#at the same time I can't help but yearn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

brunchable · 6 months ago

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𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

Part Two Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Heavy Mutual Pinining, Heavy Sexual Tension, Longing, Yearning, Right Person-Wrong Time. Friends to Lovers, a bit Angsty but Happy Ending. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky being obsessed with tiddies, unprotected piv, creampie. Summary: Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt. A/N: This is a Two Shot, so another one will be coming soon.

tags: @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @classicrebound

The first time it really hits is when you see him with her.

It’s a crowded room, warm bodies pressed close together, the low hum of music barely louder than the thudding in your chest as you watch Bucky Barnes wrap his arm around the waist of a woman you don’t know.

She’s beautiful, of course—someone you'd expect to be by his side. Her laugh is soft, melting into his as he leans in close, whispering something that lights her face up, his lips brushing her ear like he can’t help himself.

You glance down at your drink, the sudden bitterness pooling in your throat harder to swallow than the wine. You tell yourself to look away, that it’s none of your business who he holds, but you can’t. Every time you look up, he’s there, still wrapped around her, laughing at something she’s said, his hand resting on her back in a way that feels too familiar, too tender. You know that look—the way his fingers splay protectively, pulling her close like she belongs to him. Like he’s finally let someone in.

It’s torture, standing there with a smile plastered on your face, pretending not to notice. Pretending that it doesn’t crush you.

Because when you’re alone—when you’re single—he’s taken. And when he’s got nobody, you do. Every single time. You’ve gotten used to seeing him across rooms, with someone else in his arms, with that look in his eyes that you wish, desperately, could be meant for you.

And he’s always looking at you that same way, that glance just a second too long, that warmth held back by a fragile thread of restraint. Just enough to keep the lines from blurring.

Tonight, he finally looks away.

When he glances up, catches sight of you, his smile falters. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and something soft flickers in his eyes—something like regret, the same regret you carry. But her hand tightens on his arm, and he turns back to her, his smile returning, wider than before. You hate how easily he can pull away from you, how quickly he can make you feel invisible.

“Hey, Bucky,” you manage, your voice steady though it feels like your chest is caving in.

He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Hey.” His gaze drops, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, that he might admit that this hurts him too. But then she shifts closer, and he wraps his arm around her more firmly, giving you a look that’s both a dare and a dismissal.

“This is Emily,” he says, and she gives you a polite, too-sweet smile.

“Oh.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know… I hadn’t realized you were…” You can’t finish, the words catching in your throat.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone is almost too casual, too final. “We’re together.”

The finality of it slices through you, sharp and clean. You nod, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity you have left, but all you can manage is, “Well… congratulations. I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—anger? Hurt? But his jaw tightens, and he nods, looking away as if to spare you.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his voice steady, controlled.

Emily pulls him closer, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she glances at you.

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her tone, a silent declaration that she’s won, that whatever you think you had with him is nothing compared to this. She presses a kiss to his cheek, her fingers curling possessively around his shoulder as she tilts her head, catching his gaze.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice hollow. “Yeah, he is.”

And for a brief, desperate second, you think he might look at you—really look at you, see how much this is tearing you apart. But he doesn’t. His gaze is on her, soft and full of warmth, a look he’s given you a thousand times. And it feels like he’s choosing her, like he’s making the decision to let go of whatever fragile orbit kept you two circling each other all this time.

You turn away, trying to hold yourself together, but the ache in your chest is all-consuming, a raw, relentless reminder that he’s moved on. That he’s chosen her.

And as you walk away, you can still hear their laughter, the sound twisting like a knife in your chest, leaving you wondering if he was ever yours to lose.

And then one night, fate flips, and you’re the one with someone new by your side.

It’s been months since you last saw Bucky. You assumed he was out of your life for good, until tonight, when you walk into the cozy warmth of a private dining room in a restaurant, your hand firmly held by your boyfriend Andrew. It’s Steve’s dinner party, a small gathering of friends, and the lighthearted chatter fills the air, mixing with the warm glow from the dimmed overhead lights.

You’re laughing at something your boyfriend said as you step into the room, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see him.

Bucky is seated across the table, leaning back casually in his chair, but the moment his eyes meet yours, a spark flickers there—surprise, mingled with something darker, something that quickens your pulse. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight, and judging by the way his gaze lingers, he hadn’t expected you either.

Steve stands, grinning as he greets you and Andrew, and you introduce him to everyone. You smile, trying to seem natural as you move around the table, your hand still resting in your boyfriend’s. But it feels wrong, the warmth of your boyfriend’s fingers against yours suddenly strange, like it doesn’t quite belong.

When you reach Bucky, he stands, his jaw tense, his eyes unwavering as he offers a hand to shake. You almost expect him to make some dry remark, to cover up whatever unspoken tension lies between you. But he’s silent as he grips Andrew’s hand firmly, while looking at you. His fingers are steady, a touch too tight, like he’s barely holding something back.

“So, you’re the boyfriend,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place.

Your boyfriend laughs, unaware of the tension. “Yeah, I am. And you’re the famous Bucky I keep hearing about.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but his eyes remain cold.

“I’m sure you have.” He releases your boyfriend’s hand, his gaze shifting back to you, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to look away.

It should feel like a victory—that, for once, you’re the one who’s found happiness while he’s left to watch. But the second you meet his eyes, the air shifts. You feel the weight of everything unspoken, of the years that have passed with both of you just out of reach, orbiting each other but never colliding.

You take your seat next to your boyfriend, aware of every brush of his arm against yours, every gentle squeeze of his hand on your knee under the table. He leans close, murmuring something soft and sweet, and you offer a small smile, but your focus is entirely on Bucky, sitting across the table, his gaze flickering between you and Andrew, his jaw set with that same restrained tension.

As the night wears on, Bucky remains quiet, only contributing here and there to the conversation, but each time he speaks, his words feel weighted, almost directed at you.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the chatter, “I’m guessing you’re happy?”

The question is simple enough, but there’s a challenge hidden beneath it, a question he doesn’t ask outright.

“Yes, I am,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Your boyfriend glances over, squeezing your hand, unaware of the undercurrents in the room.

“She’s stuck with me now,” he jokes, nudging you. “No escape.”

You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow, especially when you catch Bucky’s expression—something dark and raw flashing in his eyes before he schools his features again.

“Good for you both,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s about time.”

There’s a pause, the kind that seems to echo louder than any conversation, and you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, filled with a thousand things he can’t say. Your chest tightens as the weight of everything unsaid settles heavily between you, filling the air with a tension you’re certain everyone can feel.

As people start to leave, you find yourself alone with Bucky by the door. Your boyfriend is across the room, saying goodbyes, and it’s just you and Bucky in the dimly lit entryway, a fragile bubble of space and time.

“So…” His voice is low, almost too soft, his eyes searching yours. “This is it, then?”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that pierces through you, a rawness you’ve never heard before. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to deny it.

You glance away, your voice barely a whisper. “Yep. This is it.”

A shadow crosses his face, and he just stands there, watching you, his gaze heavy. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, his hand lingering just inches from yours, as though he’s contemplating reaching out, breaking whatever boundary lies between you. The air feels thick, and you wonder if he can hear the frantic beat of your heart.

But he lets his hand fall back to his side.

“Guess there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs, a bitter edge coloring his voice. His eyes linger on you, as if he’s memorizing every detail, every second of this final, silent goodbye.

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips, caught between everything you want to say and everything you can’t. You reach out, almost instinctively, but Andrew calls your name from across the room, his voice shattering the fragile stillness.

Bucky’s gaze flickers, and he takes a step back, his expression falling into something guarded.

“Take care, doll,” he says softly, the words laced with both a goodbye and a promise. His eyes linger on you one last time, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night.

He’d spent years replacing your lips with so many others, all in an attempt to forget the mark you left on him.

Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled her in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

× × × ×

Present

It’s one of those nights, another dinner gathering among friends, the kind that’s almost become routine. You’re already seated in the cozy living room, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Steve’s place. The soft glow of lamps and low bable of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you’re truly at ease.

Beside you, Sam nudges your shoulder.

“Hey Boo,” he says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, “remember when you and Bucky were practically attached at the hip? What happened there?”

The question catches you off guard, and you feel warmth creeping up your neck as a few heads turn, curious eyes glancing your way. You roll your eyes, nudging him back.

“Leave it to you to bring that up, Sam.”

He chuckles, unrelenting. “C’mon, just saying. You two were tight. I mean, tight.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling the weight of a few more gazes on you, even if they aren’t pushing the question.

“It’s… complicated,” you finally say, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. But Sam just chuckles, clearly amused, like he knows something no one else does.

“Complicated.” He echoes with a slow nod, a knowing grin spreading. “Right. Complicated.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, barely suppressing a smile, but you can’t deny the fondness in your tone. Sam just winks, nudging you again, and the others quickly move on, the brief moment of attention fading as conversation flows around you.

And that’s when the front door opens, and you hear his voice.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky calls out, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly as he steps in, slightly flushed from the cold outside. His eyes scan the room, and the moment they land on you, you swear the air shifts, that it crackles with something electric, something only the two of you seem to feel.

Your heart stumbles over itself as he walks further into the room, tugging off his jacket and offering smiles and nods to everyone. But it’s like a magnetic pull—his eyes keep flickering back to you, and each time it does, your stomach does a nervous, excited flip.

He looks good. Better than good, really. There’s a slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair falls just so, framing his face in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it. When he finally reaches the empty chair directly across from you, he stops, fingers lingering on the back of it.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, his voice low, and there’s something almost hesitant in his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission to be close to you.

You shake your head, trying to keep your cool, even though every part of you is screaming, yes, sit, sit right here and don’t you dare move.

“No, go ahead,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steady.

He sits, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts over, warm and familiar, making your head spin.

As he settles in, he leans slightly closer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it?” you murmur, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. Every subtle movement, every small smile he throws your way feels like it’s weaving a thread around you both, pulling you in.

The conversation around you resumes, but it’s like you’re in a bubble, the two of you orbiting each other again. Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, just enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you bite back a smile. His hand rests on the table between you, his fingers drumming absently, and you find yourself staring at them, remembering every time those hands had nearly, almost touched yours.

After a lull in conversation, he clears his throat, glancing at you sideways.

“So… where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, almost casually, but you catch the underlying question. His tone is light, but his eyes are cautious, searching yours, looking for an answer he can’t ask outright.

You raise a brow, unable to hide the grin pulling at your lips.

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you meet his gaze, “the lack of presence should answer your question.”

For a second, Bucky just stares, and then a slow, dawning smile spreads across his face, his whole expression softening, the guardedness falling away. He looks like he’s holding back from saying something, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, his knee pressing just a little more against yours as he leans in.

And before you can think twice, you match his question with your own, barely above a whisper. “And where’s your girlfriend, Bucky?”

“Nonexistent.” he said almost instantly.

His eyes hold yours, and something subtle shifts in them—a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but he doesn’t look away though he plays it off with a small, casual shrug. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person.”

You nod, feeling the smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Nice,” you say, trying to keep it casual, though your heart’s picking up a pace of its own.

“Yeah… nice.” He lets out a quiet chuckle, raising an eyebrow as if he’s catching onto your attempt at nonchalance.

Deafening silence settles between you, but it’s charged, a silent exchange that makes you feel more breathless than words ever could. Neither of you seems to move, his knee still brushing yours under the table, and it feels like he’s lingering in your space, right on that line between friend and something more.

You glance around, feeling the tension rise, and blow your bangs out of your eyes, hoping it might ease the knot in your stomach. But when you sneak a look at him, he’s still staring, his gaze solid, unblinking, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of every tiny shift in the air between you. Your cheeks warm, and you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, but it only makes your heart pound harder.

Your cheeks warm instantly, and you quickly look away, focusing hard on the table.

A small smile tugs at his lips, his voice soft. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Your pulse quickens, and you swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“Maybe a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

A spark lights in his eyes, and his smile widens, soft but undeniably mischievous.

“Good,” he murmurs, his knee pressing just a fraction closer to yours, enough to send a thrill up your spine. “Because, for the record… you make me a little nervous too.”

Your heart does a flip, and you feel a grin tug at your lips despite yourself.

“I make you nervous?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice, but he just nods, his gaze intense, that teasing warmth settling over his expression.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, his tone light but honest, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Especially when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, barely breathing.

“Like you’re about to bolt… but part of you doesn’t want to.” His voice is low, and his eyes search yours, as if he’s daring you to deny it.

You feel the smile you’ve been holding back break through, your heart racing as the last of the distance between you seems to dissolve. Just as you’re about to respond, a voice calls from the dining room, breaking the tension as everyone calls you both to join.

“Guess we should go, huh?” Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, pulling back just slightly, though his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer.

“Yeah,” you manage, feeling a little breathless.

But as you both stand and head to the dining room, his hand brushes yours, just enough for his pinky to link with yours for a brief, secret moment. The warmth of that tiny touch lingers, and you can’t help but feel like something just shifted between you, something new and thrilling, waiting just under the surface.

× × × ×

As you both step into the dining room, Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There they are,” he teases, his voice just loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “We were wondering what’s taking so long.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you catch Bucky’s gaze, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t say anything, slipping into the room to find only two empty seats—right beside each other.

Bucky gestures to the chair beside him, waiting until you sit before settling in next to you. He settles in beside you, his broad shoulders and steady presence enveloping the space, making you feel smaller.

Conversations swirl around the table, but you’re painfully aware of every tiny shift Bucky makes. The subtle brush of his arm against yours, the steady warmth radiating from his shoulder—it all has your heart racing. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers drumming lightly, and your pulse hammers as his knee presses just slightly against yours under the table, a connection so subtle yet electric that it makes your skin tingle.

Then he adjusts his position, angling himself more toward the group—and you. The small movement brings him even closer, and you’re immediately enveloped in his scent, something warm and cedar-like, filling the air around you until it feels almost overwhelming, in the best possible way. You take a slow breath, fighting the urge to close the distance even more, feeling trapped between wanting to be near him and feeling breathless because of it.

As Bucky joins the conversation, you find yourself watching him, captivated by the way he leans in, his voice low and steady, his easy confidence only pulling you in deeper. His lips curve as he speaks, and you can’t help but linger on every detail, the way his eyes light up, the rough timbre of his laugh, every tiny thing about him that’s impossibly distracting.

And then, in the middle of a sentence, his eyes flick back to you, catching you looking. You quickly look away, feeling your cheeks burn as you fixate on your plate, hoping he didn’t notice the way you’d been studying him.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His pinky grazes yours again, a gentle, teasing touch, sending a thrill up your spine as he continues his conversation, his presence unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

You try to focus on anything else, but his gaze keeps finding you, even when you’re not looking. And with every shared glance, every quiet brush of his fingers, the air grows thicker, charged with something unspoken, as if each tiny touch is daring you to lean in, to close that final distance.

You’re doing everything you can to keep your composure, to focus on the laughter and stories being shared. But Bucky’s presence beside you is inescapable, it’s a thrill that’s leaving you silent, lost in your own thoughts as the night goes on.

Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through, pulling you back to reality.

“Hey,” he says, smirking as he leans back in his chair, his gaze playful but sharp. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on with you?”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, you force a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension simmering under your skin.

“Just… food coma, I guess,” you say, waving a hand and attempting a casual smile.

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Food coma? Really?” He drags out the words, as if he’s not buying it for a second, and you can see the teasing glint in his eyes. “Pasta’s got you this speechless?”

Beside you, Bucky’s lips twitch, and you can feel his gaze, that familiar, subtle amusement making it impossible not to blush. You risk a quick glance at him, only to find him looking back with that same knowing smirk, like he can see right through every excuse.

“Maybe she’s just tired of all your talking, Sam,” Bucky says smoothly, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he speaks. The movement is so casual, so effortless, that it almost seems like an afterthought. But the warmth of his arm behind you, his fingers just brushing the curve of your shoulder, makes your heart race in ways you can’t ignore. His tone stays casual, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looks at Sam, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a subtle, grounding touch.

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d check,” he says, throwing a playful wink in your direction.

You feel yourself sink back just slightly, leaning into the warmth of his arm, and it’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers stay near your shoulder, steady and unassuming but unmistakably there. The conversations resume around you, but the space between you and Bucky feels even smaller, the quiet thrill of his touch pulling you in.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping so only you can hear.

“That food coma excuse was almost convincing,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with playful challenge as he watches your reaction.

× × × ×

As the night winds down, people start to gather their things, saying their goodbyes. You slip on your coat, waiting for Sam to finish up his goodbyes, but he suddenly turns to Steve with a grin.

“Hey, Rogers,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “How about we hit that bar down the street? Just a quick nightcap.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpanning as you fold your arms. “Seriously, Sam?”

He flashes you an unapologetic grin, shrugging. “What? You’re always saying you’re an independent woman. I figured a little alone time wouldn’t hurt.”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head, muttering, “You’re an asshole.”

Sam just laughs, looking over his shoulder.

“Hey, maybe Bucky can give you a lift. It’ll be like old times.” He gives you a wink, completely ignoring the way your cheeks warm.

You glance at Bucky, trying to keep your expression neutral. “It’s fine, really,” you say quickly. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket and heading out with Steve. “But you know Bucky’s free.” He gives you one last smirk before slipping out the door, leaving you standing there with Bucky, who’s leaning casually against the wall, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Need a ride?” he asks, his voice warm, that familiar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

You open your mouth to decline, still feeling a bit of resistance. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll just grab an Uber.”

Bucky chuckles softly, tilting his head toward the door. “I’ll drop you off. It’s fine.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there’s that familiar steadiness in his eyes, a quiet patience that leaves you with no real reason to argue. Finally, you sigh, giving in with a reluctant nod.

The car ride starts in silence, the engine’s low hum filling the tense quiet between you, only occasionally interrupted by the soft rattle of snowflakes pelting against the windows as the blizzard starts to gather strength.

You shift in your seat, fidgeting, your hands smoothing over your coat, your fingers picking at invisible lint. Nothing feels comfortable. Every second, your eyes flick to the window, tracing the passing streetlights, trying to focus on anything but him.

But you can feel him there. The warmth of him beside you, the steady, calm presence that somehow has you on edge, unable to breathe fully. His familiar scent fills the car—a mix of cedar and something undeniably him—sharp and soothing all at once, making the small space feel even smaller.

You cross your arms, uncross them, uncross your legs, then cross them again, pressing your back firmly into the seat as if that might stop the quick, relentless beat of your heart. But each turn he makes, each slight shift of his shoulders, sends a fresh rush of awareness through you, and your mind is racing, trying to keep pace with the pulsing tension that seems to settle between you like a third presence.

Finally, desperate for a distraction, you reach over and flip on the radio, hoping for anything to ease the silence. But the first song is almost too on the nose, the lyrics hitting like they were made for this moment:

"All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation, my hands are shaking from holding back from you…”

A breath catches in your throat, and before the verse can continue, you reach over and quickly press the button again, changing the station, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

The next station crackles to life, and it’s somehow worse.

“Cause when I got somebody, you don’t and when you got somebody, I don’t. I wish that the time would line up so we could just give in…”

Your pulse races, and you switch stations again, more urgently this time, and the next song fills the car with a familiar pop beat.

“You ain’t my boyfriend and I ain’t your girlfriend. But you don’t want me to see nobody else and I don’t want you to see nobody…”

You press the power button, cutting off the music entirely, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your coat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him glancing your way, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bucky clears his throat, his voice a low murmur. “Trouble finding a station?”

You manage a quick, nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Yeah… something like that.”

He just nods, his gaze returning to the road, but you catch the lingering smile in his expression, like he’s perfectly aware of the tension simmering between you, the unspoken things filling the silence.

And as the quiet stretches, you can hear his breathing, steady and unhurried, and it only makes you more aware of your own. You try to breathe normally, in and out, but each breath feels too loud, too obvious, like you’re trying and failing to hide something you both already know.

× × × ×

Bucky pulls up in your driveway, and for a moment, the relief you thought you’d feel at reaching home is overshadowed by something else—something closer to disappointment. The quiet tension that’s been hanging between you feels almost unfinished, and you find yourself wishing the ride could somehow stretch on just a little longer.

He leaves the engine idling, the faint rumble filling the silence as you both sit there, neither moving to get out. After a few seconds, you clear your throat, glancing over at him with a small, reluctant smile.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, voice softer than you intended.

Bucky nods, returning your smile, but you can see a similar reluctance flicker across his face as he glances toward the house.

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

Your eyes drift to the porch, and you remember the old habit the two of you shared, back when he’d drop by after a night out with everyone—those late nights with coffee and the dessert your mom always made, the one he loved and never turned down.

The memory brings a small smile to your lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you look back at him.

“Actually… my mom made her chocolate tart. The one you like. If you’re up for coffee and dessert, that is,” you say, feeling a twinge of nerves despite the casual invitation.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, but you catch the hint of warmth in his eyes.

“Chocolate tart, huh?” he echoes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I can’t say no to that.”

You shrug, playing it off, but your heart races as you nod toward the door.

“Figured it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides,” you add, trying to keep your tone light, “it’s been a while since we did coffee and dessert.”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he cuts the engine, pocketing his keys before glancing at you with that familiar spark in his eyes.

“Guess it’s tradition,” he says, opening his door. “Wouldn’t want to break it.”

You step out, leading him up the walkway, and as you unlock the door, the feeling of anticipation settles back over you, even stronger now. It’s like the tension from the car ride has followed you inside.

As you head into the kitchen, Bucky follows, his gaze drifting over the familiar space. He takes in the room, noticing what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. The same cozy lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the soft cushions on the couch, the same framed photos on the wall—but a few new things catch his attention.

A navy-blue jacket, draped over the armchair, too large to be yours. A set of keys on the counter with a small metal keychain that he doesn’t recognize. And a book on the coffee table, a spy thriller with a bookmark halfway through. He frowns slightly, his mind racing as he takes in these small, unfamiliar details, each one lighting a spark of jealousy that flares bright, unbidden.

He hadn’t asked about Andrew—hadn’t wanted to. But now, surrounded by small traces of him, the thought of someone else being part of this space, of sharing moments with you that once might have been his, digs into him with an unexpected force. The sight of it sparks something sharp and unbidden within him, jealousy flaring up like a match struck in the dark. He swallows, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that he has no right to feel this way, but the thought of Andrew’s things still lingering here sends his mind racing.

In the kitchen, you’re busy slicing the chocolate tart, setting two plates with practiced ease as you fill the silence with the familiar rhythm of preparing coffee. But every now and then, you feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching, like he’s taking in every detail of the room and of you.

Bucky clears his throat softly, his voice low as he leans against the doorway, watching you pour the coffee. “Things… feel different here,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but there’s a roughness in his voice that betrays him.

Your eyes follow his gaze to the jacket, and a flicker of understanding crosses your face. You give a small, almost sheepish laugh.

“Oh, that. He left it here ages ago. I keep meaning to get rid of it, but it’s… just kind of stayed.” You shrug, looking away as if embarrassed by the attachment. “Guess I’m just lazy.”

He nods, the answer somehow not as satisfying as he’d hoped. His gaze shifts back to the room, trying to reconcile this familiar space with the small hints of someone else.

“Ah,” he says, his tone lighter. “I get it. Hard to let go of things sometimes.”

You nod, a knowing look in your eyes, as if you both understand the layers beneath his words. You hand him his plate, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee filling the room as he takes it, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, lingering moment.

Settling down at the table, he watches you from across the coffee cup, the quiet tension between you only growing thicker. And as he takes a bite of the chocolate tart, the flavors familiar and nostalgic, he can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at something he’s been missing for too long.

You try to focus on your coffee, but Bucky’s gaze is unwavering, fixed solely on you. He takes another slow bite of the chocolate tart, and the way his eyes soften, paired with the slight curve of his lips. It’s like he’s seeing something he missed, something he can’t look away from.

After a beat, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, unable to take it anymore.

“What?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart’s racing too fast.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, eyes dark, thoughtful, and a little teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm.

“Just… wondering why it took so long to get back here— it feels good to be here. With you.” His voice is low, quiet, but there’s a warmth behind it that makes your stomach flip.

You glance down, biting back a smile, but you can feel his gaze still on you, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for you to look back.

“It’s just dessert, Bucky,” you murmur, trying to keep the moment light, but your cheeks betray you, a blush blooming under his attention.

“Maybe,” he replies, his tone teasing, eyes glinting. “But it’s the best damn dessert I’ve had in a long time.” He takes a slow bite of the tart, watching you with that infuriatingly soft gaze that makes it impossible to breathe.

"Christ..." you mutter under your breath, barely aware you’ve said it aloud. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s peeling away every defense you’ve carefully built.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice, like he’s testing just how far he can push.

You let out a shaky laugh, glancing down at your coffee to avoid those piercing eyes.

“You’re not… it’s just—” You don’t know how to finish the thought, every word slipping away under his unwavering stare.

He lets the silence hang for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and heart-stopping. Then he leans forward, just a bit closer, his eyes still locked on you, the teasing glint in them intensifying.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his attention never wavers, every inch of him focused on you. “Because if I’m honest… I think I like watching you get flustered. Kind of makes me wonder what else I could do to make you look at me like that.”

Your breath catches, and you feel your pulse race, cheeks burning as his words sink in, every nerve suddenly buzzing. You’re caught, and he knows it, the challenge in his gaze daring you to look away—but you don’t, rooted to the spot, every nerve in your body humming.

But in that moment of stunned silence, something in your expression shifts, your eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not discomfort, but a soft vulnerability—an openness he wasn’t expecting.

He misreads it entirely.

Bucky straightens abruptly, his face softening as he lets out a quick, self-conscious laugh, breaking eye contact. “I—sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his smirk fading. “I’m just messing with you. Didn’t mean to… you know, make things weird.”

Your heart clenches at the quickness with which he pulls back, his retreat sudden, like he’s trying to undo the last few moments. You open your mouth, words rushing to the tip of your tongue to stop him, to explain, to tell him he hadn’t made you uncomfortable at all.

“Bucky…” you say softly, reaching out before you can think twice. The moment your fingers brush his hand, he glances up, eyes wide, almost searching yours for permission.

And before you can lose your nerve, you let the words slip, your voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable… I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

The tension between you flares back to life, sharper, deeper, as he studies you, realization dawning in his gaze, as if he’s daring himself to believe what you’re saying.

× × × ×

The blizzard outside has intensified, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow that doesn’t look like it’ll be easing up anytime soon. By the time you both finish your coffee and dessert, the wind is howling against the windows, and the soft glow from the streetlights barely penetrates the wall of snow outside.

You walk to the window, peering out into the swirling white, and let out a small sigh.

“Looks like it’s getting worse,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Bucky, the words carrying a quiet invitation you don’t fully realize.

Behind you, he steps closer, joining you by the window, his hand resting on the edge of the sill as he gazes out into the storm.

“Guess I might have to wait it out,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice, though his eyes flicker with something warmer as they meet yours. His tone is casual, almost nonchalant, but the unspoken question lingers between you.

You turn to face him, folding your arms, trying to play it off casually.

“Yeah, probably not the best idea to be out there in this.” You pause, giving him a small smile. “I mean, I have a couch. Wouldn’t be the first time you crashed here.”

He chuckles softly, nodding.

“Right. Wouldn’t want to risk life and limb just to get home.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, like he’s just as reluctant as you are to let the night end.

You manage a laugh, a quiet, slightly nervous sound as you gesture towards the living room.

“The couch is all yours if you want it. I can grab a spare blanket.” The offer feels both genuine and like an excuse, a small plea for him to stay, if only a bit longer.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice soft, a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip. “Appreciate it.”

As you disappear down the hall to fetch a blanket and pillow, he lingers in the living room, glancing around the familiar space. He’s barely acknowledged how much he’s missed this—missed you—and now, surrounded by small remnants of your life, it all feels heavier than he expected, like he’s on the brink of something he’s not ready to let go of.

You return with a thick blanket and a pillow, handing them to him as he sets them down on the couch.

“Here you go. It’s not much, but… I think you’ll survive,” you say, though there’s something tentative in your voice, almost as if you’re testing the waters, hoping he’ll stay a little closer.

Bucky chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands settling over his knees as he looks up at you.

“Yeah, I’ve handled worse, I think,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a bit too long.

A quiet pause stretches between you, neither of you moving. Outside, the snow falls in thick, relentless waves, cocooning you both in this shared moment, and you feel the weight of what’s left unsaid, lingering like an invitation neither of you dares to speak aloud.

Finally, you clear your throat, offering a small smile.

“Well… goodnight, Bucky,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, and you find yourself hesitating, like you’re reluctant to leave.

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Goodnight, doll.”

× × × ×

Bucky was asleep on the couch. Your couch. Crashing at your place, as he had so many nights before.

The man you wanted more than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life.

You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking of him lying not thirty feet away from you on the other side of your bedroom wall. He had stayed over countless times, what was it about tonight that had you squirming beneath the sheets?

God, the subtle, masculine scent of him, the warmth of his body so close to yours—maybe he'd actually seen the little shiver of sexual awareness that had rippled through you during dinner.

Whatever it was, you were suffering now. His smile, his voice, his deep, infectious laugh...so what if he had been your friend since, so what if he could be a bit of a doofus at times—okay, a lot of the time—so what if you were both single now and feeling that familiar itch, that longing, that uncomfortable awareness of being without someone just a bit too long.

Fuck.

You both had talked about this. Once—a long time ago. You had agreed; getting involved wasn't the right thing to do—look how many friendships were ruined by relationships.

You threw back the duvet and swung your legs over the side of the bed, wiggling your toes nervously as you bit your lip.

You needed a drink, that's what you needed. Not that kind of drink—although God knew you weren't far from it. You needed a cool glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and maybe some splashed on your face for good measure.

Then you could come back to bed and read. Or listen to some music. Or... something. You had an early start in the morning, you had to find some way to get some sleep. If you were really quiet, you could slip right past him and he'd never even know you'd been out of your room.

You creaked open your bedroom door and listened for the sound of his quiet snoring. Sure enough, the soft sounds of sleep drifted towards you and you straightened, relaxing a little.

He was sleeping just fine. He wasn't tossing and turning thinking about you.

You slipped out into the chilly living room, and shivered involuntarily. You'd set the thermostat low in the living room to save energy, completely forgetting to turn it up for his sake, so while your bedroom was toasty warm, the living room was cold and still.

Guiltily you cast your eyes over his sleeping form, sprawled inelegantly over the couch with one hand thrown over his eyes and one leg up over the back of the sofa. He wore only a t-shirt and boxers, and lying with the blanket kicked to the floor instead to cover himself with, he looked vulnerable somehow, and uncomfortable.

And incredibly, almost achingly sexy.

Your eyes roamed over him in blatant appreciation. He was a powerhouse of strength, with thick, chiseled muscles that seemed almost carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapered down to a torso built from years of dedication, and his arms were thick with veins and ridges that caught the light.

Your gaze slid down his powerful legs, the defined muscle of his thighs flexing beneath the hem of his shorts. He was the embodiment of rugged masculinity, intense and undeniably commanding. His stubbled jaw caught your eye, and you let your gaze linger on his lips—the lips you’d dreamed of tasting so many times...too many times, in fact. So often that sometimes you imagined the fantasy as if it were a memory. So delicious, so sensual and hot.

Only he wasn't hot—you try to tell yourself. You dragged yourself back to reality, frowning as you looked down at him. He was cold.

You went back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket off the closet shelf, and carried it back to lay across his sleeping form. He stirred slightly as you draped it over him, and his eyelids fluttered open.

“Hmmm…” Bucky mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse and low. “Good morning.”

“It's not morning, it's two a.m,” you whispered. “I was just getting you another blanket. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmmm…” he said, cuddling it around him.

He pulled his leg down off the couch and straightened himself out, stretching languidly, shuddering, like a cat. You loved watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. You loved watching him do anything, in fact.

“It's so cold,” You said by way of an unasked-for explanation, and looked away from his body. His eyes were still closed so you could have looked a little longer, but didn't want to risk it.

“Cold?” he murmured. “Just a second.” He pushed aside the blanket and reached for you, tugging you down towards him.

You gasped and lost your footing, sitting down hard on the couch beside him. He pulled you down and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

He flipped the blanket over top of both of you. “There. I'll keep you warm.”

A sleepy duskiness coloured his voice, and something in the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, made your heart flutter rebelliously in your chest. He smelled so damn good, like a mixture of soap and the sweet warm and musky scent of cedar wood. He drew you in closer, molding his body against yours, and God help you, you allowed him. You settled in more comfortably beside him, your leg thrown over his, your arm stretched across his chest.

“I was saying you must be cold,” you whispered. “Not telling you I was.”

“I know.” Bucky said without missing a beat.

You lay there, entwined, quiet, saying nothing more. You rested your head against his chest and could feel more than hear the lazy beat of his heart, and the quiet, smooth passage of his breath. His hand languidly caressed your arm, the rhythm growing slower as he drifted back to sleep.

Sleep threatened to claim you, too, so you stirred, trying to disentangle from him. You'd have to be near your alarm clock or you'd never get up in time.

“No, don't go,” Bucky murmured as you tried to move. He held you tighter.

“I have to,” you whispered. “I have to get some sleep, I have to get up in a few hours.”

“Stay.”

“I can't.”

He was gradually coming awake, slowly becoming more oriented. He shifted position slightly so that he was more on his side, looking down at you as he rested his head on his bent elbow. He stretched his other arm across you and pulled you closer, gently caressing you back.

