🌸 hi, i’m Lizzie!
🕯️ soft heart | loves lads, zayne & sylus
🫶 the sims 4 • manga • pretty pink things
“perhaps it is our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another.” 💌 💖 love & deepspace
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📖 manga recs
🌷 about me
I am a 30 year old woman, and I am in love with a guy.
That guy is Joji.
I recently found out about him and have been in love since. I like his music,
his voice but now the like has turn to full fledged obsession.
When she obsessed, she Google.
I found out that before he was known as Joji the musician/artist,
he had a YT channel and played the persona he named FilthyFrank, Pink Guy and other varieties of character.
Okaylah, I was quite shocked and taken aback. Joji looks like a very laid back guy.
On interviews he is soft spoken like all-round normal guy. FilthyFrank and Pink Guy just don't match with the Joji that I have come to love.
As I divulge further, I felt sadden by the comments that people throw at him.
Its like he can't do anything now without being compared to FF & PG.
The lyrics to his song -Gimme love- like somewhat really expresses the situation.
"Swinging out front,
let me inside
Playing my song into my sides
It hurts, I can't lie,
remember those times
I fought to get out?
I want to get out
Those pictures so clear,
they fade in my mind
You leavin' me here
with ashes and fire
These people don't heal,
these people don't feel
These people aren't real
so make me this deal"
He wants to get out of the FilthyFrank character and "These people" in the lyrics, I feel like fits well to the "followers" of FF/PG or the NETizen in general.
Then I watched his vlogs.
OMG! I just wanna cry after I watched it.
On vlog #10, at the ending of the vlog, Joji addresses what people thought of his vlogs and how the views are dwindling.
Joji explains that he did the vlogs for his pleasure and if other people find it interesting then that is a plus.
I love his vlogs!! It just shows the layers of Joji.
Then there were no more [vlogs].
I can't seem to find the original channel btw. Someone (bless him/her) re-uploaded it and when I read the comments, it seems Joji deleted his vlog channel?
Not exactly sure what happen after that.
I wanna cry cause I just feel that people demanded so much from Joji but whatever he does will never be enough.
He tried to show that there is a real person behind the FF/PG character, you know.. like he is just human who can do so much,
trying to please all is just not humanly possible.
Then I watched his bare-all [in the toilet] video where he said, he is done with FF/PG, he has some health issues and also he's trying to finish school.
And I get it. Doing the same thing can only last for so long.
I get why he wants to stop. The timing was right, like how a band retires cause it just feels right to do so and its time to be doing
something else in other direction [creatively].
I see that happen a lot with kpop groups and boy bands. but it doesn't mean that he's killing off those characters, its basically like a time out.
give Joji plak time to shine. Let Joji do what he wants and passionate about. I think its fair. And as a fan, I 100% understand that.
When I see Joji now, I feel wistful.
so much more this past days when a bunch of kids on twitter been hash-tagging #jojiiscancelled after finding out that Joji is FF.
I mean..... come on laaaa weyh.
I get that FF is sort of too much. BUT ITS A SHOW ON YOUTUBE!! its satire comedy and shouldn't be taken LITERALLY.
Netizens need to get that in their head.
To end this long ass rant, I just want to say; I like Joji (maybe a little too much).
Eventhough FF & PG is not my cup of tea, that is just what he did in the past and I chose not to judge him solely on that.
FF & PG are not to be denied LEGENDARY characters (OG meme scene)
With all that's happened, I just want to give him a BIG HUG (teletubbies style) and let him know that there are still many people who supports him.
Love you JOJI <3
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)
tumblr ads are more sensitive to touch than ever before. i’ll just be scrolling and very gently graze my thumb over an ad and get blasted by some person yelling “CLICK THE LINK TO START PLAYING MONOPOLY GO!” or i’ll just get straight up abducted and sent to the app store
So, it's been very cold outside lately, thus the atmosphere or general aesthetic of this fic set in winter and cold.
Summary: Reader is mourning Sylus's death as a dragon without remembering why or understanding what is going.
wc: Angst? Generally sad, crying, mourning, mayyybe comfort?
Word count: 6k
Based off this ramble
Winter sunlight pooled like pale honey over the frost-bitten fields, stretching long shadows across the earth as though the world itself lay half-awake, half-dreaming. In such quiet hours, when the wind moved gently through the bare branches and the hearth fires still whispered of night, life seemed both fragile and enduring. There was a stillness to these mornings, a stillness that held secrets, and if one listened carefully enough, it almost sounded like a breath drawn in hesitation.
It started with little things, so small he barely noticed. A quietness behind her laughter, as if her joy hovered just out of reach. She lingered longer at doorways, paused before answering, watched him with an expression he could not name. And yet, she also held on more tightly. Her fingers brushing the inside of his wrist as though memorizing his pulse, her hand curling softly around his fingers whenever they walked side by side. He thought it was only affection, shy and sweet, like early sunlight trying to warm the cold. But the way her touch sometimes trembled, the way her gaze drifted to places unseen, these were hints he did not yet understand.
In the evenings, when the fire glowed low and the world settled into hush, she would sit beside him, closer than before. Her head would rest near his shoulder, not quite touching, but near enough that he could feel her breath upon his sleeve. She would trace the lines of his palm with the tip of her finger, slow and thoughtful, as if searching for meaning written beneath his skin. He would smile, unaware of the storm brewing behind her quiet eyes, unaware of the sorrow she carried like a shadow stitched to her soul.
At first, he welcomed it, the softness of her, the way she seemed to need him. He did not question the silence that followed her footsteps through the hallways or the way she startled at the call of her name, as though pulled from someplace far away. To him, it was only a change in season, a shift like winter turning to spring; gentle, inevitable, and without malice. Yet, the house seemed to notice. The hearth crackled differently, the old floorboards sighed beneath her wandering feet, and even the air felt heavier, as though holding its breath.
Still, she clung to him. In the mornings, she would press her palm against his chest, just over his heartbeat, her lashes lowered and her lips parted with words she never spoke. When he looked at her, she smiled faintly, too faintly. And though her fingers were warm, there was a chill beneath her skin that no fire could chase away. He did not see it then, did not feel the ache that lingered in her touch like a farewell waiting for its voice.
It was only the beginning.
She no longer reached for his pulse or clung to him as if merely shy, those moments had already passed, and something more fragile, more unknowable, had taken their place.
At night, when the wind sighed across the rafters and the embers in the hearth burned low, she would wake with a sharp breath, fingers clutching at the empty air before finding him. Her hand trembled against his skin, as though in her dreams she had lost him somewhere she could not name, somewhere he could not follow. She did not speak of what she saw in those quiet hours, only pressed closer, as if the warmth of his body alone could anchor her back to the world.
It bled into daylight in small, unspoken ways. She stayed nearer than before. Her hand resting lightly against his spine as they walked, her arm ever wrapped around his as though an unseen current might tear them apart if she loosened her hold. He did not question the way her touch lingered longer than necessary.
But there were moments when she would look at him and her eyes would cloud over, distant, hazy—as though she was not seeing him at all, but something else, someone else, layered over his face like a shadow. In those moments, her throat would tighten, and she would swallow words that refused to surface. He would murmur her name softly, thumb brushing over her knuckles, but she only shook her head with a faint, pained smile.
Sometimes, she would press her palm against his chest, over the place where in his dragon form the gemstone slept beneath scale and bone. She would stay like that, motionless, listening, counting the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Her eyes shone with an unspoken grief, and he felt the weight of it without understanding its source.
When he asked if she was alright, she would turn her gaze to him with tears gathering at her lashes—tears she could not explain. Her lips would part as though she might finally speak, confess whatever sorrow gnawed at her soul, but only a soft, broken apology escaped her. "Sorry," she whispered, voice thin as mist, and she would look away before the tears could fall.
He noticed how she sought the reassurance of life beneath her touch—as if she feared it might vanish when she blinked. And always, when their eyes met, he saw in her a terrible longing, a sadness without a name. As though she stood on the edge of a memory she could not grasp—one where she had already lost him once before and now clung to him to keep it from happening again.
It crept upon her like a slow-falling fog, heavy and unseen, until she could no longer remember when the trembling began. Her hands, once steady in their devotion, now rested uselessly in her lap, fingers slack, palms cold, as if the weight of her own body was too much to bear. She sat on the couch beneath the muted light of the afternoon, staring at nothing, and somehow becoming nothing herself, pale, diminished, as though her soul had begun slipping away in silence.
Sylus watched from the doorway, his brow knit with worry he did not speak aloud. He had grown used to the quiet cling of her hand at his arm, the way she followed him like a shadow, but this was different. This was not affection; it was a quiet, drowning grief. He did not ask her what troubled her anymore; each time he tried, she only blinked slowly, lips parting as if to answer, and then closing again, empty of words. She did not know how to explain the ache inside her. She did not understand it herself.
So he stayed. He stayed longer in the quiet spaces of their home, beside her on the couch, his warm hand loosely holding her cold one. He stayed when she fell asleep sitting up, exhaustion tugging her eyes closed even while tears clung stubbornly to her lashes. He stayed when her breaths came shallow and uneven, as though some unseen hand pressed against her chest.
At night, she slipped from his embrace without a sound. He would wake to the cold absence of her beside him, the imprint of her body still warm on the sheets. And somewhere down the corridor, he would hear it—soft, shaking sobs muffled into her hands. He found her once, curled up in the far room, knees drawn to her chest as she sat in the corner where moonlight could not reach. The stone floor stole warmth from her skin, but she did not move when he knelt beside her. She clutched her arms around herself as though trying to hold her pieces together. He reached for her, and she flinched—not in fear of him, but as if his touch might break whatever fragile dam kept her from shattering completely.
She cried without reason. In the quiet of morning, while stirring tea. In the hallway, halfway through a sentence she could no longer finish. Once, she simply stood by the window, looking out at nothing, and tears spilled over in silence until she sank to the floor, overwhelmed by a sorrow she could not name. Her shoulders heaved with each breath, and she pressed a hand over her mouth as if she could keep the sound from escaping.
Sylus came to her then, always. He would kneel on the cold stone beside her, arms gathering her into him. He did not speak empty comforts. He only held her, firm and steady, grounding her as her body trembled against his. His thumb brushed away the tears she did not notice shedding, his chin resting against the crown of her head. Sometimes she would bury her face into his chest, breathing in his warmth like it was the last thing anchoring her to the world.
He did not understand. But he stayed.
And she, amidst the storm of her own unspoken grief, clung to the silence between them—because in that silence, she was not asked to explain the pain she herself could not comprehend. Yet each time she closed her eyes, she saw something behind them, saw him, but not as he was now. And the hollow ache in her chest whispered that once, she had lost him. That once, she had cradled his face and watched the light leave his eyes. The memory danced at the edges of her mind, blurred, cruel, unreachable.
So she trembled. And mourned. And he stayed beside her, not knowing that the sorrow between them was older than this life—older than the names they wore now, older than their bodies, older than time itself.
The night was painfully quiet, save for the occasional groan of wood and the distant murmur of wind against the walls. The fire had long since dimmed to a dull glow, casting only faint embers of gold across the floor. He lay awake beside her, sensing the tension in her breathing before she even moved. Guarding her and simply waiting. Her fingers clutched the blanket, then slowly released. A quiet, shattered breath left her lips.
She rose from the bed like a ghost pulled from sleep, arms wrapped around herself. He waited a moment, listening to the fading steps, then followed her.
The hallway was cold, colder than it ever should have been. He found her in the farthest corner of the sitting room, where moonlight pooled in silver across the floor. She sat on the ground, knees drawn to her chest, her thin nightgown pooling around her like mist. She didn’t hear him at first—her breaths came in choked, uneven gasps, shoulders trembling violently.
