nesnes

Your son’s face is set in concentration. Jaw tight, brow furrowed, so much like Varka’s own expression when he’s working through a problem that you can’t help but smile where you’re watching.

“Your footing’s wrong,” Varka says.

“It’s not.”

“It is.” Varka takes a step closer. “You’re going to fall like that.”

“I won’t!” Your son’s chin juts out.

“You will.”

“I won’t,” he insists.

Varka exhales slowly through his nose. You can see him fighting a smile. “Alright,” he says, stepping back again. “Show me.”

Your son adjusts his grip and squares his shoulders. Then he swings.

The wooden sword arcs through the air. His balance shifts. His front foot slides. The momentum of the swing pulls him sideways and suddenly he’s tipping, falling, the sword flying from his hands—

Varka moves fast, closing the distance and catching your son before he hits the ground. One arm scoops him up, steadies him, sets him gently back on his feet.

There’s a pause.

Your son is breathing hard. His face is flushed. There’s grass in his hair.

“I had it,” he says quietly.

“You almost had it,” Varka agrees, brushing dirt off his shoulder. “Very close.”

“I did?”

“Mm.” Varka retrieves the fallen practice sword. “Good power. Good commitment. But your stance needs work.”

Your son looks up at him, blond hair falling in his eyes, expression somewhere between frustrated and hopeful.

“Can I try again?”

Varka chuckles. “Always.”

— ✦ —

Training with your son looks nothing like training with knights.

Varka is kneeling in the grass to be at eye level, and your son is trying so hard to copy movements that won’t come naturally for years yet.

“You’re strong,” Varka says, adjusting the grip on the practice sword again. His hands are gentle. “Already stronger than most kids your age. But strength isn’t everything.”

Your son frowns. “It’s not?”

“No.” Varka shifts his footing slightly. “You need balance. Control. Understanding.” He meets your son’s eyes. “A strong fighter who can’t control their strength is dangerous. To themselves and others.”

“Like how?”

Varka considers this. Then picks up his own practice sword. “Watch,” he says.

He demonstrates the movement slowly. Each part broken down. How his feet shift, how his hips rotate, how his arms extend in a controlled arc rather than wild swing. The practice sword cuts through the air with a soft whistle.

“See?” Varka says. “Every part works together. If even one thing is wrong, the whole thing falls apart.”

Your son nods seriously. Like this is the most important information he’s ever received.

“Now you try,” Varka says. “Slower this time. Think about each step.”

Your son plants his feet. Adjusts his grip. Takes a breath. Swings.

It’s not perfect. Not even close.

But it’s better.

“Good,” Varka says, and the pride in his voice makes your chest warm. “Much better. Again.”

They work like that for another hour. Your son practicing the same movement over and over, Varka correcting gently, encouraging constantly, never showing a hint of impatience.

Eventually, your son is breathing hard, sweaty, clearly tired but still determined.

“One more time,” he pants.

“No,” Varka says gently. “That’s enough for today.”

“But—”

“Rest is part of training too.” Varka takes the practice sword, sets it aside. “Your muscles need time to recover. That’s when they get stronger.”

Your son looks skeptical but nods.

Varka ruffles his hair. “You did well today. Better than last time.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie?”

Your son grins.

“Can we go to the ruins now?”

Varka’s expression shifts and becomes more guarded. “Ah,” he says.

“You promised we could go sometime!”

“I said we might go sometime. That’s different from a promise.”

“Papa.” Your son tugs on his hand. “Please?”

Varka glances toward you.

You’ve been watching this whole exchange with barely contained amusement.

“You’re thinking about saying no,” you call out.

“I am thinking very seriously about saying no,” Varka confirms.

Your son looks between you both—learning already how these negotiations work.

“But,” Varka adds after a long pause, “we can go near the ruins.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s significantly safer.”

“I want to go inside.”

“You want to do many things,” Varka says with the patience of a parent who’s had this conversation before, “that are currently not advisable.”

Your son’s lower lip juts out slightly. “Please?”

Varka looks down at him. At the grass-stained knees and sweaty hair and absolute determination written across that small face.

Then he looks at you again.

You’re smiling. Because you both know he’s already lost this fight.

Varka sighs. “We stay where I can see you,” he says.

“I will!”

“You don’t wander off.”

“I won’t!”

“You listen immediately when I tell you to stop or come back.”

“I promise!”

Varka studies him for another moment, then nods.

“Go tell your mother we’re leaving.”

Your son sprints toward the house, nearly tripping over his own feet in his excitement.

Varka stands slowly and walks over to where you’re sitting.

“You’re indulging him,” you observe.

“I’m supervising a controlled exploration of temple ruins,” Varka corrects. But he’s smiling.

“Mm-hmm.”

He settles beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. His hand finds yours automatically.

“He’s going to want to go deeper every time,” you point out. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” Varka’s thumb brushes across your knuckles. “But he’s curious. Wants to explore. I can’t fault him for that.”

“Just like his father.”

“Just like his father,” Varka agrees quietly.

Your son bursts back out of the house, boots half-laced, a small pack slung over one shoulder.

“I’m ready!”

Varka stands, pulls you up with him. He presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“We’ll be back before dinner,” he murmurs.

“You better be. Or I’m eating both portions.”

Varka grins. “Wouldn’t dare risk that.”

Then he’s scooping your son up onto his shoulders in one smooth motion. Your son is shrieking with surprised delight, hands tangling immediately in Varka’s hair for balance.

“Hold on,” Varka says.

“I am!”

“Tighter.”

Small hands grip harder.

“Good. Ready?”

“Ready!”

Varka starts walking, your son giggling the whole way.

You watch them go. The Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius and your five-year-old son, heading off to explore ruins.

But Varka will keep him safe.

He always does.

The walk takes about twice as long as usual, but Varka wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Papa, look!”

“I see it.”

“No, look—that bird!”

“I am looking.”

“No, really look. It’s blue.”

Varka tilts his head back slightly, following the flight path of a small azure bird cutting across the clear sky.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes. That’s worth looking at.”

It always is. Everything is worth looking at when your son points it out. The bird, the interesting rock, the cloud that looks sort of like a wolf if you squint, the butterfly that landed briefly on his knee.

Varka sets your son down carefully and keeps one hand on his shoulder.

“Remember the rules,” he says.

“Stay where you can see me.”

“And?”

“Don’t wander off.”

“And?”

“Listen when you tell me to stop.” Your son looks up at him seriously. “I remember.”

“Good.” Varka crouches down, looking him in the eye. “I mean it. These places are old. If I say stop, you stop. Immediately. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Varka studies him for a moment. Then he nods. “Alright. Let’s explore.”

— ✦ —

By the time they return home, your son is exhausted: face flushed from sun and excitement, grass stains on his knees, chattering non-stop about everything they saw.

You’re in the kitchen when they arrive. Dinner is almost ready.

“Mama!” Your son barrels into you, hugging your legs. “We saw ruins! And Papa said people from the past were—”

“Slow down,” you laugh, smoothing his hair back. “I can’t understand you when you talk that fast.”

He takes a breath and starts again, only slightly slower.

Varka appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching with that soft expression he gets sometimes. Like he can’t quite believe this is his life.

You catch his eye and mouth: How was it?

He mouths back: Perfect.

Dinner is chaotic in the way family dinners with a five-year-old always are—your son talking around mouthfuls of bread, Varka reminding him to chew, you trying not to laugh at both of them.