“Stay,” he said again. His voice was clearer now. He was fully awake. Still slightly dazed from sleep, but awake.

You hesitated, letting your gaze roam over his face. Finally you whispered, “We talked about this a long time ago, remember?”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just...I want you to stay.”

In the dim moonlight spilling in through the French doors his features were muted, but his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, taking you in with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Bucky moistened his lips, his pupils growing even larger as they roamed over your face and you could feel the pace of his heart pick up and his breathing increase.

His gaze moved down to your lips and his brow creased in an expression that could have been longing, or frustration, or both. He raised his eyes slowly to meet yours, the haze of desire stealing slowly into his gaze.

“You're not nothing to me,” he said, almost to himself. “That's precisely the problem.”

How on earth were you supposed to resist such a sensual, beautiful, soulful man? Stay? How could you not?

“Please,” he whispered. “Stay. . . I have something I need to get off my chest.”

Your resolve was crumbling as you felt your chest tighten. You looked into his eyes and barely managed to whisper the words.

“What’s that?”

“This.”

He lowered his head slowly and kissed you, brushing your lips softly, sensuously, as if in no particular hurry. As if he had all the time in the world to savor you, to taste you, to send pleasure rippling through you with every touch of his lips. He murmured softly as he gently nipped at your bottom lip, teasing your, biting and then kissing-better the lips he was bruising.

You could feel the pleasure he was taking in kissing you, the slow—tortuously slow—pleasure he was enjoying for himself and teasing out of you as he lingered in your mouth. Bucky’s hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face up to him, his thumb caressing your cheek as he kissed you. He broke the kiss and looked down at you in wonder, his eyes glittering in the dim light, then brought your face up to his and kissed you again.

You opened your mouth to him and his tongue slipped in to tangle sensuously with yours. He angled his head from one side to the other, exploring your mouth and pressing kisses along the edges of your lips. You kissed his cheeks, his chin, his light stubble gently razing your lips and making them all the more sensitive. When you found his lips again, their soft warmth was intoxicating and you deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with your own.

You kissed him back sensually, with equal possessiveness and enjoyment, and knew that your response was emboldening him.

Bucky tensed and pressed against you, his kiss growing firmer and more insistent. His mouth moved over yours expertly, wringing pleasure from you in breaths that came faster and little cries that escaped into the quiet of the room. Your soft moans made him tense even more, and you could feel his arousal along the length of your leg, hard and urgent like the rest of his body.

You were both warm now, and he threw back the blanket before settling back down on top of you, returning to the slow, rhythmic dance of kissing, teasing, and tasting that was just about driving you mad.

You slipped your hands up over your head, thinking to wrap them around him, but he found them and clasped your wrists together with his left hand and kept them there, holding you down with gentle pressure as he bent to kiss you more deeply.

The sensation of being held by him, of being pinned down, gently, but with no doubt as to his strength, rushed through you in unfamiliar torrents of excitement. He entwined his fingers in yours, easing up the pressure, dipping his head between your upraised arms to kiss you deeply, slowly, torturously.

As his tongue tangled with yours the fingers of his right hand trailed up the side of your body, stopping at the swell of your breast. He ran his hand over you gently, tentatively, feeling the weight of it beneath him and groaning softly. He slipped his hand inside your robe and cupped you bare flesh, his warm hand gently squeezing, caressing, as he groaned again and grew even harder. His thumb circled over your nipple and you gasped, arching against him at the sudden sting of pleasure. He pushed aside the robe further, revealing your breast with its tight nipple, unbearably aroused by his touch.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, gazing at you breast. He lowered his lips to your nipple and gently kissed it, his tongue tasting and savoring it the way he had just been savoring your mouth.

The wet warmth of his mouth on your sensitive flesh made you ache with a tension and desire you had never felt before. When his tongue swirled around you nipple languidly, when he took the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly, you felt the exquisite torture of it flow down through you body to you very core. How could this feel so damn good? Just the lightest brush of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on your nipple and you felt almost ready to climax.

His free hand slid around to the small of your back and he lifted you gently, sliding you further down the couch and farther under him. You were completely beneath him now, and completely held by him, one strong hand gently pressing your wrists into the sofa cushions and the other splayed across you back while he bent his head and kissed and sucked and teased you breast. You almost couldn't bear the sensation as your nipple grew harder, more tender, and the pleasure started liquifying between your legs.

"Yes..." you breathed. You arched again, wanting him to release you from his mouth and yet hoping that he never would. "Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good..."

Bucky lets go of your wrists and brings his hand down to your other breast, pushing aside your robe to free you completely. He caressed you, sensuously feeling the roundness of you, and trailed his lips across the rising swell, kissing and tasting and smiling at the way your soft flesh moved under his tongue. He gently grasped your breast and brought your nipple up to his mouth, which grew hard and exquisitely tender under his tongue. His fingers continued to tease your other nipple, the one still stinging from the feel of his mouth on it, still aching to feel it again.

You arched into him, sinking your hand into his hair and pressing him to your breast. The pleasure of his mouth and hands on you was making you weak, making you shiver with pleasure and need, all down the length of you and in between your legs. You could feel yourself growing wet and ready for him, the pleasure so intense, so unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

You heard yourself moaning softly, whimpering, making sounds you had never made before, all but dizzy with desire and sensation. With every little sound you made he groaned, or his erection surged against you, or he fell onto your breasts again with increased hunger. Your response to him was as intoxicating to him as his mouth was to you—you could feel it in his every movement, his every ragged breath.

“I need you, Bucky.” You pleaded softly. “Please.”

He rose over you, bracing his arms on either side of you. His eyes blazed with heat as he looked down at you, at you eyes, your mouth, your breasts. He took your mouth expertly, hungrily, kissing you fiercely with a dominance that thrilled you. He moved to trail hot kisses down your neck, licking the sensitive skin near your collarbone, barely skimming you with his tongue as if wanting the merest taste. You gripped his shoulders, and turned your head to the side, aching at the sensation of his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting.

You moaned at the feel of his tongue on your neck and the gentle pressure of his lips pressing kisses against your skin. You needed to feel him, to taste his salty sweet skin, his maleness, him.

As if he could read your thoughts he lifted up from you to pull his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. You reached up and ran your hands over his chest, and as he fell on you again his mouth found yours hungrily and his hand slid into your hair, gripping the top of your head possessively as you kissed.

You had never felt so possessed, so taken, so overwhelmed by a man. You broke the kiss and sought his neck, his shoulder, his tense muscles straining as he held himself above you. You branded your own hot trail of kisses into his skin, felt him strain against you at the sensation. You loved the taste of him, so male and wonderful beneath your lips.

"Baby. . ." His voice was hoarse, breathless.

For one brief moment uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he looked as though he wanted to say something. But when your lips found his again he lost the thought and succumbed to the kiss, slanting over your mouth, teasing your tongue with his.

You ran your hands down his back to the waistband of his boxers, and dipped your hands beneath the elastic to roam over his flesh. He tensed at your touch and you felt him suck in a breath as you moved your hands around to the front.

He was very hard, and you curled your fingers—which couldn’t wrap around him fully—as you gripped his ass with your other hand. He groaned softly and kissed you even more deeply, surging against you with an almost desperate urgency. You began to stroke him, your fingers gently gliding up and down his smooth shaft until he suddenly let out a groan and broke away, stopping your hand with his own.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, heat blazing in his eyes. “I can't. . .”

Alarm flared in you. “What's wrong?”

“I won't last long. . .”

“Oh, is that all?” You gently pushed his hand away and began to tentatively stroke him again.

He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the pleasure. “If you keep doing that. . .”

“What?” You prompted, nibbling on his lower lips as you stroked.

“I'll have to fuck you.”

“Good.” You took his lips again and you fell into a rhythmic kiss, as if you had been kissing each other forever. He moaned softly into your mouth as you stroked him, making soft noises of your own into his mouth.

Bucky broke the kiss, his breathing sharp and shallow, and gazed down at you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, urgent, almost desperate.

“Yes,” you breathed, pushing his boxers down with your free hand. He lifted up his hips to help you and shrugged out of them, kicking them to the floor.

“I didn't mean for this to happen, at least not tonight,” he said, his breath jagged and quiet as you continued to stroke him. “I've wanted you for so long, but—”

“I know,” You murmured, kissing his neck as your hand slid over his thick length again and again. His body was rigid with tension and you tried to relax him with your mouth, your whispers, the feel of your body. But you knew he wouldn't relax as long as you were stroking him. You paused and he relaxed slightly, but his eyes still burning and his breath still came unevenly.

“Are you sure?” He asked again, his eyes showing fear through the haze of desire. Heat blazed between them, and you felt such a desperate need in him that you wanted to soothe him, comfort him. But doing so with words seemed the wrong thing to do.

"Mhmmm," You murmured instead, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He groaned softly as you ran your fingers over his shaft, teasing, tempting, letting you fingernails trail along the sensitive skin below. You cupped him and squeezed gently as he groaned louder, pleasure that sounded almost painful. you laughed softly, kissing along his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck.

“You know how I feel about you. . . ” he managed, his voice little more than a breath. “Don't you? That I—”

"Shhhh," You said, coming back to meet his eyes. He looked so afraid, so vulnerable, and yet so filled with desire. You knew, then, everything you needed to know. And every word he needed to hear. "Please. . . Baby. . .it's okay. We can talk later. Right now. . .please. . . just shut up and fuck me."

His fear melted into a smile so warm, so open, so full of relief that he almost looked ready to cry. He took your mouth again, arching over you as he claimed you. Before his kisses had been searching and sensuous, now they seemed driven by pure desire. He ground his lips on yours masterfully, taking what he wanted, what he needed.

You could feel the raw need in him, the need for acceptance, the need to let pure passion overcome his fear. Every meeting of your lips sent another jolt through you, every taste of his tongue made you desperate for more, and you knew he was reeling from the same powerful sensations that you were. You could feel him starting to let go, to abandon himself to you, to enjoy making you abandon yourself to him.

Here was the lust you had always hoped was there, the powerful sexuality always just below the surface, the desire you had hoped and prayed he felt for you. It was here, pressed against you, an urgent cock and a hard, warm body, roaming lips and soft, male moans of pleasure and need. A careful heart revealing itself to yours.

You moved beneath him, pressing your hips against him to ease the heat that radiated from between your legs. The ache was exquisite, your need growing more urgent as you felt his erection surge and strengthen.

You felt his hand on your knee and then slowly, so damn slowly, he began to trail his fingers up along the inside of your thighs, which parted so easily at his gentle persuasion. His touch was electric, yet soft and sensual, and wherever his fingers played you felt a fiery tingle that made you shiver. Finally his fingers trailed delicately over your sensitive cunt, teasing you, tantalizing you, until you cried softly, silently begging him to touch you most sensitive place.

With a smile that you could feel more than see, his fingers slipped into your slick warmth and you cried out, a spasm of pleasure overwhelming you. He silenced your cry with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours while his fingers slipped deeply inside you and stroked, as languidly and rhythmically as you were stroking him.

“Oh my g—” You cried, writhing at the pleasure of his fingers sliding slowly in and out of you, then pulling out to trail up higher and caress your folds. When his fingers danced over your clit you arched you back, your breath leaving you in a gasp. The electricity of his touch, so gentle and sensuous, sent spasms of pleasure rippling through you.

He didn't hurry the pace, just stroked you with an even, sensual rhythm as he kissed you. He was holding you, his arm surrounding you, pressing his body to yours, his mouth never far from your lips, your neck, your ear, his eyes never far from yours. You had never felt so close to someone, so protected in his arms, so cherished and adored.

His fingers dipped down to enter you again and his thumb continued the slow, exquisite torture above. Just when you thought you'd go over the edge he'd pull away, pause, caress a different part of you and send you on the upward spiral again and again, or slide his fingers into you over and over while his thumb swirled and caressed and rubbed, driving you mad with an aching desire.

He smiled down at you, nipped at your lips, pressed his forehead to yours and trailed kisses down your eyelids, your cheeks, until claiming your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the sweet, sensuous motion of his fingers and thumb.

He grew rock hard in your hand as you moaned with each breath, as you came closer and closer to the edge. You could feel him restraining himself, wanting only to pleasure you, anticipating your climax. But it wasn't what you wanted. On a ragged breath you stopped his hand.

"I want you," you said urgently. "Please, Bucky. . .fuck me."

He gazed at you, teetering on a moment of indecision. His chest rose and fell sharply with his labored breath, and he brought a trembling hand up to your hip and gripped you, holding you, moving to settle between your legs and pausing at your entrance.

"Please, I want you inside me." your voice dropped to a whisper so urgent you hardly recognized it yourself. "Please don't make me beg."

And whatever strength he had left vanished.

"Oh baby. . ." He moved forward and slid into you, a breathless throaty sound of pure male pleasure escaping his lips. "Oh my God. . ."

He paused for a moment, looking down at you with heavy-lidded desire, visibly enjoying the new sensation of being so deep inside you. You were slick and hot, more than ready for him, and as you body adjusted to him, to the exquisite, aching stretch he was causing, you squirmed beneath him on a moan of primal pleasure. He pulled out slowly, torturously, and slid himself in again, filling you completely.

You closed your eyes and moaned, gripping his ass as he lifted your hips up to him, angling you so he could fill you more deeply. He began to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, his hips moving sensuously, making you muscles tighten around him as he plunged into you again and again, your movements coming so easily, so naturally, so deliciously slowly.

You lifted your legs to wrap them around him, loving the way it tilted you back so that his every thrust felt deeper, felt like it was reaching new depths of pleasure in you.

“Yes, yes, yes. . .like that. . .oh my god, Bucky. . .you fill me up so good.”

He ran his hand possessively along your leg, pausing to look down at your joined bodies as he thrust into you. He raised himself up, his arms braced on the other side of you to keep his weight off you, and moved so he could thrust more freely, more quickly, building the tempo. He pressed his lips to your forehead gently as he drove into you, his breath ragged, panting, yours matching his intensity and need.

“Ugh—you drive me insane, I love hearing you moan my name—don’t stop.”

You could feel him getting close, nearing the edge of his own release, and he slowed, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck as the rhythm of his hips paused, and then resumed again, more slowly this time, building again, savoring you body the way his lips had savored you mouth, the way his tongue had devoured you breasts. His arm slid around you back again, holding you, lifting you up to him as he took your breast in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. His mouth was hungrier this time, sucking your nipple, flicking his tongue over it with such abandon that you felt it in your core. His passion was growing, and you could sense that his desire to be slow and tender with you was losing the battle against his raw primitive need.

You gripped him, lost in the dizzying sensations he was causing in you. His mouth on you, his hand roaming over you, gripping your ass as he thrust into you in a relentless rhythm. You were limp in his embrace, held in place for him to possess, to plunder, to pleasure. You had never been held like that before, and the primal intensity of it, the feeling of being so completely owned by his desire, overwhelmed you. You were his, completely, your body as loose as a rag doll in his arms. You gripped his straining arms as he sent pleasure coursing through you, gripping you as he thrust and withdrew, plunged and pulled out, drove into you over and over again in breathless ecstasy.

“Keep fucking me like that—Yes! Oh my God, harder, please. . . B-Bucky!”

Waves of pleasure grew stronger and stronger in you, pushing you towards the ultimate pleasure, building with increasing urgency as his rhythm grew faster and harder.

“Oh—like that? You like that?”

He groaned as he kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breast, and drove himself into you with such exquisite need. You gripped his buttocks, feeling the powerful muscles contracting with each thrust, drawing him deeper into you. When he tore away from your lips and looked down into your eyes you felt the waves rise, growing stronger and higher and faster until with a shattered cry you came, trembling as the pleasure spasmed through you.

His eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, groaning from the exquisite pleasure of your spasming pussy.

“Shit—fuck, you’re gonna make me come. Ohhhh—” Bucky moaned.

You were so incredibly tight, gripping his cock as you came, milking him as he struggled to last just a moment longer, lost in the heaven of you hot, wet heat. Your cries of pleasure echoed throughout the darkened room and when you whispered his name on a soft, sweet whimper he found his own release, jetting into you over and over again as he cried out in an agony of pleasure and a torrent, a chorus, of your name.

Finally, finally, his hips slowed and he lowered his head and kissed you gently, sensuously, as softly as he had when he had first pulled you down to him. Then he lowered his head to your neck and let himself rest there, lying against you, his heart thundering, his breath ragged and heavy. You lowered your legs from around his waist and wrapped your arms around him instead, cradling him to you. you rested your head against the top of his and felt your own breath slowing, your own heartbeat returning to normal. His cock was still hard inside you and he shuddered as you clenched around him.

"God, you're incredible." He exhaled a long, deep breath.

He rose up and kissed you, shuddering with each aftershock as his cock surged inside you. You could feel your inner muscles clenching around him, not releasing him yet, teasing the last drops of pleasure from him.

He lay his head down against you again, breathing out a sigh that was both release and contentment as the last tremors rippled through him. You loved this feeling, this sensation of his body trembling with the afterglow of pleasure, pleasure you had given him, just as your body was tingling from the intense pleasure he had given you.

He held you to him, sliding out of you slowly, and shifted slightly so that you fit against him perfectly, settling into the warmth and comfort of his arms encircling you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to your temple and leaving them there for a long minute before letting go.

“I'm so glad you stayed over,” you said quietly, kissing the soft skin of his neck.

He stilled for a moment, and you looked up at him, trying to read whatever might be revealed in his eyes. In the darkness both of you were inscrutable, until he leaned closer and bumped your cheek with his nose before lightly pressing his lips to yours for a sweet, soulful kiss.

“So does this mean we're not friends anymore?” He asked, in between luscious nips at your lips.

“You tell me,” you said sleepily, unable to resist his slow, savoring kisses.

You felt his smile as he kissed you languidly, with deliberate slowness, each kiss deepening into something more intimate than the last. Finally his lips stilled and you felt him fall asleep beside you, his breathing soft and slow.

You wanted to stay awake, to freeze this moment in time, to make it last. you wished you could lay there forever, tucked in beside him, your bodies curled to get you. But even as you tried to stay awake, gently caressing the arm that draped over you protectively. you gradually succumbed to a peaceful, contented sleep.

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a-hermit-pining · 9 days ago

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LaDs Men React to You Being Whipped for Them

AN: Is it love, if not bound by subtle insanity?

Pairing: LaDs x GN Reader

Emily Bronte (Wuthering Heights): “He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Yearning Event

Xavier:

"Sit," you say, practically shoving him onto the bed. "Sleep. On time. For once."

You tuck him in with a look that brooks no argument. "You're going nowhere tonight. I don't care if the world ends. It can wait until morning."

Xavier blinks up at you from under the blanket, wide-eyed. He never imagined he'd live to see the day someone forced him to sleep. He slept plenty as is, but this? This was different.

You lean in, palm cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over his pout. "Not sleepy?" you ask, voice soft, lips close.

And then the little gremlin bites your finger. Gently. But still. His eyes glimmer. "Can't sleep," he whispers. "Not tired enough."

He gives you the look. You know the one.

You’re not sure if you want to fight him or kiss him breathless. Possibly both.

Rafayel:

He knows you’re whipped. And he lives for it.

This? This is his dream come true. You, hovering with tissues and cough drops. You, his personal bodyguard, ready to throw hands at anyone who so much as sneezes in his direction.

He flashes smug little smiles at everyone who sees you fuss over him. Sips his tea like royalty. Winks like the menace he is.

Cue: entire exhibition crowd watching you dig through your bag for lozenges because his voice might sound hoarse.

He’s a sucker for love, but terrified to be the first one to say it. So when you pour your heart out first?

He’s free. Free to adore you with all the softness he’s hidden for years. Free to give back everything he’s been aching to share.

He’ll never say it, but this kind of love? This saves him.

Zayne:

He doesn’t know what to do with this. Not at first.

You bring him lunch at work. Spend weeks researching ways to break the curse. Kiss every scar like it’s sacred.

Everyone around you sees it. The way you’re gently, beautifully spoiling him. And they love it. They love this for him.

And slowly… so does he.

At first, he’s confused. Then touched. Then quite overwhelmed.

Because he’s never had this before. Not like this. Not so deliberate. So quietly certain. But over time, it settles in his chest like warmth. Like a memory he never had but always wanted. Like home.

And when he finally learns how to return it. When he stops being afraid of breaking it... oh, gods. You’ll drown in it.

Because Zayne doesn’t love in halves. He just never thought he was allowed to have this.

Sylus:

He’s supposed to be the suave one. The smooth-talker. The charm incarnate. The planner. The tease.

But your easy, unrelenting affection? It undoes him.

“What next?” he asks, leaning down to tilt your chin up. “You going to complain next? ‘Sylus, why can’t you ever plan anything in advance?’” He mocks your voice with a grin, cocky and effortless.

But your smile doesn’t waver. You just wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer. Like you always have.

“No,” you murmur. “I think it’s an excellent idea to take a vacation. Thanks for planning, Sylus.” You say his name so gently. So sure. Then kiss him with painstaking care.

And he’s stunned. Just… still. A blush creeping in. Throat tight. Something in his chest cracks open.

“Well,” he says, voice lower now. No teasing this time, just a quiet, genuine warmth. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Gods help him. You’re too good at this.

Caleb:

You’re both the problem. The gooey couple that makes strangers jealous and your kids roll their eyes.

Your love is obnoxiously mutual. Like something ripped from a bard’s over-the-top romance ballad. And he lives for it.

He’s jealous by nature. Territorial. But with you? He has never felt more safe. You never give him reason to doubt. Never make him feel like he’s too much.

To be cared for so deeply, to be someone’s center of gravity, it heals something ancient in him. It’s the love he didn’t know he was allowed to have. And gods, he guards it with everything he is.

Because in your eyes? He’s not a colonel. Not a soldier. Not a weapon. He’s just Caleb. And he is so, so loved.

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sugarverse · 5 months ago

Text

𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙣 𝘾𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧

word count: 3.2k

mentions of: yeah its just sex,, uhhhh ya get together at the end but it’s pretty vanilla and i think this might be one of my fav writings for iida so far ehehehe this story was so fun to make. I plan on making a pt.3 and I’m going to postttt soon idk :P

part one

moodboard here!

You tied a cute bow in the belt of your robe once more, walking over to him and fixing the glasses on his oh so cherry red face. “Tenya..?” You ask, sitting on the side of the table next to him. You glance down at the sketch, seeing how far he had actually gotten. It was pretty impressive for someone who is a beginner when it comes to realism, or art itself really. “Do you want some help?”

His jaw was slack, staring up at you now that you were so much closer. Whatever perfume you had on almost made him faint, and there was nothing he could really formulate besides a very quiet, “Ex..excuse me?”

“I said, Do you want some help..?” You tease, leaning down so your faces were only a few inches from each other. You reach for his tie, slowly sliding your hand down his chest. “I wouldn't want you to fail just because your model was a distraction..” You lean closer, gripping the end of his tie as ruby eyes glancing down at your pretty plump lips.

Did you mean help help him, or draw it yourself? There was no way he was reading into this wrong, right? Did you see his hard-on the whole time?? He gave a long blink, trying to keep his head on straight. “I w..would love-” Before he could finish the sentence, you tug on the tie and press your lips against his. He melted into you, hands placing themselves onto your hips softly almost as if you’d break if he did touch you.

He had yearned for this for so long. There was no way you felt this way all this time and he never picked up on it. The thought only made him deepen the kiss, his hands moving to hold your face in his palms. You let his tie go with a smile, giggling at his eagerness to kiss you back. You place your hands on his shoulder, feeling him stand but refusing to let his lips leave yours. It felt like fireworks were going off around the two of you, only pulling away when you both needed the air.

Tenya was once again standing with crooked glasses, red faced, and this time slightly out of breath. “Y/n I.. Why didn’t.. How did I not..” He panted, after what was only a few seconds, he crashed his lips against yours before you could even respond to his stuttering. You whimpered in response, attempting to untie the tie the best you could with your eyes closed. He helped you, loosening it and letting his hands tangle themselves behind your head and into the kitchen of your hair the best he could. He just wanted you closer. Closer than he already was.

You pull away from him, feverishly leaving kissing along his sharp jawline. He sighed, hands going back to your waist patiently. He rubbed your sides up and down as you kissed down his neck, letting out a breathless whine at the missing feeling of your warm lips against his.

“Why haven't we ever k..kissed before now if this is how you ..f-felt..” He sucked in a sharp gasp once you kissed the right side of his neck. Bingo. You bit down on that spot listening to him groan in your ear, gripping your hips a little harder.

You open your legs slightly so he can stand between them, his body involuntarily pulling you towards the edge as he takes the step towards you. “Because I can't lose you.. I never thought you'd feel the same..” You mumble against his skin, leaving open mouthed kisses down to his collar before unbuttoning it.

You could feel the hard-on poke at your thigh, tauntingly moving to grind against him. After all, the silk of your robe was the only thing keeping him from well.. you. He ached, looking down at you with an almost heartbroken look in his eyes.

“Of course I do, I have wanted you for a very long time.. I know I can treat you better than anyone else out there y/n. It hurts so bad when you'd find someone else more interesting than me. I thought I was too..” He paused for a second, groaning as he grinded against you subconsciously. “A square, if you will.” He chuckled nervously at the admission, feeling you nipping at the most sensitive part of his neck as he let out soft moans and grumbles.

You pull away to look at him, fixing his glasses from earlier with a small giggle. “There's nothing wrong with liking books, or wanting to follow the rules..” Manicured hand began to unbutton his collar and down his shirt.

“And I just never thought you'd go for someone like me. I assumed you'd want a shy girl or somthin’.. I guess we really did make an ass out of u and me.” You tease, giggling once more at your own play on words. You stopped about halfway down his shirt unless this was too much. You didn't wanna be too pushy but God did you want to see those abs.

He let out a small laugh as well, staring down at your gorgeous lips. “I would have told you a lonnnng time ago, y/n. I'm sorry I didn't–” He started, feeling your finger press against his lips to stop him.

“We know now, don't we? Now we move forward.” You wrap your legs around his waist, watching him nod until you move your finger away. “How about I finally help you?” You run a hand down his chest, watching him shudder at the feeling of your acrylics.

He leaned over you, hands moving onto the table rather than on your hips. “If we're going to do anything, I want to do it the right way..” You wanted to pout at his response. He was right, being caught would be absolutely terrible for the both of you. I guess it wouldn't hurt to go back to one of your apartments and finish? Ugh but then the mood is different..

As the gears in your brain worked, Tenya still mindless pressing against you, began kissing you once more. You smile, coconut colored eyes following as he kisses your neck. This time looking for you to gasp or make some sort of noise. His lips smirked against your skin, kissing down to your shoulder and moving the robe off of it. He bit right between your neck and shoulder, causing you to squeal and grip onto his shirt.

Your eyes fluttered, feeling him kiss down to your collarbone. He guided a hand to unbutton the rest of his shirt, the other going back to resting on your waist. He made sure to kiss down the valley of your breasts, not breaking eye contact with you once had he looked up.

“May I?” He motioned to the robe, watching you quickly shrug the silk off of your other shoulder and pulling the tie of your belt. All he needed was to open it up completely. He chuckled at your quickness, letting it pull around your legs once again. He made sure to kiss both of your boobs, finishing with the unbuttoning of his shirt. He used that hand to pinch at your nip, putting the other in his mouth to suck on.

You arch your back into his touch, whimpering as you squeezed your legs around him in response. You could feel him smile, swapping to give your girls equal attention. He felt you buck at such simple actions, kissing down your navel and to where your robe pooled.

“You sound so sweet.. I need to taste you. Wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to go first baby,” You melted at the name, nodding hurriedly. He smiled, going onto his knees and scooping his arms under your knees. He pulled you to the edge, watching you jolt in surprise. You could feel your heart beating in more places than one. The entire time the only thing that had been covering you up was that flimsy piece of silk which he finally moved out of the way, staring down at you for a moment.

This obviously wasn’t the first time he’s been in a sexual situation, but he couldn’t help but freeze for a moment. You were so stunning.. ethereal even. He really didn’t mean to stare, not wanting you to think something was wrong or he was too scared. Just very much in love with the look of you. He finally breaks concentration, looking up at you with a small smile. “You promise this is okay?” He wanted to double check just in case you saw him as he saw himself.. God forbid you did.

“I promise.” You put your pinky out, watching him move his hand from your thigh to interlock his pinky with yours. Without any hesitation, he shoved his glasses up and opened your legs wider. He kissed your clit before starting to suck on it, crimson eyes staring up at you to see what he was doing well vs what you didn’t like as much. Your breathing hitched, hand going to take the glasses and set them on the table so you could grip onto his hair the correct way. You rut your hips towards him, staring down in awe.

He couldn’t help but stare back up at you, strong hands keeping your thighs pressed against his shoulders despite your involuntarily squirming. He swirled his tongue around your bundle of nerves, hands gripping onto your thighs so he could be as close as possible. You tasted so sweet. Damn near sweeter than fruit, only making him want more. Flattening his tongue against you and going back to giving your sensitive spot hell.

You pulled at his navy blue hair, hands gripping onto him as you rode yourself against his tongue. Stuttering out praises through pants and moans, “Ffffuck.. tenya-ah!~” You squeak out, thighs beginning to shake from wanting to close. He slithered a hand from your thigh, teasingly tracing his index finger around your entrance. “Don’t t..tease me!” You leaned forward, hair falling around your shoulders as you looked down at him.

“Please please pl-ngh~!” Your begging was stopped by the feeling of two thick fingers sliding into you as he swirled his tongue around your clit some more. He made sure to curl them, feeling you clench around his fingers drove him insane. Thrusting his fingers into you even faster than his tongue was moving. You could feel yourself getting closer to the edge, the knot in your stomach starting to tighten. You couldn’t keep quiet even if you really wanted to. You were on another planet.

The face you made when you came could only be described as angelic to iida, he watched as you came undone around his lips. You laid your back against the table as he lapped it up. Almost liked someone dying of dehydration. He slowed his fingers down, sliding them out of you to lick his fingers clean. He lightly placed your legs back onto the table. “You taste divine, you know that?” He asked, unbuckling his belt and tossing his wallet on the table.

You blink up at him, panting and giggling. “I know now,” You stared up at him, messy haired and mouth wet as lustful but loving eyes stared down at you. You took a mental picture, biting your lip to hold back your happy giggles. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sliding the belt off and placing it on the chair behind him. “Let me,” You lean forward, unbuttoning his dress pants hurriedly and unzipping them. It ached being hard for so long, but as many times as he’s imagined this to play out, he was always going to make you feel good first.

“I need you, y/n..” He admitted almost in a whisper, reaching for his glasses so he could actually see you. You tug his pants down, letting out a small laugh to yourself at the red checkered underwear he wore before pulling them down as well. You assumed he’d be big, the man is 6 foot and built like a fucking unit.

What you weren’t expecting was for it to spring right in front of your face. There’s no way that can.. Well, Doesn’t matter if it fits or not. No way you’d miss the opportunity. He let out a chuckle, assumingly at your wide eyes.

“You have me,” You smile up at him with half lidded eyes, changing your expression quickly so you werent the one looking like a deer in headlights. You grab his cock with manicured nails, licking the precum from his tip before siding as much as you could into your throat.

His breath hitched, a small groan leaving his lips. “No sweetheart, I mean I need you. As much as.. I’d l..love you to,” He let out a breathless sigh filled with pleasure, head tilting back.

“Keep.. feeling your mouth, I need you. Awfully bad, I might a..add.” He struggled to speak, moans escaping his lips as he felt you take him completely down your throat for a moment. You pulled away with a pop, smiling up at him.

“Whatever you want, sir..” You tease, sitting up and putting your hands on his shoulders, slowly sliding them to his neck to cup his face. “Give me a few more kisses, huh mister?” You didn’t even have time to lean up, feeling his lips desperately go back to yours. You tangle your hands in his messy hair once more, feeling him lay you down gently.

He pulled your legs to the edge once more, listening to the squeak you let out as he subconsciously manhandled you. He looks over to the wallet he tossed on the table earlier, opening it to fish for a condom that he always carried around. Not that he ever thought he’d really use it.

“You don’t need one,” You see him quickly look at you as if you were insane, vermillion eyes studying your face. “I’m serious! If worse comes to worse I’ll stop by the pharmacy. I want us both to actually feel it..” You sit up once more, pretty brown eyes staring up at him pleadingly. You place a hand on his arm, which was enough for him to go standing right back in front of you.

“Are you sure, y/n? Absolutely positive?” He asked carefully, cock twitching at the cold air of the room. The snow from the skylight had covered it so much the room was practically black if it weren’t for the very dim but few lights in the room. You nod, giving him a reassuring kiss on the cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” You smile, laying back down. Big hands gripped your hips as he lined himself up to you, staring down at your sensitive bud for a moment before slowly sliding the tip into you. You whimper, gasping and letting your eyes roll back as he slid what you could take into you. You felt full, eyes trying to focus on the man in front of you.

“Fuck..” He muttered, leaning over you and kissing up from your collarbone to your neck, holding you close as he started to move gently into you. He knew he was big, and he didn’t plan on hurting you. he wanted it to be the best experience you’ve ever had.. despite the uncommon location. You hug him quickly, whining out and pressing your face into his shoulder. It couldn’t get closer than this.. Or so you thought, feeling him slowly start to fuck you open and press against that spot. Tears well in the corners of your eyes, gasping and biting the pain into his shoulder.

He hissed, making sure to go as slow as his mind and body would let him. He needed to see you completely undone, but your comfortability and adjusting to it would come first. “It’s okay sweetheart, ‘m right here. I got you. “ He whispered into your ear, nipping at your lobe with a small smile. You could hear how passionate he was in his voice, letting your legs wrap around him once more.

