.
"I cannot," The whisper is broken. "Please. I cannot."
Aislinn looks at you.
You are fourteen years old and you do not know what to do, but you hold out your arms anyway.
She places the first twin in your arms. The loud one.
He is impossibly small. He fits in the crook of your elbow perfectly and weighs almost nothing. When he grabs your finger his grip is strong. He stops crying when you hold him.
Then the second, quieter but no less present, his unseeing newborn eyes somehow turn toward you as if he sees you.
You hold them both, one in each arm, and you think, I will die before I let anything hurt both of you.
Amara does not look at them.
"She needs rest," Aislinn says quietly as she squeezes your shoulder gently, "Let her rest. We can try again in the morning."
But morning comes and Amara still will not look at them.
The first months are impossible.
The twins need constant feeding, constant changing, constant holding. They cry in shifts so there is always one of them screaming. They sleep in fragments so you sleep in fragments. Minutes stolen here and there between feedings and changings and the endless cycle of need.
Amara cannot help.
Something broke inside her during the birth. She bleeds for weeks. She cannot stand for long without getting dizzy. She sits and stares at nothing.
You try to get her to nurse the babies but her milk never comes in properly. You have to supplement with goat's milk bought at prices that make you want to scream.
You ask her what names she wants for them, she does not answer.
You ask her to hold them, just once, she turns her face away.
You beg her to help you, she closes her eyes.
After a week, you stop asking.
So you name them yourself.
Luke and Kieran.
Names from one of the books Jian gave you, the ones you have already sold to buy firewood. Characters in fairytales, heroes who were loyal and brave and good. You hope the names will protect them somehow, give them strength for the hard world they were born into.
You work during the day while Aislinn watches the twins.
The old woman refuses payment, waving away your attempts with a gnarled hand.
"I am old," she says. "I cannot do much anymore. Let me do this. Let me hold babies and tell them stories. It keeps me feeling useful."
So you work the harbor, the washing, the mending while Aislinn watches the twins in your sister's place.
You work every job you can find. You come home at dusk and take over so Aislinn can rest. You feed them and change them and walk when they will not stop crying. Pacing the small room, bouncing them gently, singing songs you half-remember from your mother. Your voice is hoarse. Your arms ache. You fall asleep sitting up with a baby on your shoulder and wake when the other one starts wailing.
You are fourteen years old.
You fall asleep sitting up with a baby on your shoulder and wake when the other one starts wailing.
You are fourteen years old.
Your body hurts in ways you did not know were possible.
Your breasts ache from binding them too tight while you work. Your shoulders scream from carrying heavy loads. Your hands crack and bleed. You are so tired that sometimes you forget where you are, standing at the washing stones and blinking at the water until someone asks if you are well.
But the babies are alive, and that is all that matters.
Amara watches nothing.
She sits. She stares. She breathes.
You try to reach her.
"We are all we have," you say, kneeling beside her sleeping mat, one late evening after you have put the twins to sleep. You take her limp hand in yours, rubbing warmth into her cold fingers."Remember? You and me. We are all we have. Please come back."
She does not respond.
You try again.
"The babies need you. I need you. Please, Amara. Please."
Nothing.
"I cannot do this alone," you whisper and press her hand to your cheek. "I am fourteen. I do not know how to keep them alive. I need help. I need you."
She pulls her hand away and turns to face the wall.
Amara stops eating unless you force food into her hands. She speaks rarely, and when she does, it is only to whisper Jian's name, to ask if he has sent word, if he has come back.
He has not. He will not.
You know this, but you do not say it.
The twins are three months old when you wake to find Amara gone.
You know immediately something is wrong.
The twins are sleeping in their basket, tiny fists curled against their faces. They have started smiling recently and making small cooing noises.
Amara's pallet is empty. Her blanket is folded neatly at the foot, the way she always folds it. Her shoes are missing and her shawl is gone.
There is something on the table.
The ruby brooch, the one she swore would never be sold, sitting next to a note written in her careful handwriting.
Sell this. It should keep them fed until I send for you. I am sorry. I will come back. I promise.
You read it three times.
Your hands are shaking and the paper trembles, making the words blur.
We are all we have.
Except now it is just you.
You sit on the floor with the note in one hand and the brooch in the other. The twins are sleeping peacefully, unaware that their mother has left them.
You do not cry.
You cannot cry, because if you start you will not stop, and there are two babies who will wake soon and need to be fed, and you are the only person left in the world who will feed them.
You fold the note and put it in the drawer.
You wrap the brooch back in its cloth and place it beside the note.
You stand and start preparing the goat's milk for when the twins wake.
Days pass, then weeks, then months.
Amara does not send for you. She does not write nor does she come back.
But you keep waiting.
You take the brooch to three different jewellers over the course of a month, hoping one of them will tell you it is worth more than the others claimed.
They all say the same thing.
The stone is flawed, they explain, pointing to imperfections you cannot see without a glass. The setting is old, tarnished beyond easy repair. It might bring enough to feed you for a month, perhaps two if you are careful.
You do not sell it.
You cannot.
It is the last piece of Amara you have.
The only proof that she existed, that she loved you once, that the promise she made was real even if she could not keep it.
You tuck it back in the drawer beside the note and you raise the boys yourself.
You are fifteen when you realize you cannot do this alone anymore.
The boys are six months old. They have started sitting up on their own, babbling to each other in a language only they understand. They reach for you when you come home and then cry when you leave.
They are beautiful.
Luke is loud and always moving, grabbing at everything within reach. Kieran is quieter, more watchful, but just as curious. They are starting to look like people instead of just babies, their features finally defining themselves. Luke has your father's nose. Kieran has Amara's eyes.
You love them with a ferocity that frightens you.
But love is not enough to pay rent.
Love does not buy goat's milk or firewood or the medicine Kieran needs when he develops a cough that will not stop.
You have tried every kind of work available to you.
The washing barely makes enough to cover soap costs. The hauling has dried up because the men at the harbor say you are too small and too weak, and they would rather hire boys who can lift more. The mending, however kind the old men are, only brings in copper but never silver.
Aislinn watches the boys during the day but she is getting frailer. Her hands shake more often. She falls asleep mid-afternoon and does not wake for hours. You know she cannot do this forever.
Eventually, the money you saved runs out.
You sit on the floor one evening with the ledger you keep, adding the numbers over and over, hoping they will change. They do not change. In two weeks you will not have enough for rent. In three weeks you will not have enough for food.
You look at the twins sleeping in their basket.
Six months old and too young to understand or remember if something happens to you.
You make a decision.
The Crimson House is a three-story building with crimson shutters and lanterns that glow like coals after dark.
You have walked past it a thousand times. You know what it is.
Everyone knows what it is.
You stand outside for a long time before you can make yourself climb the steps.
You think about Amara.
You think about the bruises and the empty eyes and the way she scrubbed her skin raw trying to feel clean after she returns home each day.
You think about the promise you made to each other, the mantra you whispered in the dark.
We are all we have.
This is what Amara did to keep you alive, the price she paid.
And now it is your turn.
You climb the steps.
The madame is a woman named Luo, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, draped in silk that whispers when she moves. She looks you over the way merchants examine fabric at the market.
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen," you lie. You are fifteen but tall for your age.
"Have you done this work before?"
"No."
"Good. Easier to train you properly." She continues her examination, tilting your face toward the light. "Pretty enough, not a beauty like your sister was, but still pretty and fresh faced. Men will pay for that. We can work with this."
She explains the terms.
Room and board provided on the upper floor. Clothes and cosmetics supplied. Training in the arts of pleasing men. All of it on credit. The debt starts today and grows with every meal you eat, every dress you wear, every candle you burn.
You will work to pay it down but the interest is calculated to ensure you never quite manage. This is how they keep everyone.
"I have children," you say before you can stop yourself. "Two boys. Babies. I cannot live here. I need to go home to them every day."
Luo's eyes narrow.
"Children are a complication."
"They will not be a complication. I swear it. I just need to go home to them after my work is done. I will be here every evening. I will work as many clients as you require. I will do everything you ask. Just let me go home to them. Please."
Luo considers this.
The calculation is visible on her face.
Women who live on-site are easier to control, but they also cost more to house and feed.
A woman who maintains her own lodging saves the establishment money, and desperate women work harder, take fewer liberties, and cause less trouble.
"You will arrive by sunset every evening," Luo finally decides. She grips your chin tightly, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You will work until dawn. You will accept every client I assign. You will not refuse anyone for any reason. If you miss a night, the debt triples. If you fail to satisfy a client, the debt doubles. If you bring your personal problems into this establishment, you are finished. Do you understand?"
"I understand." You respond, your voice distant.
"Sign here."
You sign your name in the ledger.
Your hand does not shake.
The training lasts for five days.
An older woman named Lira teaches you what to expect, how to move, how to breathe through it when it hurts. She is matter-of-fact and brusque but never cruel.
"You have to separate yourself from your body," she says on the second day. "Whatever they do, it is happening to flesh and bone, not to you. You are somewhere else. You are watching from a distance. You are untouchable."
"Does that work?"
"Sometimes.” She shrugs, but you see the pity in her eyes. “When it does not, you endure, that is all anyone can do."
She teaches you techniques. The ways to breathe, where to put your mind, how to make sounds that men want to hear even when you feel nothing, how to move so it ends faster, how to clean yourself after, how to hide the pain.
You think about Amara.
You think about the way she used to stare at nothing after coming home.
You think about the distance in her eyes.
This is what she learned. This is how she survived.
And now you will learn it too.
The first client is a merchant who reeks of wine and fish.
He is neither cruel nor gentle. He uses your body the way he might use a tool. You stare at the ceiling while he works.
You pretend you are somewhere else, somewhere far away. You think about the boys. About the way Luke smiles when you come home. About the way Kieran's hand feels in yours. About keeping them fed. About keeping them alive.
We are all we have.
The words echo in your head like a ghost.
This is what Amara did and now you have followed.
When the merchant finishes he leaves money on the table and goes without speaking.
You collect the coins and clean yourself and prepare for the next one.
The walk home at dawn becomes the marker of your divided life.
The Crimson House to your rented room, the woman men pay for, to the woman the boys know.
You shed one skin and pull on another in the space of twenty minutes walking through narrow streets that smell of salt and garbage and yesterday's fish.
Sometimes, you stop by at the baker on the way home. You buy two loaves of bread with your night's earnings. Milk when you can afford it. The baker knows you and what you do. You can see it in her eyes, but she does not say anything. She just takes your money, her fingers brushing yours briefly, and hands over the bread.
The boys are usually awake when you arrive. Luke cries because he is hungry. Kieran watches you with solemn eyes.
You pick them up, one in each arm, and hold them while you heat the milk.
This is your life now.
Two lives. Split down the middle. Night and day. The Crimson House and home.
The woman who endures and the woman who loves.
The months pass into years.
The boys grow from babies to toddlers, from toddlers to small children who run and play and fight and laugh. You watch them change, day by day, minute by minute, and you mark time by their milestones instead of seasons.
Luke's first steps at ten months, stumbling toward you with his arms outstretched and a grin on his face. Kieran's first word at eleven months, not mama or dada but "birb," pointing at something outside the window. Their first full sentences. Their first questions. Their first fights with each other that end in tears and reconciliation five minutes later.
You love them so much it hurts.
They call you Mama at first because you are the only mother they have ever known.
"No," you tell them gently, every time. "I am not your Mama. I am Big Sis."
"Why?"
"Because your Mama is someone else, someone who loves you but cannot be here right now."
"Where is she?"
"I do not know, but when she comes back, she will want you to remember that she is your Mama and I am your Big Sis."
They do not understand but they are young enough that repetition works, and eventually it sticks. You are Big Sis and the woman who is gone is Mama, a figure from stories, someone they wait for without really knowing who she is.
You wonder sometimes if Amara will come back and find her sons do not remember her voice.
You wonder if she will come back at all.
There is almost something with a client named Nishant.
He is younger than most of your clients, perhaps twenty-five, with a scholar's soft hands and a gentle manner. He pays Luo double to ensure he gets the full evening with you and no interruptions.
He requests you specifically every week.
He talks to you like you are a person whose thoughts matter. He asks for your opinions on the books he brings. He tells you about his work as a merchant's clerk, about his family in the provinces, about his dreams of eventually opening his own trading house.
He is kind.
He does not hurt you during the times when talk leads to what you are paid to do. He asks first. He checks if you are well and touches you ever so gently.
You start to look forward to his visits.
This is a mistake.
You realize it one evening when he smiles at you over a shared cup of tea and your heart does something it should not. A flutter, a pull, the beginning of a feeling you cannot afford to have.
You are falling for him.
Or you could fall for him, if you let yourself. If you allow the possibility and forget for even a moment what you are and what he is and the gulf between you.
You stop it before it can start.
The next time he comes, you are professional. You accept the book he brings but do not discuss it. Your answers to his questions are short and brief. You perform the services he paid for and nothing more.
He notices the change immediately.
"Did I do something wrong?" His brow furrows. “Have I offended you?”
"No."
"Then why..."
"This is what I am," you interrupt curtly. "This is what we are. You pay. I provide a service. That is all this can be."
"It does not have to be..." He leans forward, earnest and hopeful and his hand reaches for yours.
"Yes. It does." You meet his eyes and make sure he sees the finality there. "I have two boys to raise. They are my only priority. There is no room for anything else."
He stops coming to the establishment after that.
You tell yourself it is for the best and that you made the right choice.
You tell yourself the ache in your chest is just fatigue and it will pass.
Twelve years pass.
You are twenty-seven years old now and you are aging out at the establishment.
Luo reminds you of this regularly.
You have a year left, perhaps less, after that you are too old. The men want younger faces. You will need to find other work.
The debt remains.
Twelve years of work and you have barely made a dent. The interest accumulates faster than you can pay and you will die owing Luo money.
You do not tell the boys this.
You do not tell them that in a year, maybe less, you will have no income and no plan and a debt that follows you like a shadow.
You just keep working, keep coming home at dawn, and keep pretending everything is fine.
The twins are almost twelve now.
They are no longer babies or toddlers or even young children. They are growing into themselves, into the people they will become.
Luke is loud and fearlessly blunt. He says exactly what he thinks and cannot understand why adults dance around the truth. He makes friends easily and gets into fights just as easily, especially when someone insults you or Kieran. He comes home with bruises and grins and stories about how the other boy started it but he finished it.
Kieran is quiet and watchful and reads everything he can get his hands on. He remembers everything he reads. When he looks up from a page of a new book he is reading, the gravity in his face makes you ache.
They think you work as a serving girl in a merchant's house.
You leave at sunset and return at dawn and tell them you are cleaning or serving dinner or helping with the household accounts. They accept this because they are children and children believe what their adults tell them.
You will correct this lie eventually, when they are older and when you find the right words.
But for now, you let them believe their Big Sis does honest work for honest pay.
Luke runs errands for the dock workers, carries messages, hauls nets when they need extra hands. He is strong for his age, quick and willing. He brings home copper and silver and sets it on the table with pride.
Kieran helps the apothecary, sorting herbs, learning remedies, reading from the ancient texts the old man keeps. He is paid less than Luke but he is learning skills that might serve him better in the long run.
They should not have to work.
They should be learning to read and write properly, apprenticing to trades, preparing for futures that are better than this.
But they work because you cannot give them better, because the system is designed to keep you trapped. And no matter how hard you fight, how much you sacrifice, it is never quite enough.
You keep the ruby brooch in the drawer beside your bed.
You take it out sometimes when the boys are asleep and hold it in your palm. The stone is dark and the clasp is still sharp. It has drawn your blood more than once over the years.
Beside it is Amara's note, the paper has wrinkled and ink is fading from time and handling. You unfold it sometimes, smoothing the creases with your fingers.
I will come back. I promise.
Twelve years and you are still waiting.
You do not know why, but you cannot let go of the hope, thin and threadbare as it is, that someday the door will open and she will be there and everything will make sense.
You wait anyway.
That is what love does.
It makes you keep promises even after the other person has broken theirs.
We are all we have.
Luke falls ill on a Tuesday.
It starts with a cough, nothing unusual.
Coughs are common in the cramped quarters of the lower districts, especially as winter approaches. You make him drink willow bark tea. He hates it but he drinks it anyway, his face scrunching. You wrap him in the blanket Jian gave you all those years ago, the blue one, that has become faded now, threadbare, but still warm. You tuck it around him, smoothing it over his shoulders. You expect it to pass.
It does not pass.
By evening, his skin is hot to the touch.
By midnight, he is burning.
You sit beside his sleeping mat with a basin of cool water. You wring out cloths. Press them to his forehead. They warm within minutes. You wring them out again. Again. Again. But the fever continues to climb. Luke tosses and turns, crying out in his sleep.
Kieran hovers nearby, watching with wide eyes.
"Is he going to be all right?" he asks.
"Yes," you lie. "The fever will break soon."
It does not break.
You work that night at the establishment because you cannot afford to miss. The debt triples if you fail to appear. You work with your mind elsewhere, counting the hours until you can return home.
Luo notices. Always. She grabs your chin, forcing you to look at her.
"You are distracted.” Her eyes narrow.
"I am sorry. It will not happen again."
"See that it does not. Men pay for your attention."
You give them your attention. You give them your body. You give them everything they pay for, and when dawn comes you collect your coins and run home.
Luke is getting worse.
"How long has he been this way?" You kneel beside his mat. Your hand goes to his forehead. The burning is worse than before. You cup his face, feeling the heat radiating from him.
"All night." Kieran's voice is strained. He has not slept, eyes are red-rimmed. "I tried to give him water but he would not drink."
You try again. Luke turns his head away, delirious.
This is when you know you need a physician.
You count the coins you have saved. It is not nearly enough, but you go anyway, walking to the physician's house on the hill, the one who treats the merchant families.
He looks at you from his doorway, taking in your dress, your exhaustion, the desperation in your eyes.
"Twenty silver," he says, voice bored and crosses his arms. "For the visit and the medicine."
You have twelve.
"Please," you beg. "My nephew is very sick. I can pay half now and the rest..."
"Twenty silver. All of it. Now."
"I will have it in three days. I swear. I work every night. I can..."
He closes the door in your face.
You try two other physicians.
One will not even open the door. You can see him through the window. He looks at you then pretends he did not hear you knock. The other offers to examine Luke for fifteen silver but the medicine will cost another ten. Twenty-five total.
You do not have twenty-five silver.
So you go to the herbalist instead. She is kinder and does not look at you with contempt. She sells you a tonic that might bring down the fever, ingredients you recognize from Kieran's studies with the apothecary.
It costs eight silver, and now you have four left.
"Give him this three times a day," the herbalist tells you. "If the fever does not break in two days, come back."
But you will not have money to come back, you both know this. She is being kind, giving you hope that you cannot afford.
You hurry home.
You force the tonic down Luke's throat. He coughs and sputters but swallows some of it, but it should be enough.
You wipe his chin, his neck where it spilled.
"This will help." You brush the hair from his forehead, smoothing it back. It is soaked with sweat. "This will make you better."
Then you work that night, and the next, and the next. You work and come home and tend to Luke and work again. No sleep. No food. You work and worry and watch him burn.
Three days pass.
Luke's fever does not break. It climbs higher. You watch him burn, helpless, applying cool cloths that warm within minutes. The tonic is gone and you have no money left for more.
On the fourth day, Kieran breaks.
He has been so strong, so composed, helping you change the cloths, making Luke drink when he can, reading quietly in the corner to give you both something normal to hold onto, but on the fourth day, he looks at his brother's flushed face and snaps.
"He is going to die," Kieran whispers, sinking to the floor beside Luke’s sleeping mat.
"No. He is not." You believe it because you have to, because the alternative is unthinkable.
"He is going to die and there is nothing we can do." Kieran's voice breaks and he looks at you with tears in his eyes. "We do not have money for the physician. We do not have money for more medicine. We are just going to sit here and watch him die."
"Kieran..."
"We are all we have and it is not enough. It has never been enough."
You pull him into your arms and he sobs against your shoulder, eleven years old and terrified and so tired of being strong.
"I am sorry," you cry into his hair. "I am so sorry."
You hold him until the tears stop, then you go back to work.
On the fifth day, Luke's fever breaks.
You wake from a brief, exhausted sleep to find him looking at you with clear eyes. He reaches for your hand.
"Big Sis?"
You press your hand to his forehead. Cool. Still warm, but not burning. The fever has finally broken. Finally. You take his face between your hands, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose.
"You are all right." Relief floods through you. Overwhelming. Devastating. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him against your chest. "You are going to be all right."
Luke is weak, wrung out from five days of fighting the illness, but he is alive. He drinks the broth you make. He stays awake for short periods. He even smiles at Kieran when his brother sits beside him, taking his hand.
You allow yourself to believe the worst is over.
On the sixth day, Kieran's fever begins.
He wakes with the same cough.
By afternoon, his skin is hot.
By evening, he is burning just like his brother did.
No.
No no no no no.
You check your coin. Four copper pieces, not even enough for a single dose of the herbalist's tonic. Not enough for anything.
We are all we have.
The thought whispers through your mind like a curse.
We are all we have and it is not enough.
You work that night even though leaving Kieran feels like tearing off your own skin. Luke is too weak to tend his brother, too weak to do anything but lie on his mat and watch. You have no other choice.
You come home at dawn to find both boys feverish now. Luke's fever has returned, weaker than before but still there. Kieran is worse, thrashing on his sleeping mat, calling for you.
Seven days pass.
You do not sleep.
You work at night and tend the boys during the day, snatching minutes of rest when your body gives you no choice. Your hands shake. Your vision blurs. You stop eating because there is barely enough food for the boys.
Kieran is dying.
You know this the way you knew your parents were dying when you were six. The way the body changes when it is losing the fight. The way the fever stops being something the person is fighting and becomes something they are drowning in.
Luke watches his brother with terrified eyes. He reaches for your hand, gripping it.
"Big Sis," he whispers hoarsely. "Make him better. Please."
"I am trying."
"Try harder."
You have nothing left to try with.
On the seventh night, your hand finds the brooch.
You do not remember taking it from the drawer.
One moment you are sitting beside Kieran's sleeping mat, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow, labored breaths. The next moment the brooch is in your hand, the metal cold against your palm.
Amara left this.
Amara, who promised she would come back.
Amara, who lied.
Sell this. It should keep them fed until I send for you.
Your fingers tighten around it, the sharp clasp digs into your palm.
Why did you hold onto this useless thing for twelve years when you could have sold it? You could have used whatever money it brought for food or medicine or anything. Why? What was the point? What did it get you?
Nothing.
It got you nothing.
Amara never came back. She never sent for you nor did she keep her promise, and now Kieran is dying and this ugly useless thing is all you have left.
Pain.
It comes suddenly, making you gasp.
The clasp has pierced your skin and your blood wells up, bright red in the candlelight, and it drips onto the ruby.
The stone absorbs it.
You blink, confused, as the brooch suddenly grows warm in your hand, then it begins to glow, soft at first, then brighter, pulsing with a light that seems to come from within.
"What?"
The air in the room shifts.
Red mist pours from the brooch, thick and viscous, coiling up toward the ceiling. You drop the brooch, scrambling backward, but the mist does not dissipate. It gathers, condenses, takes shape.
A figure forms.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Long white hair that seems to glow in the dim light. Eyes the color of blood, fixed on you with an intensity that steals your breath.
You know immediately that he is not human, because nothing human could be so beautiful and so terrible at once.
You are hallucinating. You must be.
Seven days without real sleep, barely any food, watching Kieran die and your mind has finally broken.
"Well," the figure says, his voice is smooth as velvet and amused. "It has been quite some time since anyone summoned me."
You cannot speak nor can you move.
He tilts his head, studying you with those crimson eyes. Red mist still clings to him, wisps of it curling around his shoulders like smoke. He is dressed in white, expensive fabric that does not belong in your shabby room.
"Let me guess," he continues when you do not respond. "You have a wish. They always do."
Your gaze darts to Kieran, still feverish, still dying.
"I..." Your voice comes out as a rasp before you can stop yourself. "I need help. My nephew…he is dying."
The figure follows your gaze, considers Kieran with detached interest.
"Death is common. Why should I care?"
“Whatever you are, wherever you come from, you have power. I can feel it.” The words are more frantic now. "I am asking, no, begging, please. Save him."
Something flickers across his face.
"You are not asking what I am? Not demanding answers first?"
"I do not care what you are. I do not care if you are a demon or a devil or something worse. If you can save him, I will give you anything."
"Anything?" His mouth curves into a smile that is not entirely kind. He crouches in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. "Dangerous words, kitten."
The endearment should feel wrong, but it does not. It slides over you like silk, intimate and possessive in a way that makes your chest twist.
"Will you save him or not?"
He regards you for a long moment. You have the unsettling sense that he is seeing far more than you intend to show, past the desperation and the exhaustion, past the walls you have built, and straight into the core of you. Into the parts you keep hidden.
"Very well," His voice is soft. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear you did not know you shed. "I will save the boy, that is your first wish."
"First?" you repeat, confused.
"I am an archfiend, bound to grant three wishes to whoever summons me." His smile widens. He stands, offering you his hand. "You have just used one. Two remain."
"I do not understand..."
"You will." He pulls you to your feet when you take his hand. "Both boys will live. I am feeling generous tonight."
"Both?" You look at Luke, still feverish in the corner. "But I only wished for..."
"Consider it an investment." He crouches beside Kieran, and the red mist flows from his hands, surrounding the boy in a cocoon of crimson light. "After all, you still owe me two wishes. I would hate for you to waste one on something I can provide for free."
The mist seeps into Kieran's skin. Your nephew gasps, his back arching, and you lunge forward without thinking, terror filling your veins.
The archfiend catches your wrist without looking, his grip firm but not painful.
"Wait," he commands, and the authority in his voice makes you freeze. "Let it work."
You watch, helpless, as the mist envelops Kieran completely. It swirls around Luke next, the same crimson glow, and both boys go still.
Too still.
"What did you do?" Panic claws at your throat. "What did you..."
Kieran's eyes open.
The fever is gone. His skin is cool, his breathing steady. He blinks up at you, confused but he is alive, healthy, and whole.
Across the room, Luke sits up, the flush gone from his cheeks.
"Big Sis?" Kieran's voice is weak but clear. "What happened?"
You pull free from the archfiend's grip and drop to your knees beside Kieran. You pull him into your arms, sobbing, all the fear and exhaustion and desperation pouring out of you.
"You were sick. You were so sick."
"I feel better now." He sounds bewildered. "I feel good."
You hold him tighter, one arm reaching for Luke, gathering both boys close. They are alive. They are well. Whatever that thing did, whatever impossible magic he used, it worked.
"Thank you," you gasp, looking up at the archfiend through tears. "Thank you, I..."
He flinches.
It is subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it. It was as though your gratitude makes him recoil as if struck.
"Do not thank me," he says, and his voice has gone flat. "I did not do this out of kindness. We have a contract now. Three wishes. You have used one. Two remain."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He moves closer, and you are suddenly aware of how tall he is, how he seems to fill the space despite the cramped room. "The contract must be sealed. Give me your hand."
You hesitate.
"The hand you cut," he clarifies. "I need to close the wound properly."
Slowly, you extend your hand. The cut from the brooch's clasp is still bleeding sluggishly, a thin line across your palm.
He takes your hand in both of his.
His touch is careful. He cradles your hand gently, his thumb tracing the edge of the cut without pressing on it. The red mist gathers at his fingertips, and he looks up at you.
"This may feel strange," he says, his crimson eyes locked on your own. "But it will not hurt, I promise."
He waits.
It takes you a moment to realize he is asking permission and if you consent to what comes next.
When was the last time someone asked?
You nod.
He brings your hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the cut.
The touch is feather-light.
It feels nothing like the rough, grasping hands you are used to, nothing like the men who pay Luo for your time, who use your body without thought or care.
This is different.
The red mist flows from his mouth into the wound, sealing it closed. You feel a warmth that has nothing to do with fever, a tingling that spreads from your palm up your arm.
It should frighten you.
It does not.
When he pulls back, the cut is gone. Your skin is smooth and unmarked, as if you were never injured at all. He releases your hand slowly, his fingers lingering for just a moment before letting go.
"There," he says, releasing your hand. "The contract is sealed."
You stare dumbfounded at this otherworldly creature with his white hair and crimson eyes and touch that asks permission.
"Who are you?"
"I have had many names. Most recently, I was Sylus." His mouth curves into that dangerous smile again. "And you are exhausted, kitten, when was the last time you slept?"
"I do not..."
"Sleep," he commands, and power rolls through the word like thunder.
Your eyes close without your permission. Your body sags and you feel him catch you before you hit the floor. The last thing you register is the strange gentleness of his hold as he lowers you to your sleeping mat.
Then darkness takes you.
And for the first time in seven days, you sleep.
♱ a/n: Sorry if the writing is not good, I got sick and was hit with another bad case of writer's block. Then we got short-staffed at work that I had to do several 16 hour shifts so I did not have enough time to recheck everything. I won't make any promises but I'll try to do my best to update the next part or finish the whole fic within the month then maybe finish warlord!sylus then take a break.
I hope you guys will still enjoy reading. I'll answer all your comments along with the comments on the other fics and the asks when I feel better.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Let me know your thoughts.
summary: late night work sessions lead to almosts.
series: one | two | three
At least twice a month, Sylus stays late in the office to comb through important data. His desk is flooded with charts and graphs and statistics that can be hard to understand. It spells a hard night ahead and despite offerings, Sylus always declines employees who ask if he needs assistance.
Especially Emcee who never moves until Sylus has to coax her with forced, sweet words.
"We can have lunch tomorrow?" Her eyes light up like stars. "Okay, SySy! You're right, I do need my beauty sleep for that." She giggles happily while walking out his open office door. "So it's a date then. Don't worry, I'll look extra cute for you, okay?" She blows him a kiss before trotting towards the elevators, aiming a nasty look your way as she passes your desk.
"Goodnight," you say cheerily, inwardly snickering at her rolling eyes. You wait until she's fully down the hall before looking towards Sylus' office. Just as you expect, he's leaning against the doorframe with loosely crossed arms, a few buttons on his shirt undone and a tired smile. "Sleepy already?"
"Exhausted," he corrects. "But work must continue."
You stand up from your desk, smoothing out the wrinkles in your pants. "If it helps, I ordered from that Greek restaurant you like." You pat his shoulder as you step into his office. "And yes, I did use your card."
Sylus' deep laughter trails behind you, curling around your shoulders like a warm embrace.
"Wouldn't have expected anything less."
—☆—
The night progresses fairly slowly, finding you on the plush carpet of Sylus' floor. You're poring over data that doesn't seem correct with your pen trapped between your teeth.
Sylus sits opposite you, long legs spread out as he leans on the firm wood of one of his desk legs. He's deeply focused, hasn't said a word in ten minutes and it'd be odd if it weren't so typically him. And if you didn't know him the way that you do.
You're marking a line with a question mark when Sylus' voice startles your flow.
"The twins told me what happened the other day," he says and that puzzles you.
"What happened the other day?" You repeat, looking at him with furrowed brows. "What do you—?"
Then it clicks.
Oh.
The fiasco with Emcee and the twins, one that devolved into the a fight between three angry children and yes, Emcee is counted as a child for her behaviour. But then again, that wouldn't be fair to the twins who, despite shouting, acted with far more maturity compared to Emcee, an adult.
You had tried to forget about that day and had told the twins to forget it too. It's an unpleasant memory that none of them needed to think about. Emotions were high, feelings fragile and realisations recognised. Nothing needed to be recalled in the slightest.
But apparently, the twins disagreed since Sylus is here bringing it up. And you refuse to fault them because they're kids and deserve to talk to their father about an unsettling matter.
You don't need or want to talk about it, though.
"Yeah, it was just Emcee being Emcee," you tell him. "You know what she's like. Always throwing a tantrum."
"Towards my kids, it seems," Sylus replies, a steely note to his tone. "I'm not horribly mad at that. I know my boys; they definitely give her the tongue lashing she needed."
You snort, vividly remembering how they made Emcee flushed pink and livid. "Oh absolutely, it was a beautiful sight. You should have been there."
"I wish I had been," Sylus agrees. "So I could have put her in her place and warn her to never claim motherhood over my children again."
His voice slices through the air, dangerously sharp with tempered fury. Your heart beat spikes, anxiety pulsing in your veins even though you know his anger isn't directed at you. But Sylus has a way to making you feel fear, despite it not being yours to carry.
"And what's worse is that she belittles you." Sylus' voice is a near growl, handsome face twisted in disdain. "Mocks you and tries to make you believe that you're not—" He restrains himself, words sitting locked behind his teeth and you're hit with sudden desperation.
That you're not...what?
What did he want to say?
You look at him—take him in for what he is at this moment in time.
He's just a man, yes, but he's so much more than that. In this moment, he's living, breathing fire that threatens to burn this building to the ground. An unstoppable force that can bring even the strongest man to his knees with only a single look.
Right now, he's Sylus Qin but not Sylus Qin, the indomitable reckoning but Sylus Qin, a man who's incensed on your behalf. Because someone made you feel lesser than and that doesn't sit well in his books.
Another realisation creeps up from hope lined with cobwebs.
You want to squash it down.
"Hey." You sound too loud to your own ears "Sylus."
He looks at you instantly, attentive. and it's actions like these that make that hope burn a bit too brightly.
"You don't have to get mad on my behalf," you assure him. "I'm used to Emcee and her mean girl act. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before."
"But you shouldn't have to deal with it," Sylus shoots back. "Not with how amazing and wonderful you are."
Those words grind your mind to a halt.
Your eyes widen.
"...You think I'm...amazing and wonderful?" You ask softly, barely loud enough to be heard. But Sylus hears you, he always does, and he gives the slightest smile.
"I'd be a fool not to think that."
Your heartbeat spikes again.
Your skin feels too hot.
You both hold each other's gaze as if for an eternity and it's Sylus who goes to break it, licking his lips in a way that makes you think he's nervous.
