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purple-umbrella-girl · 1 year ago

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FuCK I LOVE THIS

Never Letting You Go - Pt. 3

Summary: After running into a masked Lucifer, you did not escape. He caught you. They caught you. When you come through, the brothers, acting under the malicious cursed masks that they wear, are discussing just what they ought to do with you and your sparkling soul. What’s a defenceless little human to do?

CW: Anixety/Panic Attacks, mentions of murder, cannibalism, violence/gore, and yandere behaviours. This one is ANGSTY guys. Please be careful while reading and be sure to practice self-care/awareness before, during, and after reading.

Part 1, Part 2

Barbatos grit his teeth as Mammon, Levi, and Beel continued trying to push past him and Diavolo as you were finally escorted away from your captors.

The butler gnarled as he shoved Levi back. "Stop this. All of you. We clearly are not going to let you through, so stop making a fool of yourselves!"

Mammon bared his teeth, as he desperately tried to look around Barbatos. "No! MC is hurt! They need our help!"

"Oh for Diavolo's sake, Mammon!" Lucifer snapped as he stepped forward, effortlessly claiming the attention of everyone in the room. Mammon quivered with restless unease as he glared up at his elder brother, but Lucifer didn't yield. "Use your brain for once! You wake up with no recollection of getting here, Lord Diavolo, Barbatos and the exchange students are on the defensive, and MC is hurt. Who do you think could possibly be the one to hurt them?"

Satan's eyes widened as a shaky breath caught in his throat. "Y-You don't mean," he shook his head in denial as he looked around the room. "We d-didn't," he placed a hand over his mouth before he could finish the statement; too afraid to set the truth loose to reality.

Belphegor stumbled back against a wall as he also came to the realization, his body trembling. "Fuck, not again," he whispered a hand going through his hair as his eyes welled with tears. "Please tell me this didn't happen again."

Beel quickly moved to his twin's side, pulling him into his arms as mournful sobs began to spill past his lips. He frowned as he felt Belphie grip tightly onto his shirt, shaking all the while. He looked over at Mammon in confusion but found Mammon looking at the ground with a calculative gaze.

Suddenly, the white-haired demon froze as the blood drained from his face. He looked to Lucifer with hopeless eyes. "It wasn't us," he breathed lowly as his hands balled into fists. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he clenched his teeth. "There ain't no way it was us! W-We love MC! We'd n-never hurt them o-or do anythin' like this!"

Diavolo could only watch as Mammon's words settled into the minds of the remaining brothers.

Beel clung tighter onto Belphie and was despairingly flickering his stare between Mammon and Lucifer, as though he hoped that one of them would say that Mammon was right, that it wasn't them.

Asmo had turned a shade of green as he stared down at his hands in horror, having gone uncharacteristically quiet.

Leviathan stood there gaping; his eyes now taking in different aspects of the chains on the ground and the masks that had been removed from them in a new light.

Lucifer's normally unshakable composure cracked as his bottom lip trembled. "It..." he hesitated as he tried to gather himself. "We were cursed," he closed his eyes, refusing to watch as Mammon slowly began to find the truth. "The masks were cursed. Th-They brought out our natural d-demonic instincts," He licked his lips as he looked down to the floor in shame. "Even I couldn't fight it off."

Diavolo frowned at his friend's words and took a gentle step closer to him. "You remember everything that happened, don't you Lucifer?"

Lucifer inhaled sharply as he continued to avoid everyone's stares. For all his strength, he could find it in himself to answer; it was almost as though he was still as helpless as he was under that God-forsaken curse. He gave a distinct nod.

Mammon's chest heaved as he stared at his brother in disbelief — his mind still reeling in denial.

Diavolo sympathetically glanced at the demon before focusing on Lucifer. "Do you wish to tell them, or should I?"

Lucifer took in a deep breath, his fists clenching and unclenching before he began to speak. "I was the one who captured them," the room went quiet. Everyone was dreading to hear what he had to say, yet no one dared to stop him. He ran a hand through his hair as his eyes grew distant in recollection. "They... They were terrified. They kept trying to get away from me, not that I can blame them. I-I knocked them out and brought them here," his eyes guiltily fell over to his brothers. "You found us on the way and insisted on coming with us. From there, things only got worse."

Satan swallowed thickly as he reached out and gripped onto Asmodeus for support. "What... What did we do to them?" Satan's voice wobbled as Asmo placed his hand on top of his brother's in comfort, even as tears dripped down his cheeks.

"Not much physically," Lucifer muttered bitterly. "We chained them up, but that was about it."

Levi frowned at his brother's words and nervously eyed him. "Y-You said physically... Did... Did we hurt them some other way?"

Lucifer shuddered and glanced over at him in uncertainty. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"We need to know if we ever want MC to be comfortable around us again. We need to know what we did." Beel said through a mouthful of tears as he held a trembling Belphegor to his chest.

Lucifer let out a heavy sigh. "We were obsessed with them and their soul," the brothers tensed at the implication of those words. "That... mania showed itself differently in all of us. We couldn't agree what to do with them. In all honesty, that's probably the only reason why they were in as good of shape as they are."

Diavolo's lips pulled into a thin line at Lucifer's statement.

"Some of the, uh, the threats weren't as bad, though admittedly still disturbing," Lucifer continued, his tone now cold with disassociation. "Asmodeus and Leviathan wanted to treat them like a doll of sorts and be able to dress them up and use them as they pleased. Similarly, Satan and Mammon had an argument about getting to keep MC to themselves and hiding them away from everyone else."

Belphie narrowed his eyebrows as he swiped at his nose. "W-What about Beel and I? You didn't mention us."

Beel gently shushed his twin and ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe he didn't mention us because we didn't recommend anything. Maybe we were the better one that h-"

"I'm afraid not," Barbatos cut in with a clipped tone. There wasn't an ounce of mercy in his eyes as they burned down at the demonic twins. "You two were the worst. Diavolo and I were there when you first encountered MC. You both wanted to kill them-"

"Barbatos that's enough." Diavolo interrupted the butler as his voice began to rise. Barbatos huffed but bowed his head to his Master.

The twins had both gone ghost white at the revelation; clinging onto one another with a certain desperate denial that Lucifer hadn't seen since their fall from the Celestial Realm and the death of Lillith. "L-Lucifer," Beelzebub whimpered. "Is...D-Did we...Is that true?"

Rather than speaking, Lucifer merely moved over to his brothers and wrapped them both in his arms. "I'm sorry," Lucifer croaked as they both collapsed against him in fits of tears. "It-It was the curse. I-It had us all acting on o-our demonic instincts a-and for y-you two that's- that's sloth and g-gluttony."