After a few more slow thrusts into you, you move from his shoulder and whisper back. “F..Fuck me like you mean it, Ten. I can take i..it.” You mewled out, feeling him kiss from your cheek to your lips before slamming into you. You squeaked, having trouble trying to kiss back. You couldn’t quiet down even if you wanted to. Your nails grab at his back, lightly scratching so you didn’t rip his skin open. Shit, fucking you like this you might not be able to stop yourself.

He shuddered at the feeling, pulling away from your lips to leave open mouthed kisses against your neck. You bite your lip hard, you didn’t know what time it was but you knew there were still people in the building. He slid his hands up to your back, letting his hands hold onto your shoulders from underneath you to keep you still while he fucked your brains out.

You were seeing stars, biting and leaving hickeys all over him to muffle yourself. He gritted his teeth, glancing down at you through foggy glasses. “You take it so good, honey.. Need..Need you like this all the time.” He huffed out, letting out another breathless chuckle at your fucked out expression. “Can I have you?”

Broken sobs of pleasure was really all you could give in return, nodding as quick as you could before kissing him once again. He smiled against your lips, letting a hand slide down to your clit. He only thumbed over it a few times before you came, legs squeezing tighter against his torso. He pulled his hand away, moving both of them back to your hips. He was obviously close too, but it felt so good he wasn’t sure he could pull out exactly in time.

“G-Gotta let me pull out, honey..” You shake your head no, burying your face into his skin once again. “Need.. need to feel.. In me– cum in me.” He began to slow down, trying to think through racing thoughts and how good you felt around him. It wasn't much time to make the decision and professionalism was already out the window at this point. “P.. Please- please tenya~?” You cry out, hugging close to him. If that’s what you wanted, he was going to oblige.

He gave a couple more thrusts, cumming into you and holding you close. Once you pulled away enough, he left peppered kisses amongst your neck and jaw.

You smile, sighing out tiredly before giving him a few kisses on his poor red lips. “You are my favorite human being on the planet,” You huff out, trying to continue but your thoughts were a bit scrambled. “I’m yours. For as long as you want me.”

He quickly responded, kissing your cheek in conformation. “Forever. I want you to be mine.. Forever.” He was sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead and still out of breath himself. His face was red, eyes hanging low from both tiredness and wonderment.

You giggle at his response, taking his glasses and cleaning them with the silk of the robe that was under you.

“Forever it is.”

© if you like what you see please reblog! It means a lot! Want more? Heres my m.list! I write for x black reader so throw me some requests :P my other account are icons and x black reader moodboards if you’re interested!

ALSO ALSO special thank you @urfriendlywriter for some of the smut ideas and the vocabulary, it helped better than fighting a thesaurus lol

thank you @thecutestgrotto and @arlerts-angel for the banners and thank you @fizzintine for coloring the top photo!

have a good day/night/whatever!

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alanisstonedd · 1 month ago

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marine!rafe getting home with a fresh buzzcut and some stubble bullying his fattttt cock into you as soon as he can... the dirty talk would be nasty as hell

LIKE COME ONNNNNNN.

cw: MDNI smuttttttyyyy, nasty nasty talk, p in v, light choking, little cum play, rough sex

an: i love him hes so nasty its romantic & writing ts was TOO fun

OKAY dude doesn't even give you a chance to breathe before he's kicking the door shut behind him, the sharp slam echoing through the house. his fresh buzzcut catches the dim light of your entryway, beautiful tattoos rippling along with his muscles, and the rough stubble on his jaw scratches DELICIOUSLY against your skin as he crashes his lips against yours. yall are both so desperate its not even funny, practically heaving into each others mouths, too excited to slow down for even a second.

hes always away for such long periods of time, it rlly hurts him :( all he has is his extensive collection of nasty pics and vids of you to hold him over, poor baby, tugging his dick every night to the thought of fucking his sexy girl again.

but once hes backkkkk girl his big hands are everywhere at once, gripping your hips, sliding up under your shirt, pressing so possessively into your lower back. "fuck, baby," he groans into your mouth, voice thick with all that pent-up hunger from deployment he spent every second of yearning for you. "you taste even sweeter than i remember" he can't help but lick over every inch of skin he can get to, wanting to taste you fully for all the nights he couldn't, "its all that whip' cream you put on me before you left rafe" you giggle into his neck, reveling in his total worship of you.

girl he wastes absolutely no time, lifting you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, his hard cock pressing insistently against your core through his army fatigues. yall would probably dry hump until you both cum all over yourselves if you didn't miss the delicious rush of fucking each other so much. and the GROWLS when you grind down against him?? you just end up grinding 10x harder, trying to catch your clit on him - hes so fine it makes you that much more hungry to cum all over him.

he'll bully you down onto the nearest surface, barely breaking your heated kiss to tear your clothes off like its his literal mission. his eyes glaze over, jaw clenched as he frees his thick cock, already hot, flushed, and leaking at the tip - hes actually been thinking about this since the moment he left.

he teases you, like he consistently loves to do upon arriving home, lovingggg the way your face mirrors the same frustration he felt for you the entirety of his deployment. he licks his lips, bottom one pinned by his top teeth, sliding his cock head through your dripping entrance, watching your face scrunch up with anticipation, and your breath skipping in your heaving chest.

"look at you, baby," he breathes harshly, feeling his own chest clench at how sexy you look all disheveled. he missed you like hell - and he most definitely missed that pre-fuck hazy look you give him. hes sliding justttttt the head inside, stretching you slowly. "already fuckin' soaked, you been waitin' for this cock, huh baby?" hes so locked in that he can't concentrate on one thing, whipping his head up and down trying to see everything at once - the way he stretches you so nicely all the way up to your face relaxing and straining in pleasure.

his head dives into your neck to lick at you, stubble scratching your chest, "yes, fuck—rafe, please," you whine. your hips canting beneath him, you wish he'd just fuck you already, so frustrated with his torture. his thumb will alwayssss find your clit, circling firmly just how you like until you're legs are shaking, eyes rolling back into your head.

"begging already? c'mon, baby, i barely started," he smirks, pushing in deeper, inch by devastating fucking inch. "whose pussy is this? tell me" unfortunately he can't help but play with his food, LOVING the way your body practically begs for him, finally back where you belong - on his dick ofc.

"it's yours—fuck, rafe, it's yours," you gasp, the air feeling too thick in the fog created by his extremely unhurried movements, nails digging into his muscular shoulders, streaking his intricate tattoos with bright red.

"damn right," he growls, FINALLY sinking in to the hilt, full balls pressing tight against your ass. he immediately sets a brutal pace, hips snapping forward relentlessly, cock dragging against your walls, perfectly hitting every spot left untouched for so long. "gonna fuck your beautiful ass so stupid, make sure you never forget the only dick that fills you up like this."

his hand wraps loosely around your throat, forcing you to meet his intense blue-eyed gaze. "you missed me, huh? missed bein' stuffed full every fuckin' night. don't worry, bae—imma spend alllllllll night remindin' you."

and girl you BEEN spiraling for a minute now, body clenching soo tight around him, sparkling tears of pleasure blurring your vision. he grins - that absolutely wicked rafe grin - grinding deep, his dog tags and chain jingling with every powerful thrust. "cum on my cock, baby. drain my balls."

and LITERALLY at his command you shatter violently, crying out like a whore as your vision goes white, your pussy spasming uncontrollably around him. and ofc instead of slowing down, rafe grabs your hips even tighter, fingers bruising your skin as he pounds into you even HARDER, chasing his own release down like an enemy target - he'd fuck you through an earthquake in this state... more like - fuck you so hard an earthquake actually starts.

"fuck... look at that messy pussy," he groans like a pervert, licking into your mouth, wishing you could taste yourself on his tongue. "makin' such a fuckin' mess for me baby," he growls, voice strained with lust and hunger. but he pulls out abruptly, flipping you onto your stomach and thrusting back inside like he needs you to feel it deep in your guts - MEANNN. his huge palm smacking your ass sharply, leaving it stinging and hot. "gonna fill you up, fuckin' ruin you, baby. you're not walkin' tomorrow."

he leans forward, teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers so deep and harsh, "and this pussy better not even dream of another dick. you hear me? i'm fuckin' claiming you from the inside out." you moan out like a complete slut, his words sending a delicious thrum through your core.

"y-yes—fuck— rafe, it's all yours," you whimper brokenly, practically hiccuping, overstimulated and absolutely wrecked.

he grunts loudly, "fuck—i love you so fuckin' much bae", finally unloading inside you with thick, hot ropes of cum, so deep you swear you can taste it, salty zing in the back of your throat. "i love you baby—i love you s-so much" you groan, in complete bliss at the feel of his warm cum spilling out of you. panting heavily, he leans over your trembling form, licking and sucking at the salty sweat on your neck.

"welcome home, baby," you whisper-laugh, voice already hoarse from screaming, grinning at him like a fool, still shaking beneath him.

he chuckles darkly, slowly grinding his hips to fuck his cum even deeper into you. "baby, we're just gettin' started. im fuckin' you all night, nasty girl." he murmurs the last bit against your lips, getting lost in your sweetness all over again as your tongues mingle. you squeek happily from a firm smack to your booty, "mmm, delicious... fuckin' made for me.."

hope y'all liked this! likes, reblogs and all the rest are much appreciated!!!

xoxo, lana 💋💋💋

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strwberri-milk · 4 months ago

Note

Maybe this is a bit angsty but could I request the LADS men’s (or just Sylus’s) reaction when reader randomly, casually says in a conversation, ‘Well you’re probably not gonna stick around with me in the future anyway’ (so in short, they think they’re temporary).

Zayne's attention snaps to you so quickly you would have thought you told him you're experiencing a cardiac event. He takes a second to process the words, brows furrowing as he asks you why you'd say something like that. His reaction is so visceral you can't help but laugh awkwardly, asking him what he means by that. The confusion tinged with something unreadable and sad hurts his heart, wondering if he hasn't made it clear enough that he's madly in love with you and only you.

He falls silent, pondering your words and his own actions. Has he not been affectionate enough with you? Has he not been obvious enough about how in love he is with you? You start to squirm, usually used to his thoughtful pauses but the tension rising in the air has you suffocating.

Eventually he tells you that you're going to be stuck with him for quite a while because he doesn't intend on giving you up that easily. He cups your face in his hands, telling you that you're the most precious thing to him in the world and he's going to love you until his dying breath, then past that. The confession is quite intense especially since he just looks very intense for the most part so it steals your breath away before Zayne pushes air right back into your lungs with a desperate kiss.

Xavier immediately tells you off, raising a brow as he asks why you think he wouldn't be there in the future. He's spent so many years yearning for your warmth - it seems blasphemous to him not to stay with you until the universe tears you apart and then some. You see the hurt in his eyes immediately, trying to backtrack as he asks you if you really thought he'd leave.

He takes your hands in his gently, taking a palm to cup his cheek as he nuzzles into your warmth, looking up at you with those baby blues that seem to tempt you to fall into them as he repeats the question. Your words are dry in your throat as you look away, his hand coming up to tilt your face back to look at him.

He swears his life to you again, peppering your hand in kisses as he speaks. If you had any doubts about his feelings for you before there's no way you can now, not with the way his voice settles around you. He solidifies his feelings for you, devoting his entire being to you in the quiet space between the two of you.

Rafayel is totally unamused, brushing your comment off as a joke. He fully thinks you're just trying to get under his skin, teasing him because that's the sort of relationship that the two of you have. When you don't respond with your usual enthusiasm he looks at you with a scrutinizing gaze. His lips press together as he starts to realise that you were serious, rolling his eyes as he pulls you against his chest.

He's shaking, thinly veiled anger running through his veins. He isn't really mad at you, but it would be wrong to say that he isn't at the same time. He doesn't understand why you'd think something like that, under the belief that he's made it very clear that he's in love with you and only you. I mean, have you seen him in a room with other people when they aren't you?

His words are soft in your ear, the quietest hint of a threat in them as he asks if you're serious. Nothing about this was temporary, about his feelings for you were fading. They never did and they never could, not even if he fell to his knees and begged for someone to take them from him. He's built on the anger of a dead civilsation and the inability to do anything but love you, telling you that even if you try to leave him he'll just wait until you're ready for him again.

Sylus doesn't even stop what he's doing, chuckling softly at the notion. He thinks you're joking, unable to fathom that you're fully serious in thinking that he won't be sticking around. You feel a little upset at how easily he brushes you off, deciding that you're done for the day as you fall silent. He notices that right away, looking up at you and beckoning for you to crawl into his lap. If you refuse to he'll simply come over and pull you into his lap without question, telling you to repeat yourself.

You repeat the statement, now more unsure of yourself since he's staring at you intently. You can see the slight quirk of his lips, his smirk making your heart beat a little faster as you tell him that whatever the two of you have isn't serious. He laughs at the notion, shaking his head as he cups your face in his hands. He takes in every detail of your face, sighing softly as he buries his face into your neck, peppering kisses as he shakes his head.

He doesn't know what to say, the words all caught in his throat as he holds you. You don't need him to say anything though, the desperate way he clings to your body and his lips muttering the beginnings of words just to abandon them convincing you more with every passing second that he's going to love you until the end of time.

#love and deepspace x reader #l&ds x reader #lads x reader #zayne x reader #l&ds zayne x reader #lads zayne x reader #l&ds xavier x reader #lads xavier x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #l&ds rafayel x reader #lads rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus x reader #lads sylus x reader

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citruslullabies · 6 months ago

Text

Curly Mouthwashing headcannons

Romantic

Pre-crash Curly:

He is just so sweet

Curly is a very nice guy, but with you it's just deadly how nice he is

He's not one for PDA. Captain and all, gotta keep a professional look, y'know?

But whenever you two are alone, I like to think he likes to have his arms loosely wrapped around your hips and his head resting on your stomach

His favorite places to rest his head are on your stomach and chest

Yes ladies, gentlemen, and lades, he doesn't mind those weird noises everyone's stomach makes. And he doesn't mind hearing your heartbeat hammer out of your chest

But I imagine that Curly has a big thing for smells

The captain woke up with a groan, sighing and taking his first conscious breath of the day. His senses are flooded with the smell of you all around him, making his brain numb as he smiled and leaned further into you to drown in the smell.

Smell like vanilla and this can will literally die

He seems like he loves smells like vanilla and lemon

But he loves the way you practically swallow him while with your eyes

The way you look at him with such love and adoration, and not just because he's the captain

It makes him swoon every time

Fantasizes about marrying you and starting a family, but wouldn't push for it first. He wants to wait for you to be ready

You're his sweetheart and he loves you so much

Post-crash curly:

He wishes you didn't have to see him like this.

He feels like the shell of who he once was

Not the strong captain you loved, but rather a failure who can't do anything to help anyone. Not even himself.

Whenever you come and spend time with him, his eye looks to you in yearning

He yearns to hold you like he once did. Yearns to talk to you like he once did

He wants nothing more than to call you beautiful and compliment the same outfit you wear every day

He wants to lay against your stomach or your chest

The only sense of familiarity in your dynamic is your scent flooding his senses and your eyes.

How can you still look at him that way??

How could you see a man and not a monster?

He was partially to blame for this, after all. He failed everyone and was paying the consequences.

But you looked at him with such love..

It killed him when he saw you at that table.

Platonic

Pre-crash Curly:

Kind smiles and fist bumps all day long

He offers help whenever he can, wanting to make sure you were comfortable. You were friends after all and his responsibility

You got a problem? Hes there to listen

He just.. can't do anything about it

He doesn't have much of a backbone, and you learn that quick.

You two grew close. Maybe even closer than him and Jimmy were

But after what happened with Anya..

You couldn't even look at him anymore due to his negligence

Looking at him made you sick. He was a good friend but a horrible captain

"look, I just- I don't know what you expect me to do about this." He says with a tired sigh, exhausted from the work of a captain and the never ending piling issues. He watched as your eyes narrowed in his direction as if he was as awful as Jimmy, but before he could speak, you walked off with a scoff.

Post-crash curly:

He feels humiliated, same as with romantic

But your eyes don't feel welcoming.

He feels nothing but pity but a sense of the feeling that he deserved this in your eyes

Every time you see him, you're quiet

He wishes he could talk to break the ice

He always was the ice breaker.. but not anymore. Not unless you counted the noises of choking and gargling on your own blood and vomit.

But he always felt a sense of emptiness when you finally left

He failed you. And he failed everybody else.

He just hoped you would forgive him

And that this wouldn't hurt

Thanks for reading!!

#i recently got into mouthwashing if it wasnt obvious #i have an oc for it and everything #hehe #mouthwashing curly #mouthwashing curly x reader #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing #captain curly x reader #captain curly #captain curly mouthwashing #mouthwashing captain curly #curly x reader #curly mouthwashing #curly headcannons #mouthwashing headcanon #mouthwashing horror game

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simpjaes · 6 months ago

Note

Loser jake who's just so pussydrunk™️ that he overstimulates tf out of reader and reader tries to crawl away but he just pulls them back and begs them for one more he promises he will be good :(( (we love loser!jake in this household 🫶)

the one where jake, a super loser, accidentally gives the best and most painful head. warning: jake is SUCH a fucking loser fr, like he has fumbled every girl ever before this.

It's not even that he's a loser, it's just that you never knew someone so fucking awkward could eat this aggressively.

yet, there he is, rubbing his nose in it like a puppy being scolded. You could argue he's enjoying it more than you are if his moans are anything to go by. Only because he's already gotten you off twice this way, and has yet to stop and let you breath.

Your legs have grown so weak that you can't even close them in an attempt to squeeze his head away, and all that's left now is the energy left in your arms. You release his hair, where you were trying to pull him back but he, instead, endures the pain of you trying to make him stop.

He knows it feels good for you, he can tell by the way your clit swells and throbs in his mouth. He couldn't stop even if you begged, even if you kicked him square in the face. He'd find his way back and attach these slick lips right back to you, yearning, fucking pining for one more. Just one more.

And upon that release of his hair, you grip the rug under you, trying to pull yourself up and away from him. Stuttering, almost sobbing at the sensitivity of it all, but he just drags you back down. Hands on your hips preventing you from escaping the relentless assault.

Only when you finally give in, when he releases a guttural moan/growl right into your sopping cunt do you break for a third time. It hurts, god it hurts so bad, but at the same time you can't help but call out his name desperately. As if inviting him for a fourth, or even a fifth orgasm.

A mistake on your part, truthfully, because his tongue only goes stiffer at that, and now he's got three fingers fitting inside of you just to prolong the painful orgasm. So messy with it too, you can feel the slippery heat as he slides his tongue up and down, in and out of each fold and crevasse your pussy offers.

Only when the tears start falling and you go silent does Jake pull up to breathe a true and intentional full breath. He looks at you, pupils blown out wide and mouth slack.

"I did good?" He asks, anticipating some sort of praise, and all you can do in your half-dissociated state is laugh.

This motherfucker? The Jake Sim who managed to fumble girl after girl? The Jake Sim who made you pity him during this short project session of an assignment, admitting that since college started, he hadn't landed a single hookup? The same guy who dead ass asked if you wanted him to leave when you laid down on this floor and spread your legs for him? Enticing him, fucking seducing him to try his skills out on you? He's asking if he did good? Despite the pain, and ignoring the way you can't even sit yourself up to look at him clearly, all you can do is nod in a daze. "Where did you learn how to do all that?" You mumble incoherently. Jake simply shrugs. "Ionno, i watch a lot of porn I guess."

#enhypen smut #jake smut #sim jaeyun smut #enhypen hard hours

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heyimkana · 27 days ago

Text

Pillow Talk (2/4)

Read Part 1 | AO3 Link

Sequel to Come Home to Me but can be read separately.

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo X Female Reader

Genre: Marriage AU, fluff, smut, slight hurt/comfort

Summary: Although the two of you yearn for each other's touch so badly, you start the night slow. Cuddling with your husband in bed, you ask him questions you've never had the bravery to ask before. And as he comforts you, he can't help but tease and play with you a little.

Content Warnings: constant flirting, endless banter and teasing, some nipple play (you'll sit on his face in the next part tho 👀)

Word Count: 10K

The bed sheets wrinkle underneath your fingers, your heart thumping in excitement as the word ‘reward’ rings through your ears. You watch him hover above you, your body caged by his own. “I can ask for... anything?”

With a chuckle so soft yet titillating, Jinwoo prods his nose against the pulsating vein on your neck, savoring your sweet, intoxicating scent. “Anything.”

You swallow thickly, a thousand different wishes bursting into your head at once. “T-then… I want you to…”

Kiss me. Touch me. Make love to me.

These words echo vehemently in your head, a plea that almost physically pains you to ignore. “K-ki…” You can’t say it. You stop yourself from saying it. You don’t want to let him win, not like this, not without effort. Your husband is already a fucking tease even without you giving him a reason to be. If you surrender now, he’ll flaunt his cheeky, cocky grin all day tomorrow, and while he’ll look unbearably sexy when he does that, you’re not sure if your pride can take it.

A mischievous glint coats his eyes simply from noticing the changes in your behavior. Jinwoo drags his face closer to yours, his sentence coming out in a low, seductive purr, “Getting shy now, Sweetheart? How cute.”

See? Even when you haven’t said anything yet, he’s already annoying.

Though flustered, you keep yourself composed. A little teasing like this isn’t something you can’t quickly recover from. Determined to step up your game, you bite your bottom lip, both to restrain yourself from begging for him to touch you as well as to entice him so he’ll make the first move. You know he wants this just as much as you do. If anything, with the way he’s trapping you underneath him right now, his hips eager to seek friction, he’s already craving something more than a kiss. It’s a shame that he’s just as stubborn as you are, but then again, that’s what makes it more interesting for you.

Your eyes travel down to his lips, lingering there for a moment to ensure he receives your message. When they traverse back to his cobalt blues, your lips parting in the shape of his name, his gaze darkens, permeated by nothing but the carnal desire he’s trying to rein in. Unfortunately for you, Jinwoo has played similar games in the past, and he’s committed to winning each time. This one, especially, is the one thing he’ll never allow himself to lose, keeping himself strong and unswayed no matter how much he longs to kiss your pout away. His victory over you would grant him the most satisfaction of all. He’s certain of it.

Jinwoo cups your cheek, his thumb playing with the edge of your mouth. He mimics what you did before, letting his gaze cascade to your lips, the soft breath of his whisper ghosting over them. Seduction colors every line of his face, every letter of the words he speaks. “Does my sweet wife want a kiss?”

‘A kiss? No, I don’t want a kiss. I want you to stick your tongue in my mouth’ is a thought you promptly dismiss the moment his smirk arises on his lips. “I don’t know. Does my annoying husband want one?” It surprises you that you can still muster something witty when he’s looking down at you like that, and seeing how he laughs slightly in response, it appears he feels the same way, too.

“Maybe he does,” his mouth shadows your lobe, nipping lightly at the shell of your ear to remind you how thrilling it was to have his teeth grating against your skin, leaving marks that would set your heart on fire every time you caught your reflection in the mirror. “Maybe,” he continues as he wedges his leg between your own, pushing the end of your nightgown to your thighs, his knee pressed dangerously against the thin fabric of your lingerie. “He wants to have more than a kiss.”

Your breath hitches in your throat; the urge to just grind on his thigh threatens to consume you. Another layer of haughtiness paints his smile. He knows exactly the effects he has on you, and he wants you to act on it, to give in to your desire so he can finally do what he’s been craving to do all day.

You won’t let that happen, not yet. “Mm, yeah, thought so.” You play high and mighty to put a cloak over your soaring heart, which only entertains him further. “So, what is he going to do about it?”

“Hmm… Why don’t you close your eyes and see?” He’s testing the water, checking to see if you’ll be an obedient pet for him, but this thought doesn’t spring to your mind, at least not immediately.

Though you know you should fight it, your body yearns terribly for him. Just a kiss is fine, right? Everything else, you won’t make it so easy. Sinking into a moment of weakness, you shut your lids as requested, waiting. And as you do, you fail to see how pleased he looks, how your little act of submission adds another layer of desire to his gaze.

You can feel Jinwoo leaning down, closing the already imperceptible distance between you. His lips hover right above yours, the sweet caress of his breath skimming across your mouth and chin. You wait in anticipation, but the kiss never comes, not in the way you wanted it to be.

Instead of locking your lips together, your husband places a tiny, tiny kiss on the point of your nose, a peck similar to what your daughter often gives you. You snap your eyes open, squinting at him almost menacingly as you grumble, “You’re such a tease.”

“Am I?” Another chuckle breaks free from his throat, a spark of glee underneath the huskiness of his voice. “I asked what you wanted me to do for you, but you didn’t answer my question. I’m not a mind-reader, you know. If you want something, Sweetheart,” he pauses just to glide his thumb over your lips, his tongue peeking out slightly to wet his own pair as he gazes down at your inviting mouth. “You need to be a good girl and ask for it.”

Although your stomach flips in response, your mind refuses to accept defeat. You know what? Fine. You decide inwardly as you try to keep yourself collected. If he wants to do this, to toy with you as he pleases, then you’ll play with him all night long. “You’re right. A peck on the nose was exactly what I wanted,” you utter almost through gritted teeth. “You know me so well, Husband.”

His body vibrates slightly with mirth. “Well then, I’ll give you one more.” His grin presses against your skin as he presents you with another one, still the same stupid little peck on your nose. “And a little bit of this,” he nuzzles the tip of your noses together, acting cute. “To chase the pout away.”

God, I hate him so much, you think, as your heart flutters for him, falling in love all over again. “I’m not pouting.”

“Sure, you aren’t, love,” he simpers as he plants a playful kiss on your head. Then, as if he wasn’t affected by the smothering sexual tension between you, Jinwoo falls back to the bed, settling himself right next to you. “Let’s chat for a bit before we go to sleep. I wanna hear you talk about your day.”

Before we go to sleep? You almost scoff. Oh, he’s completely messing with me. The worst thing is, you don’t hate it. You’re frustrated, sure, but you don’t hate it. He looks so incredibly young and boyish this way, the kind of juvenility that only you are allowed to see, judging from how stoic and composed he carries himself in public.

Like him, you roll over to lie on your side, facing him with your sulk slowly fading. “My day is hardly any interesting compared to yours.”

“Maybe not, but you are.” His wolfish grin has altered back into the usual smile he displays, charming and tender, brimming with affection. Wrapping his arms around your waist, Jinwoo draws you closer and lets you rest your head on his chest. “I want to know everything about you, Sweetheart. I want to see if there’s something I can help. How are you feeling? Did you get to eat much today?”

“Not really,” you answer, followed shortly by an enervated exhale. You nuzzle your face further into his chest, basking in his wonderful, comforting scent and the warmth that rivals your velvety duvet. His bare chest and the toned muscles beneath his flawless skin should’ve been distracting—they are, still, to some extent—but right now, the need to be cared for and spoiled by your husband surpasses the craving your body thirsts for. “Everything still makes me nauseous. I kept forcing myself to eat just to get something inside, but I ended up vomiting every time. I’ll keep trying, but… I just hope the supplements are enough to keep our baby healthy for now.”

He runs his palm up and down your spine, his face sketched with sympathy. “I wish I could find a way to stop it. I can only imagine how hard it is for you.”

“It’s fine.” You feel soothed, your muscles unwinding under his touch. “As long as our baby is okay, I’ll deal with anything. I’m scared, yes, but… I enjoy it, too. It’s part of being a mother.”

His gaze softens, shimmering with the gratefulness he feels for having someone like you as his wife. “You’ve done so well, Sweetheart.” He rewards you with a kiss, his smile plastered directly on the little spot between your brows. “I’m so proud of you,” he strokes the back of your head, an act of consolation you didn’t think you needed this badly.

Your spirit brightens, your body feels so much lighter as you embrace him close. Those words he spoke… They might have been simple, but you truly needed to hear them today. It feels amazing to have someone you can lean on, to listen to you without judging, to be proud of the sacrifices you make for your family. Jinwoo could’ve easily acted stoic and unsympathetic after witnessing the horrifying things he’d encountered in the dungeons, but with you, he never did. He understands your struggles, and he admires you for getting through them each time.

As you enjoy this moment of comforting silence, he whispers, “I’m sorry…”

“Hmm?” You lean your head back to capture his gaze, your hair brushing against his chin in the process. “For what?”

“‘Cause I made you go through all of this again,” he gently brushes his knuckles against your cheekbone, gazing down at you with remorse.

“You’re sorry ‘cause you got me pregnant?”

“Well… Yeah.”

Your hushed giggle fills the air. “You’re not sorry. You love getting me pregnant.”

If there was a blush blooming on his cheeks, he tried his best to conceal it. “I mean, yes, I do, but seeing you like this… I can’t help but feel bad about it.”

You snort. “You should apologize for almost breaking my back during our last session, not this.”

You can feel the vibration of his laughter directly from his chest, one that doesn’t last long. “I’m sorry for that, too—though it will most definitely happen again.” Jinwoo returns a small distance between you, tilting your face up by the chin. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” There’s sincerity in his question, replacing the previous devilment in his eyes with concern.

“Thanks for the thought, honey.” You curl your fingers around his wrist as a feeble smile crawls back to your lips. “But no, I’ll be fine. It will pass, don’t worry.” You intertwine your fingers together, every space filled perfectly as if you were a set. “But if you want to make me feel better, why don’t you tell me what actually happened in the gate today? Not knowing the full story makes me anxious, and I don’t think that's good for our baby.”

His soft titters ruffle your strands. “I’m sorry I made you worry, but really, everything is fine. All you have to know is that I’m safe, and I always will be.” Bringing your joined hands closer to his face, Jinwoo adorns the back of your hand with a reverent kiss. “I have you waiting for me to come home, don’t I? I’ve promised you once that I would return to you no matter what, and I’m a man of my word. Nothing can keep me away from you, Sweetheart.”

His tender tone pacifies you, but it’s never enough to completely excise your past traumatic memories of nearly losing him. “It wasn’t like the last time, was it? The beast that put those wounds on your chest?”

“No, nothing like that,” he answers with haste, not wanting you to fret even further (it’s just a stupid game he plays to get your attention, after all). “It was just Beru.”

As if being summoned, the shadow soldier materializes out of thin air, still in the shape of a small, floating head. “M-My liege,” Beru greets, the pitch black, smoggy cloak around him quivers just as much as his voice. He hovers close to his summoner’s face, beseeching him for forgiveness. “I can no more bear this guilt within mine own chest. To make amends for mine sins, I shall taketh mine own life. Though I shall be reborn through thy mystic powers, the anguish must needs be worth the price of thy fair skin I have besmirched with these abominable hands. I shall end mine existence a hundredfold, nay, a thousandfold—”

“Can you not waste my mana, please?” Your husband sighs, breaking away from you with a frown. All the romantic tension he’s been building before to sweep you off your feet? Gone. “And what did I tell you about not snooping into my private moments?”

“Mine most humble apologies, my liege!” Beru panics, flying back and forth like a little ball of black flame in the soft, golden glow of your bedroom. “I hath but come hither to bid thee good night! Naught did I desire to intrude upon thy sacred, amorous moment with thy lady wife, most especially when thou hast longed for her gentle caress all the livelong day—”

Jinwoo slaps a hand over the ant’s mouth, his large palm nearly covering his entire face, grasping it hard enough for Beru to start mewling under his hold. His smile is nothing but menacing, a warning for the shadow to for the love of God, shut. the fuck. up. “Yes, yes, good night, Beru. Would that be all, or is there something else you wish to tell me?” Despite his sweet offer, Jinwoo tightens his clutch over his face. Shaking like a leaf and unable to speak, Beru shakes his head fervently, wanting nothing more than to flee the scene. “Good. Then, I suggest you take your leave. Now.” The necromancer then raises his voice a tad louder, sounding just as firm as he speaks his command. “Not just you. All of you.”

More floating heads emerge before you at once, cowering as they have been caught red-handed. You recognize them as the nameless, lower-ranked knights and mages whose enthusiasm for their master’s love life vies with Beru’s obsession. They hide themselves behind the Ant King, their faces painted with both guilt and horror.

“Hie thee hence, ye peasants!” Beru shouts at his underlings the second his master releases him from his, quite literally, death grip. “Ye heard what our lord and savior hast spoken! Flee now! Pronto!”

They vanish as suddenly as they appeared, returning the two of you to silence’s embrace once more. Jinwoo throws his head back to the pillow, releasing what must have been his most exhausted sigh yet. “Sorry you had to see that,” he mutters as he massages the bridge of his nose. Not even an S-rank gate could make him feel as worn out as the antics his little shadows had pulled just now.

“It’s okay,” you chuckle. It’s heartwarming to see how close he is with his soldiers. Every single being in his army doesn’t just respect and fear him as their lord; they adore him as a family figure who cares for and protects them. Their curiosity for his love life was born out of fondness. They pray in their own way for their master to always be surrounded by joy as it delights their hearts just the same. Sure, they can be a little immature sometimes, but it’s part of the reason why they’ve become so endearing to you. “You know, I’m starting to think that they’re not your soldiers anymore. They’re your sons.”

“Honestly, that sounds about right.”

“Except Igris.”

“Except Igris, thank god.”

The way he looks so utterly grateful for it amuses you, but not as much as the fact that—if what Beru had said was true—your husband has been so blatantly yearning for your touch that even an ant could see it. “So,” you nestle close to him, using his arm as a pillow. “You’ve been thinking about me all day, huh?” A flirty twinkle veneers your eyes as your fingers absentmindedly draw circles on his chest, feeling him grow tense under your touch. “Did you get that cut because you were distracted during the raid, or did you get hurt on purpose to get my attention? Which one is it?”