"...I've been wanting to—" he starts but your phone rings, interrupting something surely special.
You look at your phone and see that it's the delivery driver.
Food is here.
"I gotta..." You gesture at the door.
Sylus nods. "Of course."
Fetching your order takes thirty minutes in total.
Five minutes goes towards you heading down the elevator, past security and outside to meet your delivery driver.
The rest is dedicated to you sitting on the building's steps, head in your hands while the food goes cold.
Summary: You're proud of your small bakery across from Akso Hospital: quaint and unassuming, but undeniably magical with its warmth that never leaves, and light that never goes out. After quitting a soul-crushing corporate job and leaving your old life behind, your early mornings baking bread and late evenings washing the smell of dough out of your hair have become your medicine. During the coldest of winters, one particular customer—a man who reminds you of gentle snowfall and a captivating storm, somehow both at once—brings more change than you ever anticipated, knitting you back together with tender precision.
Word Count: 3.7kish
Content: zayne x nonmc reader, lots of exposition and world-building here sorry, a bit of greyson x reader too bc im using this cutie for plot, annoying but endearing childhood bestie rafayel, tenant caleb lmao, there's hints of mc being reader's friend, some light flirting that's not with zayne oops, mentions of a past ex, clueless reader, fluff, overall cozy and low-stakes read, i never proofread so sorry if u find mistakes
Notes: we love our handsome icy snowman doctor in the wellbutrin wordsmith household. hope you enjoy reading this as much as i had fun writing it!
i will also never use ai for my creative writing, so rest assured this is all coming from a fellow human <3
i. / ii. / iii | navi | divider by @pixopix
It’s cold, brutally so, but below-freezing mornings make your pastries incredibly enticing. At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you crawl out of bed, get ready for work, and stumble downstairs at an ungodly hour.
You don’t want to think about the amount of debt you’re in because of a come-to-Jesus, impulse decision you made half a decade ago. This building you now call your home and workplace had been left to rot after a particularly horrible wanderer incident, its walls ripped up and stained suspiciously brown, but anything—anywhere—was more preferable than your shitty office with its shittier coffee and the absolute shittiest coworkers. When all your favorite colleagues gradually quit and the number of sane employees dwindled down to one (you), you knew it was time for you to go. Even if that meant bending over backwards to purchase property that was probably haunted.
With plenty of TLC and unwavering patience, you’d managed to transform the space into a quaint bakery on the first floor and two apartment units on the second; having a floormate definitely helped with your expenses. Caleb is easily your favorite tenant, and not only because he’s your only tenant. Considering most of his time is spent in Skyhaven, you don’t entirely understand why he bothered to rent next door in the first place—something about wanting to be close to a girl he’s loved since birth, practically, not that you care much. Whatever pays your bills.
For what it’s worth, you’re ten times happier than you were when you were stuck in a whirling corporate hellhole. You may get less sleep than you ever did, and your hands might have picked up layers of callouses from all the manual labor you do around your humble little shop—but pride swells in your chest every time you finally open your doors and your stream of regulars pour in during their early morning rush.
Today starts no differently. You quickly go through the motions of parsing through emails, updating your bakery social media account, and finalizing inventory, then move on to setting the tables and placing your baked goods in the front display case.
Beans, check. Croissants, cakes, cookies, and bread, check. Register turned on and good to go. Furniture wiped down, wall bookshelves organized, plants watered. You wipe your palms on your apron and shuffle to the entrance where your first customer already waits patiently.
“Morning, Greyson,” you greet him with as much of a real smile you can muster. Sure, you find your bakery work fun, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re exhausted. You’re sure that the small dabs of concealer you put on are doing nothing to hide your dark circles. (Still, it’s the effort that counts!) Greyson’s either polite enough to not comment or just as tired that he doesn’t care. He looks up from his phone, his glasses foggy, and grins back.
“Morning, baker,” He walks past you. “Another day, another life, huh?”
“Sure,” you hum, then quietly repeat, “Another day, another life.”
You settle yourself behind the espresso machine and begin his usual order. A comfortable silence falls between you two, and for a few minutes, nothing but the sounds of steam fill the air.
“Hey, uh, can I actually add onto my order today?” Greyson says, scrolling through his phone. A small dent forms between his brows as he squints. “My boss forgot his coffee.”
“Another cappuccino?”
“Nah. Way too bitter for him. Got any new seasonal drinks?”
You point at your newly designed menu. Ever the philanthropic artist, Rafayel had begged to commission this one for you for free (to which you responded, “I don’t think that’s how commissions work, Raf.”) but you have to give it to him—as one of your oldest friends, he knows exactly what you like and how you like it.
“If he likes something on the sweeter side, I recommend our gingerbread tiramisu latte or marshmallow cream peppermint mocha.” You wish you came up with more creative names, but priorities, priorities. Maybe you can ask Rafayel what he thinks once he comes back from his gallery tour. Greyson’s screen lights up with a phone call, and he quickly swipes to put it to his ear.
“Hey, yeah, I’m picking it up right now. You want—” He looks at you, then continues, “—cocoa sweet or milky, minty sweet?”
You hear a low muffled voice but can’t make out his words. Greyson pauses, rolls his eyes, and pulls out his wallet. “‘Kay. Bye.”
“I’m assuming that was your boss,” you chuckle.
“He said he wants both.”
“Aren’t you doctors? That’s…an absurd amount of sugar to have this early.”
“Yes, it is, and it’s apparently what he needs before our afternoon surgery,” Greyson sighs, tapping his card. “Also, you haven’t met Zayne. Everyone has their vices and his is his sweet tooth.”
You laugh again and hand him his receipt. A part of you wonders what the man looks like, but it’s a fleeting thought. His tone, whatever you could catch at least, had been both soft and firm, as if he was requesting something more intimate than his two .
“I’m not complaining. Tell him to come by next time and I’ll gladly enable him.”
It takes you a bit longer to prepare his order—you’re a baker after all, not a seasoned barista—but he doesn’t complain. Just leans patiently by the counter, occasionally glancing up from his phone to throw you an easy smile. It hasn't been too long since Greyson has begun showing up at your bakery, but he’s a comfortable customer who never lingers too long or forces stilted conversation. He’s also easy on the eyes, exactly what you think a cute, unapologetically nerdy cardiac surgeon might look like, and you’ve definitely mentioned him in passing to your friends. Not that you’d ever date him.
You push the finished drinks into their tray with two blueberry macarons in a paper bag, a small token of gratitude for your earliest customer. Greyson grabs everything in his arms, his messenger bag nearly slipping off his shoulder, and utters a rushed thank you before running toward the hospital, its harsh fluorescent lights welcoming him for his long shift.
The rest of your day continues without any more surprises.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
A few weeks pass, and Greyson’s order shifts to include various requests from his mysterious doctor friend. Hot cocoa for slower nights, strawberry matcha lattes for special occasions—successful procedures, you assume—or, on particularly rainy and depressing days, a simple concoction of hot honey milk tea.
As winter approaches, he stops by more frequently, once in the morning for their caffeine pick-me-up, and once at night for the discounted breads and cakes. You note that Dr. Zayne enjoys the strawberry cream cake slices the most, and you feel a small warmth bloom inside you when Greyson confirms your happy suspicions.
“It’s his birthday today!” he exclaims, his voice uncharacteristically loud. “He promised our department dinner, and your treats are his favorite.” His enthusiasm pulls you out of your morning grog, and you smile at their evident camaraderie.
“Happy birthday to my favorite customer,” you muse, pulling out a cake from the fridge. You hesitate as you consider asking about his age, then decide to tuck five into the side of the box. He’d sounded young, but if he’s a level above Greyson, it’s possible he could be middle-aged, though you can’t imagine anyone like your dad having such a strong preference for sweets.
“He’s your favorite, and not me? I’m hurt,” Greyson teases.
“He eats my pastries with his drinks. You just buy my coffee,” You hit back. Greyson raises his arms in surrender, then reaches over to pick up your packaged cake. You stop him, pulling the edge of his sleeve, and slide one of your special cake toppers. Greyson blinks at the blue-tinted clay snowman.
“Cute,” he responds, his ears red. He takes out his phone and wiggles it your way. “I’ll, um, I’ll take pictures later and text them to you?”
You resist the urge to laugh again at his poor attempts to flirt (that is flirting, right? It’s been too long.) and punch in your contact information. This is okay, even fun. If he asks you out, you might say yes to a dinner or two, but nothing more.
Suddenly shy, Greyson mumbles a thank you and leaves, nearly bumping shoulders with your next customer—one who sports a familiar head of purple hair and mischievous eyes that take in your awkward exchange. You widen your own, silently begging him not to do anything stupid, which he completely ignores. As usual.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Rafayel nearly shouts, reaching past the register to tuck your hair behind your ears. “I’m gone for a week and you’re already looking at other men, I see.”
Greyson falters as the toe of his shoe scrapes against concrete, but he continues on without a second glance.
You groan and swat Rafayel away. “I’m going to vomit.”
“You just gave that cake topper away for free, huh?” He pouts visibly. “I didn’t make those for you to just give out to anyone.”
“It’s for a regular—"
“And who’s that guy? You’re not going out with him, are you? He’s okay looking, but—“
“—Oh my god, please,” you beg, pressing your palms to your forehead. You need your hands occupied if you don’t want them to hit a certain someone within your vicinity. “It’s too early for this. What are you here for this time?”
Rafayel swivels around to walk himself toward one of your empty seats, and rests an elbow on a table. The pout on his lips grows more pronounced.
“We’re best friends, and I’m free. What else would I do on my day off?”
“Okay, you’re free, but I’m working. And who said we’re best friends?” Unfortunately, he is the closest thing you have to a brother, having grown up together by the beach. He’d annoyed you to no end in childhood, but quickly became someone irreplaceable throughout awkward adolescence and the darker years of young adulthood. If anyone can read you, it’s him, this idiot of a man. And judging by how defensive you are right now, you know he can see right through you.
“You’re lonely, huh?” He guesses. “It’s been a while since you ended things with that florist—“
“Fuck that. Fuck him.”
“—so I won’t judge. We’ve all been there. But he’s not it.”
“I know he’s not,” you agree, rounding the corner with a plate of cookies. Rafayel reaches up to take them from you, his eyes sparkling. “It’s just harmless flirting. We’re friends, I think.”
“Sure, tell him that.” He takes out his sketchbook and pencil, one cookie already crumbling between his teeth. “At least he’ll be nice about it.”
Rafayel keeps you company from morning until night, even spending a few hours manning the register so you can sit and take a break. As much as you two bicker, you can’t imagine anyone else helping your day go by faster. You begrudgingly admit that it’s even fun, his levity brightening your bakery and even attracting several curious locals who want a glimpse of the ever-famous artist.
Before you know it, the sun sets, and the soreness in your arms and back indicates that you’re nearly done. No, you’re wiped out. The holiday season brings you more foot traffic, which you’re grateful for, but being a one-woman team does strain how much you can handle. It may be time to hire a part-timer.
“When are you leaving?” you ask Rafayel, who turns to you with an equally tired gaze. “You didn’t need to stay the whole day, Raf.”
“I figured we could grab dinner together after you close,” he yawns, mindlessly flipping through his sketchbook. You catch a few rough drafts of your bakery, messily scrawled but instantly recognizable. “Kind of want hot pot, if you’re up for it.”
You open your mouth to reply when someone walks in, a breeze of frigid air following shortly behind. He hurriedly closes the door, a sprinkle of snow on his coat and hair, and he shakes it off before approaching you solemnly.
You don’t easily get shaken by handsome men, or you would’ve already fallen for Rafayel ages ago. But where Rafayel is round and soft and gentle, the stranger’s features are angular and narrow. His sharp jaw, his straight and tall nose, god, even his slightly dry, pointed lips scramble your thoughts completely. You silently grip the edge of your coffee machine, your red cheeks immediately betraying your thoughts. It’s been too long since you’ve dated, you decide. You can’t go ogling every customer you find remotely appealing.
But…are his eyes green? Grey? Somewhere in between, you guess. Not that you could stare long enough to find out. Framed by long lashes and a neat, but slightly stern pair of eyebrows, they briefly sweep through your display case before making their way back to you and your flushed face.
“Welcome,” you croak, and Rafayel covers his face in despair. Clearing your throat and pointedly ignoring him, you try again, “I mean, good evening. What can I get you?”
“Your pastries…” The man begins, and you notice that his voice is slightly fried, too. He straightens his shoulders as if embarrassed. “…Wanted to buy whatever was left before you closed.”
You offer him a friendly smile, which he doesn’t reciprocate. It’s fine, that’s fine. Everything is fine. “Anything you see here is all we got.”
He nods decisively. “Okay. I’ll take all of it.”
You quickly wrap the remainder of your croissants, scones, and a single salt bread and place them in a paper bag. He pays wordlessly, handing you cash instead of taking out his card.
“Thank you!” you chirp. “Please enjoy. They might be a little cold, but microwaving them for ten or fifteen seconds will warm them back up.”
“…All right,” There’s a twinge of humor in his voice, but he grabs his purchase and turns around before you can fully make out his expression. “…Have a good evening.”
You wave despite yourself, letting out a sigh once he finally leaves. Rafayel balks at you. Lifting up a finger, you warn, “Don’t. Do you want dinner or not?”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
The handsome, green-eyed customer begins by showing up every Sunday evening, most likely after a long shift. Sometimes he comes in with a white coat, and you quickly gather that he works at the same hospital as Greyson.
“Would you like anything to drink?” You already know his response, and he always shakes his head.
“Just your pastries,” he says, always going for your strawberry cakes.
Then, he starts coming in every Sunday evening and the ass crack of dawn on Fridays. You suspect that he shows up earlier to have some time to himself in your cafe—because rarely anyone stops by that early in the morning—by ordering your breakfast sandwiches and quietly eating them next to the window, sometimes with a book in hand. When he finishes, he promptly returns his tray on his way out and heads to his workplace without another word.
You eventually get used to his presence, finding comfort in his consistent silence. Sometimes, you forget that he’s there, and he secretly steals a few glances at you when you’re the most focused: kneading bread, sugaring the top of your desserts, or jotting down new recipe ideas.
There are no conversations beyond the ones you have at your register, so you never have the opportunity to learn his name (because he never orders your drinks!) or anything about him beyond his occupation. He seems to be around your age, and definitely has an insane sweet tooth, considering how much of your income comes from his pockets.
Most of his reads also consist of classics, occasionally literary fiction and memoirs—not that you keep track. He has good taste, you note, because you just happen to find a few of his picks at the bookstore, completely by coincidence. And you happen to purchase one or two after reading their blurbs.
You’re just observant, is all. (And unbeknownst to you, so is he.)
greyson [11:24 AM]: hey! you busy? any lunch plans?
you [11:30 AM]: hi!!! no, i’ll probably just eat one of my sandwiches lol
greyson [11:31 AM]: ok great :) don’t! we accidentally ordered another bento box
greyson [11:31 AM]: ill come down and eat with you if thats ok?
Your fingers linger above your screen, your lips puckered out in deep thought, and you quickly reply with a thumbs-up emoji. No harm in lunch. You two are friends now.
Not ten minutes after, Greyson jogs in, a bright smile on his face. His glasses are a bit crooked, hair windswept, and he holds up two plastic bags, wafts of chicken teriyaki coming out of each. You admit it’s far better than what you had in mind.
“Let’s eat here,” You lead him to one of the side tables. That way, you can rush to the register if anyone comes in. You both settle in with your bento boxes, picking your way through sweetly marinated chicken, steamed veggies, and purple rice. How long has it been since you ate a hot meal? Probably with Rafayel at the hot pot restaurant, which has now been about a month ago. (Your best friend’s currently roaming somewhere in Paris and won’t be back until spring.)
Your days are long, and after closing, you don’t care to prepare anything other than a hodge podge of a leftover salad bowl when you get home. So you savor every bite you take, making an extra effort to scrape teriyaki sauce with every piece of chicken.
“You like it?” Greyson asks after a few minutes.
“Do I,” you sigh, leaning into your chair. “Thanks, Greyson. You really didn’t have to.”
He shrugs, slightly chagrined. “Hey, I told you we accidentally ordered two. We didn’t want it to go to waste, and—um, we’re friendly now, so…”
“Well, regardless,” You scoop up your last few bites appreciatively. “Not that I mind my own baking, but it’s nice to have a break from eating bread everyday.”
Greyson nods, then hurriedly looks away. Clearly preoccupied, he doesn’t say anything else as you open and sip your cup of miso soup, another taste of something warm and hearty and easy on your stomach. Maybe you should go grocery shopping soon, and more intentionally so. “Hey, so I was actually wondering if—”
A breeze of cold air greets your back, and you quickly finish the last few drops of soup before trashing everything and heading to the front.
“Feel free to stay a few minutes. I’ll make you some coffee you can bring up,” you say to Greyson, who’s no longer looking at you, but at the man who stands stiffly at the door.
“Doctor Zayne,” Greyson says, eyes wide. “You come here, too?”
You whip your head at your other regular and frown.
“It’s not Sunday or Friday,” you note confusedly. “What brings you here at this time of the day?”
Wait.
Oh my god, you think slowly, putting the pieces together. You dumbass. You idiot. You dumbass idiot.
Your supposedly favorite customer, the doctor with his infamous preference for sweets. The one who threatens to empty your strawberry inventory almost every week, nearly costing you twice as much when having to shop for ingredients. Why did you ever think it would be anyone like your father? Just because of his seniority?
“Greyson,” he—Zayne—says evenly. “I liked the birthday cake. Figured I’d get more straight from the source.”
“Small world, huh?” Greyson laughs, but there’s a slight strain to his voice. “We just had lunch together.”
“Hm,” is all the other man says, and he checks his watch. “Your rotation starts in five minutes.”
Greyson jumps from his seat, nearly toppling over his empty bento before tossing it into the bin.
“Oh, shit!” he hisses, then reaches over the counter to squeeze your hand fleetingly. “Thanks for having lunch with me! I’ll text you!”
You and Zayne watch him sprint across the street and into the hospital lobby, whitecoat flapping valiantly with each long stride. Thirty seconds pass, then a minute. You blink, then shift your attention to Zayne who stares at your menu with intense concentration.
“What would you like to order?” you ask, already opening your display case to take out his usual cake slices.
“Your number,” he responds, and you almost choke on your spit. (Thank god you don’t, otherwise Rafayel would never let it go, because yes, he’d find out even when he’s halfway across the world.)
“Sorry?” you sputter, your knuckles whitening against your display case. “You don’t want your strawberry cake?”
“I do,” he says, furrowing his brows. “But I would also like to be in touch with you, if that’s all right.”
“Why?”
Zayne scratches his head, and for the first time, you see a slight twinge of pink on his cheeks. You’re certain yours is the same shade of a stop sign, and you mentally curse yourself for choosing today out of all days not to put on even an ounce of foundation—anything to hide your emotions, which show all too easily on your face.
His lips part, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he lets out a shaky laugh. It takes everything in you not to topple to the floor and kiss your tiles. You would if you were alone; you mopped pretty thoroughly.
“I’d like to stay your favorite customer,” he replies, “And have lunch with you, too. No accidental bento box included."
synopsis: You were late to your midterms, forcing you to sit in the back row where the taboo happens, and unfortunately, you were subjected unwillingly to a display of horndogs trying to get it on while the exam was ongoing. You do the nerdiest, teacher’s pet thing you could do. Snitch. Not directly, but enough to invoke confrontation. What was meant to be a confrontation about your actions leads to a research experiment with Zayne, your somewhat willing and equally curious friend.
note/s: reader and zayne are two different types of nerds. reader is the confident, geeky, bookish nerd whereas zayne is textbook definition.
wc: 9.3k
chapter one of my let me learn you (and all the sounds you make) series!
In a classroom, there was an unspoken seating arrangement.
The first quadrant was reserved for the goody-two-shoes students, smart, stuck-up. Hell, if it were still a thing, the front row nerds would bring a shiny apple to place on the teacher’s desk as a means of gaining favor— anything to raise their GPA.
The following was more for the chatterboxes of the class. The ones who’d make their professors talk about their personal lives— bonus points if they managed to flesh out the love life and make them reminisce about their prime age, yet they weren’t smart enough to keep up with the syllabus. They sit there so they won’t be the ones called for a sudden recitation; that’s what the nerd quadrant was for.
Third, no one really knows. It was a mix of students from the second section and those who barely cared about their grades; it didn’t really matter. This was probably a minor subject for them anyway; all they needed to do was show up and do the activity, then fuck off. There was no point in dilly-dallying and socializing; they had places to be. The third area had just the right amount of exposure to the teacher’s eyes; you didn’t have to be acknowledged, as the first two rows did, but whatever, a grade is a grade.
The final rows… sigh. Where do you even begin? It was notorious for being a taboo area. Whatever you see there, the professor is not paid enough to care. You’ve seen classmates sluggishly enter, smelling like the party they went to beforehand, and take their place somewhere in the row, hungover, bag half-thrown, the contents messy as crumpled papers fell out of their bags, the essay due today probably one of them. Still, they don’t seem to care, so why should you?
Fuck.
You were late. Your hair was messily thrown, and you forgot your glasses. It was too late to get back to the dorm and retrieve them, but it didn’t matter. You were going to sit at the front anyway; you weren’t that blind.
Well, normally, you’d find yourself sitting in the first or second row, but you forgot a key detail.
Today was a midterm. You forgot that a seat at the front wasn’t guaranteed. Not even Zayne could ensure that your seat stays reserved.
You arrived at the front of the door, huffing as you tried to catch your breath, and you prayed that you could make yourself blend in immediately.
You open the door to the classroom, wincing at how obnoxiously loud it is, and almost immediately, heads are turning towards you, the source of disruption. You bowed your head, squinting to see if you could see any vacant seats by the front, trying to find your friend, Zayne.
Unfortunately, you bypassed your mental three seconds to scan the room before you ultimately plopped down on the first chair you saw, which was, unfortunately, in the back row, next to a couple… or not? You didn’t know. But from the way they were discreetly trying to rub each other under the table, you deduce that they were… intimate.
You ignore them in favor of taking the examination from the T.A who approaches you.
“Never thought you’d sit back here.” The T.A jests, you give him a half-smile, tone lighthearted.
“Didn’t think so either.” His smile drops as he realizes who sat beside you. You hear him mutter, good luck, possibly directed at you. You ignore, thinking he was saying it for everyone in the row, a classic T.A assurance.
With the professor’s instruction, you start your exam.
Your eyes scanned the text, analyzing every trick question, comparing it to the selected text, and choosing the answer that resonated most.
The classroom wasn’t quiet. But it wasn’t noisy either; it was filled with the usual student sighing and sounds of despair whenever someone unprepared takes an exam. Pages being turned and pens scratching the paper surface were also humming in the air.
You were focused on your exam until you weren’t. Your back instinctively straightens at the foreign sound your ears picked up.
A moan. Not a loud one, a restrained one. Your head snaps towards the source. The couple right beside you.
The girl was biting the tip of her pen, eyes closed, as his hand was between her thighs. Said thighs were shaking, her lips were quaking as her free hand pitifully held on to the desk.
The guy beside her looked unbothered, as if the writhing girl beside him didn’t exist, like he wasn’t the cause of the distraction for everyone in the room, or maybe just you, as you looked around quickly to see that no one was paying attention.
It was the back row, after all. No one gave a fuck.
But you did. These were your grades that you’re risking.
You timed it, a little evil on your part. But who cares? What the hell were they thinking? Out in public? With a hundred people in the room? With you beside them?
You cleared your throat loudly before the couple could finish.
“Yes, Ms. (L/N)?” The professor acknowledges you. In the corner of your eye, you see the couple pull away from each other, as if the other was on fire. You could see a glare form on the girl’s face as her eyes shot daggers at you. You ignored it and stood up.
“Question 47 does not have the right answer. Will this be considered a bonus question?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence, grabbing at the opportunity to gain an extra point.
The professor furrows his brows as he checks his copy before a look of realization flashes on his face. He clears his throat before he speaks loud enough for the people at the back to hear.
“Question 47 is now a bonus question.” He confirms, and the class erupts in cheers.
You sat back down, legs crossing one another as you focused on the remaining questions. You can still feel the burn of a stare on the side of your head, but you paid it no mind.
Who cares about an orgasm when you bumped up the class score by one point? The least they could do is thank you.
— — —
After the exam, you met up with Zayne at your favorite coffee shop,
“Thank you for that, by the way.” Your head snaps from the manga you were reading. Beside you, Zayne paused in his typing as well, confused at the unfamiliar voice that approached your table. The girl who sat beside you appears.
You looked at her, eyes closing as you inhaled deeply, knowing that confrontation was coming up, and you were in no mood to entertain.
“Of course.” You smiled sweetly. “Professor Noah doesn’t often make mistakes, but if he does, just point it out. He’ll remedy it immediately!”
The girl seethes, her hand intertwined with the guy from before as she spits.
“You know damn well that isn’t what I’m talking about.” She points an accusatory finger at you. You feigned innocence.
“Then what are you talking about?”
The girl’s nostrils flare, face reddening with anger, before her boytoy pats her chest comfortingly. “‘Got this, babe.” She relaxes, you cringe. Of course, the man had to speak.
“Why the fuck were you cockblocking us?” Zayne chokes on his iced chocolate at the straightforward accusation.
You still feigned innocence.
“What do you mean?” The coy act only seems to tick the couple off as the girl pulls away to slam her freshly manicured hands on the table, a means to intimidate you, but it only serves as entertainment as you fight back a snort.
“Listen here, virgin.” She spits out, as if the word was acid. “I know that it must be sad and pathetic to be a virgin at your grown age, but that doesn’t mean that you have to ruin the fun for everyone else, you virgin!”
You cock your head to the side. “Mayhaps, is your favorite word virgin?”
She raises her hand before she remembers where she is; she settles on huffing, crossing her arms against her chest, and rolling her eyes.
“I wouldn’t expect a virgin like you to know the joys of sex. Nerds like you would rather fuck a textbook or get wet at the sex parts of an anatomy book.”
You snort, adding fuel to the fire. “Damn, at least make it about my fictional characters.”
“You sad, pathetic little virg–!”
“That’s enough.” Zayne’s voice cuts through as he finally speaks up, not wanting to prolong this conversation anymore. “You have no proof that she intentionally—” he coughs, as if the word physically hurts him. “cockblocked you. I suggest you two leave.”
The man around the girl laughs. “And look who finally decided to talk, Mr. Nice Guy right here.” His eyes lazily flit down to your figure, then back at him, a smirk playing on his face.
“I see why you’d wait around.” You didn’t like the implication of his words, nor did his girl, as she pushes his arm off her shoulders and storms off. The guy’s jaw dropped in disbelief, not expecting that reaction. He gave the two of you a glare before finally running after her, a dramatic, “Babe! That wasn’t what it sounded like!” ruining the ambience of the cafe.
You watched the scene, feeling awkward tension rise before shaking it away as you turned back to Zayne.
He meets your gaze for a second, then goes back to typing on his laptop, another PowerPoint, you presume.
“So, cockblocking, huh?” You groan, stirring your iced coffee as you recall the prior exam.
“God.” You rolled your eyes, hands pumping the straw as you tried to mix in the milk to your coffee. “You think they’d at least have some decorum.”
“So, it’s true?” He responds, not looking away from his laptop.
“It isn’t my fault that they decided to finger fuck in public. During an exam, no less!” You were frustrated. Your grades have never dropped, and you weren’t about to be distracted just because some rando was moaning as if his fingers were God’s gift to the world. In hindsight, she was trying hard to look attractive; all it did was make her look constipated.
You chuckle at the thought before looking at Zayne’s focused expression. He wasn’t looking at you, but you knew he was paying attention.
“I saved you a seat, by the way.” You straightened, a hum escaping your lips in question as Zayne speaks.
“Beside me, in the front row, the usual.” His eyes flickered to yours, no discernible emotion. “I saved you a seat. You didn’t have to sit at the back.”
“Ah.” You acknowledge. “I didn’t have my glasses on, and I felt awkward standing for so long; I wasn’t sure if you did.” You sheepishly admit, you hear Zayne sigh, his eyes closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose as if you were the cause for his upcoming headache, to which you probably were.
“I always save you a seat.”
Right. Circling back to that… never.
You cleared your throat as you gestured to the opened manga on your side of the table. “Look, look! A new chapter of Tamon’s B-Side was released this week. We have another Keito appearance!” Zayne scoffs a breath before he nods, typing back on the laptop, furrowing his brows before cursing under his breath.
“You alright?” You asked, pausing from your panel.
“Carter hasn’t submitted his part of the paper.” He rolls his eyes. “His previous excuse was that his girlfriend needed him.” You crinkle your nose. Gross.
“Why is everyone in heat?” You sighed, exasperated. “It’s like they can’t live without sex, it’s pathetic.” You leaned back into your chair. “Surely it can’t be that good, right?”
Zayne finally looks at you, his face blank, yet his ears reflect a subtle redness. He clears his throat, hand flying to his collar to adjust the already tidy fold.
“Unfortunately, I do not have a reference, so I cannot answer your question.” You hummed at his textbook answer. Nodding, because what else could you do?
“Do you… think about it?” You asked, not meeting his eyes as you push the ice cubes in your cup with your straw.
“What?”
“Like… sex. Do you think about it?” Zayne coughs into his drink, the second time today.
“What brought this topic up?” Zayne knew why this topic was being discussed. He just didn’t want to confront it, not yet.
You shrugged, flipping a page in your manga. “Seems like being a senior means that you’ve slept around or at least have gotten laid once. Feels like I’m missing something.” You say the last part almost like a whisper, praying that Zayne doesn’t hear.
“Missing something?” He hears. Of course he does. Next time, pray faster.
“It’s just… Zayne, you know you and I are considered losers, right?” Zayne nods without taking it as an insult. “And we’re voted as most likely to die virgins.”
“Get on with it.”
“Don’t you ever… just think about it?” Zayne raises a brow at your words.
“It?”
You throw a rolled-up tissue. “You’re smart. You know what I mean!”
Zayne flicks the tissue off his hand with his forefinger before he looks at you.
“I cannot say I haven’t.” His answer shocks you, but he quickly backtracks. “It is common to be curious, no?” You hummed, not giving him an answer, deep in thought.
“What if we do it?” “What?” Zayne expected you to take your words back and apologize, but there was a look in your eye, the same look when you discover a solution, something groundbreaking.
“Think about it. You’re curious, I’m curious. And we both don’t want to risk catching something, right?”
Zayne knows where you’re going with this; at the same time, he doesn’t. However, he gives a nod, albeit hesitantly. You take it as a sign to continue.
“–And you’ve heard of horror sex stories, specifically awkward first times where someone comes too quickly or doesn’t know what they’re doing, right?”
You don’t even wait for Zayne to respond as you reach your conclusion.
“What I’m saying is–” You clasped your hands together. “We should totally do it.”
Zayne feels like he’s in a fever dream.
“(Y/N).” He politely interrupts your masterplan. “Are you sure that this isn’t some type of FOMO?”
You shake your head. “No, Zayne. It’s perfect. You and I having sex is perfect!”
He chokes on air.
“You and I are inexperienced; we won’t know what to expect. This wouldn’t be an awkward first-time story because there’s no expectation. And you trust me, right?”
“I do, but–” “Great! I trust you, too.”
He almost feels bad for dimming the sparkle in your eye, but one of you had to be rational about this.
“And what would happen to our friendship after?” Zayne asks, weighing your expression, as if trying to see if you’ve thought about it. “What happens to us after we… hook up.”
You crinkle your nose in disgust.
“Hooking up is a gross term, don’t ever describe us like that again.” Zayne huffs out a sarcastic laugh.
“Then what would we be?”
Zayne waits to cringe at the term friends with benefits.
“Researchers!” “Researchers?”
You nod, a mischievous smile on your face. “We’re technically conducting an experiment to confirm a hypothesis. The experiment being sex, and the hypothesis being if it’s actually as good as they say.”
For the first time in Zayne’s life, he finds himself speechless. You were so confident, you sounded wrong, but what you were saying was technically right.
But he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t curious—a big one.
“Fine.” Zayne concedes; you drop your mouth open in shock, not expecting him actually to agree, before a delighted noise escapes.
“But–” “You need to stop agreeing before you settle your terms, Zayne. You got me excited for no reason.” Zayne ignores that.
“What if it is actually as good as they say? What then?” You hum, acknowledging your question.
“Then, if both feelings are mutual, we can continue until graduation. Or until we find someone else to do it with.” The way you casually say that conclusion leaves a sour note in Zayne’s tongue.
“I see.” Zayne had no further questions, at least, at the moment. “So, we’re friends-with-benefits?”
You crinkle your nose once more. “I really would prefer we call ourselves researchers,” “(Y/N)--” “Fine, fine! Friends with benefits, whatever.”
“Then it’s a deal.” You say as you raise a hand, placing it in the middle, a playful smile on your face.
“I look forward to having sex with you, Zayne.”
“Must you always be so… vulgar?” He sighs, but his hand comes up, regardless, to shake yours in a transactional tug. “May our hypothesis breed fruitful conclusions.”
“Zayne—” “I’m aware how bad that sounds. I apologize.” You fight back a giggle.
This is going to be so fun.
— — —
The two of you head off in different ways, not wanting to overwhelm yourselves by planning everything in one sitting. You both agreed that the week after your exams would be ideal to… meet up. Just so your priorities wouldn’t misalign. This was just an experiment; your studies are still more important.
You set off to your dorm, bag dropping on the floor, and fingers immediately skimming through your mini manga collection, stopping at the book you were looking for, nothing special. Just a favorite of yours to get in the mood.
You weren’t going to get off, but you needed to study for when you meet Zayne next weekend, and you know that reading a manga with unrealistic body proportions and excessive bodily fluids isn’t the way to “study”. However, it was better than cringing at a pornstar trying to rival the screaming cats outside your dorm at fuck o’clock in the morning.