“And then Papa lifted me up really high so I could see the top of the wall—”

“Carefully,” Varka interjects. “Very carefully lifted.”

“And I could see everything!” Your son’s eyes are bright.

“That sounds wonderful,” you say, ladling more soup into his bowl.

After dinner, your son helps clear the table—or tries to, at least. Mostly he just carries his own bowl very carefully to the counter while Varka handles the rest.

Bath time is another negotiation.

“I’m not even dirty,” your son protests.

“You have mud behind your ears,” you point out.

“That’s from training!”

“Which means you need a bath.”

He looks to Varka for support.

Varka just grins. “Your mother is the highest authority in this house. I trust her judgment.”

“Unfair,” your son mutters, but he goes.

Later, when he’s clean and wearing sleep clothes that are already too small, you find him and Varka in the living room.

Your son is curled into Varka’s side on the couch, small body fitting perfectly against his father’s larger frame. Varka’s arm is around him, secure and grounding. There’s a book open on Varka’s lap, but neither of them are reading it.

“…and that’s why you never fight an Abyss Mage in water,” Varka is saying.

“What if you have to?”

“Then you make sure you’re not standing in the water. High ground. Always.”

“What if there’s no high ground?”

“Then you create some.”

“How?”

“Strategically.”

Your son giggles. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the best answer you’re getting at this hour.” Varka’s hand brushes through his hair. “You should be sleeping.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Your eyes are closing.”

“They’re not.” But even as he says it, he yawns.

Varka’s chest moves with quiet laughter.

You settle into the chair across from them, content to just watch.

“Papa?” Your son’s voice is softer now. Slower.

“Mm?”

“Are you the strongest knight?”

Varka is quiet for a moment.

“No,” he says finally.

Your son’s eyes flutter open. “You’re not?”

“I’m strong,” Varka says. “But strength isn’t a competition. It’s not about being the strongest. It’s about being strong enough. Strong enough to protect what matters. To help people who need it. To make the right choices even when they’re hard.”

“But you’re really strong, right?”

Varka’s smile is warm. “Strong enough.”

Your son thinks about that, processing in that serious way children do when they’re trying to understand something important.

“I still want to be strong like you,” he says eventually.

Varka looks down at him.

“You already are,” Varka says quietly. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Your son is asleep within minutes after that. Breath evening out, small body going limp and heavy against Varka’s side.

Varka doesn’t move. He just sits there, arm secure around your son, looking at him with that expression you’ve learned to recognize.

Wonder and protectiveness and love so fierce it’s almost frightening in its intensity.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur.

“Mm.” He doesn’t look away.

“He’s fine.”

“I know.”

But he keeps watching anyway. Like he’s memorizing this moment.

You stand, move to sit beside him on the couch. His free arm comes around you automatically, pulling you against his other side.

For a while, you just sit there.

“He’s going to be trouble when he’s older,” Varka says eventually, voice low so as not to wake your son.

“That sounds very familiar.” You settle more comfortably against him. “Wonder where he gets it.”

Varka huffs quietly. “Can’t imagine.”

“He’s already arguing with every instruction.”

“Only when he thinks he’s right.”

“So always.”

“Exactly like someone else I know.” His eyes are warm when they find yours.

You smile. “He’s perfect.”

“He is,” Varka agrees. “You both are.”

He leans down, kisses you gentle and sure, careful not to jostle your sleeping son.

When he pulls back, you’re both smiling.

“Should we move him to bed?” you ask.

Varka glances down at your son: completely passed out, mouth slightly open, one hand still fisted in Varka’s shirt.

“In a minute,” he says.

You settle back against him. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Hm.” His arm tightens slightly around both of you. “Must not have been ready yet.”

“And now?”

He looks down at your son. Then at you. “Still not ready.”

You don’t argue.

Because neither are you.

Varka sits there with both of you against him and thinks about strength.

Real strength.

The kind that isn’t measured in battles won or monsters defeated.

The kind that lives in moments like this.

Worth everything.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon.

You are whisked away from the courtyard by silent attendants, your robe hastily adjusted over the sticky imprints pulsing with disgust on your skin, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs — a mix of dread and fragile hope, a confusion of scenes transpiring too quickly.

What will the King of Heroes decree? Will he see you as sullied goods, unworthy of his divine gaze, or something entirely else?

The thought coils in your mind like smoke from a brazier, for you are no one, really, maybe but a vessel for the gods’ whispers if you try hard enough at the temple — like everyone else, you still bend to his will.

In the throne room, you dare not look up from the floor, following veins of lapis cutting through the stone that mimic the rivers of Sumer. The guards, these wretched dogs, stand assembled before the dais, their bodies glinting dully from perspiration from the afternoon heat (and you know that also from the interrupted game only they would’ve enjoyed), faces pale and slick with the sweat of impending judgement.

Before you can even cling to Siduri, your mentor and the current head priestess of one of the temples, you are positioned at Gilgamesh’s side, brought despite reluctance, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his perfectly proportioned body, like the sun’s own fire veiled in flesh. No wonder priests call him the very personification of Shamash’s seed.

Your heart is but a wild bird trapped in your chest; he could have cast you aside like a cracked bowl, replacing you with any untouched maiden from the temple groves or a silken courtesan from the hanging gardens. Yet here you stand, in his shadow, your body still humming with the memory of rough hands that dared trespass, not far, which is all, merely, you can be thankful for.

Without preamble, his arm snakes around your waist, other fingers clamping your arm. The world tilts as he yanks the folds of your robe downward in one fluid motion, exposing your breasts. The linen whispers against your skin like a lover’s sigh turned cruel, falling away to bare the soft curves, the same ones that the guards tried to possess.

You gasp, cheeks burning with a shame that floods your body like the inundation of the river; the faint scent of labdanum from your morning bath now mingled with fear and sweat.

Oh, merciful gods, why this public unveiling?

“Look upon her, you mongrels!” Gilgamesh’s voice booms forth, laced with the arrogance of one who views the world as his birthright, forcing the guards’ gazes upward. His crimson eyes pierce like bloodied spears anytime someone dares to move.

The men flinch, confronted with the sight of your half-naked body — the soft flesh yielding under his grasp, pliable, and the faint tremor in your breath that betrays your doubt. Their discomfort is palpable, their earlier courage crumbling like dried clay or burnt incense ash.

What will Siduri think of all that? Your thoughts reel, tumbling like scattered offerings. It is utter mortification, your silhouette reduced to a spectacle before men who sought to claim you, and you’re too afraid to even search for the only pair of eyes that could bring you comfort now, any of the fellow priestesses now hiding in the shadows of the columns.

But Gilgamesh has not discarded you.

You are his, after all, a possession in the king’s vast treasury, and that knowledge wraps around your humiliation like a silken cord, binding gratitude to the sting of objectification.

“You have dared to lay hands upon what is mine,” he snarls, his irises narrowing, each word dripping disdain of a demigod for lesser beings.

His hand gestures dismissively, golden rings catching the light like captured stars, then descends with a sharp smack upon your bare breast. The impact blooms fire across your skin, a stinging heat that radiates inward. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, futile, and you still whimper like a wounded animal, tasting tears of your own restraint and embarrassment.

Exposed, marked, utterly owned. But that’s different from being at the mercy of those crude guards.

This is his way of bringing justice forth, raw and brutal.