"Oh god," Beel lamented as he clutched onto his brother. "D-Don't tell me that I... I didn't... D-Did I- Did I ask to e-e-eat them?"

The only response he got was Lucifer shivering as he tightened his hold on him. The wail that fell from Beelzebub's lips shook the room as his knees gave out from underneath him.

In a matter of seconds, the rest of the brothers had thrown themselves into the group hug; all of them shedding tears in remorse for the actions they had unknowingly done.

"I'm sorry," Lucifer howled as, for the first time in centuries, he openly cried in front of his family. "I'm sorry! I was-wasn't strong enough. I tried to shake off the curse, b-but it just wouldn't give. I-I couldn't stop any of it! The only reason wh-why MC is even safe right now a-a-and not under the effects of a god-damned obedience spell is because- because they managed to stop us using their pacts."

Mammon pulled Lucifer closer to him and the centre of the hug as they all held each other close.

Diavolo and Barbatos watched in pity at the sight before them knowing that there was nothing and no one that could help them right now. What was done was done, and only time would tell if they could win you back.

***

It was two months after the event before the brothers had heard from you.

You had been living at Purgatory Hall with Luke, Solomon and Simeon. The brothers' had been very strictly informed by Solomon when they returned that they were not allowed to go anywhere near you until you gave your approval.

No one argued with him.

Lucifer did, however, ask Simeon for the occasional update on how you were doing. He couldn't say he was entirely shocked when the report was filled with summaries of nightmares and finding you disassociating in the halls of RAD sometimes. According to the angel, you were having a hard time being around any infernal being; this included Diavolo and Barbatos.

In the meantime, the brothers were a wreck without you. The house had fallen strangely quiet, and while they were all sad from your departure from their lives, it had also brought them closer together. If one of them were to fall apart, another one would be right there to pick them back up.

So after two months of radio silence, you can imagine the surprise on Mammon's face when he saw your contact appear on his D.D.D. screen.

He yelped and nearly dropped it, gaining the attention of the rest of his siblings, before he scrambled to answer it. "M-MC! I-I mean h-hello! I mean, uh, how-how are you doing?"

Mammon cringed at his awkwardness as he heard his brothers gasp and move closer to him.

"Hi Mammon," your voice was quieter than he remembered. "I-I just, uh, I needed to tell this to one of you a-and since I-I've always been the most comfortable with you, I thought you might be the safest option," he could hear rustling in the background, and a soft voice whispering kindly beside you.

"Put it on speaker!" Asmodeus hissed beside him.

Mammon glared at the demon and swatted his reaching hands away. "Of course, MC. I, uh, I know that you may not believe me because of what happened, b-but I'd do anythin' to keep ya happy and safe. I can't even begin to say how sorry I am for what I did to you while under the curse. Whatever ya need, just let me know, and the Great Mammon will do his best, okay?"

He tensed as the sound of your whimpers came through the phone. "G-God, that makes this even harder," his knuckles turned white as you began to cry. Around him, Lucifer and Satan were trying to calm down the other brothers and prevent them from pouncing onto Mammon. "I... I-I got permission from Diavolo to go h-home and I, fuck, I don't know if I can see you guys again."

Mammon went still as the all breath left his lungs. Though his brothers were still causing a ruckus around him, he felt as though the world had gone still. Your words were icy chains that dug deeply into his heart and filled with throat with blood. "Y-You...You what?" he breathed.

At the lack of sound coming from Mammon, the others also fell quiet and were able to pick up the sounds of you crying on the other end.

"I know it's not fair," you wept. "N-Not to you. Not to me. Not to- to Diavolo and his exchange program, but I- I can't keep doing this Mammon! I really thought I was going to die down there, a-and that's not the first time that- that I've felt that way since arriving. It-It's just life or death situations again and again and again, and what if n-next time help doesn't come fast enough?"

Mammon silently shook his head, "MC-"

"Please," you begged before he could get any further. "J-Just let me speak."

Mammon apologized as he felt tears burn behind his eyes. The reality of your news beginning to dawn on him.

"Every day that I'm d-down here, I wonder if I'll get kidnapped again, o-or tortured, or... or eat-eaten."

Mammon's stomach clenched at the last one. "We wouldn't let that happen, MC." He swore, desperately hoping against all odds that there was something, anything, he could say that would make you change your mind.

"I know," there was the faintest trace of mournful tenderness to your tone. "I know you wouldn't. Especially you, m-my greatest pro-protector."

Mammon bit back a sob, his hands trembling as tears leaked down his eyes. He felt someone place a hand on his shoulder, but couldn't bring himself to check who it was. "Then... Then why?"

He could hear you try to collect yourself through your tears as someone, seemingly Solomon, tried to comfort you. "B-Because the curse didn't create those desires and instincts Mammon. I-It just amplified them, wh-which means that somewhere- that somewhere deep down all of you want... want to... want to..."

Mammon felt like he was going to be sick as you began crying again. He couldn't even deny your words because you were right. Deep down, Mammon did want to take you and hide you away with his most precious treasures and keep you all to himself. He was so greedy for your love and attention, he craved it more than any jewel or credit card.

"A-And what if something like this happens again? H-How are you going to pro-protect me from yourself?!" It was plain to see from the pain in your voice that this had been eating away at you ever since the incident.

It became clear to the demon that if he truly cared for you and truly loved you then there was only one thing he could do for you.

"Okay," Mammon whimpered. "It hurts, but I understand. What do ya need me to do?"

You sniffled on the other side. Mammon tried to soak in every sound, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that this could very well be the last time he hears your voice. "J-Just try to move on. Tell the others, and hel-help them understand. Take care of one another, o-okay?"

Mammon clenched his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from crumbling apart. "That ain't an easy thing to ask, MC. W-We... I love ya, ya know that?"

He could hear your breath get caught on your repressed sobs at his words. "I know, and I-I'm sorry that I have to ask you to do this. B-But please Mammon,"

He let out a heavy sigh. "Okay. I promise. The Great Mammon will keep things in check down here. Don't worry. J-Just," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just be careful, a-and take care of yourself. Try and be happy, okay? That's all I ever wanted."

"Okay," you whispered. He heard a voice call out on the other side. "I-I have to go. Simeon says that the portal is going to open up soon, and I st-still need to finish packing. B-But just..." Mammon didn't breathe as you fell silent. "I love you Mammon. I love all of you. Th-Thank you for looking out for me wh-while I was here. Goodbye."

Before he could get out another word, the line clicked and you were gone.

Mammon stood unresponsive as he stared down at his phone; even as his brothers began to hound him with questions. He didn't want to believe that this was really happening.