On the other hand, Zayne turns his phone off with a cringe. He just finished trying to watch a video called “First time with my best friend!”, a ten-minute compilation with cut scenes every 10 seconds and saliva everywhere, except where it needed to be. It didn’t serve as study material but rather as a waste of time, since nothing was noteworthy or valuable.
He sighs, turning his phone on again just to click away the incognito tab that displayed a horrifically paused action shot of the stars in action.
He was never going to figure this out, was he?
Zayne was starting to regret agreeing. Not because he didn’t want to have sex with you, but he didn’t want to disappoint. He didn’t want a hypothetical of the two of you finding different partners in the future, and you realizing that the experience you had with him was lackluster.
He couldn’t have that.
“What’s up with the constipated thinking face, Z?” Zayne opens his eyes, expression blank as he looks at Caleb, who entered his room, most likely forgoing knocking.
“It’s just my face,” Zayne responds, evenly.
Caleb scoffs before he walks over to plop on Zayne’s bed, sitting on it. “No, no, that isn’t the blank thinking face, the face I walked in on was reserved for life-altering moments.”
“Like?”
“Like when we were ten, and you couldn’t decide whether you wanted ice cream or macarons for dessert, and you ended up thinking for so long that gran and your parents just gave both,” Caleb says, almost immediately. “...meanwhile, I had to stick to one.”
”Your ability to hold a grudge astounds me.”
“Anyway.” Caleb brushes him off. “What’s on your mind?”
Zayne bites his lip, weighing whether to talk about it with his childhood best friend or to find a solution on his own.
But Caleb wouldn’t judge, right? And he obviously wasn’t a virgin with the way he acts, so if Zayne were to ask, Caleb would have an answer, right?
“... let’s say, hypothetically–” ”Z, it’s just me, none of that ‘a friend of mine’ bullshit.” Zayne swallows before conceding.
“What should I expect for the first time having sex?” Zayne states bluntly.
Caleb chokes on air, his coughing uncontrollable as he sits up from Zayne’s bed, hand grasping his hacking throat as he forces himself to calm down.
Zayne only watches quietly, waiting for Caleb’s drama to calm down.
“You’---*cough* You’re gonna have sex?!” Caleb sputters, a bit of drool seeping by the side of his lips from his coughing fit.
“Hypothetically.” “I said don’t give me that hypothetical bullshit!”
Caleb swallows before clearing his throat. “So, who’s the lucky girl, dude? I don’t judge.”
Zayne shakes his head. “Her name isn’t relevant.”
“Ah. You mean that chick you’re always with since freshman year? (Y/N), right?” Zayne says nothing, but Caleb didn’t need confirmation; he already knew. “...so, why are you asking me?”
Zayne shrugged. “You’re quite experienced, no?” Caleb coughs slightly at the straightforward remark before he slouches and relaxes.
“I mean, I guess. But…” “But…?”
“If you wanna know my trade secrets, I need a trade that eq—” “What do you want?” “Your biochem notes and assignment, please. I forgot it was due tonight.” Caleb grins. Zayne sighs before he wordlessly throws his notebook and forwards him a copy of his essay.
“Don’t make it obvious.” “Aye.”
Caleb clears his throat. “Okay, so what do you wanna know?”
Zayne stays silent for a few seconds, thinking about what he needs to ask before he settles on:
“How do I know that she’s enjoying it?”
Caleb smirks, “You just gotta listen to her sounds, bro. Pay real close attention to her expressions.” He closes his eyes, as if reminiscing. “You have to see her body language too if she enjoys it.”
Zayne hums, nodding. “And then? What do you think she’d prefer? My tongue or fingers… or my peni—” “Z, my dude. You gotta go with the flow. It won’t feel good if you overthink.”
Caleb stands up from his bed, Zayne’s notebook close to his chest. “Anyway, time’s running. I gotta cram this before Dr. Lucius cuts my head off.”
“Don’t copy my conclusion.” Zayne reminds him, Caleb snorts. “We don’t have the same professor, but fine.”
Caleb leaves Zayne’s room, waving with the notebook in hand, before his room closes with a quiet click.
Honestly? Zayne’s conversation with his roommate did nothing to quiet the anxiety thrumming in his veins.
With a sharp inhale, he opens his laptop, preparing to take care of the logistics for your after-exam … festivities.
— — —
Zayne blinks twice and finds the exam season over. Well, almost over. He was two questions away from completing his final midterm.
He wasn’t sure whether it was his nervousness or his anticipation for what was to come.
He watches as you stand up from your chair, the skirt of your uniform swishing softly with the wind as you walk to submit your exam. You turn around from the teacher’s desk, eyes scanning to find his before one of your eyes drops down to a quick wink.
A warm shade of red flushes on the apple of Zayne’s cheek. His eyes flit around the room, seeing if anyone was paying attention. Though if they did, they wouldn’t really think twice about it. No one thought twice about the people in the first row.
You cross the classroom, intentionally walking by his desk, and for a split second, he sees the wind flutter at your skirt, lifting it to reveal baby blue before it's covered by the school skirt.
Zayne, for his sanity, believes that it was a hallucination. The lingering scent of your perfume, however, was proof that it was real, and you just flashed him.
And Zayne cannot explain the subtle tightness he feels down there.
He reverts to focusing on the last two questions, which seemed to be mocking him at this point. The scratching of his pen against the surface of his exam distracted him for the time being. It took two minutes to finish off the exam and another five minutes to review his answers, although, in reality, his eyes were barely focused on the paper. He knew his answers were correct. He was just stalling for time.
His legs seemed to have a mind of their own as he found himself walking towards the professor’s desk, dropping off the paper and turning around, grabbing his stuff to leave.
The door behind him clicks shut. He was out in the hallway, eyes scanning, searching for you.
“Hey, Z.” He jumps at the sound of your voice. His eyes flit over to your figure, who looked at him like nothing was out of the ordinary.
Maybe he was overthinking it.
A smile that could only be described as mischievous crosses your face. “You ready?” Nope. Not overthinking it.
Zayne responds with a nod. You open your phone to book a car to the hotel Zayne booked the week before.
A regular hotel. Not a cheap hotel where the stains from prior inhabitants left their mark, nor was it a hotel with a butler on your beck and call. Just decent, just normal. That was the smartest option. Away from the risk of being heard from thin dorm walls and the walks of shame, also away from bumping into people you might know.
The perfect place to conduct their research. The perfect place for plausible deniability.
You feel the eye of the receptionist on the two of you before you could even make your approach.
“We have a reservation under Li.” You confidently say, meanwhile, Zayne looks around awkwardly, trying hard not to catch the receptionist’s eye.
The receptionist types to confirm the reservation before handing you both a key card.
“Have a nice stay.” They say, tone devoid of any emotion, but Zayne thinks that the reception knew.
The two of you walked towards the elevator, waiting a few seconds to see if anyone else would get in, but after seeing that there was no one else, Zayne pressed the room floor.
Silence fills the metal space as Zayne looks straight ahead, feeling his heart thump nervously against his chest.
“Are you nervous?” You asked, not looking at him, just at the elevator's digital screen, the floor number count rising.
“Aren’t you?” Zayne asks back, not giving you an answer.
You let out a small laugh. “I am.”
Zayne doesn’t seem to think so.
“But,” You look down at your shoes, warmth creeping up your face. “Not as much because it’s you. I trust you.”
His heart seems to calm down at that statement.
The elevator door opens, and the two of you step out, finding your hotel room almost instantly. Zayne presses the card against the scanner, the quiet click! of the door opening sounded louder to his ears.
You stepped in first, settling your schoolbag on the floor as you took in the room. It was decent, a queen-sized bed flat in the middle and a TV, which you doubt you’ll be using, mounted on the wall. From behind you, the sound of Zayne rustling through his stuff catches your attention. You turn around, watching as he pulls out an unopened box of condoms from his messenger bag.
“Straight to the point, huh?” Your voice startles him. He rises quickly, red decorating his cheeks as he sputters out his defense.
“I– It was just— I was just.” This was one of the rare times that Zayne finds himself stumbling over his words. You cut him off with a laugh as you waved him off.
“Calm down, Z. I was just kidding.” You say before sitting on the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight.
Zayne stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do as the seconds passed by.
Thankfully, you noticed. You always did.
You cleared your throat, “Zayne…”
“Yes?”
“You know we don’t need to do this if you’re uncomfortable, right? I won’t take it persona—""That’s not what it is.” Zayne cuts you off, closing the distance as he stands in front of you. “This is just… adventitious." You smile softly, acknowledging his nerves.
“Z, you have to remember, this is all new to me, too. We’ll figure it out along the way, that’s what the research is for.” You reach out to hold his hand, “I’m on the same boat as you are.”
Zayne closes his eyes and sighs, not out of exasperation, but as a means to ground himself. He nods, eyes opening to look at you fully.
You looked encouraging, as if this was a completely different situation and not that the two of you were about to have sex.
“I…” Zayne hesitates. “I don’t know where we should begin.” You pat the space beside you on the bed.
“How about…” You grabbed his hand, intertwining your fingers together. “Kissing?”
He nods, but stays still, his hand limping against yours.
The two of you faced each other, not knowing how or when to move. You’ve seen it in movies, but never in a setting where it was premeditated. It almost always just happens.
You decided to take the lead, knowing that Zayne probably wouldn’t have, and you lean forward. He meets you halfway before your lips meet in an awkward press, the middle of your glasses clinking together awkwardly.
It lasted a few seconds before you pulled away. When your eyes opened, he was already staring back at you.
“So…” You smiled cheekily. “How was it?” You wanted to tease the rising redness on the apples of Zayne’s cheek, but you were caught off guard as he closed the distance, his hand on your face.
“I think… we need more data,” Zayne says, voice barely above a whisper as he stares at your lips. You smiled at the use of the research jargon, but before you could retort, Zayne’s lips met yours again in a deeper, yet still clumsy kiss.
The room was filled with the sound of lips smacking, your hands refusing to stay idle as it reached up to clasp Zayne’s hand that was on your cheek. Zayne’s other hand snakes its way to your waist, pulling you closer to him. A surprised oof! leaves your lips as you find your body half on his lap.
Zayne takes it as an opportunity to introduce his tongue. The muscle sliding against your lower lip. You parted your lips, letting him in.
He was careful, not wanting to overwhelm you, but you seemed to be in your own world as you accidentally shoved your tongue in his mouth, causing him to pull away as a reflex.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry!” You apologized, eyes wide. Zayne says nothing as he catches his breath. You watched as his eyes flit to your lips, his eyes dark in a way that wasn’t familiar. His gaze invites a flutter in your stomach. A familiar feeling only when you read a manga panel in one of your horny moods.
Zayne makes the first move, pulling you in, the prior gentleness gone as his tongue enters your mouth, his muscle fighting against yours in a match that neither wanted to concede. Your hands roam, one gripped his hair, the other on his neck, as you kept him pressed to you. His, however, were more mischievous as one settles on your back and the other lies flat against your chest.
You gasped as Zayne squeezed experimentally on your breast, your back arching at the sudden touch, causing you to pull away.
“I-I’m sorry I–” Zayne apologizes as you stand up from the bed. You press a finger on his lips. Ensuring his eyes were on you as you made a move to unbutton your uniform.
“We’re moving a bit too slow, no?” You say, half-teasing, half a statement.
Zayne watches, entranced, as your fingers show more of your skin. He jolts, standing up as well, as if remembering what was happening as his hand reaches to his tie, loosening it and starting to undress himself as well.
The two of you watch each other expose yourselves to a state of undress. Zayne feels his cock twitch as he sees the cloth of your skirt fall with a graceless thud.
“Where the hell have you been hiding that?!” You couldn’t help but exclaim as Zayne removes his polo, revealing abs that hid under school polos and vests. His slacks came off next, and the dark navy color of his boxers was stark against his pale skin.
Both of you were only in your underwear, standing face to face. Zayne couldn’t help but focus on the way your boobs were snugly hugged by a baby-blue bra, lace embedded with glitter, with a small snowflake resting in the middle, and, of course, the baby-blue panties he'd seen earlier complemented the set perfectly.
You were no better; your eyes traced every ridge of his body. You were somewhat in disbelief that a man who chugs down milk tea and matcha like it was his lifeline has a body sculpted by the gods.
“May I?” Zayne asked, You let out an audible ‘huh?’ before you realized he was asking permission to touch your chest.
You did him one better; you grabbed his hand, settling it onto your boobs, as you tilted up to kiss him. He meets you, more confident this time, yet his hands awkwardly grope at your chest.
Your hand snakes down, pouting into the kiss once you feel the stubble where his happy trail should be. You pull away, just to confirm. “You shaved?” Zayne huffs against your lips. “I didn’t know your opinion on body hair.”
“Next time,” You kiss him again, muttering against his lips, “keep it.”
Zayne’s heart stutters at the promise of another time.
He mutters back a quick noted before he leads you back to the bed.
You find yourself sitting on his lap, the kissing only intensifying as his hands find their way on the underside of your thigh, pulling you flush against him. You gasped as you felt his length hardening under you.
None of you commented that the only barrier between the two of you was your underwear. You get off his lap, making him lie beside you on the bed as your upper bodies lean on the headboard.
“Hey, Z… ” You catch your breath, he was dazed as he let out a hum— his tone was rough, eyes dark, his glasses askew on his head. “Have you ever gotten off?”
Zayne raises a brow, but he nods nonetheless at your question.
“Have you ever gotten off to me?” Zayne freezes at the question. He doesn’t know how to respond.
But, it looked like you weren’t looking for much of an answer as your soft hand trails down his twitching abs. His cock jumps against his boxers as your palm rests there, your eyes trained on the straining muscle.
“Because I have.” You say, not meaning to be heard by your friend. If Zayne heard, he made no comment on it, but the way his breath hitches should be enough.
Zayne bumps his head against yours, pushing you down slightly as his hand pushes the waistband of your panties to the side. His fingers were careful, and they twitched once he felt the short hair that surrounds your mound.
Fuck. It felt heavenly against his fingertips.
You did not back down as you pushed his boxers down, gasping as his cock sprang out.
It was big. Not hentai-proportion big, but big enough that your mouth already aches from thinking of taking him.
You were careful as you pumped his cock at a slow pace. Your eyes were trained on his expressions. He lets out a hiss, eyes fluttering shut.
“How does it feel?” You asked, Zayne opens his eyes and looks at you with a tight expression.
“Different.” You hummed at his answer, “spit on your hand.”
“Excuse me?”
Zayne presses a kiss on your neck, “feels better when wet.” He explains, “based on experience.”
Your breath hitches, you make a move to move your hair out of the way as you lean down to let out a trail of drool on his cock.
It twitches as the warmth of your saliva hits him.
He lets out a groan as your hand finds itself back on his cock, pumping it with more ease, his hand twitches as if remembering that he had a mission before he strokes your slit.
Wet. You were so wet against his touch.
“Oh my god, that feels so weird.” You giggled, reaching up to place a kiss on his temple as you quickened your pace, your boobs right below Zayne’s lips. He dips down, mouthing at the exposed mound. He uses his other hand to pull your bra down, freeing a nipple which he immediately encloses with his mouth. “Bad weird?” he asks against your skin.
You giggled. “Great weird, actually.”
Your back arches as he sucks on your nipple; his other hand continues to spread your wetness against his fingers.
The tip of his finger accidentally brushes your clit, and you shudder. Zayne feels this and pulls away.
“Too much?” You shake your head, bucking your hips up to chase after his fingers, and your hand takes hold of his face.
“Not enough.” You correct as you pull him down, mouth meeting his parted lips as you press your body closer to his, your tongues intertwining as you focus on pleasuring each other.
The kiss was messy, sloppy. Inexperienced tongues trying to gain the upper hand while quiet sounds of pleasure escape your lips.
Zayne takes it a step further as he presses harder against your clit, rubbing it in smooth circles.
An abrupt moan leaves your lips as you arch your back, pressing your boobs closer to his chest, your eyes flit to a close.
It felt so… foreign. It didn’t feel that way when you rubbed yourself. You’ve always psyched yourself out, even when alone. It always felt uncomfortable and wrong somehow. You’ve even followed a manga panel by panel, trying to replicate the implied feeling, only to be disappointed at how exaggerated the artist made the drawings.
You were too into thinking that you didn’t notice Zayne freeze for a second beside you.
You moaned right into his ear, and he could feel his cock harden even more if it were possible. His tongue presses harder against yours, his fingers rubbing harder, faster, trying to make you moan like that again.
What he didn’t realize was that his mind was going into a haze, his hips were bucking in time with your pumping, the glasses on your faces were bumping against each other, but none of you cared. Moans transferred from your lips to his as the two of you chased an unfamiliar release.
You can feel Zayne’s cock twitch against your hold, his abs flexing. You were faring no better; you could feel your clit throb, and normally, this is when you’d stop. However, your pussy wasn’t in your hands; it was in Zayne’s, and he’d be damned if he didn’t see you cum for him.
“‘s feels so weird, Z.” You whimpered against his lips. Zayne hisses, feeling himself near release.
He wanted you to come first, really. But when your other hand reaches down to grope at his balls, amping the stimulations on his cock, he couldn’t help the way his back arches and his body shudders, cum spurting all over your hand and down the sides of his shaft.
Zayne was mortified. His biggest fear was coming true. He came like a pathetic, inexperienced virgin, and you were always going to remember him as su— A curious hum snaps him out of his thoughts.
Your eyes were glassy, half-lidded as you stared at your cum stained hand. You lifted it to the warm light of the room, watching as his come connects your fingers. A burning red floods Zayne’s face.
You looked at him, before looking back down at your fingers, your tongue lolling out to taste his release.
Zayne’s eyes widened at the display.
You take in the tips of your stained fingers, humming softly at the taste, before you push the rest inside. You moan as his sticky cum envelops your tongue.
He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He was entranced by the way your fingers were pumping in and out of your mouth and how it looked like you enjoyed it.
Your free hand snakes its way to the middle of your thighs before Zayne’s hand shoves it away.
With a surprised gasp, you find your legs draped against either of his shoulders as he looks into your eyes, gauging your reaction.
Your eyes were wide in surprise, fingers halfway in your mouth as you stared back at him.
“Your turn,” Zayne says lowly. His eyes flickered to your throbbing hole, his tongue unconsciously licking his lips at the sight of your wetness oozing out.
Without waiting for a response, he leans in, placing a noisy kiss on your puffy clit. Your hand flies to his now messy hair.
“Zayne…” You moan out as his tongue traces every bump it encounters, his nose bumps into your clit as his tongue flickers against your hole.
“...good…” “Huh?” You pull at Zayne’s hair, and he resists as he mumbles against your pussy, louder.
“You taste so good.”
Zayne wasn’t expecting a lot but was pleasantly surprised to find himself chasing after the taste of your dribbling pussy. His eyes flickered to yours to see your reaction. Your lower lip was trapped between your teeth as your eyes rolled back, hips bucking up to chase his tongue.
He caresses your thighs before he teases one of his fingers to your hole, not stopping in his ministrations.
“Z–Zayne—ahhn—Z!” You pull on his hair, pushing on his head onto your core.
You were surprised because you didn’t expect Zayne to eat you out with so much vigor. He had no technique, but he was enthusiastic. Every time you let out a sound of pleasure, he’d focus on that spot until you felt an unfamiliar tightening in your lower stomach.
“Zayne… feels weird.” You moan out, chest heaving as you try to wriggle out of his grip.
He doesn’t let you.
He only smothers his face in your pussy, slamming his fingers inside of you, muffled come. come. come. spoken against your skin.
Your eyes close, a loud moan leaving your mouth as your back arches, your hands tightening against the tresses of his messy hair.
“Z-Zayne, fuck!”
Your thighs spasm as you feel liquid gush out of your pussy. Zayne groans at the sudden warmth enveloping the lower half of his face as his tongue does its best to clean you up.
You pulled on his hair, dragging him up and smashing your lips together, making you taste one another as his hands dart to remove your bra.
If you weren’t in the heat of the moment, you would’ve teased him for fumbling, but you couldn’t care less as you pulled down his boxers and your panties.
His hard length presses against your bare pussy, the two of you still moaning against each other’s mouths before his hands reach towards the nightstand to rip out a condom from the packaging.
“Shit.” Zayne pulls away, cursing lowly. A sound that makes a flutter settle in your stomach.
You looked at the condom with intrigue as you took it from Zayne’s hand, placing the tip of the condom inside your mouth as you moved towards his hard cock.
His eyes were locked on yours as you dipped down, mouth enveloping the tip of his cock, the condom covering the shaft as you moved down.
Zayne’s breath hitches in his throat as he watches you, speechless. His hand rests on your head as you swallow around his cock in the guise of putting on a condom. He bucks his hips once, pulling you away once he hears you gag.
The sight has him bewitched.
You looked back at him with teary, red eyes, a string of spit connecting your lips to the tip of his covered cock.
You looked wrecked, and he hasn’t even put it in yet.
You looked beautiful.
He pulls you up, your back meets the soft hotel bed as his hands cage your body from either side.
“Ready for the main event?” You couldn’t help but tease him. Zayne scoffs out a laugh, leaning down to suck on your tongue, biting it softly just until he hears you hiss.
He looks down to see your parts pressed together. He moves to tease his sensitive cock against your twitching clit. The condom dulls his sensations for a small percent but he ignores it. Not today.
You open your legs, spreading them for him as he teases your slit.
“Are you sure?” Zayne asked, nerves on fire.
This was the finale to the build-up of an hour of foreplay.
You nod.
“Fuck me, Zayne.”
His cock twitches at your words. He presses the covered tip into your hole, breaching your tightness.
You took in a deep breath, feeling discomfort almost immediately. Zayne notices and pauses. You reached up to splay your hands at his back, shaking your head.
“It’s okay, continue.” Zayne furrows his brow.
“Are you sure?”
You nod at his question, “slowly, please.”
Zayne nods, pushing in slower,
The room was filled with heavy breathing. He can feel your pussy tightening up, not wanting another inch to push in.
He leans down, whispering a breathless “relax” in your ear. The sound was sexy, confident, and did nothing to help you relax as you let out a moan at his tone.
“Holy shit, we’re really doing this.” You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him closer so you could leave kiss marks on the expanse of his neck.
Zayne pushes the final inch in, the two of you staying still as your lips kiss every inch of skin of his that you can reach.
“You’re…” Zayne hisses out, breathing heavily. “You’re so tight.”
“You’re throbbing in me.” You giggled. “I can feel everything.”
A few seconds pass, the discomfort dulling.
“You can move.” You breathe out, bracing yourself.
Zayne nods. He braces himself on the bed, planting his weight on his forearms before he pulls out, only to push in immediately.
The two of you let out a surprised noise; the feeling was strange yet not uncomfortable. It takes a minute for Zayne to find his rhythm, and when he does, you immediately feel it.
How deeply he was thrusting against you.
You let out a moan, back arching as his hips thrusted, his hand reaches to ground your back as his head dips down, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue playing with the tip.
You giggled. What a freak. You never thought that Zayne had a thing for boobs, but you learn new things every day.
And you learned that you liked Zayne looking like this.
His brows were knitted in concentration. His mouth was occupied with your tits, and he forewent holding himself up, his body pressing against yours, so he could play with your other.
“Z,” You pull his head away, making him face you. “Hm?” His voice was an octave you had never heard before. Hot.
“Can I ride you?” His eyes widened, before he could conjure a response, you took the opportunity of his shock to switch your positions, and you were now straddling his lower body.
His hands make their way to your waist. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You ignore him as you move your hips against his cock that bobbed in the air.
“Relax, Zayne. It’ll be fun.” You smiled. Zayne thinks you look beautiful.
You let out a startled gasp as you make the mistake of taking him all in in one move. Zayne groans as his cock is enveloped in your warmth. The sudden tightness made his cock pulse like crazy, and he couldn’t stop himself from bucking twice.
He was overwhelmed. The taste of you was still present in his tongue, his body was hot and sweaty, your soft skin was contrasting against the hard planes of his abs, and you looked so enthusiastic about everything that he couldn’t stop the feeling of it all.
A groan fills the air, not from you, but from Zayne, who accidentally releases into the condom. You realize what was happening, a mischievous grin on your face as you grind down on his already stimulated cock.
“It’s okay, Zayne.” You leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Felt good, huh?”
Zayne was mortified.
On both occasions where the two of you should’ve come together, he came first, both times.
Once you realized that Zayne wasn’t sharing in your humor, you leaned down to press a kiss on his cheek. “It’s okay, Z—” “This is… not an ideal situation for me.” Zayne cuts you off.
You looked at him with a comforting smile on your face. “Not ideal, sure.” You agreed with a hum as you pulled out, eyes trained on the cum filled condom.
Your mouth waters, wanting to taste his release once more, but you clear your throat, going back to the topic.
“--but really fucking hot, Zayne.” You admit, reaching over to tie the used condom, tossing it behind you, somewhere in the room, before pulling out a new one, but not before leaning down to lick down Zayne’s dick that twitches under your tongue.
“We can stop now, if you want, Z.” You reassure him with a smile that makes his heart stutter against his chest.
You cleared your throat, putting on your best scientist voice.
“We have gathered sufficient data, and the thesis has reached a conclusion. Sex does feel go–”“No.”
You let out a yelp, eyes wide as you find yourself back on the bed with Zayne looming over you. He takes hold of the condom, “You didn’t cum yet.”
You were confused. “You made me squirt.”
“Not from my cock.” Zayne clarifies, eyes dark as he places the condom on himself.
“Zayne, it’s okay—” “We cannot reach a conclusion if the variables are not satisfied.” You want to argue, say that a thesis doesn’t work like that, and whatever result is enough of a result.
He was acting out of selfish intent, and you were in no way complaining.
You giggled, letting him tease the tip of his cock to your wet, edged pussy.
“Then let’s reach the conclusion together, Z.”
He pushes in, a concentrated expression on his face as he focuses on your pleasure. His hips thrust in a steady pattern. Hard, deep, consistent.
His hand squeezes one of your boobs, the fat seeping through his fingers as he watches your face contort with pleasure.
Moans tumble out of your lips as your clit gets grazed every time Zayne pulls out. Your hand snakes down to relieve your puffy pearl that was begging for attention, only for Zayne to move your hands away.
Before you can say anything, you feel a warm, wet sensation hit your clit.
He spat on you.
His fingers came down immediately, massaging your clit in a messy pattern, your moans get louder, back arching as you try to match the slamming of his hips.
He groans, feeling you tighten against him, your body squirming underneath him, trying to grapple with anything to ground yourself. You settle on the sheets beside you, fist tightening against the duvet until your knuckles turn white.
Zayne sees this and pins one of your hands down, leaning down so he can place a sloppy kiss on your mouth, tongue messily clashing against each other as your muffled sounds get louder.
You moan his name against his lips, and his hips stutter for a split second before he pounds harder, reaching your womb without even meaning to.
“Zayne… ‘m so– ahhn!–sosososo close. Please!” Your words were music to his ears. He couldn’t help but let out a groan as his lips ventured south, sucking down a mark under your jaw, not stopping until you let out a hiss and his mouth leaves a shade of bruise purple.
“Cum for me.” He mutters, not that he needed to ask, because your body seizes almost right after, a shrill moan leaving your lips as you feel your soul leave your body.
Your back crashes on the bed, exhausted, boneless, as you try catching your breath. Zayne hisses and his hips still, you feel warmth inside your pussy yet it gets blocked by the condom.
Zayne pulls out, and with an uncharacteristic ungracefulness, he plops down beside you, taking off the condom and tying it up, letting it fall on the floor as the two of you catch your breath.
You were blissed out; you didn’t expect the sex to feel like an out-of-body experience. Your breathing manages to even out. Finally coming back to the world, only to realize that your hand was still intertwined with Zayne.
You make no move to let go, neither does he.
The room was silent, as if it were letting you feel the weight of your actions.
You fucked your best friend. You liked it. You wanted to do it again… for research!
“Are you okay?” Zayne asks after a moment, rising up to inspect your body, scanning the sweat and drool-stained skin. His breath hitches, but he wills himself to stop his thoughts from getting hard once more.
“I get it.” You answered, not really answering his question, but a question that was in both of your minds.
“I get the hype.” You grinned, turning on your body to face his, your breasts spilling to the side due to gravity, which makes Zayne choke in his gaze. “Sex is awesome.”
Zayne sighs, but he doesn’t disagree; instead, he lies back down and faces you, both your eyes sneaking glances at each other before yours stop at his kiss-bitten lips.
“Hey, Z?” “Hm?”
“Can we kiss again?” Zayne doesn’t answer with words; instead, he meets you halfway as your lips meet in a gentle, sweet kiss.
A kiss no friend should ever share with another. Good thing the two of you were researchers.
“Zayne…” you pull away, huffing slightly, body molding against his as you feel his dick hardening against your thigh once more.
“...yes?”
“There are still four condoms in the pack.” You grinned suggestively.
He lets out a laugh before he towers over you once again, his arm already reaching out to the box beside the bed.
One more time. (Maybe four.)
For research.
note/s: introductory chapter for d freaks, chapter two is much more depraved than this i promise :> anw how was it bc i blacked out writing this LMAOOO also sadly, im not gonna be putting a header anm (unless i find a vague one) in risk of being flagged again this app hates to see me goon
let me learn you (and the sounds you make) [masterlist.]
pairings: nerd!Zayne x nerd!Reader
synopsis: You never understood what the hype about sex was about. Anatomically, it sounded disgusting. Hearing it from a friend sounded icky. You’ve thought about it. You’ve thought about attending a party and having your cherry popped, but the thought of a random guy putting his hands on you was enough to make you hurl. You weren’t into dating either; there just wasn’t any time, you were married to your studies and your manga. No man could ever compare. Enter Zayne, your misery in company. The equally nerdy man you met in freshman year, your partner in every assigned project, and someone you can tell everything to without him judging. Surely, he wouldn’t judge if you ask him to show you what you’ve been missing out on. The catch? Hell, he didn’t know what the hype was about either.
warning/s: Established Friendship, Loss of Virginity, Clumsy, Awkward, Exploratory Sex, Fingering, Oral, P in V, Exhibitionism, Overstimulation, Jealousy, A bit of angst, Protection, more tags to be added!
EPISODE ONE: I don't get the hype. (upcoming 03/16)
synopsis: tba...
EPISODE TWO: upcoming...
EPISODE THREE: upcoming...
SIDE STORIES: (implied for after the canon story.)
❥ pairing: bodgyguard/knight!sylus qin x princess fem!reader
❥ summary: “A princess bound by duty, a knight sworn to protect her—two hearts that have orbited each other since childhood, close enough to feel the pull but never daring to cross the distance. When danger shatters the careful walls between them, they must choose between the roles they’ve been given and the truth they’ve hidden for twenty years.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 41,9k (I will never be normal about sylus <3)
❥ warnings/tags: childhood best friends to lovers. fools/idiots to lovers. forbidden romance. one bed trope / forced proximity. mutual pining that they think is unrequited. the duke (original character) being used as a malicious misogynistic plot device, assassins, attempted murder, violence, yearning/longing, miscommunication in terms of thinking the love is unrequited, reader is shorter than sylus. inexperienced/virgin!reader, sylus is technically also a virgin but yeah, won’t be as noticeable. loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, ok… just overall soft sylus, sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, bit of breeding kink, overstimulation, size kink, praise kink, daddy kink (the word is used twice sorry!), lots of pet names (kitten, princess, sweetie, my beloved… etc).
⟶ a/n: oh my... I've always wanted to write a bodyguard au. so here I AM. and writing this trope for MY MUSE!!!! SYLUS. also I don't know what's happening but I'm obsessed with writing princess!mc 🥰 either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy this lengthy fic from me again! also because I don't wanna post it in parts you'll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you'll have to head to ao3. I really love this and this banner inspired me a lot! thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 inspired by the song run to you by whitney houston <3
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
You were six years old the first time you saw Sylus Qin.
It had been a beautiful spring afternoon, the kind where the sun hung warm and golden in a cloudless sky and the palace gardens were in full bloom. You’d been playing alone among the peonies—your attendants watching from a respectful distance as always—when you’d heard voices approaching along the gravel path.
Men’s voices. Your father’s, you’d recognized immediately, and another you didn’t know.
Curious, you’d peered around the large ornamental rock you’d been using as a fortress in your imaginary game, and that’s when you’d seen him.
A boy. Older than you—maybe ten, you’d guessed, though you’d learned later he was actually ten—being led through the gardens by your father and the Master of Arms. He’d been dressed in the simple training clothes of a junior squire, his silver hair—even then, that striking silver—pulled back from his face, and his red eyes had been wide as he’d taken in the splendor of the imperial gardens.
Red eyes. You’d never seen eyes that color before.
He must have felt your stare because his gaze had suddenly shifted, landing directly on you where you’d been trying to hide behind your rock.
You’d frozen, caught.
For a moment, you’d just looked at each other—this strange silver-haired boy with crimson eyes and you, the princess who was supposed to be too dignified to spy on people.
Then you’d smiled and waved.
He’d blinked, clearly surprised, and glanced at the adults with him as if asking permission. But they’d been deep in conversation about training schedules or weapons or something equally boring, not paying attention to either of you.
So you’d waved again, more insistently this time, and gestured for him to come over.
He’d hesitated for only a second before slipping away from the group, moving with a quietness that had impressed you even then, and approaching your rock fortress.
“Hi,” you’d whispered, grinning up at him. “I’m—”
“The princess,” he said, and his voice had been soft, a little awed. “I know. Everyone knows.”
“What’s your name?”
“Sylus. Sylus Qin.” He’d bowed, stiff and formal in the way someone had clearly taught him to bow to royalty. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”
You’d wrinkled your nose. “That’s too many words. Just call me by my name. And you don’t have to bow like that. It looks uncomfortable.”
His lips had twitched, almost smiling. “I’m supposed to bow to royalty.”
“But we’re going to be friends,” you announced with the absolute confidence of a six-year-old who’d decided she liked someone. “Friends don’t bow to each other. That’s silly.”