Your mind pleads for the earth to swallow you whole, the shame spilling from within in the form of salty droplets. But he has chosen to intervene, to pull you from the jaws of violation, even if his methods strip you bare in body and spirit.

A different kind of asserting dominance.

The guards shift uneasily, their eyes darting to the floor, cheeks flushing with the guilt of witnessing their king claim what they coveted — his fingers cupping the swell of your breast with an intentional possessiveness, a confusing tangle of degradation and divine favour.

“Avert your eyes no longer!” His words cut through the air like blades. “Earlier, you circled her like starved beasts, seeking to intimidate my possession — my priestess. You dogs, thought to soil my treasure with your unworthy grasp? To waste her prospects on the rut of lowly mutts? Face the humiliation you have wrought upon yourselves, for in touching what belongs to me, you have invited my wrath!”

You feel a cursed sort of relief that he has named you his, even as the exposure leaves you not your own person, your mind melting in gratitude laced with the erotic undercurrent of his authority, your body burning away the disgust from the guards’ earlier behaviour.

“Mark this well, mongrels,” Gilgamesh continues, eyes sweeping over them like a scythe through ripe barley. “The next trespass shall demand a fiercer approach. You will summon your wives before me and bear witness as I claim them, gifting them with the seed of a demigod, siring heirs that eclipse your own spawn. No longer shall your lineage fester in the shadows, ha! I will supplant it utterly, leaving you to mourn upon the fruits that take over your bloodline!”

How your skin prickles at the image he conjures, how you battle the tempest in your chest, how you want to fall to your knees and beg him not to involve others, not other women, not hurt them over their husbands’ wrongdoings, but you only shudder in his grip like a withered desert rose.

Mercy, great gods, have mercy, and teach the great king how to use it!

The gathered crowd recoils as if scorched; courtiers and attendants press against the walls, fingers grazing the columns like roots digging into the ground. The women, especially — priestesses with their hennaed hands clasped over amulets of lapis and carnelian — shrink back most keenly, their eyes wide with dread.

“My king, I—” you start, but a mere whisper, but your voice dies in your throat.

“Begone from my sight, and let this lesson carve itself into your marrow,” Gilgamesh says to all, ignoring the way you clutch to his arm. “The rest of you return to your labours. This spectacle ends.”

With a disdainful flick of his wrist, golden bracelets clinking like temple chimes, he dismisses the guards who slink away like whipped jackals. The crowd disperses in a murmur of hurried steps and rustling garments; the chamber empties like a river receding from flood.

Then his eyes lock upon you. “Veil your dignity first and wait near my chambers.”

“Y-yes, my king, as you wish…”

(Only yes, yes, yes, so insistent that you doubt if there’s anything else to your voice, any other quality that it could be used for.)

You clutch the fallen folds of your robe, drawing it tight across your chest as if you wish to make sure this time no one pulls it down from you; the remnants of grace, scattered like little beads and crystals, come back and line your muscles, every tiny movement regaining your usual pace and rhythm.

The corridor swallows you as you flee the throne room, bare feet slapping against warm tiles inlaid with tiny stars that gleam under torchlight. Servants part before you, eyes averted, whispers dying on their lips as if your haste carried the king’s own blaze.

You know you cannot face him in a state like that, for you must bathe first. Just fortunate for you, near his chamber is an adjacent one with bathing supplies. You take fine sand in your hands, brush away all sweat and anything disgraceful from your skin; it feels harsh, not scraping you, but enough to make you burn a little.

Busy, locked in the palace of your own mind, you don’t even notice Gilgamesh entering the room in the meantime and observing you from under the columns. He watches, still as stone, the crimson of his eyes tracking each sweep of your hands across your skin, each desperate attempt to scrub away the shame that clings tighter than any dust.

He comes closer, footsteps silent despite his stature, and dips the cloth in the bowl with water. For a moment — brief, almost grudging, as if his hands move against the very nature of his divine blood — he washes specs of sand from your shoulder, the touch neither gentle nor harsh, simply there. He would never lower himself so far as to bathe you or anyone else, never demean his station by playing servant to mortal flesh, but that single gesture is enough to make you understand something you hadn’t dared hope for. That he cares, in whatever strange, twisted manner befits a king who acknowledges no equals. But before you can melt into that gossamer compassion, before you can lean into the unexpected warmth of it, he tosses the cloth into your open palms with a flick of his wrist.

“Do it yourself,” he commands. “You are an independent adult. Never again rely on me for what you can accomplish with your own two hands.”

(Isn’t he the one who moved first before you could even realise?)

“Yes, my king. Of course…!”

Yet he remains, lets his fingers rub oil into your neck, applies perfume that immediately takes over your senses, thick like syrup, something akin to balsam and rose clinging to your throat with every breath. You feel guilt bloom fresh in your chest, a different kind now — not worthy of his attention, dirty and soiled despite being clean again, despite the sand washed away and the sweat scrubbed from every limb. How could you possibly face Siduri or even dream of standing right next to her as one of the main messengers between the gods and the people? And then there’s the king, the golden one, higher in position than anybody else, proud above all, now expecting you to follow with the conversation when all you’d rather ask of him is to bury you underground, not touch you.

“My king, that’s—”

“Still valuable,” he interrupts, his voice an absolute certainty that brooks no argument. “I would be a mere idiot, no better than those dogs who pawed at you, if I wasted a lovely being such as yourself.”

“But your speech…” you venture, the protest weak on your tongue. Your behaviour, too, you wish to add, but bite your tongue in time. Treating you like his possession (which you are, you cannot deny), the sensation of his palm against your breast not quite gone, now deeper than a surface contact on your skin, seeping inside.

“An amplified performance, if anything,” he says, circling around to face you properly now, those inhuman eyes boring into yours like a snake approaching an unsuspecting bird. “And you had better learn the ways of it if you wish to take over the duties of the head priestesses one day. I do not tolerate what is average; I do not suffer what is mediocre. I scold because you can be better. Because you must be better, if you are to serve me.”

You nod, gathering what remains of your composure. You beg silently, you pray that your mind plays foul tricks on you, that he doesn’t mean what you normally would assume hearing a man talk to you in such a way. The robe clings to your body where it drank rivulets of poured water, wee uncomfortable around the seams, but you refuse to adjust it. Any movement might shatter this peculiar equilibrium, and you dare not do anything that wasn’t explicitly asked of you.

Gilgamesh rolls his eyes, a gesture so profoundly human it startles you more than his divinity ever has.

“Stop that,” he commands, gesturing at your rigid posture. “Your spine will crack if you hold yourself any tighter. Relax.”

“My king, I—”

“I will not expect from you any close company when you’re still shaken by the beastly behaviour of those mongrels,” he says, settling himself upon a low cushion with the casual authority of one accustomed to being obeyed. “Your nerves are frayed like old hemp. It would be pointless.”

You exhale slowly, attempting to soften your shoulders, though the effort feels absurd under his gaze. The tension merely shifts rather than dissolves, pooling instead in your chest where your heart still flutters in an uneven rhythm, where the ghost of his hand still remains.

“My king, in the throne room... your threats to those men’s wives...” Your voice trails off, barely above a whisper. The words taste like soiled copper on your tongue.

“What of them?” He doesn’t even glance your way, examining his golden rings with apparent disinterest, mocking you.

“Did you... did you mean it?”

“I already told you. A performance.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Amplified for effect. Do you think I waste my divine seed on mongrels’ mates?”