"Mammon!"

His head shot up as he looked at a frantic Leviathan who was cupping his face. "What happened? What did they say?"

Mammon swallowed down the lump in his throat, remembering his promise to you as he gave them a shaky smile.

"They're letting us go."

*** I um...I apologize. Remember to drink water and take care of yourselves. Thanks for all the love and support you've given this series! I love you guys.***

TAGLIST

@thegrimgrinningghost @henry-and-the-seven-lords @satans-beloved-riv @cosmixbun @sufzku @tallyscottage @obey-mes-treasure @kissed-by-a-dementor @yukihaie @justtiarra @mammoneybb @poly-bi-mf @burrixino @rulaien @pumpkins-mainside-blog @acousticpen @sucker-for-angst-and-fluff @itskrispy @10paradox10

#obey me #obey me mask event #obey me mask au

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baby-yongbok · 2 months ago

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Partition

Kim Seungmin x afab!Reader

⤷ Smut - dom!Seungmin x sub!Reader [MDNI]

⤷ WC - 1.4k

⤷ CW - public tension, car sex, possessiveness, power play, creampie, unprotected sex, fingering (f.rec)

Every spotlight has a shadow. You two just happen to fuck in it.

⤷ Partition by Beyonce + This Seungmin from the Chaumet event that lives in my mind rent free... yeah... anyway, enjoy! + reader is depicted as chubby/plus size and is a POC ♡ [i didn't proof read this one bit..haha]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The gala ended with a standing ovation. You smiled like you meant it, fingers wrapped around Seungmin’s arm like a perfect, polished accessory. His hand on your waist was steady, his jaw sharp under soft lighting, not a hair out of place.

You’d kissed cheeks, waved politely, complimented outfits you’d mentally berated. You played the part. Both of you did. Seungmin smiles, starts engaging conversations and listening with bright and perfect smiles.

And maybe that’s what gnaws at you most - how good he is at it. How he can charm the room and still ignore the way your thighs press together under the table. You wanted to ruin that mask, even if just a crack. You wanted to remind him - remind yourself - what happens when the curtain falls.

You can already feel the tension in his fingers where they rest on your waist - just the faintest tremble. Like he’s holding something back. Like if you press even slightly, he’ll crack down the middle and take you with him.

You test the theory.

Under the table - when the cameras weren’t looking - you let your fingers drift up the inside of his thigh, just enough to make his fork freeze mid-cut. Just enough to make him turn his head slowly toward you with a look that promised you’d regret it.

And now?

Now you were in the back of a black car, sealed away from the flashing lights trying to capture the slightest slip up. The city lights flashing across the tinted windows is all that witnesses you now as Seungmin presses the sleek black button next to him. The partition slides up with a smooth click, concealing you.

You left the venue five minutes ago, that’s five minutes of your mask as the prim and proper ‘it’ couple being tucked away, but Seungmin still hasn’t spoken.

Not until you reached for his tie, playful, half-drunk on boldness.

That’s when his hand caught your wrist.

Hard.

"You play too much, you know that?” he says, voice a low growl that sounded like it came from somewhere deep in his chest. “You love starting things that you can never finish.”

You barely have time to process the change in him before he’s tugging you into his lap, dress riding up your thighs, panties soaked and sticking. His hands are rough, not like the Seungmin the world knows - these aren't careful touches. They’re claims.

“Was that the plan? Get me worked up in front of everyone just so I’d lose it the second we were alone?” he mutters, lips brushing your ear as he pulls your hips flush to his.

“You didn’t lose it,” you breathe.

He chuckles. Dark. Dangerous. “No. But I will.”

He’s quick, your back hits the leather seat with a shift that has him hovering over your buzzing body. He doesn’t undress you - just shoves your dress higher and hooks your panties to the side. The cool air hits your soaked cunt and you keen. That makes him smile. The type of smile that means trouble.

“You’re soaked,” he says, almost amused. “You get off on being watched, baby?”

His fingers slide through your folds like he’d done it a thousand times, precise and merciless. You moan, try to reach for him - he doesn’t like that.

Seungmin grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, “Look in the mirror.”

“What?”

He nods at the small black mirror above the partition window. “That’s what I see when I look at you. That’s what they’d see, too, if I opened this window.”

You whimper.

“I said look.”

You obey.

And what you see is a version of yourself that only he awakens - makeup smudged, mouth open, thighs spread. Seungmin’s hand teasing where you drip for him while he whispers filth against your skin.

“You think you’re in control when you tease me,” his teeth graze your collarbone. “But look at you now. Dripping all over my hand just because I told you to.” He slips two fingers in, sinking them deep before curling them right where he knows it melts you.

“Where’s that bold attitude now, baby? Where’d my brave girl go?” He pumps his fingers deep, fast, hitting your sweet spot and then some until your panting, gasping - begging.

“Please,” You don’t even know what you’re asking for.

He pulls his fingers out. You almost sob.

“You want it?” he asked, voice suddenly cool again. “Then earn it.”

He unzips his pants, letting his cock spring free - long, flushed, leaking at the tip. And fuck, the look in his eyes - feral and focused. It makes you ache. He shifts, takes your hand, guiding you to hover over him and sink down without hesitation. You sink down slowly, the stretch making you tremble and whine.

“Fuck, yes,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Just like that, baby. Take it.”

His hands grip your waist, controlling the pace, the depth, you. When you try to speed up, he holds you still. When you try to slow down, he bucks up hard, making you cry out.

“You feel what I let you,” he pants, his voice broken with heavy breath. “You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your cunt drips, swallowing him whole and clenching with each and every ragged drag of his cock. Seungmin leans forward, his lips press against the exposed skin of your neck messily, it’s all tongue and teeth, nipping and soothing over and over.

“Is this what you wanted so badly?” his words break with pleasure and you answer with a moan, you’re sure the driver heard you. “Wanted to feel me in your fucking stomach? Fucking that pretty polite smile off your face.”

Your nails sink into his shoulders, holding you steady while your head spins with all he’s giving. Your breath feels thin, your crash building higher and higher low in your stomach until you feel it start to sway. Seungmin notices.

He snaps his hips up, making sure that you know what this is - punishment, a display of control, his control.

“Please, please,” this time you’re asking for release. Permission to shatter in his arms. “Seungmin, please.”

He pulls back, eyes on your and one of your hands moves up to his neck. One of his hands moves to cup your cheek, steering your lips to his in a kiss too tender for the moment you're wrapped in.

“Do it.” he mumbles, “I’ll do it with you, cum, baby.”