“Friends?” He’d sounded uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if princesses were allowed to have friends who were trainee squires.
“Yes! Do you want to play tag?” You hadn’t waited for an answer, just reached out and tagged his arm. “You’re it!”
And then you’d taken off running through the gardens, laughing, and after a moment of shocked hesitation, you’d heard him laugh too and give chase.
That was how it had started. How you’d met the boy who would become the most important person in your world.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
The years that followed had been filled with stolen moments.
Sylus had been training to become a palace guard, working under the Master of Arms with single-minded determination that had impressed everyone. But whenever he’d had free time—and sometimes even when he shouldn’t have—he’d found his way to wherever you were.
He’d played with you in the gardens, climbed trees to retrieve kites you’d gotten stuck, helped you catch fireflies in the summer evenings. He’d sat with you during tedious lessons when your tutors had allowed it, and he’d carried you on his shoulders when you’d gotten tired during walks through the palace grounds.
Your attendants had been scandalized at first—a princess shouldn’t be so familiar with a mere trainee—but your father had allowed it. Had even encouraged it, you’d learned later. He’d seen the way Sylus watched over you even then, the way he’d positioned himself between you and anything that might hurt you, and he’d known.
This boy would protect his daughter with his life.
As you’d grown older, the games had changed but the connection had remained. You’d watch him train sometimes, hiding behind pillars or in doorways, mesmerized by the way he moved—the grace and power, the absolute focus. He’d always known you were there. Would sometimes show off a little, executing a particularly impressive combination or disarming his sparring partner with a flourish that made your heart flutter in your chest.
He’d been fourteen when you’d first realized you were in love with him.
You’d been ten, and you’d been crying in your chambers after one of the court ladies had pulled too hard while dressing your hair for some ceremony. It had hurt, and worse, the woman had scolded you for fidgeting, had called you difficult and ungrateful in a tone that had made you feel small and ashamed.
Sylus had found you in the gardens afterward, still sniffling, your elaborate hairstyle already falling apart.
“Hey,” he’d said softly, sitting beside you on the stone bench. “What’s wrong, Princess?”
You’d told him, the words tumbling out between tears, and he’d listened with such patience, such genuine concern, that it had made you cry harder.
“Come here,” he’d said finally, and he’d turned you around so your back was to him. “Let me fix it.”
“You don’t know how to—”
“My mother taught me,” he’d said quietly. “Before she… she worked in a kitchen, but she also helped the estate healer sometimes. She said a man should know gentleness, not just strength. That included learning how to braid hair.”
His fingers had been so careful as they’d worked through your tangles, so gentle that it hadn’t hurt at all. And as he’d braided and arranged your hair with surprising skill, he’d talked to you—told you stories about his mother, about his training, about anything and everything to distract you from your tears.
By the time he’d finished, you’d stopped crying. And when you’d turned to look at him, had seen the soft concern in his red eyes, the small smile on his lips as he’d admired his handiwork, something in your chest had shifted.
Oh, you’d thought. Oh no.
Because you’d realized in that moment that you loved him. Not the way you loved your parents or your friends, but something bigger, something that made your heart race and your cheeks flush and your stomach do strange fluttery things.
You’d been ten years old, and you’d fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a fourteen-year-old trainee who’d learned to braid hair from his mother and who’d never once made you feel like you were too much or too difficult or too anything.
What you hadn’t known—what you wouldn’t learn for years—was that Sylus had fallen in that moment too.
He’d been holding back tears of his own as he’d braided your hair, thinking of his mother who’d died just a year before, whose gentle teachings he’d been trying desperately to honor. And when you’d turned to look at him with those trusting eyes, still damp with tears but smiling now, something in his carefully controlled heart had cracked wide open.
He’d been too young to understand it fully, but he’d known: this girl, this princess he’d been assigned to protect, had become the center of his entire world.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
The years had continued to pass, and the feelings had only grown stronger.
You’d been twelve when you’d first seen him truly fight.
Bandits had attacked the royal caravan during a trip to a neighboring province. You’d been terrified, frozen in the carriage as you’d heard shouts and the clash of steel. Then the door had been ripped open and a man with a scarred face and wild eyes had reached for you—
And Sylus had appeared like something out of legend.
He’d been sixteen, still technically in training but already more skilled than many full knights. He’d pulled the bandit away from you with one hand and put his sword through the man’s chest with the other, and the cold efficiency of it had stolen your breath.
Then he’d turned to you, and his expression had completely changed—from that deadly warrior to the gentle boy you knew, concern flooding his red eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he’d asked, checking you over with shaking hands. “Did he touch you? Are you—”
“I’m fine,” you’d managed, though you’d been trembling. “You saved me.”
“Always,” he’d said, and the intensity in his voice had made something warm bloom in your chest. “I’ll always save you.”
After that day, he’d been officially assigned to your personal guard rotation despite his young age. Your father had seen what you’d already known: there was no one better suited to protect you.
But the new official capacity had changed things between you. Where before you’d had freedom to just be friends, now there were expectations, protocols. He’d started calling you “Princess” more often than your name, had stopped seeking you out during his free time, had maintained a careful distance that had made your heart ache.
You’d been thirteen the first time you’d truly understood what it meant to miss someone who was standing right beside you.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
You’d been fifteen when you’d first felt the magnetic pull.
It had been late evening, and you’d been studying in the palace library—or pretending to study, at least. Sylus had been stationed outside as your guard, but you’d insisted he come inside because it had been winter and the hallways were freezing.
He’d sat near the fireplace, supposedly watching the door but actually reading one of the military strategy texts you’d seen him glance at longingly. You’d been pretending to focus on your own book but really watching him—the way the firelight had painted gold across his silver hair, the way his brow had furrowed in concentration, the way his lips had moved slightly as he’d read.
Beautiful, you’d thought. He’s so beautiful.
At some point, you’d both looked up at the same time, and your eyes had met across the room.
The air had felt charged, electric. Neither of you had moved, but you’d felt pulled toward him like a string was tied between your hearts. You’d seen his throat work as he’d swallowed, seen the way his eyes had darkened, and you’d known—somehow you’d known—that if you stood up and crossed to him, if you’d closed the distance between you, something would have happened.
Something irreversible.
But you’d been fifteen and he’d been nineteen and he was your guard and you were a princess, and there were so many reasons why you couldn’t.
So you’d looked away first, breaking the moment, and you’d heard his quiet exhale like he’d been holding his breath.
It had become a pattern after that. These moments where you’d get too close, where the air would shimmer with possibility, where you’d almost—almost—let yourselves cross that invisible line.
But you never did.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
You’d been seventeen when you’d realized he was pulling away.
The cuddling that had been so natural when you were children—him letting you fall asleep against his shoulder during long carriage rides, carrying you when you’d gotten sick, letting you seek comfort in his presence—had gradually stopped.
You’d try to lean against him and he’d shift away. You’d reach for his hand and he’d find a reason to move. You’d ask him to stay and talk with you like he used to, and he’d make excuses about duty and propriety.
It had hurt. Gods, it had hurt so much, and you hadn’t understood why.
You’d thought maybe he’d finally seen you clearly—seen that you were in love with him—and had been trying to distance himself because he didn’t feel the same. Or worse, because he’d felt sorry for you.
The truth, which you hadn’t known, was that Sylus’s feelings had grown beyond what he could safely control. Every casual touch had become torture. Every time you’d smiled at him, every time you’d said his name, every time you’d looked at him with those trusting eyes, it had been harder and harder to maintain his composure.
He’d been twenty-two and desperately in love with a eighteen-year-old princess he was sworn to protect, and the wanting had been consuming him. The desire to touch you, to hold you, to tell you everything he felt—it had been overwhelming. And worse, the thoughts had become less innocent. The way his body had responded to your proximity, the dreams he’d had that had left him aching and ashamed—he’d hated himself for it.
So he’d pulled away. Had tried to put distance between you and his inappropriate feelings. Had tried to be nothing more than your guard, nothing more than what was proper and right.
It had been killing him, but he’d thought it was necessary.
What he hadn’t realized was that his distance had been killing you too.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
You’d been nineteen when you’d almost kissed him.
It had been your birthday celebration—a small, private thing, not the grand ball the court would throw later in the week. Just you and a handful of people you actually cared about. Sylus had been there in his capacity as your guard, standing near the wall with his usual vigilant posture.
But you’d been drinking wine—more than you probably should have—and the alcohol had made you bold.
You’d crossed to him, aware of people watching but not caring, and you’d grabbed his hand.
“Dance with me,” you’d said.
“Princess, I don’t think—”
“It’s my birthday,” you’d insisted. “And I want to dance with you. Please?”
He’d hesitated, clearly torn, but you’d pulled on his hand and he’d finally, finally given in.
You’d danced—a proper, formal dance, his hand at your waist and yours on his shoulder, the appropriate distance maintained between you. But it had felt anything but appropriate. Every place his body had touched yours had burned. His red eyes had been locked on your face, intense and wanting, and you’d felt dizzy with something that had nothing to do with the wine.
The music had slowed, or maybe you’d both just stopped paying attention to it. You’d been swaying together, closer than you should have been, his hand sliding lower on your back, your fingers threading into the hair at his nape.
“Princess,” he’d whispered, and his voice had been rough, strained. “We shouldn’t—”
“I don’t care,” you’d whispered back. You’d been looking at his lips, watching them form words, wanting to feel them against yours with an intensity that had stolen your breath.
You’d started to lean in. He’d started to lean in too, his eyes already closing, his head tilting—
“Your Highness!” One of your attendants had called, breaking the moment. “The cake is ready!”
You’d both jerked apart like you’d been burned. Sylus had stepped back immediately, his expression shuttering, and you’d wanted to scream with frustration.
So close. You’d been so close.
But the moment had passed, and Sylus had bowed and excused himself, and you’d been left standing there with your heart hammering and the taste of almost on your lips.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
You’d been twenty when you’d overheard the conversation that had shattered something in you.
Two of the palace guards had been talking in the hallway outside your chambers, not realizing you were right inside the slightly-ajar door.
“Qin’s got it rough,” one had said. “Being assigned to the Princess full-time. Must be exhausting, never having a moment to himself.”
“At least the pay is good,” the other had replied. “And it’s prestigious, being the Princess’s personal guard. Opens doors for advancement.”
“True. Though between you and me, I don’t think he had much choice. The King specifically requested him for the position. Not like he could refuse even if he wanted to.”
“Think he ever gets tired of it? Following her around constantly?”
“Probably. But he’s too professional to show it. That’s why he’s the best.”
You’d stood there, frozen, as their voices had faded down the hallway.
Duty. That’s all you were to him. A prestigious assignment he couldn’t refuse. A job that paid well and looked good for his career.
All those moments between you—the dancing, the almost-kisses, the way he’d held you—it had all been in your head. He’d been professional. Doing his duty. Nothing more.
The realization had crushed you.
You’d cried yourself to sleep that night, mourning something you’d never actually had.
What you hadn’t known was that Sylus had heard that same conversation from the other end of the hallway. Had heard those guards reduce his deepest feelings to mere professional obligation, and had been grateful.
Because if everyone thought he was just doing his duty, if no one suspected the truth of how desperately in love with you he was, then maybe he could keep serving as your guard. Could keep being near you, even if he could never have you.
It had been better this way, he’d told himself. Better that you thought his care was merely professional.
Even if the lie had hurt worse than any blade.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
You’d been twenty-three when you’d started receiving serious marriage proposals.
Noble sons, foreign dignitaries, wealthy merchants seeking to elevate their status—they’d come in a steady stream, and you’d rejected every single one. Your father had been patient at first, understanding your reluctance to marry young, but as you’d approached your mid-twenties, the pressure had increased.
You’d had to sit through countless meetings with potential suitors, had to smile and make polite conversation with men who’d looked at you like a prize to be won. And through it all, Sylus had been there, standing behind your chair or near the door, his face carefully neutral.
You’d watched him sometimes during those meetings, trying to gauge his reaction. Did it bother him to see other men courting you? Did he care at all?
His expression had never changed. Professional. Detached. Doing his duty.
It had hurt worse than any outright rejection.
What you hadn’t seen was the way his hands had clenched behind his back, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks. The way his jaw had ached from keeping his expression neutral when everything in him had wanted to remove these men from your presence by force.
The way he’d gone back to his quarters after each of these meetings and destroyed training dummies, imagining them as every suitor who’d dared to think they were worthy of you.
You’d never seen the way he’d broken down the night he’d heard rumors that your father was losing patience, that he might arrange a marriage without your consent if you continued to refuse everyone.
The night he’d realized he might actually lose you. That you might belong to someone else, and he’d have to stand by and watch it happen because he was nothing. No one. Just a guard with no title and no prospects and no right to love someone so far above him.
You’d been twenty-six when Zou Cheng had proposed.
And that’s when everything had changed.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･
The walk back to your chambers had been suffocatingly silent.
Sylus had fallen into step behind you the moment you’d dismissed yourself from the receiving hall, his presence a steady shadow at your back. You’d kept your chin high, your expression carefully neutral as you’d passed through the corridors of the palace, aware of the eyes that followed you—servants, courtiers, guards. Word of your rejection of Zou Cheng’s proposal would already be spreading through the palace like wildfire, and you refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing you rattled.
But the moment your chamber doors closed behind you and Sylus, the carefully constructed composure shattered.
Your hands were shaking as you turned to face the room, breath coming shorter, faster. The tears you’d been holding back since Zou Cheng had smiled at you with that entitled, predatory expression were burning at the backs of your eyes.
Your attendants looked up from where they’d been preparing your afternoon tea, concern immediate on their faces.
“Please,” you managed, your voice strained but still kind, still soft. “I need some time alone. Thank you.”
They bowed quickly, sensing your distress, and filed out with worried glances over their shoulders. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving only you and Sylus in the spacious chamber.
He stood near the entrance, his tall frame relaxed but alert in the way it always was—like he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. Today he wore robes of deep red silk with gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs, the formal attire of the imperial guard when not in full armour. The crimson fabric brought out the color of his eyes, made his long silver hair seem to glow in the filtered sunlight. His sword hung at his side, the leather of the scabbard worn smooth from years of use. His expression was carefully neutral, but those red eyes watched you with an intensity that made your chest ache.
The moment you knew you were truly alone with him, the dam broke.
“It was completely awful, Sy. A disastrous show. A freaking outrage. Did you see the way that Zou Cheng was looking at me? The way he could barely compose himself as I declined his proposal? I should’ve slapped him when he tried to come on to me. He’s a fucking disgrace,” you grumbled, pacing around your luxurious and elegant bedroom.
The chamber was a reflection of imperial refinement—walls adorned with hand-painted silk panels depicting cherry blossoms in full bloom, their delicate pink petals seeming to drift across the fabric. Latticed windows of dark wood filtered the afternoon sunlight into soft, golden beams that pooled across polished floors. Carved wooden screens separated different areas of the spacious room, and your canopy bed was draped in layers of flowing silk in shades of cream and rose. The palace itself was a sprawling masterpiece of red lacquered pillars, sweeping golden-tiled roofs that curved toward the heavens, and tranquil courtyards where ancient trees stood guard over stone pathways and lotus ponds.
You’d smiled at your bodyguard—your knight—Sylus Qin that morning as he’d escorted you down to meet Zou Cheng, nervous energy making your hands tremble slightly as you’d adjusted your hair. You’d asked him softly if you looked beautiful, needing that reassurance before facing another suitor you had no interest in. He’d glanced at you with those striking crimson eyes, something flickering in their depths before he’d smiled to himself and responded with a quiet, “Yes, Princess.” You could have sworn his pale cheeks had flushed slightly, that he’d looked away as if composing himself, though maybe that was just wishful thinking—your heart projecting feelings onto him that he’d never expressed.
Now, as you paced, your pink hanfu swished around your legs, the delicate peonies embroidered into the fabric catching the light. A few strands of hair had come loose from your carefully arranged style, the jade pins your attendants had spent an hour placing now slightly askew from your agitated movements.
“Princess,” Sylus said quietly, his deep voice cutting through your spiraling anger like a knife through silk. He hadn’t moved from his position near the door, but something in his tone made you pause mid-step, turning to look at him.
His jaw was tight, you noticed. The muscle there flexing almost imperceptibly as he watched you pace. His hand had drifted to rest on the pommel of his sword—not threateningly, but like he needed something solid to anchor himself to.
“You had every right to refuse him,” he continued, his voice carefully measured, professional. “Zou Cheng is…” He paused, and you saw the way his fingers tightened fractionally on the sword hilt. “He’s not worthy of you. His behavior was inappropriate and disrespectful.”
You laughed, but it came out bitter and sharp. “Inappropriate? Sy, he practically cornered me when you stepped back to give us ‘privacy.’ He put his hand on my waist and told me I should reconsider, that a woman of my ‘particular situation’ couldn’t afford to be so selective.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last words, the tears threatening again. “Like I’m some kind of burden to be offloaded. Like I should be grateful for his attention.”
Something dangerous flashed across Sylus’s face—there and gone so quickly you almost missed it. His eyes darkened, the red seeming to burn brighter for just a moment. His other hand flexed at his side, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed whatever his immediate reaction had been.
“He touched you?” The words came out quieter than before, but there was an edge to them that made your breath catch. Not anger at you—never at you—but something cold and lethal simmering beneath his controlled exterior.
“Just my waist,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. “But the way he looked at me, Sy. Like… like he was already imagining…” You couldn’t finish the sentence, shuddering.
Sylus was silent for a long moment, and when you looked at him again, his expression had smoothed into that professional mask he wore so well. But his eyes—gods, his eyes were still burning with something that made your heart race.
“If he ever touches you again,” he said, voice low and absolutely certain, “he’ll lose the hand. I don’t care what his rank is.”
The fierce protectiveness in his tone sent warmth flooding through your chest, chasing away some of the coldness Zou Cheng’s attentions had left behind. This was why you loved him, you thought helplessly. This steadfast devotion, the way he made you feel safe and valued and—
You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought. He was your knight. Your protector. These feelings he showed you were duty, nothing more. No matter how much you wished otherwise.
“Come here, sweetie,” Sylus said softly, and the endearment made your chest ache. He moved away from the door finally, crossing to you with that fluid grace that came from years of training. When he reached you, he lifted one hand slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted, before gently tucking one of the loose strands of hair behind your ear. “You’re trembling.”
His touch was so careful, so tender, that the tears finally spilled over.
“I’m just so tired of this,” you whispered, looking up at him. At this distance, you could see the way his silver hair caught the light, the sharp lines of his face softened by concern. “Every week it’s another proposal from another man who sees me as a political opportunity or a prize to be won. None of them actually want me. They want what I represent.”
“Then they’re all fools,” Sylus murmured, his hand still hovering near your face, like he wanted to touch you again but didn’t trust himself to. “You are… so much more than what you represent, Princess.”
The way he said it, the quiet intensity in his voice, made you wonder—just for a moment—if maybe you weren’t imagining everything after all.
You wiped at your tears quickly, embarrassed by the show of emotion even though it was just Sylus. He’d seen you cry before—too many times over the years—but it still made you feel vulnerable in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.
“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice still thick. “I shouldn’t be falling apart like this. Especially not today—the Lantern Festival is tonight and I need to…” You gestured vaguely at yourself, at your tear-stained face and disheveled hair. “I can’t go looking like I’ve been crying over that bastard.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sylus said firmly, finally dropping his hand back to his side, though he seemed reluctant to do so. “And for what it’s worth, you could never look anything less than beautiful.”
Your breath caught at the words, at the way he said them—so matter-of-fact, like he was stating an undeniable truth rather than offering a compliment. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks.
“I… thank you,” you managed, your heart doing complicated things in your chest. You cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “I should change. The pink is pretty, but it’s too associated with this morning’s disaster. I can’t wear it to the festival.”
You moved toward the carved wooden screen in the corner of your chamber where your attendants had already laid out your festival attire—a stunning hanfu in deep crimson and gold, far more elaborate than what you currently wore. The color of celebration and good fortune.
“It’ll just be a moment,” you called over your shoulder as you disappeared behind the screen, already reaching for the pins in your hair.
You heard rather than saw Sylus move to stand near the window, giving you privacy while still remaining in the room. It was familiar, this dance you’d done countless times over the years. Him always nearby, always vigilant, but never crossing certain invisible lines.
Your fingers fumbled slightly with the fastenings of your pink hanfu as you thought about those lines. About how desperately you wanted him to cross them, to acknowledge that there was something between you beyond duty and childhood friendship. But he never did. He was too honorable, too bound by his position as your protector.
And you were too afraid of losing even this—his presence, his steadiness, his gentle words—to ever push for more.
The crimson hanfu slipped over your shoulders like water, the silk cool against your skin. The embroidery was exquisite—golden phoenixes and lotus flowers swirling across the fabric in intricate patterns. The sleeves were long and flowing, edged with gold trim, and the outer robe was secured with an ornate sash that took you a moment to tie properly.
You stepped out from behind the screen, smoothing your hands over the fabric. “Could you…?” You gestured to your hair, which you’d taken down completely, letting it fall loose around your shoulders. “I have the lotus clip for the festival, but I can’t quite get it positioned right on my own.”
Sylus turned from the window, and you watched his eyes widen fractionally as he took in your appearance. That look again—the one that made your heart race, that made you think maybe, possibly, he felt something too.
“Of course, kitten,” he said softly, crossing to you. The endearment, different from the others, always made you melt a little. He only used it in private moments like these, and you hoarded each instance like precious treasure.
You sat at your vanity and handed him the white lotus hair clip—a beautiful piece carved from jade, with delicate petals that seemed almost translucent in the light. Your hands brushed as he took it from you, and you could have sworn you felt him tremble.
His fingers were impossibly gentle as they gathered your hair, his touch sending shivers down your spine that you desperately hoped he couldn’t see. He worked in focused silence, arranging your hair with surprising skill for a warrior.
“Where did you learn to do this?” you asked quietly, watching him in the mirror.
A small, fond smile tugged at his lips—the kind of smile that only appeared when he let his guard down around you. “I’ve been doing this since we were little, remember?” His voice was soft, almost nostalgic. “You used to sit still for maybe thirty seconds before getting distracted by a butterfly or a bird, and I’d have to start all over again.”
Your chest warmed at the memory, at the reminder of all those years you’d spent together. Back when things had been simpler, before duty and propriety had built walls between you.
“I was a terrible student,” you admitted, smiling at his reflection.
“You were seven,” he said, amusement coloring his tone. “And even then, you never sat still unless it was something you truly cared about.” His fingers worked through a particularly stubborn tangle with infinite patience. “I learned to be quick about it.”
“There,” he murmured, stepping back slightly. The lotus clip was positioned perfectly, securing part of your hair while letting the rest cascade down your back. His eyes met yours in the mirror, and for a moment—just a moment—you saw something raw and unguarded there.
Want. Longing.
Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by that professional warmth.
“Beautiful,” he said quietly. “You’ll be the most radiant person at the festival.”
You stood, turning to face him directly rather than through the mirror. “Will you stay close tonight?” you asked, hating how vulnerable you sounded. “After this morning with Zou Cheng, I just… I’d feel better knowing you were nearby.”
“Always, Princess,” Sylus promised, and the intensity in his voice made you believe him. “I’ll be right beside you the entire time. Nothing will happen to you. I swear it.”
If only you’d known then how impossible that promise would be to keep.
you indent a kiss onto his exposed skin. blanket askew, it rests just above the dip of his lower back. the curve of his shoulder invites you for another as he lay stomach down on silken sheets.
one more tender flutter on his neck, again on his shoulder, a final one on his cheek.
he is warm, too warm. worry begins to fester when still he doesn’t stir.
but then he grumbles.
“why did you stop?”
the sheets shift. muffled shuffles backdrop his suppressed grunts. his hand shoots out. trails lithe fingers over your arm that supports the rest of you as you hover over him.
not fully committed into his bed, having just returned from work. you would have changed straight away, were it not for his sleeping silhouette beckoning you to wander over like a spinning wheel’s spindle.
“more.” his voice is a growl from his chest, bringing your nails to his scalp.
“are you sick?” you ask. indulging him, raking through his hair. occasionally caressing the high point of his cheekbone.
“no.” he drawls. he points to his eye. it glows beneath his closed lid. a beacon in the sea; you a lost boat.
brushing your fingers over his brow, you are loath to flit away to even get dressed. but your slacks have mud, and your uniform stinks of the stale pine and blossoms from your air conditioned office.
“don’t leave.” he rasps, his fingers indenting in your skin as they encircle your wrist in a firm hold. the pillow carries more of his weight as he digs his face into its softness.
“i’m here.” you reassure him. the skin of his forehead sears your lips as you kiss him tenderly. “i’m yours.”
he releases you for you refuse to lay on him with filth on your skin. when you return clad in only his shirt, he holds you to him like a raft in a raging stream. with every intention to cling until the torment subsides.
and even beyond then, he doesn’t believe he will ever let you go.
being married to your childhood sweetheart should be the pinnacle of happiness in your life… but when he returns from the war, he is no longer the man you once knew—changed, distant, a stranger with familiar face. will you attain your true love in this lifetime?
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—angst, childhood friends to lovers, arranged marriage, jealousy, fluff, explicit smut, hurt/comfort, lady!reader and lord!zayne, based on zayne' card entwined kites
notes:
the allure of lord zayne... yeah, that, prince rafayel and some angsty dose is the plot <3 tagging @hachisenshi @cherrywinetuscany @rjreins @redrookrising as per request
Lady of Anlan.
For years, that title was not something you covet. When you were first promised to Zayne, he had neither titles or rank—just a humble son of a small lord with a big heart and shy smile.
But you fell in love with him with such ease, as he did too for you.
And yet, that honorable title fell into your hands the moment you married him, now better known as the Lord of Anlan—
A man who is not the gentle boy you once knew. He was now cold, detached, and unwilling to spare you even a trace of the warmth he once showed so freely.
It was such a stark contrast that you were left reeling. Six months into your marriage, reality bore little resemblance to the life you had once imagined.
You had once thought your home with Zayne would be warm with laughter, shared meals, and soft conversations lingering late into the night—a place that breathed with comfort simply because the two of you were in it together.
Instead, the halls of the grand mansion granted by the emperor were cold—spacious, immaculate, and lonely.
“My lady, here.”
The voice startled you out of your daydream, snapping you back to focus as your handmaiden, Yvonne, wrapped the shawl around you.
Oh, right. Today you were accompanying your lord husband for his audience with the emperor.
. . .
The journey to the palace was smooth. You sat demurely within your palanquin, lulled by the steady rhythm of the horses’ steps. Now and then, Zayne’s voice carried through the air as he issued clipped commands to his troops.
And before you knew it, your entourage had arrived at the royal palace. The palanquin doors swung open, and the first thing you saw was your husband’s stoic expression.
“My lady,” he muttered, grayish hazel eyes stern, offering his hand to you to assist you out.
Your heart pricked at the sight before you. Zayne had always been steadfast—but before all this, he was never rigidly formal with you like this.
“One day… I will become the greatest general in the land. Will you wait for me until then?”
The memory rose then: a younger Zayne, red-faced, thrusting a jasmine flower into your hands as he stumbled through his confession. It made your chest ache even more.
The things he saw in the wars turned him into this version before you, you believed. Maybe, to him now, the tenderness you once shared during your childhood no longer held any meaning at all.
You took his hand.
“Thank you, my lord,” you replied with equal stiffness, gripping his hand. You didn’t dare look at him while he led you forward.
Yet you still took comfort in one thing—his hold over your hand never wavered, not even as the two of you came to stand before the emperor himself. It was only when he had to let go of you that he did.
“What a pleasing sight it is to see you, Lord of Anlan!”
The emperor was headstrong yet a jolly individual. From his elevated dais, he greeted the two of you with open warmth. Zayne answered with a restrained bow, and you quickly followed his lead.
The emperor’s attention then shifted to you. “And I trust the Lady of Anlan has been well?”
“I am well, Your Majesty,” you replied, fixing a polite smile in place. “Thank you.”
However, you had a feeling that the emperor didn’t actually care about you at all, as the way his sharp gaze lingered on you sent an uncomfortable chill down your spine each time.
He soon turned his attention back to Zayne, and the two spoke at length about matters concerning the fief. Then—
“Is something troubling you, Your Majesty?” Zayne asked, putting on a mask of a concerned subject.
“Oh, yes—yes,” the emperor said with a faux chuckle. “There is something that has been bothering me...”
“And what might that be?”
“Well, the princess royal is still in search of a husband. It’s giving me a headache as she insists on someone just like you… It’s such a pity you turned down my proposal back then, Lord of Anlan...”
You could feel his hot stare on you, and he continued, “Had you accepted the princess’ hand, you would be part of the royal family by now.”
You clenched your fists. It was not the first time this had been mentioned, and each time it was brought up, it always left a bitter taste in your mouth. Zayne had indeed refused a royal marriage decree and chosen you instead—but did he somehow regret that choice that it left him cold and distant to you all this time?
If so… why hadn’t he broken off his betrothal with you back then?
. . .
By the emperor’s command, both you and Zayne were to remain in Yunshao for a time—residing within the imperial palace itself.
The two of you were showed to your temporary chambers, and the moment you stepped inside, you let out a sigh. Behind you, Zayne paused, noticing your weariness.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
You opened your mouth to answer, but the words halted. And in that hesitation, something in your expression must have betrayed you.
“You look unwell,” he observed, tone thoughtful. “If the travel has strained you, I will have the physician summoned.”
“That isn’t necessary,” you replied quickly. “I am fine.”
The silence stretched. He was watching you—not coldly, not warmly either, simply assessing. Then, as if deciding something, he spoke again.
“I will be entertaining the princess royal shortly,” Zayne said, his voice returning to that familiar, careful neutrality. “Her Highness has arranged for it. It would be improper to refuse.”
The princess, again. The woman who had once sought him as a husband never seemed to miss an opportunity to summon him whenever he was within palace walls. Lowering your gaze, you were silently irked.
“Do you… have to go?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
“Yes.”
A default, logical answer. You had expected this but somehow your heart still hurt regardless.
“I see,” you murmured, the words felt hollow even to your own ears.
Zayne didn't linger. As he turned and walked toward the door, his steps were quiet.
And the space between you suddenly felt wider than the vast halls outside your door.
The palace was a world of its own—lavish courtyards, lotus ponds glimmering beneath carved bridges. Servants moved like shadows, each bowing, each whispering, each watching.
Yet none of those gazes ever lingered on you for long.
You were the Lady of Anlan, yes—but not a lady of imperial blood. In a place where lineage was currency, you were a mere general’s wife. Polite smiles were given, greetings exchanged, but you passed through the palace halls like a quiet breeze.
Zayne, meanwhile, was constantly summoned—councils, briefings, private audiences. You saw him only at night, and even then not much that could be talked about.
And so, you learned to occupy yourself quietly. Reading beneath shaded pavilions. Feeding the koi in still waters. Watching the sky shift from pale gold to indigo behind tiled rooftops.
It was during one such day that the palace stirred with unusual excitement—an envoy had arrived from Zhaole.
It was Zhaole’s prince himself who had come to negotiate trade routes. You paid it little mind at first as foreign politics had nothing to do with you... until you were summoned to attend the audience.
You stood at your designated place within the grand hall, slightly behind and to the right of Zayne, when the doors opened.
“His Highness, Prince Rafayel of Zhaole, has arrived!”
Silk banners bearing unfamiliar insignias unfurled as the entourage entered. At its center walked a man whose presence seemed to bend the air around him.
Prince Rafayel was clad in white robes embroidered with cerulean and gold-threaded waves, the fabric flowing like water with every step. His long purple hair were striking. Exceptionally refined and handsome. There was something artful about him, like a masterpiece aware of its own beauty.
His eyes swept across the hall lazily at first—measuring ministers, skimming over the servants—
And then they stopped. On you.
For a fleeting second, you wondered if you were mistaken. But no—his gaze sharpened, as though he had found something unexpectedly intriguing among a sea of expected faces.
And a second later, he smiled—at you, before he resumed his walk.
The prince came to a halt before the dais and offered a bow for the emperor.
“I bring greetings from Zhaole,” he said smoothly, his voice clear as a plucked string. “I am Rafayel. I trust Yunshao’s hospitality will not disappoint.”
The emperor responded with booming warmth, welcoming him to the court. Formalities were exchanged. Polite laughter followed.
But you would never expect what would he do next.
As the formal greetings concluded, Rafayel’s gaze suddenly shifted towards where you stood beside Zayne.
“My apologies,” Rafayel said lightly, tilting his head with deliberate curiosity. “I do not believe I have been introduced to the lady standing beside the esteemed Lord of Anlan.”
The hall grew quieter. You felt Zayne’s posture stiffen imperceptibly, and you—caught beneath the weight of the prince’s attention—found yourself momentarily at a loss.
The emperor chuckled. “Ah... that is the Lady of Anlan.”
Rafayel stepped forward, not too close to breach decorum, but close enough for both your and your husband’s discomfort.
Up close, his smile softened, eyes gleaming faintly.
“Oh, Lady of Anlan...” he repeated, as though tasting the title. Then, inclining his head toward you in a gesture that was respectful, yet strangely personal, he said, “It is a pleasure, madam.”
And that was how you went from being overlooked to the subject of every whisper within the imperial palace.
“Hey… did you see what happened earlier?”
That evening, the palace held a banquet in honor of Zhaole’s prince.
The grand hall was transformed beneath the glow of lanterns. Music drifted softly through the air, accompanied by the quiet murmur of noble voices and the occasional ripple of laughter.
“The imperial prince of Zhaole— he specifically greeted the Lady of Anlan!”
And yet, Zayne wasn’t amused in the slightest.
It was one thing for his wife to become the subject of palace whispers—that alone was enough to draw attention he did not welcome. But it was another thing entirely to realize that his wife had caught the interest of a royal prince.