He knelt before her. "Beloved…" he murmured, voice soft, aching. His hands hovered for a moment, unsure where to touch, how to soothe. Then he gently lifted her face. Her cheeks were wet, flushed, her lips parted in silent sobs. Tears, raw and unrestrained, slipped down her chin, and her breath hitched like she could not get enough air.
"Please," he whispered, brushing hair from her eyes. "Please tell me what hurts. Tell me how to help you."
She shook her head, tears spilling faster, chest rising and falling too quickly. "I—I don’t know," she choked out, voice breaking into a sob. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t— I can’t understand it. I just—" Her voice collapsed, and she covered her mouth as if ashamed of the sounds escaping her. "I’m sorry— I’m so sorry— I’m so tired, and I don’t know why—"
He took her hands, pulled them gently away from her face, cupping her cheeks with his palms. His thumbs brushed away tears though more followed just as quickly. "No, no—hey—don’t apologize," he said, voice thick with emotion. "Look at me. You don’t have to be sorry for this. You don’t have to understand it. Just breathe."
But she was trembling fiercely now, sobbing into the space between them, her voice hoarse. "I can’t—I can’t stop feeling like this—like something is missing, like something is breaking—" She gasped for breath, wiping her nose with a shaking hand, tears and snot glistening on her skin. "And I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want you to think I’m—"
He silenced her with a kiss on her forehead, then another to her wet cheek. His voice was a soft plea. "You are not broken. Do you hear me? You are not broken." He pulled her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tightly, as though holding her together by sheer will. "You are here. You are safe. And you are allowed to feel this."
She buried her face against him, sobs muffled by his shirt. His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. He rocked her gently, like one might calm a trembling bird. "I’m sorry—" she whispered again, barely audible.
He pressed his forehead to hers, breath warm and steady. "Stop apologizing," he whispered. "You don’t have to be anything but what you are, right here." His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, lifting her gaze. Her eyes, swollen and red, met his. "I’m not going anywhere."
Her lower lip quivered. "But I don’t know how to fix it—"
"You don’t have to fix anything alone." His voice trembled now too. "Let me carry it with you. Whatever this is—grief, fear, memory—let me bear it with you. Please."
She exhaled, a broken, weary sound, and he held her even tighter. Another tear slipped down her cheek, and he kissed it away. "Everything is okay," he whispered again, more to anchor her than to promise the world. "You’re okay. You’re with me. I won’t let you go."
She clung to him then—fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt, forehead pressed against his collarbone—as though afraid he might vanish like smoke. And there, on the cold floor beneath the hush of moonlight, she cried until her sobs softened and the trembling in her body eased, exhausted but no longer alone.
He stayed with her long after the tears had faded, his arms still around her, his cheek resting atop her head. The silence that followed was not empty, but full—heavy with quiet devotion, with unsaid promises and the gentle truth of his unwavering presence.
In the days that followed, the storm of her anguish did not vanish, but it softened, no longer crashing through her like thunder, but raining slow and quiet. She still sobbed, though not with the overwhelming force that had once left her breathless on the floor. And he watched her with careful eyes, unsure whether to be grateful for the change or terrified of its quiet cruelty. She clung to him like always, like a second skin, but now it was not out of a desperate fear that he might disappear. It was gentler, as though she could not bear to exist a breath away from him.
She held him in every corner of their days. Her arms circled his waist when he cooked, her forehead pressed against his back as though the rhythm of his breathing steadied her own. In the bath, her fingers traced idle patterns over his pulse, not to count it, not to reassure herself he was real, but simply to feel the warmth beneath his skin. Even when they parted for a moment, when he stepped away to fetch water or light a candle, her hand lingered—hooked on his sleeve, his shirt’s hem, the tips of his fingers—as though her soul might fall apart without that tether.
He said nothing of it. He only stayed. Every thought of leaving her side, even for a moment, he refused. He feared that if he stepped away, she might crumble in silence where no one would see.
One afternoon, she sat at the piano.
The rain had quieted outside, leaving the world washed and silvered. She had always loved music, always listened when he played, but had never truly touched the keys herself. Yet today, she approached the instrument with bare feet and silent steps, her nightgown brushing softly against the polished wood. Her hands trembled as she lifted them to the keys.
He remained across the room at first, seated in the armchair by the window, though his eyes followed her every breath. She played one note—soft, hesitant. Then another. And another. A melody, fragile and uncertain, began to bloom beneath her fingertips.
And with it came something he had not heard in centuries.
The notes formed a familiar shape, a warm line of rhythm, gentle and sorrowful, like footsteps in a chapel long forgotten. His breath caught. That melody did not belong to this life. It belonged to a distant one, when she stood robed in white beside an old church organ, laughing softly as she guided his clawed hands over ivory keys. When his heart had been a gemstone pulsing with ancient magic, and she, mortal and radiant, had taught him how music could feel like prayer.
The room grew very still.
She did not seem to notice her own tears as the melody slipped from her fingers, as though her hands remembered what her mind did not. But he understood. In that hollow, aching silence between notes—he understood.
She was remembering.
Not with clarity, not with words. But with grief. With the echo of a loss too deep for this lifetime to hold. She was remembering what it felt like to lose him—to watch petals fall from where his body once was, to scream for him when no sound escaped.
He stood, slowly, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile thread of sound between them. Then he crossed the room and sat beside her on the piano bench. She did not startle. Instead, as though guided by instinct older than time, she leaned her head against his shoulder.
His hands hovered for a moment above the keys, then came down beside hers. Together, they played—not perfectly, not as they once had—but gently. His presence steadied her trembling hands. Her weight against him grounded the ache in his chest.
She asked no questions about how he knew the melody, or why it hurt so much to play it. She only breathed in the warmth of his closeness and refused to think too deeply, afraid that if she did, the grief would swallow her again.
And so they sat, bound by a song from another lifetime, mourning in silence yet finding a fragile, aching peace in the space between their hands.
Like the soft echo of a forgotten melody, the days that followed wove themselves into something quieter ,sorrow no longer crashing like a storm, but lingering like a single note held too long in the cold air. Grief did not leave her; it merely changed its rhythm. Where once she trembled with the violent crescendo of panic, now she moved through their halls like a faded refrain; silent, worn, but still achingly present. And Sylus, who had stood braced against every tempest within her, now found himself standing in this hush, unsure if the silence was mercy or the breath before another storm.
But he understood—at last, he understood. The nameless sorrow in her chest, the strange aching when she touched him, the music that spilled from her fingers like memories unsummoned, it was not madness. It was remembrance. A soul finding its way back through centuries of sleep. And knowing this truth both soothed and shattered him. He could not decide which would hurt her more—to tell her, to show her, or to let her wander this labyrinth of emotion alone until she reached the heart of it herself.
He watched her gently from afar. She no longer cried without pause. He could leave the room now without her footsteps following like a shadow. She no longer woke every hour reaching for him as though he had vanished. And yet, the emptiness within her had not vanished; it had only settled deeper, too heavy for tears. She still tired easily, her body worn thin from a sorrow she could not name. Some days she sat in silence, staring at nothing. Other days, when the weight in her chest grew too heavy, she sat at the piano. And the notes, hesitant and uncertain, became her voice when words failed her.
He would hear it from another room, the first note, then the second, then the third. The same piece. Always the same piece. And though it broke him, it also brought relief. Because music, at least, did not demand understanding. It simply asked to be felt. And she did.
Sometimes she would come to him while he read or worked. She would quietly settle into his lap without a word, knees tucked beneath her, arms loosely draped around his shoulders. She no longer clung in desperation, but held him with a soft, searching gentleness, as though trying to memorize him. He let her. Always.
She would watch his face in silence, not with tears now, but with a distant, hazy curiosity, as if she were comparing him to another version of him only her heart remembered. Her fingers would rise, brushing through his hair, then press softly to the sides of his head, right where his horns once curled proudly in another life. He never flinched. He only watched her, breathing in the tenderness of her touch.
Sometimes her hands would drift to his arms, fingertips tracing patterns over skin that once shimmer in scales of black and red. He felt phantom heat beneath her touch—the echo of wings, fire, and a heart of gemstone. She did not speak. Neither did he.
Other times, she would guide his hand to her face, pressing his palm against her cheek as though anchoring herself to the present. And she would breathe—slowly, carefully—matching her breaths to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat. In those moments, she did not weep. She simply existed. And he would softly rest his forehead against hers, his other hand on her back, as though wordlessly promising: I am here. I am staying.
And though the sorrow still lingered like the faint echo of a song long unfinished, it no longer consumed her. She did not smile—not yet—but the wild panic was gone. She was softer now, worn but alive. And Sylus, watching her with quiet heartbreak and reverence, knew this was not the end of her mourning. No—this was merely the interlude. The fragile hush before the next verse of their story began.
He came back home with the quiet ache of longing sitting in his chest, the silence of the house pressing in on him like a held breath. Every step through the hallway carried a soft hope, fragile and tentative—hoping that this time, she would not be curled in on herself somewhere unreachable, that her eyes would not be distant, drowned in an ocean he could not touch. When he reached their bedroom door, he paused, exhaled gently, and pushed it open. There she was—half-reclined against the pillows, a book nestled between her hands. He recognized it instantly—it was the one he had bought her only days ago, laced with magic and gentle wonder, soft creatures and quiet worlds where nothing hurt too much.
She lifted her gaze to him, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, she smiled. It was small, hesitant, like a candle flame in a winded room, and yet it was enough to set his heart ablaze. Something inside him cracked open with relief and overwhelming tenderness. Without a word, he crossed the space between them in three hurried steps, his movements unguarded, boyish in their desperation. She opened her arms just slightly, enough for him to fold himself into her, and he did. Climbing onto the bed, lowering his head onto her lap as though it was the only place in the world where he was meant to rest.
He looked up at her, drinking in the curve of her lips, the softened light in her eyes. She reached down and combed her fingers gently through his hair, her touch reverent, almost worshipful. His eyes fluttered shut, an unsteady breath leaving his chest as he sank into the feeling, her warmth, her nearness, the ghost of her scent threaded with old paper and lavender. She smiled wider, as though this simple act—loving him quietly with her hands—was the most natural thing she had ever done. And for a fleeting, aching moment, the world was gentle.
But then—something shifted. Her fingers stilled in his hair. Her smile faded, not from choice but as though darkness had reached up and smothered it. She blinked, once, twice, and her vision trembled. There was a veil settling over her gaze, thin as smoke, dark as mourning cloth. It fell over him, over the softness of his features, and reshaped him into something else. She saw horns curling from his skull, black and ridged. She saw scales, obsidian and cruel, carving down his arms. She was no longer in their bed, no longer surrounded by cotton sheets and warm lantern light. The world around her tilted, fractured, she was sittingg amidst a field of red flowers shivering in a cold, merciless wind. Her hands were drenched in blood, trembling as they cradled his face. His lifeless weight hung in her arms, and as she sobbed, his body broke apart, dissipating into strands of light before dissolving into a storm of crimson petals, scattering beyond her reach.
A tear fell, warm and silent, onto his cheek. His eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat he did not breathe, he saw her face, pale and hollow, her pupils blown wide with terror. It was the same expression she wore in his nightmares, the one etched into his soul from another life, the moment she watched him die. His heart thrashed violently. He sat up at once, hands reaching for her, voice caught in his throat. She was shaking, her chest rising in uneven gasps, and before she could fold away from him, he gathered her into his arms, holding her as though the world itself was trying to take her away.