You tremble around him with a scream muffled against his shoulder, body quaking and cunt fluttering with a gush that’s matched with his flood. He spills into you with a low, guttural groan, burying his face in your neck, hips jerking through it. Then silence.

Only your ragged breaths. Your heartbeat in your ears. And then he feels the car stop, you’re at the next venue, the afterparty.

Seungmin doesn’t speak, just a kiss to your forehead while he pulls out, a gentle squeeze to your hip while he helps you pull your panties into place, keeping his load from leaking, for now. He straightens your dress and then he fixes himself - silent, controlled, masking slipping back into place, like you hadn’t just ridden him like a madwoman in the back of a moving car.

He adjusts his cuffs. Smooths back his hair. Then wipes your ruined lipstick off with his thumb.

“Smile when we get out,” he says casually. “Don’t let them know you just came all over my cock.”

And with that, the partition slides back down.

Seungmin gives the driver the green light.

And he sounds the part - perfect and composed. As if he hadn’t just ruined you behind the glass.

You step out first, heels steady despite the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs. Seungmin follows, hand on the small of your back like a man who owns everything he touches.

The crowd roars. The lights blind.

You smile like nothing happened.

Like he isn’t still inside you, seeping into the cotton of your panties.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, deliberate. A warning masked as affection.

No one sees the way his touch lingers, like a silent reminder.

No one hears him murmur under his breath, lips not moving:

“Next time you tease me in public, I won’t wait for the car.”

And just like that, the cameras capture perfection.

Not the mess just beneath.

The perfect couple.

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kashverse · 4 months ago

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us and geto having a selfcare day together? haircare, skincare, masks, nails all that good sh★t

wishing all the gays and girls and everyone in between to find a man like this 🙉💗🕺💐 happy birthday getooo <3

self-care sundays with your fiancé suguru are an event. they require extensive planning, a dedicated budget (suguru’s black card), and, most importantly, the unwavering commitment to looking unreasonably good while doing absolutely nothing.

the setup is pristine: warm candlelight flickering on the dresser, a bluetooth speaker playing kali uchis like it’s a sacred ritual, and your bed covered in self-care products. you’re both dressed in matching cow-print pajamas, a last-minute online impulse buy that suguru pretended to be unimpressed with but now wears with a very unserious level of smugness.

“ready?” you ask, holding up a jar of an expensive face mask. suguru tilts his head, arms crossed. “depends. is this the one that tingles and makes me question my choices, or the one that smells like an overpriced smoothie?”

“the latter,” you assure him, unscrewing the lid. “but we’re double-masking today, so you’ll get to experience both.” his dramatic sigh is muffled when you smear the cold mask over his face. suguru, being the effortlessly attractive menace that he is, somehow still looks good—even with streaks of green goop on his cheeks. he doesn’t even flinch. a seasoned veteran.

“i see you got everything from the list,” you say, reaching for the body butter. “of course. do you think i’d let you down?” he grins, stretching out his legs as he watches you. “i was a man on a mission at sephora. dodged at least five aggressive salespeople, flashed my wedding band to scare off a few flirts, and even walked out with my dignity intact.”

“that’s debatable,” you mutter, scooping out a generous amount of cream and rubbing it into your arms. he narrows his eyes. “i’ll have you know i was very graceful.”

“you spent thirty minutes contemplating which cuticle oil was ‘more luxurious.’”

“and look at us now. thriving,” he retorts, wiggling his fingers at you. “unbothered. moisturized. focused. flourishing.” you snort and reach for his hands, rubbing the excess body butter into his palms. he watches you closely, eyes half-lidded, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. suguru loves this part—where you take his hands and carefully massage each finger like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“i still can’t believe you dropped two hundred dollars on a serum,” you tease, reaching for the bottle in question. “oh, we’re still on that?” he chuckles. “you act like i don’t drop that on lunch.”

“lunch feeds you. this makes you glow.”

“and isn’t my glow worth every penny?” he flutters his lashes dramatically. you roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile creeping onto your face. “yeah, yeah. close your eyes.”

he obeys without question as you pat the serum into his skin, gentle and precise. suguru has the nerve to sigh like you’ve just lifted all his worries off his shoulders. “you are so spoiled,” you murmur, rubbing the product into his temples. he hums, eyes still closed. “and whose fault is that?” you smack his arm lightly, and he chuckles, leaning in to press a lazy kiss to your jaw.

once your faces are sufficiently pampered, suguru lounges against the pillows, eyes tracking your movements as you grab the nail polish. “so, what’s the color of the week?” he asks.

“baby pink,” you reply, shaking the bottle. his brows lift. “not my usual black?”

“nope. we’re doing soft aesthetic suguru this week.”

he doesn’t argue. he never does. instead, he stretches his hand toward you with all the regality of a man who has fully accepted his fate. “paint away, my love.” you start with his pinky, carefully brushing on the color, while suguru watches you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“i love you, you know,” he says suddenly, voice soft.

your brush pauses for half a second before you resume, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. “i know,” you say. “you show me all the time.”

his thumb traces lazy circles on your knee. “i’m gonna keep showing you. every day.”

your chest feels full. warm. like this moment—cow pajamas, kali uchis playing, suguru’s gentle affection—is something sacred.

“good,” you murmur. “now hold still, i’m not redoing these nails if you smudge them.”

he grins. “you're the boss.”

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crumblekitten · 3 months ago

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I’ll show you every version of yourself tonight

Luke castellan x fem!reader

words: 1.8k

AO3 link!

warnings: almost kissing, Luke is crushing HARD, set before the events of the lightning thief

what’s on the ratio?: mirrorball by Taylor swift

Late into the night, Luke sat alone by the campfire, his eyes fixed on the flames that danced before him. Camp Half-Blood lay quiet, its cabins and tents shrouded in darkness, but Luke felt no comfort in the stillness.

The familiar warmth of the fire couldn’t touch the chill creeping through him, nor could it silence the voice of Kronos whispering deep in his mind. The Titan's influence had grown stronger, twisting Luke’s thoughts like tendrils winding around his heart. Kronos promised change, retribution, and a chance to reshape the world that had failed Luke time and time again. He remembered the promises he’d made to himself, the anger that burned hot against the Gods and the camp that felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. The desire to betray it all simmered within him, almost a relief after the years of resentment. And yet, an ache persisted. Luke’s thoughts drifted to Annabeth and Thalia. He could still hear their laughter in his mind, feel the shared hope that had once driven them to protect each other at any cost. Together, they’d vowed to build something better, to be family to one another in ways their parents had never been. Those promises weren’t so easy to turn his back on. The memories made him feel heavier, anchoring him to something he couldn’t shake, and for a fleeting moment, he hated it. He hated how much he cared. The fire snapped, and Luke watched as a stray ember floated into the night sky before disappearing into the shadows. He clenched his fists, knowing that in the end, he might only have himself. Luke barely noticed the faint crunch of footsteps behind him, his gaze still locked on the fire.