A part of him was ready to drive Beru’s head into the ground for exposing him like that, but then again, as a lover, a friend, and a person he can call home, you're the only one who always sees right through him. It’s only a matter of time before you start figuring things out on your own, the way you always do.

Does he feel embarrassed that you see right through his plans? Yeah, maybe a bit. Does he feel guilty about it? Sort of, yeah. But showcasing those feelings would be accepting defeat, and that’s not an option he can take. So, instead of coming clean, Jinwoo quickly replaces his shame with mischief, showcasing the naughtiest smirk on his lips. “And what if I was?” Jinwoo questions seductively, twining his fingers around your wrist. “Would you be flattered that I thought about you all day?”

Your reaction, however, is far from what he’s expected.

“Would I be flattered?” You flick him on his nose, earning a surprised flinch out of him. “You shouldn’t have gotten distracted during the fight—it could’ve been dangerous! Thank goodness it was just a cut, but what if it was worse? What if it was life-threatening? Also, why do you still have that in the first place? Can’t you just heal it with potion?”

He enjoys this. There’s nothing cuter to him than the way you look when you’re upset. It just makes him want to tease you even more. “Maybe I want my wife to kiss it better,” he replies, an elfin grin blooming on his lips, one that you scrape off almost immediately by grabbing his face, your thumb and index finger digging into his cheeks.

“Do not try to flirt your way out of this, Sung Jinwoo. I’m very angry at you right now.” No, you’re not, not really. After all, there was no harm done. But still, you need to get your point across because otherwise, his dumbass would keep doing it.

Now that you’ve refused to give him a kiss, his plan backfires. Sighing in defeat after you release him, he reveals the truth with a slight jut of his bottom lip. “Fine. The truth is, no, I wasn’t distracted during the fight because I was never in one to begin with. I just stood there on the sideline, waiting for my shadows to clear the gate for me.”

“And what were you doing exactly? You can’t just simply be standing there, Jin. You’re an S-rank hunter.”

“Uhh…” He begins to sweat, one finger scratching his cheek as he tries to come up with an excuse. “I was busy, umm… thinking.”

“Not about me naked, surely.”

He blushes. He actually blushes. “Of course not. I was trying to come up with a plan. Another raid is coming soon. I want to find a strategy to do my next mission more efficiently.”

“Mm, sounds like bullshit, but okay. So, how did you get the cut?”

He racks his brain as best as he can. Nothing comes up. He does it a second time. Still, nothing comes up. The truth, it is, then. “Well, like you said, I wanted to get your attention, so—”

“I swear to God, Jinwoo, if you said you did that to yourself…” You don’t even bother to finish the sentence. He knows what you mean, and he knows exactly what you’re capable of in terms of disciplining him. No weapons and hunters could harm him in this world, but being deprived of your touch? Of your kiss? Now, that’s torture.

“Not… exactly like that,” he answers, his eyes straying away from your own.

Then, it clicks. “You asked Beru to hit you, didn’t you?”

Bullseye. He’s completely avoiding your gaze now. Only silence answers you, but that, itself, is the evidence you need.

“Unbelievable. That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” And yet, you find yourself giggling even before you can finish your sentence, the sound airy and pretty, a perfect symphony to his ears. The whole image of Beru, who was most likely crying as he obeyed his master's command, punching him in the face just because your husband wanted your attention is just downright ridiculous to you.

Jinwoo's eyes droop in fondness, his chest overflowing with the affection he holds for you. You seem so carefree and light at this moment, your face relaxed as if you hadn’t been weighed down by the stress that’s consumed you all day. He keeps himself quiet as he watches you laugh, his heart missing a beat.

“There it is. My favorite sound in the world,” he smiles so endearingly at you, so breathtakingly gorgeous, it causes your stomach to twist and churn at the sight of God’s most perfect masterpiece. “I was worried that I wasn’t going to hear it today since all you’d been doing was scolding me.”

“And whose fault do you think that is?” you reply with a light poke to his abdomen, his soft chuckles intermingling with yours in the close space between your mouths. “I can’t believe you went through all that for me.”

He captures your hand, bestowing a soft kiss on the ridges of your knuckles. “It’s worth the price.” He looks so dreamy like this, picture-perfect, a handsome prince with a devilish grin.

“I’m gonna have to apologize to Beru on your behalf.” You watch how pretty the rosy shade of his lips looks upon your skin, entranced. That, too, is picture-perfect. “You can’t keep torturing him like that, Jin. Just how many times has it been already? He’s just a kid.”

“Do that later.” He places your hand on his cheek, his stare so soft, it’s almost imploring. “Spoil me first.” Your lover sinks his face in the dip of your palm, nuzzling against it with his eyes closed. “I may have been a bit naughty today, yes, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t work hard during the raid.”

“You just said you were doing nothing but standing there while picturing me naked.”

“But I’ve missed you." He resorts to his ultimate weapon, winning your heart with his raspy voice and his pleading eyes. “I miss you so much, baby… Don’t you miss me?”

The longing sigh, the soft blush plating his cheeks, the glimmering blue eyes—he’s cute, so cute, which is such a weird thing to say as you never thought that he and the word cute could belong in the same sentence. Who cares if he's gaslighting you now, right? He’s pretty.

“God, what am I going to do with you?” You mutter, followed by a playful roll of your eyes. With a doting smile coating your lips, you spread your arms for him. “Come here.”

Jinwoo wastes no time, burying his face in your chest and holding you so tightly that he almost steals all the air in your lungs. You laugh, the sweet, hushed sound reserved only for his ears to hear. “Big baby,” you croon, cradling his head close. He pays no heed to anything anymore. You can call him whatever he wants; he no longer cares. No, the Gods can burn down the world to ashes right now, and he’d still refuse to leave your embrace. He’s finally home, where he belongs, and he just wants to submerge himself in this moment and memorize every detail—the sound of your breathing, the beats that your heart sings, this sweet serenity you bring him, the warmth and the softness of your skin, the scent that intoxicates him with both love and desire—everything.

He wishes that you’d let him stay like this for a while, while you beg the heavens to let you have this moment forever. It makes you feel worthy, special, needed, to be the only one in this universe who can offer him this sense of solace.

You card your fingers through his hair, his raven strands smoother than silk. And when you brush a tender kiss on his forehead, he lets out a soft sigh, relieved and contented, as if a single kiss from you managed to wash away all the burden the world had bestowed upon his shoulders.

Jinwoo closes his lids, letting you stroke his hair like a child. He relishes the intimacy as your scent fills him, grateful for the comfort you offer him simply by just being here in his embrace.

Seconds pass by, a company to his steady breathing. Guided by the quietude of your bedroom, your thoughts begin to wander. “Jinwoo…”

“Hmm?”

“These foster kids of yours,” you begin with a joke. “What do they think of me?”

His eyes slowly flutter open as a smile ornaments his lips. “Let's see... The knights think of you as their queen,” he says, his voice slightly muffled by the skin that covers your heart. “The mages think of you as a goddess that needs to be worshipped, which is honestly true,” he flirts, as smoothly as always. “The ants see you as their mother, and Kaisel loves you like a pet loves its owner. You can tell by how much he wags his tail when he’s around you, right?”

“Right,” you reply fondly, recalling the way the wyvern always bows his head low before you, his tail swaying back and forth as he waits for your gentle hands to pet his scales. “What about Iron?”

“Iron thinks you’re a great cook. He loves the cookies you baked for him before. He did not like the ones our daughter made him.” You exchange soft laughter with your husband. The memory of your daughter stuffing a dozen burnt cookies into the warrior’s mouth never failed to tickle your stomach.

“Beru…” Jinwoo continues, humming lowly as he mulls about it. “Well, Beru admires you for being the only person who can put me in my place. And he thinks of you as, and I quote, the worthy bearer of my king’s seeds, so he—”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that already, thanks,” you mutter. Hearing that title the second time doesn’t make it any less mortifying. “And Igris? Does he ever talk about me?”

For a moment, Jinwoo turns hushed, uncertain if he should reveal the truth. “Igris… thinks of you as my biggest weakness,” he murmurs, causing you to stiffen in response. He runs a hand down your backside, reassuring you before he elaborates further. “He thinks you’re the one thing that I can’t live without. He worries about your safety constantly, knowing that I would be as good as dead if you weren't there with me. He cares about you as much as I do. He’s even sworn to protect you with his life.”

With how quiet and tender these words flow past his lips, you can tell that he doesn’t simply reiterate Igris’ words. They come from the bottom of his heart, too. You tighten your hold around him, burying your nose in his hair. “I’ll always be safe, I promise.”

“I’ll make sure you are,” he vows, shutting his lids and sinking into your embrace once more, thankful for this moment.

“Tell Igris I said thank you, okay?”

“No need, baby. He already knows.”

He does? Oh… Right. “He’s always with you, huh? Every one of your soldiers.”

“Since they’re connected to my shadow, yeah. They’re part of me now.”

“And they… can see and hear everything that’s going on between us?”

Jinwoo blinks before a peal of his deep laughter reverberates to your skin, tickling the dip of your cleavage. You can tell he already knows where you’re going with this. “Mm-hmm, they have their eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Always?”

“Always.” He pulls away just enough to take a good look at you, a little smile playing on his lips. “What is it? Are you worried they might be watching us right now?”

“A little bit,” you answer reluctantly, feeling rather childish for even bringing this topic out in the open. You’ve been with the Shadow Monarch for years. Surely, his shadows must have seen everything by now, and yet… You can’t help but long for a moment of privacy. Tonight, especially. “I know you just told them to disappear, but they can still hear us, can’t they? They can close their eyes when you tell them to, but it’s not like they can control their hearing, right?”

“That’s right.” He’s not bothered by it in the slightest. If anything, it amuses him. “They can still hear us, yes, but there’s nothing to worry about. They’re very loyal to me, and they respect my privacy more than anything. They know better than to listen in on our private moments.”

“Beru and his gang literally popped out a minute ago.”

“Yeah, but that’s Beru.” He speaks of him as if the Ant King were this stubborn child that he’d given up to control a long time ago. “They’re gone now.” Seeing how your focus is still somewhere else, he gently grabs your face, trapping your gaze and holding it still. “You’re thinking about them when you should’ve been focusing on me—your husband who’s been craving for your attention all day. You’re breaking my heart, Princess.”

“I want to focus on you, darling; that’s why I’m asking you this. There’s something I want to do with you, and knowing that they can hear us, I… can’t help but feel a bit…” Your voice shrinks to a murmur as fire licks your cheeks. “…embarrassed.”

Jinwoo examines you for a moment, taking in the way you turned flushed so adorably as you spoke your words. “And here I thought you couldn’t get any cuter,” he comments, adoring you. “I could ask them to go on another patrol if that could make you feel better. You just want us to be alone, right?”

You answer with a nod. He can sense the guilt that radiates off you for asking something so selfish. “All right,” he assures you with a light kiss on the top of your head. “Give me a second.”

They begin to gleam, his irises, switching from sapphires into brilliant amethyst as his magic power exudes. He then closes his eyes, spending a brief moment to spread a mental command to his soldiers. By the time his lids flicker open, they’ve returned to the gentle cobalts that you’ve grown to cherish more than anything. “There. They’re gone now.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. I asked Igris to keep them in check, just in case.”

“Thank you,” you breathe out in relief, tension leaving your body. “Sorry for asking you this. I didn’t mean to be so selfish, but…”

“It’s no problem, baby.” Your husband runs his hand gently down your naked arm, enjoying the soft feel of your skin under his fingertips. “I know how important privacy is to you. And don’t worry, they’ll be gone until I summon them back. We have this moment all to ourselves now. That being said…” Like a snake shedding its skin, his previous soft smile morphs into a naughty smirk. “What is it that you’re planning to do to me that you don’t want my shadow soldiers to know?”

“Nothing.” And yet, you can’t seem to look at him in the eyes. “I, umm… I just wanted to ask you some questions.”

His fingers have now slid down to your thigh, gliding against the satin of your nightgown. “Dirty questions?”

“J-just questions.”

“Hmm,” he purrs in dissatisfaction. The sound so sultry, it elevates your heart rate by tenfold. “Can’t say I’m not a little bit disappointed by that, Sweetheart. Will I, at least, get a reward if I agree?”

“I mean, you can ask me anything you want, too. I’ll answer them honestly.”

“Anything?”

You’re already regretting it, even now. You didn’t think it would be a big deal for him, but knowing Jinwoo… Of course, he’ll take every opportunity he can get to rile you up in the best way possible. “Anything… I guess…”

He snickers at your uncertainty. “Well, I’d be a fool to refuse that.” A little glimpse of his fangs grace your eyes as he grins, already looking so pleased and confident to play your game. “You better live up to your words, Sweetheart. Or, don’t, it’s up to you. I’ll be enjoying this in one way or another because if you run away, I’ll have a reason to punish you.”

It feels like you’re already losing before you even begin. God, this whole thing is a mistake, isn't it? “I-I’ll go first. If you could only keep one shadow soldier for the rest of your life, and another one for me, who would you choose?”

His whole expression changes. Saying that he looks utterly dissatisfied by it would be an understatement. “That’s your question? Really?”

Okay, that might have been a little boring, but— “I’m curious about who your favorite shadow is, sue me. And don’t look at me like that, Jinwoo, I already said I wouldn’t ask you anything dirty. And you better not, too!”

“Can’t promise you that, my love,” he tosses another smirk toward your direction. “Well, let’s see…” To your surprise, he takes a moment to ponder to himself. You realize as you examine his expression that he holds every soldier in his army dearly, caring for them just the same. Asking him this question carries the same weight as asking a parent who their favorite child is. “I think I’d take Igris,” Jinwoo answers after a while. “Not only is he strong, he was the first high-rank shadow I obtained, so he’s special to me in a way. He’s also the most loyal, most responsible out of everyone else. I trust him with my life if it comes down to it.”

“I thought you’d say it would be a tie between him and Beru.”

He smiles, happy to see how you could predict his answer perfectly. “That’s true, and that’s why I’m choosing him, too. For you.”

“You’d give me Beru? Even though he praises you non-stop, worships you like a God?”

“That’s exactly why I’m assigning him to you,” he grimaces at the thought. “Igris is more serious and mature. Personality-wise, he suits me better. I like the fact that he doesn’t talk much, and yet he knows me better than anyone else. I would enjoy the comforting silence between us, the way I always have. Beru, on the other hand, is much more… enthusiastic. He’s got a lot of personality and can be a little high-maintenance. I have no doubt you two would get along and be trouble together. You both drive me crazy.”

You find hilarity in his words. “Beru would cry if he heard about this.”

“He won’t. He loves you just the same. He has a statue of you in the shadow realm—I’ve told you about that, right?”

“You have.” And you would’ve chuckled at that had a grim thought never occurred in your mind, but it did, and now it’s all you can think about. You try to refrain yourself from asking, but your curiosity swells faster than you can control your tongue. “Jinwoo, when I die… Will you turn me into your shadow soldier? Or would you just let me go and bury me?”

Your husband freezes at the question, the humor gone from his face. The abrupt change of topic leaves him with his tongue tied, but the second your question sinks in, his answer is immediate. “You’re not going to die.”

He states it like a fact, indisputable, and it pains you a little to press him further on this, but you must know. “Everyone will die eventually—”

“Not you.” The firmness in his tone stuns you, silencing you at once. “I won’t let you die. I'll do everything in my power to save you. You’re mine. Nothing will ever change that. You will always be with me, right here in my arms, just like this.” His hold is possessive, perhaps even selfish, but beneath all that, his heart races when you place your palm over his chest as if merely the thought of losing you scares him to death.

You alleviate your voice, pacifying him with a gentle caress to his cheek. “It’s just a hypothetical question, darling… I’m just curious, that’s all.”

His mood has changed completely, the same way the tension between you turns palpable after your question rings in the air. “It’s not something I want to think about.”

Regret starts to feast on your heart, causing you to feel remorseful for bringing this topic to the table. “I’m sorry…” You kiss his lips once, hoping it will ease whatever storm rages in his chest, if only for a little. “I’ll rephrase the question, okay? Have you ever wondered about having me as your shadow? Even if it was only a fleeting thought, did that possibility ever occur to you?”

His jaw remains clenched tight. Altering the words doesn’t change the fact that you still die in this scenario, and he won’t allow himself to walk down that path, even if it is only an imaginary situation. “I would never turn you into a shadow.” Jinwoo doesn’t answer whether he has thought about it or not. All he informs you is the decision he had made many, many years ago. “You’re not a possession. You're a person—my person. And as much as I love the idea of having you by my side forever, it would be the worst thing. Losing your humanity and free will… I could never do that to you.“

You nibble on your bottom lip. His sincerity, the way his voice quivers a little when he utters his words, they bring joy to you, spreading warmth to your every nerve. But even so, you cannot deny that there’s a part of you that turns crestfallen from his answer. The same side of you that thinks:

So… he’d rather let me go forever than have a part of me with him..?

“You’re so kind, aren’t you?” You say in a voice barely above a whisper, your heart weighing you down like an anchor. “If I were you… If I had the power to make you stay when God takes you away from me… I would’ve turned you into my shadow without a second thought. That’s just how much I can’t bear the thought of losing you. I know it’s selfish, I know it’s cruel, and I know you won’t be the same person as you are now, but… I just can’t imagine a life without you.”

His expression softens as he takes in your words, his joy unfolding like a flower at the thought of you ready to defy the Gods just to be with him. But you don’t own this power. You don’t know how terrifying it could be, the consequences it brings, the darkness that surrounds him, the sins that gnaw at his humanity.

“Sweetheart, listen…” Jinwoo brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers gently stroking your cheek. “The truth is… I have thought about it. I think I’ve mentioned it before—how scared I am of losing you. I dread every second that passes by when you’re not standing next to me, so, yes, of course, I’d considered that possibility before, more times than I’d like to admit. It’s the only way I know to keep you with me, as of now. But each time the thought popped into my head, the more I came to realize that… I could never do that to you. I won’t take away your freedom, your personality, your desire… If you became my shadow, you wouldn’t be able to talk to me, and you’d be bound to obey my command no matter what.”

“But Beru can talk to you. That means I can do it too one day, right?”

“Beru can talk because he’s a high-rank soldier. If you were turned into one, you wouldn’t be, and you wouldn’t get any chance to increase your rank because I would never allow you to go to battle. I wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of you getting hurt. And then you’d start feeling that you lost your purpose, not being able to serve me the way my other soldiers could. And I’d be constantly worried to death, not knowing what you were thinking. I’d start wondering if you truly felt happy that I resurrected you, or if you felt trapped with me, that you wished to move on.”

It only dawns on you, then, just how much your husband has thought about this through. You might have asked him out of curiosity, but Jinwoo already thinks about it as a possibility, one that he chooses to decline no matter what. The pain of losing you would strike deeper than a javelin through the chest, but he’d rather carry that wound for eternity than be shackled by the guilt of turning his beloved into anything but human.

He draws you toward him, eliminating every inch of space between you. “I love you,” he whispers near your ear, his face twisted in agony. His arms ensnare you by the shoulders, embracing you so closely as if you’d vanish into thin air if he weren’t holding onto you tightly enough. “I love you so much, Sweetheart. I would do anything to keep you safe. I’d die a thousand deaths just to protect you, so please… Don’t talk about leaving me.”

You feel tears filling your sockets before you know it, and you can blame your pregnancy hormones for it, but you know you wouldn’t have felt this way if it wasn’t for the heartbreak in his voice. “I’m sorry…” You wrap your arms around him, your voice a quivering murmur as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry I brought this up…”

“It’s all right.” He kisses your temple, his hand skating up and down your spine. “I know you were just curious.”

You're grateful that you can keep your tears from breaking. You pull away, doleful. “I completely ruined the mood, huh?”

He chuckles softly. “No, you didn’t. Come here.” Guiding you toward him, your husband raises himself to sit on the bed, his back leaning against the headboard as he gathers you in his lap. “You okay?”

You answer with a weak nod.

You’re not okay, not really, he can tell. Jinwoo tucks a few loose strands of your hair behind your ear, his smile soft with a hint of melancholy. He hopes a little chaff would lighten the tension. “So, Miss Necromancer. You’d turn me into your shadow in a heartbeat, huh?”

“Well, no, not anymore,” you pout a little. “I understand how you feel now. I wouldn’t want something like that to happen to you, too.”

“Well, that’s disappointing. I was wishing you’d stay selfish.” He settles his hands on the curve of your hips, eliciting fire upon your skin even with your nightgown staying in between. “I’m strong, you know. If you turned me into your shadow, I would be able to talk to you just like this. I could protect you. I could always be with you, hidden in your shadow. And we could do so, so many things together. Fun things.”—his words skate over the shell of your ear—“Dirty things.”—his lips moving lower to brush a featherlight kiss to the spot below your lobe—“Wherever we want.”—down to your jawline—“Anytime we want.”—to your neck—“However we want.” He ends his journey with a wet kiss on your bare shoulder, his tongue pressing flat against your skin, his teeth scraping deep enough to make you squirm but far from bruising you.

You giggle amidst your tattered breaths. “You sound so happy about it.”

“Of course I do, baby.” His smirk grows. “You want me to be with you for eternity. I’ve never felt so wanted.” He leans close, his lips a mere inch away from yours. “Do you still have depressing questions to ask, or can I entertain you with the things I’d do to you if I became your shadow?” Unlike him, who can easily put a veil on his troubled emotions for the sake of your happiness, your worry still shows no matter how much you try to conceal it. Noticing that, he cups your cheek. “What is it?”

You shake your head, forcing out a smile. “Nothing.”

He can see right through it, knowing that you’re holding back for his sake. Kissing you briefly on the lips, he says, “Go ahead and ask, love. It’s all right.”

Your hesitation halts you for another second before you choose to come clean. “Since you said you wouldn’t turn me into your shadow… If I di—if something happened to me,” you quickly correct yourself. “And I could no longer be with you… Would you ever consider… remarrying someone else?”

He stops. “What?”

“B-because, you know—our daughter will need a mother figure and I… I don’t want you to feel lonely and…” You start to panic, cursing yourself internally for being such a fucking idiot. Yes, you were curious about it, but still—what the hell was that question?! Perhaps it was born out of your desperation to be consoled. You understand clearly how your husband chooses to honor your death instead of keeping your soul trapped with him, and yet, loneliness shrouds you, still. This is you seeking some form of reassurance. This is you trying to heal the thought of being separated, of being… left behind. It’s pathetic, you know that, and now that the words have flown past your mouth, you feel a hundred times worse. “N-never mind. I was being stupid, I’m sorry.”

As you twist restlessly on his lap, your face burning with shame, Jinwoo watches you with nothing but solemnity written in his eyes. He doesn’t laugh at you, nor does he find this situation amusing in the slightest. If you think he’d move on with his life after your death—if you think there’s even a tiny part of him that could forget you, the center of his universe, you’re awfully mistaken.

He holds your face with one hand, his touch possessive, his eyes intense, filled with promise. “I would never marry anyone else.” The resolution in his voice stops your heart. “No one could ever replace you, Sweetheart, you know that. And our daughter…” He pauses. He knows that a mother’s role in a family is crucial, and he doubts he could fill your shoes no matter how hard he tries, but he just can’t accept having someone else in his heart, in his home, when she doesn’t own your face, your personality, your sweet kiss, your gentle touch, your everything. “I would do anything for her. I would give her all my love, everything I could offer. But I promise you, I would never remarry. You’re the only one for me. You always have, and you’ll always be, even if you were—” He chokes on the word, his voice turning quieter when he continues, “…no longer here with me.”

The same quiver that runs through your fingertips now dances on your lips. “You’re the only one for me, too…”

His mouth is on yours in an instant, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to remind himself that none of this scenario is true, nor will it happen anytime soon. No, he’ll never allow it to happen. He’ll find a way to save you, even if it means sacrificing his own life for it.

The kiss ends, but none of you finds the will to break free from each other’s embrace, his voice low and cracking with emotion when he speaks. “You're the only one who’s been in my heart and mind. You're everything to me. Nothing could ever change that, Sweetheart. Nothing.”

“I know,” you plant a chaste kiss on his lips once more. “I feel the same way. And I figured you’d say that, but… I just wanted to hear it in person.”

He mirrors your smile, just as tender, understanding that some feelings are meant to be spoken as a promise to chase away all fears and doubts in your chest. “And did I answer it well?”

“You answered it perfectly.” You tilt your head slightly to the side, brushing your lips against the dip of his palm. “Thank you, Jin. No more depressing questions, I promise.”

He feels lighter, his face much more relaxed. “No more depressing questions,” he echoes with a playful smile. “What’s up with all the negative thoughts? You were being all playful before.”

“I’m sorry,” you heave a heavy sigh. “It’s just the pregnancy hormones talking, I guess. You know how it is. I can feel like I wanna bawl my eyes out one second, then beat someone to a pulp the next.”

“If those are the only two options available, let's go with crying. You look pretty when you cry.”

Grabbing him by his jaws, you narrow your eyes playfully at him. "I don’t know, Husband, option two sounds really good right now.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles in relief, seeing you return to the person you were before. He takes your hand away, intertwining it together with his own. “Is it my turn to ask questions now?”

“Hmm, not yet. One more question, and then you can go.”

“So demanding,” he scrunches his nose cutely. “All right, ask me.”

It only takes a second for you to ponder. “What is the one thing I do that you like the most?”

“One thing you do?” He pretends to ruminate just to tease, elevating the suspense. With one corner of his lips tilting higher than the other, he plays with the thin strap of your nightgown, twisting it around his finger before he moves closer. “You want me to be completely honest with you, baby girl?”

Shivers run through you as his hot breath skims over your collarbone, the tip of his nose brushing against the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “O-of course.”

“Hmm…” You can almost feel his mouth on your neck as he purrs, but he doesn’t kiss you there just yet, maintaining the infinitesimal space between his lips and your skin to drive you crazy. “I think I love it when…” He kneads the supple flesh of your thigh. “You’re so needy for me.”

You nearly flinch when he, without warning, clasps his mouth firmly against the side of your throat. The way his deep, husky voice vibrates on your skin, the lightest touch of his tongue against your pulsating vein—it’s starting to be a bit too much. “N-Needy? I don’t think I’ve ever acted that way before.”

“Oh, really?” Your husband pulls away with one of his eyebrows raised, a little amused that you’re denying it. His hand slithers around your waist, his nails raking against the fabric, so eager to tear it apart. “You've never been needy, Sweetheart? Never once asked me to pay attention to you, touch you, hold you, make you feel good?”

You gulp, face aflame. “No…” Seeing how your answer doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest, you divert the topic. “Why do you even like it when I’m being needy anyway?”

He reciprocates with a sly smirk, his eyes traversing down from your neck, your collarbone, to your cleavage before he flicks them back to your face. Still with his smirk intact, his voice turns low and dark, dripping with desire. “Because I love knowing that you want me. I love having that power over you. The knowledge that you need me, crave my touch, that I can give you pleasure and take care of you. It drives me mad.”

His gaze locks onto your face, taking a moment to appreciate your beauty, the changes in your expression, and the anticipation in your eyes. “Besides…” Two of his lean fingers trace your jawline before they rest on your chin, lifting it up to take a more thorough look at your features. You appear so innocent under the soft, golden glow of your night light, so adorable and pretty, almost doll-like, and it awakens something primal within him. Something that he’s afraid he won’t be able to tame should you continue staring at him like this. “Do you know how cute you look when you want me to touch you? When you’re whining and begging for me to give you what you want?”

You can’t form a word, hypnotized under his gaze, controlled even before he begins pulling on your strings. He traps your chin, tugging it low enough for you to part your lips for him. “And this face you’re making right now…” He breathes out heavily as lust starts to coat his irises. “I want to ruin you so badly.” He’s already thinking about it, to run his tongue across the seam of your lips before he pushes it inside, tasting you, devouring you. “I want to make a mess out of you, to mark you as mine in places that everyone can see.”

A certain glow in his eyes causes the soft hairs on your nape to rise. Every nerve of your body pleads for his touch, but he won’t grant your wish just yet. “But I have to be patient, don’t I, Sweetheart?” Jinwoo continues with a glimpse of cockiness written on his lips, knowing he already has you dancing in the palm of his hand. “After all, the game just started. Although…” He leans close, his lips barely touching your ear as he speaks hushedly. “I doubt I could resist it if my sweet girl starts acting all needy for me now.”

You force out a scoff even when your body is eager to have his taste in your mouth. “You wish.”

He simpers at your reaction, entertained by your desperate attempt to mask embarrassment. “Don’t try to deny it, love. I can see right through you. The way you’re clenching your legs together” —his hand grips your thigh, fingers pressing deep into your skin— “the way you bite your lip,” he kisses you, catching your lower lip between his own. He keeps it brief, just the lightest of bites and the purest of kisses, but the soft, sultry moan he makes on purpose is anything but innocent. “You’re already getting needy, aren’t you?”

Your stomach somersaults at how his smirk breaks so naturally, so seductively on his lips. Afraid you’ll succumb to your desire, you push a hand to his face, returning the safe space between you. “Your turn to ask me now.”

Jinwoo lets out a small laugh at your childish act, gently prying your hand away from him. “Someone’s avoiding the question,” he says, amused. “All right, my turn. I’m going to make sure you answer mine, okay, Sweetheart?”

The subtle threat only excites you. “Okay. Just don’t ask anything weird. Or perverted.”

Your husband chuckles, diving his head back to the dip of your neck again. He tugs on your strap with his teeth, his hand now brazenly glides over your chest, feeling the way your sensitive bud hardens under the satin but leaving it ignored—for now. “But you’d like the perverted ones, wouldn’t you?” His grin blooms on your skin before he places a warm, open-mouthed kiss on your clavicle. Your fingers clench into fists, doing everything you can to suppress your moan. When he breaks away, he carries himself nonchalantly as if he didn’t just grind his teeth against your skin a second ago. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll behave,” he finishes with a coquettish grin. “For your sake.”

“J-Just give me the damn question.”

“Patience is a virtue, my love. Let me think for a second. I don’t want to come up with something… boring.” His gaze turns playful when it meets yours, referring to your earlier question.

“Are you making fun of me again?”

“Me? Make fun of you? Never,” he coos as his smirk proves otherwise. “If you could change one part of my body, what would it be? But, of course, if you think everything is perfect, you can say that, too.”

You send him a flat stare. “Your dick. Would’ve liked it better if it was bigger.”

He laughs out loud at your answer, his seductive smirk morphing into a perfect view of his marbled teeth. He appears so young like this, refreshing and sweet. “Oh, baby, you know I don’t lack in that area, don’t you? If you were saying something about my face, I would’ve believed you, but that…” He snorts in amusement. “Come on now.”

“Oh, you’re so annoying.” You throw a playful jab at his stomach. Well, it is true that he’s packing more than necessary down there, but… You’re not going to give him that satisfaction, are you? “Where does this confidence even come from?”

He chuckles, catching your hand. “Of course, I’m confident. After all…” His fingers slide past your elbow, up to your shoulder, traveling over soft skin until they cup the side of your neck. His thumb rubs over your lips, his eyes misted with desire when he says, “You look too satisfied most of the time. If not, always.”

You can feel his digit applying pressure on your lips, wanting you to take his finger inside and give him a preview of what you can do with your mouth later when he makes you drop to your knees. You curl your hand around his wrist, a quick reminder for him to behave. “Maybe it’s just because you’re good at using it, not because of the size itself.”

Jinwoo smiles almost wickedly, his eyes gleaming in the dimness of your bedroom. “Careful now. I’m gonna get cocky.”

“I’m not complimenting you, dummy. I’m trying to make an argument!”

Your attitude only amuses him further. “Oh, no, Sweetheart, I can tell you’re complimenting me. Don’t worry, I know I’m the best. And I know you know that, too.”

You roll your eyes despite your heart thrashing against your ribcages in response. “Next question.”

“Is my dick really your final answer?”

“Next!”

He chortles, as deep and as soft as he speaks. He can honestly play with you like this for hours. Watching you turn flustered, all fidgety and cute, solely because of him… That’s the kind of satisfaction he seeks after a long day. “You know there's a consequence you need to pay for not answering that one honestly, right? I’m starting to think maybe you want to be punished.”

Yes. Yes. Yes. God, yes. “Of course not,” you scoff. “I just don’t feel like answering ‘cause you’re being annoying.”

“Changing the rules as you please, huh? That does sound like you. Always not playing fair.” But he likes it. Oh, he loves it when you’re not playing fair. It gives him more reasons to teach you a lesson afterward. “Fine, if you’re so stubborn about it, then I’ll ask you this: if you had to choose one of my features to keep, what would it be?”

A question like this again? Is he fishing for compliments? That’s a bit cute, you can’t lie, seeing how he’s so needy for your praise. Unfortunately, you have a role to play and a facade to maintain. “That’s hardly any different.” You exaggerate your complaint with a snort. “Why can’t you just ask me what I want to have for my birthday or something?”

“Because I already know what you want,” he replies with a cock of his head. Arrogance has never looked this good on a man before.

“You do?” You don't think you’ve ever given any clues about what you want for your present this year.

“Mm-hmm. And I can’t wait to show it to you.” Lifting you by the waist, he shifts your weight until you stand on your knees before him, his face now on the same level as your chest. He tugs on your strap, watching it slide off your shoulder until it pools around your elbow. Hungry eyes feast on your exposed skin, one side of your chest caressed by the cold air before the heat takes over in the shape of his hand.