"Why do I see you dead?" Her voice cracked like breaking glass, raw and trembling. Her fingers curled desperately against his shirt. "Why do I keep seeing you this way, Sylus? I don't understand—I don't understand." Tears blurred her vision, her breaths quickening into panic, and she clung to him as though his heartbeat was the only thing tethering her to reality.
He closed his eyes, pressing his lips to her temple, her hair, her trembling cheek—anywhere he could reach. His embrace tightened, steady and unyielding, as though he could shield her from the visions themselves. He had sworn to protect her, in this life and all others, and yet here she was… Haunted by a death she should not remember, by a grief that did not belong to this world. His voice was soft but firm when he spoke, aching with love and determination. "You won’t go through this alone," he whispered against her skin. "I promise you, not again. Never again."
And so, he rose, lifting her into his arms as though she were something sacred, breakable. She did not resist, her face pressed into the crook of his neck, her breaths shallow against his shoulder, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. He held her close, one hand cradling the back of her head, and began to walk, out of the room, down the dimly lit hall. She did not ask where. She did not lift her head. She simply stayed pressed to him, trembling softly, as though the world beyond his heartbeat no longer mattered.
He carried her for a long time, through hushed corridors washed in twilight, past doors that remained closed, past windows where the sky bled into dusk. He carried her because she was tired—tired of her mind betraying her, tired of visions she could not understand. He carried her because he loved her, because the memory of her blood-covered hands and his fading body was too heavy a burden for her to bear alone. And as the evening deepened, and the silence grew softer around them, he held her tighter still, silently vowing that somehow, he would find a way to make this right.
The field stretched endlessly around them, a quiet sea of red blossoms bowing beneath the slow breath of the wind. The sky had softened into muted gold and lavender, the world holding itself in a hush so delicate it felt as if a single word might break it apart. They sat close and cross-legged, knees brushing, hands almost touching but not quite, facing one another as the petals drifted lazily between them. It was not peace, not entirely. Nor was it despair. It was the hush after the storm—the kind of quiet that follows thunder, not because the world has healed, but because it is too tired to keep trembling.
Sylus watched her in that silence. He did not speak. He did not reach. He only breathed slowly, as though he feared even his heartbeat might frighten her away. His eyes traced the curve of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled gently in the hem of her dress, the faint redness lingering beneath her eyes from all the nights she had screamed into his chest. He knew she would speak when she was ready. Yet beneath his patience lived a quiet dread, coiled in his ribs like an unanswered prayer, because he knew that when she finally looked at him and asked, he would have to answer.
She lifted her face at last. Her eyes, though tired, were clear. She looked at the flowers, then at their shadows intertwined on the ground, then finally at him. Her lips parted, but for a moment no sound came out. Only when her fingers wove gently into his, hesitant and trembling, did she speak. "So… you know," she breathed, and the words fluttered between them like a dying moth.
Sylus’s answer was a slow, heavy nod. His hands closed around hers—not to anchor her, but to ask permission to stay. "My beloved," he said softly, his voice low like a confession, "I want to explain. I want to tell you everything. But I am afraid… that the truth will drown you again, as it has for so long."
She did not pull away. Her thumb brushed the back of his hand in a silent plea, not to stop, not to continue, but simply to stay. The wind quieted around them, kneeling to listen.
He drew a breath that trembled ever so slightly. "A very long time ago," he began, his words slow, careful—as though speaking them too quickly might cause them to shatter—"in a place not so different from this one, in a field with flowers like these, we met. You were human, just as you are now. And I… I was not." His throat tightened. "I was a dragon."
Her lashes fluttered, but she said nothing.
"I had scales—black as obsidian—wings that darkened the sky when I flew, a tail, horns curved like crescents… and a gemstone where my heart should have been. You used to press your palm over it," he whispered, his hand lifting instinctively to rest over his chest, "and say it sounded like thunder made gentle."
She stared at him with widening eyes, not with disbelief but with a soft, aching recognition, as though somewhere deep within her bones, something stirred.
Her voice, when it came, was fragile. "Did I lose you then? Was it… was it as painful as it feels now?"
His breath caught. He closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat it seemed the entire world bent with him. "Yes," he whispered. "And I am so, so sorry, my heart. It was the kind of pain that tears centuries apart."
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The wind whispered across the field, sending petals tumbling around them like silent embers. Then, slowly—like a prayer—she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his chest. Right where the gemstone once rested. She closed her eyes and listened, truly listened, to the warmth and rhythm beneath her cheek.
"I do not wish to lose you again," she murmured, voice thinned by grief. "And I do not want to mourn you while you are still here. I cannot live between those two fears."
His arms gathered her gently, almost reverently, as though she were something sacred. He held her close, his chin resting against her hair, eyes burning though he did not cry. "You will not lose me," he vowed, voice barely more than a breath. "Not again. Not while there is still breath in me to choose you."
She exhaled, shaky but trusting, her fingers curling into his shirt as though anchoring herself to the present. Around them, the field swayed—red flowers nodding like quiet witnesses to an ancient grief now laid bare. No thunder. No storm. Just two souls in the aftermath, holding what remained and daring, just barely, to hope.
And though the world did not mend all at once—though the past still lingered like a bruise beneath the skin—there was something whole in that moment. Not perfect. But whole. The wind rose once more, carrying with it the scent of blossoms and the soft promise of days yet to come. And with their foreheads pressed together, breaths shared and hearts steady, they remained. No longer running from the past, nor fearing the future, but simply existing in the quiet mercy of now.
Tags of everybody who engaged (thought u might want the full fic, I am sorry if u did not wanna be mentionned..):
summary — Four years into your relationship, he’s never wavered in showing that you’re his forever—his home, his future, his everything. Living together only deepened that certainty; your lives naturally intertwined. So now that he’s finally proposed, why does it still catch you off guard—feeling so new, so sudden, as if your heart is realizing it all over again? Even during planning your wedding, is this really happening?
pairings — sylus x fem!reader
content / tags — post-proposal, fiancé!sylus, husband!sylus, fluff, wedding planning, non-story based timeline, pre-wedding jitters, bachelorette party!, the girlies are here (tara, simone, yvonne, aislinn), domestic cutenness, sylus tears up, + more
You haven’t said much since he slipped the ring onto your finger.
Now, hours later, you’re curled up on the couch in the soft quiet of your shared apartment, the hum of the city outside barely reaching the room. The ring catches the low light every time you shift, as if trying to remind you—this is real.
He proposed. He wants you to be his wife. He’s gonna be your husband.
Sylus is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, boiling water to make you tea like it’s any other night. Like he didn’t just ask you to spend forever with him.
You’re still not sure what to say.
It’s not that you’re unsure of him. You never were. From the very beginning, he made it clear you weren’t temporary. His place became yours, and yours his, now living together felt normal. He always spoke of “someday” with ease—your names written into his plans like they were facts. You thought you’d prepared yourself for this. You thought when the moment came, you’d be ready.
But now that it’s here, it feels brand new. Not wrong. Just… like your heart is trying to catch up to something your soul has known for years.
Sylus walks over, two mugs in hand, his gaze finding yours with that quiet steadiness that always makes the world feel smaller. Safer.
“You’re really quiet,” he says, setting a mug in front of you.
“I’m still processing,” you murmur, eyes flicking down to the ring again.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You already said yes.”
“I know,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “It just… doesn’t feel real yet.”
He sits beside you, nudging your leg with his. “Want me to propose again?”
You laugh—a small, breathy thing—but it’s enough to pull you out of the fog. And when you look at him, really look, all you can think is: How did I get this lucky?
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you turn slightly, facing him more fully. His expression is open, unguarded—no teasing, no pressure. Just him. Just Sylus, like he’s always been, but somehow even more steady now.
“How long have you had it?” you ask, voice barely above the hush between you.
“The ring?” he murmurs. “A while.”
Your brows lift, faintly surprised. He nods once, slow and sure.
“I waited until it felt right,” he adds. “Not because I had doubts. Just… because I didn’t want to rush a moment that meant everything to me.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. If anything, it feels like the air itself is holding its breath—waiting.
You blink slowly, then shake your head with a small, incredulous laugh. “You’ve always made it so clear I was in your future. I just didn’t realize how overwhelming it would be to have that future actually start.”
He tilts his head slightly, his thumb reaching to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. “That’s the funny thing about something you’ve always known,” he murmurs. “It still hits different when it finally arrives.”
You rest your head against his shoulder, and he lets out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Outside, the city hums, but in here—wrapped in his warmth, in the quiet weight of the night—it feels like you’re on the edge of something big. Not a cliff. A beginning.
“I’m gonna be one hell of a wife,” You joke, squeezing his thighs gently, he laughs at that. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He smiles.
“I’m gonna be so difficult,” you added, it was a half-truth. Him being your first boyfriend, finally having one at 25 made you feel like love isn’t something easy for you. “You’re easy.” He smiles.
You raised your eyebrows at that. “Hm? I’m easy? To play with?” You click your tongue as he pinches your cheek. “You’re easy to love, always. It’s like I can’t help but love you every time, every life. Like you’re also my lover in my past life and we kept falling in love every time.” He pecks your cheek.
You felt yourself burn in embarrassment. “What—”
“You’re blushing.” He smirked.
“You better help with the wedding planning.” You glared at him while he chuckles. “Of course, soon-to-be wife.” He kissed you as he pulls you over to his lap.
“It’s our wedding, after all.” He said between kisses. You smiled as his lips went wild over yours. He tugs at your waistband, indicating he wants your pants off but you pulled away,
“No, we’re not doin’ anything.” You say quietly. He sighed, frustrated. “Why not?”
“Wanna save up until the wedding night.” You replied, catching your breath. He groans. “We haven’t set a date yet! How am I gonna-” You shut him up with a peck.
“Now now, be a good boy and wait, alright?” You smiled, eyes wrinkling. He smiles, before nodding. “Anything for my fiancée.”
———
It starts with a spreadsheet.
Or, more accurately, Sylus watching you scroll through color palettes and guest list templates while wrapped in a blanket, a pen tucked behind your ear like you’re about to draft battle strategy.
“Didn’t know saying yes would come with seventeen tabs open,” he teases, handing you a bowl of grapes as he settles beside you on the living room floor.
“It’s twenty-one,” you correct without looking up, “and that’s not counting the Pinterest board.”
He whistles low. “We’re planning a wedding, not launching a space station.”
You nudge his knee with your foot, not bothering to hide your grin. “Funny, coming from the man who mapped out a seven-step grocery route last week.”
Sylus shrugs, completely unbothered. “Efficiency is attractive.”
“Mm-hmm,” you murmur, highlighting another item on the checklist. “So is knowing the difference between ivory and cream.”
He pauses. “There’s a difference?”
You slowly turn your head toward him, mock horror on your face. “You’re marrying a woman knee-deep in fabric swatches. Yes, there’s a difference.”
He throws his hands up in surrender, laughter tucked into the corners of his smile. “Guess I’m learning as we go.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart feels full. This wasn’t what you imagined wedding planning would be—no stress-filled evenings, no tears over color schemes or centerpieces. Just this. Just the two of you on the floor, sharing grapes and slowly crafting a day that’s only ever meant to hold your names.
He leans over, eyes flicking to your laptop screen. “Alright, Commander. What’s next?”
You tap your pen against the open spreadsheet. “We need to finalize what we’re both wearing.”
Sylus raises a brow. “Let me guess—you’ve narrowed it down to fifteen different silhouettes, twelve fabric combinations, and at least three that require a minor miracle?”
You sigh dramatically. “Four. And a half.”
He grins and leans in, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “Whatever you choose, you’ll look like forever to me.”
The pen falters in your hand for a second before you look down quickly, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens.