Zayne didn’t show it openly. His expression remained as composed as ever, but throughout the night, the faint crease between his brows lingered longer than usual, and his gaze would settle on you often.
It was most probably nothing, he told himself. A passing curiosity. A prince’s fleeting amusement in a foreign court.
Across the hall, you stood beneath the lanternlight—radiant without trying. You, his childhood sweetheart, had always been a dear to him.
You still are.
After he was done conversing with an official, he made his way towards you.
“My lady,” he greeted quietly. You jolted at the sound of his voice, turning to face him.
“My lord,” you replied.
Once, you had called his name freely, whenever you wanted. You would tug at his sleeve, demanded his attention, laughed without restraint. Zayne didn’t like this formality between you, honestly.
“Take a respite if you are tired,” he said then, mostly out of concern. “You have always disliked attending banquets.”
You let out a quiet sigh. “And you have always endured these far better than I ever could.”
When had your relationship become this strained? There had been no single argument that shattered everything. No cruel words spoken in anger that could not be taken back.
Only distance. Distance that crept in so quietly neither of you had noticed until it was already too late.
Zayne inhaled slowly. He didn’t want to say it, but he couldn’t remain silent either— and so he did:
“…Do not get too close to the Prince of Zhaole.”
You frowned faintly, seemingly not taking his words well. “What are you implying?”
“I am saying,” he began slowly, “that you should not allow his attention to draw you in.”
However, contrary to your usually docile demeanor, your expression hardened immediately.
“I’m not so naive.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
For a moment, you simply stared at him. And then, you pulled back slightly, your chin lifting. “You speak as though I’m incapable of judging character for myself.”
That was not what Zayne was getting at at all, but you were already irate. “I don’t—”
“You entertain the princess, a woman who tried to make you her husband,” you went on, eyes sharp. “So tell me, why is it acceptable for you… but not me?”
Zayne held your gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music swelled faintly around you, but the air around you felt cold.
There was a lot he wanted to say. That you were not meant for another man’s curiosity. That you are reserved for him only. That to him, you were precious more than anything.
But he knew better than to say it aloud, because you already looked at him with resentment.
“Take care of yourself.” He finally left you with those parting words.
He had never been a man of excessive affection or one to indulge in sweet words. Love, he believed, was best proven through stability, protection—through ensuring that you would never lack comfort nor security.
“Lord Zayne!”
But to give you everything, he was bound to give himself to his duties first.
Zayne held back a sigh and turned towards the voice—the princess royal, a vivacious woman trying to attract his attention, and forced a straight face.
“Your Highness,” he greeted evenly.
His fingers tightened around the stem of his cup, the cool porcelain grounding him.
. . .
While the banquet was lively, the laughter felt distant, the lanternlight a little too bright against your tired eyes. After the argument with your husband, you were honestly considering to retire for the night.
Your chest still felt tight.
It felt like an ache you could not soothe, because you honestly had enough of everything in this marriage. You wanted a husband who was present, not just dutiful— and Zayne wasn’t really fulfilling what you really desired.
You exhaled quietly, intent on leaving the grand hall behind. However—
“My lady.”
You were stopped in your tracks. The velvety voice came from your right. You turned.
Prince Rafayel stood nearby, dressed in darker robes of burgundy, the candlelight catching in the gold embroidery. Up close, his gaze was as intent as it had been earlier—unabashed in its attention.
He inclined his head politely, lips curved in a bright smile. “I trust the palace has been treating you well.”
You lowered your gaze in courtesy, once again bewildered by his presence before you. “His Majesty’s hospitality is generous. I lack for nothing.”
“Is that so?” he questioned lightly, “Is it just my imagination then... that you don’t seem particularly fond of it?”
The comment caught you off guard. You looked up at him, startled. His expression softened, as though aware he had stepped too close to something unheard of.
“Forgive me,” he said, lowering his tone. “It’s merely an observation. I suppose when one’s husband appears to be too close to a certain princess, you’re bound not to enjoy the evening.”
His gaze flickered across the hall, and you instinctively followed his line of sight only to see your husband with the no-nonsense princess, ever composed and attentive. You looked away.
“They say the Lord of Anlan is unmatched in the battlefield,” Rafayel began idly. “That he drove back the pirates without mercy and won the Emperor’s favor through sheer merit alone.”
“Yes,” you said softly. “He did.”
Rafayel glanced back at you, studying your expression.
“They also say,” he continued, “that he governs Anlan with fairness. That the people trust him. That he is a man who does not bend easily, nor does he offer himself cheaply to gain favor.”
Everything he said was true. Zayne was always steadfast. Honorable. Respectful. He had always been that way—even as a boy.
“Yes,” you admitted quietly, a smile slowly forming in your lips. “He is.”
Rafayel watched you for a moment longer, as though weighing something. Then, he reached for a nearby tray and lifted a cup of sweetened wine, offering it towards you.
“While all of them might be true, even the greatest man does not stand alone. Behind him is a woman just as remarkable. You must not diminish yourself beside him, my lady.”
Your breath stilled. An imperial prince was telling you that you were worth more than what you thought you were.
“You may not be a princess,” Rafayel continued, his voice warm but certain, “but you are in no way lesser. Everyone here knows it to be true—or at least, I do.”
Your cheeks flushed from the heat and flattery. “Your Highness... Thank you for your kind words.”
Prince Rafayel’s gaze held yours with quiet sincerity, still smiling. Your fingers closed around the cup before you could think better of it.
“And right now, you are far too lovely to spend the evening looking as though the world has wronged you.”
You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and raised the cup to your lips.
The wine was sweet. Warmer than you expected, and the slight bitterness loosening something tight within you.
“Yes, just like that... chin up, my lady. The lanterns favor you better that way.”
You hadn’t realized how much you needed it.
Rafayel said nothing more, merely gesturing lightly when another tray passed. And when your cup emptied, another found its place in your hand.
And then another.
The warmth spread slowly through your limbs, softening the sharp edges of the evening. The distant laughter no longer felt so piercing. The ache in your chest dulled, and replaced by a fleeing sensation and your own laughter.
You drank, and drank... perhaps more than you should have.
But for the first time that night—
It became easier not to look across the hall.
At some point, Zayne realized he had not seen you in a while.
The moment he found a lull in his conversation with the princess, he excused himself at the first opportunity. His eyes swept the grand hall, but you were nowhere among them.
A faint unease settled into his chest, until he passed by his personal guard—
“My lord,” he bowed slightly.
“Did you see the lady?”
“I believe the Prince of Zhaole was seen escorting Her Ladyship out to the western terrace.”
Zayne’s eyes hardened. He immediately made his way towards the said terrace. He found you at last—
And Prince Rafayel stood beside you, too close for his liking.
“My lady, are you sure you’re fine?”
And you—
“Am fine! I’m fine!”
Your hand rested against the stone railing, posture swaying, your cheeks flushed and gaze watery. Flash of anger immediately filled Zayne’s sense at the sight.
Rafayel noticed him first and he turned to him courteously.
“Lord of Anlan,” the prince greeted smoothly, his expression calm. “I was merely keeping your lady company. It seemed the evening had become tiring for her.”
Zayne moved past the prince, taking big strides without acknowledging him.
“…My lord husband?” you murmured, voice soft when your eyes finally landed on him. Zayne immediately reached for you.
“Y/N,” he whispered in your ear, trying to ground you. But you staggered and crashed into his chest. His jaw tightened as he pulled you into his embrace.
That accursed prince had seen you like this.
“I shall take my wife back,” he said through gritted teeth.
Rafayel inclined his head with easy grace, putting on an easy smile. “Of course.”
Zayne put his arm around your shoulder, steadying you. You leaned into him instinctively as he led you through the quiet corridors, away from the prying eyes.
By the time you reached your chambers, your steps had grown even more unsteady. He guided you inside carefully, dismissing the servants with a glance before they could speak.
Your husband sat you gently on the edge of the bed, meanwhile you were still trying to get your bearings, blinking slowly.
“Are you alright? Do you feel dizzy?” Zayne asked, unable to conceal the worry in his voice. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly against your warm skin, frowning deep. “I’ll get you some water.”
Your gaze followed his every movement as he crossed the room and poured water into a cup. He knelt before you again once he was done, holding the cup carefully toward your lips.
“Drink,” he coaxed gently.
You stared at cup of water. Then at his hand. Then at him.
Then, with clumsy defiance, you pushed the cup away. Splash!
Water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his robe and the floor below. Zayne froze.
However, not caring about it at the slightest, you raised your hand abruptly, your finger pointing at him—
“You terrible, detestable, wicked—”
You might be slurring, but your eyes burned with clarity as you spew profanities at him:
“—husband!”
The last word left your lips and you slumped. Throughout the years you had been with him, Zayne had never seen you so openly wounded like this. He stared at you, at a loss of words.
You swayed where you sat, your arm falling limply back to your side.
“Yvonne said I’m pretty,” Your nose scrunched faintly as you sniffled. “My maids said I’m pretty too...”
Zayne tried to reach for you again, but you refuted his touch.
“And Prince Rafayel—” you continued, sounding borderline delirious, “He said I’m no less than a princess... So why—”
Your lashes were wet, tears blurring your vision, and your lips trembled as you glanced up at him:
“—am I not enough for you?”
The question pierced him cleanly. Zayne felt something twist inside his chest at the sight of you. He knew that with everything that had happened, you were bound to resent him. But he had loved you... still loved you even at right this moment.
He closed the distance between you then, gently and firmly taking your face in his hands before you could turn away again.
“Enough?” His voice dropped, dangerously close to breaking. His hazel eyes searched yours as if trying to carve the truth directly into your heart. “You are... You are more than enough.”
His thumb brushed away the tear that fell down your cheek. Something flickered across his expression— the hurt, but when his eyes shifted to your lips, it was replaced by something far more possessive.
“And you— must only look... at me.”
And then, Zayne crashed his lips into yours with fervor. One hand on your waist, he pulled you flush against him. The taste of salt lingered between you, your tears mingling with the heat of his mouth.
“Mmm...” You gasped into the kiss, fingers instinctively clutching at his robe—still damp from the water you had spilled.
He softened only slightly then, angling his head, kissing you slower but deeper. His thumb traced along your jaw, coaxing you to respond, to open for him. And when your lips parted for him, he groaned, before inserting his lips to tangle with yours.
Each kiss lingered, pressed harder—until you melted into breathless sighs against his mouth.
When Zayne finally pulled back, his grayish hazel gaze held yours with such intensity that made it impossible to look away.
“You are more than enough,” he repeated, voice hoarse. “You undo me.”
His hand slid to your cheek again, gentler now, almost reverent.
“And if I have failed to show you that, then that’s my failing.”
You were half-conscious and all thoughts emptied from your head, spellbound by the restrained desire in your husband’s look.
His thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “Don’t measure yourself against another man’s gaze.”
He would show you how you meant to him, he vowed.
“For mine has never left you.”
. . .
Six months into marriage, and you had learnt that your husband wasn’t as gentle as he looked in marital bed.
With practiced fingers, he worked fast on the laces of your robes as he guided you to the said bed. He kissed the path from your lips to your throat, nipping at your skin— and at the same time, he palmed your breasts, his thumb brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles until it tightened beneath his touch, sending a sharp, aching warmth through you.
“Zayne...” you gasped, arching to his touch.
“Tell me what you want, wife,” he growled against your ear, flicking your nipple in the process, making you squirm. “Tell me.”
Words failed you as his kisses grazed your collarbone, leaving love bites there. He followed the path from your shoulder— and you were in for a ride when he took your erect nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.
A cry slipped from your lips, your nails digging into his hair. The sensation was overwhelming—heat pooling low in your belly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as your husband shamelessly suckling you.
“Ahh, mmrgh…”
He held you firmly, feeling every tremor running through your body. But suddenly, he lifted his head, lips glistening and eyes dark with lust, gazing straight at you. “I want to hear you first.”
“I...” your breath hitched, swallowing the shame. “I want your... mouth.”
“Beg.”
You fingers curling weakly against the sheets. “Your mouth, please—” you breathed out, heat blazing on face, “all over me.”
His lips quirked into a satisfied smile. “As you wish, my lady.”
And with that, Zayne moved to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, his sinful tongue swirling before he bit down gently on the flesh.
“Mmngh!” you moaned, head falling to the pillows. His mouth was relentless, and true to his word to fulfill your desire, your husband made sure you were sated with his mouth first.
He rained hot, open-mouthed kisses throughout your chest and abdomen next, and stopped just below your navel, dark eyes clouded with predatory haze.
The thought that he very much could get you swollen with his child after this night was through made himself hard. If his seed were to take hold within you tonight— even Prince Rafayel would know better.
His hand tightened at your waist, his lips pressing into the softness of your folds—and a second later, lapping at it like a man in throes of hunger. You gasped, grasping his hair, as he devoured you down there.
And in no time at all, your lord husband made you come on his tongue.
“Ah—aaah...” Your thighs trembled around him as pleasure washed through you.
He is cruel... You were hazy with drunken lust and tears, but you no longer cared enough to resist.
“Stop…” you whimpered. “Just… make love to me already…”
Your husband’s stern, hazel eyes turned to you, slightly widened at your bold plea. “Is that truly what my lady wishes?”
You glared at him. “Yes.”
And he honored your wish without hesitation. Zayne rose, shedding his garments with swift movements. His magnificent length sprang free, thick and hard, his hand closing around it as he stroked himself slowly—his eyes never leaving yours.
Your lord husband is very, very tantalizing, indeed...
He moved over you, settling his hips between your thighs. One hand wrapped around himself as he dragged his length slowly through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. He pressed against your entrance, the tip nudging there before he stilled, dark eyes once again confirming yours.
“Are you ready to take me, wife?”
You wrapped your legs around his torso, pulling him closer. “Please, Zayne— now.”
And with that, he pushed himself into you. You writhed, broken gasps spilling out of you—the way he stretched you was perfect, sinking into you slowly, making you feel every inch of himself.
Zayne grounded you by resting his forehead against yours, groaning into your mouth like a beast in heat. “Perfect,” he choked out.
When he began to move, you lost all your wits altogether. His thrusts were slow at first, each one reaching inside you impossibly deep— “Ah, ah...!”
But the rhythm did not stay gentle for long. It grew steadier, more insistent and faster. The lewd sound of skin slapping resounded in the room, your breathless moans mingled with his harsh grunts.
“Look at me,” Zayne commanded, voice rough. His hand came to your chin, turning your face toward him. “Look at your husband.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his captivating gaze. In that fleeting instant, you thought you saw everything reflected there—lust, the aching need to be closer than flesh could allow, love.
He adjusted his angle, and suddenly struck that one spot that made you cry out. “T-there!”
A low growl rumbled from his chest as he aimed for that spot again, and again, relentless in his pursuit. Your vision blurred, your cries filling the room, clutching his shoulder helplessly as his unforgiving fingers found your clit—circling and rubbing it, driving you closer and closer to the brink.
And a second later, pleasure crashed through you without mercy. Your walls clenched around his girth, and the feeling of how you pulsed around him pulled a rough sound from his throat, making him lose his control at last.
He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as ropes of his cum filling your womb— sowing a part of himself in you.
The first thing you noticed when your eyes fluttered open was the warmth.
Soft, steady warmth wrapped around you, and golden sunlight filtered through the window, spilling across the bed in beams. For a moment, you simply lay there, suspended between sleep and waking, your body heavy.
Then you became aware of something else. An arm draped securely around your waist—
Your breath caught as the memories of the night before flickered faintly at the edges of your mind.
Last night, you and Zayne were...
You unwittingly let out a gasp, and your voice woke your husband.
Behind you, Zayne stirred. His hold tightened instinctively for a second, as though even half-asleep he refused to let you slip away. A low murmur brushed against your ear—
“…You’re awake.”
His thick voice sent a faint shiver down your spine. You slowly turned in his arms.
You were greeted with his beautiful face. The familiar line of his jaw. The faint crease between his brows as sleep gradually left him. The dark grayish hazel of his eyes as they focused fully on you.
It had been so long since he was in your bed. Long enough that waking up like this—tangled together, bare beneath the sheets, his warmth still wrapped around you—felt almost unreal.
Your lips parted, but no words came. Instead, your eyes grew glassy, emotion rising too quickly for you to contain. The sight of him made your chest ache.
“Y/N?” he asked quietly, catching your forlorn expression. A realization dawned on him—
His arm loosened at once, withdrawing from your waist as though your skin burned him. He shifted back, putting a small distance between your bodies.
“I won’t touch you again,” he said, voice steady, the spark in his eyes dimmed. “If last night was… a mistake in your eyes, then it will not happen again. I give you my word.”
Your eyes widened in surprise. After enduring days and nights of feeling unwanted, to experiencing the most exalting night in your life— only to him to spew this nonsense—
“You stupid, stupid lord!”
Before he could react, you seized the nearest bolster and smacked it against him. Zayne blinked, completely caught off guard as you struck him again.
He instinctively grabbed the sheets to cover himself, trying to shield his face from your assault. “Wife—”
“How dare you—!” you snapped, hitting him again. “You have ignored me for literal months, always busy with that damn princess, and then bedded me— only to say that?!”
Another blow landed against his shoulder.
For a man who commanded armies and terrified courtiers with a glance, Zayne looked utterly defenseless as you continued your attack, his hair disheveled, sheets barely clutched around his waist.
“You’re awful!” you continued, your voice trembling now for an entirely different reason. “I thought—”
Your arm faltered mid-swing, your grip on the bolster loosened. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you choked out, the first of your tears falling.
The way you teared up made Zayne’s expression change instantly. He moved before you could turn away, his hands found your wrists, drawing you closer despite the awkward tangle of sheets between you.
“How could I not want you?” His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear there. “Marrying you… has been my goal from the very beginning.”
Your breath hitched. The memory of that spring replayed in your mind’s eye once again: “One day… I will become the greatest general in the land. Will you wait for me until then?”
Zayne’s jaw tightened in regret as he pulled you into his embrace.
“But apparently it was just the start, not the end. After our wedding, I thought that my duty next is to ensure you never have to want for anything. That if I build enough stability… enough wealth, then you would never feel lacking. And in doing so, I neglect something far more important.”
His other hand rose to cradle your cheek fully now. You found his steadfast gaze.
“You.”
Zayne leaned his forehead lightly against yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time there was no pride left in his voice. “I should have treated you better. I should have been beside you more. Not just as your husband in name—but in truth.”
“You’re so silly.” You stared at him through your tears, poking his chest. “All this time… you thought I only needed wealth? Security?” Your fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the sheets between you. “I was right here, and yet you strayed so far away.”
If being silly was what would get you with him, then so be it. Zayne’s eyes softened in a way few people would ever be allowed to see.
“The girl who chased fireflies with me in the jasmine fields…” he smiled despite himself, picturing the little you who were always full of laughter for him. “When I asked her to wait for me, I also vowed that I would never let her experience any hardships in life once she came to be with me...”
You shook your head immediately, your hand sliding higher, resting over his heart firmly.
“I wanted to marry Zayne,” you said, looking at him with a frown. “Not the Lord of Anlan.”
Something in his expression broke then—not painfully, but like frost melting beneath the first warmth of spring.
His forehead rested against yours once more, his eyes closing as though savoring the closeness he had denied himself for far too long. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, and in that touch was his love for you.
“And you did,” he whispered. “You married a man who has loved you long before he ever became anything else.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I can’t prolong my stay within the imperial palace any further. My wife wishes to return home, and I don’t have it in me to deny her.”
Zayne’s voice was calm and unwavering as he stood before the throne, posture straight and expression composed, facing the ruler of the land himself.
“As for the princess… I am certain a worthy match will present himself in due time. So I humbly ask that Your Majesty refrain from summoning me again for this matter.”
The emperor scoffed, seeing the two of you off with thinly veiled exasperation, but this time, Zayne didn’t bend, nor did he seem troubled by the emperor’s displeasure.
He had chosen you, and from now on, he would continue to do so.
. . .
Preparations for your departure followed swiftly. Your servants and handmaidens moved with practiced efficiency, gathering belongings and readying the palanquin. Yet their eyes lingered, subtle curiosity passing between them as they noticed the unmistakable change.
“Have you seen them?”
“His Lordship hasn’t left her side once.”
“I’ve never seen him look at her like that before…”
Their voices carried in hushed murmurs, behind sleeves and lowered gazes, and you pretended not to hear, only greeted them with the brightest of smiles.
When the time came to board the palanquin, he turned to you and offered his hand openly, a faint, reserved smile resting upon his lips—one meant only for you.
The servants fell into stunned silence as you placed your hand in his, in awe at the picturesque sight of their dashing lord and beautiful lady. It was a simple gesture, one they had witnessed countless times before.
But this time, there was clearly something different in the air.
He helped you into the palanquin carefully, his hold steady—as though you were something precious. And this time, he didn’t ride the horse, but went inside along with you.
“…I think they’ve reconciled, at last,” one handmaiden murmured softly.
“It’s about time,” the lord’s personal guard sighed.
A faint, heartfelt smile appeared on Yvonne’s face. “Ohh, I’m glad!”
And truly, they all were.
They had always admired him—their stern, unyielding lord, a man of discipline and honor.
And they cherished you—the general’s lady, whose kindness had touched every corner of Anlan.
To see the two of you now, no longer separated by silence but standing side by side as husband and wife… It felt like watching the very first blossom of spring unfurl after winter.
And as the palanquin began to move—carrying you home, Zayne looked at you with the tenderest of smiles, never once letting go of your hand.
wed to the lord of the city, you expect a loveless marriage... and yet, are the affections of the conqueror truly as unreachable as they said?
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, explicit smut (p in v first time sex) , fluff, pregnancy, princess!reader and autarch!sylus, based on sylus' card shared lanterns, contains spoilers! from myth beyond cloudfall
note:
yeah... the moment i saw the trailer, the xianxia brainrot held me hostage :'D first sylus fic in 2026—hope you all will enjoy it! :D tagging @rjreins & @cherrywinetuscany as per request <3
Sylus.
The tales of the infamous Autarch of Xianyu had spread far and wide throughout the realm. He claimed the city through brute force, carving his rule with blood.
Men feared him enough to bend the knee and women whispered of him in equal parts of dread and intrigue. Every story carried a warning, every rumor a reason to stay far away.
And yet, despite knowing all that, you still walked towards him in silk and vows… to become his bride.
Not without reason, of course.
You were a princess in name only, while in truth your family was a stone’s throw away from falling from grace altogether. However, desperation always has a way of masquerading as brilliance, and so your rotten family devised their solution.
A calculated, elegant sacrifice— you.
They offered you to the Autarch, and overnight, you went from a destitute princess to the conqueror’s woman.
“What is he like, anyway…?”
Being here was no different from living in your ancestral home, really.
You were married to the tyrant— yet aside from moving residences, nothing had truly changed. The man they called your husband hadn’t even spared you his presence ever since the wedding a week ago.
You were more or less a decoration in the vast hall of his mansion.
“Never mind,” you grumbled, your gaze drifting back to the courtyard below—the place the servants insisted was Sylus’s favored retreat, though the man himself was nowhere to be found.
Was it improper to sneak into a man's chamber and wait for him to appear? Yes.
But when that man is your husband? No— you decided it was perfectly reasonable to want to know more about the man you had been wed to.
Streets were saying he was bloodthirsty and ruthless, and more than anything, you just wanted to survive here. And so you found yourself loitering around his quarters— brushing your fingers over unfamiliar furniture, pausing before trinkets to observe them, and studying the paintings lined on the walls.
Thus three hours later, your composure began thinning.
This is ridiculous. With a quiet sigh, you finally resolved to leave. But just before you turned away, something on the cabinet caught your eye.
A long, thin crimson box was there. Driven by curiosity, your hand reached for the box and opened it.
A hairpin. You almost gasped in wonder at the intricate pattern of flowers and design. The craftsmanship was exquisite, definitely made by request.
But then the realization hit you. This was meant for a woman. Did he have a lover—
Or worse, a mistress!?
“Well now… It seems the little princess has taken quite an interest in my belongings.”
Your breath hitched and almost shrieked if it weren’t for your trained decorum. You turned slowly to find Sylus standing in the doorway—arms crossed, eyes sharp, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he watched you caught red-handed.
“Do you always make a habit of inspecting other people’s things,” he drawled, unmistakably amused, “or is it because you feel entitled enough to since we are already married?”
Heat crept up your neck. You straightened at once, lifting your chin high.
“I was not inspecting,” you replied coolly. “I was… lost.”
What were you even saying...? You wanted to whack yourself in the head for blurting the first thing that popped up in your mind.
“In my private chambers,” he retorted. His gaze flicked pointedly to the box in your hand. “With my things.”
You pressed your lips together. “…Briefly lost.”
A low chuckle escaped him, clearly aware of your scheme. Your lord husband stepped forward, unhurried, until he stood before you. For the first time since the wedding, you stood without any prefaces and eyes peering at you.
You regarded him—the way his long silver hair fell into a loose half-ponytail, the way his red eyes gazed at you with quiet intensity. The autarch was handsome, but seeing him this close only drove the truth home.
“If it eases your conscience, it was meant to be given,” Sylus said then, smirking.
“Given...?”
“To you,” he clarified, effortlessly prying the hairpin from your grasp and offering it out once more to you. “Consider it a belated courtesy. Or simply a little trinket a husband wishes to gift his wife.”
You stared at it for half a heartbeat, and flashbacks of how he treated you the past week as if you were nonexistent came to mind, making the servants whisper behind your backs—
“His Excellency doesn’t even come to see her once… Is he repulsed by the princess who has nothing to offer?”
Your pride took over in an instant. With a haughty scoff, you turned your face away.
“I don’t want it.”
“Oh?”
“I hate those common patterns,” you said flatly, feigning indifference. “They’re predictable. If you truly insist on gifting me something, at least choose a better flower, Your Excellency.”
His eyes gleamed with interest. “And what would Her Highness prefer?”
“Datura,” you blurted. “Elegant. Dangerous. Honest about what it is.”
Silence stretched, and you pat yourself mentally for making him speechless— until something shifted in the way he looked at you and Sylus laughed, genuine this time.
“Datura,” he echoed, studying you as though seeing you clearly for the first time. “How fitting.”
He withdrew the hairpin, tucking it back into its box. “Very well. I’ll remember that, my dear wife.”
Your heart thudded, visibly startled with how he addressed you. The irritation still simmered, tangled with disbelief—
As he turned to leave, he paused at the threshold and glanced over his shoulder, smirk returning.
“And for the record, Your Highness… Next time you wish to snoop, you may simply ask.”
After that snooping incident, everything that had come before felt like a trick of the mind—
Because your husband the Autarch, who had barely acknowledged you, now turned his full attention towards you.
The servants were now singing different tune too. “His Excellency visits the princess… again?”
Sylus also smothered you in luxuries. Jewels in velvet boxes. Trinkets of jade and gold. Rare silks. Imported perfumes. All things you never asked for.
And he even invited you regularly for afternoon tea in his prized courtyard.
“Oh, dearest wife? Do come and sit.”
What was this game he was playing? You couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, you were the one being played.
Yet to save your face, you rolled your eyes as you took the chair opposite him.
“Seems like my dear lord husband has finally taken an interest in me,” you scoffed. “What a shocking change of heart.”
“Ha.” Sylus tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness, his silver locks stirring with the wind. “Interested is such a crude word. I’d say… invested.”
“In what, exactly? My continued, humble existence?”
Sylus smiled into his tea. “You think too badly of me. I merely find it refreshing that my wife hasn’t yet learned the art of pretending I’m fascinating.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Fascinating? I’m hardly impressed.”
“You wound me, princess,” he said, tone laced with mock offense. “I suppose I simply haven’t tried hard enough—”
The air suddenly shifted with his movement. He leaned forward, peering at your face.
“—to convince you otherwise.”
His crimson gaze held yours, steady and unblinking, as if studying something rare. His plush lips hovered dangerously close and you unconsciously held your breath—
He reached out and tapped your nose lightly, almost fondly, before leaning back with a satisfied chuckle.
“Smile more often, my princess. You look beautiful when you do.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Meanwhile, your heart betrayed you with the way it pounded harder than it should have. The way Sylus looked at you sent warmth into your chest before you could suppress it.
And ever since that day... somehow, despite how unexpected everything was, you felt like you were getting closer to him.
“Take these to the princess’ chambers.”
“All of them, my lord?”
“Did you not hear me?”
The servant nearly squeaked at the steel in Sylus’ tone and hurried off at once, delivering the ridiculous amount of jewels and trinkets to your chambers. Just as Sylus anticipated, he returned not long after—carrying almost everything.
Sylus glanced over the items, searching for what was missing and found it almost instantly—a crimson bracelet he had specifically commissioned. Everything else had been sent back.
Heh. Just as he thought, his new wife was clever, seeking only the best.
For weeks, Sylus had been keeping an eye on you from a distance. He noted the way you carried yourself through his halls with practiced grace, how you boldly faced the chattering maids without flinching, and how you would issue your attendants to do your bidding.
Your restraint, your pride, your barely concealed curiosity… all of it intrigued him far more than he cared to admit.
You were nothing like the fragile ornament everyone assumed you to be, and very similar to the one woman who frequented his dreams.
And that was why Sylus found himself very much invested in the woman he now called his wife.
“Come with me tonight. There’s a lantern festival.”
Whispers about how the merciless ruler of Xianyu was trying to court his new wife had spread amidst all the ranks, and with his blatant invitation and upcoming festival, you felt less like a participant and more like an actress placed under spotlight.
At his command, your chambers were filled with vibrant rows of hanfu. Your maids lifted each one in turn for your inspection. Silks in blood red, moonlit ivory, jade green, and imperial gold— colors bleeding into one another until your head began to spin.
Really, what use did he need to woo you—a princess with nothing to spare? Or was it simply boredom on his part? No matter how you turned it over in your thoughts, nothing quite fit.
In the end, you decided you might as well take advantage of it.
“I want the crimson one,” you declared at last. “Do fix my hair, and make my rouge a shade darker than usual. My lord husband shall be utterly enamored with me.”
You emphasized the last part deliberately. Just as expected, one maid’s eyes widened before she quickly lowered her head.
You would make it so that by nightfall, the entire mansion would hum with the rumor. However, that was actually the least of your concerns, as growing sense of anticipation settling in your chest.
You would get the truth out of Sylus tonight.
. . .
The night unfolded in a wash of warm light and drifting color. Lanterns bobbed overhead, their orange glow reflecting off the river like fallen stars.
Sylus walked beside you at an slow pace as you gazed at the sky in wonder, leading you to the upper part of his pagoda where you could see the flying lanterns better.
After a moment, he looked at you. “Do you want to fly one?” he asked, gesturing toward the lanterns waiting nearby.
You hesitated, then nodded. One of the attendants quickly handed you a lantern, its paper warm and fragile beneath your fingers.
He watched you for a beat. “What do you wish for?”
The question lingered. You stared at the lantern, at the way the light trembled inside it, and for a moment, you said nothing at all. Then, quietly—
“To live my life to the fullest.”
All your life, you had been nothing more than a pawn in someone else’s design. It was a foolish wish, but if you were allowed to want anything at all, that was it.
Sylus didn’t react right away. When he did, his voice was low, certain. “Then you shall.”
You turned to him, failing to hold back a smile. “Oh, really?”
Yet beneath the lightness of your words, there was something unmistakably melancholic in your face, and Sylus noted it in silence.
“Your Excellency, tell me...” suddenly you turned to him. “Why are you doing all of this?”
“Hm?”
“You gain nothing from this alliance with me.” You met his gaze head-on, a slight frown creasing your brow. “Everyone paints you as a fearsome ruler, and you ended up with a useless bride. So why are you doing all this— for me?”
A faint smile curved his lips, as if he had expected this question all along.
“Is there anything wrong with a husband who wants to make his wife happy?”
The way your eyes glittered with stunned disbelief only made his smile grow. Bathed in the amber glow of the sky, draped in his colors and dolled up in a shade that suited you so well— you, his wife, were a sight impossible to look away from.
Sylus’ gaze held yours as the lantern began to lift from your hands.
“Useless or not, what if what I’ve been searching for was never someone useful at all?”
He was mesmerizing. His long hair stirred in the wind, crimson orbs gleaming in the night—yet softened, unmistakably, as they looked at you.
Your heart skipped a beat, warmth rushing to your cheeks. Just before you could calm yourself, suddenly the sight behind Sylus exploded— thousands of lanterns released at once, rising in a radiant tide that swallowed the night sky whole.
“Look.”
You turned, breath catching as the heavens filled with drifting firelight. The sight was overwhelming, breathtaking in a way that left you speechless.
Sylus gazed at you, pulling you closer, and before you could make sense of it, he immediately hoisted you on his knee and flashed you a grin, ready to take off.
“Sylus—!”
The night surged upward in a rush of wind as he leapt, carrying you with him into the sky. Firelight whirled past in glowing streams, thousands of lanterns drifting around you like constellations brought to life.
The air roared in your ears, but surprisingly your breath stolen not by fear, but by the sheer wonder of it all. Suspended among the lights, held securely in his grasp, you could only cling to him as the world fell away beneath you—heart racing, senses alight, squealing as Sylus carried you through the burning night.
And then he set you down atop one of the rooftops, the rush of wind fading as the adrenaline slowly ebbed from your veins. Lantern light washed over the tiles, warm and unsteady, and you found yourself looking up at him.
“Remember this, dearest wife...”
In that moment, you could only stare, utterly captivated— by the man who had set the sky alight for you.
“All the lanterns in the night sky... They would only burn for you.”
You were falling for him.
It was inevitable. Perhaps it was the lantern festival that did it—but how could you not fall for your own husband?
After that night, Sylus let you further into the parts of his life. Silly banters, strolls outside the mansion's walls—all of them revealed a kinder side of him he showed no one else but you.
Quiet evenings spent in his quarters became familiar too.
“Is the wine to your liking?”
You set your cup down after a sip and turned to him with a bright smile. “Mm-hmm.”