You should feel relief. You do feel relief, but it mingles with something you cannot digest. The stories surface unbidden in your mind — events from years past when the king walked through Uruk like a lion among sheep, taking what he pleased, crushing resistance beneath his heel. Before Siduri. Before Enkidu. Before whatever changed in him softened certain edges whilst sharpening others.

A shudder runs through you despite the warm air.

His eyes snap to yours, that maroon gaze missing nothing. “You doubt my word.”

It’s not a question.

You shake your head frantically, but tears already prick at your eyes, hot and shameful.

“Please, my king, I only—” Your voice breaks. “I beg you, don’t frighten those women for what their husbands attempted. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

“And why,” Gilgamesh leans forward slightly, eyebrow arched in something between curiosity and challenge, “should I listen to your pleas? What claim do you possess that grants you the authority to question my judgement?”

Your gaze drops below your knees. “I have none, my king. I am nothing. But they—”

“They suffer punishment enough by binding themselves to such vermin,” he interrupts. “Had they possessed any sense, they would have requested an audience, demanded I save them from marriages to dogs masquerading as men.”

The argument rises to your lips before you can stop it — that most fear him too much to hope for such clemency, that approaching a demigod with complaints about their husbands seems as futile as asking the Euphrates to flow backwards. But you swallow the sharp words, reshape them into something gentler.

“They... many believe you unreachable, my king. Too far above mortal concerns to—”

“Then they are fools as well as victims.” He interrupts you again. It’s frustrating. “Though I note you’ve still not answered my actual question.”

You blink, confused.

“Why do you care more about the fate of women you’ve never met than about proper punishment for the men who attempted to violate you?” His head tilts, studying you like a scholar examining cuneiform. “They circled you like jackals. Touched what they had no right to touch. Terrified you. And yet you kneel here weeping for their wives instead of demanding their blood.”

You realise you have no answer that won’t sound either foolish or condemning; the question hangs above your head like the sun burning strong enough to split stones into valleys, too heavy for you to rationalise. It’s just a deeper kind of fear, something unfair and unjust that simply works in this world when it shouldn’t.

“I can give you the means to get rid of them,” he offers, his voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial.

You eye him in shock, the words catching in your throat. Get rid of them? The meaning crystallises slowly, horrifyingly clear. Your mouth opens. Closes. No sound emerges.

“What troubles you?” His crimson eyes narrow with what might be amusement.

“I—” Your voice cracks like dried mud. “My king, I do not wish to— that is, I could never ask you to—”

You cannot finish. Cannot even voice the thought of death, of those men’s bodies cooling in the city’s grounds, of their families wailing. Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

“You fear I would execute them for their transgression?” He tilts his head, studying you as one might examine a curious artifact. “That I would paint the stones with their blood simply because they dared lay hands upon what is mine?”

The words blur together. Yes. No. Both. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly. Again. You’re stuck, unable to escape, unable to decide, the pressure coming from all sides like it’s possible to crack your head open just from stress.

Gilgamesh laughs, rich and entirely without mercy. “This was but a jest, priestess. A mere amusement at your expense.”

The relief does not come this time. Instead, it pools uneasily in your belly, mixing with the lingering dread. A jest! He was testing you, toying with your hysteria like a child with an insect. You nod because nodding requires nothing of you, no words that might further entangle you in the web of his caprice.

“Though,” he continues, crossing arms in front of his chest with fluid grace, “do not mistake my restraint for weakness. Should they attempt such trespass again, I would not hesitate. The guards exist to serve order, not to disturb it. Their usefulness ends the moment they become a liability.”

Your hands remain clasped before you, tingling from how hard you squeeze your fingers. You understand now that his mercy is not kindness but calculation — that you live and breathe at his sufferance, that your worth fluctuates with his mood as surely as the Euphrates rises and falls with the seasons.

“You will remain here tonight,” he says.

“My king, I could never!”

“Ha! Now you’re disobeying me? Over something like that?” He’s genuinely entertained, chuckling under his breath. “Here is the safest place in all Uruk. Sleep if you can, for I know you wouldn’t be able to do so anywhere else.”

You swallow hard, the protest dying before it fully forms. He’s right, of course, of course he is — the thought of returning to your quarters, of lying in darkness wondering if those guards might return emboldened by drink or spite, sends thunder through your veins. Your fingers twist in the damp linen of your robe.

“I understand, my king.”

“Good.” He gestures towards the far corner where thick cushions line the wall, lavish things embroidered with golden thread that catches the lamplight. “There. Not the floor like some common slave.”

You move carefully, aware of his gaze tracking your movements. The cushions yield beneath you as you sink down, softer than anything you’ve ever touched. Gilgamesh reclines on his own bed across the chamber, propping himself on one elbow. He doesn’t dismiss you or turn away. Simply watches, those crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dimness like embers.

“You’re still trembling.”

You press your palms flat against your thighs, willing the shaking to stop.

“I apologise! I—”

“Stop apologising.” His voice, tired, almost an exhale, cuts through your stammering. “It’s tedious…”

Silence falls, heavy and strange, a bile in your throat, an ache behind your eyelids. You focus on the rise and fall of your own breathing, on the sounds of the palace settling for the night — steps in far corridors, the low murmur of guards changing watch, distant songs and chatter of the city still awake in the warm light of torches and braziers. Anything but the consequence of his attention. And he is staring, right into your soul, piercing through your heart, luring your gaze to meet him despite your utmost wish to bury yourself under the pillows and shawls.

“They didn’t succeed,” he says suddenly, startling you. “In whatever they intended.”

Your throat tightens. “No, my king.”

“Then you remain untouched. Whole.” He shifts, the movement sending shadows dancing across the walls. “What occurred was an attempt. Nothing more. Do not grant them power over you by dwelling on what might have been.”

The words should comfort you. Oh, how you wish they could. Instead, they feel like an order, as if you could simply command your mind to still, your hands to stop shaking. But perhaps that’s exactly what he expects — absolute control, even over your own terror.

“Yes, my king.”

(Yes, yes, yes— for once, dear gods, let this word disappear!)

“Such a sickening thought to have other men occupy your thoughts more than my brilliance does.” You hear him laugh, soft and quiet, and it almost convinces you to raise your head, but he’s quick to notice your shifting attention. “Come here for a moment.”

Your legs obey before your mind catches up, carrying you across the chamber on unsteady feet. He doesn’t reach for you, simply watches as you approach, waiting to see if you’ll collapse or compose yourself. You stop at the edge of his bed, uncertain whether to kneel or stand.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the space beside him.

You settle carefully, the closeness overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, his golden skin glowing faintly in the candlelight, unmarred and perfect in a way that reminds you he is not entirely of this world, but from somewhere unreachable.

“Your mind races like a startled hare,” he observes, reaching out to trace a single finger along your jawline, neither gentle nor harsh, but simply possessive. “It must be exhausting.”

“I—” You swallow hard. “I don’t know how to be otherwise, my king.”

“Then perhaps you should learn. The head priestess position requires more pride than you currently possess. Fear serves no purpose here.”

“I will do my best. To not disappoint you. To… make sure you don’t have to exhaust your energy on farces below your status.”

“I do not require servitude born of fear. You need to understand the distinction between a fool’s obedience and one’s choice to serve.” His fingers now brush around your nape, where the perfume still clings to your skin. “The head priestess must counsel me, not merely execute my whims like a trained pet.”