“Stop saying stuff like that or I won’t get anything done.”
He shifts closer, his voice low, teasing. “That was the plan.”
You bite back a smile and go back to the spreadsheet. Planning a wedding might not be easy—but doing it with him makes it feel like the easiest thing in the world.
The checklist lives on your desktop like a quiet sentinel, always open, always growing. You didn’t mean for it to get this detailed—but now it spans five sheets, color-coded, categorized, and slightly threatening in the way only love-fueled organization can be.
Sylus reads it over your shoulder, chewing absently on a grape as his eyes skim the latest additions. “You added ‘decide on shoe height’ under the ceremony section.”
“You laugh now,” you mutter, typing in a new note, “but wait until I start calculating kiss angles based on heel inches.”
He makes a soft choking sound and sets the bowl down. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
You glance at him, and for a second the sarcasm fades. “Yeah. We are.”
The checklist has everything now.
☑︎ Theme colour
☑︎ Moodboards (12 of them)
☑︎ Pick a date
Both of you agreed to have the wedding in three months—early October. Fall season. The edge of warmth just beginning to slip into something cooler. Crisp mornings, gold-tinted skies, and leaves turning the world into a slow-burning fire.
You didn’t pick the date for symbolism or availability or convenience. It just felt right. A season that holds change but never rushes it. A kind of softness that says, this is the in-between, and you’re safe here.
Sylus had smiled when you suggested it, that rare, quiet kind of smile he saves for when something clicks in his chest. “October sounds like us,” he said. “Not loud. Not heavy. Just enough.”
And it’s true—there’s something about fall that mirrors the way you love. Steady. Intentional. Leaves falling, yes, but roots deepening too. Not a grand beginning. Not an ending. Just a continuation of everything you’ve already been building.
☐ Dress & Suit fitting
☐ Vows
☐ Choose candle scent
☐ Design rings (optional)
☐ Ceremony setting—indoors / outdoors?
☐ Order vow cards
☐ Practice not crying
Sylus leans over and adds a new one under your last line.
☐ Practice saying I do without sounding like I’m about to kiss the sun
You snort. “That’s not a problem. You always sound like that.”
He grins. “Then I’m already ahead.”
You stare at the list, then at the man beside you, and realize that every checkbox—every silly, overly specific task—is just a trail of stepping stones. Not toward perfection, but toward something real. Something honest. Something entirely yours.
And that makes even the most ridiculous bullet points feel sacred.
You scroll a little farther down, scanning the unchecked boxes that feel both daunting and thrilling. There’s something satisfying about the way each one builds on the last—small tasks stacking into a future. You tap the pen against your chin. “Alright. What’s next?”
Sylus peers over again. “Depends. Do you want to handle something easy like ‘order vow cards’ or dive into the emotional deep end with vow writing itself?”
You groan. “God, not the vows. I need to be at least three emotional breakdowns and two mugs of tea deep before I even touch that one.”
He chuckles and nudges your shoulder. “Noted. Save for crisis hour.”
You scroll further and land on the “Ceremony” section. It’s more abstract—less about things and more about feeling. You can tell because half the bullets aren’t even tasks, just thoughts you didn’t know where else to put.
☐ Make it feel like us
☐ Soft light
☐ Something quiet before the vows
☐ Let there be wind
☐ No music—just voices (Vows)
Sylus points at the last one. “Still sure about that? No music?”
You nod. “Just during the vows, I want to hear everything. I want to hear you breathe. I want to hear myself say your name.”
He doesn’t speak for a long second, but when he does, his voice is soft. “Okay. Then it’s staying.”
You reach over and check the box manually, even if it’s not done yet. You just know you’ll keep that promise.
“But just during the ceremony, the reception we can have some organ playing?” I suggests and he nods. “Perfect, baby.”
Sylus reaches for the pen and adds something of his own.
☐ Smile at her before she says a word
You laugh and lean into him. “That one better not be optional.”
“It’s instinct,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.
The list continues, but you don’t rush. The wedding isn’t tomorrow. You still have time to argue over flower petals and vow lengths and whether or not your shoes should be flats or a four-inch hazard. But tonight, you’re here—cocooned in soft light and low voices, building a forever one checkbox at a time.
———
The boutique is quiet, sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains and pooling on the pale wood floor. There’s no music playing, no chatter—just the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional click of a pin being adjusted. You stand in front of the mirror in your third dress of the day, barefoot, arms loose at your sides, watching your reflection like it’s someone you’re still getting to know.
This one feels… closer. Not perfect, not quite. But close. The neckline dips just right. The fabric moves like it remembers water. It doesn’t shout bride—it whispers you.
“We followed all the drafts you’ve sent us. What do you think? Quite a silent reaction I noticed,” the stylist asks as she approaches, her tone light, careful.
You blink at your reflection, not because you don’t like what you see—but because you do. And maybe more than that, because it’s starting to feel real.
The dress cinches elegantly at the waist before cascading into a soft A-line, the fabric catching light in subtle glimmers—more glow than sparkle. A delicate shimmer is woven into the silk, not enough to steal attention, but just enough to turn heads if the sun hits right. There’s no heavy beadwork, no sequins crowding the shape—just a fine scattering of tiny crystals along the bodice, like stars that got caught in the fabric on their way down. Nothing overly dramatic. Just movement, light, and a quiet confidence stitched into every seam. The kind of beauty that doesn’t beg to be seen, but refuses to be ignored.
“I don’t know if I have words,” you say quietly.
The stylist smiles. “That’s usually a good sign.”
You run your hands down the sides of the fabric, fingertips skimming the subtle seams. You can picture walking through that aisle in this. You can picture his eyes—how they might widen just slightly, the way they always do when you take his breath without trying.
“I think this might be it,” you murmur, still half in awe.
The stylist beams, then begins checking the hemline with a soft rustle of pins. “We’ll just make a few adjustments. Nothing too drastic. It’s already working with you, not against you.”
You nod absently, gaze drifting back to the mirror. Your hair’s a little messy, your face unmade, and still… you see her. The woman you’ve been becoming all this time. The one who wakes up next to Sylus and makes tea while scribbling ideas on post-its. The one who started this journey half-terrified, but never once alone.
Your phone buzzes gently where you left it on the bench. A message from him.
Sylus: Still breathing?
You smile.
You: Barely.
Sylus: Then it’s the one.
You press your fingers gently to your stomach, grounding yourself in the quiet rush of it all. Then you look up at the mirror again, this time not to examine or second-guess—but to see.
Yeah. This is it.
And while you kept telling him that you didn’t want to see him in his suit during the fitting yet and how you wanted it to be a surprise, he insisted you to be there. He kept telling you that it’s better for you to see him. ( along the lines of “your eyes filters things perfectly, i’ll look a thousand times better when you’re there.”)
The tailor pins the jacket with practiced fingers, stepping back to inspect the fit. You’re sitting on a low couch near the wall, one leg tucked beneath you, watching Sylus in the mirror like you’re seeing something unfold in real time.
He stands tall on the platform, sleeves slightly rolled up, the dark jacket draped over his frame like it was meant for him and only him. The fabric isn’t flashy—charcoal with a subtle texture that shifts in the light—but it holds him differently. Like it understands who he is.
He catches your eyes in the mirror. “Well?”
You tilt your head, studying him. “You look like a man I’d marry.”
He smirks. “That’s good. I was worried I looked like a man selling investment property.”
You laugh, but your gaze softens. “No. You look… grounded. Like you belong in that suit.”
He turns to face you, the movement slow and deliberate, like he’s testing how it moves with him. “It’s heavier than I expected.”
“Too much?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just enough. Reminds me this isn’t casual. That it matters.”
You stand and walk over, hands brushing lightly over the lapels. “It’s not the suit that makes it matter.”
He dips his head slightly so your foreheads nearly touch. “I know. It’s you.”
The tailor clears their throat politely and steps away to give you a moment. You smooth the collar gently and whisper, “Do you feel like you in it?”
“I feel like the version of me that says your name with vows behind it,” he murmurs.
That does something to your heart.
You step back just enough to take him in again—this man, in this moment, in this quiet shop where something bigger is taking shape without a single spotlight.
And when you meet his eyes, all you can think is: That’s the one I want waiting for me.
———
You both agreed to write your vows freely and separately—no outlines, no guidelines, no peeking. Just feelings. Just truth. You’d said it half-jokingly, lounging on the couch one night with Sylus’s head in your lap and the laptop open between you.
“No bullet points. No formatting,” you’d told him, tapping a note into your checklist. “Let’s keep it honest. Whatever it comes out as.”
He looked up at you then, smile lazy. “You sure? What if mine ends up being a three-page poem and yours is just, ‘I love you. Let’s go.’”
You grinned. “Then I’d say, damn right. Let’s go.”
So now, with just under three weeks left, the pressure is a soft, quiet weight at the back of your mind. You haven’t written a single word yet—not because you don’t know what to say, but because there’s too much. How do you sum up a love that’s lived in everyday things? In dishwashing jokes and shared hoodies and sleepy morning hair?
Sylus hasn’t shown any signs of stress. In fact, every time it comes up, he just says, “It’ll come when it needs to.”
But sometimes, you catch him staring at a blank notebook, pen tapping against the page, mouth moving silently like he’s whispering drafts into the air.
You haven’t asked what he’s written. You won’t. It’s a sacred kind of silence, the one you both chose. Something private in a process that’s been so full of shared moments. This part, you both agreed, has to come from where the words live when no one else is looking.
You just hope, when the day comes and you both speak aloud what you’ve quietly carried—yours meets his halfway.
Some nights, you find yourself reaching for your phone just to type out fragments in your notes app. Half-lines. Feelings that don’t quite have structure yet.
The way you hold the steering wheel like you’re cradling time.
You looked at me once like the world went quiet just to listen.
You’re not home. You’re the reason I believe in building one.
You write them down and leave them there, not bothering to polish or arrange. Just letting the rawness exist. You tell yourself you’ll stitch them together later. When the day is closer. When you’re braver.
Meanwhile, Sylus doesn’t say much, but the clues are there. The scribbled notes tucked inside a book he pretended to be reading. The sudden silence when he catches you glancing at his open journal. The little grin that says don’t ask yet.
One evening, you come home to find him standing at the kitchen counter, turning a pen over in his hands. The kettle whistles behind him, untouched.
“You okay?” you ask, setting your bag down.
He blinks, then chuckles softly. “Yeah. Just… trying to describe what it felt like the first time you fell asleep on me.”
You lean against the doorway, watching him. “That important?”
He nods once, without looking up. “It changed something. I haven’t figured out how to say it yet. But I will.”
You don’t push. Instead, you walk up behind him, arms sliding around his middle, cheek against his back.
And in that moment, you realize the vows aren’t something you’re writing—they’re something you’ve already been living. In burnt toast and shared playlists. In the silence you don’t need to fill. In every I love you that never needed to be rehearsed.
You still don’t know what the final version will sound like. But you’re certain of one thing—when the day comes, and the words finally meet the air, they’ll feel like breath. Like truth. Like you and him, finally spoken aloud.
“Made your coffee, drink up.” He turned around and kissed the top of your head.
You hummed a quiet thanks, fingers curling around the warm mug as you followed him to the table, the quiet hum of evening wrapping around both of you like a blanket.
Sylus sat down, notebook already open beside his half-eaten toast. The pen he always used—the one with the scratched cap and slightly chewed end—rested across the page, ink smudged where his thumb had been.
You took a sip, eyes on him. His brow furrowed just slightly, gaze flicking between two lines he’d written and crossed out and rewritten again.
“Still long way to go?” you asked softly.