“Luke?” Luke turned abruptly at the sound of his name. His eyes lit up with surprise, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Y/n” he murmured her name fondly. It was a name that held a special place in his heart, the sound of it evoking a complex mix of emotions. He hadn’t expected to see her. “What are you doing here?” “You okay? Travis and Connor said that you didn’t come back to the Hermes cabin after lights out” Luke tried to appear nonchalant, forcing a lopsided smile.

“Ah, you know those Stoll brothers. They need to stop being so nosy. I’m fine, just enjoying the night air.” You see through Luke’s mask of emotion, and you slide onto the seat next to him “whatever’s bothering you…you should talk about it” Luke raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing his face. He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Is that a suggestion or a direct order?” He couldn’t help but tease her, his tone slightly sarcastic. “Can’t help people who don’t want to change, I’m here to talk about it and if not I’m still here”

Luke paused for a moment, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. He was used to keeping his worries hidden, to being the one others leaned on, not the other way around. Slowly, he turned back to face her, his expression softening. “It’s just…the camp, the Gods, it all feels so suffocating sometimes. I…I don’t belong here.” Luke admitted, his tone tinged with bitterness. “But I made a promise…promises, actually, to people who’ve become like family to me. And I can’t just abandon them.” “Do you think they would understand if you wanted to leave camp?” Luke let out a heavy sigh, conflicted emotions playing across his face. “I don’t know. Some might understand but others won’t, and they’ll blame me for betraying them. They don’t see how much the camp sucks the life out of me.” He ran a hand through his hair, gazing into the fire. “I’ve always been told that as a son of Hermes, I have to obey the rules, stay in line, but that’s not me. I can’t keep up the act for much longer.”

“Do you think that if you didn’t make those promises you would have left a long time ago?” Luke hesitated, considering the question carefully. “Maybe,” he finally admitted. “I’ve always had this restlessness in me, something pushing me to break free from the mold everyone wants me to fit into. The promises I made… they grounded me, gave me something to hang onto during the tougher times. But they’re also chains keeping me here when I just want to break free.” Luke sighed, the weight of his words sinking in. “If it wasn’t for those promises, I probably would’ve ditched camp ages ago.” You find yourself wanting to reach for his hand but you hold yourself back, you had a crush on Luke for years, and now probably wasn’t a good time to act on those feelings “what would you do if you left camp?” He shook his head, letting out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d find some other way to survive. Start over. It can’t be worse than this constant tug of war between my loyalty to the camp and my restless spirit.” He glanced over at her, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “But then I wouldn’t be with my friends, with my…” He trailed off, the words remaining unsaid. Luke’s gaze focused back on the crackling fire, his expression distant. “You really think they’d understand if I left?” “I think annabeth would, she might want you here but you’ve been here since you were 14, you deserve the chance to find freedom. She knows that much”

Luke absorbed her words, a flicker of hope sparking within him. “You’re right. Maybe Annabeth would understand.” He paused thoughtfully. “But it’s not just her I worry about. What about you?.. What would you think if I left?” His gaze held hers, a mixture of sincerity and an underlying longing that he tried to suppress. “I would miss you. But like I said you deserve a chance to find that freedom” Your voice is saddened but decided to give a truthful answer, Luke’s eyes remained fixed on yours, searching for any hint of doubt. After a moment, he broke the silence, his voice unusually earnest. “You’ve always understood me better than most. I value your opinion. And… I’d miss you too, if I left. I’m not sure what it is about you, but I’ve always felt like you see the real me. I don’t have to pretend around you.” His words hung in the air, filling the space between them. Your gaze turns to the fire. cheeks red from the cold winter air, it may have also been caused from the blush slowly dusting your face.

Luke’s eyes remained on you, taking in the way your cheeks flushed and your gaze returned to the fire. He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair back behind your ear, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. “Your cheek feels like ice,” he said softly, concern etching his features. Without thinking, he took your hand in his own, the warmth of his touch offering a quiet comfort. In that instant, the boundaries between you seemed to blur as he leaned a little closer. As Luke leaned closer, the weight of everything he held within seemed to vanish. The world around you faded away as their eyes locked. “Do you think… maybe I have something to stick around for here?” His words were a whisper, a confession that held both a hopeful question and an unspoken promise. The flickering firelight cast a golden glow on your faces, making him appear even more handsome as his expression softened. Luke’s thumb gently traced small circles against the back of your hand, the motion a quiet, tender reassurance. He held your gaze steadily, searching for any sign of hesitation or rejection in your eyes. “I’m sure you could find it” you stare into his eyes you body heating up at the closeness.

“Maybe I already have.” Luke replied, his voice barely a whisper as the space between you continued to close. Every breath felt like a silent promise, a shared secret. He reached out, his fingertips gently brushing against your cheek, tracing a path from her temple to the curve of your jaw. His touch was gentle yet deliberate, like a painter committing every detail to memory. Time seemed to slow as your faces were just inches apart, the silence filled only by the rapid beating of their hearts. His eyes held hers captive, the firelight reflecting in his gaze making them appear molten and intense. “We should go back to the cabins” You pull back from Luke slightly Luke blinked, the world slowly coming back into focus around him. “Right. It’s late.” he agreed, his voice barely audible. He released your hand, the warmth he’d felt lingering as if imprinted on his skin. He stood up, offering his hand to help you up as well. “You should have worn a jacket or something. You’re freezing.” “I’ll be okay” Luke wrapped his own jacket around her shoulders firmly. “Here, take this,” he insisted, his eyes gentle yet determined. “No arguments. I can’t have you catching a cold.”

As you walked together, the jacket draped gently around your shoulders, Luke’s eyes briefly flickered to your hand. The impulse to reach out and hold it was strong, but he resisted, unsure of where the night would take them. In the quiet of the camp, your footsteps were the only sound. He wondered if you felt the same connection he did, or if it was just his own wishful thinking. The moment between you had been real, he was sure of it. “Do you ever wonder…what could’ve been?” he asked, his tone soft but filled with unspoken longing. “I don’t think about it that often” “I think about it more than I’d like to admit,” Luke mused quietly. He turned to you, noticing the way the moonlight played across your features, making you even more beautiful. “Why didn’t we ever…?” He left the question hanging in the air, his gaze filled with curiosity and a touch of regret. There had always been a connection between you, an unspoken understanding that made Luke’s heart yearn. “Ever what?” Luke let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know. Get together? I mean, we’ve always been so close.” He paused, his gaze locked on yours. “You understand me better than most, probably better than anyone here. I just… it feels like we might have missed our chance.” His words were tinged with a mixture of emotions, uncertainty and longing. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt a deep connection to you that he could never quite shake. “You never asked.” You smile at him before walking up to the door of your cabin and walking inside.