Your breath catches. “My king, I’m not certain I’m capable of—”

“Neither am I,” he cuts in with the faintest curve to his mouth. “Prove yourself. Amuse me.”

His hand drops away, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. (It’s sickening how easily he bends you to his will — in one moment you’re frightened, in the next leaning towards his touch.)

“Go to sleep now,” he says, settling back against his pillows as if the conversation has concluded.

You remain motionless, uncertain whether to stay or retreat to your cushions.

“Did I stutter?” His eyes snap open, that crimson gaze pinning you in place. “Move.”

(As declared earlier, he does not need you in his bed tonight. A blessing, as rough and cold as it is in its meaning, but for that dismissal, you can be more than grateful.)

You scramble back to your corner, pulling cushions around yourself like a fortress. Your heart pounds against your ribs, though whether from fear or something else entirely, you cannot say. You curl onto your side, drawing your knees up slightly, too sensitive to every tiny sound and move he makes across the chamber, and you wonder how one can possess such even breath while bearing in one’s hands the destiny of so many people, dealing with the annoyance of such lowly creatures as yourself, unable to even fathom the vastness of his confidence.

Sleep feels impossible, yet exhaustion pulls at you like an undertow.

(And you do not want to disappoint him any more than you already did…)

after that, he wasn't too interested in those drunken debates anymore, laughing in earnest when asked – who is the most beautiful in mondstadt? sometimes he says rosaria just to tease her when she's around, other times, he says barbatos for the heck of it.

"fools, all of you!" varka slams his pint of dandelion wine down the table, brows furrowed in irritation, "my wife is the sweetest and most beautiful lady there is! how blind can you be to suggest anyone else?" his voice booms all throughout the tavern, making people turn their heads.

"u-uh but grandmaster, let's be realistic here, you—"

the poor guy is now being glared at by the grandmaster of mondstadt, a living legend, a knight recognized by the great wolf boreas and the anemo archon – a smitten, wife-loving, hunk of a man who's willing to forgo all dignity in order to defend his wife's honor.

varka clicks his tongue, and it quickly shuts the soldier up, knowing who he's against but it's too late to stop when varka suddenly speaks up again:

"realistic, you say? you sayin' my wife ain't gorgeous, that it?"

older, veteran soldiers are now looking at the new recruit with pity in their eyes. they've known their grandmaster for years, have fought alongside him, and are even willing to lay their lives for him, so if they know one thing about varka, it's that you never speak negatively about his wife. don't even dare imply it.

a loyal dog may bark but a smitten one will bite.

"that's not it, sir!" the young soldier quickly tries to make amends, stuttering in the process but the only response he got was a small huff from varka.

the other soldiers circle around their table, snickering to each other, "now, now, you know your wife is never included in these kinda' stuff. we wouldn't dare speak of the grandmaster's beloved that way."

"damn right, she's above these petty discussions! AHAHAHAHA!"

he's actually hopeless when it comes to you.

a truly unorthodox man, he is. hard to understand but terrifyingly easy to trust and admire. adored by many despite his ruffian-like demeanor. a slacker yet somehow the most reliable knight there is in the people's eyes. a person of contrasting qualities.

varka of mondstadt is said to be a 'man amongst men', chivalry comes to him like second nature and his list of admirers could fill the favonius library's record book, literally.

but they're in tough luck, the grandmaster only has eyes for you after all. it is no secret how smitten the oh-so-great knight of boreas, varka is for his wife.

no one even tries to approach him with romantic intentions anymore after he's made it very clear where he stands, which is forever next to you. many women, early on in both of your relationship, have tried to swoon and seduce him but they're met with very firm rejections. if there's anything he's strict about, it's this. and he expects the same treatment others give him with you, meaning if someone ever tried flirting or oh lord barbatos – make you leave him, they're getting the harshest talk ever, from varka and the people of mondstadt. 'cause the vendors are your biggest fans after all. though just him would probably be enough, do you know how scary varka is when he's serious? it's more than enough to make a grown man cry.

that's only if you can't handle it or the person is too persistent and you might actually hurt whoever this is. varka's there as a middle man, and hey if he pushes a little too hard while trying to create some distance between the two of you, who's to say it's not a complete accident? he's not exactly a saint of patience, particularly when your safety and comfort is compromised. he isn't the grandmaster of the knights of favonius for nothing.

he's like an obedient angel towards you though, if the angel was over six foot and had a frame huge enough to become an umbrella during hot days.

like a dog wagging it's tail, he beams immediately when he sees your figure from afar. suddenly, he's standing despite jean's protests and kaeya's exasperation, jumping out the window (even though he's on the third floor) and jogging over to you.

"hon! over here!"

you try to walk faster, hoping you heard wrong. because if you did, that means varka is slacking off again and you have to force him to go back to jean, lest she actually pops a blood vessel this time.

"hey don't ignore me!" he catches up to you in no time, barely even taking twelve steps before making it to your side.

you look up at his hulking figure, "go back to work. jean looks about ready to drop dead. or drop you dead." you can spot her angry expression from here, shouting a stern 'grandmaster varka!' but varka pretends to be deaf, focusing on you.

"puh-lease!" he scoffs, laughing boisterously with hands on his hips, "jean dropping dead, hah! you're hilarious. that girl's tough as nails! plus, those look heavy – ah, here let me.."

varka takes your shopping bags from you, carrying three bags in one hand while he interwines his other with yours.

"cookin' up a storm, huh?" varka glances at the ingredients in the bag: some vegetables, fruits, spices, and heavy cuts of meat. no doubt for him and his big carnivorous appetite.

he's smiling in that gooey, lovesick, way again. varka has always been a smiley person, but with you, it was more of a devoted sort of smile – one with less teeth and more wobbly, licked, lips where he gets an itch to scream ' i love you ' on the top of his lungs – letting it echo all throughout teyvat to make sure everyone knew.

eh, he does the same thing anyways with the way he chatters about you to every person he's met. talks and talks and talks until the people are listless, for hours if he could.

he escorts you home, hand in hand. cuts the vegetables as you get the stove started. sings a tune of windchimes and cliffs in that raspy tone of his while he helps with the peeling and heavy work, places chaste kisses on your cheek while you giggle.

jean can't get too mad at that, but she can at least nag varka until his ears fall off.

varka hates writing, hates paperwork all together. can't even stand the sight of paper in the office, always dreading the mountains of it stacked on his desk.

he'd rather be out fighting monsters, training recruits, or having a drink at angel's share. there are a million better things to do than boring ol' paperwork, like bothering people and smothering you with his love. he really, reeeally hates writing!

but he loves you.

he only likes writing when it's to his beloved. it's rare for the grandmaster to actually smile whenever he picks up a pen, usually he does so with a grimace. scowling like a petulant child while he twirls the pen in his hand, sighing every second while he stares at the documents on his desk. however. . .

it's different with you, it always is.

fredwinn is looking at the grandmaster with a suspicious and concerned gaze, it's really odd to see him so happy. . .

while writing.

he's getting weirded out, enough to ask others why such a massive and well-known loafer is actually writing with so much delight his smile looks about ready to split his face. he's met with small knowing grins and giggles from the other soldiers instead. he'll figure it out soon, they say.

he takes a peek over at what varka's writing, met with over two pages of words, small doodles of things they've fought in the margins of the paper – and how the hell is it colored? did he seriously buy crayons just for this? it's badly drawn though if he were to be honest, looks like a child made it. but the amount of words written baffle him, he's never seen the grandmaster write this much.