He didn’t look up. “Yeah. It’s hard, putting it into words.”
“I know.” You reached across the table, letting your fingers rest over the edge of his notebook without peeking. “But you will.”
He finally looked at you, mouth quirking into a tired smile. “You already have yours?”
You shook your head. “Bits and pieces. Nothing full. Nothing brave enough yet.”
Sylus leaned back in his chair, eyes still locked on yours. “You don’t have to be brave. Just honest.”
“That’s the scary part,” you murmured.
He laughed under his breath, nodding like he understood exactly what you meant. Then he reached for your free hand, tracing circles across your knuckles with his thumb.
“I don’t need it to be perfect,” he said quietly. “I just want it to be you.”
You stared at him for a long second, coffee cooling in your other hand, heart warming with something slow and certain.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be the first line.
———
The apartment is quieter than usual. Not heavy, not tense—just the kind of quiet that settles when something big is coming and both of you can feel it in your bones. A two days left. That’s it.
Your dress hangs hidden in the back of the closet, zipped into a garment bag you haven’t dared unzip since the final fitting. Sylus’s suit is pressed and waiting too, the boutonnière picked, the shoes already polished. Everything’s been checked, double-checked, tucked away.
And yet, it doesn’t feel real.
You sit on the bed, flipping through your vow cards again. They’re still mostly blank. A sentence here. A word there. All of it held together by a feeling you haven’t figured out how to write down yet.
Sylus appears behind you, towel draped around his neck from a late shower, damp hair curling slightly at the ends. He sat beside you as the bed dipped slightly, watching you quietly.
“Nervous?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Not really. Just… aware.”
“Of what?”
You look up at him. “That the next time we sit here like this, we’ll be married.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he moves closer wrapping his arms around your waist like always, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“I like the sound of that,” he says. “You, me. Married.”
You reach for his hand without thinking. Your thumb runs along the lines of his palm, and he lets you trace them like a ritual, like something sacred.
Outside, the sky is dimming into blue-gray, clouds hanging low like they’re holding their breath too. The soft kind of weather you hoped October would bring. The quiet you prayed would follow you into the vows.
There’s nothing left to plan. The venue is already decorated with the help of your mom and mother-in-law, who insisted because both you and your fiancé planned everything by yourself. Nothing left to choose. Just time. Just waiting.
And when you look at him again, really look—you know it’ll be worth every second.
“The girls will pick me up at noon tomorrow, for our bachelorette party and suite stay” you inform him, eyes scanning your overnight bag one last time.
He nods, standing up and went to the vanity to apply your skincare on his face, something he’d do often.“They’re doing their bridesmaid duties well.”
You glance at him and catch the soft chuckle under his breath, the kind that curls at the edges of his smile.
“They threatened to confiscate my phone if I so much as think about texting you past midnight,” you add.
He raises a brow, crossing his arms. “You gonna listen?”
You smirk. “Unlikely.”
Sylus steps towards you, slow and easy, until he’s close enough to rest his hands on your waist. “What if I text you first?”
“Then I’ll blame you,” you murmur, tilting your chin up.
He leans in just slightly, forehead brushing yours. “I’ll take the blame.”
You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his presence settle around you. Everything’s packed. Everything’s in place. The next time you see him, it’ll be at the end of the aisle.
“You ready?” you whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate. “For you? Always.”
You stay there for a while, breathing each other in, as if trying to save this moment in a jar and tuck it in your pocket for the day after tomorrow. Because it is big. It is sacred. But tonight—this quiet, in-between space—is yours.
———
The hotel suite looks like a Pinterest board exploded—in the best possible way. Streamers drape from the ceiling vent to the corners of the room, gold balloons spelling out BRIDE TOMORROW! hover near the minibar, and the coffee table is covered in a curated mess of cupcakes, champagne bottles, glittery confetti, and face masks that are definitely not for skincare.
Tara pops a bottle dramatically, foam spilling slightly as the girls cheer, and you’re already laughing as she pours with exaggerated elegance into mismatched plastic flutes. “To your last night of legal singlehood,” she declares, holding hers high.
You raise your glass from the couch, wrapped in a satin robe with bride printed on the back in tiny gold script. “I’m still technically single until I sign papers, right?”
Simone gasps. “Don’t start with technicalities. It ruins the sparkle.”
You snort into your drink as the music kicks up from the Bluetooth speaker—something soft and upbeat, not too loud, just enough to fill the room with energy. There’s a game of he said, she said scattered across the floor, a tray of bridal trivia cards someone clearly took way too seriously, and an entire section of the suite dedicated to DIY cocktails and “emergency” wedding advice written in cursive on sticky notes.
Yvonne hands you a tiara. “Put it on or we take your cupcakes.”
You oblige. Begrudgingly. But the second it’s on, Aislinn snaps a polaroid with a flash that temporarily blinds you.
Later, after the sugar high and the laughter settle into something quieter, the five of you end up in a loose circle on the floor, wrapped in pillows and hotel blankets, the lights dimmed and voices hushed like the room has turned sacred.
“What are you most scared of?” Simone asks, voice softer now.
You think for a moment. Then, with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding—“That it’ll feel different after. That something will change when I don’t want it to.”
There’s a beat of silence before Tara nudges your foot gently. “Then don’t let it change. Let it grow.”
And for the first time that night, you feel your throat catch. Not from nerves, but from how real it’s all becoming.
You lie back on the carpet, crown still askew, eyes on the ceiling. “Tomorrow, I marry my boyfriend of four years.”
Yvonne hums dreamily. “You’re gonna wreck us all.”
There’s laughter. More polaroids. A bottle of sparkling water that gets shaken up and explodes across the kitchenette. And somewhere between the shared mascara, the late-night confessions, and the glow of city lights outside the window, you realize—this is your last night before.
And it’s perfect.
The next day, it was a beautiful chaos.
The room is quieter now, tucked away from the whirlwind of bridesmaids and half-zipped gowns still unfolding in the main suite. You’re seated near the window, soft afternoon light pouring in through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow across the carpet.
The makeup artist moves with quiet precision, her brushes sweeping gently across your skin. Her presence is calm, focused, her tone soft as she murmurs, “Close your eyes for me.”
You do, letting the rest of the world melt away for a moment—the noise, the excitement, the nerves still echoing from the common room. It’s just the two of you here, tucked inside the stillness like a held breath.
There’s a soft clink as she sets down her palette and moves to your lashes. “You’ve got that look,” she says lightly. “The one brides always get right before it hits them.”
“What look?” you ask, eyes still shut.
“Like you’re trying to stay perfectly still so you don’t accidentally float away.”
You smile. She’s not wrong. There’s something electric beneath your skin, humming low and constant.
The artist steps back for a moment, letting you blink your eyes open again. “Do you want to see?” she asks, holding up a small mirror.
You nod, and when you look—really look—it nearly takes your breath.
You still look like you. But elevated. Soft and sure. Glowing, not just from highlighter, but from something deeper. Something you can’t quite name.
Before you can speak, there’s a knock on the door.
“It’s Tara,” comes the muffled voice. “Your and his mom and the photographer’s almost here. You good?”
“Almost,” you call back.
The makeup artist gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than good. You’re ready.”
And somehow, sitting there in front of the mirror, heart quietly racing, you believe it.
The suite fell completely silent the moment you stepped out.
No laughter, no chatter—just the soft rustle of your dress as you walked forward, veil trailing like a whisper behind you. The girls stood in a loose line near the windows, half-glammed, half-nervous energy, clutching their glasses of juice like it was champagne. Your mom and his stood side by side near the vanity, hands pressed to their mouths, already misty-eyed before you’d even made it halfway across the room.
“Okay,” Simone breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not allowed to look that good. That’s illegal.”
You laughed, cheeks already warm, but it didn’t break the spell. They were still staring. Still soaking you in.
Tara blinked fast. “Is it too early to cry? Because I’m crying.”
Your mom stepped forward slowly, eyes glossy, smile trembling like she was trying to hold it together and failing gracefully. She reached for your hands, her fingers gentle as they brushed over your rings, your sleeves, the fabric. “You look like—”
“I feel like,” you whispered back, voice just as shaky.
Her smile widened. “He’s going to lose his entire mind when he sees you.”
Aislinn swatted at tears with the back of her hand. “Let’s hope he doesn’t black out. We need him standing upright to say vows.”
Even his mother laughed through her quiet sniffles, stepping in to gently adjust your veil. “You look like you walked straight out of a dream, sweetheart. One he’s never going to believe is real.”
You stood still, heart pounding but steady, letting yourself feel it—this moment, this reveal, these women who had helped shape you, build you, lift you up.
And then Yvonne asked, “You ready?”
And this time, without hesitation, you nodded.
Because now it wasn’t just real.
It was happening.
———
The room beside the venue was small—bare walls, a cushioned chair, a standing mirror, and a tiny table with a forgotten glass of water someone must’ve left earlier. The faint hum of music played by an organ filtered in through the walls, muffled by laughter and footsteps in the distance. You could hear it all—life moving outside—but in here, time felt suspended.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror, not adjusting anything. Just looking.
Your heart had been calm all day, steady even through the chaos of makeup and hair and lace being zipped and clipped and tucked. You’d laughed, toasted, even danced a little when no one was looking.
But now?
Now your hands were slightly cold. Your breath came shallower. It wasn’t fear, not really—it was everything.
All of it.
The weight of what’s about to happen. The final moments before you walk toward a future that you’ve wanted so much it aches.
What if you trip? What if your voice cracks? What if you forget your vows halfway through, even though you’ve said them to yourself in the mirror a hundred times?
What if this moment is too big for your chest to hold?
You sat down slowly, smoothing your dress as you exhaled, willing your lungs to steady.
It’s not that you doubted him. Never him.
It was the sheer bigness of it. The surreal reality that after all the planning, all the dreaming, it’s actually here. You’re minutes away from becoming someone’s wife. From becoming his wife.
There’s a soft knock at the door. Not rushed. Not loud. Just two quiet taps, hesitant and familiar.
You glance up from your reflection, heart already recognizing the rhythm.
Before you can answer, his voice follows—low, muffled through the door. “It’s me. I swear I’m not looking.”
You blink, breath catching a little.
He knocks once more, knuckles light. “I just… I needed a second. Just to know you’re really there.”
You stand slowly, smoothing your dress, moving toward the door without opening it. Instead, you rest your hand flat against the wood, like maybe he’ll feel it on the other side.
“I’m here,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a quiet breath, like relief. Like grounding.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve been pacing like an idiot, and the twins threatened to duct-tape me to a chair.”
You let out a soft laugh, the kind that trembles with nerves and love all at once.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” you admit before you can swallow it down. “Not the walk. Not the vows. Not… us.”
There’s a pause. And then his voice, steady and warm: “You couldn’t mess this up even if you tried.”
You lean your forehead against the door. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”
A breath leaves your chest, long and shaky, as if his words unlocked something tight inside you.
On the other side, he rests his palm flat against the wood, mirroring yours. “I’ll see you at the end of the aisle,” he says quietly. “But just so you know…”
You wait.
“I already know you’re the prettiest girl alive.”
You close your eyes, pressing your smile into the silence that follows. And when he walks away, you stay there for a moment longer, your heartbeat steadier now, your hands no longer cold.
Because this time, your jitters have nothing to do with fear.
And everything to do with finally.
The music shifts.
Not loud, not grand—but soft and swelling, the kind that tugs at your chest with invisible strings. A quiet murmur hushes behind the doors, and somewhere in the distance, someone exhales like they’ve been waiting their whole life for this exact moment.
Tara, maid of honor appears in the doorway, her eyes glassy and her voice low, like she doesn’t want to break the stillness. “It’s time.”