Luke watched you disappear into the cabin, the moonlight casting a faint glow over his features. He stood there for a moment, the weight of uncertainty settling heavily on his shoulders.

“Maybe I should’ve,” he murmured under his breath before making his way back to the Hermes cabin, the question of ‘what if’ lingering in the air like an unanswered prayer.

“I know they said the end is near But I'm still on my tallest tiptoes Spinning in my highest heels, love Shining just for you” -Taylor swift

#luke castellan #percy jackson #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan smut #fanfic #luke castellan fluff

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2kiran · 11 months ago

Note

I don't know if you are still doing the 3K event, but if you are, can I please request subbot!John Price and domtop!m!reader with prompt O3.(be a good slut f'me and bend over, yeah?) and prompt 02. (take it - fucking take it.) if you don't mind? Maybe reader and Price are in a meeting and Price decides to be a brat and trys teasing reader under the table so after the meeting reader drags Price back to his room and teaches him a lesson?

JOHN PRICE X TOP!READER

prompts, three + two

John Price, the legendary captain that brought in an equally legendary task force. An attentive, calculated man whose needs are given to him without complaint. As much as he likes to simply receive, he prefers to take. The opportunity that built this particular moment was too tempting not to seize. Men and women surrounded the table, with him next to you. All of them were distracted, focused on the discussion, so where’s the harm?

He nods along, stretching one arm towards your lap. You tense up when you feel a hand palm your groin, hissing when you realize it was Price. Looking at him would raise potential suspicion, so you kept your outward attention on the person who was speaking. His palm rubbed in a circle, quick and short-lived. You manage to mask a surprised grunt with a cough, his fingers locking and squeezing you through your pants.

You’re about to rut into him until he takes his hand away. There’s a smug smirk tugging at his lips as he pats your thigh, returning to crossing his arms. This man. He’s skin-deep into trouble.

“What’s wrong?” Price questions.

You hurriedly pulled him to his feet right when the meeting was over, ignoring the confused glances that your colleagues gave you.

He knew what was wrong. The bastard’s heart skipped streams, excitement drumming an erratic melody in his system. Your grip on his wrist was firm, giving him the best bite of pain that’s out of the range of his imagining ability. “C’mon,” His legs struggle to maintain your pace, breath coming quick, “Answer me.”

Price doesn’t register that he’s in his own quarters until you spin him around to face his bed. Heat spreads through him, rushing south. He bites his bottom lip, a shudder ripping through him.

“Shut up.” The familiar clink of your buckle giving way has him itching to look at you. “What were you trying to do earlier, huh?” He whines at your tone, interrogative and so fucking mean. “Tryin’ to get my dick wet in front of everyone?”

“I d-don’t know what you’re—”

“Quiet.” You demand, stepping closer to him and he’s reduced to full irrationality. “Be a good slut f’me and bend over, yeah?”

His feet stutter into a few strides, acting faster than he’s able to make sense of it all. Vision darkening, his body cognizes a single purpose and it was to obey. He bunches up the sheets, no thoughts in his head as he leans over the mattress. Ass tilted upwards, feeling bare in spite of his clothing remaining intact. His cock throbs, a yelp tumbling from his lips when you yank his hips towards you. “Fuck me already,” he whines, the bubble of stubbornness exploding into a puddle of eager submission.

You don’t get to remind him when he mutters out, “Please.”

That was all that was necessary. You help him slip out of his clothes, the air caressing his sensitive skin sparks a shiver that you catch. “Where’s the—” He immediately interjects, “N-no. Use spit.” Nasty, but it would suffice. He makes haste to bring up your hand to his face, taking in two fingers. Drool piles on the floor of his mouth, his tongue pushing to coat the digits. “Mmm..” he moans, drawing them deeper with little sucks.

His saliva leaks out, dripping to your wrist. Slowly, you retract them and one finds his rim. He soothes his breathing, releasing a trembling sigh when you painstakingly thrust that finger in, rocking until he’s no longer struggling in spasms. He grunts, driving himself backwards to have you knuckle-deep, offering him a second one appreciatively. “Giv’ me it- nnnfg, that’s an order.”

“Give you what?” You spread the digits, opening him up more for you.

“Your, ah, cock. Please, want it so bad.”

Not one to disobey a direct order—not today, at least—you slide them out and fish yourself out of the confinements. Your dick swelled from the sight, wet tip circling around his hole. “Sure you can handle it?”

Before he’s able to bark out another command, you sheathe an inch into him. “Y-you—Fuuuck-” He groans, body working to lead you out, but you’re persistent. He’s throbbing around you, desperate to rut against the silky covers. Remembering your insistent instructions, he focuses his energy on relaxing. Breath after breath, face warm and sensitive. His head shook in a nod, incapable of finding the words to permit you.

Drawing your hips out, he nods again. “Oh, oh ngh!” He whimpers when you sink into him, rolling your hips until your cock is completely enveloped by his clutching warmth. Whining, his back arches as he lowers his upper body to the bed. Chest pressed to the mattress, resting his head on his forearms as he aches for the bind of release to snap at your will.

His ass is raised, jolting with each pound, practically urging him to break. “Still gonna act like a needy whore, huh?” You grip his waist, tight and bruising which offers him the constant reminisce of pain. “Gghf, ‘m-m sorry,” He shudders, clenching, “won’t do it again, ha-aah, I’m sorry.”

John Price, a man composed of muscle and earned achievements, lessened into a cock-drunk bitch. He begins to babble out whines, his speech incoherent as his brains tangle into jumbled wires. You faintly pick up on a few words switching from ‘slower, 's too much’ to ‘more, p-please, harder’. Tears pool within his eyes, and he attempts to blink them away.

“Take it,” You grunt, grinding deep into him, “fucking take it.”

He gasps, his dick twitching and yearning for a release. Fuck, he is taking it. So well, and so beautifully too. He hums in agreement, letting out a strangled cry. “M-mhm,” he huffs, small ah’s slipping from his bitten lips. John Price was in for a long night.