sure, it's starting to look a bit like chicken scratch because of how fast and how much he's writing but varka's never been one to be happy while writing something – he barely even wrote! like at all. even if he did, he usually made others do it in his stead. the man's great at fighting but he's not exactly a sit in a chair and write reports sort of guy.

perhaps long expeditions change people.

or, maybe he's an idiot who rambles too much in his letters – as long as they're addressed to you. fredwinn soon learns of this after a while, spotting the name of the recipitent in every letter, always followed by a heart. because varka's sappy like that.

varka loves you to the point of blatant favoritism, although he's never been strict with his soldiers, he does dish out punishments when needed. makes sure they learn their lesson too, 'cause what kinda grandmaster would he be if he doesn't?

you could never do wrong though, simply not a concept that exists in that empty head of his.

his wife made a mistake? ah, no biggie, he'll take care of it. you accidentally set the favonius headquarters on fire? oh no! don't worry, he'll handle it, just make sure to get to safety. you ripped his coat to shreds while washing? haha! so funny, anyways did you hear what razor learned today? that's right, its how to write yours and varka's name! isn't that so cool?

you can slack of more than him and he'd still call you the most hardworking person he's ever met. you could never ever do wrong in varka's eyes, it's like telling him the sky is brown or alcohol is bad.

. . .wait, you hid the alcohol? honey, dont be like that! he'll cry, seriously.

you're an exception to many things, and for a good reason, a simple yet profound reason, and also the main reason he fell in-love with you in the first place: it's you. beyond being his wife, his other-half, and varka's closest confidant – you are you, that in itself is already enough for varka, even without the prior accolades.

with both of your legs entwined with each other, your face in his chest as you rest on his bicep. it feels like a rock is under the side your head from how firm his muscles are, but you've gotten used to it, now it just reminds you of home.

because varka is home, and you'd never get homesick if he's around.

"does it not bother you?" he hums, chin propped on your head. you can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, makes your head all woozy and sleepy. being surrounded by his scent relaxes your tired body, and you let your eyes clos in response.

"what do you mean?" you ask, nuzzling in his chest further, his clothes smell freshly laundered, with that familiar detergent that you use.

varka keeps quiet for a few seconds, wondering if he should even say anything, "the way they address you as 'grandmaster's wife' instead of your name."

you can only mumble an answer, something varka can't quite catch but he assumes the worst.

he sets a small kiss on your forehead, wrapping you in his arms, "i'll tell them to stop, don't worry."

finally, you jolt awake, "no, no! it's really okay, i don't mind it."

varka looks at you with a complicated expression, finding it hard to believe.

"i like it...being called your wife, being known as yours." you flush, hiding your face. honestly, whenever people greet you in the market as 'grandmaster's wife' or 'varka's lady', it makes you giddy, heart-racing like a girl being teased about her crush.

the people don't mean anything malicious, you know that much and he knows too but it makes you grateful that he's still asking how you feel about it. always so considerate, treating your heart like porcelain. varka's like that, you're pretty sure his worst nightmare is making you upset.

varka has been completely quiet for a few seconds now but you can hear the loud thump, thump, thump of his heart within embrace. you don't have to look at him to know he's just as, if not more, flustered than you.

"alright, if you say so." he buries his face in your neck, curling in himself to be much closer to you.

"i really like it too, when they call me your husband. gets me all happy, y'know?" he mumbles gruffly.

you already know that, because he goes beet red whenever the vendors tease him. it's really obvious. but he's always been obvious with his devotion, you love that about him.

varka loves you, he's loud and clumsy with it but who cares? that just comes with the package.

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)

He placed you down on the bed carefully, following you down so he could kiss you again as his hands untied the ribbon on your nightgown and removed your panties softly. Dimitri put his mouth on your breast, started sucking on your peaked nipple. Your moans captivating him, enticing him to continue. His other hand caressing your back. You did your best desperately to tried to keep up with his pace, tugging off his clothes eagerly. You were so ready for what was to come, and you pulled back from the kiss and gazed up at him with longing.

“I’m sorry, love, I just want to worship you. I can still hardly believe that you’re letting me do this, I’m scared that this might just be a dream, and I will soon wake up in my bed, disoriented and alone. You don’t know how often I have dreamt of this…”

When you were both fully naked, Dimitri swallowed as he looked down at you, and you spread your legs as he reached down to his achingly hard cock.

“Are you sure, my beloved? I will never pressure you. W-we can always...”

“You won’t hurt me, Dima. It’s okay.”

Your words made him gulp and took a deep breath, trying to supress his nervousness.

You were embarrassed to discover that you were easily wet enough from just kisses and simple groping. He smiled at you as he began to slowly sink in your inviting depths. You let out a whine as you tried to hold back your tears. It hurts so much that you tried to endure it with burying your head on his chest.

Dimitri’s eyes closed as he dropped down to hug you softly, his deep groan rumbling in his chest as he pushed further inside you. Finally, your hips fully met as he was seated fully within you, and you knew that you had never felt anything like this before. No explanation could match up with how good it felt to be so intimate with the man you loved.

You felt his breath tickle your ear as he pulled himself back up, his eyes half lidded. “I’m sorry that I hurt you, (Y/N). You feel so good… forgive me, but it is hard for me to focus on anything else.”

He didn’t waste a second in continuing the movement, and his gentle thrusts was driving you insane. You were completely naked, and it had been a cold night, but you were so, so warm. There initial pain turned into a pleasant feeling that you had never felt before. Evidently this was new to Dimitri as well, because he was in no better of a state than you were, panting against your skin as he leaned down to kiss and give love bites at your neck.

“Dima, please… I can hardly stand it anymore”, you said breathlessly.

Dimitri couldn’t suppress his own groan as he was able to reach deeper within you. And when you rolled your hips up to meet him, he almost stopped his momentum to bask in how good it felt. He kneading, caressing, squeezing your breasts and stifled your moan as he kissed you again. The king stared down at his wife’s flushed face and felt both his heart and cocks twitch at the adorable sight before him. You were so beautiful like this, and his heart stuttered with every sound that left your mouth.

He raised one of your legs above his shoulder to get a better angle, and you cried in unison from the deeper reach of his cock. You came immediately from that angle, toes curling from your climax. The king of Faerghus grit his teeth as you clamped down on him, and in seconds he spilled his thick hot seed with a last thrust into your core with a strained groan of your name.

The two of you stayed joined for a moment before Dimitri gently moved off of you, giving you a shy smile. “I...do apologize for making such a mess of you, my love.”

He wasn’t making eye contact anymore, and you followed his gaze downwards on your body.  Your inner thighs were smeared with mixture of cum and streak of blood, and a small puddle of it pooling between your legs. Embarrassment came through like tidal waves as you closed your legs tightly and brought an arm up to cover as much of your body as you could.

Dimitri laughed at your bashfulness as he picked something from the drawer and moved behind you. “You’re doing amazing, Beloved. Please let me help you,” Dimitri said behind your ear softly, getting a soft mewl from you. Wrapping his arms around your waist, his hand slides up your torso to cradle one of your breasts. With the other, he reaches down and runs the towel slowly along your inner thighs. But he stopped when you moan from his ministrations between your legs.