You stand slowly. Carefully. The weight of your dress settles around your frame like a second skin, like it was always meant to fit you here, now. One last look in the mirror—not to fix anything, but to see yourself as you are: steady, luminous, changed.
You nod. Bouquet in hand, breath tucked somewhere behind your ribs, you step into the hallway.
The doors open.
And light pours in like water.
Golden and soft, catching the delicate shimmer in your veil, casting you in warmth that looks almost unreal. You don’t hear the crowd. Don’t see the flowers or the flicker of candles or the faint blur of silhouettes rising to their feet.
Because all of it falls away the second you see him.
Sylus.
Standing at the end of the aisle in a suit you’ve seen folded over a hanger a dozen times, and yet it’s never looked like this on him before. Back straight. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His eyes locked on yours—wide, reverent, almost stunned.
He looks like he’s breathing you in. Like if he blinks, you’ll vanish.
And you? You’re moving, one step at a time, slow and sure, like you’re walking through the very center of your life.
Each step feels like a heartbeat. Each breath is a promise.
The music fades into a gentle hum behind your ears as your eyes stay locked with his. You see the way his chest rises, the slight tremble in his fingers, the quiet quake in his throat as he swallows down whatever emotion is threatening to crack through his composure.
When you reach him—finally, finally—he doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you like he’s never seen anything so certain, so sacred.
Then, quietly, just for you—
“You’re… everything.”
Your smile breaks through the tears you didn’t realize were building. You reach for his hand, and he meets you there without hesitation, fingers curling into yours like they never forgot how to fit.
And in that moment, with the world behind you and forever just ahead, it hits you—
This isn’t a fairytale.
It’s not a dream.
It’s real.
It’s him.
The officiant’s voice hums gently around you, grounding the room in something soft and steady. You’re aware of the rhythm of their words now—not just ceremony, but comfort. The kind that keeps your feet firmly on the floor, even when your heart feels like it’s floating.
Sylus hasn’t let go of your hands. His thumbs brush over your knuckles absentmindedly, like he’s making sure you’re real—or maybe it’s the other way around.
You glance at him, and he catches it, smiling faintly. His shoulders are a little more relaxed now. His eyes still haven’t moved far from yours, like everything else—the crowd, the backdrop, the lights—are details he’ll worry about later.
When your name is mentioned again, his head tilts just slightly, like even hearing it from someone else is enough to make him smile.
The officiant asks if you’re ready to exchange vows.
You both nod at the same time.
It’s simple. No dramatic pause. Just a shared look. A quiet understanding.
Sylus lets out a breath—not nervous, just steadying himself—and reaches into his jacket for the folded piece of paper. His hands are a little shaky, but his voice, when it comes, is soft and sure.
And you listen, heart open, as he begins.
Sylus unfolds the paper slowly, but his eyes stay on you. He glances down only once, like the words are just there for structure—like the truth of it all is already etched into his chest.
He clears his throat, then smiles, a little sheepish but warm.
“I don’t think I ever believed in fate until you,” he begins. “Not because I didn’t want to—but because I didn’t know what it looked like. And then you showed up. In a moment that felt ordinary at first… and somehow turned everything after into something extraordinary.”
You feel your breath catch. His voice is calm, low, sincere. Like he’s telling you a secret no one else in the world gets to hear.
“You make the quiet parts of life feel meaningful. You make the hard days softer, and the good ones even better. You remind me—just by being you—that love doesn’t have to be loud to be real. It just has to be constant. And yours always is.”
He pauses, blinking slowly, thumb brushing over your hand again.
“I promise to show up. On the days when it’s easy, and especially on the days when it’s not. I promise to choose you. In every small way—coffee in the morning, your hand in mine when we’re just walking nowhere, your name in my chest when I go to sleep at night. You’re home. You always have been.”
His smile falters slightly, just for a breath, and his voice softens even more.
“I’m not perfect. I’ll probably mess up the laundry, forget where I left the keys, and steal your fries every time. But I’ll never forget how lucky I am to stand in front of you. To be loved by you. To love you back.”
You feel the tears threatening, but you hold them, just barely. He swallows, blinking quickly.
“So here it is—plain and simple: I vow to love you without pause, without question, and without end. You’re it for me. You’ve always been it.”
He folds the paper again, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. Doesn’t look away.
And in that quiet stillness between one vow and the next, you realize—he’s not just promising forever.
He’s already living it.
You’re still holding his hand, but after that—after those words—you’re not sure if your knees are steady anymore.
Sylus looks at you like he just gave you something sacred, something he’s been carrying carefully, quietly, waiting for the right moment to place in your hands. There’s no smugness, no teasing grin—just softness. Just him, completely bare in front of you, without apology or armor.
The officiant doesn’t rush. The world feels like it pauses for you.
You swallow, trying to find your voice through the emotion rising quietly in your throat. You manage a breath. A small, trembling smile.
“I…” you start, and his hand squeezes yours ever so gently—like he’s telling you to take your time.
And so you do.
Because how do you follow a vow like that?
But even in the quiet, even in the press of every gaze in the room, all you really see is him. Still watching you like you’re the most certain thing he’s ever seen. Like his vow didn’t end with words, but continues now—alive in the space between you.
You take another breath. This time steadier.
And when you speak, it’s not to match him. It’s to meet him.
You glance down at your own folded paper—creased and slightly smudged from your hands—but you don’t open it. Not yet.
Your fingers tighten around his, grounding yourself in the way he’s looking at you. Like you could say anything, or nothing at all, and it would still be enough.
You take a breath. Then begin, voice soft but certain.
“I wrote these a hundred times. Changed words. Reworded lines. Tried to make them sound perfect. But every time I tried too hard, it started to sound less like me—and less like us.”
You smile, and he does too, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’s already bracing for impact.
“So here’s the truth. I never knew how to describe what I wanted in a partner… until you made it obvious. Not with grand gestures or picture-perfect moments, but with little things. The way you listen. The way you show up. The way your love doesn’t ask me to be anything other than exactly who I am.”
His brow softens, and you can feel his thumb gently sweeping over yours again.
“I promise to return that. To love you the way you deserve—quietly when you need peace, fully when you need strength, and endlessly in every version of this life we build together.”
You pause, not because you’ve forgotten the rest, but because the emotion has caught up to you, rising warm and tight in your chest.
“I promise to stand beside you—not just when things are easy, but when things are uncertain, when it’s messy, when we’re still figuring it out. Because even then… especially then… there’s no one else I’d rather figure life out with.”
You look directly into his eyes now, voice quieter, words steadier.
“I promise to make a home out of us. Wherever we are. Whatever we face. And to remind you—on every good day, and every hard one—that you’ve never been hard to love.”
His breath catches, and you see it—the flicker in his eyes, the way his grip tightens ever so slightly.
You smile, gently, as you finish.
“I love you. For who you are. For who you were. And for everything we haven’t even lived through yet. And I can’t wait to love you better, deeper, and more completely with every day we’re given.”
You exhale. Not because it’s over, but because it’s finally said.
And when you look at him now, there’s no doubt.
You were stepping into it—together.
The room is still, filled with the hush of held breath and brimming hearts. Your vows have settled between you, tender and raw, and the officiant takes a gentle step forward, voice calm and clear, wrapping the moment in a quiet kind of gravity.
“Marriage is more than a ceremony. It is the promise to wake up every day and choose one another. It’s built on patience, kindness, and the commitment to grow—side by side, even when life shifts beneath your feet.”
You feel Sylus squeeze your hand—small, grounding. Your eyes meet his again, and just like always, the world narrows to just the two of you.
“Before we move forward,” the officiant says, “let us mark this moment with the simplest, clearest vow of all.”
They turn to Sylus first.
“Sylus, do you take this woman, your partner, your love, your home, to be your wife? Do you promise to stand by her in strength and softness, through change and calm, in laughter, in silence, and in all the years to come?”
Sylus doesn’t hesitate. His voice is soft, a little thick with emotion, but certain.
“I do.”
And then it’s your turn. Your heart thuds once—loud, bright—but your voice is steady when you speak.
“I do.”
The officiant smiles, eyes warm. “These two words carry the weight of everything you’ve lived—and everything you have yet to. And now, with the vows spoken and the love between you made clear…”
They pause, and your breath catches.
“…by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The pause that follows is full of breathless wonder.
“You may kiss.”
Sylus is already stepping forward, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other holding your waist as though he’s afraid to let go. His forehead brushes yours first, his voice low and full of something thick and beautiful.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
Then he kisses you.
And the room fades into a blur of soft claps and emotion, but all you feel is him—steady, warm, home.
You’re no longer waiting.
He pulled away as the others cheered and clapped. “Hey, wife.” He smiled, wiping a tear that you didn’t know left your eye.
———
The reception is still alive with soft laughter and clinking glasses, the glow of golden lights warming the corners of the room. But Sylus has barely touched his drink in the last half hour. His tie is loosened, hair slightly out of place from hours of congratulations and half-hugs, but his eyes? They’ve barely left you.
You’re seated beside him, still smiling for the sake of conversation, cheeks flushed from too much dancing and too many “you looked beautiful”s. But every time your knees brush under the table or your hand rests lightly over his thigh, you feel it—his restraint, stretched thin.
He leans in, voice low and hoarse in your ear. “I’m gonna lose my mind if I have to sit through another round of toasts.”
You bite back a laugh, turning slightly to look at him. “You want to sneak out of our own wedding?”
He shrugs, eyes half-lidded, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “I want to sneak out with my wife.”
Before you can say anything else, your mom appears beside the table, eyes knowing, arms gently crossed. “You two look like you’ve done enough smiling for one night.”
Sylus stiffens slightly. “We were just—”
She waves him off with a look that says she’s been in love before, too. “Go. I’ll tell them you needed a breather. No one’s counting minutes, especially if we have your friends entertaining the guests”
Your father appears just behind her, already holding your overnight bag. “Back exit’s quieter. And the car’s waiting.”
You blink. “You knew we were going to—”
“We hoped,” your mom says with a little smile. “They’ll dance, they’ll drink, and they’ll remember the joy. Let you remember the rest.”
Sylus looks at you, like he’s asking one last time—if this is okay, if you’re ready to leave it all behind for now.
And you nod. Without hesitation.
Within minutes, you’re slipping through a side hallway, the sounds of the party softening behind you. His jacket’s draped over your shoulders now, and his hand is firm at your back, like even walking is too far without touching you.
By the time the door closes behind you and the car door shuts, he exhales like he hasn’t all day. He doesn’t even wait for the driver to pull away before he reaches for your hand again, lips brushing your knuckles.
“I loved today,” he says quietly. “But I need this part. Just us.”
You smile as you lean into him, the sound of the tires fading into the night.
“Me too, husband.” He laughs freely as the driver starts driving back to your shared home.
The door clicks shut behind you, and before the quiet even settles, Sylus has you pinned gently to it, his hands caging you in without ever feeling rough. His mouth is already on yours, hot and searching, like he’s starved—not for kisses, but for you.
“Finally,” he breathes, voice rough at the edges, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I’ve been holding back all day. Or should I say for weeks.”
Your laugh is low, breathless. “You didn’t look like you were holding back when you said your vows.”
He smirks, lips trailing to your neck, where he lets them linger just long enough to make your knees go soft. “If I didn’t, I would’ve carried you out of there mid-ceremony.”
You shiver when his hands slide down your waist, fingers brushing the curve of your hips through the fabric of your dress. His control is thin—every touch slow but purposeful, every kiss deeper, hungrier.
You reach up, pulling at the undone knot of his tie, guiding him closer. “You waited long enough,” you whisper.