Jinwoo kneads your supple mound in his large palm, his fingers squeezing, teasing, itching to do more as desire mists his gaze. He encloses his mouth firmly around your breast, groaning softly at the taste of your skin on his tongue. The vibration runs straight south to your core, almost making you writhe when he combines it with a gentle nip of his teeth.

“In fact, I’ll give it to you all day, baby,” he suckles on your chest, tongue flicking against your protruding tip. “All night.” He moves to plant a wet, lingering kiss on the underside, breaking goosebumps along your skin. “I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world, you’ll see.”

Your breathing quickens under his ministration, your fingers grasping tightly against the roots of his hair as he maps his way to your other breast. You feel so much more sensitive today, your toes curling even from the lightest suck of your bud. Is it because he hasn’t touched you in a while? Or perhaps your pregnancy? You honestly can’t care less. “My birthday present—ah—It’s not s-sex, is it?”

He chuckles a moment before he unclasps his mouth. A smear of red rose blooms upon your skin, ready to turn purple by the morning. “No, honey, it’s not sex,” he looks up with his head tilted slightly to the side, staring at you with stray hairs falling over his pretty eyes, his gaze as titillating as his sultry smile. “Could be, if you want to.”

You chew on your lip. You can play hard to get as always, but you know nothing drives him faster to the edge than you acting so docile and submissive for him. This game of push-and-pull has been going on for a while. It should be about time you have a little fun of your own, right? “I think I’d like that, too… To have you as my present.”

It stuns him for a second, your confession. His eyes darken, turning as pitch-black as the sky that’s been deprived of its jewels.

Jinwoo draws a shaky breath, his grip on your waist growing alarmingly tight. He wants to describe it, all the filthy things he wants to do to you, but he knows if he just lets one slip out—when he’s already in the state of losing his sanity—he’ll end up demonstrating each one of them right here, right now. And you’re trying to keep this game innocent, aren't you? Is there a reason why?

He can see the desire in your eyes, the need to be with him, but just how far are you willing to go? Just how far can he touch you, be rough with you? He needs you to start it first, to give him more than just a sign. He wants to make sure that you’re ready. Until then, until he can hear you say what it is that you desire, he’ll respect this boundary between you, no matter how thin it is. He won’t cross it till you beg him for it.

But… A filthy thought resurfaces, tugging on the corner of his lips. A little poke can’t hurt.

***

#sung jinwoo #jinwoo smut #solo leveling #jinwoo x reader #jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jin woo #jinwoo x y/n #jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo #sung jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo smut #sung jin woo x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #jinwoo fluff #solo leveling smut #solo leveling fics #kana.fics #fics.pillowtalk

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missadangel · 10 days ago

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⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

I. Sol Invictus

next chapter series masterlist

Chapter Summary: You are an assistant to a costume designer on a busy movie set, where the pressure is high and the work is exhausting. One difficult evening during a lunar eclipse, you suddenly spot a man in a Roman military outfit materializing out of nowhere. Chapter Word Count: 14k (sorry but I had to introduce characters properly :)) authors note: It's a bit of a romantic-comedy-drama stuff because Marcus doesn't know that he traveled to 2025, LMAO poor baby (and you know I'm a hopeless romantic). I'll explain in more detail in chapters why he ended up here and what led him to meet the reader, but I'm avoiding spoilers. And the reader will help him get back to his time but accidentally travel to ancient Rome because of something; i can't talk more, lol. Wait for the episodes, please thank youuuu. if you wanna be tagged lemme know! Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk, its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

....Chapter Theme.....

**Rome, 205 AD***

"Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!"

"Saviour of Rome!"

"Hail to the new general of Rome!"

"Hail Acacius!"

The streets of Rome reverberated with fervent cheers, a tidal wave of voices rising in tribute to a singular figure: Marcus Justus Acacius.

At forty years of age, Acacius had recently ascended to the prestigious title of general, his fame forged in the fires of battle and cemented by the decree of Emperor Severus. A man of unwavering loyalty and formidable skill, he had never tasted defeat, a fact that resonated deeply with the hearts of the Roman people.

As he emerged from the shadows of the grandiose triumphal arch, bedecked in gleaming white armor that caught the sun in a dazzling display, the crowd surged forward, intoxicated by their adoration. The very air around him crackled with electricity, a palpable sense of reverence enveloping the scene.

For the citizens, he stood as a titan, almost a god among men—a triumphant commander, a stalwart soldier, an indomitable leader whose very presence instilled terror in the hearts of enemies. Joy radiated from the crowd, their faces alive with hope and gratitude, caught in the spell of the day's celebration.

High atop the temple of Jupiter, Emperor Severus basked in the same jubilant spirit, joined by the Roman princes, Geta and Caracalla, his twin sons, all eagerly awaiting Acacius's arrival. Laughter and cheer rang out like festive bells, painting a tableau of optimism for the future.

Yet amidst the fervor and celebration, one heart was not aligned with the jubilant chorus.

Marcus Justus Acacius wrestled with a storm of unsettling emotions. While the victory was undeniably sweet for Rome, a bitter taste lingered on his tongue.

Inside, he simmered with frustration and discontent. Shadows clouded his thoughts; the thrill of his triumph felt hollow. He couldn’t escape the dark fantasy that had taken root in his heart—a yearning for death, an echo of despair that whispered sweetly of peace.

He envisioned his lifeless body passing beneath the triumphal arch, believing it might convey a deeper significance than his living presence ever could.

But that notion, in this moment, felt like a cruel mirage in an unforgiving desert. What was left for him now but emptiness, a void peering back at the mask he wore for the thrumming, joyous masses?

The sword’s brutal strikes, the faint scratches from arrows, the battle scars etched upon his skin—each bruise and cut, still glistening with crimson remnants, tells a tale of relentless struggle. These visible wounds bear testament to his long, agonizing wait and evoke the depth of his longing for eternal rest.

Yet, fate has thwarted him once more.

He found himself back in this city, a paradox of breathtaking beauty that thrived, yet concealed a well of sorrow beneath its surface. He had returned as a harbinger of victory, bringing new territories and a flicker of hope, but for himself, there was only void. He was a soldier, defined purely by duty, reduced to the relentless cycle of war and struggle.

Tomorrow would bring the same grind, as it always did. Day after day, he would rise to the call of arms, trapped in this existence until his weary soul finally departed from its mortal shell. Until that fateful moment, he walked as a living ghost, haunted and hollow.

The pain of loss had transformed him, for it had been this way since the day he lost the one he loved most dearly, and perhaps it would always remain so. Deep down, he might have yearned for oblivion more than his fiercest enemies ever could. Yet, the fires of his fighting spirit, relentless and unyielding, refused to dim.

It felt as though he was cursed, damned, ensnared by divine forces that reveled in his struggle — a pawn in a game that pit him against his own fate. Mars, the god of war, must have wielded his destiny with cruel hands, stripping away his heart and filling the gaping void left in its place with a relentless tide of pain, turmoil, and unquenchable rage.

The following day, as the resonant echoes of the Colosseum games, held in his honor, continued to reverberate through the streets, Marcus found himself immersed in the elegant atmosphere of the evening banquet. The air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of spiced wine and savory roasts, yet he felt like an outsider, trapped in a performance he neither wanted nor understood. Banquets and grand gatherings had never been his domain; he was an island amidst a sea of laughter and merriment.

His social connections were tenuous at best—a woman who was his father's second wife and his half-brother shared their deceased father's vast villa. He remained a mere shadow in their presence, offering nothing of himself except the occasional nod. Only his brother, Julius, his father's son from a second marriage, was a solitary beacon of understanding in Marcus's otherwise lonely existence.

Rumors clung to him like ivy on crumbling stone, painting him as a frigid, soulless warrior. The tale of his coldness often traced back to the haunting loss of his mother in childhood, yet the truth lay deeper, buried beneath layers of unspoken grief.

"General Acacius," a voice rang out, cutting through the revelry. Severus approached him, the gleeful cheers of the crowd fading into the background as he placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder.

“Emperor Severus," Marcus replied, straightening to salute, the laurel crown still uncomfortably perched upon his brow—an ornament he detested.

"I hear the medicus has been tending to your wounds. You owe it to yourself to find rest now; no new wars loom on the horizon. Our foes cower in fear before the prowess of our expansive territories, all thanks to you, my glorious commander,” Severus proclaimed, his expectant smile radiating insincerity.

Marcus remained a stone wall, responding only with a slight nod. Nearby, the young princes Geta and Caracalla watched him, their expressions a blend of awe and envy, their ambivalence swirling around him like shadows.

“While you recover, I need you to contemplate another matter,” Severus continued, his tone shifting with purpose, eyes flicking toward the animated guests. “You’ve earned the title of general, and it is imperative that you embody that honor. I envision a worthy marriage for you—one that reflects your esteemed status.”

The tension in Marcus’s features tightened, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the emperor. “I intend to arrange a union for you with a woman deserving of a general’s stature. I have my sights set on Lady Octavia, the eldest daughter of Consul Sextus. Her family traces an illustrious lineage among the Roman patricians, steeped in history and prestige. And I daresay they boast a legacy known for producing fruitful descendants,” he added with a hint of jest.

Marcus’s eyes, cold and unyielding, settled upon the beautiful, charming woman beside the senator, her allure seemingly reduced to mere decoration.

He felt nothing.

The wine glass nestled in his hand suddenly felt far more inviting than any prospect of romance. "What say you?” Severus pressed, confidence bleeding through his words.

“I am honored, Your Highness,” Marcus responded, his voice steady yet underscored with reluctance.

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“With all my heart, no.”

Severus’s brow furrowed, caught in a limbo between amusement and frustration. “You’ve reached this age without a wife. If not now, when? Or is your heart entangled elsewhere?”

Marcus shook his head, the familiarity of this conversation wrapping around him like a well-worn cloak. There was comfort in the predictability. “I am a soldier, eager for the next battle. I would never want to make Senator Sextus’s beloved daughter a widow. Lady Octavia deserves a far richer union than I could offer.”

Severus exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. “Or are the rumors true? Is your heart still bound by grief?”

Then he saw a flicker in Marcus's eyes, a brief spark of something unnameable, before the mask fell back into place. “What can I say? People will always talk. As I said, I have no such intentions, nor will I. My duty lies with serving Rome, you, and your sons. That is my happiness.”

Severus drew a troubled breath, disappointment washing over his features. “I hadn’t expected such a sharp rebuttal. You remain a steadfast soldier; that much is clear.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “What about Lucilla? I thought there was some chemistry brewing between you two. Although she is no longer young enough for childbearing, that’s why I didn’t suggest her. Would you hesitate to marry her simply because she was the lover of your former commander? Surely, she would choose you as her protector; after all, she shows weakness for soldiers, I presume.”

“I would never allow such thoughts to bloom regarding Lady Lucilla, nor would I presume,” Marcus’s tone cut through the air, sharper than the gladius resting at his side.

Severus, sensing the unyielding edge in Marcus's voice, took a measured sip of his wine, the edges of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Very well, so be it. As my glorious and modest general wishes, I shall not press you further on the matter.”

Marcus dipped his head in gratitude, a flicker of relief breaking through his hardened demeanor. “I appreciate your understanding, Your Highness.”

One night, Acacius, the new general of Rome, sat alone in his barracks headquarters, trying to decide whom to choose as his second in command. His restless mind, always in motion, could not bear the silence that surrounded him. It was almost unheard of for a war-weary general to return to the barracks so soon after a battle to devote himself to the drudgery of duty. In fact, it was rare, perhaps unprecedented. It was astonishing that he would limit himself to mundane duties when he could have had anything he wanted. He could have spent the evening with any number of women from the pleasure houses, or ordered his men to bring them to him, but he didn't, didn't even think about it. This bizarre behaviour led to gossip among the soldiers in the barracks, many of whom could not believe it. After all, what man, especially an unmarried, handsome general, would do such a thing? It might have sparked rumours that he preferred men to women, were it not for an earlier event that had already dispelled such notions.

Suddenly, a voice shattered the stillness outside, echoing through the dimly lit barracks. At this late hour, only a handful of soldiers remained, their slumber deep and untroubled. When Acacius noticed the lack of sentinels, an uneasy instinct stirred within him, compelling him to grasp the hilt of his sword. His instincts, finely tuned by years of combat, alerted him to danger just as a dark figure leaped from the rooftop, descending like a shadow. In a swift motion, he overpowered the masked attacker, enveloped in a black robe that concealed their identity. But Acacius was not alone in facing danger; from the depths of the night, more cloaked figures emerged, their intentions as sinister as the darkness that surrounded them, all eager to bring the general down.

It was a very despicable attack, there were about six of them and they chose the darkest hour of the night. A group obviously with military training who had come specifically to kill him. He wouldn't have had a hard time fighting against them if he hadn't been so tired. But he still managed to overpower four of them with skill and agility, with accurate sharp blows and lethal cuts.

After a long resistance his strength began to fail and he received a cut on his shoulder and one of them managed to knock him down. But even on the ground he cut another one. Then the last one, in a split-second after his attack, aimed for Marcus' chest and stabbed him with the knife he drew with his other hand. Marcus was fast, he grabbed his hand first with one hand but the knife was going deeper, piercing his armor and then the skin and strong pectoral muscle just below it.

He gasped, moaned, groaned with sharp pain, with rage.

With the instinct of survival he grabbed the attackers knife, this time with both hands, but in that moment he understood.

When the sharp metal pierced his ribs and reached his heart, when he felt the wave of blood rushing to his throat.

Even in that state he killed his attacker with a short knife, which he found by groping on the ground with his other hand.

But it was too late.

He coughed, followed by a bloody eruption from his mouth. The blood from the cut on his chest didn't stop, it was like a river.

But it was a relief, like a steady release, a fleeting moment of freedom—almost. The very moment he had long anticipated had finally arrived.

So this is what death feels like, he pondered, gazing up at the half-blackened moon suspended in the inky dark sky. The pain had been unbearable; it clawed at his insides with merciless intensity. Yet, in a strange twist of fate, he felt nothing as his body surrendered to its finality. His ears fell silent, and a profound numbness enveloped him. The pain had vanished.

A blink of an eye.

Darkness.

Another blink.

And suddenly, he felt again.

How could this happen? What did it mean?

Then he saw it—the familiar visage of someone he hadn’t encountered in ages.

Maximus.

A serene smile graced his lips, reminiscent of days long past.

“True. Elysium. I must have ascended there,” he thought.

Maximus shook his head, as if he had heard the silent longing behind his words.

“Not yet, brother,” he whispered, his voice gentle yet firm. “Your time has not yet come.”

Marcus frowned, confusion etching lines across his brow. “But why?”

Maximus’s expression shifted, dimming like a candle flickering in the wind. “Or have you forgotten your prayer, your supplication?”

The depths of confusion deepened within Marcus. “My prayer…” he murmured, trying to grasp the fading memory.

“Your prayer was answered, child.”

That voice—it was unlike anything he had encountered.

It wasn't Maximus, he was now gone at his sight.

The sound that transcended humanity; it could not be earthborn or mortal. It was an ethereal quality, a melodic and divine sound that ignited every nerve in his body, powerful enough to raise goosebumps and destructive enough to permeate every cell of his being. The tone held both confusion and promise, intertwining hope and fear.

Suddenly, light began to pour forth around him, casting everything in a radiant glow, while a gentle wind kissed his face.

Another blink of an eye.

His body felt as though it were being drawn forward, tethered to the swift pull of an invisible chariot.

But instead of pain, there was only the caressing touch of the wind.

Then another blink.

He found himself still lying on the ground, and once again, he raised his gaze to the moon, a celestial sentinel in the dark sky. This time, it was shrouded in total darkness, its edges enveloped in a halo of brilliant white light. As though awakening from a deep slumber, his senses returned in a rush; first, he felt his heart start beating once more, as if claws that had pierced him were now pulled away. Then the warm breeze danced over his skin, breathing life back into him. Control of his body surged back.

With disbelief coursing through him, he turned his head. What he saw was astonishing. Light flooded the landscape, blinding in its intensity—so much that the stars themselves seemed to vanish against its brilliance. He was taken aback when he stood up and touched his own body. His armor had tears where cuts had been, yet there was no blood—no trace of his former suffering. He could breathe easily, and a newfound strength surged through him, more potent than he’d ever known.

He was miraculously, completely healed.

It felt like…

Rebirth.

It should have been a miracle, a divine blessing. Yet he wrestled with surprise and disbelief, knowing he had seldom uttered even a single prayer in his life. Anger boiled within him for the gods; why should they reward him after all?

Was this reprieve the reason he couldn't set foot in Elysium?

How had his prayer been answered then?

It was all so strange. The Pantheon loomed nearby; some of the structures were familiar while others stood oddly illuminated, foreign and surreal.

Perhaps this was a realm of torment.

Just then, something occurred that cemented his apprehension.

He heard footsteps—soft yet deliberate—approaching from behind, followed by a feminine voice that sliced through the air with unexpected sharpness.

When he turned, disappointment washed over him like a cold wave.

This was not what he had envisioned. This was not his prayer.

Surely, this must be a punishment.

Before him stood a woman dressed in garments unlike anything he had seen before. Anger flared within him again as he noted the disdainful grimace on the woman's face; she hissed a phrase that was foreign to his ears.

“What the fuck?” the woman exclaimed, her tone dripping with contempt.

Yes, he was undeniably trapped in a place of torment, and he realized with growing dread that his suffering was only just beginning.

***Italy, Rome, 2025***

Earlier that day.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” The words tumbled from your lips as panic washed over you, eyes zeroing in on the cruelly bright numbers glowing on the clock: 7:45. You sprang out of bed like a rocket, hastily shedding your pajamas and tossing them behind you, landing who-knows-where in the fray of your cluttered room. Clothes lay in chaotic heaps, sketches of costumes scattered like fallen leaves, remnants of your frenzied creative process. You had been drowning in work on the movie set, and though you promised yourself time and again to clean up, that day didn't afford you a moment to spare. With a hasty comb through your tousled hair, you bolted for the door.

But just as you reached the door, you realized you had forgotten your bag. You backtracked, grabbed it, and hurried out again. In your rush, you slammed your sister's door twice to wake her. “Lizzie! Hurry up, or you’ll be late for school!”

The sound of a scientific discussion filled the air, coming from either the TV or her laptop: "Time is characterized as a motion; however, it is fundamentally impossible to traverse backward. Moreover, to progress forward necessitates the existence of a specific negative mathematical function. Nevertheless, from a mathematical standpoint, there is no inherent rationale preventing such movement. This phenomenon illustrates the complexities associated with the concept of time as described in Einstein’s theory…"

“Ugh, not this again,” you muttered under your breath. Your sister was a total science fiction junkie and often had those brainy shows on first thing in the morning.

“Hey, nerd! Turn that off and get to breakfast, now!” you called out.

Moments later, she emerged, phone in hand, video chatting with a friend. “Yeah, it’s been a crazy day,” she yawned, plopping down at the table. You rolled your eyes at her. Worst of all was having both a science geek sister and a best friend who was just as obsessed.

“Every damn morning...” you grumbled while munching on your toast.

She eyed the nearly burnt toast you’d made and poked it with her finger. “I’d better eat at school,” she remarked.

You had to agree; you never quite mastered the art of cooking. The more skilled you became at drawing and sewing, the worse you were in the kitchen. It was almost tragic that you couldn't even toast a simple piece of bread.

“Sorry, I was in a rush, honey,” you replied apologetically.

“You can’t give a proper toast, even when you’re not in a rush,” she replied with a smirk. “The real issue is that you just can’t let things go.”

“Hey, how about being a little nicer to your sister?” you said, trying to defend yourself.

“But you’ve been seriously cruel to this poor bread!” she teased, pretending to listen to it. “What’s that?” she joked, acting like she was having a conversation with the toast. “It says it’s going to sue you!”

You narrowed your eyes and grabbed the tongs, playfully pointing them at her. “If you want to avoid the same burnt fate, you should run to school now!”

She held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m teleporting!” she declared, leaping to her feet, snatching her bag, and sprinting out the door, making you giggle as you followed her.

You took another tentative bite of the almost burned toast and scrunched your face, nudging it away. “Oh man, the next time I walk into the kitchen, it’ll just be to tackle the dishes,” you joked, embracing your cooking woes with a laugh.

As you drove with a mouthful of croissant, you tuned into the radio, soon catching the latest world news.

“On this sunny spring day in Rome, the city is buzzing with life once again, full of energy and charm. This magnificent, romantic city never truly sleeps and is always teeming with tourists.”

You flipped to another channel.

“Tonight, around 1 AM, there’s an exciting celestial event on the horizon. Known scientifically as the ‘Total Lunar Eclipse’ and popularly nicknamed the ‘Blood Moon,’ this event will be visible from Italy and other parts of Europe. Unfortunately, folks in North and South America and Eastern Europe won’t get a glimpse.”

“Just what we need—more tourists,” you muttered under your breath.

Historic sites were already packed to the brim, a reality you faced almost daily. While most filming typically took place away from the city, a brief scene was scheduled to be shot near the Pantheon, drawing you back for three consecutive days. Permission to film at this busy location had only been granted by the Ministry of Culture after 6 PM, adding a layer of tension to the crew’s dynamic. Everyone was eager to wrap up filming quickly over those three days, leaving you with some errands to tackle before heading back in the evening.

Your first stop? The hospital.

Yes, the hospital. Your father had been in a coma for ten years following an accident—the same tragic event that had taken your mother. You visited him every day. Your family had moved from the States to Italy when you were just five, and while you adapted to the language and culture fairly quickly, the accident forced you into a dual role, needing to be both a mother and father to your younger sister.

As you pulled up to the hospital, you checked your watch—only thirty minutes left until you had to head to the set. You placed the fresh flowers you had picked up from the florist into a vase in your father’s room and began your usual update about your day. Although talking to someone who couldn’t hear you felt a bit silly, it brought you comfort. When Givorni, a member of the hospital board who knew your father, stepped into the room, he brought unsettling news.

“Look, honey, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s been over ten years now. The head doctor mentioned that the chances of him waking up are getting slimmer, and soon, you may have to make a tough decision.”

How could you let him go, your father? You stuck to your resolve, as you had every time the doctors suggested there was no hope. You wouldn’t pull the plug on him. Maybe one day he would wake up—you held onto that hope. But, of course, these decisions came at a price; paying for his hospitalization meant you had to work more than one job.

You threw yourself into work, juggling multiple jobs to keep afloat. The design gigs you found online were mostly project-based—some involved theater costumes, others were special designs for wealthy families, and a few focused on accessory design. Yet, nothing compared to working on a film set. Despite the exhaustion, the pay was decent, and you gained invaluable lessons under the head designer, essential for your career advancement. You knew that hard work was necessary to eventually rise to the role of head designer or costume supervisor.

On set, you forged strong connections with others, often reuniting for films or documentaries with similar themes. Another perk of being on set was the chance to mingle with famous actors and actresses. They weren’t always what they seemed; some were charming in front of the camera but difficult behind the scenes, while others proved surprisingly kind. However, some would overstep and forget your role as a costume designer.

You still recall that time when an actress had you rush out in the rain to grab her some coffee, only to scold you because it had gotten cold by the time you brought it to her.

Cruel bitch.

Despite being part of the cast, you chose not to watch the film afterward out of sheer annoyance.

During a break before the night scene, the other girls on set invited you to lunch. Although the food provided on set was good, space was tight, and meals were only served at 6 PM before filming resumed. So, you were relieved when they suggested stepping outside for some junk food. As you exited the trailer, you found yourself surrounded by tourists, eagerly snapping photos with their phones, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars. The security team was struggling to manage the crowd, a daunting challenge that would only ramp up over the next three days—all for a mere ten minutes of footage.

“Girls, check that out!” One of them pointed to a shop on the way back from lunch, its neon sign flashing: palm reading, tarot reading - book your session today.

Love, Destiny, Fate.

“What do you think? Should we try a tarot reading?” she asked, her tone pleading.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, guys, these things are a joke; they don’t really do anything.”

To your annoyance, they insisted.

“Let’s just do it for fun, please!”

“Yeah, come on! Just this once!”

You had always been a skeptic about such superstitions, especially after the tragic loss of your parents and your sister's autism diagnosis following that incident. You had more than enough reasons to doubt fate, luck, or even love.

As the girls eagerly paid for their tarot readings—a decision you thought was a complete waste of money—you decided to just watch. But eventually, their relentless begging wore you down, and you agreed to join them so they wouldn’t be disappointed.

When it was your turn, the fortune teller—a woman dressed in an eclectic manner—shuffled the cards and asked you to draw a few. As she laid them out in a specific spread, her expression changed immediately. “Oh dear, you’ve been feeling quite overwhelmed and drained,” she began. She turned over another card. “You may come off as a tough nut, but deep down, you really want to help others.” Then she revealed a third card. “Hmm, it seems like success is on the horizon. You’re working hard, and soon you’ll start to see the fruits of your labor.”

“I hope so,” you muttered.

When she flipped the next card, her eyes sparkled. “Ah, there’s a man here. He’ll enter your life in a way that he’ll soon become your whole world.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, yeah, right,” you scoffed.

“Seriously, trust me,” she insisted.

“That sounds nice,” one of the girls said eagerly.

“What’s he like?” another chimed in, excitement in her voice.

“Come on, girls,” you sighed in exasperation.

The fortune teller frowned. “Love is in the cards, okay? Let’s just enjoy this.”

Rolling your eyes again, you tried to keep your cool as frustration bubbled inside you.

She continued, flipping over another card. “Look here! Again, it’s all about this guy! Trust me, he’ll settle right in the center of your heart!”

"Woooo!"

“Oh, how lucky you are!” the girls exclaimed.

As your irritation peaked, you struggled to maintain your composure.

The woman pressed on, “This man is...,” she hesitated, as if struggling with a foreign language. “from...,” she raised an eyebrow, “the past.”

“From the what, past?” you asked, intrigued despite yourself.

“Oh, it must be your ex or something,” one of the girls guessed.

"I sure hope not," you grunted.

“Maybe, but it’s a new kind of love,” the fortune teller hesitated, seeming surprised by something.

“What nonsense is this?” you pouted, pursing your lips.

Seemingly annoyed, she replied, “My insights are always spot on, sweetheart.”

Despite your skepticism, you waited as she looked at the last card. “Ah, you’ll have to make a choice,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “You can either stay with him, or you won’t.”

Okay, that was enough.

“Again with the love nonsense? Don’t you see anything about my career?” you scoffed.

“I’m just interpreting the cards you drew, dear,” she said defensively.

You sighed and stood up. “I don’t need love. I don’t need a man; I need money.”

As the shoot finally wrapped up, it was time to tidy up for the crew, and you found yourself chatting with the girls about tarot readings while you worked. They kept inquiring about your past relationships, but you had none to share. Aside from a brief fling in high school, you hadn't been in a serious relationship. You didn’t want to bring up that one encounter, which had ended in frustration. The guy who left you at the altar would occasionally show up at your door drunk, and you’d promptly kick him out. End of story.

A man from your past, but a new love?

What the hell?

That seemed as impossible as the sun rising in the west.

Once all your tasks were complete, exhaustion hit you, and heading home felt like an uphill battle. You made your way through security to your buddy Leo. “Evening went off without a hitch, huh?” you asked.

“Yeah, just had to deal with a few overzealous fans tonight, but now that our big star's gone, they won’t be coming back,” he replied, propping his feet up on the opposite chair while sipping his beer. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. No moonlight tonight?” you quizzed.

“Didn't you hear there’s an eclipse?”

“Eclipse?”

“Yep, if you look carefully, you can see it. Guess you’ve been too busy to catch the news.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied, “Story of my life.” Then you remembered that morning when you first heard about it on the radio.

You walked a bit further outside, fiddling with your phone's camera settings to capture a glimpse of the eclipse. As you focused on the moon being gradually engulfed by the Earth’s shadow, you heard murmurs behind you. Turning toward the bushes, you spotted three girls. “What’s going on? Who are you?” you asked.

They jumped to their feet, looking nervous and frightened.

“Ah, I see, you’re fans too, huh? You must’ve snuck in; good job, Leo,” you muttered. “Alright, girls, time to head out. Our big star has left. You really think he’s just hanging around in a trailer or something? He’s off at a hotel.”

Disappointed, they exchanged glances.

“Which hotel is he at?” one of them asked, grinning.

You sighed and grabbed her arm. “Move! Get out of here, fast!”

After escorting the girls to Leo and the security team, you made your way back to the trailer, where a nightmare awaited you. It was an absolute mess—fabrics and materials were strewn everywhere, and scattered papers littered the floor. Who had created this chaos?

When you asked one of your colleagues, he told you it was the props manager and his team who had left the mess behind. They must have mistaken the design trailer for another. Some papers looked ancient, clearly part of a realistic set design, with a few appearing to be genuine antiques. Recognizing they would be used as props, you took them over to the other trailer. Just as you were about to leave, a sudden gust of wind blew one of the papers from your hands, and as you bent to retrieve it, a strange sensation washed over you.

“Whoa.”

What was that odd feeling?

You carefully picked up the scrolls and placed them into the box, something caught your eye. Drawn to the writing, you felt an inexplicable familiarity, as though you had encountered it before. A wave of emotion washed over you, and your eyes began to well up. But why were you feeling this way?

The script was in Latin—an old form, likely dating back to ancient Roman times. Curiosity sparked within you. What could it possibly say? With no one around, you reasoned that there was no harm in taking a closer look.

You fished your phone out of your pocket and opened the language translation app you had downloaded earlier, eager to decipher the text. Aiming the camera at the writing, you waited patiently. After a few moments, the app began to translate, though the phrases came through fragmented.

“Please... accept my sacrifice... I offer you..." It was all pieces meant nothing but then you realized that sentence: "If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Another what? Life? Time?

“What on earth is this?” you muttered to yourself, realizing that the translation seemed nonsensical. “Stupid app.”

Suddenly, hearing footsteps approach, you panicked and accidentally tore the edge of the paper.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Frantically, you tucked it into the back pocket of your shorts. Better to hide it than risk being caught holding it.

“What are you doing here?” the props manager snapped, glaring at you. His expression shifted to shock when he noticed the decor papers you had just brought in. “Hey, you didn’t mess with these, did you? Some are authentic; we barely got permission from the collectors' family, and they need to be delivered the day after tomorrow.”

“Are they real ones?” you asked, pretending to be innocent.

“Yes! Please don’t tell anyone—the director must have lost his mind. He asked me to use the authentic ones as props. We had no time to find replicas. You didn’t touch them, did you?”

You nodded. “No, of course not,” you lied. You had no idea why you’d even done that. “But shouldn’t these be in a museum or something?”

“No, they’re antiques, imported specially from a private collection.”

And now you’d ripped one of them.

You were really in hot water. Exiting the trailer, you returned to yours. When you pulled out the antique—likely priceless—that you had stuffed in your pocket, you felt a wave of dread.

It was crumpled and had a torn edge, but fortunately, the writing remained intact, albeit looking a mess.

But it wasn’t entirely your fault.

Why had they sent the wrong trailer?

Oh right. Wrong trailer.

Couldn’t the crew member who dropped it off have mixed it up somewhere?

Yeah, that was a reasonable thought.

At least they could believe that—until you fixed it.

You really should have contacted your friend Katie, the antiquities expert at the General Directorate of Museums, right away.

It was just Latin script on the paper with bullshit, but that didn’t change the fact that it was an invaluable artifact.

You were so fucked.

The rest of the night unfortunately took a turn for the worse after that call came in. The antique paper you had accidentally torn was missing, and everyone was turning the place upside down looking for it. But how could you admit that? Confessing it could get you fired, and it didn’t really matter that it was someone else's family heirloom. After all, it wasn't your fault. It was all the mistake of whoever had brought it to the trailer in the first place.

You tried to reassure yourself as you pretended to help with the search. While you were busy suppressing your guilt, you suddenly heard a sound. But there was no one in sight—was it one of those girls again?

“Oh, I’m really tired. Whoever you are, just show yourself now,” you called out as you walked forward. The eclipse had hidden the moonlight, plunging everything into darkness. The only illumination came from the distant lights of some buildings ahead, but it was still shadowy where you stood. As you approached to the sound, you caught sight of a shadowy figure with back turned, draped in a long black cloth.

A strange feeling washed over you. You crept closer, and the odd sensation intensified.

It was a man—yes, definitely a man—well-built, in a black robe, holding… a sword?

Your eyes widened in shock.

“What the fuck?"

He turned to face you, and the first thing you felt was a perplexing déjà vu, as if you knew him but couldn’t place him. His intense gaze and striking features seemed familiar, yet you couldn’t put your finger on it. And those clothes…

"Who the fuck are you?”

Wait a minute.

This wasn’t your first encounter with someone like him. He had to be one of those extras—probably overworked and known for causing trouble on set. He must not have bothered to change out of his costume and was relishing this unexpected role.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble, but I really need you to take off that costume. I’m responsible for the outfits, and if anything happens to it, my paycheck will take a hit, okay? Didn’t anyone give you a heads-up?” You stepped closer, but he just stood there, staring at you like a statue.

Taking a closer look, you noticed the armor beneath his robe was unlike anything you’d ever seen on set. Had they started filming something new without you? That couldn’t be right—or worse, what if he had stolen it? Wonderful. You reached out to inspect it further, but in an instant, he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and shoved you away like you were nothing.