He made a pleased noise into your hair, using his arms to pull you on his lap. Gazing into his beautiful cerulean eyes, you put your hands on his cheeks lovingly, caressing his eyepatch. He tensed and tried to avoid your gaze. “You needn’t to see such an awful sight, my love.” His entire body screaming nervous tension as he gazed away from you. He’s clearly self-conscious about showing it, so it must bothered him tremendously.

“It’s okay if you don’t want me to see it, Dima.”

He sighed. “No, I may as well get it over with. You’ll see it sooner or later.” Stiffly, he hook his fingers into the straps and eases the eyepatch over his head. There’s a deep jagged scar across his cheek and eyelid. Instead of cerulean blue, his right eye colour is milkish white. Your lips pulled into a gentle smile, hand ghosting over his wounded eye before trailing down his cheek.

“Beautiful,” you whispered affectionately as you leaned up pressing a light kiss over the battle scar, then proceed to kiss each and every scar on his body tenderly. You were surprised when he tugged you onto his chest, his arms wrapping around your frame firmly as he nuzzled into the crown of your head. “My sweet angel… What could I possibly have done to deserve you?”

Those words pulled your heart just a little too hard. No words are exchanged between you as Dimitri look at you with pure love and adoration in his eyes, as if you’re the most important thing in the world. Your husband gently lifts you on his lap and pull you into passionate kisses that you melt into. The head of Dimitri's cock noses at your hole, making you moan as he slides inside you.

He felt pride surge up in him as you squirmed and broke the kiss to let out another cute mewl. First few thrusts are awkward, adjusting to the new angle, but every time your sweet voice moaned his name, the pace quickly turns more savage. Watching your bouncing breasts with an unnerving intensity, his gaze as hungry as the motions of his hips.  His thrusts became frantic, and sweats beaded on his temples. Grabbing your hips in dead grip, he slammed into your body and sending you both over the edge in a maddening burst.

“S-Sorry, Beloved!! I didn’t mean t-to...” Dimitri stammered when the dawn of realization hit him. He has made you.. even messier than before. You chuckled at his guilty countenance. “We should clean up, then.”

---

After dried yourself, you changed into another nightgown, picked Dimitri’s huge fur cloak that he put on the couch and wear it as a blanket. Its comfy warmth and fluffiness made you drowsy. You wanted to go to sleep. Or at least trying to. But your husband had another plan in his mind.

“B-beloved! That’s m-my... my cloak!! W-why you...” he has became a stuttered mess. “Because it feels like being in your arms. Made me feel safe and warm. And.... it smell just like you, Dima,” you said as you flashed your beaming, innocent smile that has took his breath away. The moonlight that shone in through the window cast a radiant glow on your hair made him thought that you are an ethereal beauty. Such a sight to behold.

Seeing you in his cloak has awoken something primal inside him.

Dimitri pinned you down on the bed with such hungry eyes as if he‘s ready to feast on you... His blue orbs looking at you intently, asking for consent. When you gave him one, he teared up your flimsy nightgown immediately, his tongue circled and danced on your sensitive nipples. Dimitri put you on your knees as he bite and licked your neck in zealous manner. Giving you time to adjust to his enormous size, he kissed you passionately as he pounded into your pussy from behind. Started with slow thrusts, You can feel him rutting against your back as you tremble, eliciting loud moans from your lips.

Dimitri savoured the way your walls welcomed and enveloped his shaft with every re-entry, as if they were perfectly made to fit only him.. The loud moans from both of you were silenced by the sounds of skin slapped, ragged breath, and lewd wet sounds that filled the room. You screamed as a particular thrust hitting some spot on your inner walls that feels way too good and made your vision gone white.

You didn’t know how long it had been when Dimitri pants, “Sorry, I—” and his hands tighten on your hips. He drove into you once, twice more and buried his cock deep into you as he pumped you full again with his cum. The orgasm engulfed you both completely in an enormous tidal wave of pleasure and release.

Your limbs were melting as you breathing hard against him. When you opened your eyes, Dimitri is watching over you with utterly peaceful and warm affectionate smile. Both of you lie together like that in blissful afterglow for a long time. You felt like a tidal wave of exhaustion was crashing down on your body as a small sleepy noise escaped your lips. Dimitri laughed at your sleepy face and snuggled you into his arms, draping the cloak and blanket over your naked form.

You were half-asleep when you felt something hard poked your stomach. “S-sorry Beloved. I clearly lack the necessary self-control. You need to rest. I’ll leave you alone.” The young king blushed profusely as he let go of you and backed away. Dimitri never thought he would be this addicted.

"Keep going for as long as you want, Dima. Please take your time. I might fall asleep, but I don't mind," you said with a drowsy smile. All those pent-up stress must be taking a toll on him. Even if it’s just a bit, you want to help him to ease it. Not to mention that it truly felt amazing.

Your words had stoked the fire within him further. And, insatiable beast that he is, he took your offer on it. And he did multiple times, that night.

Holding his breath, he pushed out just an inch, relishing the silky caress of your walls. Then back inside—where it's warm, and tight, and already wet with his seed. Afraid to wake you up with his thrusting, he nudged his cock in and out gently. He thought back on the way your breasts bounced when you straddled his lap, your moans of his name, and that ravished look on your face when he'd reached right into your deepest core and found a way to take you apart from within. With a long groan, he tips over the edge, spilling his load into your welcoming pussy.

Still, he didn’t want to leave the warm embrace of your body yet. Draping his arm back around you, Dimitri put his large hands over your stomach, he wondered if you could be pregnant. If all the seed he'd pumped into you tonight has already found a way to take root, if your body was eager to accept him in more ways than one. To have a big family of his own with the love of his life.... His hips twitched at the thought. Dimitri let his finger trace over your lower body absent-mindedly, stopping at your mound.

He's staring wide-eyed at your pussy. “It looks so small,” he marvels, shifting you so his thumb can reach over to play at the entrance. He  saw a gush of cum flowed out onto his finger. Dimitri felt a swell of pride when he saw it. “You're so full of me, Beloved,” he added, a little awestruck, sliding his thumb on your clit, and tugging gently so more leaked out of you.

Dimitri feels a

He had spent too many nights fisting his cock, dreaming all of this. Nights as a schoolboy at the Officers Academy, as a fugitive of his own homeland, a man who reclaimed Fhirdiad, even when he finally married to the love of his life. The poor king can only sighed when he recalled the days when he had to tend to his very painful blue balls at his study room or battlefield tent these past months while his unassuming wife was elsewhere. Those were the only time that he could relieved himself. Sad, maybe, but effective nonetheless.

He had imagined making love to you in so many ways, yet the reality still has him stunned. He feels as though he could indulge in you forever. He gripped himself and prodded the tip of his cock to your hole, sighing softly as the little mouth of your pussy opened and accepted him.

The sound of his thrusts is wet and sloppy, everything he had pumped into you squelching back out as he drove his cock into your channel frantically. Buried himself deep, Dimitri wondered if you were still asleep because every so often you gasped his name, or more. Eventually you are moaning out another climax, your hot pussy milking him yet again as he filled you with another load of his seed.

It was dawn when he was sated. He kissed your forehead and smiled in pure joy as he watch your naked form in his arms, sleeping with blissfully content look on your face. He cleaned you delicately with a warm towel and tucked you in the blanket carefully; embracing you lovingly before going to sleep.

---

You woke up feeling very refreshed but sore with Dimitri’s arm draped over your naked body. You had not have many opportunities to watch Dimitri sleep these days, but his face looks more peaceful than any of the times prior. You are glad. Hopefully he gets some restful sleep in.