He groans quietly, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before kissing you again—slower this time, but no less intense. One hand slips behind your thigh, hitching your leg up against his waist as his body presses flush to yours.
The feeling of his suit brushing against the bare skin of your leg makes your breath hitch. He notices.
“You’re dangerous in this dress,” he murmurs against your throat. “But you’ll look even better out of it.”
The way he says it—low, reverent, full of promise—makes you ache.
The next moments blur. Clothes trail behind you down the hallway—his jacket, your veil, a heel kicked off, the other dropped halfway across the floor. He lifts you again, lips never leaving yours, and carries you into the bedroom like it’s instinct, like he’s meant to.
When he lays you down on the bed, it’s not rushed. There’s no frenzy—just that slow burn between two people who’ve waited long enough.
His hands are everywhere, his mouth hot against your skin, and you’re not sure where one breath ends and the next begins.
It’s soft. It’s deep. It’s real.
And when he finally whispers, “You’re mine,” against your lips, you don’t need to say anything back.
Because he knows. And so do you.
He kisses you—deep and warm, like something that unfolds rather than ignites. His lips move slowly against yours, letting you melt into him one kiss at a time. His hands trail down the sides of your body, memorizing the shape of your waist, the curve of your hips, the softness of skin beneath silk.
The way he touches you is careful, deliberate. Like he’s not trying to take—only to give. To worship.
Your dress slides down inch by inch under his fingers, and the look in his eyes doesn’t turn hungry—it turns tender. He drinks you in like something fragile and beautiful, something worth pausing for.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing his lips along your shoulder, down to your collarbone. “I could spend the rest of my life trying to deserve this.”
You breathe out a quiet laugh, threading your fingers through his hair as you pull him down into another kiss.
“You already do.”
When his shirt finally slips off, and your bare skin meets his, there’s a stillness. Not hesitation—but a kind of awe. The kind that exists when love and desire occupy the same breath.
The night stretches long and slow, full of whispered words and open mouths, hands finding each other over and over again. There’s no rush to finish, no need to prove anything—just soft sounds, quiet gasps, and the steady rhythm of two people learning each other all over again, in the quiet language only they speak.
———
The air is still warm in the bedroom, soft and humming with the weight of what just passed between you—something slow and tender, deeper than just touch. You’re curled against Sylus beneath the sheets, your cheek resting on his chest as his fingers trace slow, lazy shapes along your back.
Neither of you speaks at first. There’s no need. The silence is soft, comfortable, wrapped in the kind of quiet that only follows when love has been given fully.
“You okay?” he asks eventually, voice quiet, lips brushing your hair.
You nod, your voice a murmur. “More than okay.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let’s get you in the bath.”
You blink, surprised. “Now?”
He smiles. “You deserve it. And I want to be close to you… still.”
He gets up first, slipping into his boxers and disappearing into the bathroom. A moment later, you hear water running, the gentle clink of bottles being opened. When he calls for you, his voice is soft, teasing: “It’s ready. No escaping now.”
You pad in quietly, wrapped in one of his shirts, only for him to smile as you step into the steamy room. The tub is half full already, steam curling into the air, scented faintly with something warm and calming—lavender, maybe, or cedarwood.
He reaches for you with both hands, guiding you in gently, and climbs in behind you. The water is just the right temperature, and his body surrounds yours like a shield, your back pressed to his chest as he settles you between his legs.
His arms wrap around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. Everything feels slow again. Sacred.
He presses a kiss to your damp skin. “How’s this?”
You let out a soft sigh. “Perfect.”
His fingers move in slow, rhythmic strokes along your thighs and arms, his voice occasionally breaking the quiet with a soft word or two—things like “you were amazing,” or “I love how you look like this,” or simply, “mine.”
He washes your hair for you, gently lathering your scalp, his touch as reverent as it was earlier. There’s no rush in the way he pours water down your back, or the way he slides his hands through your damp hair with care.
You lean back against him, completely relaxed now, your legs floating slightly in the water as his fingertips draw lazy circles on your stomach.
“Married,” you whisper, the word slipping from your lips like a secret.
He smiles into your shoulder. “Still sounds unreal.”
“You’re real.”
“So are you.”
Time blurs. The water cools only slightly before he finally reaches for a towel and helps you out, drying you slowly, carefully and carries you to the bed—like you’re something delicate and beloved. To him, you’re absolutely more than that.
You fall asleep not long after, curled into him, wrapped in the scent of warm skin and clean sheets and soft love.
And as his hand rests against your lower back through the night, you know it’s not the bath, or even the quiet that follows—
It’s him.
He is the afterglow.
———
It’s late evening, the kind where time stretches in that golden lull between dinner and bed. The apartment is dim except for the soft light over the stove and the quiet flicker of the TV playing some half-watched series. The world outside your windows is already dark, but inside, there’s nothing but warmth.
It’s been almost 6 months since the wedding.
Sylus is at the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows, methodically rinsing the dishes you told him he didn’t need to do. He’d only shrugged and said, “As always, you cooked, I clean.”
You’re sitting at the dining table, chin in your hand, watching him. The way his hair’s gone a little messy, the curve of his back as he leans into his task. You’ve lived together long enough now that marriage doesn’t feel like a title—it feels like a rhythm.
Shared chores. Shared glances. Shared toothpaste.
And somehow, you still catch yourself smiling like the honeymoon phase never ended.
He finishes, drying his hands with a dish towel, and gives you a look. “What?”
You shake your head, standing slowly. “Nothing. Just…” You hesitate for a second. “I have a little gift for you. Came in today.”
That piques his curiosity. His brows lift as you cross the room and hand him a small paper bag. Neutral color. No ribbons. Just… simple.
He takes it with a soft smile, already amused. “What is this? You didn’t have to—”
“I know. Just open it.”
He peeks inside. And for a moment, he doesn’t react. His hand reaches in and pulls out the small cotton onesie, white with soft letters stitched across the front that read:
hi, papa.
Silence.
Sylus stares at it, frozen. Like his brain is trying to catch up to what his heart already knows.
Then—very quietly—“Wait.”
You nod. Watching the weight of the realization settle into his chest.
His eyes lift to meet yours. Wide. Glassy. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out at first. Just a breath. Just a tremble.
“You’re serious?” he whispers. Your voice wavers through the smile. “Was feeling super tired and nauseous lately. And I took five tests to confirm.”
He looks back down at the onesie, and then again at you—like he’s seeing you completely new. Slowly, gently, he lowers the onesie onto the table and pulls you into his arms. It’s not rushed. It’s not dramatic.
It’s just Sylus, holding you like he never plans to let go. One hand tangled in your hair, the other flat over your stomach like he already wants to protect what’s barely begun.
And when he finally speaks, it’s muffled into your shoulder. “I don’t deserve this.”
You hold him tighter. “You do. Every part of it.”
When he leans back, his cheeks are damp. There’s a soft laugh in his throat, but his voice is wrecked with emotion.
“I’m gonna be a dad.”
You nod, brushing your thumbs over the corners of his smile. “And a damn good one.”
And there, in your quiet kitchen full of warmth and leftover dinner and tomorrow’s laundry still unfolded—he kisses you.
Not out of surprise, not even out of passion—
But out of pure, overflowing love.
And that’s what this is now. Marriage. Parenthood. Life.
Messy. Unplanned. Beautiful.
And completely, irrevocably yours.
fin.
a/n:
i’m so obsessed w the new banner guys omg wdym we’re married 😆☝️hope u like this one, requests are open as always (lads, jjk, hq, aot, enha)
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series summary> in your universe, sylus is your beloved character in a game you like to play. in his universe, sylus acquires a mirror of the game… and sees you playing. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <series cw> sylus x fem!nonmc. mutual yearning. sylus and mc are not in a relationship. </>
𖦏₊ ⊹ <reminder> Kindly respect the time and effort put into this fic. Do not copy, plagiarize, reproduce, feed to ai, or upload this work elsewhere. Instead, reblogs, tags, and comments are deeply appreciated! ♥️ divider by @diviniyae </>
⊹ [masterlist] ⊹ [next coming soon]
Something is not quite right.
There’s this nagging sense at the back of his mind; an instinct, a gut feeling. Not one to ignore his internal warning signals, Sylus slowly taps his finger on the armrest as he ponders it over. Nothing seems out of place, and nothing is missing. And yet, that doesn’t seem to be correct either.
He observes the young woman sitting beside him on his living room couch. Casual clothes, a relaxed posture, lips that always seem to hold a tiny smile.
They had clashed when they first met. Which is an extreme understatement. But slowly, eventually, they came to understand and even help each other with their goals.
He had also initiated a few activities to spend time together: trying a new restaurant, cruising the n109 on his motorcycle, or just casually hanging out at each other’s places. They’ve been growing closer… or at least, Sylus likes to think so. He just couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness.
Her gaze flicks from the tv to Sylus, remote in hand. “Would this movie be alright with you?” She asks.
And there it is. He gazed deeply into her eyes for a few beats, as if trying to look for something. “If you like it, then it’s fine with me.” He replies with a fraction of a smile, then retreats back to his thoughts, turning them over and over in his mind like he often does with a coin.
She’s always polite to him. Which wasn’t wrong, just… lukewarm. She is quite agreeable when she responds to his invitations and goes along with his suggestions. She feels calm, though not the peaceful kind, of gentle sea breezes or a warm cozy evening. But rather in how a room is settled and quiet because it’s… empty.
Has she always been expressionless? He thought back to the few times she’d shown some form of vivacity.
And it’s not just her demeanor, he feels it in himself too. He’d expected a much greater connection than this, considering how they’re supposedly carrying half of each other’s souls.
Restless, Sylus exhales deeply through his nose, then flicks his hand so their linkage appears, a flowing tendril of black and red swirling around their wrists. She doesn’t notice it, too engrossed by the screen.
He rubs his forehead. It’s really her, and yet…
Wait a minute.
He stills, brows furrowing as his gaze sharpens to confirm what he thought he saw a moment ago.
The linkage, though it encircles her wrist, does not seem to fully complete the circle. Rather, one end looks like it is trying to tether to her watch.
His hand tightens on the armrest at the sight. A million questions burst forth inside him, but his observation remains true:
writing fanfic with specific moments/trops/scenes for one specific friend and watching them lose their absolute minds when they read your work and get to that specific part
encouraging your writer friends to indulge in their most outrageous fanfic ideas themselves and cheering for them every step of the way
thirsting over hot characters with said friends
10. consuming the official content of the fandom you're in
Summary: Sylus hates being away from his wife, always has.
Reader/Husband!Sylus w/ Breeding Kink
You're so close and you can't wait to be where you belong. It's always hard to leave your husband and your home behind for any reason, but you haven't seen your best friend in so long that the trip to see her was needed. After two weeks in your hometown, you were now in the car Sylus sent for you, getting closer to being in his arms again.
Your phone rings in your purse and you fish inside the bag to answer it. The photo of Luke and Kieran posing with the peace sign is the first thing you see, making you smile.
You press the phone to your ear after accepting the call. "Hey, guys. Everything okay?"
"No, everything is not," Kieran mumbles. "This is the longest two weeks I've ever experienced. Boss Man has been so moody."
"Please tell us you're almost here," Luke says plainly.
"You're not used to Sylus' moods by now?" you joke.
"Of course we are. But we will never get used to how flip-floppy he can be about you. It's gross, yet oddly adorable... Please don't tell him I said that," Kieran pleads.
"What's he doing?" you ask curiously.
"That's the thing. He's doing nothing," Luke answers.