“Aaaah!” You winced, clutching your sore wrist and glaring at him in frustration. “Are you out of your mind? Get that costume off now! Can’t you hear me? Are you deaf or something?”

He sighed, casually wiping his sword with the hem of his robe and sheathing it as if he did it every day. He performed the action with such style that even a seasoned actor might be impressed.

“I see you’re really into character. Nice job!” you said with a hint of sarcasm. “But as I said, I need you to take it off. Now.”

“What kind of shameless woman are you to demand that I undress?”

What the hell was that? His accent, thick and unfamiliar, rolled off his tongue in a way you had never encountered. It was as if a whisper from another age echoed through each word he spoke.

“Undressing? Oh God, what kind of maniac are you?” You sighed. “This is your last warning; I’ll call security.”

He frowned, as if hearing the term for the first time. “Security…” he muttered to himself, clearly annoyed.

Just then, you heard someone call your name. Turning around, you spotted Leo and hurried over to him, grabbing his arm. “Leo, that guy seems either like a maniac or he’s drunk. I think he might be an extra, but he could also be an intruder.”

Leo looked just as taken aback as you were. “I’ve never seen him before. Is that a sword?”

“It’s probably fake,” you muttered.

The man glared, brandishing his sword as he pointed at you. "You two, tell me where I am."

“Yeah, he’s definitely drunk,” you whispered to Leo.

Leo played it cool. “Listen, man, I need you to come with me right now. I need to figure out why you broke into the film set.”

“The film… set...” he repeated to himself in confusion.

“Why is he acting like he’s never heard of it?” Leo asked you, both of you now staring at him nervously.

“I told you he’s crazy or maybe psycho. Do you think he could have escaped from a mental hospital or something?”

“Let’s hope not. But what would he be doing here? If I could get the cuffs on him without freaking him out, we could call the police.”

“Great plan, go for it,” you urged, giving him a gentle nudge to encourage action.

As Leo pulled the handcuffs from his waistband, the strange man eyed him suspiciously, as if he posed a threat. “I’m going to put these on you now, alright?”

The man's face remained expressionless, cold yet menacing. “And what if I refuse?”

You gulped. “What are you doing, mister? He’s the security guard—don’t make this any harder.”

“You asked for this,” Leo said angrily, pulling out his baton.

You were taken aback when the man tightened his grip on his sword in response as Leo stepped closer.

“Listen, we all know that sword’s fake—”

Out of nowhere, he sliced through Leo’s baton with a swift, precise motion.

You froze for a moment, unable to process what had just happened.

Leo turned on his heels and bolted. “Police! I’ll call the police!”

“Where do you think you’re going? Wait for me!” you shouted in panic but a hand suddenly grabbed your arm. The man’s sword was still clutched in his grip, and you couldn’t help but notice the red stains on it. Could it be b-blood, real blood? Fear began to creep in, and you started to tremble.

“Look, please don’t hurt me! I’m really sorry for calling you crazy, a psycho, and a maniac. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m begging you, forgive me!” you said, almost sobbing.

"I assure you that I have no intention of causing any harm. I need to uncover the truth of my surroundings. Please, help me understand where I am, what is this place?"

What the hell? It was like he’d lost his memory or something or his mind.

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to come up with a way to wriggle free.

"I find myself in a familiar location; however, the surrounding environment appears to have undergone significant changes."

You leaned closer to him. “Are you sure you’re not just drunk?”

You swallowed hard as he shot you an angry glance.

“There he is!”

“Let her go now!”

Leo and the others had arrived, guns aimed and ready.

“I suggest you surrender, sir. Just do as they say, and they’ll help you. If you really can't remember where you came from, they can sort it out,” you urged him, hoping to de-escalate the situation.

“Put down your sword now,” Leo commanded.

“They'll help me, you say?” the man muttered, his gaze fixed on them.

This might be your best chance to get him to back down. “Yes, definitely. The police will help you,” you replied, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Police,” he repeated, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

He was behaving like a little kid, learning new words by repeating them.

“I will release this woman,” he stated, finally sheathing his sword. Everyone took a deep breath.

“He'll surrender,” you relayed to your friends, then turned back to the man. “But I need to take your sword back to where you got it.”

“The gladius is mine.” His tone was resolute, as if the sword had belonged to him for years.

However, if he had stolen it from the prop crew, you could land yourself in a heap of trouble, far worse than the mess you’d made with the paper.

“But it poses a danger to them. If they can’t trust you, they can’t help you. So, please hand me the sword,” you insisted.

He paused, contemplating your words, then took the sword scabbard from his waist and looked at you sternly before handing it to you. “Promise me you’ll protect this with your life.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “What is this? Are we filming a movie or something?”

He grabbed your arm and shook you. “Promise me.”

As soon as you picked it up, you staggered under its weight. It was a real sword indeed. With a sigh, you relented. “Okay, okay, I promise.”

As he relinquished the sword as if it were the most precious thing to him, Leo and the others looked on, intrigued, surprised.

He must’ve truly lost his mind or something. Watching him leave with the security guards, you couldn’t shake a sense of curiosity about what he’d been through. After they were gone, people who had heard the commotion on the film set gathered around you. This was far more interesting than searching the area for antique parchment, and they listened in fascination as you recounted the bizarre encounter.

As the security guards urged Marcus to speak, his gaze was fixed on the screens in the security room. He was mesmerized by the footage playing out before him. What he saw astonished him—moving images flickering in small boxes, an experience he had never imagined and could never have anticipated.

“Hey, look up here!” Leo snapped his fingers, trying to regain Marcus's attention. “What kind of freak are you? Don’t you have any ID or something on you?”

Marcus didn’t even seem to register the question; he was too transfixed on the screens. Leo took a deep breath, his anxiety bubbling over. “Listen, mate, for us to help you, you need to spill the beans. What were you doing on set? How did you manage to sneak in? And where did you get those clothes and that sword? You know it’s illegal to carry a real sword in this country, right?”

Just then, he spotted you on one of the monitors. The footage showed you walking out the outer door, leaving the premises.

“That woman,” Marcus murmured, “that woman said you would help me, and I gave her my sword in return.” 'She promised," he thought.

“Alright, we’re trying to help you, but you have to answer my questions,” Leo insisted.

“Tell me how to reach there,” Marcus urged, pointing at the screen. “Is that another life? I need to go there.”

Leo and the other guards exchanged glances, bewildered. “What did you just say? Another life? Come on, what kind of joke is this? ‘There’ is right outside, you fool!”

Suddenly, Marcus sprang to his feet, and Leo stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Hey, you’re not going anywhere until the police get here!”

With a roll of his eyes, Marcus swiftly grabbed Leo and shoved him aside, causing the guards to stumble into one another in the chaos.

“Hey! Stop!” they shouted after him as he dashed away.

You were examining the sword in your hand as you stepped off the set and into the parking lot toward your car. It was undeniably real, yet it looked so pristine. Perhaps the scabbard had been restored; its craftsmanship clearly reflected a lot of effort. You had seen replicas before, but this one was strikingly accurate, almost like a genuine ancient artifact.

However, according to the set crew, the sword wasn’t part of the props. You were supposed to take it to the museum tomorrow—maybe they would decide what to do with it. You opened the car door, placed your bag and the sword in the back seat, and shut the door. But just then, you noticed him—the crazy man. He was sprinting toward you.

That lunatic.

You quickly flung open the driver’s door, jumped into the seat, and turned the key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life, Marcus approached, bewildered; he had never encountered a car door before. Taking advantage of his astonishment, you drove onto the bustling street, and to your surprise, he dashed after you, but soon he captivated by the scene.

Standing there, mesmerized, he absorbed the chaotic sight of the vehicles surrounding him—their strange forms, the symphony of sounds, and the dazzling lights. In that moment of realization, he understood: in this extraordinary place, horses were no longer needed for riding. These remarkable machines forged their own path, free from the constraints of the past time, his time.

A taxi pulled up, and the driver, who must have seen way too many movies, rolled down his window and leaned out. “Hey! Do you want to catch her?”

Marcus was taken aback but nodded eagerly.

“Jump in then, man!” The cabbie said, chuckling at Marcus's surprised expression as he opened the back door for him. He thought this strange carriage didn’t need a horse, but seeing how you had gotten in earlier made it a bit easier for him. He climbed in and followed the cabbie’s instructions, pulling the door shut behind him. He was astonished when the cabbie hit the gas and effortlessly steered the vehicle. Looking out the window, he couldn’t help but marvel at the unfamiliar street, the other cars—everything felt so foreign and unusual.

“Don’t worry, mate, we’ll catch your girlfriend!” the cabbie reassured him.

“Girl...friend…” Marcus mumbled under his breath, another strange word to add to his growing list.

“Awkward outfit choice, buddy. No wonder she ran away,” the cabbie laughed. “Did you try to surprise her like this? Maybe next time, try a Batman outfit—it worked with my girl.”

Another odd phrase and a joke that flew right over Marcus’s head.

After a short drive, the cabbie brought the car to a halt, noticing that your taxi had stopped as well. “There’s your girl!” he announced.

Turning his head, Marcus spotted you getting out of the other taxi and heading toward an apartment building. He tried to recall how the taxi driver had opened the door for him earlier. The cabbie noticed his bewilderment and smirked. “Seriously? You can’t open the door? You must be pretty drunk,” he teased. “Come on, mate, you’re gonna wanna dash now.”

“I owe you one, coachman,” Marcus said, grateful.

The cabbie laughed hard. “You owe me 26 euros, that’s right.”

Once again, Marcus encountered another strange term, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The moment the cabbie shouted at him, “Hey, you haven’t paid!” Marcus felt the pressure to hurry. He pressed the door shut, but the cabbie opened his window, yelling, “You didn’t pay!”

The honking alarms from the cars behind startled Marcus, but he stayed focused. “You didn’t pay!” the cabbie shouted again.

You turned around at the ruckus, nearly fainting when you spotted him.

“No way!” you exclaimed, worried.

As you hurried toward the apartment block, Marcus pulled out a denarius from a pouch on his belt and tossed it to the taxi driver. The cabbie caught it, turning it over in his hand, recognizing the face of Emperor Severus, which he swore he had seen in a museum. “What the hell is this? A prank? Where's the damn camera?” he muttered.

How could he still be chasing you? You reached into your bag for your keys. It was late, and the streets were nearly empty, but he appeared resolute in following you.

“Stop!” you called, holding your hand up.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. “Stop, or I’ll call the police!”

For your words to be taken as a threat, Marcus had to understand their meaning, and he didn’t, he had no idea. “Give me back my sword,” he demanded.

“Okay,” you replied, opening the car door and grabbing his sword. “Just take it and leave me alone.”

He reached for his sword, examining it, while you quickly grabbed your bag. Your hand searched for the pepper spray you kept for emergencies.

While you were rummaging, Marcus noticed a parchment in your bag.

“Okay, now can you go?” you said, turning to leave. “Good night.”

“Wait.”

“What now? I gave you your sword. Please, just leave me alone,” you whined.

“That parchment—let me see it.”

He noticed it?

“Why?” you asked, wary.

“I may have seen that before,” he murmured.

You were exhausted and just wanted this absurd night to end. Reluctantly, you handed it to him. As he read, his eyes widened in surprise.

“This...” He looked up at you in awe. “Did you read or spelled any of this, by any chance?”

“Yeah, so what?” you replied defensively.

“You’re the one who called me.”

You raised your eyebrows, baffled. “What did you just say? Why would I call you? I don’t even know you!”

He took a step toward you. “Those words—this is what brought me here, I’m certain.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you shot back, taking a step back yourself. “Look, I’m done with your nonsense, okay? Just leave me alone!”

"I need to return. Whether I traveled here or was brought here, I certainly need to head back to… my own time."

You erupted in laughter.

Did he really just say that? Maybe you were stuck in some ridiculous dream. “Seriously? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Tonight has been full of absurdities. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading home to rest, and I warn you—stay away from me.”

Just then, you heard your sister call out from the window.

“Get inside now!” you shouted at her. Fumbling with your keys, you opened the apartment door and stepped inside. The man remained outside, but you ignored him, shutting the door firmly behind you and starting up the stairs. As you climbed, he repeatedly scanned the words written on the paper, hoping to find a way back to his own time.

But nothing happened.

Why had this girl—you—read it and made him arrive here? What was the secret to unlocking the path back?

For the first time in ages, you woke up not to the blaring sound of an alarm, but to the ping of your mobile phone. It was someone from the set, and they sounded quite anxious about the events from the night before. They informed you that a strange man had taken you hostage and assumed you must be feeling pretty shaken. As a result, you were given the day off. You felt a wave of relief; in fact, you were eager to see Katie and sort out the whole parchment mess, so this felt like a great opportunity.

After hanging up, you snuggled back under the blankets, but a sudden thought nagged at you—what if that man was still out there? He was a maniac, after all.

But could he be crazy enough to have spent the entire night on the street?

Reluctantly, you peeled yourself out of bed and peeked out the window. To your relief, there was no one in sight. However, you soon noticed a commotion below. People on the sidewalk were stopping, giggling, and snapping pictures of something. Straining to see from your high vantage point, you could only make out the awning of the pizza shop below.

“Could that lunatic be down there?” you wondered aloud.

His outfit undeniably could capture people's attention and spark their curiosity.

A voice inside you insisted, “Forget about it. You don't know him. It doesn't matter what he does.”

But your conscience nagged at you—maybe he was a mentally unwell person who truly needed help. Perhaps his family was searching for him. “Fuck it,” you muttered, sliding out of bed and throwing on your dressing gown as you made your way downstairs.

Stepping out into the street left you in shock. There he was, just as you remembered.

It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare.

He was sitting on the ground, still dressed in that strange outfit from yesterday—his Roman soldier costume. Passersby, especially tourists, were snapping pictures. He didn’t react at all; his head hung low, probably accustomed to the attention after sitting there since morning. A pang of guilt hit you, seeing him like that. You inched closer. He caught sight of your feet first, then looked up at your face, and immediately stood up, turning his head away for some reason.

“Do you really have nowhere to go?” you asked. He shook his head. People were still stopping to take photos, but you warned them off and pulled at the man's arm. “Come with me, you pain in the neck.”

Just then, you heard a familiar voice call out—Enzo, the owner of the pizza place below your apartment. “Do you know this guy? He’s the reason I’ve got so many customers today,” he said with a grin.

You glanced inside the bustling restaurant. It was packed. You smiled at Enzo and explained that he was a friend and kept tugging the psycho along.

“Where are we going?” he asked, clearly confused.

“To my apartment. Would you rather just sit on the street?”

His expression hinted that he would rather not engage. You walked in silence, hoping that Mrs. Costa, your landlady and the owner of the flat, wouldn’t spot you as you passed her door. Every glance at the peculiar man trailing behind you revealed an expression of wonder, as if he were seeing an apartment building for the very first time. When you reached your apartment, you unlocked the door and said, “Come in.”

He peeked inside, his eyes darting around. “Is this... where you live?”

“Yeah, technically.”

He seemed to avoid looking directly at you, which felt strange. What wasn’t strange about him was the real question.

“It’s not safe for a woman to let a stranger into her home,” he remarked.

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “Seriously? Wasn’t it you who followed me here?”

“It wasn’t my intention,” he replied.

“What do you mean by intentions? I'm trying to help you!”

Suddenly, you heard a door open downstairs, and instinctively, you shoved him inside. “Get in quickly, or go back to the street. I really don’t care!” you snapped.

He complied, and just as you were about to close the door, you heard your landlady's voice call up to you.

“Sweetie, is there a problem? I thought I heard a man's voice.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Costa! Everything's fine, don’t worry.”

“My ears must be deceiving me. Good morning, dear. I thought it was that man again.”

That man being your ex-fiancé, whom you'd kicked to the curb just last week.

“No, he didn’t come. He can’t come back.”

“Okay, cara mia, see you later.”

“See you.”

You closed the door and let out a deep sigh. As you turned around, you nearly collided with the psycho who had followed you right behind. You stumbled, almost losing your balance, but he acted quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist. Both of you were taken aback by the sudden closeness.

“Who the hell is this guy?” your sister Lizzie asked, staring wide-eyed at the two of you.

He quickly pulled his hands back, and you stepped away.

“Wait a minute, isn’t that the guy from last night?” she questioned.

“Don’t you have to get ready for school?” you responded, glancing at her.

“Don’t you have to get to work too?”

“Nope, I’m off today.”

“Oh, really?” She examined the man, they exchanged confused looks.

“This is my sister Lizzie, and this is... um... what’s your name again psycho?” you stammered.

He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze averted. Lizzie looked between you both, clearly intrigued by what was unfolding.

“Do women in your world always walk around with their legs uncovered?” he whispered, leaning in close to your ear.

Ah, so that’s what the sidelong glances were all about. You glanced down at your short shorts. “Do you have to get weirder every second?” you snapped through clenched teeth.

“Or is he just a friend from the film set or something?” Lizzie chimed in as she returned with her bag.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s the outfit he’s wearing. That looks like a Roman soldier’s garb, probably a general’s,” she observed.

“Your sister is quite clever,” he said with a smile.

Your jaw dropped the first time you saw him smile.

And it was also when you realized he was rather handsome.

What on earth?

Was it really time to think that?

“Anyway, I’m late for school. Bye.”

“Bye, sweetie.” You shut the door and turned to him. “Are you seriously just going to stand there? Come inside.”

Suddenly, he grabbed his arm. “Could you hand me a piece of cloth?”

“What did you say? For what?”

He removed his black robe, and your eyes widened at the sight of blood running down his arm. “What happened to your arm?”

“A pugio grazed it.”

“A what?” you exclaimed.

“In a fight. Not here. Back in my time,” he explained.

“Here we go again,” you muttered as you headed to your room for the first aid kit. When you returned, he was in the living room, observing everything with his usual expression as if seeing it all for the first time.

You studied him before entering—his armor fit him as if he wore it daily, and he moved and spoke with a familiarity that was unsettling.

Could he truly be from another time?

Did time travel actually exist?

If so, why had you never encountered it before?

And why was it happening to you?

Shaking your head, you tried to dismiss the ridiculous thought.

Come to your senses girl.

You steered your thoughts back to logic. He was strange, or maybe just nuts; there had to be a rational explanation for this, had to be.

“Why don’t you sit down? Let me take a look at your arm.”

“What’s this?”

“First aid kit. It’s the first time you’ve seen one, isn’t it? This is tincture of iodine. We need to apply it to the wound to prevent infection. I’ll bandage it too,” you said as if explaining to a child. You reached for the supplies and began cleaning the wound. It was deep, but he didn’t flinch as you treated it. Instead, he focused intently on your face, avoiding looking down at his injury.

“Acacius...” he murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Marcus Justus Acacius, commander of the Roman Legions, having recently been entrusted with the esteemed position of General of Rome."

Your jaw dropped.

He said it in such a way that it was difficult not to believe him.

How could he pull that off?

You bit your lip, stifling a laugh. “Of course you are, and I’m Queen Elizabeth, by the way. Nice to meet you, Mr. General.” As you extended your hand, it was clear he was unsure of what to do next with the handshake. With a sigh, you stood up after wrapping up his arm.

“In this place, do you people really think everything is a joke?”

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but if you decide to go to the police, you must tell them everything. They’re the only ones who can truly help y—”

Suddenly, he seized your wrist. His rudeness was starting to grate on your nerves. “Read the parchment again. I need to get back to my own time; I’ve already lost too much of it here.”

“You can’t be serious.”

"I find myself in a precarious situation. Upon my initial arrival in this place, I believed I had entered a state of bliss akin to Elysium. However, I have come to realize that this environment is far worse than one might imagine. The Rome I once knew has vanished entirely; I am uncertain of how much time has elapsed, but it is clear that I cannot remain here. So please, read this.”

“Why not read it yourself?”

He released your arm. “I tried; it did not… work.”

“Maybe it’s because it doesn’t do shit and there's no such thing as time travel at all.”

“Listen, at this point, woman, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Read this at once. Someone betrayed me, and my brother might be in danger too. I need to return and find out. So spell it.”

“You must have a fascinating life. Fine, Mr. General. As you wish.”

You took the paper from him and reread the lines you had seen earlier.

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Marcus glanced around, a look of disappointment spreading across his face. “I’m still here.”

“Yes, you’re still here. I told you. Maybe you’ve got brain damage or something, and lost your memory or mind. There’s got to be a logical explanation though. Just come with me to the police station; the cops will help you.”

“What does ‘cops’ mean?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll see when you get there. Trust me, okay?”

He nodded. “You trusted me enough to let me into your house. I guess you’re the only one I can trust here.”

How could you have imagined things would become even more complicated once you stepped into the police station?

“No ID, no passport, no fingerprints, no phone records in your name… no family, no home, and no birth record… nothing.” As the officer spoke, you found yourself wondering just how much more surprising this situation could get.

“I was born in the year when Consul Postumius Albinus and Atilius Serranus were in power in the Senate.”

Everyone stared at Marcus in shock—officers paused their work, and even the criminals in the holding cell burst out laughing. The officer shook his head in disbelief as others struggled to control their laughter. You buried your face in your palms, mortified. The officer, clearly racked up, signaled to the other officers to seize Marcus by the arm. Then turned to you.

"Is he a refugee? Did he enter the country illegally? And let's not overlook the clothes he's wearing, which seem to match his strange way of speaking."

“Illegally? No,” You glared at the officer as they shoved Marcus into the holding cell. “Look, officer, I think this guy might be—” You gestured around your head, making a circular motion. “Have you checked the mental hospital records?”

“I told you, ma'am, there’s no record under the name he provided. I’d be surprised if there were any.”

“Are you really planning to keep him locked up?”

“He assaulted a security guard and vandalized a film set. He’s scheduled for court.”

“What if they drop the charges?”

“Then he’ll be released soon, but not without providing us with some form of ID.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He looked so out of place in the cell, standing apart from the other criminals who were looking at him like he was from another planet. You felt a pang of guilt for bringing him there.

“You said they’d help me, but now they’ve locked me up. Are they going to execute me?”

“What? No, of course not! Look, I thought they’d be able to find your family with your name, but I was mistaken. Are you sure you have your name right?”

He shot you an incredulous look. “Why would I lie about my name?”

"Well, it sounds ancient and a bit strange. Just like you," you muttered.

“It’s complicated. You don’t have any ID or passport. I do have a plan to help you get out of here, but you might need to spend the night.”

He gripped the iron bars, thinking. “I can wait one night.”

“If you have amnesia or something, you need to shake it off and remember your family. Otherwise, you’ll end up a refugee, and I could find myself in here with you for trying to help.”

He frowned. “I don’t have any of those things.”

You exhaled a troubled sigh. Had he really lost his mind? Based on his appearance, he seemed to have Italian roots. His accent was odd but articulate; he couldn’t possibly be a refugee.

“My bulla—why did they take it?”

"Bulla?"

He pointed to his neck. "The thing I was wearing."

“Ah, your medallion? Unfortunately, you can’t have accessories while in custody. It's good we left the sword at home, like I suggested,” you whispered, ensuring no one could overhear.

“That item is very important to me. I want you to take care of it, just like my sword, or maybe even more.”

“Look at you giving orders. I’m starting to think you really are a commander,” you joked.

But he stood there, still and serious. “It’s General,” he corrected you.

“Right, Mr. General,” you replied with a smirk, but he frowned. “Fine, I’ll take your precious medallion and head home. Tomorrow, I’ll chat with Leo, the security guard, and have them drop the charges against you. Who knows, maybe someone from your family will show up by then.”

“Will you return tomorrow?”

“Yes, don’t worry.”

He nodded. "I trust you."

You felt goosebumps ripple down your spine at that deep tone. How could he express such conviction? He truly was an extraordinary character.

When you stepped into Katie's spacious office, filled with antiques, in the General Directorate of Cultural Heritage Protection and Museums, you still couldn’t shake the feeling that yesterday had been a dream. It was all too surreal. You shook your head as you glanced down at the medallion in your hand, a tangible sign of that extraordinary day with the mysterious man named Marcus.

It was hard to believe that everything actually happened. You hadn’t come here for him, but rather to discuss the parchment you had accidentally damaged. Katie, an expert in antiquities and assistant manager, was someone you trusted implicitly. She had known your parents well and had been incredibly supportive, particularly when she took your sister Lizzie under her wing every summer. Lizzie had been diagnosed with mild autism, but her intelligence shone brightly, and you were thankful to Katie for giving her a supportive environment.

After a brief catch-up about your father's health, you finally pulled the crumpled parchment from your bag. “Please tell me you can fix this.”

Katie examined the paper closely, putting on her glasses. “Wow, this is the real deal. The keeper must have taken great care of it, despite its age.”

“Yeah, until I got my hands on it,” you mumbled, feeling sheepish.

“Well, we’re lucky it didn’t tear all the way through the writing. But you really need to be more careful; this is a rare artifact.”

“I truly didn’t mean to,” you admitted, your embarrassment evident.

“It might take a couple of weeks,” she replied gently.

“What? I need it sooner! It's only torn a little; can't you just glue it?”

She shot you a look. “This isn’t like sewing a costume, you know. First, I need to analyze the type of material. To repair tears in parchment, I’ll need to use gelatin or other animal-based products, and I have to determine the right one. As for smoothing out the wrinkles, the entire document might need to be placed in a humidity chamber.”

You stared at her, wide-eyed. “Seriously? I had no idea restoring paper was that complicated.”

She chuckled. “Parchment isn’t like your everyday paper. It’s made from animal skins, and you should be grateful it’s not papyrus, which is made from plants. Parchment has some serious advantages, like being more durable in humid conditions and allowing writing on both sides. But if you need this so bad, I can whip up a replica for you; it might just fool the decor crew.”

“Oh, that would be amazing,” you replied, relieved.

She smiled and headed to a large cupboard brimming with various papers and parchments. “Here,” she said, returning with a similar piece of parchment. “This one looks a bit like yours.”

“Katie, thank you so much,” you said sincerely.

“Anytime.”

“You can read what’s written on it, right?” you asked, curiosity piqued. “I looked it up on my phone, but you know, the scriptwriter is really after authenticity.”

“Of course,” she said, glancing at the paper. “It’s a prayer.”

“A prayer?” you echoed.

“Yep, according to this, it’s addressed to Janus, the god of beginnings and endings, who’s second only to Jupiter,” she explained, pulling out a book titled *Ancient Roman Mythology and All the Gods*.

“But Janus has two faces,” you remarked, examining the page in the book.

“Exactly—the past and the future,” she replied, shaking her head. “The prayer mention like 'another time' and 'another life', which possibly could be hinting at escape or a peaceful death. The meaning of many artifacts like this often remains a mystery, even to historians and archaeologists.”

You paused, suddenly uneasy. Could it be true what happened with Marcus?

No, that seemed impossible.

But what if it was?

“Can I ask you one more thing? I was talking to the scriptwriter earlier, and I think he could really use your help with something he’s stuck on,” you said, pulling the medallion out of your bag. “He’s trying to figure out how someone wearing this medallion could travel through time. Is that even possible, or does it sound kind of ridiculous? Does that make sense?”

Katie furrowed her brow, scrutinizing the medallion with her magnifying glass before holding it under ultraviolet light. She looked at you, astonished. “This is incredibly rare. Your scriptwriter must really be into these. But the engravings aren’t connected to time. Did he notice the sun-like symbol?” It was prominently displayed at the center of the medallion, next to the inscriptions. “That’s Sol Invictus—the official sun god of the Roman Empire and protector of soldiers.”

A wave of realization washed over you. “Did you say soldier?” your voice quivered.

“Yes, it’s an amulet or talisman designed to offer protection to the wearer against all evils. The inscriptions indicate this. It’s beautifully preserved. Most in the museum are worn down, but this one looks almost brand new,” she remarked, her admiration evident.

Yet, as you absorbed her words, a tightness gripped your chest. Part of you wished she had dismissed the medallion as a fake. Why did it have to be real?

“But I’m not quite sure how the prayer on the paper connects to time or anything like that. It seems we’ll have to do quite a bit of digging to unravel that mystery,” she added with a grin.

“Maybe it has something to do with the symbols,” you suggested, noticing the same sun sign on the necklace, which was also etched small in the corner of the paper.

“No, I don’t think that’s it. There’s no symbol on the paper—just the inscription. The purpose of the parchment serves a different role, but—”

“There it is,” you interrupted, gently pointing to the symbol with your fingertip. Katie looked at you, puzzled.

“Honey, there’s no symbol there—just some wear and tear.”

How could she not see the symbol you noticed? You glanced again to double-check; it was definitely there, but she remained firm in her denial. Or could it be that she simply couldn’t see it, while you could?

What on earth was happening?

Maybe you were truly starting to freak out. As you got ready to leave Katie’s room, a question bubbled up inside you. If, by some impossible chance, that man had traveled forward in time to your era, how would he ever make it back to his own? “Katie, let’s say—it’s unlikely, of course—but how could this time traveler, from the film, have arrived? And how would he return? Do you have any logical ideas?”

“This might sound a bit far-fetched, but if it were possible, I’d suggest a portal would have to open, and it would need to reopen in the same spot for the person to get back,” she explained.

“In the same spot,” you echoed quietly.

“Exactly. The audience would be blown away, right?” she replied. “Oh, absolutely,” you chuckled, a bit nervously.

“Just one more thing, Rose,” she said before you left the room. “It sounds silly to mention this without thorough research, but it’s quite possible that the individual who wrote that parchment and the one who inscribed the medallion could be the same person.”

You nodded slowly, “Yeah, I see what you mean. Thanks.”

You sat in the car for hours before finally starting the engine, resting your head on the steering wheel as you drifted into thought.

How was this even possible?

This man was from another time, an era long gone.

But how?

How did you end up in this bizarre situation when nobody makes films or TV series about this kind of thing anymore?

Was Marcus correct?

Did reading that parchment somehow summon him or cause him to travel in your time?

Suddenly, a wave of sympathy washed over you. It must be incredibly hard for him. Then you recalled the harsh words you’d thrown at him: “freak,” “maniac,” “psycho.”

With a deep sigh, you turned the key in the ignition. You should have freed him from the police station sooner.

When you arrived, it was a challenge to convince the officer. Fortunately, after you called Leo for assistance, the crew from the set decided to drop their complaint since no damage had been done. You signed a form acknowledging that you were responsible for knowing this stranger and agreed to return his lost ID soon. Before long, a policeman escorted him inside.

You swallowed hard as your eyes met his, still struggling to wrap your mind around the fact that he was a soldier from ancient Rome.

“You came as you promised,” he said as the car rolled away.

He still didn’t seem accustomed to the ride, curiously fidgeting with everything around him.

“Yeah, I had to—considering your obsession with promises,” you managed to murmur, your voice shaky.

“Or do you believe me now?” he asked, hopeful.

“I’m still unsure and in shock, to be honest. But I think I’ve figured out how to get you back to your time.”

“Is that right?”

“I’ll read the parchment again, in the same place,” you explained, the plan crystallizing in your mind. He nodded slowly, contemplation etched on his face. "That is a logical conclusion."

“By the way, I’m Rose,” you said quietly.

He turned to you, intrigued.

“Rose,” he repeated, your name lingering in the air. “Rosa,” he repeated again, trying to pronounce it in his own way.

“In Latin, yes,” you confirmed, your smile widening as his expression softened. “It’s a beautiful name,” he remarked, the tenderness in his voice stirring something deep within you.

“Thanks, yours is nice too, I suppose,” you replied shyly as you pulled into the parking spot.

“Here?”

It was dark now, and fortunately, Marcus had led you to a secluded spot where the set wasn’t too crowded. He mentioned that this was where he first opened his eyes.

“Forgive me for not providing you with clean clothes,” you said, noticing he had been wearing the same outfit for days.

“That’s alright. There were times when I didn’t take off my armor for twenty days,” he replied confidently.

You grimaced. “Ew. Didn’t people around you douse you with water? You must smell terrible,” you joked, laughing.

You couldn’t help but notice the flicker of a smile across his face—was he smiling?

How could he be that handsome?

“Let’s get on with this; I need to head back,” he said, fastening his medallion around his neck again. “A present from someone important?” you mocked.

He brushed off the question, his expression shifting to one of seriousness. “Spell the words,” he instructed, his tone commanding.

Where had the smiling guy gone? Regardless, he was about to leave, slipping back into whatever life he had come from, and soon he would be entirely out of your world. Why did it matter to you?

You pulled out the parchment from your bag and draped it over your shoulder before glancing down to read. “I guess this is goodbye, Mr. General.”

He shook his head. “It is.”

You extended your hand. “It was nice to meet you after all; I hope everything goes well for you.”

He looked at your hand, seemingly unsure of how to shake. You grabbed his hand with both of yours and smiled. “That’s how you do it,” you said, initiating a proper handshake. He nodded but quickly pulled his hand back, clearly eager to return. You looked back at the parchment, and shock gripped you as you witnessed the letters begin to shift.

Yes, they shifted. They fucking moved!

"This is just some magical shit," you barely muttered.

Whether they danced before your eyes, or you were losing your grip on sanity, you couldn't quite tell.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing your sudden change in demeanor.

“Nothing, it’s just…” How could you articulate the absurdity of it all?

You fumbled through your thoughts without reading the text, aware that the words had morphed, and your grasp of Latin was sufficient to recognize the difference.

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

In that instance, a blinding flash erupted behind Marcus, framed between the ancient stone pillars of the temple. Oh, fantastic. Everything behind the brilliance blurred, and a peculiar wind started to stir, filling the air with an unsettling energy.