You just realized your state and dire need for something to cover your body to save yourself from the embarrassment. Doing your best to slip away from your husband’s arm, you decided to wear his nightshirt instead.

Being a light sleeper, Dimitri woke up from your shifts. “(Y/N)!!!!” You startled at his sudden loud voice, shattering the peace of the morning. “Good mo—” You glanced back when you realized he hadn’t exactly responded, eyebrows raised when you realized your husband was gawking. His shirt hung off you in just the right places, the article of clothing is very large but somehow managing to flatter you much more than it ever had, for him. He was beet red from head to toe, and you stared at him, confused.

“B-Beloved... that’s.. m-my shirt!!”

You pulled at the fabric some, your breasts jiggling accordingly. Dimitri nearly fainted from his heavy nosebleed. His heart nearly stopped. He didn’t know why but seeing you in his clothing... always made him go crazy.

What made him so astonished? You decided to stand up and try to look at your reflection on the mirror. You had started popping the buttons open, one at a time. Your neck and breasts were littered in love bites. There’s some light bruises and teeth marks on your thighs as well.

He gulped and started slowly, crossing the room and grasping your wrists, pushing you against the wall. The large male towering over you as he sighed and mumbled into your hair, “Oh what I should do with you, my beloved? To woke me up in this way.... This is hard on a man’s heart, you know.” He couldn’t help but feel giddy at the sight. He was truly the luckiest man in the world.

“If you intend to poke the lion,” Dimitri kissed you as he popped the last button, “You had best be prepared to deal with what follows. "I can't withstand that sort of teasing, my beloved..."

“Do what you will with me, my lion.” You assured him with a warm smile that Dimitri melted into steamy kisses as he lifted you up, manhandled you while watching your reflection on the mirror. And you started to watch it in such hazy look in your eyes as lust and desire flooding your mind.

You can't took your eyes off the sight of both of you in the mirror—his muscled arms flexing as he pulled your body in his arms, your hands clutching him for some semblance of balance. Dimitri enjoyed seeing his cock slide in and out of you as well. He met your gaze in the mirror as he marked your shoulder with his teeth. Your sharp intake of breath made him grin before he trailed his lips up towards your neck.

Your gaze fixed upon flashes of his cock each time it withdrew before ramming back into your pussy. How he's watching your bodies came together, just as intently as you did. How your face flushed bright red as the inside of your pussy pulse with pleasure and bliss crashed out in a slow wave over your entire body. He took advantage of the thrust that made you bounce to coax your head back with a gentle tug of your hair to see your face when you came for him. He thrust in harder and faster, and making you moaned his name with each plunge, lewd voice mixing with the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass. Your husband gritted his teeth as you clamped down on him, and in seconds he spilled his impending release with a last thrust into your core.

You went limp and boneless after he is done. You almost fall to your knees but Dimitri hold you steady in his arms. "I am not finished with you yet," his eyes filled with raw lust and hunger.

He turned you onto your stomach and snap his hips aggressively against you, stuffing you full of his cock and stretching you out around him. Though even as he steadily pounds into you, he nuzzled the back of your neck and murmurs, "You feel so divine, Beloved.” He filled you with his cock over and over until you're an over-fucked, incoherent mess beneath him.

He went on using his inhuman strength to manhandle you on the bed into any kind positions. He's not very talkative when he went feral in bed—relied on primal grunts and moans, rather than words.  The most you're likely to hear from him is a low, rumbling growls, as he lifted your legs against his body, spreading you for him as he impaled his shaft into you, with you merely laying limp beneath him.

The Tempest King sure has endless stamina. You can’t help but to wonder whether his immense strength came from the Blaiddyd Crest. You have seen him in a trance-like state before, but not this expression; like he's working out years of repressed lust on your pussy. And he's got ways to go.

It was late afternoon when you were done. He carried your trembling body to a warm bath, helped to wash your body gently. The King of United Fódlan had injured his beloved wife. Very bad. You can’t even sit properly because your body feels totally numb from the over-exertion, not to mention that your hips and legs were unusable with how sore they were. Hickeys, handprints, bruises, and bite marks are scattered all over your body. A few of them were bleeding a bit as well.

“I’m fine, Dima. I think you should be proud of your ability, I mean.. endless stamina. And... you did amazing. Thank you, my love,” you tried to assure him as he laid you gently on the bed with grave concern on his face.

He was mortified when he realized that he had wounded his beloved wife very badly. It was your first time together and he had already  broken the person he loved most in the world because his lack of self-control. He looks like a sad, kicked puppy that kept on apologizing to you profusely.

“I’ll be sure to have you excused from our feast with the Blue Lions this evening. I’ll take good care of you while you’re recovering...after all, you seem to be quite in need of some extra attention from your husband.” His head hung down in shame.

Ah yes.. The celebratory feast for the King’s safe return. Too bad you won’t be able to attend and give your special gratitude to everyone. Especially Sylvain, for his helpful advices.

“It’s okay, Dima. I will be waiting for you, then. Please send my gratitude to Sylvain,” you tugged at his arm and pressed a chaste kiss to Dimitri’s lips. That wasn’t exactly easy, given you wanted to reduce as much movement as possible. “Don’t agonize over this, all right? Everything will be fine. Gentle or rough.. I love both sides of you. All of you, Dima. I am yours.”

Your words have rejuvenated him. Dimitri has flied to heaven in his dream-like stupor. You swear you can see a blinding glow of happiness emanating from his large figure.

---

Sylvain can’t stop smirk like a cheshire cat when he saw Dimitri kept smiling brightly on their feast. He looks like a new man that radiating pure joy and happiness. Noticing that you didn’t attend the feast, the readhead’s grin got even wider.

“Congratulations on your long overdue first night with Her Highness!”

Dimitri choked on his meal at Sylvain’s brazen words. “H-how on earth did you...?!”

“Disgusting.” Felix scoffed at Sylvain harshly. But Sylvain swore he can see Felix smiled in relief when he sipped his wine despite his harsh word.

Dedue cleared his throat at Sylvain and Felix’s words. “Congratulations, His Majesty. I am glad to see such your exuberant demeanour this evening. My best wishes for you and Her Highness.”

“Glad it worked out. I never knew you had it in you, His Majesty. You made your wife bedridden after your first time. Please make sure to name your first-born after me!” Sylvain laughed unceremoniously at Dimitri’s abashed reaction. Their King is on the verge of dying from embarrassment, thanks to the skirt-chaser’s teasing.

Felix rolled his eyes at Dimitri, sighing scornfully. “You made me feel sorry for (Y/N).”

“Ahem. I hope Her Highness a speedy recovery,” Dedue said in bashful manner.

To say that your husband brutalized with shame was such an understatement. You can’t help but to laugh and patted his head fondly when he got back from the feast with sullen look because of everyone’s embarrassing remarks.

And true to his words, the king himself spent most of his time on your bedside to help you recover. Either feeding or giving you ointments, your dearest husband always doing his best to do it tenderly.

“Dima... I don’t mind the soreness and bruises because this is what you do for me while I’m recovering,” You look up at him with a soft smile. “It might be fun to be a little more rough,” you said playfully.

Dimitri.exe has stopped.

He crushed your cup of water involuntarily at your comment as his face almost explode in deep shade of crimson.

“B-B-B-Beloved!!!!” A strangled whine falling out of him.