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rafesbabygirlx · 8 months ago

Text

Halloween Masquerade

Masterlist

Happy Halloween ❤️‍🔥 Kinktober

Rafe x kook reader

Summary: The annual Figure 8 Halloween Masquerade ball leads two unknown figures to a place they’ll never forget

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: spit kink, bdsm (use of whips, spanking, bounding with rope) oral (face sitting, throat fuck) p in v, doggy, anal, riding, I think that’s all

The annual masquerade party for the kooks to flaunt their masks and jewels was just another event you dreaded. You’d much rather be at a real party in a hot costume. These people were so uptight, they didn’t even know how to celebrate properly.

In your room, you slip into a deep blood-red silk dress, its loose back draping to reveal the tattoo your parents hated. After finishing your hair and makeup, you place a diamond-studded mask over your face, taking a final look in the mirror.

At the island club, masked and incognito, you immediately spot Kie. “Y/N!” she shouts, forgetting the whole “undercover” theme. “Kie, you’re blowing our cover,” you laugh, heading with her to the bar.

While talking, you notice someone staring you down. Recognizing him by his hair, you say nothing, just stare back. You excuse yourself to the restroom, subtly nodding in his direction as you walk.

In the restroom, you face the mirror as he slips in behind you and locks the door. Just as you start to remove your mask, he gently stops you. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Whatever you say, Ra—” He cuts you off, “No names, no faces, just us.” He runs his hand down your arm, pulling you in by the waist, his lips brushing yours. You lean up to meet him, but he pulls back, leaving you wanting more. “Meet me outside in five.” He leaves, and you grab your things, telling Kie you’re not feeling well as you slip away before she can protest.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

You and Rafe drive to his place, and he pulls you inside, dragging you upstairs to his room in a flash. The house is eerily silent, the only sound being your heels clacking on the floor. As you enter his room, he stands behind you, inhaling the scent of your hair. He whispers in your ear, "How skilled are you?" before planting a kiss on your shoulder and unzipping your dress.

"I'm quite proficient," you reply giggling through your words, your left exposed in nothing but black lace panties. "Keep the mask on." He leads you to the bed, turning you around and having you kneel in front of him. He reaches under his bed and pulls out a medium-sized black box filled with a variety of whips, ropes, and handcuffs.

He picks up a black rope to match your underwear and offers it to you. You compliantly raise your hands, and he begins to tie them tightly.

He stands up, removing his suit jacket and unbuttoning his pants. You're awestruck by the sight of him, knowing of Rafe Cameron's reputation and now understanding its source.

He catches you licking your lips and grabs your hair, forcing you to look at him. "Open," he commands, and you obey, opening your mouth. He spits into it, instructing you to "hold it." You do, and he begins to pump his cock with his other hand, lowering your mouth onto him. "You can play well, right? I guess we’ll see," he says, his cock throbbing as you moan. The moan causing a vibration that tickles him and he jerks up at the sensation. “Fuck” he grunts out.

He grips your head firmly, using your mouth to jerk himself off, causing you to gag and drool onto his lap. But you remain compliant, your cheeks stained with mascara and lipstick, drool streaming down your face. "Y/N, you're such a good fucking girl," he praises as he gets close to climax.

He keeps his cock in your mouth, standing up, grabbing your head with both hands sending thrusting forceful, deep strokes down your throat. He’s bobbing your head up and down his length. "Look at me," he demands, his eyes burning with lust. You stare back at him, you should feel humiliated but you don’t. You've never been this wet or submissive before, and it feels incredible. Your entire sexual history seems like a waste in comparison to this.

You want to be tied up and dominated every time from now on, your desires awakened by Rafe's rough, dominant touch.

As his body starts to shudder, his grin widens and his nails dig into your scalp. One final, forceful thrust sends his white-hot liquid straight down your throat. He withdraws, and you finally feel relief.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

Without a second thought, he pulls you onto him, and you both collapse onto the bed. You struggle to hold yourself up, but your bound arms can't keep you steady in time, and you fall onto Rafe's chest. "Sorry," you both chuckle.

"It's okay, I like the way you feel on me." He traces the tops of your breasts with his fingers, lifting you up and guiding you to sit on his chest, your body following his silent cues. He kisses the insides of your thighs, then pulls your panties to the side and brushes his fingers through your wet folds.

He begins to work, ravaging your pussy like he hasn’t eaten in months. You grip the headboard, throwing your head back in pleasure. He devours you, his tongue probing your entrance while his thumbs rub your clit. He switches to sucking on your clit, and you want to clamp your legs around his head to keep him there forever.

"Fuck, I'm going to come!" You instinctively begin to ride his face, trying to prolong the orgasm, and he lets you. His flattened tongue presses against you and the nose of his mask nudges your clit, intensifying the sensation as you ride him.

You climax before you even realize it, and he holds you down, eating you out through the orgasm. You sit back on his chest, catching your breath as you admire the evidence of your slick on his face.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

He pulls you off of him and gets off the bed for more rope. "You flexible?" You nod as he's already settling between your legs, his eyes fixating on the wetness between them. He pulls your panties completely off the rises one of your legs up... and up until it's straight and your foot is against his headboard. He wraps a rope around your ankle and secures it to the bed post. Repeating the same step with the other leg.

You're now completely spread open for him, your legs trembling with anticipation. He leans down to kiss you, his tongue probing deep into your mouth as he teases your clit with his fingers. In one swift movement, he's pounding into you, the sound of his cock sliding in and out of your wet pussy filling the room.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he thrusts into you. Your moans are loud and pornographic, your voice hoarse from screaming his name. You can bring yourself to care about the no name rule.

He sits up to get a full look at you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your naked body. Your tits bounce hard with each thrust, your contorted face a picture of ecstasy. Suddenly, you feel a smack come down onto the underside of your thigh.

"Never pictured you to be such the whore you are."

"I guess you don’t know me well enough."

"Looks like I'm gonna have to learn more then." Another smack. And then another, and another. You don't know how much longer you can take it before you cum again. "Ra- I'm gonna come." You stop yourself from saying his name again but warn him nonetheless. "Come again, go. I'm just letting you know though, there's gonna be plenty more I'm gonna get from you tonight. So don't tire on me too quick."

You scream out and you cum again, your body tensing with pleasure. Legs trying to shake despite how tight they're tied up. He only speeds up, trying to catch his release again, and when he does, he does it deep inside you.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

You watch him as he unties your legs from the posts. Flipping you onto your stomach, hands still bound above you on the pillow. He steps off the bed and ties your feet together, his eyes never leaving your naked ass as he drags you to the edge of the bed.

He pushes down on your spine to make your arch and your ass stick out. "Yeah, stay just like that." He retrieves yet another item from his special box that you can't quite see. He gets behind you again, not saying a word. You hear a crack, and then a sharp pain on your ass.

