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𑣿 shua. twenties. mature space, under 18 dni.

Come to find out: the Archfiend never needed a companion as such. But nature was his ally, and through the eyes of crows, young rabbits, and serpents, he was able to take notice of how poorly you were treated leading up to the evening you are offered. Beaten with scrapes and bruises and matted hair, dressed in a poorly spun, mud-soiled white gown serving as close to a bridal getup as it could be.

And it just gives Sylus ample enough excuse to murder the village folk who put you up to this, starting with the ones who laid their hands on you with such violence.

i drew these mainly for me in case i wanna use dividers someday but free to use for anyone! just cred me (ᵕ ´ ∇ ˋ ˶)

third myth poster collaborations!😌✨

but then he begs harder, whiny and pathetic, and it only adds fuel to the roaring fire in the pit of your belly. you manage to catch the one word that caleb's pushing through to you and it overtakes you instantly.

"ge–gege—!" you choke out around a whine, dragging red lines over his shoulders and upper back and caleb loses it.

the glass is sailing out of your hand and shattering against his chest before you can even process it.

a pause. an unimpressed glance at the mess on the floor. and then—

“did that help you calm down?”

you assume your incredulity will boil into outrage. that’s what should happen—a moment of disbelief, a rush of anger, a screaming match.

but as he stands composed, you stand before him. meager and petulant and evidently futile.

unwelcome waves of uncertainty and something like guilt surge to the front of your mind. under the weight of his coldness, his reproach, his controlled disappointment—as if he’d expected this but wanted to expect better—shame festers in your gut. 

just as traitorous tears sting the backs of your eyes, his withering gaze softens. he cocks his head and spreads his arms wide, eyes assessing you expectantly. 

and before you know it, you’re rushing to him: his safety, his familiarity, his unconditional comfort. 

you don’t notice when a stray shard of glass on his lapels carves a shallow scratch into your cheek—you’re too busy sniffling out apologies.