“High praise,” Sylus remarked. “I’ll be sure to inform the cellar it has earned your approval.”
Just as you were about to retort, he reached for something at his side and produced a long, narrow box, setting it on the table between you. You blinked at it.
“Open it.”
Your brows knit in confusion, but you did as told. Inside lay a delicate hairpin—its metal shaped into a blooming datura flower, intricate in its detail.
“It’s…” You were immediately reminded of the hairpin you demanded from him weeks ago.
“I have a decent memory,” Sylus said simply, his eyes lingered on your reaction.
Something warm spread through your chest. And in that moment, with the lantern-lit night still lingering in your thoughts and the fact that he had fulfilled your whim, you knew—
—that you have fallen for him wholly.
You looked up, and he was already closer than you remembered.
The rest happened quietly, naturally—your lips meeting his in a burning kiss that tasted faintly of wine.
“Mm… ah...”
And just like that, gone was the measured distance. You clung to his broad shoulders, and Sylus kissed you like he had been holding back for far too long.
You barely had time to gasp before he drove you backward. The world tilted, and you felt the solid press of wooden floor beneath you as he followed, bracing himself above you, pinning you there with effortless strength.
His hand went to your waist, the other caging you in as his lips returned and his tongue entangled with yours— slow, deep, possessive. Heat pooled low in your stomach. You were trapped beneath him, not with fear, but with want—
And neither of you pretended this was anything less than dangerous anymore.
. . .
“Sylus… Ngh...!”
You laid on the sheets still with your robes on, back arching helplessly as the wet sensation between your legs sent you spiraling into bliss.
Nestled between your shamelessly parted thighs was your tyrant of a husband, his face pressed to you—his greedy tongue working on your folds in his pursuit of your pleasure.
It was unlike anything you had felt before. The way Sylus reduced you into a mess of moans left your thoughts in complete disarray.
He looked up to see your expression—his work of art, and exhaled roughly, “Sweet.”
It felt unbearably obscene. Your face had long since gone hot, shame and sensation tangling together until you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began.
Then he inserted one of his fingers into you, and you wailed when he started pumping it in and out.
“Sylus… Sylus...!” Your body tensed, breath hitching as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, stealing every coherent thought.
Everything narrowed to his rhythm, to the way your pulse raced and your world tilted. You clutched at his hair, helpless, the feeling cresting higher, faster until there was nowhere left to go—
And then it broke.
The release washed over you all at once, leaving you shaking, breathless, utterly undone as unfamiliar wetness burst from that one spot between your legs. You gasped, feeling the fluid smearing your thighs and the mattress.
Sylus eyed you like a lion preying his rabbit. As your juices pooled before him, something in him just became feral at the thought that he was the one catapulting you to pleasure.
“This is your first time... isn’t it?”
Of course it was. But he didn’t an answer to continue.
And just like that, he brought you to your next orgasm through his fingers alone, making you limp and tearful.
“Sylus…” you choked, his name catching in your throat, close to a sob. “S-sto—”
“Do you want me to stop?” His crimson gaze locked onto your teary ones, his fingers gripping yours. “Hmm?”
There was something in the depths of his eyes—an intensity that rooted you in place. For a fleeting moment, even you weren’t certain of your own answer.
“Because if you say so, then I will.”
The haze of your lust clouded you fully. Hearing him telling you this apparently just fueled the unbidden desire inside you.
“D-Don’t…”
The curve of his mouth lifted, slow and knowing. “As you wish, my dearest.”
Sylus shed his robe and showed himself bare to you. You gulped at the sight of his sculpted abs, and even more so when his hands reached for you.
His fingers brushed the robe from your shoulders, then traced down your arms. Each layer he removed felt painfully slow, the air against your skin making you shiver as his touch lingered.
“Most beautiful...” he murmured, voice low and sure, undressing you as if savoring every second.
You were already wet, but your body felt hot when you were left nude before him. He parted your legs and folded your knees, and then you saw it— his veiny, massive girth. Panic overtook you that instant as he was about to ease himself into you.
“W-Will it… fit?” you asked, shock lacing your voice.
Your lord husband lifted a finger to your cheek, brushing it gently. “Have no fear, wife. I will make it so.”
Really? You trusted him…
“—!” But tears spilled the moment he pushed his length into you. The sharp burn, the overwhelming stretch—everything felt too much, too big for you to accommodate. Your fingers clawed at his arms as you pleaded with him to stop.
Even with how drenched he had made you, it was still difficult to take him. The sight of his manhood struggling, half-buried inside your tight frame was both laughable and tantalizing.
Sylus lifted your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at him.
“Hush,” he commanded, fiery garnet eyes filled your vision. “Let me show you... how a man makes love to his woman.”
And then, without restraint, he drove himself fully into you, splitting you open. The sudden force left you gasping—your eyes flying open as a cry tore from your throat.
“Ahh—! Ah, aaah!”
So this was how you were deflowered. The pain of being breached drew more tears from your eyes... But more than the pain, it was the sight that stole your breath—
The faint outline of his bulge shaping your lower belly.
He growled in your ear, “Eyes on me.”
And after that, you weren’t really sure what happened. Sylus began to move and your body followed suit. His thrusts were careful as if giving you time to adjust at first, and slowly, the sting softened, melting into a dizzying rush—
“Hahh...”
The world narrowed to the sound of his grunts grounding you. You were crying, but it also felt good. So damn good when he hit the spot you didn’t know was there that you could do nothing but cling to him and let the feeling carry you under.
And soon, you felt the coil tightening again—
Thrust. It was a rush of sensation that made your back arch and your grip on him tighten.
Thrust. His name trembled from your lips, half sob, half plea, as the pressure spiked, about to burst at its seams—
Sylus searched your face, looking for you to anchor him as he picked up the pace. Your face twisted in pain and pleasure as he corrupted you, and oh, how was he supposed to last with you this enchanting?
Your scream then tore through his chambers—
“Ahhh!”
—as soon as hot ropes of his cum flooded inside your womb and filled you to the brim, the release gushed so hard that his essence spilled out of you. You shook uncontrollably under him, a mess of tears and lust, thoroughly bred.
Ah, his dearest wife was so good... just like he imagined.
. . .
It was rough for your first time, so he made up for it afterwards during the aftercare.
His lips traced reverent paths over your skin, never hurried, never careless. He treated every of your sighs like something sacred, caressing you as if you were something precious entrusted to him alone.
“Warm now?” he asked with a smile as he pulled you into his embrace. You were spent and damp with sweat, body pliant as you sank against him.
“Mmm…” you murmured against him, arms sliding around his back. Sylus drew you closer, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest at the simple act.
Too long. He had waited an eternity for this. In his dreams, it had always been the same image—the girl who dared to befriend the dragon, who offered him her love without fear. That vision bound him to her soul.
At first, he kept his distance, unwilling to frighten the unfortunate girl cast aside by her horrible family to become his wife. But then you were the one who sought him out—and the moment he saw you up close, he knew.
You were the very same woman who had lived in his dreams all along.
And now that fate had brought you back to him in this lifetime…
He would not let you go so easily again.
From that point on, you no longer returned to your old chambers. You lived in his quarters instead, and night after night, Sylus made love to you.
So it came as no surprise at all to anyone in the mansion when you fell pregnant.
You carried the signs of pregnancy beautifully. Sylus noticed it most of all—how you looked fuller, softer, luminous in a way that made his gaze linger with reverence.
“Ah… Sylus…”
You had thought he would keep his distance after you became with child, but he did the opposite. He adored you all the more.
His hands roamed your fuller hips, before his lips brushed a tender kiss to the soft curve of your belly— taking pride in his seed that had taken root and been growing inside you, then slowly traveled upward, lingering at your breasts, now exquisitely sensitive to his touch.
“Ah, ahh…” you panted as his teeth grazed and suckled you, while his two sinful fingers working on your swollen clit, coaxing helpless sounds from your throat. Amidst all the haze, at the same time, you felt a soft movement within your womb—a quiet reminder of the life stirring there.
A love secured. A future growing beneath your heart. You felt safe, blessed, complete. This must be the height of happiness.
You weren’t sure if your fates were written in the stars, but if it did then at last, you knew why the fates brought you two together in this life...
It’s so you can share your soul with his, once again.
. . .
One night, long after the mansion had fallen into silence, Sylus brought you outside beneath an open sky. Stars stretched endlessly above, as though the heavens themselves were watching.
He stood behind you, both of his hands came to rest over your abdomen, calloused palms protective of the little life growing beneath it.
You leaned into him instinctively.
“It won’t be long now,” you murmured, a gentle smile touching your lips, your fingers laced with his. You had begun to feel sporadic contractions these days—a quiet warning of what was to come. The thought of childbirth frightened you, but your excitement to see your baby outweighed it still.
Sylus lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck, lingering there. “Then it’s only fitting that I gift you something when our child arrives. Tell me, what do you want?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze drifted upward, deep in thought. Then, suddenly, an idea bloomed, clear and certain.
“I want a comb... Carved with three datura blossoms.”
Sylus let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your back. His arms tightened around you, amused and fond all at once—as though your answer pleased him more than anything else could have.
“Then you shall have it, dearest wife.”
Beneath the endless heavens, wrapped securely in his embrace, was someone precious to his tender heart.
Across lifetimes, fate had returned you to him time and time again. And yet, he had never believed in destiny—nor in the mercy of unseen hands guiding his path.
He believed in choice. In will. In what he could reach out and claim with his own hands.
And he chose you. That was why you were, and always would be—
caleb x non-mc!reader who’s just way too sweet for him to handle.
you’re sweet in a way he can’t quite fully grasp. not naive or innocent. just genuinely, naturally kind.
like when he does something for you, whether it’s something as simple as walking you home or adjusting your hair out of your coat, you always offer him a soft, “thank you, caleb.”
and that single phrase undoes him every single time.
he should be used to it by now, but it never fails to catch him off guard. you’ll watch with barely contained amusement as he freezes for a split second, eyes widening as if no one had ever thanked him for anything his entire life. and he never needed them to. it’s always been his duty to protect, to serve, without ever asking for anything back.
you remember the first time you thanked him for something small. he passed you a mug, his fingers tingling when they brushed against yours. then the tips of his ears actually turned pink, muttering something along the lines of, “don’t mention it, it’s nothing.”
but it wasn’t ever just nothing to you. not when it’s caleb. you wholeheartedly believed he deserves to be appreciated, and you promised to never miss the chance to do so.
sometimes you really hone in on him, pinning him with your warm eyes, deliberately whispering the words carefully, “thank you, caleb, really.” and poor caleb, what else can he do other than look away with a shuddering breath, his cheeks heating up because his stubborn heart is suddenly thumping louder.
he does things for you without even realizing it. carrying your things against your protests, walking a bit ahead so he can shield you in busy crowds. not because you need him to or because he wants to impress you, but because it’s simply instinct. to him, taking care of you feels natural the same way breathing does.
god forbid someone uses the wrong tone, let alone speaks ill of you. he’ll step forward with one hand guiding you behind him, voice calm but biting at the edges, “watch it.”
(he’d burn the world down if it meant keeping your hands warm for a moment. but he’d never say that to you.)
it’s the worst when you thank him for things he doesn’t even do for you directly. you notice his effort in his work, or acknowledge him for his kind nature towards other people. it warps his mind how you see him the way no one ever has. he’s believed for so long that no one ever will.
that’s when he realizes your appreciation for him isn’t a result of the way he treats you. you see him. you don’t expect him to be perfect or strong. you don’t ask him to be anything except himself. you simply admire him for who he is. and caleb feels his chest constrict when he reminds himself of that each time you thank him with that easygoing smile on your face.
anomaly from the deepspace: you’re our future… WHAT?!
synopsis: you meet your kids from the future. the catch? you and him aren’t dating.
character/s: zayne, sylus, rafayel, xavier, caleb x f!reader (separate)
warning/s: none!
note/s: same names used from my previous dad!lads fic bc i honestly can’t be bothered to think of new ones. also, it’s been a while and i know i’ve disappeared for months but!! i’m back now <3. i hope yall enjoyed this one <3
zayne:
the doctor sat at his desk, typing away whilst simultaneously taking down notes from the thesis that he was reviewing. his hazel green eyes were focused on medical terms that he jotted down.
a soft knock interrupts his trance as a confused greyson enters the office holding the hand of a little girl who seemed to have finished crying.
zayne raised one of his brows as he silently asked greyson who the little girl was.
“it’s… she said she’s your daughter?” greyson asked, just as confused.
huh?
“daddy!” the girl runs to his chair, jumping on his lap, sniffling and nuzzling against zayne. she couldn’t be older than seven.
zayne awkwardly places a calm hand on her head as he softly shushes the scared child.
“i… i tried checking the pediatric ward, i thought she was confusing you with someone else, but her name wasn’t on the list of admitted patients. she was adamant on seeing you.”
greyson pauses, seeing the resemblance before he clears his throat. “i’ll leave you two alone.”
zayne nods as he softly turns to the child.
“hello there, can you tell me who you are and where you’re from?” the girl pulls away from her chest and zayne’s eyes slightly widen at the resemblance.
the girl has dark hair, hazel-green eyes, and her lips form into a pout the same way that yours did when you didn’t get your way. but zayne says nothing, not wanting to assume anything. she pulls away, sniffling. zayne plucks out a few tissues on his desk and dabbing it gently to her tear-stricken face.
“i-i’m zia.” she says through hiccups, clutching at zayne’s coat. “i’m from—” zia recites his address, causing zayne’s comforting hand to freeze on her back. nothing was adding up.
she recited his address perfectly yet zayne has never seen her even within the neighborhood much less in his house.
“when is… your birthday?” zia answers, but zayne furrows his brows as she cites a year that was a decade from now.
“and your parents?” zayne didn’t know why his heart started beating quickly, greyson said that he was a father—although he was just as confused about the situation, an answer from the girl before him would clarify his questions.
“my daddy’s name is zayne li… my mommy is—”
the door to his office opens.
“dr. zayne? greyson told me you had company over, i brought you lunch!” you say as you walk in the office, stopping at your tracks as you see a little girl with him.
you open your mouth, ready to ask a question only to be interrupted by little legs running towards you.
“mama!” she latches on your legs, you let out a surprised sound before letting zayne take the food that you brought, you kneeled down, gently petting her hair.
“hey there.” you say gently, not wanting to startle her. she looks up at you and you bit back a gasp as a carbon copy of zayne’s eyes stared back at you.
“mama…” her eyes welled up with tears once more. jumping to hug you properly, the motion caught you off-balance, landing on your butt with a dull thud as you embraced the little girl properly.
you looked up at zayne for answers, his face mirrored yours, you were both clueless. zia turns back to zayne as if she remembered something.
“my mama… my mama’s name is (y/n) li…” she said.
your eyes widened, warmth flooding onto your cheeks.
you looked at zayne to see a faint redness steadily rising to his face.
you say nothing.
zia jumps off of you, a locket bobbing out from her shirt catching your attention.
the heart-shaped locket opens due to the force of zia’s actions, showing a picture of an older you and zayne holding her as a baby.
you freeze, the action does not go unnoticed by zayne who helps you stand up. his eyes flit towards the direction that you were looking at before he freezes as well.
“mama? papa?” zia’s innocent voice cuts through the silence. you and zayne look at each other, not knowing what to say.
zayne coughs awkwardly, eyes not meeting yours as he gestures towards the food you brought.
“how about we eat for now?”
the three of you settled by his desk, asking zia questions, nothing too complex as to overwhelm her, but enough to grasp the current situation.
zia explains that she was playing outside the house when suddenly she was floating through space, and suddenly in linkon park. but she didn’t recognize any of the stores that surrounded it. only the street names so she did her best to look for the hospital.
“but why the hospital?” you asked, wiping a stray crumb by the corner of her mouth. zayne was entranced at the sight of you falling into the role of her mother. his heart thumping in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge.
“papa said… if i ever get lost in linkon, find a way to make it to akso. akso is safe. because papa is there.” zia recites her dad’s words. while zayne may not know her now, it did seem like something he’d say in the future.
it was silent for a few seconds before zia talked about herself, from her interests to her school life, to her life at home to which zayne couldn’t help but ask her a few questions about it. mostly to make her forget that she was scared and mainly purely selfish intentions.
he can see you raise a brow but he pays no mind as he asks zia.
“are you happy?”
a big grin breaks out of zia’s face as she nods with vigor.
“yes! mama and papa always give me cookies and candy whenever i ask!” she beams and lists off everything she loved about her parents. how they always read her stories before bed. how they always showed up to her recitals, how zayne always tutored her with utmost patience while you intervened with snacks and a quick game to take a break…
“—and mommy and daddy alway do kissies!” zia shudders in mock disgust. “they think i don’t notice but daddy’s cheeks always show.” the little girl giggles.
you and zayne don’t look each other in the eye. but you could tell that he was having the same reaction as you.
you perk up as you feel a different vibration in the air. wary of wanderers, you subtly twist your wrist to activate your hunter’s watch. zayne seems to feel the same disturbance as he flicks his hand, tiny particles of ice flurrying through the air.
a portal warps open and you instinctively push zia behind you, your arm raised to cover her as the portal materializes.
“zia! are you here, baby?” you gasped. you hear your voice. slightly older but undoubtedly you.
your suspicions were confirmed as you see yourself through the portal, you looked older yet the same. beside your future self stood zayne who looked restless. worried for his daughter. aside from that, zayne looked healthier. his cheeks looked fuller and his eyes brighter.
zia lets out a happy noise as she ducks under your arm and runs towards the portal. you instinctively reach out, fearing that the portal was a trap but your version’s zayne pulls you back, letting the girl run to her parents.
“mommy, daddy!” your future selves kneeled down to her height to embrace her. your future self couldn’t help but place a tender kiss on her cheek while a tear slips from your eye. the older zayne looks at the two of you.
a look of realization flashes in his face, but he says nothing, only smiling at his past self and letting out a nod before he focuses on his daughter, his hand overlapping yours, the gleam of a wedding ring catches your attention before the portal slowly closes. zia’s tiny “bye mom and dad!” the last thing the both of you hear before the portal closes shut.
silence.
neither zayne nor you could find the words to say, to talk about what happened. it takes a while for the both of you to realize what had occurred.
“well…” you cut the tension with an awkward laugh. “quite an eventful lunch, huh? what a spoiler for the future.”
with zia’s voice gone, you can hear your heartbeat pound loudly. three years from now, you would be a mother to zayne’s child. you would be a family. you would be his as he would be yours in holy matrimony. you can’t say the thought doesn’t make you giddy. you hoped that zia wasn’t an elaborate prank that you and zayne were the unlucky victim of.
zayne stays quiet, as if thinking of his next words.
“i…” zayne starts, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie, cheeks flushed red.
“if zia is truly from the future then…” he looks deep into your eyes. “i can’t wait.”
you couldn’t help the bashful smile that breaks out on your face.
“neither can i.” you admit.
zayne’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile as he gains courage from your words.
“then… would you like to get dinner with me later, after my shift?”
you nod, smile still on your face.
“of course, doctor zayne.”
sylus:
“stop pretending, sylus. you know why i’m here.” you say, gun raised at him. sylus smirks and raises his arms in mock surrender.
“the protocore you needed was faulty, i had to get rid of it. there was no poi—” “i’m not kidding around, sylus!” you cut him off, finger on the trigger, ready to pull at any moment.
“i know, sweetie.”
“don’t call me that.”
you hated the way sylus chuckled at your response, clearly not taking you seriously.
the two of you freeze as you hear a commotion from outside the room, sylus pushes you behind him, his evol flaring up as his energy-infused tendrils are on display, waiting for whatever intruder awaits the two of you.
deciding not to waste time, sylus follows the sound of the noise— where luke and kieran could be heard grunting, fighting against the intruder with a tone of disbelief.
intrigued, sylus pushes the door open with you in tow, the two of you anticipate a crowd of delinquents who managed to get through sylus’ top notch security, or underworld leaders that had unfinished business with the head of onychinus.
what the two of you weren’t expecting was a teenage girl who looked amused as the mask-wearing twins dangled in the air with what looked to be a replica of sylus’ energy evol.
rarely does anything manage to catch sylus off guard. but seeing a teenager with your hair color and the color of his eyes made his mouth drop for a split second.
the teenager looks at you then at sylus, a soft smile forming on her face.
“i knew i’d find you guys here.”
sylus glances at you with his peripheral. your jaw was dropped, hands shaking as you clutched your gun by your side.
the teenager raises her arms in mock surrender before letting luke and kieran down with a thud.
“i can explain.” the teenager says. “don’t be alarmed…” she starts.
“my name is athena. i’m… i’m your daughter from the future.”
“and we’re supposed to believe you just like that?” you couldn’t help the defensiveness in your tone as you move to raise your gun after seeing her reach into her pocket.
athena pulls out her wallet, opening it with a soft smile before facing the wallet front, showing the family picture that was displayed on the leather. in order to not cause alarm, she uses her evol. her energy manipulation making it float towards sylus’ direction, he takes it without much fanfare.
in the picture was a family.
where an older you and an older sylus stood in the middle, his arm was wrapped around your waist, pulling you close against him, athena stood on your right, a soft smile on her face as she raised her hand into a peace sign. sylus looked at the camera with a real smile on his face as he had a toddler perched up onto his hip— who seemed to be his carbon copy but with your eyes. if you squint, you can see a small bump on your stomach— possibly a third.
“looks legit.” you hear luke whisper over to kieran. you didn’t even need to glance back to know that kieran smacked the back of luke’s head, the startled ow! told you enough.
sylus’ face remained blank as he scans the picture before he closes the wallet shut, tossing it back to his future daughter with a steady aim.
for a while there was silence, before your eyes widened. you become the wife of onychinus’ leader? the very man you swore you hated?
“you’re meaning to tell me… i let him…” you point insultingly at the brute beside you, who scoffs at your reaction. “make a family with me?”
athena raises a brow, an upturn on her lips as if she was smirking. “i did not expect you to be like this before having me.” she walks around the base, as if she were at home and plops down at the sofa.
“pray tell, how do we act around you?” sylus asks, clearly invested in talking about his future with you.
“gross.” athena rolls her eyes as the word leaves her lips in a playful way before looking at the two of you with a soft smile. “but… our family is really happy. we’re safe, healthy, most importantly, happy… but.”
“but?” you echoed, she smiles bitterly.
“mom, the reason i’m here is because a deal went wrong.” sylus freezes from beside you.
athena breathes in deeply before explaining. she nods slightly in gratitude as she is served tea by luke and kieran, who you did not notice has left the room to get refreshments.
“sherman...” you perk up at the familiar name. one of sylus’ pawns, a dealer within the n109 zone, someone that sylus kept because he was useful.
“dad never really let us in his business, he kept us safe and informed yet never within the circle of operations, so i didn’t know who he really was.” athena looks up to stare sylus down.
“sherman betrays you in the future, dad. that’s the reason i’m here.” sylus nods slowly, gesturing for her to go on.
“he sided with EVER, he wanted us to be weakened so he decided on making sure that if he were to strike against you, it would be where it hurt the most. it wasn’t supposed to be me here, it was supposed to be simeon.” athena looks down on her lap, fists closed tightly, slightly shaking. the two of you could only assume that simeon was the child that sylus was carrying in the picture.
“simeon is barely five. sherman knew that the gun would transport him to the deepspace tunnel with no direction. he expected simeon to die in the tunnel because what knowledge does a toddler have to navigate the deepspace?” athena laughs bitterly.
“right at the last second, i threw myself in front of him. i’d rather it be me than my baby brother.”
you and sylus look at each other, then back at athena who didn’t want to face either of you.
sylus walks slowly towards her, his hand placed on her head gently causing her to look up at him. he gives her a nod of acknowledgement.
“you did well. i’m proud to have you as my future daughter.” athena shakes her head, a smile on her face as she laughs slightly. “don’t get sappy on me, dad.” athena looks to luke and kieran before a smirk appears on her face.
“you guys were weak, by the way. but don’t worry, you will get better in the future.” the twins let out offended gasps.
“we could’ve attacked harder, but when we saw your eyes, we were shocked.” kieran explains as luke nods. “it was scary! we’ve fought off many people but we froze when we saw you.” athena nods before she looks at you.
you still slightly as she stands and walks towards you. you didn’t know what it was, maybe it was instinct that you opened your arms and welcomed her into a hug that she fell into. it felt familiar and warm, something pounded in your chest that you were too terrified to acknowledge.
“give dad a chance, okay? he’s not all that bad… a bit… much. but he always had our best interests.” athena whispers and you hummed, taking in her words as she pulls away.
she winks at you. “you and dad are disgusting together.” you let out a short laugh at that.
truthfully, as much as you hated to admit it, sylus was good looking. he was also reliable and strong and— you were not about to look at him with a different light right now. snap out of it.
a disturbance in the air crackles before a tunnel opens.
“missus, are you here?” luke jolts as he hears himself through the tunnel, he was about to step closer when kieran pulls him back.
athena drags you and sylus closer before she embraces you both tightly.
“i’ll see you on the other side, okay?” athena pulls away with a smile, the expression contagious as you find yourself smiling back at your future daughter.
“can’t wait.” you reply as she pulls away to call back at the tunnel.
“yea! i’m here, luke.”
you can hear a sigh of relief from the other side as athena steps inside the tunnel, a serene look on her face as she waves goodbye at the two of you. the tunnel fizzles closed until only stray sparks remain and silence ensues.
sylus turns to look at you, an amused glint at his deep ruby eyes.
“can’t wait, huh?”
“i will kill you where you stand, sylus.”
“no need for violence, sweetie. i too, can’t wait to see where the future leads to.”
rafayel:
you noticed her before he did.
it wasn’t unusual for adults and children to be fixated with rafayel’s artwork, admittedly, at times you find yourself entranced by a few, attempting to interpret its meaning only for rafayel to brush you off and say that you’re overthinking it, cutie.
but this was different. in front of rafayel’s painting stood a viewing bench that was occupied by a girl that couldn’t have been older than thirteen. she had her hood pulled up, hiding her features. she didn’t seem to be bothering or paying attention to anyone as her body was fixated in front of rafayel’s painting.
longing. as per rafayel’s title. you once questioned him about it to which he only smiled and shook his head, expression solemn.
“i don’t know… it just felt right.” you only nod, agreeing with his logic.
art didn’t have to be complicated, it just had to portray meaning, despite whatever interpretation it was.
“raf.” you poke at the artist who was scanning the room, grateful to have finished making his rounds and rubbing elbows with the rich.
“bored already, cutie?” he teases. you shake your head as you point towards the direction of his painting.
“you want me to talk to you about the painting techniques i used? oh, cutie. i knew you were interested in my technique.” you scoffed, shaking your head as you clarified.
“no, rafayel. i’m referring to her.” you say as you point out the little girl in a soft tone. “she’s been looking at the painting since we’ve arrived.” rafayel takes a closer look, squinting his eyes.
“are you sure she isn’t asleep? maybe she’s just appreciating my artistic techniques, unlike someone i know…”
you shake your head before rolling your eyes at him. “still. it’s been hours… did she come with anyone?” rafayel furrowed his brows.
“i didn’t even notice her here.”
the more rafayel looks at her, the more he feels the pull to approach her. and without even realizing it, he sat beside her on the bench.
he tilts his head at the painting, squinting his eyes to see if there was a misplaced smudge or dirt that he didn’t notice. just to get an idea of what she was looking at.
“what’re you looking at, buddy?” he asked, finally turning to the hood-covered girl.
the little girl stays silent for a few seconds before opening her mouth.
“the painting…” rafayel perks up, listening intently to the child.
“is it about me?”
huh?
“hehe~ of course!” rafayel attempts to appease the kid, not wanting a crying child in his exhibit.
“anything can be about you if you put your mind to i—” he gets cut off as the child finally faces him.
his eyes stared back at him and deep strands of purple framed her little face. from her neck, rafayel could see scales, scales that he knew all too well.
and with a closer look, he realizes that the scales match the colors he used for the painting.
rafayel stares wide-eyed at the girl. he’s known every surviving lemurian, but not her. and what are the odds she had the same eye and lip shape as you?
the girl, seeing where rafayel was looking, quickly slaps a hand on her neck, covering the exposed scales.
rafayel coughs once, before his eyes search for yours. he quickly does so and he signals for you to get to where he was to which you do with a quick stride.
“this is miss bodyguard… she can help you look for your parents. you’re lost, right?”
you bit back a gasp as you take in her appearance. she was adorable, her face shows that she grew up with the finer things and that she was not told no in her life.
“i’m not lost…” she mumbles, yet she takes your hand and squeezes it tightly. you were surprised at how cold her hand felt, the child’s breathing was slightly panicking by the second as more scales appear on her face.
your eyes widened, clearly seeing that the new scales were affecting her. you looked at raf and he nodded, wordlessly leading the way as you carried the little girl to the room allotted for him.
“do you know what’s happening… ms…?” rafayel asks as he kneels in front of her as you settle her on the couch.
“mira.” she says softly, voice almost a whisper. “what a pretty name.” you say, smiling softly as if to assure the child.
mira looks around the room, her gem-colored eyes scanning the room meticulously before she stops at the gemstone that was halved and turned into powder, most likely as pigment for rafayel’s work.
her feet take her there and before she could touch it, rafayel’s hand stops her.
“raf—”
“you’ll burn your hand if you touch it, missy. only lemurians can touch this.” rafayel says, his tone playful but you knew that he meant it.
mira shakes her head and reaches out for it once more.
“miss mira, you’re–” “i’m the sea god’s daughter.” mira cuts him off.
rafayel freezes in shock. mira takes the opportunity to get ahold of the gemstone on his desk.
a bright light blinds the three of you as mira takes out a fishtail that she kept hidden in her small satchel.
“the sea god’s daughter…” rafayel trails off, you look at her then back at raf as a sharp pang hits your chest.
you knew that what you and rafayel had was strictly business, yet you couldn’t overlook the fact that the two of you flirted here and there… and with all the time spent together, how come rafayel never told you.
but as you look at rafayel and see the look of confusion in his face, you begin to wonder if the child is only confused.
mira falls to her knees, her breaths quickening and you find yourself supporting her with a hand on her back.
“mama…” she whispers at you, you shake it off, thinking that the haze of the scales growing on her was hindering her mind. you let her clutch your hand, only to be shocked that she triggered your resonance, the two of you feel the progression of scales slow down.
“papa…” she reaches for rafayel who still seemed lost in thought, but at the sound of mira’s voice, he shakily holds his hand out.
“...feel weak— …need to go back…” you and rafayel were confused at the words leaving mira’s mouth, she gestures towards the gemstone that she dropped. rafayel takes it with his free hand. mira tells him to coat the fishtail with the gemstone powder and rafayel does so, albeit hesitant.
a blinding light blinds the three of you, and you find yourselves transported under water. you can hear rafayel let out a gasp as the three of you were inside a bubble.
looking outside, you can see why rafayel gasped, you were in lemuria or what could only be described as such place based on rafayel’s previous stories.
you see mira swimming away and the bubble follows her lead.
you suppress a gasp as you see her swim towards a merman that was gigantic. before you could express your shock to the lemurian beside you. you see him focused, it was on the second look at the merman did you realize that the two of you were staring back at an older— no, another version. older for sure, yet this version had long hair and a tail that was almost your size.
“papa! mama!” you turned your head to the woman approaching the duo, you finally gasped as your familiar features mirrored your own, yet it was older, softer.
you can barely hear what mira was saying but you can see as she points to the bubble that you and rafayel occupied, the parents— which you now concluded was a future version of you followed her finger, and with a softened smile, your future self waved at you, causing a deep feeling to settle in your chest, yet you couldn’t pinpoint which emotion it was.
it takes a second for the two of you to be thrown back into your current timeline. the same bright flash brought you back to rafayel’s waiting room.
from a distance, you can hear thomas’ calls for the artist, whose hand you were holding tightly.
the two of you looked at each other, not saying a word, before he broke it with a small smile.
“so… looks like you liked me a little too much, cutie.”
“if that timeline is real, you’re the one carrying her. like a seahorse” you say your face burning as you turn around and leave him in the waiting room.
“?! that’s not how it works, cutie!”
xavier:
the wanderers were closing in. backup was coming but you and your partner had no idea when. the battlefield felt like a hydra wherein one dies, three more take its place and at this point, it wasn’t a battle of strength, but of stamina.
the wanderers were weak, yet there were so many that you felt your composure slipping.
it took a sloppy shot for the wanderer you were up against to charge at you with an angered cadence.
you grunt as you managed to finish it off, finding yourself back to back with xavier who was busy with another luminivore.
“are you alright?” xavier asked as the wanderer evaporated. you turn to face him, giving him an acknowledgement before you braced your hand on his shoulder to fight the fast moving luminivore behind him. a shot resounded from your hunter’s gun.
xavier immediately pushes you off to fight off the other wanderers that spawned.
it seemed endless. you lost count how many the two of you fought. the call for back-up felt like hours ago.
the two of you were so caught up with fighting that none of you felt the crackle in the air.
“mom watch out!” you turned around to see a man, pushing early twenties with the tip of his sword right by your face, an evaporating wanderer caught in the middle of it.
mom? you were confused but had no time to think as you shot another wanderer. you sense another hunter in the area, you turn around to see another man with a sword similar to the other stranger’s.
confused, yet grateful for the added manpower, the four of you cleared the hunting zone. the gigantic luminivore, having no smaller ones to absorb, was weakened and taken down without a hitch. the protocore it released clasped tightly in your hand.
when the adrenaline wore off, you thought back to the man who called you mom. you looked at him with a confused expression, having never seen him in your life.
he bore platinum hair, his eyes the same color as yours and his sword looking to be made out of luxurious alloy. beside him, stood another man who looked like him but with a different hair color, his cheeks were rounder and he was slightly shorter, but it was clear to you that they were twins.