“It worked,” Marcus declared, excitement radiating from him. He boldly approached the radiant light, but oddly, it didn’t seem to pull him in. He furrowed his brow and glanced in your direction. “Something’s not right.”

“Tell me about it,” you retorted, your mind buzzing like a beehive with confusion. This was all too overwhelming.

He stepped closer and snatched the parchment from your grasp. “What’s written here has changed. What kind of lesson is this, gods?” he bellowed, frustration edging his voice.

“Hey, I’ve done my best. I’m done, okay? Just go back to your own time!”

“It doesn't say ‘that person’ here; not anymore at least. It says ‘those... two," he murmured, suddenly contemplative.

“So?” you asked, regretting it immediately. You didn’t like the look on his face.

He moved toward you. "You called me, and I believe you should come with me."

You backed away. “What? Are you out of your mind? I didn’t call you! Stay away from me!” you wailed.

But he kept advancing, and just as you were about to turn to escape, he grabbed your wrist.

“Let go!”

"I assure you that I will bring you back. I must return now, for this may be my only chance."

“Let go of me! No, you can’t! Please.” But your struggles were futile, like fighting against stone. Why couldn’t anyone on set hear you, for heaven’s sake?

With a fierce determination, he pulled you toward the blinding anomaly, despite your protests. The last thing you remembered was the wash of light enveloping you.

And then, in the blink of an eye—

A strange wind giving you goosebumps.

Another blink. Marcus stood before you, a triumphant smile on his face. The bastard was elated.

But why?

You quickly grasped the reason as your eyes scanned the surroundings, the realization hitting you like a painful shock. “This is impossible,” you gasped, disbelief washing over your features. There were no skyscrapers, no trailers, no street lights—only temples, countless temples, all illuminated by the flickering light of torches lining the streets. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” you exclaimed, frantically searching for the rift or portal.

Where had it gone?

Marcus watched your frantic search, his brow furrowed.

“We have returned to my time.”

Was he smiling???

That was the last straw. You glared at him, anger boiling inside. “We? We have returned? Are you fucking kidding me? You dragged me in here! Why did you do it? How could you?” With all your might, you punched him repeatedly in the chest.

"Stop it. I gave you my word that I would help you return in your own time. You can trust me on that."

“How? How do you plan to do that? Do you think this portal or rift or whatever it’s called just pops up everywhere, asking, ‘Hey there! Anyone want to time travel?’ I can’t believe you. After everything I’ve done to help you, you’re just a jerk, ungrateful bastard! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” You kept punching him on the shoulders and chest, but he didn't even feel hurt; he only sighed deeply.

Suddenly, he covered your mouth with his palm. “Call me whatever you wish, but I swear I’ll keep that promise, on my life. Now, please, keep your voice down. The guards are patrolling nearby, they might hear us.”

You didn’t care; tears streamed down your cheeks as your mind struggled to comprehend this unreal situation. How? Why? The questions spiraled endlessly.

In the distance, the Colosseum came into view. It was undamaged, intact, perfectly circular. This bizarre reality only deepened your confusion, and you could take it no longer. You crumpled to the ground, unable to stand.

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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cherry-leclerc · 7 months ago

Text

we never talk about it ☆ op81

genre: humor, angst, yearning, massive crushes, and lots and lots of miscommunication, assistant!reader

word count: 11k

It's unwise—longing for someone like Oscar. While he's the epitome of someone anyone can easily fall in love with, you're the epitome of a devoted girl who will fall in love with him. You might not even care too much about all the heartbreak you endure along the way.

inspired by sharpest tool, sabrina carpenter !

cherry here!... based on real events.

Do you remember the day we first met?

The wind doesn’t do its job in blocking him out, the way you prayed and wished it would. You’re still able to catch the crack in his voice—a distant reminder of the way it once made you giggle. Even his nose is beet red, matching the Christmas lights. But apart from all that, you still hear him. You still see him.

You always have.

“A little bit. Yeah.”

He flinches, then tries to play it off with a soft smile. Like he doesn’t want you to uncover the slight hurt he feels. But he can’t read your mind. He never could. And that was the problem.

Oscar nods, feigning indifference. “I do. Remember it all, I mean. Think back to it quite often."

It’s utterly useless to try and ignore him, really.

His hair is too fluffy, his eyes are too bright, and his accent is making you want to flaunt the way some loony character would with a hand over their heart. It was honestly a tad bit demeaning.

But you can't help it. You admire the way his brown locks fall in a lousy manner when he towers down to sign the contract. You blush when his eyes get that twinkle in them. And you swoon over almost anything he says with a shy smile.

“You’re drooling.”

Mortified, you briskly run the back of your hand against your mouth before sending a harsh glare. Lando snickers. “Would you please stop?”

His jaw drops, theatrically. “You’re not actually into him—are you?”

He says it with a trace of humor, but also shock, and you can't help but have your mouth run dry. A loose grin starts to expand across his lips as you hurriedly shake your head. “O-of course not. Are you crazy?”

But if anything, you feel crazy. You must be, right? With every passing second of your heart beating faster and faster against your chest simply just by looking at the young Australian, you’re sure you fall straight into the category like some love fool.

Lando squints his eyes. “I don’t know.” He leans in straight into your face, nearly hissing. “Am I?”

“Am I interrupting?”

Flinching hard, you turn quickly to face Anastasia. You’d initially met the black haired girl back in 2019. As you started off as the Brits personal assistant, she took over as Carlos’ and later also Daniel’s. Over the course of time, you two came to be as close as sisters.

“No! Not at all,” you squeak, nervously before pushing the McLaren driver away and patting towards the open chair next to you. She giggles, rolling her eyes and adjusting herself. “How was the flight over?”

A shrug. “As good as it can get. Sat next to a silver fox, so I guess that must count for something, no?” Lando shudders. She leans in closer, plopping her head against your shoulder. “What’d I miss?”

“Not much.” Only, that’s not true. She missed the way he laughed awkwardly when the doors wouldn’t slide open and let him into the headquarters. She missed the way he rolled his R’s a little too hard when saying ‘sorry’. She missed the way he grabbed the pen with a certain glow on his face, like he almost couldn’t believe any of this was happening. Lazy fingers pat her head gently once before sighing. “He seems nice.”

“How do you know?”

You know because of the way he talks to everyone. Like he cares about what they have to say. Whether it’s about how great his career is going to be here in McLaren or if they introduce their kids to him via FaceTime. He always wore the same smile, talked in the same warm tone. So, could your guess be far off? Yes. It could be completely far off. But you would bet money that it wasn’t.

“Just a wild hypothesis.”

Her laugh isn’t too loud, not ridiculously so, at least, but the fact that it echoes is what makes it appear as such. Anastasia is quick to slap her hand over her mouth, the Brit turns fast to face her with panic evident in his eyes, and you simply blink with a shade of red slowly creeping towards your cheekbones.

Zak grins. “You three.”

“Oh, we’re out,” Lando mumbles in monotone, already grabbing your wrist and dragging you to the exit. You follow numbly, like you don’t have any strength left in your body.

“You’re leaving me?” Anastasia hisses.

“She’s my assistant,” he says like a matter-of-fact. “Where I go, she goes.”

“Oh, you Judas—”

“All of you,” Zak clarifies, narrowing his eyes over to you and the Brit. You gulp.

With a soft curse, Anastasia stands up, tall and firm, and makes her way over with all the confidence in the world. You frown, craving to be the same way, even just a small percentage. Instead, you have to be forced by the McLaren driver.

With every step, your head just spins faster because now, he’s more than real. You can smell his cologne. You can count all the moles that cover his face if you really wanted to. You can spot how his hair is still a bit wet, indicating an early shower.

He’s just becoming— too real.

“Lando, buddy, meet your new teammate!”

“Nice to meet you,” the blue eyed boy declares with a loopy grin, letting go of your hand in order to shake his.

“Likewise.”

Zak claps once. “Oh! And meet your personal assistant, Anastasia.”

“Here for anything you might need,” she cheers with a bright smile.

“Fantastic.”

A wave of silence overlaps your four before Lando clears his throat. “And even though you might not be working with her one-on-one, this is my Anastasia.” A snicker. “My assistant, if you will.”

“Nice to meet you—”

You both freeze, hands intertwined for a second longer before abruptly letting go. He lets out a dry laugh while you do the same. The way your skin tingles makes you blush.

“This is fun and all, but we actually have somewhere to be,” the Brit claims with a suspicious look slashed across his usual laid back expression. You nod. “But we’ll see each other soon, man. Can’t wait to race together!”

In a flash, you two are out the door, leaving a dumbfounded Oscar blinking slowly.

“He fucks with you.”

“Excuse me?”

Another bench press. “As in, he likes you. He’s into you.”

You don’t dare ask who he is because you already know who the Brit’s referring to and that would only inflate your ego. Snapping your fingers, you narrow your eyes. “Focus. Two more sets left to go.” He groans, flipping you off.

It would be a lie to say that this didn’t make your self-esteem skyrocket. Could he be right? Could someone like Oscar ever lay eyes on you? Somewhere in your dreams, you’d like to say yes. Yes. That is a possibility. But the longer you think about it, the more unrealistic it gets.

You don’t have what others do. And that itself is enough to pop the bubble.

The start of the season is always tough.

“He’s extremely nervous.”

For some more than others.

You frown. “Really? But he’s usually so…relaxed.”

Anastasia shrugs, hair falling over her shoulder as she continues typing. “I mean, I tried talking to him but with everything I said, he’d just reply—'that's nice’. It was sarcastic, if anything. I would have laughed if I didn’t feel for him. Poor boy.” Her fingers freeze mid-air. “Wait—do you think you could talk to him?”

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea—”

“Come on! Maybe it’ll help him ease his nerves!”

“Ana—”

“Please.”

You huff. “Okay. Fine. Yeah. I’ll see what I can do.”

As soon as you knock, you almost want to turn away. Maybe it was all an exaggeration. Plus, it’s not like he’s going to die from having butterflies in his stomach. Yeah, surely he’ll be fine and he doesn’t really even need you to—

“Come in.”

He wasn't expecting you, that much you can tell by the way his brows go up. But he’s quick to erase the confusion, settling with a fond expression. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you squeak before cringing at the sound. He chuckles, returning to his warm-up exercises. “How are you feeling?”

Another chuckle, this time amused. “Anastasia sent you, didn’t she?”

“What?” A beat. “No.”

He hums. “Tsk. I’m a bit nervous, that's all.”

You lick your lips, kicking your foot up against the doorframe. What could you possibly say that she hasn’t already? If she couldn’t ease him, then how can you? The thought of messing up and making it worse makes your stomach churn.

“You’re going to do g—”

“Great?” He sighs, blowing his cheeks. “That’s exactly what she said.”

“And what’s wrong with it? She’s only trying to help.”

“No. I know she is, but…” He looks down onto his lap, pausing all movements. “Look, I appreciate you both. What you’re trying to do for me, but I can’t stand hearing what others think I want to hear.”

“It doesn’t do it for you?”

His eyes grow slightly wide with the way you go about and ask. He’s never seen you be anything other than sweet and reserved. But this—right now—is stern and very coach-like. Something and someone you aren’t. Not even close.

“It doesn’t,” he admits, finally looking away. “Never liked it. Always sounds too forced.”

You nod, crossing your arms. “Fine. I can tell you the truth. I can be truthful.” He perks. “Oscar, you’re a terrific driver.” He groans, covering his face with his hands. “But just because you’re great doesn’t mean you’ll be great all the time.” The Australian frowns, uncovering and looking up at you with attentive eyes. “You’re going to mess up. You’re going to be second, or third, or sometimes even twentieth, but that doesn’t matter, you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you signed that contract, so you sort of have to suck it up, either way.” He lets out a loud laugh. Very unlike him. A weak smile threatens to fall as you try your best to push it back. “There’s going to be bad races, but there’s also going to be very good races. It all depends on you and how hard you work. Sometimes you’ll have a good car, a good strat, and others you’ll have a shitbox and a bad strat. That’s just the way this sport works, okay?”

Oscar blinks slowly, as if trying to decipher who you are, and that itself makes you dizzy. “I-I-I don’t care if you’re nervous, I don’t care if you’re sure—all we care is that you drive that car, and that you try your best no matter what. Can you do that?”

It’s foreign. The feeling in his chest. He’s not used to hearing any of this. As of recently, everyones been texting him to say how great he’s going to be. How far he’ll go. And while he was grateful for having unconditional support, he also dreaded hearing it sometimes because he doesn’t even want to picture letting any of them down. He’ll act like he’s fine, he’ll act like he doesn’t care—but none of that would be true.

The brunette tilts his head to the side, slightly squinting. “I can. I can always try my best. Even if I fall short.”

“Good.” A beat. “We all believe in you. No matter what, okay?”

A timid smile. “I know…”

He ends up having to retire the car by lap fifteen, but the most astonishing part is that he’s not even upset. He tried his best. He listened to every single advice his engineer would alert him with. He practiced long hours in the stimulator.

This is just the way things go sometimes. Just like you said.

“I’m bored. Can I get a ten minute break or something?” Lando grimaces, rolling his wrist like it's the worst pain in the world.

You hum, fixing the signed hats back into the box. With eyes screwed, you shrug. “Fine. But only ten! I’m serious. We need to have this done by one.”

“Yes! Ten—got it.”

He doesn’t come back in ten. For the matter, he actually goes missing.

You narrow your eyes towards the clock, watching as it clicks like some mockery. You’re going to strangle him. You vow at that very moment that you’ll strangle the Brit as soon as you lay hands on him. With one final huff of desperation, you stand up, rubbing your eyes. People frolic through the paddock—you’re sure you even catch a glimpse of Lewis being papped—but that’s not what catches all of your attention.

Instead, you find yourself leaning against the rail, squinting down to where the man of the hour sits, microphones huddled all around him like some interrogation. Anastasia smiles politely, back straight, and voice-recorder in hand.

It’s faint—you almost can’t hear a thing—but it’s just enough.

How does it feel to be back home? Enjoying it, no?

Oscar hums, straight brows slightly furrowed due to the bright sun, but just one adjustment of his hat makes that all go away. “Feels good. I’m able to sleep in my own bed, so that’s pretty cool. And yes. It may be a bit biased, but I am enjoying my time here more than the last two races.” Everyone chuckles.

Can we talk about your expectations for this weekend?

You can see him pause, and from where you’re standing, the way his fingers drum against his chair. “Well, I, uh…I hope for a good car.” The joke is supposed to be there, but you can tell everyone was expecting more with the way they murmur to one another. You wince.

Will raises the microphone up to his lips, along with his hand in order to catch the brunette’s attention. “I’m sure there’s been lots of people reaching out to you since this is your first home race, but has there been someone’s advice that has stuck like no other?”

Oscar smiles gently. “There has been, actually.”

You freeze, gripping the steel bar with anticipation. Your knuckles nearly feel like they’re about to snap, and you feel like you’re probably leaning a bit too far over the edge to hear it all, but you don’t even care. Will chuckles. “If it’s not too much to ask, would you mind sharing with us all? I’m sure it’ll help a lot of youngsters watching.”

Anastasia slides the recorder closer. Oscar visibly swallows. “I’m not sure I can. I never asked her for permission to talk about it. And quite frankly, I’d like to keep it between us.”

Will perks up. “Her?”

The black-haired girl is quick to whisper into his ear, turning the opposite way so no one can even attempt to read her lips. He nods, eyes trained forward like some guard. “Any more questions?” But everyone’s intrigued at this point, so all the questions that follow remain the same. Something that makes Anastasia panic and Oscar regret his choice of words.

“Can we get a name?” some blurts out, nearly seeming desperate to get the inside scoop.

Only, his face remains still, jaw slacked. “No.”

Will raises his hand. “Very well, we don’t have any right to know, but are you willing to share a bit about what she said?”

And it’s almost as if the Australian can foresee that the only way to get out of this situation is by giving them what they want. Even if it’s a stupid little crumb. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She told me to try my best. That’s all I can really do.”

The mix of photographers and journalists deflate. “I-I’m sorry,” Lawrence Barretto slides in with a light tone and an ever lighter smile. “Don’t mean to lessen its meaning, but isn’t that a common thing to say? To hear?” An awkward laugh. “I mean, I just thought it’d be something a bit more…deep. Inspiring, perhaps.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks and you’re grateful to whatever God may exist that you’re not down there. On the other hand, Oscar is a bit bothered by the innocent comment, but then realizes he doesn't have to be. They weren’t there. They don’t know just how much more you said. How upfront you were with him without sounding condescending. Something most people did without even realizing.

The brown eyed boy spares a smile. “Like I said—some things I’d like to keep between her and I. And even if it was just that, it’s the way she said it.” A beat. “It’s quite a lavish thing to have. A sincere person to talk to, I mean.”

Will tilts his head suspiciously. “It appears she might be someone special to you, yes?”

The Australian freezes at the unwanted interpretation. Suddenly, the atmosphere is far too crowded. He lets out a forced chuckle, rolling his neck before messaging it gently. “Well, yes. I’d agree.”

A mix of giddiness and shock rushes through your veins as you refrain yourself from jumping up and down with excitement.

“You’d be lucky if you had her as a friend too.”

“Is everything okay?”

Biting down on the churro he had gifted you as an apology for not getting back on time, you growl. “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Lando raises a thick brow. “Dunno. Maybe the fact that you’re moping.”

Your jaw goes slack, immediately turning to face him. “I am not moping.”

The sound he lets out indicates he doesn’t quite believe you, but is choosing to let it go. Also, he doesn’t want to see your patience run out, too scared of what you might do. The curly haired driver plops down onto his bed that stands in his motorhome, closing his eyes. You nearly envy the indifference in him. The lack of worry.

“I can hear your teeth clenching. Gross.”

A grunt. “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Need anything?”

“Only a nap. It’s a good thing you’ll be gone.” He turns over to his side, bringing your jacket over his face to block out any light. You bite the air, swinging silently for a minute or two before exiting the cramped room.

The sun hurts, you remember thinking, but the upcoming migraine you’re getting is even worse. You should be used to this by now, given you’ve suffered from them since elementary, but based on the way you zig zag without meaning to is enough proof to know that you’re not. Everyone's voices are suddenly muffled, even the sound of engines roaring is as soft as a feather. You wince, massaging your temples as if that might help.

Woah, are you feeling alright?

“I’m fine,” you respond meekly, to who even knows. You wave them off rudely. “I’ll be fine. Just. Leave me alone.”

Anastasia frowns, all while fanning your face. “No. You need to lay down.” She nudges the Australian, who up until now, you had no clue he had his arm clung around your waist. If you weren’t too busy feeling like shit, you’d definitely be making a fool out of yourself. Her green eyes fill up with worry. “I’m gonna go look for a paramedic.”

“You’re doing too much,” you slur, body letting loose and making the brunette shriek as he grips you harder, trying to keep you upright.

A deadpan expression. “Oscar, take her back to your motorhome and have her lay down.”

He nods, hesitantly. “Y-yeah, okay. Okay.” Once she runs off like a headless chicken, you let out a dramatic gag. Sharp brows knit together with horror. “Do I smell bad?”

A giggle. “No. As a matter of fact, you smell rich.”

With his arm still wrapped around you securely, and warm eyes flickering from you back to see where he’s heading, he grins, eyes crinkling. “Rich? That just so happens to have a scent?”

You purse your lips, wincing at the fact that your peripheral vision has gone completely dark. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’m a terrific liar and I’m only stroking your ego for my benefit.”

Another chuckle. “Benefit? What benefit may that be?”

Tsk. “How else am I gonna get you to take me to bed?”

The Australian instantly chokes hard on a string of his own saliva, causing you to flinch at the loud sound. Loud to you, at least. He apologizes, but not before taking a glance down, like it’s the first time meeting you.

As soon as you lay down on the miniature mattress, you release a groan. Even just having your eyes closed makes you dizzy. You let out a loud groan, kicking your feet against the cushion in desperation.

“That bad?”

“That annoying.”

And even though you can’t see him, he nods, internally freaking out, trying to think of ways to help. “Does this happen to you often?”

“Yes.”

He nods, sheepishly. “W-what do you normally do? You know? To help?”

Tossing over to lay on your side, you pinch your eyes, grinding your molars. For a minute, you sort of thought your teeth might crack. Everything about this situation was becoming unbearable. “My mom, she, um…she’d normally braid my hair. It helped sometimes. Others it didn’t.” Messy hair dangles over your face as you let you out a loud exhale, as if you were in the middle of releasing some demon. “I moved too much, she said.”

Oscar smiles, coming across like a faint memory locked in the back of your mind. “I-I-I can try…” Loopy eyes flicker up to face him, and he’s quick to scrunch his nose. The sight alone makes you breathe easier, though he doesn’t know that. Of course he doesn’t. “Only if you want me to…”

“You know how?”

“Sort of? When I was younger, I used to sit across from my sisters at the breakfast table. I was bound to learn a thing or two.”

The subtle proud smile makes your heart beat flutter, smitten at the insight to his childhood. You wish you knew more. Like what was his favorite show? Did he have any imaginary friends, just like you did? Or maybe his favorite superhero? But you swallow all those questions down your throat as soon as he kneels down next to you. The whiff of soft musk distinctively adds to your headache, but you’re too focused on him for something as dumb as that to matter.

“Just…close your eyes.”

Taking one last glance at him, you comply, lashes fanning slowly before going completely dark. You can still hear him adjusting, you can feel him take your hair into his hands, but nothing makes you stop breathing like his touch that grazes your cheek.

It’s almost ghostlike—doesn’t really stay on the same spot for too long—but you know it’s real. Long fingers calmly push strands of hair behind your ear, tranquility expanding over your body. The slight tickle it causes helps ease your pounding migraine, little by little.

“Are my hands too cold?” he whispers, not trying to intrude, but at the same time, wanting to know. You twist, bottom lip jutting out. Not at all. Keep going. And he does. He ends up tangling your hair a bit, because as it turns out, he doesn’t remember much, but he’s sure to delicately fix his mess, brows drawn in with heavy concentration.

As soon as your hair is back to flowing free, he relaxes, wincing a bit at the pain in his knees. Your hair feels soft. Just what he would imagine a cloud would feel like. For a second, he begins to wonder, who’s this really for? He feels like this might be soothing him more than you.

Just then, his finger catches on a knot, and he freezes, stopping all movements. “Holy crap, I am so sorry, I—”

You let out a low whimper, but don’t do so much as bat an eye. You’re sound asleep. The brunette lets out a breath of relief, falling back to sit on the ground.

Your face is a bit squashed—and you’re drooling just a tad bit—but for some odd reason, he finds himself admiring. You’re full lips. You’re lashes. God, even the way you breathe. He feels a tender smile itching, but it never truly gets to see the light of day, because before he knows it, the door is swung wide open.

Anastasia stops dead in her tracks. “What happe—is she asleep?”

Oscar opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. He does this a couple of times, awkwardly turning to face you and his assistant, back and forth, back and forth. “She, um…just did. A minute ago.”

She pouts, scratching her head. “Weird. Usually when this happens it prolongs for at least ten minutes before it gets any better.” The green eyed girl sheepishly waves the group of paramedics away. A trail of sighs echo as they turn away. As soon as they’re gone, she gently shuts the door, then tippy toes towards the edge of the small bed. Neat brows furrow. “At least she’s feeling better, no?”

Brown eyes follow her gaze. “Yeah. At least.”

Lando ends up throwing—and according to him— “The World’s Coolest Jamboree”. You beg for him to call it anything but jamboree, but he’s too attached to it by the time he sends the last text invite, which so happens to be to the rookie driver.

“Has anyone RSVPed?” you question over his shoulder. He’s in the middle of mixing some mysterious liquid, but by the looks of it, doesn’t look any good. You grimace.

He lets out a bleh before dropping his utensils. “No one RSVPs these days. They either show up, or they don’t.”

A slow nod. “So, you don’t know who’s coming?”

“Not a clue. But most likely everyone.”

You scoff. “How are you so sure?”

He gives you an ‘are you kidding me?’ type glare before sending a sly grin. “First of all, it’s my party. They’d be crazy to miss out. And second of all…it’s only the biggest, funnest, coolest jamboree!”

“Funnest is not a word.”

“And party-poopers aren’t welcomed.” You gasp, smacking his chest harshly. He lets out a snicker, picking up a bag of ice and spilling it into the glass bowl. “But I’ll make an exception. Just this once.”

“Just this once,” you mimic before dipping your pinky in. He instantly slaps your hand away. Smacking your lips, you let out a yelp at the bitter taste. “This tastes like ass. God—not even Daniel will drink this, and that guy drinks anything in his way. I’m surprised he hasn’t been accidentally roofied.”

Lando claps his hands with amusement. “God forbid. And please, pay your respect to Lando’s Best Worst Decision.” A beat. “™.”

“™?” you deadpan. “What? Are you planning on adding a trademark to this sewage water?”

“It’s good, okay?” Mixing the clear liquid once more, he smiles fondly down at it. “And maybe. I’m seriously considering it.”

You sneer, already walking away.

He ends up being right. Not even an hour later, the party is in full swing. Sure, a couple drivers aren’t able to make it, but it’s still jammed packed. It's honestly a miracle to get through the Monaco flat.

You’re still sober?

Laughing, you nod, raising your water up in the air like some toast. Daniel frowns. “Considering I have to make sure my number one client doesn’t make any bad choices tonight, then nope. Can’t have a sip of alcohol.”

Brown eyes flutter slowly. “I’m sure there’s other beverage choices. Have you tried Lando’s Best Worst Decision?” He leans in, winking. “™.”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me you actually like it?” He shrugs and you shudder in disgust. “I’m sure I saw him add ten energy shots and God knows what else.”

“No wonder I feel kinda funky.” Your face drops. “Hey, if you pass out, can I crash tonight?”

“Daniel!” you groan, covering your face. “I swear, I’m going to spill that stupid drin—” Only, Daniel is gone. Craning your head, you circle the room. From where you stand, you’re able to see Carlos and Lando taking part in a heated round of pool, all while Charles sways back and forth, infamous red cup in hand.

Marching over to the kitchen island, you pick up the glass bowl and carry it over to the sink before tipping it over. You huff, hair fanning across your nose.

“Stupid, stupid boys—”

“Hey.”

You shriek, dropping the bowl, and wincing at the sound of glass shattering.

Oscar grimaces. “Shit. Sorry. Are you hurt?”

“No.” You sigh. “Lando’s gonna kill me.”

Grabbing the nearby broom, the Australian sweeps carefully while knitting his brows. “Why?”

“It’s a family heirloom.”

“A glass bowl?”

You giggle. “I wonder why too.”

Despite the blaring music, and constant chattering, the room feels rather silent. You fiddle with the hem of your dress, and that seems to catch his eye as it dawns on him that he hasn’t really seen you in anything other than your usual uniform. To be fair, you could say the same. He likes it.

You clear your throat. “Halfway done. How do you feel?”

He sips on his water, jaw clicking before settling with a sharp tsk. “Good. I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. Anastasia even congratulated me the other day when I diverted a series of questions with ease.”

Impressed, you raise your brows. “Bravo. Wish that was the case with Lando. I swear, sometimes I think he does and says things to make me look bad on purpose.”

“He should stop,” he says with a goofy smile. “Does he not know how lucky he is to get to call you his assistant?”

You blush. “Best friend, actually. I’ve been promoted ever since I pretended to be his girlfriend last New Year's Eve.”

The brunette inches forward with curiosity. “Wish to clarify?”

You hop onto the island, fixing your dress and crossing your legs. “Don’t tell him that I told you any of this, but I secretly think he was embarrassed of not having a midnight’s kiss. Especially since his ex was there with her new boyfriend. Talk about the unexpected.”

His chest tightens. “You two, um…kissed, then?”

“Yes,” you confirm with a childlike grin, and for some reason, it makes him want to puke. “Oh God, I haven’t thought about this in forever!”

He pretends to find interest in the crowded room, but really, it all remains on you. “Was it any good?”

You blush this time and he swears he’s close to walking away. “Yes and no. I mean, it wasn’t bad, but it just didn’t feel right.”

He perks up then, floppy hair bouncing at the sudden speed. “Really?” He coughs, then fixes his watch, training his eyes towards the floor. “Erm, I mean, is that so?”

A nose scrunch. “It felt like kissing someone you’re not supposed to. Which I suppose is true. We’re better off as friends.” He relaxes. “Thinking about it, we might’ve gagged each other's mouths.” You grimace. “If that doesn't show our discomfort, then I don’t know what will.”

“Good to know.” Oscar rubs his arm, up and down, then steps closer to you. You blink. “Hey, I was meaning to ask—”

Strippers? I didn’t order any strippers.

Hire, a male voice interjects. He means to say he didn’t—hire—any strippers.

“Son of a…” You wince apologetically, to which he shrugs. Don’t worry. Go. Biting your lip, you nod, rushing to the living room, where Lando, Daniel, and a bunch of other randoms circle the almost nude girls with long legs.

“I mean, I won’t turn you away, ladies,” the Brit mumbled, already wrapping his arms around their waists. They all giggle, inching closer until he’s a blushing mess.

You snap your fingers, pointing towards the exit. “All of you need to leave.”

Is that your sister? the one with a cowboy hat whispers into his ear. He quickly shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at you like a deadly weapon.

“No. That’s his girlfriend,” Daniel yodels, face pressed up against the couch, admiring the group of girls. “But they’re in an open relationship.”

“I’m not his girlfriend—”

“She’s not my girlfriend—”

Oscar’s jaw clenches, eyes focused on the entire commotion. The older Australian rolls his eyes. “Right. We don’t talk about it.”

“Would you stop trying to help?” you shoot back, sarcastically, and clap your hands as if you’re rounding up a new high school cheer. “I need you all out. You want money? Fine. He’ll give you money,” you declare, signaling towards Lando.

“Hey,” he groans, instantly letting go and stepping closer to you. “They haven’t even done anything to earn it….”

Your eye twitches. “I swear to God—”

“Deal,” the redhead shoots out. “But we need a moment to come to an agreement. You know? On how much we want to ask for.”

“Perfect,” you chirp, rolling your heels. “Take out your wallet, Big Boy.”

“You used to be fun.”

“And you used to be terrified over a pair of tits when I first met you. Whatever happened?” Lando blushes profoundly before pushing you away. “Want them gone, Lando, gone!”

“Yes! Jesus Christ—let me deal with this.”

“I’m done,” you promise with your hands raised up in surrender. “But just remember what happened last time.” He frowns, cocking his head to the side. You wiggle your brows. “São Paulo.”

Color drains his face before letting out an unhinged laugh and motioning you away. You giggle, heading back to where Oscar stands.

“I see what you mean,” he announces. What? “How he can have a bit of a headache.”

“See! I told you! Four years of this!” A dramatic yawn. “I’m tired.”

A string of boo’s follow once the strippers prance out the door, waving all their money in the air. Specifically Daniel, who genuinely looks upset to see them go. Oscar leans down against the counter, the proximity between you becoming smaller. “You should get some rest, then.” But he selfishly doesn’t mean it. He wants you to stay—to keep talking to him.

You let out a snort, grabbing your sides. “I mean, I'm tired of being Lando’s assistant. It’s a full time job, y’know?”

“Oh.” He stands up straight again. “Right. Of course.”

You purse your lips, looking down to your shoes. “But that was actually quite thoughtful.”

She thinks I’m thoughtful, he internally swoons because that must be a good sign, right? Not everyone is thoughtful, but he is, and that must count for something. Gathering all the strength he has left—which is not much considering you blink up at him like some angel—he licks his pink lips. “Back to what I was going to say earlier before you left—”

“I wasn’t trying to step on him! I already said I was sorry!” you hear a familiar voice, instantly turning to find Anastasia kicking Daniel’s face back into place, well, since he now lays asleep on the floor. You curse beneath your breath, jumping off the island once again.

“His head did a complete 360!” Yuki accuses, clearly panicked. “That's not normal, is it?”

“No, it is,” Pierre replies with a bored tone. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

Crouching down next to the curly haired driver, you jab his cheek before motioning Oscar and Anastasia closer. “Help me carry him to the guest room,” you instruct, already taking off your cardigan.

The black haired girl is quick on her feet, grabbing the Australians right leg as you grab the left. Oscar, however, swallows hard at the amount of cleavage you’re suddenly displaying, but instantly snaps out of it when both you and Anastasia blink back at him. He picks up the Alpha Tauri driver’s upper body before puffing.

You blush bright pink at the sight of his muscles pulsing against his t-shirt. “I-It’s just around the corner.”

As soon as you make it into the room, you three carefully place Daniel onto the bed, to which he squirms before flipping over and snoring away. You motion a finger over your lips before pushing them both out. Gently closing the door behind you,you let out a breath of relief.

Anastasia lets out a whistle. “Surprisingly not that heavy.”

Oscar scoffs. “Easy for you to say. I had to carry most of his weight.”

She shrugs, hugging you hello and apologizing for being so late, and you’re quick to reassure her that it’s fine, though she missed the chance to see strippers give Lando a tough time. She sneers. “I didn’t even know there existed strippers in Monaco.” And then she’s off, clapping loudly at the sight of Lando giving out a round of jello shots. You sigh, rubbing your temples.

“I-I’m sorry. What were you going to say?”

He freezes. “Oh. Just that—” He panics. “Only that I like your shoes!”

You blink, deflating from within. But you try to cover it up with a soft smile. “Thanks, I guess?” Orbs flicker down toward your white Sambas. “Lando says they are overrated, but I like ‘em.”