"Since you've been gone, he's been to himself. I know what you're thinking. 'Isn't that typical of the Boss?' Well yes, you are 100% correct. At least typical behavior with us. Boss cannot be without you for more than a second if he can help it. Anyways," Kieran sighs. "He hasn't made a sarcastic comment, joke, or insult during your entire absence. He's been the most... "regular" since you told him you were coming home today and even more so to see you're two minutes away," Kieran adds.
"How do you—?"
"Oh, you must know that he has a tracker on you."
Of course Sylus tracks you. It's not necessarily surprising, just newfound information.
"Tell him I'm—"
"Open the door, open the door! She's here!" Kieran screeches.
Your phone beeps, indicating the call has been disconnected. Yours and Sylus' home come into view, and you feel so giddy inside. The driver rounds the small bend of the driveway, putting the car in park, and steps out of the vehicle to help with your bags. Before you can even get your fingers to the handle, your door opens.
You turn your head to the right to see you husband, the smallest but ever so meaningful smile on his face. He for sure used his Evol to get here as quick as he did because he was not present when the car pulled up. His hand is out, reaching for you. You slide yours into his and he's pulling you as politely as he can muster to bring you closer to him.
He's in his long sleeve brown top that you bought him a few months ago and his tailored black slacks, making him represent the perfect combination of comfy and classy like he always does.
He doesn't say a word, not at first. Immediately when he has you close enough, his hand cups the side of your head and he dips his to kiss your lips. The kiss is hungry and desperate. He doesn't give a damn who's around and who's watching him suck your tongue into his mouth.
This is his house, his choice, and most of all, his fucking woman.
He growls and you feel the rumble in his chest vibrate against your own with how pressed together you are.
"Sylus—" You try and speak, but he's engulfing your mouth with even more vigor as if your voice has only spurred him on more.
He realizes he needs to let you breathe, knows that he's likely making your whole body flush with embarrassment, but he can't seem to care. It's only when you bite down on his lip a little too hard, forcing him to pull back, does he finally look into your eyes.
You can barely breathe and just like he thought, your cheeks are tinged red and you're breathing deeply. You lick your lips, your smile uncontainable when his piercing red eyes bore into your large ones.
"My apologies, kitten," he finally speaks. "Can you blame your husband for being so eager?" His thumb trails your lips, mixing his saliva and yours.
"I missed you too, handsome," you respond once your breath finally stabilizes. The driver announces that he'll be on his way, and you close your eyes as if it'll make you disappear, hoping that he didn't pay attention to the way Sylus kissed you.
Who are you kidding? Even if the poor old man didn't look, he definitely heard it and is most definitely judging a little bit.
Sylus makes the hesitant decision to separate from you for a moment to tip the driver before he departs. He thanks the both of you, tipping his hat, and you two watch the red headlights depart away from your home after he got inside the car.
Sylus gets close to you again, seemingly ready to take you right here on the driveway pavement, but Luke and Keiran come running out the house, exclaiming with happiness that you're back.
"Thank god you're here. Please, fix him," Kieran exclaims.
Sylus sighs, shaking his head at his—what he deems—ridiculous behavior, but if you were in their shoes, you're sure you would've been feeling the same way.
"Bring her bags inside. Take a car and one of my cards for the next few days. Don't come back until I instruct you to," Sylus commands and all of you damn near snap your necks to look at him.
The twins chuckle, nudging at each other before throwing your husband a loud "yes sir". They both make quick moves to grab your things and Sylus holds your hand as he guides you into your shared lavish home. Kieran is the first back out the door after showing Sylus what card he took, and Luke shuts the door behind himself after following his brother's lead.
"Why are they leaving?" you ask, but you know the answer. How could you not?
Sylus tilts his head in amusement, licking his lips. "Are you hungry?"
"Not particularly..." you breathe.
"Hm," he hums. The radiant glow of the descending sun is the only light you have to see his face, to see the mischief he has written all over it. "But I am, sweetie. A treat such as yourself could satiate a hungry man like me."
He kisses you again, barely giving you the chance to respond. He's quick to kiss your jaw, then your neck. His tongue traces your skin, holding you up so that you don't crumble before him.
"Do you know how insane I've been without you?" He bites the section where your neck and shoulder meet. "The way I ached for you..." He inhales your scent deeply. "It must be what Ares felt when he was separated from Aphrodite."
Your body shudders. He chuckles smugly at that. "Tell your husband how much you missed him, kitten."
Your hand snakes up to trail into his white-gray hair. He sucks on the places he knows makes your panties flood, decorating your neck with love bites. "I missed you so much," you tell him truthfully through your lust. "Thought about you every day..."
"You did, did you?" he teases, peeling your cardigan down your shoulders. "I don't know, I'm not convinced. Perhaps actions truly do speak louder than words. Shall we put it to the test?"
As if you weigh nothing, he picks you up and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. You've seen this man lift couches over his shoulder as if he was moving a single bag of groceries. It's insane— and it makes you want to let him do every filthy thing possible to you.
──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Sylus brought the both of you to the upstairs bathroom and you stand behind him like a lost puppy as he cuts the water on, steam pooling out of the grand shower. He removes his clothes first and you watch as every single article of clothing is thrown to the side. You can't help but to stare at his cock, hard and standing tall.
He then approaches you, gently peeling off your own clothing. After you're naked before him, he takes you inside to stand beneath the pouring stream of water. "Tell me about your trip."
Behind you, you hear movements as your voice shakily attempts to tell him what you and your friend did while you were away. He hums every so often in response, to let you know that he really is listening. Then his large hands come into view in front of you. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, not sure of what he's getting ready to do. Your words are cut off when his hands grab handfuls of your breasts, making you arch your back, and your ass press against his aching cock.
He groans as the soap begins to lather, as he runs his hands all over you. Your soaped breasts are his erotic sight. His wedding ring trails over your nipple as he massages you, causing you to call out his name.
"Don't stop, kitten," he whispers lowly. "Keep going."
"Sylus, please..." you beg. You know exactly what you want from him, but to put it into words feels impossible.
"Please, what? Speak to me. Tell me what you want." He licks your ear.
"Please... I need you."
He tsks, bringing his head down to kiss your shoulder. "I'm a man who requires details before I act. Tell me more."
"I need you to fuck me... I need you inside of me," you beg sheepishly.
"My good girl," he praises. "But what about me? You left your poor husband all alone. What about what I need?"
"What do you need? I'll do anything.."
"Anything?" he chuckles and you feel him smirk against your neck.
He grabs your wrists, pinning them behind you with his Evol. You're thrown off and the whole shower is long forgotten when mixes of black and red energy constrict your wrists. He kneels in front of you, taking your foot and bracing it on the shower bench.
"Then feed your husband, sweetie." His mouth attacks your hot cunt, your soft curls tickling his nose as he ravages you. His tongue is skilled and determined as he drinks your juices like a man on the verge of dehydration. You shake and writhe, struggling to stand upright. But Sylus has you, he'll never let you fall.
His hands grab at your ass, pulling you closer as he sucks your throbbing clit into his mouth.
"Baby... I can't, holy fuck.." you pant, moaning and whining. Your sounds echo off the tile walls and with no one here, you have zero hesitancy to be loud.
"You can," he encourages through heavy breaths. "You said you'd do anything. So, be good for me and let me taste my sweet wife's cum."
His words are filthy and so fulfilling. You want to touch him, want to press him deeper, but your bound hands prevent you like a punishment. Your orgasm approaches and he can feel you constrict around his tongue, making his efforts double.
You can't even warn him that you're about to come because it hits you before you're even ready. Your thighs shake, your body nearly doubles over, and your pussy sings for him as he swallows all of you down. He kisses your weeping cunt as you start to come down then you jolt when he licks at your sensitive clit one last time.
"Please, Sylus baby. I want to touch you. I need to feel you.." You look down at him and he kisses your thighs, then your stomach, all the way up to your wet breasts.
"Maybe you have a gift, my sweet." He licks his lips, biting them as if he'd needs another fix of the ambrosia between your legs. "Your actions and your words could move mountains."
He kisses you and your hands are still bound. You taste your heady scent on his tongue, but you're so frustrated that it nearly brings you to tears. He senses this, knows this, and the relief that washes over you as your hands are released is inexplicable. You immediately grab at his neck, then his hair. You just want to be close to him.
He lifts you up, pressing your back against the cool tile wall, but your body is so hot that the pinch of cold fades immediately. "Put me in, kitten," he looks into your eyes. "Bring me home."
You nod feverishly, looking down between the two of you. His cock is leaking. If you don't get him inside you now, you're convinced you will actually cry.
You wrap your hand around his thick length, feeling the veins that will be inside you in milliseconds. He helps you, jutting his hips forward and the tip of him opens you up like a flower. You gasp, biting your lip as he gets deeper, as you and him become one.
He starts to rock his hips and his pace is excruciatingly slow. "I want to put my baby inside you," he admits as his hips start to increase in speed, giving you what you need. The declaration makes you clench around him.
"Does my wife like that?" he presses his forehead to yours. "My baby in your stomach, my ring on your finger, my money in your pockets. Everything I am, everything I own, it belongs to you, doesn't it?"
Your emotions are at an all time high. "Yes... I want it. I want to have your baby, Sylus..." You can barely speak right.
"You'd do me the honor, wouldn't you? You'd let me fill you with my cum until it's leaking out of you, then you'd let me fuck it back into all over again until it takes."
His tip kisses your cervix ever so lightly as he slams into you with purpose. The sound of skin slapping together is orgasm inducing and your flesh ripples deliciously in his hands. He uses his Evol for a moment to keep you up and still as one of his hands comes to your stomach, pressing down. "You can feel me, hm? Feel how well we fit? We know how perfect we are together. Let's find out how even better we are when we mix."
You need it. You want it. You crave it. You need to have the family you and him have always talked about. And you need his cum so desperately that you'd get on your knees and beg. But you don't need to beg. Not when he's more than willing to give.
His hands come back to you and his thrusts become stronger, more ruthless, and your body welcomes every brutal motion. "Hold it," he demands as he feels you tighten uncontrollably. And you do. You hold it like your life depends on it.
He caresses your flushed cheek. "My sweet kitten. You listen so well for me, don't you?" You nod quickly, unable to speak to the man who's taking your breath away.
"Listen well for me one more time." His cock pulses and each vein massages the inside of you. "Come for me again. Reward your husband."
You don't need to be asked again as you scream for him, your body relieved to let out what it could no longer hold. Sylus knows how much you need him, need contact, so he brings you close and you grab at him while he groans in your ear, his own release painting your walls and filling you up. You're astounded that he's not falling to the floor because if it were you depending on your legs right now, you'd be a melted mess as much as you are in his arms.
You feel how his cum warms you. With bated breath, you tilt back your head to see your husband not as collected as you initially believed. He's just as much of a mess as you are. His cheeks and ear tips are red and his hard chest is rising and falling in quick succession. Even now, he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. He brings you both to the bench, sitting on it with him still nestled deeply inside of you.
The water has been running the whole time, likely cold but you and him couldn't care less. You rest your head on his shoulder.
"Staying together like this could increases our chances of pregnancy, no?" he whispers before kissing your head.
You chuckle. "I hope so."
“I really did miss you,” he mumbles into your hair. “Deeply.”
It's quiet for a moment. "I did, too.” You kiss his chest. “And I meant it, Sylus. I really do want that, want this. To start a family with you."
"I meant it too, my love. Every last word."
"Yeah?"
"Of course." He cups your face to bring your pretty eyes to him. "And I don't plan on stopping until it happens."
It already made sense why he had the twins leave, but now? It definitely makes sense. You would not know rest these next few days and you couldn't think of a better way to be welcomed home.