“w-who are you?” you didn’t mean for your voice to falter but it was surreal to see a set of twins that eerily looked like your partner in crime.
speak of the devil, xavier hurried to your side once he made sure all wanderers were nowhere to be found in the perimeter.
xavier pauses as well, his grip on the lightblade that was hidden in his back, prepared to strike if your back-up was actually enemies in disguise.
the shorter twin raises his hand and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, a shy smile on his face as he looks at you with a guilty expression.
“okay so…” he trails off, as if trying to find an explanation to who they were. “you're not gonna believe this but…”
he places an arm around the taller twin.
“we’re your sons from the future.”
what the fuck?
you could feel the strength in your legs falter for a split second and xavier had to support your back as you stared at the twins with a widened gaze.
sons? future? with… xavier???
your blue-eyed partner only looks at them warily, seeming to not believe the twins, only for his eyes to flit towards the tassels of their swords, his eyes slightly squinting as he recognizes his family’s insignia. it wasn’t concrete evidence, yet it was enough for the hunter to hear them out.
“and you are?” xavier asked, the older twin stepped forward, his head dipped down before he tilted up, looking xavier right in the eye, blue eyes mirroring his.
“lumiere.”
silence.
the atmosphere was tense and you felt xavier tense up from beside you. xavier’s mouth opened but before he could say anything, the younger twin bursted out laughing.
“leo, that was good!” the twins gave each other a high-five before turning to face the two of you once more.
it seemed like even in the future, xavier still cannot hide his disdain for his alter ego.
“i’m milo.” the younger twin introduces himself in between his giggles before he gestures to the older one who looked at xavier straight-on with a smug expression on his face.
“this is leo.” milo gestures to him. you nod slightly, still starstruck before introducing yourself and xavier.
milo nods. “we know. you’re our parents in the future after all.”
you furrowed your eyes, still confused at his statement. yet with the way their uniforms were slightly different and how the two of them did look like they lived in a different era, you bit your tongue.
you wanted to find out more yet before you could, a gasp escapes your lips as a lightblade was pointed at your sons.
“xavier!”
“who sent you?” xavier asked, not joking around.
the twins hold up their arms in surrender, not making any violent reactions.
“we don’t know how we got here ourselves. but, we suspect it was the protocore.” milo explains. “this isn’t our timeline—” that much was obvious. “we’ve been lost for the past week, we believe the key back to our timeline is in the protocore in your hand, mom.”
being called mom by a pair of twins that look your age was definitely unsettling.
“and why should I believe you?” xavier asks, the grip on his lightblade tightening.
the twins look at each other then back at xavier before they gestured towards their own swords.
“you gave us these swords when we expressed that we wanted to be like you.” milo sheepishly explains, flustered at expressing admiration towards their father.
xavier’s careful eyes examine the markings of their swords before they fall towards the star-shaped tassels that decorated the handle.
he lowers his sword, convinced but not entirely.
you flinch and let out a yelp as the protocore you held turned hot. your partner immediately turns to your side as you throw the protocore to the ground.
the yellow gemstone twitches before it cracks, interrupting the air with a tunnel that showed another timeline from the side.
“leo, milo, are you here?” you hear a feminine voice call out. you see her step out a moment later and you gasped at how much she resembled you, same eyes, same lips and same puffy cheeks.
“stella, it’s dangerous out here.” leo, being the eldest, scolds. stella pouts before she realizes that you and xavier watched as the siblings bantered.
“mom, dad!” stella launched herself into your arms, a smile appearing in her face.
“that is stella… the youngest… she’s a great marksman like you, mom.” milo introduces, you concluded that he was the chattier twin– inherited most likely from you and leo stays silent on the side, more xavier than your genes.
“you’re so, so pretty mom, i knew i got your genes.” stella teasingly winks and you couldn’t help the chuckle that leaves your lips.
the tunnel crackles once more and the three snap out of their trances.
“it was nice meeting you, young mom and dad!” milo teases before he grabs stella away. “we have to go now, we’ll see you for dinner!” stella waves goodbye before the two of them enter the tunnel.
leo saves himself for last, ensuring that his two younger siblings have entered fully before giving the two of you a gentle smile paired with a wave.
“i’ll see you soon, mom, dad.”
then the tunnel closes shut, leaving you and xavier in the now quiet battlefield.
without your children’s presence, you can hear your heart beat get louder at the thought that in the future you would be married to your coworker.
“so… that happened.” you tried breaking the awkward tension.
xavier only replied with a hum, one that you tilted your head at, wanting to know his thoughts.
“i always thought we’d have more.”
what?!
“do you wanna get hotpot after we report this to captain jenna?” xavier asked you, yet you only looked at him with disbelief.
“are you not weirded out about our future children appearing in front of us? how are you so calm about this? weren’t you just doubting them minutes ago?” xavier shrugs at your question.
“i’ve got sufficient proof that they were telling the truth.”he responds. “besides. them appearing makes fighting for the future worth it.” he indirectly confesses.
“what?” bless your soul.
xavier shakes his head before walking away. a secret smile on his face.
he’d face a thousand more wanderers if it meant that his future would be the way he saw, hopefully stella wasn’t the last.
caleb:
caleb feels like you’re being watched.
which was rich coming from him.
but he’s already taken two detours, yet the eyes on your backs only seemed to stare harder.
he smiles at you. his hand gently patting your head. “how about you go and buy us some slushies, pips?” you tilt your head in confusion, looking at the long line for the slushie stall before pouting.
“‘leb the line’s too long.” you whined, caleb only chuckles. “come on, pips. you know i love their honey apple soda. plus, you can use your charms to get a free upgrade.” you roll your eyes at him before huffing and begrudgingly agreeing.
once you turned around, caleb walks away with a calm cadence, away from the crowd and somewhere most civilians wouldn’t walk near.
he could hear footsteps trailing behind him, for an untrained ear, it wouldn’t be alarming, but caleb has tracking every small sound his ears could pick up. once he reaches a point in the forest beside where the pop-up fair stood, he unleashes his evol, he hears the stranger grunt as the force of gravity settles on their shoulder.
for a little fun— also a bit of a power trip, he wills his evol to lift the stranger up by one foot while one dangles in the air.
caleb counts three seconds before turning around, only for deep purple eyes to stare back at him.
“what the fuck.” caleb says as he looks at the stranger who could pass off as his sibling.
no. it couldn’t be real. this is a sick experiment that EVER sent as a last ditch effort to catch him off guard and take you away from him. he won’t let them.
he won’t let th—
“wow, you look stupid hanging out like that, flynn.” caleb flinches as he hears another voice speak up, in his shock, he waves his other arm to attack the stranger, only for the stranger to skillfully dodge his offense.
what?
“woah, nice try there, dad!” he hears the stranger mock him. he faces the second stranger, his evol raring to go once more only for him to accidentally release the first one dangling.
the second stranger had your eyes.
a loud oof! was heard as the first stranger fell on a patch of leaves that were conveniently on the ground.
the second stranger laughs and taunts the first. only for the two of them to let out a yelp as caleb uses his evol to pull the two of them together, in front of him.
“who are you?” caleb asked. the two strangers look at him then at each other, debating on how to answer.
yet when seconds passed and none of them spoke up, caleb tightened the invisible restraints like a snake’s chokehold.
“alright, we give!” the older one says, caleb raises a brow but eases the hold, just a little.
“i’m flynn.” he introduces himself then turning his head towards his brother. “this is axel.”
“and why were you following us around? what do you need from us?” caleb’s voice hardens once more at the thought that the two boys would be after you.
“we mean no harm, promise!” axel says, grunting as the hold tightens once more. “let us go, we’ll explain!”
caleb, knowing that he could easily take down the two of them if they showed any violent tendencies, let them go. the two of them heaved deep breaths before smirking.
“damn dad, never thought we’d be on the receiving end of that.”
“i’ll do it again if you don’t start explaining right now.” caleb threatens and axel lets out a sound of defiance, not wanting to feel restricted again.
“okay. don’t be scared.” axel starts, only to get nudged by flynn in the ribs. “that’s a terrible start to an explanation, axe!”
flynn shakes his head before clearing his throat. “he’s right though, dad.” caleb’s brow twitches at the title, yet he bites his tongue for now.
“don’t be alarmed… we’re from the future–”
“what?!” the three of their heads snap towards a new voice— you.
due to your shock, you almost dropped the sodas, had it not been for caleb’s evol stopping the spill.
his evol seems to be working overtime today.
you marched towards the three men before stopping in front of axel, your expression in awe as you reached out to touch his cheek.
“wow… you look like me.” you say without thinking, flinching backwards as you realized how weird it sounded.
“i’m saying!” axel agrees, smiling the same way you did. you turned your head to flynn before gasping. “holy shit you’re a mini caleb.” flynn smiles and lets his hair be ruffled by you.
“pips… you can’t be serious.” caleb says, exasperated at how easily you believed the two strangers who did look like the two of you combined. but with the way you grew up with wanderers and evols, you weren’t about to think that time travel wasn't real.
“caleb, you can’t be serious.” you retorted, caleb’s mouth drops open at the audacity of you to make him look like he was the crazy one for not accepting.
“look at him! he’s a cuter version of you!” you say, pinching at flynn’s cheeks. the aforementioned laughs and caleb fights the urge to roll his eyes.
“pips—” you ignore him in favor of making the two sit down on the clearing, your hands occupied by theirs as you asked them how their current life was.
caleb, with a frown on his face, sits down close behind you, your back pressed against either of his thighs as he listens to your conversations.
from there, he notes that flynn was born nine years later, and axel followed after two. flynn trained to be a pilot yet axel followed your steps into becoming a hunter. caleb mindlessly traces circles on your knee as you listen intently to their stories.
“and auri is—” “auri?” caleb voices out, the first time he made a move to show that he was listening to the conversation.
“woooow dad.” flynn said sarcastically. “you decided that now was the time to contribute?”
“i will ground you.” caleb threatens, flynn rolls his eyes, a habit he most likely got from you.
“auri is the youngest… for now.”
“auri— aurielle is the family’s princess.” axel explains. “right now, she looks like you, mom. she has a bit of an age gap between us.”
“for now?” you echoed, eyes widening.
"for now." axel nods. "dad's been wanting another mini-you... he's practically begging for another girl."
you glare at caleb who was innocent for now.
caleb perks up, wanting to know more about his future princess, begins asking questions regarding the youngest.
the two boys could only roll their eyes at their future father’s enthusiasm.
“wow, she’s not even here but she already has you wrapped around her finger.” axel teases as flynn shows the two of you a picture of her.
indeed, they were right. aurielle looked like you at the moment but her eyes were the shade of caleb’s eyes. the picture depicts her lips in a bright grin as she bites a gold medal between her teeth, an achiever. just like you.
caleb’s lips form into a small smile as he stares at the picture then back at the two boys.
“are you happy?” caleb asks, making the two sons look at each other. “with your lives. i mean.”
the boys nod, getting the meaning behind caleb’s words.
“we’re happy, we’re safe and protected.” flynn answers.
“and we grew up loved.” axel adds. your lips formed into a pout at his words.
“and auri?” the two boys groan playfully.
“for sure a princess. you threatened her junior high dance date once.” you snort at that statement.
it definitely sounded like something caleb would do.
a beeping sound interrupts the future family’s banter. axel looks at his hunter’s watch before looking at the two of you apologetically.
“it was really nice meeting the two of you when you were young. but…” axel gestures towards the watch’s countdown, the time blaring a bright 00:00. “we have to go.”
you pout but let go of their hands once the four of you stood up.
“we’ll see each other in a bit, mom.” the boys pull you into a hug.
if caleb didn’t know that they were your future children together, they would’ve been suspended once more in the air. he didn’t get to say that as a joke as after you, the two of them jumped on caleb’s arms, laughing as the disgruntled colonel lets out a groan.
“see you, dad.”
“say hi to auri for me.” caleb teases, the two boys roll their eyes before agreeing.
not even a second later, a portal opens. from the other side, you and caleb could see how comfortable the atmosphere was, it looked warm, a home. your future home.
from the side, caleb can see a family portrait on the wall, the five of you with big smiles as you posed funnily for the camera.
the two of them enter and the tunnel closes without fanfare.
when the tunnel finally fizzles out, you feel a light smack on your head.
“ouch, caleb! what was that for.”
“you trusted them too easily, pipsqueak.” caleb clicks his tongue as you pout.
“well excuse me for being excited about my future.”
caleb.exe stopped responding.
you. the girl he protected all his childhood and grew up with, was excited for a future with him?
caleb never let himself imagine that kind of future. he never thought he deserved it.
you tilt your head, an ugly frown on your face.
”it’s only natural, right?” your tone turned cold, both of caleb’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“why, did you want to marry anyone else?” you asked, your lips forming into a pout that caleb knew was the one you use when you wanted your way.
yet he couldn’t help but indulge you.
“of course not, pipsqueak.” caleb smiles and pats your head.
“it’s only ever been you.”
the bright smile on your face that followed his response was all the answer he needed. all his actions will have been worth it in the end, and today’s event was proof of it.
note/s: would ya'll believe me if i said this has been stewing in my drafts since july 2025... i swear the plot has always been there yet i never found the inspiration to write it (damn writer's block) hopefully! i'm back into writing, i still have a lot in store so i hope ya'll anticipate <3
rarely do i actually comment on my reposts but this!! was the cutest i've ever read omg!!🌸 i'm not the biggest fan of kids irl but this made me all fuzzy and giggly inside~
anomaly from the deepspace: you’re our future… WHAT?!
synopsis: you meet your kids from the future. the catch? you and him aren’t dating.
character/s: zayne, sylus, rafayel, xavier, caleb x f!reader (separate)
warning/s: none!
note/s: same names used from my previous dad!lads fic bc i honestly can’t be bothered to think of new ones. also, it’s been a while and i know i’ve disappeared for months but!! i’m back now <3. i hope yall enjoyed this one <3
zayne:
the doctor sat at his desk, typing away whilst simultaneously taking down notes from the thesis that he was reviewing. his hazel green eyes were focused on medical terms that he jotted down.
a soft knock interrupts his trance as a confused greyson enters the office holding the hand of a little girl who seemed to have finished crying.
zayne raised one of his brows as he silently asked greyson who the little girl was.
“it’s… she said she’s your daughter?” greyson asked, just as confused.
huh?
“daddy!” the girl runs to his chair, jumping on his lap, sniffling and nuzzling against zayne. she couldn’t be older than seven.
zayne awkwardly places a calm hand on her head as he softly shushes the scared child.
“i… i tried checking the pediatric ward, i thought she was confusing you with someone else, but her name wasn’t on the list of admitted patients. she was adamant on seeing you.”
greyson pauses, seeing the resemblance before he clears his throat. “i’ll leave you two alone.”
zayne nods as he softly turns to the child.
“hello there, can you tell me who you are and where you’re from?” the girl pulls away from her chest and zayne’s eyes slightly widen at the resemblance.
the girl has dark hair, hazel-green eyes, and her lips form into a pout the same way that yours did when you didn’t get your way. but zayne says nothing, not wanting to assume anything. she pulls away, sniffling. zayne plucks out a few tissues on his desk and dabbing it gently to her tear-stricken face.
“i-i’m zia.” she says through hiccups, clutching at zayne’s coat. “i’m from—” zia recites his address, causing zayne’s comforting hand to freeze on her back. nothing was adding up.
she recited his address perfectly yet zayne has never seen her even within the neighborhood much less in his house.
“when is… your birthday?” zia answers, but zayne furrows his brows as she cites a year that was a decade from now.
“and your parents?” zayne didn’t know why his heart started beating quickly, greyson said that he was a father—although he was just as confused about the situation, an answer from the girl before him would clarify his questions.
“my daddy’s name is zayne li… my mommy is—”
the door to his office opens.
“dr. zayne? greyson told me you had company over, i brought you lunch!” you say as you walk in the office, stopping at your tracks as you see a little girl with him.
you open your mouth, ready to ask a question only to be interrupted by little legs running towards you.
“mama!” she latches on your legs, you let out a surprised sound before letting zayne take the food that you brought, you kneeled down, gently petting her hair.
“hey there.” you say gently, not wanting to startle her. she looks up at you and you bit back a gasp as a carbon copy of zayne’s eyes stared back at you.
“mama…” her eyes welled up with tears once more. jumping to hug you properly, the motion caught you off-balance, landing on your butt with a dull thud as you embraced the little girl properly.
you looked up at zayne for answers, his face mirrored yours, you were both clueless. zia turns back to zayne as if she remembered something.
“my mama… my mama’s name is (y/n) li…” she said.
your eyes widened, warmth flooding onto your cheeks.
you looked at zayne to see a faint redness steadily rising to his face.
you say nothing.
zia jumps off of you, a locket bobbing out from her shirt catching your attention.
the heart-shaped locket opens due to the force of zia’s actions, showing a picture of an older you and zayne holding her as a baby.
you freeze, the action does not go unnoticed by zayne who helps you stand up. his eyes flit towards the direction that you were looking at before he freezes as well.
“mama? papa?” zia’s innocent voice cuts through the silence. you and zayne look at each other, not knowing what to say.
zayne coughs awkwardly, eyes not meeting yours as he gestures towards the food you brought.
“how about we eat for now?”
the three of you settled by his desk, asking zia questions, nothing too complex as to overwhelm her, but enough to grasp the current situation.
zia explains that she was playing outside the house when suddenly she was floating through space, and suddenly in linkon park. but she didn’t recognize any of the stores that surrounded it. only the street names so she did her best to look for the hospital.
“but why the hospital?” you asked, wiping a stray crumb by the corner of her mouth. zayne was entranced at the sight of you falling into the role of her mother. his heart thumping in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge.
“papa said… if i ever get lost in linkon, find a way to make it to akso. akso is safe. because papa is there.” zia recites her dad’s words. while zayne may not know her now, it did seem like something he’d say in the future.
it was silent for a few seconds before zia talked about herself, from her interests to her school life, to her life at home to which zayne couldn’t help but ask her a few questions about it. mostly to make her forget that she was scared and mainly purely selfish intentions.
he can see you raise a brow but he pays no mind as he asks zia.
“are you happy?”
a big grin breaks out of zia’s face as she nods with vigor.
“yes! mama and papa always give me cookies and candy whenever i ask!” she beams and lists off everything she loved about her parents. how they always read her stories before bed. how they always showed up to her recitals, how zayne always tutored her with utmost patience while you intervened with snacks and a quick game to take a break…
“—and mommy and daddy alway do kissies!” zia shudders in mock disgust. “they think i don’t notice but daddy’s cheeks always show.” the little girl giggles.
you and zayne don’t look each other in the eye. but you could tell that he was having the same reaction as you.
you perk up as you feel a different vibration in the air. wary of wanderers, you subtly twist your wrist to activate your hunter’s watch. zayne seems to feel the same disturbance as he flicks his hand, tiny particles of ice flurrying through the air.
a portal warps open and you instinctively push zia behind you, your arm raised to cover her as the portal materializes.
“zia! are you here, baby?” you gasped. you hear your voice. slightly older but undoubtedly you.
your suspicions were confirmed as you see yourself through the portal, you looked older yet the same. beside your future self stood zayne who looked restless. worried for his daughter. aside from that, zayne looked healthier. his cheeks looked fuller and his eyes brighter.
zia lets out a happy noise as she ducks under your arm and runs towards the portal. you instinctively reach out, fearing that the portal was a trap but your version’s zayne pulls you back, letting the girl run to her parents.
“mommy, daddy!” your future selves kneeled down to her height to embrace her. your future self couldn’t help but place a tender kiss on her cheek while a tear slips from your eye. the older zayne looks at the two of you.
a look of realization flashes in his face, but he says nothing, only smiling at his past self and letting out a nod before he focuses on his daughter, his hand overlapping yours, the gleam of a wedding ring catches your attention before the portal slowly closes. zia’s tiny “bye mom and dad!” the last thing the both of you hear before the portal closes shut.
silence.
neither zayne nor you could find the words to say, to talk about what happened. it takes a while for the both of you to realize what had occurred.
“well…” you cut the tension with an awkward laugh. “quite an eventful lunch, huh? what a spoiler for the future.”
with zia’s voice gone, you can hear your heartbeat pound loudly. three years from now, you would be a mother to zayne’s child. you would be a family. you would be his as he would be yours in holy matrimony. you can’t say the thought doesn’t make you giddy. you hoped that zia wasn’t an elaborate prank that you and zayne were the unlucky victim of.
zayne stays quiet, as if thinking of his next words.
“i…” zayne starts, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie, cheeks flushed red.
“if zia is truly from the future then…” he looks deep into your eyes. “i can’t wait.”
you couldn’t help the bashful smile that breaks out on your face.
“neither can i.” you admit.
zayne’s lips twitch upwards into a small smile as he gains courage from your words.
“then… would you like to get dinner with me later, after my shift?”
you nod, smile still on your face.
“of course, doctor zayne.”
sylus:
“stop pretending, sylus. you know why i’m here.” you say, gun raised at him. sylus smirks and raises his arms in mock surrender.
“the protocore you needed was faulty, i had to get rid of it. there was no poi—” “i’m not kidding around, sylus!” you cut him off, finger on the trigger, ready to pull at any moment.
“i know, sweetie.”
“don’t call me that.”
you hated the way sylus chuckled at your response, clearly not taking you seriously.
the two of you freeze as you hear a commotion from outside the room, sylus pushes you behind him, his evol flaring up as his energy-infused tendrils are on display, waiting for whatever intruder awaits the two of you.
deciding not to waste time, sylus follows the sound of the noise— where luke and kieran could be heard grunting, fighting against the intruder with a tone of disbelief.
intrigued, sylus pushes the door open with you in tow, the two of you anticipate a crowd of delinquents who managed to get through sylus’ top notch security, or underworld leaders that had unfinished business with the head of onychinus.
what the two of you weren’t expecting was a teenage girl who looked amused as the mask-wearing twins dangled in the air with what looked to be a replica of sylus’ energy evol.
rarely does anything manage to catch sylus off guard. but seeing a teenager with your hair color and the color of his eyes made his mouth drop for a split second.
the teenager looks at you then at sylus, a soft smile forming on her face.
“i knew i’d find you guys here.”
sylus glances at you with his peripheral. your jaw was dropped, hands shaking as you clutched your gun by your side.
the teenager raises her arms in mock surrender before letting luke and kieran down with a thud.
“i can explain.” the teenager says. “don’t be alarmed…” she starts.
“my name is athena. i’m… i’m your daughter from the future.”
“and we’re supposed to believe you just like that?” you couldn’t help the defensiveness in your tone as you move to raise your gun after seeing her reach into her pocket.
athena pulls out her wallet, opening it with a soft smile before facing the wallet front, showing the family picture that was displayed on the leather. in order to not cause alarm, she uses her evol. her energy manipulation making it float towards sylus’ direction, he takes it without much fanfare.
in the picture was a family.
where an older you and an older sylus stood in the middle, his arm was wrapped around your waist, pulling you close against him, athena stood on your right, a soft smile on her face as she raised her hand into a peace sign. sylus looked at the camera with a real smile on his face as he had a toddler perched up onto his hip— who seemed to be his carbon copy but with your eyes. if you squint, you can see a small bump on your stomach— possibly a third.
“looks legit.” you hear luke whisper over to kieran. you didn’t even need to glance back to know that kieran smacked the back of luke’s head, the startled ow! told you enough.
sylus’ face remained blank as he scans the picture before he closes the wallet shut, tossing it back to his future daughter with a steady aim.
for a while there was silence, before your eyes widened. you become the wife of onychinus’ leader? the very man you swore you hated?
“you’re meaning to tell me… i let him…” you point insultingly at the brute beside you, who scoffs at your reaction. “make a family with me?”
athena raises a brow, an upturn on her lips as if she was smirking. “i did not expect you to be like this before having me.” she walks around the base, as if she were at home and plops down at the sofa.
“pray tell, how do we act around you?” sylus asks, clearly invested in talking about his future with you.
“gross.” athena rolls her eyes as the word leaves her lips in a playful way before looking at the two of you with a soft smile. “but… our family is really happy. we’re safe, healthy, most importantly, happy… but.”
“but?” you echoed, she smiles bitterly.
“mom, the reason i’m here is because a deal went wrong.” sylus freezes from beside you.
athena breathes in deeply before explaining. she nods slightly in gratitude as she is served tea by luke and kieran, who you did not notice has left the room to get refreshments.
“sherman...” you perk up at the familiar name. one of sylus’ pawns, a dealer within the n109 zone, someone that sylus kept because he was useful.
“dad never really let us in his business, he kept us safe and informed yet never within the circle of operations, so i didn’t know who he really was.” athena looks up to stare sylus down.
“sherman betrays you in the future, dad. that’s the reason i’m here.” sylus nods slowly, gesturing for her to go on.
“he sided with EVER, he wanted us to be weakened so he decided on making sure that if he were to strike against you, it would be where it hurt the most. it wasn’t supposed to be me here, it was supposed to be simeon.” athena looks down on her lap, fists closed tightly, slightly shaking. the two of you could only assume that simeon was the child that sylus was carrying in the picture.
“simeon is barely five. sherman knew that the gun would transport him to the deepspace tunnel with no direction. he expected simeon to die in the tunnel because what knowledge does a toddler have to navigate the deepspace?” athena laughs bitterly.
“right at the last second, i threw myself in front of him. i’d rather it be me than my baby brother.”
you and sylus look at each other, then back at athena who didn’t want to face either of you.
sylus walks slowly towards her, his hand placed on her head gently causing her to look up at him. he gives her a nod of acknowledgement.
“you did well. i’m proud to have you as my future daughter.” athena shakes her head, a smile on her face as she laughs slightly. “don’t get sappy on me, dad.” athena looks to luke and kieran before a smirk appears on her face.
“you guys were weak, by the way. but don’t worry, you will get better in the future.” the twins let out offended gasps.
“we could’ve attacked harder, but when we saw your eyes, we were shocked.” kieran explains as luke nods. “it was scary! we’ve fought off many people but we froze when we saw you.” athena nods before she looks at you.
you still slightly as she stands and walks towards you. you didn’t know what it was, maybe it was instinct that you opened your arms and welcomed her into a hug that she fell into. it felt familiar and warm, something pounded in your chest that you were too terrified to acknowledge.
“give dad a chance, okay? he’s not all that bad… a bit… much. but he always had our best interests.” athena whispers and you hummed, taking in her words as she pulls away.
she winks at you. “you and dad are disgusting together.” you let out a short laugh at that.
truthfully, as much as you hated to admit it, sylus was good looking. he was also reliable and strong and— you were not about to look at him with a different light right now. snap out of it.
a disturbance in the air crackles before a tunnel opens.
“missus, are you here?” luke jolts as he hears himself through the tunnel, he was about to step closer when kieran pulls him back.
athena drags you and sylus closer before she embraces you both tightly.
“i’ll see you on the other side, okay?” athena pulls away with a smile, the expression contagious as you find yourself smiling back at your future daughter.
“can’t wait.” you reply as she pulls away to call back at the tunnel.
“yea! i’m here, luke.”
you can hear a sigh of relief from the other side as athena steps inside the tunnel, a serene look on her face as she waves goodbye at the two of you. the tunnel fizzles closed until only stray sparks remain and silence ensues.
sylus turns to look at you, an amused glint at his deep ruby eyes.
“can’t wait, huh?”
“i will kill you where you stand, sylus.”
“no need for violence, sweetie. i too, can’t wait to see where the future leads to.”
rafayel:
you noticed her before he did.
it wasn’t unusual for adults and children to be fixated with rafayel’s artwork, admittedly, at times you find yourself entranced by a few, attempting to interpret its meaning only for rafayel to brush you off and say that you’re overthinking it, cutie.
but this was different. in front of rafayel’s painting stood a viewing bench that was occupied by a girl that couldn’t have been older than thirteen. she had her hood pulled up, hiding her features. she didn’t seem to be bothering or paying attention to anyone as her body was fixated in front of rafayel’s painting.
longing. as per rafayel’s title. you once questioned him about it to which he only smiled and shook his head, expression solemn.
“i don’t know… it just felt right.” you only nod, agreeing with his logic.
art didn’t have to be complicated, it just had to portray meaning, despite whatever interpretation it was.
“raf.” you poke at the artist who was scanning the room, grateful to have finished making his rounds and rubbing elbows with the rich.
“bored already, cutie?” he teases. you shake your head as you point towards the direction of his painting.
“you want me to talk to you about the painting techniques i used? oh, cutie. i knew you were interested in my technique.” you scoffed, shaking your head as you clarified.
“no, rafayel. i’m referring to her.” you say as you point out the little girl in a soft tone. “she’s been looking at the painting since we’ve arrived.” rafayel takes a closer look, squinting his eyes.
“are you sure she isn’t asleep? maybe she’s just appreciating my artistic techniques, unlike someone i know…”
you shake your head before rolling your eyes at him. “still. it’s been hours… did she come with anyone?” rafayel furrowed his brows.
“i didn’t even notice her here.”
the more rafayel looks at her, the more he feels the pull to approach her. and without even realizing it, he sat beside her on the bench.
he tilts his head at the painting, squinting his eyes to see if there was a misplaced smudge or dirt that he didn’t notice. just to get an idea of what she was looking at.
“what’re you looking at, buddy?” he asked, finally turning to the hood-covered girl.
the little girl stays silent for a few seconds before opening her mouth.
“the painting…” rafayel perks up, listening intently to the child.
“is it about me?”
huh?
“hehe~ of course!” rafayel attempts to appease the kid, not wanting a crying child in his exhibit.
“anything can be about you if you put your mind to i—” he gets cut off as the child finally faces him.
his eyes stared back at him and deep strands of purple framed her little face. from her neck, rafayel could see scales, scales that he knew all too well.
and with a closer look, he realizes that the scales match the colors he used for the painting.
rafayel stares wide-eyed at the girl. he’s known every surviving lemurian, but not her. and what are the odds she had the same eye and lip shape as you?
the girl, seeing where rafayel was looking, quickly slaps a hand on her neck, covering the exposed scales.
rafayel coughs once, before his eyes search for yours. he quickly does so and he signals for you to get to where he was to which you do with a quick stride.
“this is miss bodyguard… she can help you look for your parents. you’re lost, right?”
you bit back a gasp as you take in her appearance. she was adorable, her face shows that she grew up with the finer things and that she was not told no in her life.
“i’m not lost…” she mumbles, yet she takes your hand and squeezes it tightly. you were surprised at how cold her hand felt, the child’s breathing was slightly panicking by the second as more scales appear on her face.
your eyes widened, clearly seeing that the new scales were affecting her. you looked at raf and he nodded, wordlessly leading the way as you carried the little girl to the room allotted for him.
“do you know what’s happening… ms…?” rafayel asks as he kneels in front of her as you settle her on the couch.
“mira.” she says softly, voice almost a whisper. “what a pretty name.” you say, smiling softly as if to assure the child.
mira looks around the room, her gem-colored eyes scanning the room meticulously before she stops at the gemstone that was halved and turned into powder, most likely as pigment for rafayel’s work.
her feet take her there and before she could touch it, rafayel’s hand stops her.
“raf—”
“you’ll burn your hand if you touch it, missy. only lemurians can touch this.” rafayel says, his tone playful but you knew that he meant it.
mira shakes her head and reaches out for it once more.
“miss mira, you’re–” “i’m the sea god’s daughter.” mira cuts him off.
rafayel freezes in shock. mira takes the opportunity to get ahold of the gemstone on his desk.
a bright light blinds the three of you as mira takes out a fishtail that she kept hidden in her small satchel.
“the sea god’s daughter…” rafayel trails off, you look at her then back at raf as a sharp pang hits your chest.
you knew that what you and rafayel had was strictly business, yet you couldn’t overlook the fact that the two of you flirted here and there… and with all the time spent together, how come rafayel never told you.
but as you look at rafayel and see the look of confusion in his face, you begin to wonder if the child is only confused.
mira falls to her knees, her breaths quickening and you find yourself supporting her with a hand on her back.
“mama…” she whispers at you, you shake it off, thinking that the haze of the scales growing on her was hindering her mind. you let her clutch your hand, only to be shocked that she triggered your resonance, the two of you feel the progression of scales slow down.
“papa…” she reaches for rafayel who still seemed lost in thought, but at the sound of mira’s voice, he shakily holds his hand out.
“...feel weak— …need to go back…” you and rafayel were confused at the words leaving mira’s mouth, she gestures towards the gemstone that she dropped. rafayel takes it with his free hand. mira tells him to coat the fishtail with the gemstone powder and rafayel does so, albeit hesitant.
a blinding light blinds the three of you, and you find yourselves transported under water. you can hear rafayel let out a gasp as the three of you were inside a bubble.
looking outside, you can see why rafayel gasped, you were in lemuria or what could only be described as such place based on rafayel’s previous stories.
you see mira swimming away and the bubble follows her lead.
you suppress a gasp as you see her swim towards a merman that was gigantic. before you could express your shock to the lemurian beside you. you see him focused, it was on the second look at the merman did you realize that the two of you were staring back at an older— no, another version. older for sure, yet this version had long hair and a tail that was almost your size.
“papa! mama!” you turned your head to the woman approaching the duo, you finally gasped as your familiar features mirrored your own, yet it was older, softer.
you can barely hear what mira was saying but you can see as she points to the bubble that you and rafayel occupied, the parents— which you now concluded was a future version of you followed her finger, and with a softened smile, your future self waved at you, causing a deep feeling to settle in your chest, yet you couldn’t pinpoint which emotion it was.
it takes a second for the two of you to be thrown back into your current timeline. the same bright flash brought you back to rafayel’s waiting room.
from a distance, you can hear thomas’ calls for the artist, whose hand you were holding tightly.
the two of you looked at each other, not saying a word, before he broke it with a small smile.
“so… looks like you liked me a little too much, cutie.”
“if that timeline is real, you’re the one carrying her. like a seahorse” you say your face burning as you turn around and leave him in the waiting room.