He nods. “Yeah. I like them too.”

It happens one Friday afternoon—the decision.

You’re in between races, you’re in between headaches, and you’re ready to self-implode. So, before any of that happens, you make your first decision. To go on a walk.

It’s getting rather chilly these days, something you love, but also hate. You love it because there is a certain coziness that comes along with it, but you also hate it because you can’t always be cozy, so you’re left shivering. Much like now. But to be fair, this was your own choosing.

The pounding that takes over your head lessens the longer you stroll, the longer you breathe actual fresh air. You don’t really think much, you mainly remain blank, but the sound of tires screeching rips you away. Squinting hard, you catch a glimpse of a lady with grocery bags flipping off the fellow driver, who shares nothing but an apologetic smile before driving off.

“What happened? Do I have something on my face?”

Dusting your nose, then your cheek, you blush faintly. You instantly assume it’s the powdered donuts fault—the one you had gobbled up in a hurry during the drive back to the paddock. It was an early morning, and no one really made it on time when it came to early days, but you always did. And so did Oscar. So, a sleepy Zak gave you a wad of cash, and sent you two to the nearest donut shop.

The Australian shakes his head, blinking straight ahead. “N-no, I was just checking my blind spot.”

That only makes you blush harder because in what crazy world would he be looking at you?

A single nod. The car is quiet apart from the sound of his hands moving against the steering wheel, and the sound of the blinker clicking. It’s gloomy, too. You clear your throat. “I love it when it rains.” He hums, calmly, encouraging you to continue. “It just makes me happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You purse your lips. “I sort of wish I were home. That way I can snuggle near the window and fall asleep to the sound of light drizzle.”

The brunette quirks a brow towards the road. “That sounds nice. Like…really nice.” A pause. “Why can’t you do that here, though?”

Here—here means where you are right now. Here means this place that’s not home. Here is not close to being enough, but he doesn’t figure that one out. You blink, dragging your finger along the pink box sitting on your lap. “Trust me, I’ve tried.” A small shrug. “But it’s just not the same, y’know? There’s always something missing.”

He doesn’t waste a moment in asking. “What do you think that is?”

Taken aback by his inquiry, you let yourself surmise for a second or two before licking your lips. “Maybe a pup. To keep me company”

He semi-frowns, cocking his head to send you a deadpan expression. “A dog?”

Now it’s your turn to frown, sending him a glare. “What were you thinking?”

The red light lets him take focus on you. “Dunno. A boyfriend, maybe?”

You’re sure you’re nearly as tomato red as the light staring at you both. “What? You instantly just assume I don't have one already?”

He freezes. “Well, I, um…t-that’s not what I meant—”

“Look, I know I’m not a guys’ typical ‘dream girl’, but sheesh I’m not that unlovable. At least, I hope not, but now you’re making me second guess. I mean, your opinion must indicate everyone sees me as some sort of lonely widow.”

Oscar shakes his head, adamantly. “I don’t see you as such.” A slow pause. “A lonely widow, I mean. I find your words to not be all that true, really. You’re nice. You’re persevering, You’re beautiful. And you have a good heart.” The light translates back to green, and you’re freakishly thankful, that way he can’t see you burn up. “You could easily be anyone's dream. Whoever makes you think otherwise is a phony.”

It’s getting harder not to laugh—most likely out of skeptic shock—but you refrain. He’s simply being kind with you, but that doesn’t stop you from nearly going into cardiac arrest. His words should have been labeled with a warning.

“Guess this world is filled with lots of phonies.”

He scoffs. “There shouldn’t be. Not when it comes to a girl like you.”

Your breath catches. “Os—”

All of a sudden, the car comes to a harsh stop, sending you flying, but not the Australian, who remains sitting up straight. An older man flips him off before riding off on his bike. You both breath hard, turning to face each other.

“Are you okay?” he questions, voice laced with worry.

You nod, slightly dazed. “I, um—yeah. Are you?”

A nod. “I didn’t even see where he came from.”

A weak laugh finally erupts. “Blame it on the poor innocent man— clever.”

Brown eyes soften. They flicker from your orbs back to your pouty lips. He’s only checking if you’re okay, of course. You send him a reassuring bow and he releases a heavy breath.

“Guess I was too focused on my blind spot, once again.”

The next decision comes when you opt in to join your neighbor, Mr. Lennon, for a cup of tea after he finds you shivering. By that time, it’s raining hard, you're soaking wet, and it only makes sense to accept his kind offer.

“Mint. To hopefully push back any upcoming cold. God, what were you thinking?”

You let out a laugh. “Not much. That’s why I was aimlessly roaming.”

“What about now?”

You halt, mug raised up to your chapped lips. “What about now?”

He smiles, softly, mixing his own tea with a heavy spoon of honey. “Did the walk help? Were you able to get the wheels rolling?”

Now you giggle loudly. “That’s not very nice! The wheels are working just fine, thank you very much.”

The light scent of pine trees enter the room as soon as he stands up to open his window, the sound of soft rain singing to you as some much needed therapy. “So? What were you pondering about out there?”

“I wasn’t pondering.”

“Walking alone in the middle of a thunderstorm?” A sore laugh. “Been there. Done that. There’s always something on someone’s mind when that happens. Which isn’t often, or usual, so that must mean you’re really stuck up on something.”

“Or someone,” you mumble beneath your breath. His brows dart up, and you sheepishly settle the mug down. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

You blink. You don’t really talk about him out loud. Not with Lando. Not with Anastasia. Not even with your own reflection. Everything has always remained with you. A place you knew to be safe because you made it safe. But Mr. Lennon’s eyes prove to you that he’s lived enough lives—enough scenarios—to maybe understand. Even just a fraction. He watches you visibly gulp. And he knows that look. The confusion, the yearning.

“I’m in love with this boy.”

He hums, leaning back against his wooden chair. “There’s always a boy.”

You look down. “He’s a friend of mine, which makes everything much worse because I can’t ruin that. But for the first time in all my years of living…” Round, glossy eyes stare back at him with a hopeless expression. “I really—really—want to.”

He’s attentive, he listens like some frozen statue, and maybe that’s what fuels your courage to continue speaking. “My entire life, I’ve had crushes, sure, but I’ve never loved someone. Not seriously. So, of course I’m caught off guard when I do feel that for someone who I’m not even in a relationship with.” A playful snort. “God, I feel so stupid.”

The silence that lingers is comforting. Your nerves flow away with the rain, and you feel at peace. Quietly, he clears his throat. “Can I tell you a story?”

A soft sigh. “I’m all ears.”

Gray brows furrow as if trying to recover a distant memory. “I once loved a boy, too.” Your eyes widen. Sure, you knew he was never married, never even had a kid, but you never thought of any reason as to why not. He nods, faintly. “Not many know, and not because I’m ashamed, not by any means…” A single beat. “But because real, sincere feelings are easier to ignore. Because who wants to deal with reality, right? Who wants to confess and be turned away like some dog at your door?”

Exactly, you think, nodding along. “Everyone is always going to be scared of something, but avoidant people like us are terrified about the what-ifs.” He sends a wink. “And I’m living proof that being that way won’t get you nowhere. And you'll realize sooner or later in life that you’d rather be nowhere with someone you love, than nowhere…” His eyes circle the nearly empty kitchen, despite living there for the past twenty years. “...all alone.”

Your chin wobbles. “You know you have me, right? I’m always next door.” A wet laugh follows. “Anyways, I might even join you in this lonely life, eh? Doesn’t sound half bad if I’m doing it with you.”

Tender eyes close slowly before blinking back at you. “No. I want you to be the complete opposite from me. Be different. Tell him how you feel. Even if it costs you a broken heart, tell him. Because I’m telling you right now that a broken heart is always better than the constant desire that will always follow you like the devil.”

A warm droplet rolls down your cheek as you sheepishly laugh, but he doesn’t judge. He never has. Instead, ever the true gentleman, he hands you his handkerchief. “Did you ever get the chance to tell him that you…”

His wrinkles imprint more vividly as he breathes out. “I did, but it didn’t really make the difference I had hoped for. He was already married to someone else.”

A loud sob escapes. “That’s not f-fair. You deserve to be happy with the man you love.”

“I do. But you know what?” You rub the tears away, eyes connecting. “I’ve made peace with the consequences of my own actions.”

By now the rain has died down, and so have you. With one last smile, Mr. Lennon gives your cold hand a soft squeeze.

“Learn from my mistakes, won’t you?”

That same night, as you cried over a bottle of wine, you made your third and final decision. And you would execute it all the next time you saw him, no matter the outcome.

But now that you spoke about it once to someone, you felt almost invincible. Which is why you called Lando.

You what?

A wince. “You can’t tell him, okay? I’m legitimately trusting you with this!” He opens his mouth, but you’re quick to signal him off. “Including Ana.”

“Wow. I thought she’d know.” You shrug because you don’t really have an explanation for not having had confided in her, but you know deep down that you’re not really into playing a game of Cupid, and that’s exactly what she'd turn this into. The Brit nods, sympathetically. “Alright. I won’t tell a single soul.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to tell him how you feel?”

His question comes out hesitant—like he’s afraid of scaring you away from the possibility—but it doesn’t. Instead, you nod, to which he’s extra surprised because you’ve never been the kind to. “That’s the main reason I told you any of this. Because I wanted to ask you if you knew if he has a girlfriend or not? Someone he’s trying to pursue? I’d hate to…intervene.”

Lando let’s put a soft smile, dimples imprinting neatly onto his face. “I mean, he’s particularly private—you know him—but I’ve never heard him mention having a girl. It doesn’t seem like he does. Go for it. What do you have to lose?”

“My dignity? A good friend?”

Silently, he grimaces because even he can see how much this all means to you—how much you’re scared. So, to boost up your confidence—which is something he definitely doesn’t lack—he flashes a loopy grin. “He probably likes you, anyways.”

You come to a fast halt. Suddenly, painting your nails isn’t your top priority. “Really? You think so?” He nods, and you can’t help but smile back. “What’d he say?”

“Well, as I already stated before, he keeps his things locked up pretty well. But I do recall one time…” He closes his eyes harshly. Then, he snaps his fingers loudly. “I believe in Hungary. He was on a high. And we shared a bottle of champagne to celebrate. So, he sort of let loose. Like insanely loose.”

“And?” you push, eagerly trying to get whatever he has stuck in his throat out of him. The green eyed boy snickers.

“He wasn’t very clear, but he did say he had a crush on a girl. Someone he really wanted to get to know. But that things were a little bit difficult.” You nod, urging him to continue. “I asked why, and he said it was because she had a good heart, or something of that sort? Good intentions? Can’t remember—and that he didn’t want to ruin it.”

Your breath hitches.

And you have a good heart. You could easily be anyone’s dream.

Ironically, you’re huddled in Lando’s flat once again when it happens. Well. Almost happens. It’s filled with a few McLaren members because he insisted on hosting a nice brunch. And it was. Nice, you mean.

“Pretty,” Anastasia says, sending a soft smack towards your ass. You yelp, swatting her hand away, and pulling your skirt downward. She snickers. “You should tie your hair up more often. Let’s everyone admire such an angel face.”

“Stop it,” you hiss, but can’t hide the pink flush. “But thank you.”

She grins, eyes crinkling. Black hair sways as she moves to the beat of the music, nursing her drink. “Nice to have a break…”

“Definitely.”

At some point, she slithers away, leaving you all alone on the balcony. Which was quite lonesome until he came along. Oscar scrunched his nose, meekly. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Don’t own this place, do I?”

He lets off a raw chuckle. Deeper than when you first met him, and you come to the realization that a lot about him has changed. His hair is longer, his neck is thicker, and his shoulders are wider. But his smile and eyes remain the same. Boyish.

“Thinking?”

You sigh, admiring the ocean set out right in front of you. “Thinking, yes. A lot these days.”

And if he’s patient enough, he’d notice the way your hands shake. Tiny vibrates, but still. He’d notice the way you bite down on your lip, brushing it along the way. He’d notice the way you blink feverishly, like even the wind hurts.

And he is. He is a patient person. So, he does notice.

“Do you know what song this is?”

Brows furrow, deep in thought. And he’s quick to note that the ticks you had are coming to an easy halt. Mentally, though, you’re cursing yourself out because you do know. You do know the song that flows nicely into your ears, but simply having him next to you is what’s making you forget. How dare he have that kind of power over you?

“I know it,” you start. “But I can’t seem to remember right now...”

The brunette gently nods his head along to the beat. His eyes close, and his hair delicately tussles, and suddenly he’s the only thing you see. “Sex,” he says. You blush, ripping your gaze away before he catches you in the act. Oscar laughs. “It’s Sex by The 1975. How could I forget?”

“Oh yeah.”

The guitar screeches when the volume somehow gets louder, despite not being inside. “Would have killed me not to get it right. My sister listens to it all the time.”

Plump lips pressed together. “You have a sister?” But you know the answer to that question, of course you do. You’re a girl. You’ve done your research, even when you pinched yourself not to.

He nods. “Three, actually. Talk about a headache, am I right?”

And it’s almost nostalgic—your laugh. Like it might be one he heard in his past life, but in his current one, can't remember. But it’s okay if he doesn’t because at least he knows he can learn it. And he has.

“You look really pretty when you laugh that way. Insanely so.”

You can’t seem to register his words. The way they come off as soft and ginger as they could possibly get. As if he really means it. And for the first time since your first interaction with him almost two years ago—you sort of believe he might.

“You’re just saying that?” you question as some test, round eyes challenging him into finally spitting out the truth. The same truth you carry. He shakes his head, taking a step closer.

“I mean it.”

Like a sudden magnet, you two are hesitantly connecting closer and closer together before either of you could stop it. Not that either of you would. The Australian towers over you, almost caging you like some endangered species he’s afraid of slipping away and going extinct.

You swallow, lashes fluttering, and he smiles at the sight—melts. You’ve always been reserved. Quiet. Shy. And so has he, so he can’t really judge you, but he’s willing to be different—just once in his life—to get what he’s been wanting for a long time now.

His eyes follow your lips. Admires how plump they are. How they’re the perfect shade of pink. So, when he leans in and you don’t pull away? He thinks he might explode with the need to kiss you. One time. If he’s lucky, just—once.

“You’ve always been my dre—”

“There you two are!” Anastasia cheers, zigzagging to you both as an apologetic Lando follows right after. By now, Oscar has jumped far away from you, and you’re left feeling empty and lost, blinking at an alarming rate. “We’ve been looking all over!” A hiccup. “What were you doing?” Your lips remain open but Oscar is the first to let out an awkward cough.

“We were just talking about…logistics!” He turns to you, sparing you a pleading look. “W-weren’t we?”

You finally come to, nodding slowly, eyes buzzing between the two McLaren drivers and your best friend, who wobbles from left to right. “Yeah, I….we—logistics, and whatnot.” A beat. “Doesn’t matter.”

He flinches, avoiding your doleful stare. Oscar forces such a bright smile—the kind that can’t go unnoticed by even the biggest idiot on earth—and nods in agreement. “She’s right. It doesn’t matter.”

Lando analyzes you, then his teammate, and wishes he had done more to keep Anastasia from barging in. But really, was this some sign? Maybe you were some delusional little girl who truly believed she had a chance with the boy next door. The one everyone wants, but only one will get to have.

And let’s face it.

It was never going to be you.

You’d make an excellent detective in your next life, you’re sure of it. But for now, you’re just some brokenhearted assistant who mourns the death of her what-ifs. Someone who is really good at picking up on clues.

It’s right before Christmas—right before Anastasia’s birthday party—and you’re curling your hair quite poorly. You daze off every now and then, you apply mascara almost zombie-like, and you’re dreading even showing up. Have you been avoiding him? Yes. Yes, you have. Have you been good at it? Only the best, if we’re being truthful here. And were you ready to face him without feeling the need to bolt?

Nope. Not in this lifetime nor the next.

But still, you force yourself to finish getting ready because this isn’t about you. This isn’t about him. It’s about being there for your friend.

Mindlessly, on the drive there, pouting in the back of the yellow cab, you click onto Instagram and the first thing you do is smile at the birthday post Anastasia had posted not even five minutes ago. You scroll, smile wider, and then come to a harsh pause. The kind that makes your throat close up. The kind that makes you stop breathing.

The kind that lets you know—

You’ve lost.

His arms are tied around her waist, his head nuzzles between her neck, but you can still tell it’s him. His hazel hair can’t go unnoticed. Maybe to someone else, but not you.

Then, as if all odds are against you, your feed refreshes and you’re left far more dumbfounded.

She appears in most of his pictures because why not? It’s his girlfriend's birthday, it goes as expected. Museum dates. Pictures of them with each other's families. And you feel greedy like never before because—why couldn't that be you?

Venmo or cash? You look up, making eye contact with your taxi driver who looks just as tired as you. You press your lips together into a fine line. Digging into your purse, you grab all that you have and jump out of the cab.

It’s chilly out and the lights are beautifully hung, but it doesn’t do you any good. You just want to go home. Curl up in bed and die. Dig a hole—self-suffocate—who cares. And you’re ready to turn around, go back and apologize to Mr. Lennon for not doing better. You really thought you had it in you, but it just wasn’t enough.

Only then, the door swings open and Pierre curls a brow. Kika waves from behind “He thought you were some serial killer. He’s been watching too much Dateline.” The brunette scurries over, throwing her arms around you and takes a step back. “Come in before you freeze to death.”

But even that didn’t sound too bad. You sheepishly thank her, following the couple back in. A string of jazz cradles the warm lit living room and the scent of apple pie makes you inhale sharply. A giggle stirs up behind you. Anastasia grins.

“You’re here!”

All of a sudden, you hate her smile. You hate her laugh. You hate her entirely. But you also don’t. You can’t hate her smile. You can’t hate her laugh. You can’t hate her entirely. Because even though you feel like she owes you loyalty, that’s not really true. She had zero idea about your feelings towards Oscar and she won. Fair and square. That doesn’t mean you had to like it.

“Happy birthday, Annie.” Hugging her, you giggle against her ear when she jumps up and down, nearly knocking you two over. “For you. From me.”

She wiggles her neat brows, green eyes buzzing with suspicion. “Is it a vibrator again?”

You blush. “No. Even better.”

“Wow! Even better?” She rips the small bag open, eyes widened double in their size. “Oh my God, you got me the Mary Jane’s I wanted?”

“Well, you kept bugging me, and so I thought—”

“D'accord, je comprends. I love them, thank you.” Grabbing your wrist, she tugged you into the empty hallway, and you can already feel her buzzing with excitement. Your stomach churns. “I wanted to tell you as soon as he asked me out—I really did—but he insisted on keeping it between us two for a while, and I told him no, I had to tell you, but then I understood that maybe it was for the best, and I’ve always liked him—”

Every word makes you feel smaller and smaller because the light in her eyes gives it all away. She, too—much like you—is in love with Oscar Piastri. You shake your head, sharing a light laugh. “I totally get it. There’s no need to explain.”

The green eyed girl visibly relaxes, shoulders rolling back. “I knew you’d understand. Oscar was right—you have a good heart.”

Ana, Yuki just spilled wine on your coach, Daniel rattles from the other side of the room, pointing accusingly towards his teammate who rubs the cushion with his Dior sweatshirt. She sighs. Be right back!

At that moment, you don’t care if you wind up with a deadly case of hypothermia, you simply walk out of the warm house.

“What are you doing? You’re going to get sick.”

Screwing your eyes shut seems to be the only answer to help your mending heart into not breaking completely. And fuck him—fuck him for sounding so goddamn caring.

You turn with a soft smile, shrugging nonchalantly. “Won’t really make a difference, I already feel sick.” You cough for emphasis. “See?” Oscar rolls his eyes, ignoring the poor excuse, and hands you his puffer jacket. You shake your head. Take it. “No.” He frowns. Why not? Rocks crunch with every step he takes. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“What? Borrowing a jacket from a friend?”

“Borrowing my best friend's boyfriend’s jacket.”

His stomach drops, rolling with a wave of anxiety as he tries to not show his uncomfort. “She told you?”

Your teeth grind harder. “That, and you both posted about a thousand pictures together. Wasn’t that difficult to understand what was going on.” A sore laugh. “I’m happy for you two, though. Really. I am.”

“You are?”

Sending a nasty glare that you tried to keep in for the life in you, you turn over to face him, nose rosy. “Yes. Over the fucking moon.”

He flinches. “Listen, about that day at Lando’s house. I-I-I was caught up in the moment. I shouldn’t have said what I said, o-or tried to kiss you—”

“You’re a phony, you know that, right?”

Another flinch. “I’m trying to apologize to you. I’m sorry. I feel bad, okay?”

Tears well up inside your eyes. Somewhere deep inside your chest, you feel a harsh sting, and still that doesn’t compare to his pity. You let out a scoff, crossing your arms. “You feel bad, for what? For messing with my emotions, or for getting with my best friend?” You poke his chest hard, but he remains as still as a brick wall, a pained expression mapped out. “Which one is it?”

“For all of it!” He grabs your face, making you freeze under his fire-like touch. “I loved you—God—I loved every inch of you. Your humor, your heart, your jokes that never land, the awkward giggles that follow afterward—everything. There was not a single thing you could do that could have pushed me away.”

“Then what happened?” you whisper, eyes tracing his pink lips, trying to enjoy his hands. They’re calloused, sure, but they’re by far the closest thing you’ve had, so nothing else matters. His breath hitches, soft eyes looking down at you in complete defeat. You grimace. “Why was I not enough for you to try?”

His hands drop. Brown locks shakes as he rubs his eyes, like this is all some part of a fever dream. Maybe it was. The Australian frowns. “I could ask you the same thing.”

It’s a slap in the face, and it burns like never before because you know he’s right. “I wanted to tell you!” A shaky breath. “I was going to tell you.”

Leaves rustle. “You were?”

“Yes,” you confess, nodding adamantly. “That day at Lando’s place—I wanted to tell you.”

The McLaren driver bites his tongue hard, blinking rapidly. “W-what would you have said?”

“That I loved you too.”

He can’t hide his pain just by hearing those words. He scrunches his nose. He nods robotically. And he keeps his eyes trained towards the ground, like he’s in the middle of solving a puzzle.

“I really did like you. From the moment we met.” Finally, he looks up, round eyes searching for any sign of intimacy. If there’s any left—any you still save for him. “Do you remember the day we first met?”

“A little bit. Yeah.”

A second ticks by. “I do. Remember it all, I mean. Think back to it quite often.” He lets out a boyish grin, crinkles forming, making your heart flutter. “You took my breath away.”

And as if humanly possible, despite the icy air, your cheekbones flush harder as you bite back a giddy smile. “You barely even noticed m—”

“You wore a white ribbon. Hair half up, half down. Denim overalls with your initials sewn onto them. Emerald earrings.” You blink, clearly taken aback by his polished memory. His eyes soften. “I’ll always notice you.”

Anastasia pecks the Australians cheek, giggling after each one. Oscar smiles, letting out a shy laugh. From the corner, seated next to Lando, you sigh sadly. The Brit bumps his shoulder up against yours. What’s wrong? But you must not have heard him, or you ignore him, but he, too, has eyes.

“I swear I didn’t know a thing about them,” he whispers. “If I had, I would have warned you, you know that—”

“Lando,” you cut him off, voice weak and mellow. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

He frowns. “I know that, but—”

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat, this time more firm. He swallows, nodding hesitantly. With a soft laugh, you poke his ribs and he’s quick to let out a yelp. “Just want to forget, you know?”

Lando hums. “Understood.”

Anastasia clinks her spoon against her mug. The one you each painted differently in that one pottery class years ago. She grins. “I’m so glad all of you could make it, really, it means a lot.” Her eyes crinkle sweetly towards Oscar who traces shapes down her back. She blushes for him—the same way you do. “I feel like…I finally have everything I ever wanted.”

A string of oohh's echo the room, whistles ringing. She laughs, head falling back, and he lets out a single chuckle, rosy cheeks making everyone grow louder. Meanwhile, you stay silent, focusing on Lando’s shoes. The Brit winces, rubbing your shoulder awkwardly.

Daniel yodels, raising his beer. “Well, in that case, I feel like I do too!” He hiccups, making Pierre and Yuki snicker. “A hot girlfriend, good ‘ol friends, and a nice pair of abs.”

“They are nice,” Lily mumbles, earning her a soft smack from Alex who rolls his eyes.

Carlos cackles. “Me next—um, okay. A good team, my girlfriend, and…and—my hair.”

“Narcissist,” Lando whispers, trying to get a good laugh out of you. And it works. You giggle, muffling the sound with the back of your hand. Oscar perks up, orbs floating over to where you and the Brit whisper to one another, smiles only growing wider. His jaw clenches. Either way, you tune out all the constant chatter after hearing how Pierre was grateful for having a massive cock.

“I really hope nothing changes between us.”

You laugh. “I think it might be a bit too late for that.”

The Australian scratches his shoes against the wet pavement. He agrees. He won’t admit it, but he agrees. Everything has changed. Timidly, he glances over at you, biting the inside of his cheek. His gaze burns—just like always—and you turn to face him.

By now your tears have dried, but your heartbreak still continues. Something deep inside tells you that it will for as long as you live. You despise yourself for letting any of this get out of hand. For letting your fear of rejection play a big part in losing him. He smiles.

“I love you, okay?”

You smile. “I love you, too.”

Your voice sounds sweet—just like honey. And if it’s a lie, just to make him feel better, then he’s a grateful bloke. He might not have your heart—not completely—and he might not have your hand in his, but he’s fine with that. Because he’s heard all he’s needed to hear. And he can live at peace.

Oscar grins, leaning down to kiss your cheek. It’s tender, just the way you pictured it. You smell like flowers, just like he had dreamt. He pulls away. “You can always talk to me. Whenever. I’ll always be there for you.”

“Thank you. But I won’t bother you too much.” His brows furrow, mouth opening to protest before you wave him off with a tired smile. “Don’t want to vent to you about…well—you.”

“What about you?” Anastasia squeals, making your jump in place.

“What about me?”

She rolls her eyes, theatrically. Oscar remains as still as a statue, enjoying the moment to admire you without having to explain why—all eyes were on you, after all. “Have you ever gotten everything you ever wanted?”

Wistfully, your eyes look up, connecting with the ones you know so well. You admire his boyish features one last time before looking down onto your lap and then focusing on Anastasia.

“No. But I once got very close.”

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna

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leilawanderingaround · 4 months ago

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Loving Kevin Kaslana and then finding my beloved again in Hsr, just as beautiful as the day I lost him was such an experience... It's insane

"Never thought the deliverance would be interested in older women? Did you hang out with Aglaea too much lately?" Mydei has to physically grab Phainon's face to drag his gaze off of you before they get found out by your group.

"That's not it... It's just that she..." Being a Chrysos Heir and being good looking as he is, Phainon certainly doesn't lack suitors. There are many who would offer themselves to him on a silver platter. And yet, despite the adoration, the admiration they held for him, Phainon's feelings didn't reciprocate.

Because of that, he has been alone for a long time now. Choosing to put the well being of Amphoreus above his own needs and feelings. It was like that until he met you. You arrived on this doomed planet alongside your companions, shining down like a ray of hope sent by the gods.

Unlike them, you look older. You dressed like a person in their late 40th, choosing practically and comfort over style, and barely show any skin. The mark of time have left its mark on you in the form of the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes, and the callousness on your hands. Your eyes soft yet unyielding, signs that you have been through your own fair share of troubles. You look, no, are too old for him.

And yet, his heartbeat only gets faster as he sees you, heat rushing down his cheeks.

"I might need your help for this" he was really shameful, that the Chrysos Heir admitted. But he can't let go of his curiosity.

Every time he tries to talk to you, your first move was to distant yourself from him. If you two are even in a conversation, you always refuse to share any information about yourself. You are willing to share bits here and there about our companions and the world above the sky but never about yourself.

And your eyes, he knows that there is love beneath it. But it was not directed at him. It is as if you are looking at someone else. Someone that is him but at the same time isn't.

After that look, he decided to be selfish. He yearn to know about you, about who you are, what your liking, what power you possessed and who is your love.

Tribbie was very against it at first but after much begging, finally caved in and agreed to steal your phone for him. He know he needed to be fast, otherwise your group would get suspicious. After all, outside of your weapon and money, it was the only possession that you brought along.

But even Titans weren't enough to prepare him about what he supposed to find inside that little device. Pictures, letters, conversations between you and... Kevin Kaslana. There is no denying the love you two have for one another. Sweeten words, soft gestures and sacred moments shared between lovers. Between you and a man who shared his face. Precious memories sealed inside this little thing.

Time clearly passed since the two of you since you were clearly older than the pictures in your phone. And it proved that this Kevin- your beloved is no longer by your side.

And oddly enough, he feels both sad and satisfied at the same time. Kevin Kaslana isn't there anymore but Phainon is still here. Surely you wouldn't deny yourself a piece of your dearly departed.

After this he planned, he would save this world alongside your side and then convince you to remain by his side on Amphoreus. He is sure that he can love you the same way Kevin have loved you if not better.

But then Aglaea have to come and threatened the life that is yours and your companions. And Phainon have to forced himself to think whether or not it was worth it to save the place he used to call home. Now that he thinks about it, the so called Astral Express would surely welcome another member, right?

#hsr phainon #Phainon #hsr phainon x reader #phainon x reader #phainon #yandere phainon x reader #yandere phainon #yandere hsr #Amphoreus #(•^°)/ burning down the kitchen

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ssuperrnnovaa · 1 month ago

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— WHEN THEY FALL IN LOVE..

or, when there's no turning back for the first years.

a/n: first writing post.. AHH edit 1: i forgot to add things I DIDNT PROOFREAD SORRY

when ace trappola falls in love..

he's still the same guy. but almost sweet, almost kind.

but he's a master of his secrets. parts his mouth just to spew another joke about your appearance or how you did on that potionology test the other day - that same glint of hesitation in his eyes, that unsure croak of his voice just before he delivers another nasty quip about your face. like a punchline stuck in his throat - too funny to laugh at, too funny to acknowledge.

funny how he'd said he'd "rather hang out with his friends than find love", and here he is; laying in his bed. at 3 am. head filled with nothing but thoughts of you.

he'll let it simmer. wait for you to realize - wait for you to notice him, not just the facade he puts up. not the prankster he is in class, or the troublemaker you have to put up with.

wait for you to love him back.

when deuce spade falls in love..

he's trying his very best.

deuce was never much of a charmer - the guy's been a delinquent for most of his life; feared, not loved. he only sees (romantic) love in the movies - terrible rom-coms, poignant love stories.. you name it. deuce has no idea about love.

(his lack of knowledge gets worse with you.)

deuce tries - keyword, tries to keep his composure in front of you. he fails, miserably. his face? turning red. words? none. palms? sweating. and pride? absolutely crushed.

he apologizes to you later, blames it on the heat or how he forgot about another ridiculous rule. calls up his mom and his mouth is a dam - like he suddenly gained the ability to talk 10 minutes later. tells her all about you, as if she doesn't know your entire genetic code just from hearing him talk.

maybe one day.

when jack howl falls in love..

it's unyielding - unyielding, but quiet.

jack doesn't date for fun; never has, never will. he doesn't chase anyone.

wolves mate for life - you know it when jack immediately shuts down the idea of even having a crush or having an ex, saying that he's "focused on self-betterment" or "waiting for the right person". you're convinced that not even cupid could get him to fall in love.

but for you? that discipline shatters.

it happens during a study session in ramshackle when you're idly playing with his ears - making fun of that stone-cold persona when in reality he's melting under your touch. he catches himself after five minutes of bliss, thoughts of the future flooding his brain; "what if i won't be a good partner to them? what if i let them down?'

to jack, love isn't a game; love's not the way he feels embarrassingly giddy after you squeeze his hand or poke his bicep. love's permanent. forever. and it terrifies him.

when epel felmier falls in love..

it's fierce.

epel's not soft - in fact, he's everything but. he'd do anything to be seen as strong by you; even if it meant burying his own feelings.

epel was never much of a dreamer - let alone a lovey-dovey kind of guy. he despises those mushy romance stories, calling them "dumb as a box of rocks", grimacing when he watches the leads kiss.

yet.. he can't help but be entranced. by you.

he scoffs a little too loudly for vil's comfort, but in his head, he's repeating the same mantra over and over again in his head - "i'm not some silly little girl moonin' over someone. i've got better things to do with my time. besides, love is for babies."

yet, his defenses crumble when you ever do so much as breathe in his direction, and suddenly, he's back to square one.

when sebek zigvolt falls in love..

it's fervent.

sebek is passionate about a lot of things - his duty as a retainer, malleus, academics, and you.

you, a mere human that could quiet him down with just a finger to your lip. you, a mere human who keeps him awake at night and restless, overthinking. yearning.

it's foolish, he tells himself. tells himself it's just a small crush as if it's not all-consuming, as if he's not avoiding you all together just so he could have peace of mind.

is it the right thing to do? no. will it keep him unbothered? absolutely not. and will he come to terms with his feelings?... unlikely.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst x you #twst fanfic #ace trappola #deuce spade #jack howl #epel felmier #sebek zigvolt #twst first years #angst if you squint

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icarusignite · 23 days ago

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My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged.

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it.

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts.

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive.

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him.

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you.

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind, you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response.

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession.

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense.

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope.

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?"

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it. You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice.

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him.

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance.

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty.

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs.

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home.

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this.

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess.

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light.

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped.

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. ��Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still.

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

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