“?! that’s not how it works, cutie!”
xavier:
the wanderers were closing in. backup was coming but you and your partner had no idea when. the battlefield felt like a hydra wherein one dies, three more take its place and at this point, it wasn’t a battle of strength, but of stamina.
the wanderers were weak, yet there were so many that you felt your composure slipping.
it took a sloppy shot for the wanderer you were up against to charge at you with an angered cadence.
you grunt as you managed to finish it off, finding yourself back to back with xavier who was busy with another luminivore.
“are you alright?” xavier asked as the wanderer evaporated. you turn to face him, giving him an acknowledgement before you braced your hand on his shoulder to fight the fast moving luminivore behind him. a shot resounded from your hunter’s gun.
xavier immediately pushes you off to fight off the other wanderers that spawned.
it seemed endless. you lost count how many the two of you fought. the call for back-up felt like hours ago.
the two of you were so caught up with fighting that none of you felt the crackle in the air.
“mom watch out!” you turned around to see a man, pushing early twenties with the tip of his sword right by your face, an evaporating wanderer caught in the middle of it.
mom? you were confused but had no time to think as you shot another wanderer. you sense another hunter in the area, you turn around to see another man with a sword similar to the other stranger’s.
confused, yet grateful for the added manpower, the four of you cleared the hunting zone. the gigantic luminivore, having no smaller ones to absorb, was weakened and taken down without a hitch. the protocore it released clasped tightly in your hand.
when the adrenaline wore off, you thought back to the man who called you mom. you looked at him with a confused expression, having never seen him in your life.
he bore platinum hair, his eyes the same color as yours and his sword looking to be made out of luxurious alloy. beside him, stood another man who looked like him but with a different hair color, his cheeks were rounder and he was slightly shorter, but it was clear to you that they were twins.
“w-who are you?” you didn’t mean for your voice to falter but it was surreal to see a set of twins that eerily looked like your partner in crime.
speak of the devil, xavier hurried to your side once he made sure all wanderers were nowhere to be found in the perimeter.
xavier pauses as well, his grip on the lightblade that was hidden in his back, prepared to strike if your back-up was actually enemies in disguise.
the shorter twin raises his hand and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, a shy smile on his face as he looks at you with a guilty expression.
“okay so…” he trails off, as if trying to find an explanation to who they were. “you're not gonna believe this but…”
he places an arm around the taller twin.
“we’re your sons from the future.”
what the fuck?
you could feel the strength in your legs falter for a split second and xavier had to support your back as you stared at the twins with a widened gaze.
sons? future? with… xavier???
your blue-eyed partner only looks at them warily, seeming to not believe the twins, only for his eyes to flit towards the tassels of their swords, his eyes slightly squinting as he recognizes his family’s insignia. it wasn’t concrete evidence, yet it was enough for the hunter to hear them out.
“and you are?” xavier asked, the older twin stepped forward, his head dipped down before he tilted up, looking xavier right in the eye, blue eyes mirroring his.
“lumiere.”
silence.
the atmosphere was tense and you felt xavier tense up from beside you. xavier’s mouth opened but before he could say anything, the younger twin bursted out laughing.
“leo, that was good!” the twins gave each other a high-five before turning to face the two of you once more.
it seemed like even in the future, xavier still cannot hide his disdain for his alter ego.
“i’m milo.” the younger twin introduces himself in between his giggles before he gestures to the older one who looked at xavier straight-on with a smug expression on his face.
“this is leo.” milo gestures to him. you nod slightly, still starstruck before introducing yourself and xavier.
milo nods. “we know. you’re our parents in the future after all.”
you furrowed your eyes, still confused at his statement. yet with the way their uniforms were slightly different and how the two of them did look like they lived in a different era, you bit your tongue.
you wanted to find out more yet before you could, a gasp escapes your lips as a lightblade was pointed at your sons.
“xavier!”
“who sent you?” xavier asked, not joking around.
the twins hold up their arms in surrender, not making any violent reactions.
“we don’t know how we got here ourselves. but, we suspect it was the protocore.” milo explains. “this isn’t our timeline—” that much was obvious. “we’ve been lost for the past week, we believe the key back to our timeline is in the protocore in your hand, mom.”
being called mom by a pair of twins that look your age was definitely unsettling.
“and why should I believe you?” xavier asks, the grip on his lightblade tightening.
the twins look at each other then back at xavier before they gestured towards their own swords.
“you gave us these swords when we expressed that we wanted to be like you.” milo sheepishly explains, flustered at expressing admiration towards their father.
xavier’s careful eyes examine the markings of their swords before they fall towards the star-shaped tassels that decorated the handle.
he lowers his sword, convinced but not entirely.
you flinch and let out a yelp as the protocore you held turned hot. your partner immediately turns to your side as you throw the protocore to the ground.
the yellow gemstone twitches before it cracks, interrupting the air with a tunnel that showed another timeline from the side.
“leo, milo, are you here?” you hear a feminine voice call out. you see her step out a moment later and you gasped at how much she resembled you, same eyes, same lips and same puffy cheeks.
“stella, it’s dangerous out here.” leo, being the eldest, scolds. stella pouts before she realizes that you and xavier watched as the siblings bantered.
“mom, dad!” stella launched herself into your arms, a smile appearing in her face.
“that is stella… the youngest… she’s a great marksman like you, mom.” milo introduces, you concluded that he was the chattier twin– inherited most likely from you and leo stays silent on the side, more xavier than your genes.
“you’re so, so pretty mom, i knew i got your genes.” stella teasingly winks and you couldn’t help the chuckle that leaves your lips.
the tunnel crackles once more and the three snap out of their trances.
“it was nice meeting you, young mom and dad!” milo teases before he grabs stella away. “we have to go now, we’ll see you for dinner!” stella waves goodbye before the two of them enter the tunnel.
leo saves himself for last, ensuring that his two younger siblings have entered fully before giving the two of you a gentle smile paired with a wave.
“i’ll see you soon, mom, dad.”
then the tunnel closes shut, leaving you and xavier in the now quiet battlefield.
without your children’s presence, you can hear your heart beat get louder at the thought that in the future you would be married to your coworker.
“so… that happened.” you tried breaking the awkward tension.
xavier only replied with a hum, one that you tilted your head at, wanting to know his thoughts.
“i always thought we’d have more.”
what?!
“do you wanna get hotpot after we report this to captain jenna?” xavier asked you, yet you only looked at him with disbelief.
“are you not weirded out about our future children appearing in front of us? how are you so calm about this? weren’t you just doubting them minutes ago?” xavier shrugs at your question.
“i’ve got sufficient proof that they were telling the truth.”he responds. “besides. them appearing makes fighting for the future worth it.” he indirectly confesses.
“what?” bless your soul.
xavier shakes his head before walking away. a secret smile on his face.
he’d face a thousand more wanderers if it meant that his future would be the way he saw, hopefully stella wasn’t the last.
caleb:
caleb feels like you’re being watched.
which was rich coming from him.
but he’s already taken two detours, yet the eyes on your backs only seemed to stare harder.
he smiles at you. his hand gently patting your head. “how about you go and buy us some slushies, pips?” you tilt your head in confusion, looking at the long line for the slushie stall before pouting.
“‘leb the line’s too long.” you whined, caleb only chuckles. “come on, pips. you know i love their honey apple soda. plus, you can use your charms to get a free upgrade.” you roll your eyes at him before huffing and begrudgingly agreeing.
once you turned around, caleb walks away with a calm cadence, away from the crowd and somewhere most civilians wouldn’t walk near.
he could hear footsteps trailing behind him, for an untrained ear, it wouldn’t be alarming, but caleb has tracking every small sound his ears could pick up. once he reaches a point in the forest beside where the pop-up fair stood, he unleashes his evol, he hears the stranger grunt as the force of gravity settles on their shoulder.
for a little fun— also a bit of a power trip, he wills his evol to lift the stranger up by one foot while one dangles in the air.
caleb counts three seconds before turning around, only for deep purple eyes to stare back at him.
“what the fuck.” caleb says as he looks at the stranger who could pass off as his sibling.
no. it couldn’t be real. this is a sick experiment that EVER sent as a last ditch effort to catch him off guard and take you away from him. he won’t let them.
he won’t let th—
“wow, you look stupid hanging out like that, flynn.” caleb flinches as he hears another voice speak up, in his shock, he waves his other arm to attack the stranger, only for the stranger to skillfully dodge his offense.
what?
“woah, nice try there, dad!” he hears the stranger mock him. he faces the second stranger, his evol raring to go once more only for him to accidentally release the first one dangling.
the second stranger had your eyes.
a loud oof! was heard as the first stranger fell on a patch of leaves that were conveniently on the ground.
the second stranger laughs and taunts the first. only for the two of them to let out a yelp as caleb uses his evol to pull the two of them together, in front of him.
“who are you?” caleb asked. the two strangers look at him then at each other, debating on how to answer.
yet when seconds passed and none of them spoke up, caleb tightened the invisible restraints like a snake’s chokehold.
“alright, we give!” the older one says, caleb raises a brow but eases the hold, just a little.
“i’m flynn.” he introduces himself then turning his head towards his brother. “this is axel.”
“and why were you following us around? what do you need from us?” caleb’s voice hardens once more at the thought that the two boys would be after you.
“we mean no harm, promise!” axel says, grunting as the hold tightens once more. “let us go, we’ll explain!”
caleb, knowing that he could easily take down the two of them if they showed any violent tendencies, let them go. the two of them heaved deep breaths before smirking.
“damn dad, never thought we’d be on the receiving end of that.”
“i’ll do it again if you don’t start explaining right now.” caleb threatens and axel lets out a sound of defiance, not wanting to feel restricted again.
“okay. don’t be scared.” axel starts, only to get nudged by flynn in the ribs. “that’s a terrible start to an explanation, axe!”
flynn shakes his head before clearing his throat. “he’s right though, dad.” caleb’s brow twitches at the title, yet he bites his tongue for now.
“don’t be alarmed… we’re from the future–”
“what?!” the three of their heads snap towards a new voice— you.
due to your shock, you almost dropped the sodas, had it not been for caleb’s evol stopping the spill.
his evol seems to be working overtime today.
you marched towards the three men before stopping in front of axel, your expression in awe as you reached out to touch his cheek.
“wow… you look like me.” you say without thinking, flinching backwards as you realized how weird it sounded.
“i’m saying!” axel agrees, smiling the same way you did. you turned your head to flynn before gasping. “holy shit you’re a mini caleb.” flynn smiles and lets his hair be ruffled by you.
“pips… you can’t be serious.” caleb says, exasperated at how easily you believed the two strangers who did look like the two of you combined. but with the way you grew up with wanderers and evols, you weren’t about to think that time travel wasn't real.
“caleb, you can’t be serious.” you retorted, caleb’s mouth drops open at the audacity of you to make him look like he was the crazy one for not accepting.
“look at him! he’s a cuter version of you!” you say, pinching at flynn’s cheeks. the aforementioned laughs and caleb fights the urge to roll his eyes.
“pips—” you ignore him in favor of making the two sit down on the clearing, your hands occupied by theirs as you asked them how their current life was.
caleb, with a frown on his face, sits down close behind you, your back pressed against either of his thighs as he listens to your conversations.
from there, he notes that flynn was born nine years later, and axel followed after two. flynn trained to be a pilot yet axel followed your steps into becoming a hunter. caleb mindlessly traces circles on your knee as you listen intently to their stories.
“and auri is—” “auri?” caleb voices out, the first time he made a move to show that he was listening to the conversation.
“woooow dad.” flynn said sarcastically. “you decided that now was the time to contribute?”
“i will ground you.” caleb threatens, flynn rolls his eyes, a habit he most likely got from you.
“auri is the youngest… for now.”
“auri— aurielle is the family’s princess.” axel explains. “right now, she looks like you, mom. she has a bit of an age gap between us.”
“for now?” you echoed, eyes widening.
"for now." axel nods. "dad's been wanting another mini-you... he's practically begging for another girl."
you glare at caleb who was innocent for now.
caleb perks up, wanting to know more about his future princess, begins asking questions regarding the youngest.
the two boys could only roll their eyes at their future father’s enthusiasm.
“wow, she’s not even here but she already has you wrapped around her finger.” axel teases as flynn shows the two of you a picture of her.
indeed, they were right. aurielle looked like you at the moment but her eyes were the shade of caleb’s eyes. the picture depicts her lips in a bright grin as she bites a gold medal between her teeth, an achiever. just like you.
caleb’s lips form into a small smile as he stares at the picture then back at the two boys.
“are you happy?” caleb asks, making the two sons look at each other. “with your lives. i mean.”
the boys nod, getting the meaning behind caleb’s words.
“we’re happy, we’re safe and protected.” flynn answers.
“and we grew up loved.” axel adds. your lips formed into a pout at his words.
“and auri?” the two boys groan playfully.
“for sure a princess. you threatened her junior high dance date once.” you snort at that statement.
it definitely sounded like something caleb would do.
a beeping sound interrupts the future family’s banter. axel looks at his hunter’s watch before looking at the two of you apologetically.
“it was really nice meeting the two of you when you were young. but…” axel gestures towards the watch’s countdown, the time blaring a bright 00:00. “we have to go.”
you pout but let go of their hands once the four of you stood up.
“we’ll see each other in a bit, mom.” the boys pull you into a hug.
if caleb didn’t know that they were your future children together, they would’ve been suspended once more in the air. he didn’t get to say that as a joke as after you, the two of them jumped on caleb’s arms, laughing as the disgruntled colonel lets out a groan.
“see you, dad.”
“say hi to auri for me.” caleb teases, the two boys roll their eyes before agreeing.
not even a second later, a portal opens. from the other side, you and caleb could see how comfortable the atmosphere was, it looked warm, a home. your future home.
from the side, caleb can see a family portrait on the wall, the five of you with big smiles as you posed funnily for the camera.
the two of them enter and the tunnel closes without fanfare.
when the tunnel finally fizzles out, you feel a light smack on your head.
“ouch, caleb! what was that for.”
“you trusted them too easily, pipsqueak.” caleb clicks his tongue as you pout.
“well excuse me for being excited about my future.”
caleb.exe stopped responding.
you. the girl he protected all his childhood and grew up with, was excited for a future with him?
caleb never let himself imagine that kind of future. he never thought he deserved it.
you tilt your head, an ugly frown on your face.
”it’s only natural, right?” your tone turned cold, both of caleb’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“why, did you want to marry anyone else?” you asked, your lips forming into a pout that caleb knew was the one you use when you wanted your way.
yet he couldn’t help but indulge you.
“of course not, pipsqueak.” caleb smiles and pats your head.
“it’s only ever been you.”
the bright smile on your face that followed his response was all the answer he needed. all his actions will have been worth it in the end, and today’s event was proof of it.
note/s: would ya'll believe me if i said this has been stewing in my drafts since july 2025... i swear the plot has always been there yet i never found the inspiration to write it (damn writer's block) hopefully! i'm back into writing, i still have a lot in store so i hope ya'll anticipate <3
rarely do i actually comment on my reposts but this!! was the cutest i've ever read omg!!🌸 i'm not the biggest fan of kids irl but this made me all fuzzy and giggly inside~
I did say it was going to be full of angst right? 😞😞
Part 1 | Part 3
NonMCXSylus
Enjoy!
🐦⬛Whispers at midnight🐦⬛
Part 2
Days bled into weeks, each one marked by a palpable tension that hung heavy in the air of the safe houses. No matter the hour, there was always someone awake, always some distraction being sought to alleviate the monotonous wait for the next mission. The clink of glasses, the low murmur of hushed conversations, they were all constants in the never ending night, restlessness that grated on even the most stalwart of nerves.
You felt like a stranger in this world of constant activity, a ghost drifting through the halls of a place that had once felt like home. You avoided Sylus and he in turn, seemed to be doing the same, his absences stretching longer.
The weeks took their toll, etching themselves into the lines of your face, the dark circles that rimmed your eyes were proof to the sleepless nights spent wrestling with the demons that hunted you. You didn't indulge in the vices that seemed to consume the others, refusing to dull the pain with alcohol or lose yourself in the fleeting comfort of anonymous arms.
No, you threw yourself into your work, desperate to outrun the feelings that threatened to drown you if left unchecked. There was no time for regret, only the next mission, the next fight, the next chance to prove your worth.
Mc noticed, her eyes always assessing, always observant, zeroed in on you as you sat through every meeting, Jenna's words washing over you like a foreign language. Your mind a million miles away, body present but your spirit absent,
And then there was Xavier, his eyes lingering on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle with unease. Did he know of your secret alliance with the Sylus? Did MC warned him of the danger that lurked in your shadows? The thought made your palms dampen with sweat.
The tension at the base reached a boiling point, the air thick with the weight of the betrayal of one of Sylus' most trusted men, Samuel. The thief's actions were an unforgivable transgression, a stain on the fabric of the empire Sylus had so carefully woven. The hunt was on, and Sylus's anger would not be sated until the perpetrator was caught and dealt with accordingly.
You barely caught glimpses of Luke and Kieran in the preceding weeks. Even Mephisto was a fleeting sight these days, only materializing after he had finished his "watch" over Mc. It was as if the very world was closing in, the walls of the house growing tighter and more suffocating with each passing day.
Now you only worked for Sylus during your designated shifts on the weekdays, but even that wasn't enough to satiate the need to keep moving. The nights were a blur of fitful sleep, a few hours stolen between the endless march of time, your body and mind crying out for true rest that never came.
It was inevitable, really, that something would give, and it happened during a mission with Mc. You were both dressed in your hunter gear, weapons at the ready, when she turned to you with a look of concern on her face.
"You look awful"
For a moment, her words didn't register, your mind still focused on the mission at hand, the adrenaline already pumping through your veins.
"Yeah, you too"
Mc blinked, taken aback by your response. She opened her mouth to speak, but you cut her off "I'm sorry, what did you say?" you asked, your question laced with agitation, a frustration born of the constant exhaustion that clung to you like a second skin.
Mc's confusion only seemed to grow as she tried to make sense of your words. She took a step closer to you, her hand reaching out as if to touch your arm, but you stepped back, your body recoiling from her touch, from the pity you saw shining in her eyes.
"I said you look awful," she repeated, her voice gentler now, softer than before. "Are you not getting any sleep? You look like a raccoon."
You shrugged off her words, a gesture of dismissiveness that was at odds with the heaviness in your heart. "I'm sleeping okay," lies always slipped easily from your tongue. "Thanks for the concern though."
MC was supposed to be vigilant, her senses heightened and attuned to every sound and movement around her. She was a professional, after all, trained to anticipate and react to even the slightest hint of threat, but a stray sound, the flap of wings that could only belong to one creature, drew her attention away.
You knew by instinct, that it was Mephisto. The mechanical crow had swooped down from the heavens to keep Mc safe. But Mc, lost in a moment of distraction, failed to recognize the impending attack. She didn't see the two wanderers charging towards her, their intentions clear and speed unmatched.
You saw it coming, a blur of movement in your peripheral vision, and acted on pure reflex. Your training kicked in, the countless hours of drills and exercises honed to a fine edge by the relentless pursuit of perfection. You threw yourself in front of her, your body a shield against the impact. Your mission, your purpose, crystallized in that single moment, protect Mc, no matter the cost.
The impact was brutal, a searing pain lancing through you as you were sent crashing to the ground. The air was forced from your lungs in a rush, your body momentarily numb from the force of the attack.Pain exploded through your back, a white hot agony that radiated outwards from the point of impact. You tasted blood in your mouth, the metallic tang of it sharp and acrid on your tongue.
Through the haze of pain, you heard a weapon firing, the crack of gunfire splitting the air, the unmistakable sound of Mc engaging the other wonderer, her training kicking in with a vengeance. She moved with a speed and grace that belied her smaller stature, her body a blur of motion as she intercepted the second creature.
You heard the thud of the creature's body hitting the ground. You knew that Mc had dispatched the threat, but still you couldn't move, your body refusing to obey the frantic commands of your mind.
The last thing you heard before the darkness claimed you was her voice, urgent and laced with a fear you had never heard before. "Backup!"
You drifted in and out, your consciousness hovering at the edge of a yawning abyss. Your eyelids felt leaden, the simple act of opening them required every ounce of your remaining strength. The events of the day played through your mind in a disjointed, fragmented mess, the horror of the attack etched into your memory.
The sound of voices reached your ears, distant and muffled, as if you were underwater and the world above was calling to you from the other side of a glass pane.
"She has a few fractured ribs and chest contusion, but most importantly, she suffered from commotio cordis. Thanks to Xavier's quick thinking in getting her here as fast as possible, she's alive. Now tell me happened Mc?"
"I don't know, Zayne," Mc said, her voice trembling slightly. "Everything happened so fast, it was all my fault. I was distracted, and...what the hell is commotio cardis?"
"Commotio cordis happens when you receive a sudden blow to the chest during a specific phase of the heartbeat," he explained, his voice was gentler now "It leads to a life threatening arrhythmia or cardiac arrest." His words were a reminder of the severity of the situation, the delicate balance between life and death that you had narrowly avoided.
"God, this is all my fault," she said, her voice breaking on the last word, a sob catching in her throat. "I should have been paying attention, I should have seen it coming."
"Does she have any family members we can notify?"
Mc's response was immediate, a single word that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions. "Sylus," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The mention of his name sent a shiver down your spine, you wanted to scream, to tell her that she didn't need to burden him with this news, not with the problems he was already facing. But your voice remained trapped, locked away in the prison of your body, refusing to cooperate.
"I see"
"I'll call him then."
Before you could muster the strength to protest, to beg Mc not to involve him, the darkness claimed you once more. It wrapped around you like a comforting blanket, pulling you back into unconsciousness.
In the fog of your semi conscious state, you could have sworn you saw him there, sitting beside you with a look of worry etched into every sharp angle of his face. Sylus, the enigmatic and formidable leader of Onychinus, seemed to have materialized out of the ether, his strong hand enveloping yours with a gentle touch. But the rational part of your mind whispered that it couldn't be real, that it had to be another symptom of the trauma your body had endured, a hallucination born of a concussion the doctors had somehow overlooked.
It was a fucking joke, a trick played by your own mind, looking for comfort in the face of pain and fear. The thought of Sylus dropping everything to rush to your bedside was laughable, a pipe dream that could never come true.
When the first light of dawn crept in through the window, you slowly regained consciousness, your mind clearer and your thoughts more focused. You found Luke sitting beside your bed, his eyes fixed on you. He looked like he had aged years in a single night, the carefree grin he usually wore replaced by a mask of concern that was as disturbing as it was unexpected.
"Stop looking at me like my heart will stop any moment, Luke," you croaked out, your throat dry and raw from disuse.
Luke's lips curved into a smile, but it was a smile devoid of its usual mischief. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes, it was tinged with a bittersweet edge of tragedy. "For what I heard, it might," he said, his voice a mocking echo of your own words. "I was told you took a nasty hit to the chest."
"Please tell me you are here to take me home"
"Unfortunately no, you are to stay here for another week or so." you turned your head slightly, your movements restricted by the pain that still coursed through your body. The figure in the doorway was unmistakable "I'm Dr. Zayne," he said, a statement that was hardly necessary at this point. "How are you feeling?"
You let out a humorless laugh, but it sounded more like a groan as you shifted slightly in the bed. "Like I took a hit to the chest from a huge wonderer"
"Well, you did," Dr. Zayne replied, his tone a dry acknowledgment of the obvious.
"When will I be able to go home?" you longed for the freedom of your own space, your own bed, a place where you could heal in peace.
"Well, I have to keep monitoring your heart, just to make sure everything is fine, for the next week or so."
Before you could voice any further questions, he continued, his tone turning more serious. "You also can't move much," he warned, "because you have some fractured ribs. There's an spirometer you have to use to expand your lungs, it will help prevent pneumonia." He paused, letting the gravity of his instructions sink in. "Use it ten times every hour when you're awake. And you also have a chest contusion, which only requires rest, some ice to the area, and painkillers."
"Ok, thank you, Dr Zayne"
Dr. Zayne stepped closer, his eyes filled with a sincerity that was hard to ignore."No, thank you, for protecting Mc. With her heart condition, she wouldn't have survived... Whatever you need, just let me know." He was a man of science, a healer, but in that moment, you saw the truth of his words reflected in the depths of his gaze.
You felt a rush of emotions but you pushed them down, swallowing them back into the depths of your heart, where they mingled with the pain and fear already residing there. "It was my job to do so," you said "So there is no need to thank me." It was a simple truth, a plain statement of fact that you couldn't bring yourself to disagree with.
As Dr. Zayne nodded and turned to leave, you turned your gaze to Luke, seeking solace in the familiar, but finding only a mirror of your own unease.
"Jesus, harsh much" Luke muttered, shaking his head in disbelief at your blunt dismissal of Dr. Zayne's heartfelt gratitude. He was right, of course. Your matter of fact response was a defense mechanism, a way to deflect the overwhelming emotion of the moment.
You closed your eyes briefly, taking a shallow breath as a wave of pain lanced through your chest. When you opened them again, Luke was still watching you "Y/N, Sylus is..." he began, his voice hesitant, as if he were struggling to find the right words.
You silenced Luke with a sharp gesture, your hand trembling slightly as you raised it. "I don't want to talk about him," you said, "Just keep me updated on how things are going with Samuel, okay?"
The following weeks of your recovery crawled by at an agonizing pace, each day blurring into the next in a monotonous parade of boredom. Luke and Kieran took turns playing nursemaid, their boisterous presence a welcome distraction from the dull ache of convalescence.
You didn't see Sylus at all during this time, and you were grateful for the distance he kept. It was a relief, in a way, to be spared the weight of unspoken words that hung between you like a shroud. You told yourself it was for the best, that his absence allowed you the space to heal, both in body and in the fractured, guarded recesses of your heart. And yet, in the quiet moments when the pain medication had worn off and the loneliness crept in, you couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking, where he was, and why he had chosen to stay away.
Mc visited you once, her eyes shining with a gratitude that was as genuine as it was unsettling. She stayed for a while, filling the heavy silence with tales of work. You had listened, offering the same words you had given Dr. Zayne, a reminder that your duty had been fulfilled and that you needed no gratitude for doing what was required of you. But as she talked, you felt a pang of envy, a longing for the simplicity of her world, a world untainted by the complexities and contradictions that seemed to follow you like a shadow.
The night before you were due to return to work, Luke and Kieran burst through the door. They half carried, half dragged a battered, blindfolded figure between them, the man's head lolling limply as they hauled him into the base. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his skin mottled with bruises and welts that spoke of a brutal beating.
"Where is Sylus?" your eyes flicked to Luke "Why did you bring him here?"
Luke grinned as he jerked his head towards the man swaying between him and Kieran. "It was the boss's order, we have to take him down to interrogate him." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, before fixing you with a pointed look. "Wanna help?"
Interrogating traitors was a skill you had mastered over the years, a grim artistry that you took a perverse pride in. But something gave you pause, a flicker of uncertainty that you couldn't quite shake off.
"Where is Sylus?" you asked again, insistence creeping into your voice.
"Boss has been... busy, he's been working on something, something big. Said he needed to take care of some... loose ends."
"Why didn't I know about this?"
He shrugged "Guess he didn't think you were up for it, not in your current state."
You felt a surge of anger at his words, how dare he decide what you were or weren't capable of?
"I'll wait for you downstairs" This was what you needed, what your body and soul craved, a chance to unleash the beast within, to make a traitorous bastard pay for his sins.
The interrogation was brutal, a descent into the darkest recesses of human depravity as you worked to extract the information Sylus needed. Samuel's body was a canvas of agony, you felt the pain in your knuckles, the aching protest of muscles pushed beyond their limits, but you ignored it.
As the night wore on and Samuel's body hung limp and broken in the chair, you finally extracted the last piece of the puzzle. He had been working for EVER, for months now. The information he had gathered on Sylus, Mc and Onychinus was invaluable, a treasure of secrets that could bring the entire operation crashing down around to you. And he had been well compensated for it, a king's ransom in exchange for his betrayal.
You stepped back, your chest heaving and your hair disheveled, a wild and terrifying sight to behold. Samuel, even in his broken state, had the audacity to smirk at you, his eyes glinting with a malicious light that made your blood run cold. "I'm going to fucking kill you, bitch"
"Yeah? I wanna see you try?"
You stared at Samuel, the audacity of this piece of shit, to threaten you after you had just beaten him within an inch of his life, was staggering. But you knew you had to rein in your temper, had to remember your orders. Sylus wanted this bastard alive, wanted to interrogate him personally. You had to hold back, no matter how much the darkest parts of your soul screamed for retribution.
With great effort, you turned away from Samuel's broken form, unable to stomach the sight of him any longer. Luke and Kieran stepped forward, ready to take over the watch and ensure their prisoner remained in one piece until Sylus saw fit to question him. You gave them a nod, a silent acknowledgment of their role in this, before turning to leave the room.
Sylus's absence during such a critical moment in the operation sat heavily on your mind, a question mark where once there had been unshakable faith and trust. Where was he, when he was needed most?
You collapsed onto the bed, the adrenaline that had sustained you during the interrogation began to fade, leaving you feeling drained and hollow. You stared up at the ceiling, vision blurring with unshed tears of frustration and confusion.
The next day, as you trudged into the base, your body still aching from the previous night's exertions, you found Sylus waiting for you in the living room. He was seated in one of the plush armchairs, his long legs crossed casually at the ankle, a glass of what you assumed was whiskey cradled loosely in his hand. Luke and Kieran sat in front of him, their postures relaxed but their eyes watchful as you entered.
"What's wrong?" you asked, your voice tight and clipped.
"Luke and Kieran told me about your interrogation last night," he said, there was a note of admiration in his voice. "Good job."
You scoffed, a sharp, incredulous sound that echoed through the room. You flicked your hand dismissively "It's one of my specialties after all," you snapped, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "No need to thank me." You assumed he had already taken care of him, had killed the traitorous bastard in the same way you would have, with ruthless efficiency and no room for mercy.
But Sylus's next words made your blood run cold, made your heart lurch in your chest as if it had been caught in the grip of an icy hand. "I sent him back to EVER with a message"
You stared at Sylus in disbelief, your eyes widening in shock and outrage. "You did WHAT?" you shouted, your voice echoing off the walls of the room. You took a step towards him, your fists clenched at your sides "Are you FUCKING crazy, Sylus? We don't leave traitors ALIVE, remember? No loose ends..."
You shook your head in disgust, your long hair whipping around your face as you stared at him in utter disbelief. "...what the FUCK were you thinking?" Your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst out of your ribcage. How could he have been so stupid, so reckless? This went against EVERYTHING you stood for, EVERYTHING you both had worked so hard to build. And now, because of his idiotic impulsiveness, you were all in danger.
Luke and Kieran, sensing the impending explosion, stood up abruptly and beat a hasty retreat from the room, leaving you alone with Sylus and the suffocating weight of your anger. You glared at him, your eyes flashing like chips of blue ice, your body coiled like a snake ready to strike. "Start talking," you growled, your voice a menacing hiss. "And it better be a damn good explanation, because right now, I'm THIS close to walk out that door and never look back." You held up your hand, your thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart, a silent demonstration of just how tenuous your loyalty had become "WHY did you send him back alive, Sylus? WHY would you risk EVERYTHING we stand for, just to make some kind of half assed point?" You demanded, your voice rising with each word until you were screaming at him "Talk. NOW." You crossed your arms over your chest, a gesture of defiance and defense, as you stared him down, waiting for the explanation that you prayed would be good enough to salvage what was left of your crumbling faith in him.
He stood and walked towards you "I don't need you close to Mc anymore, so you can drop the act of a hunter."
You stared at Sylus in shock, your anger rising to a fever pitch as you processed his words. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," you spat. "She needs protection now more than ever, Sylus. EVER wants her, and they won't stop until they have her and her aether core."
"You almost died..."
You took a step closer to him "Bullshit! I'm not going to quit just because you said so, it's my JOB too!"
He matched your step, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat of his breath on your face, could see the dark, swirling depths of his eyes as they searched yours. The tension between you felt like the wings of a butterfly. Breathtakingly fragile.
You found yourself struggling to breathe and closed your eyes instinctively, lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you tried to block out the intensity of his gaze. But the gesture was short lived, and you found yourself opening your eyes again as you heard his mocking laughter, a sound that grated against your nerves like the scrape of metal on metal.
"Did you really think I was going to kiss you?" he said, a cruel smile twisting at the corners of his mouth. "Sweetie, you really are a naive little thing, aren't you?"
You flinched at the insult, feeling the sting of his words like a physical blow.
"What?" you whispered, your voice hoarse and broken.
"You reeeeally try to hide your feelings, but you're not very good at it. In fact, you're really fucking annoying with your secret glances when you think I'm not looking." He leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing against yours as he spoke, his breath felt hot and humid against your skin. "But I am. And every time you look at me like that, it makes me want to hit something. It's like you think that one day I'm going to look at you and realize you're the girl for me, and the longer I don't, the sadder you become. I just can't fucking stand the way you look at me."
He’d driven his point home; as thoughhe’d knifed you and then broken off the hilt so it stayed.
He watched the tears fall, his expression never changing, never softening. If anything, his eyes seemed to harden, a cold, merciless light flickering in their crimson depths.
You staggered back, putting some much needed distance between your bodies, your chest heaving with the force of your sobs. You swiped at your tears angrily, not wanting him to see the depth of your pain, the way he'd managed to wound you so deeply. But the tears kept coming "How the hell did you get me in this position TWICE?"
He flinched at your words and you took a shuddering breath, trying to compose yourself, to gather the remains of your dignity. But it was a losing battle, and you knew it. You were a mess, a complete and utter wreck, and you had no one to blame but yourself for falling for a man like Sylus, a man who could never love anyone but himself or Mc.
"I won't quit, Sylus, I won't abandon Mc when she needs us the most. So you can take your fucking orders and shove them up your ass."
The pain grounded you, centered you, even as your world seemed to spin out of control.
My man is going to grovel so hard. 😈😈
If you want to be tagged on the next part let me know🩷🤍