He's pulled out a frilly whip and uses it on you relentlessly, each smack leaving a red mark on your skin. You can't even remember how many smacks you got from it. 15, 20? You don't know, you don't care. You're obsessed with the pain and pleasure he's causing right now.

He moves back over to your head, giving you a wet, sloppy tongue-filled kiss. "You like this huh?" "Mhm" is all you can get out. "You ever have a little fun back there?"

"Never. But I've also never said no to anything if it's the right person." He chuckles at your statement. "Alright then." He sticks a finger in your mouth. "Nice and wet, good girl."

He's back behind you, and he's circling your back hole with the finger you just lubricated. You feel a glob of spit come down as his slowly presses his finger into you. "Ahhhh fuck!" You cry out. The stretch feels too good.

While he plays with your ass, he inserts himself back into you. Both him and his finger speed up. He manages to wrap his other arm around you and rub your swollen, sensitive clit. The overwhelming feeling of everything is sending you over the edge again. You cum in a matter of minutes. But he isn't stopping. He wasn't lying when he said he was getting more from you.

In the same position, he moves faster. Inserting two fingers in you, thrusting deep into your pussy, and wreaking havoc on your clit. Your mind goes completely blank. Your vision is blurry, and you're mumbling out nonsense. He loves every second of it.

"Fuck, don't stop!" You manage to cry out. "Wasn't planning on it." The sensation drives you over the edge again, and you squirt your juices all over Rafe and his floor. "Shit, baby, you're making a mess." He laughs like it's the greatest thing he's ever seen. He removes his hands from you and grips your waist hard. He plunges into you, chasing his high. Overstimulated, you also start to do the same, again. This time, you cum together. His third, your fifth. You’re in heaven. Any past endeavors means nothing with the way you feel right now.

He collapses onto your back, still gripping your waist, kissing up your spine as his breathing slows. "Fuck, I might be in love," he laughs, his voice husky with pleasure. He unties your feet and wrists, you're pretty sure you're completely bruised, but you couldn't care less about the pain. The intoxicating feeling Rafe gives you takes over any discomfort you may feel tomorrow.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

You take control, shocking him by straddling his waist and stroking him with your wet hand. He grows hard beneath your touch, and you rise up, positioning yourself over him before slamming down onto his thick cock. You ride him hard, the slapping of your skin against his eliciting moans from both of you. The rhythm changes, your body taking control as you pump your hips, feeling your inner walls clenching around him.

Rafe looks up at you, his eyes widen with shock and lust. He's never had a woman like you before, one who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to take it. You continue to ride him, your body moving in perfect syncopation, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge.

As Rafe's hands roam your body, he playfully pinches your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure through your senses. You cry out, feeling the orgasm building within you. Rafe follows suit, his body tensing as he fights to hold back his own climax.

Together, you reach the peak, your bodies shuddering in unison as you both come apart. The release is intense, leaving you breathless and satisfied. As you collapse onto his chest, you can't help but feel a sense of pride and power, knowing that you've left your mark on him. It’s a strange feeling, not only having a man making you cum like this, but the feeling of climaxing together, feels so… intimate. You try your push away those thoughts.

╰☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆╮

You flip over onto your back, and he lays up on his elbow next to you, his eyes still burning with desire. He finally takes off his mask, along with yours, and you look up at him with big, doe eyes. His gaze is possessive, and you can see the desire in his eyes as he gently strokes your stomach.

As he speaks, his voice is low and sultry, "We're definitely doing this again, and again, and again." He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "I want to explore every inch of you, every dark corner, every hidden desire." His words send shivers down your spine, and you feel your body responding to his touch.

He starts to kiss your neck, his lips leaving a trail of kisses down to your collarbone. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts, and you feel your nipples harden under his touch. You moan, arching your back in pleasure. “Stay the night with me.” A huge change in the man who was just fucking you.

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clumsydolly · 11 days ago

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Can you do Obey me x Ace trappola!reader?

Obey me x Ace Trappola!Reader

Warnings: Feelings of insignificance!

I love Ace so I hope everyone enjoys this I was a bit confused on what I should do here! Also send more asks please!

Lucifer

Lucifer would find you maddening. Not in the way Mammon frustrates him loud, obvious, clumsy but in the slow, creeping way your smug little grins and offhand flirtation worm their way under his skin.

At first, you’d seem like little more than a walking provocation. Flippant with authority, shamelessly sarcastic, forever late yet somehow always with a clever excuse.

“Must you treat every interaction like a performance?”

“You wound me, Lucifer. This is the most sincere version of me you’ll ever get."

You’d call him out in front of others with unsettling precision, picking up on details no one else dared to acknowledge not mockingly, but with a certain cool edge that made him wonder just how much you were holding back. You’d spot patterns in the Devildom council that most demons missed and throw out predictions that turned out to be disturbingly accurate always with that maddening air of nonchalance.

The way you leaned in close during arguments, your voice calm and dry while everyone else shouted, would throw him off far more than any explosion of rage.

Lucifer would pretend he didn’t see the way your eyes flicked around a room before speaking, scanning for emotional shifts. He’d pretend your jokes didn’t land, even when they made his lips twitch. But he’d notice.

And he'd notice other things too how you flinched ever so slightly when praise came too suddenly, how you shrugged off real compliments like they were traps, how your cocky smirk would sometimes tremble at the corners after a tough mission.

What grated on him most wasn’t your rule-breaking it was how you seemed so deliberately unreachable.

He understood it. Too well.

He’d find himself in the unfamiliar position of having to ease up on someone. To speak a little gentler. To ask questions he didn’t demand answers to. Lucifer, of all people, giving leeway.

“You have no need to prove yourself to me with constant banter.”

“Oh? So I’ve already dazzled you?”

“No. But I’ve stopped expecting anything less than idiotic brilliance from you.”

You’d grin at him like you’d won something, and maybe, in a way, you had.

But the very next day, you’d rig the House of Lamentation’s chandelier to drop glitter on him during a council speech and Lucifer would chase you halfway through the Devildom with barely concealed fury and the faintest, faintest trace of amusement.

Because whatever this thing between you was, it wasn’t going to settle down quietly. And that suited both of you just fine.

Mammon

Mammon would hate how much he liked you.

From the very beginning, you’d drive him crazy always one step ahead, always calling him out with that smug little smile. You’d flirt with him just to see him blush, mock him for his scams, and casually drop comments like, “I thought you were the smart twin?” right in front of everyone.

“Oi! Who you callin’ dumb?! I’m the Great Mammon, ya know!”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling bankruptcy and glitter-based blackmail now?”

You’d constantly test his patience and his ego. But somehow, you always knew when to dial it back before things got too real. And that? That just made you more infuriating. Because Mammon couldn’t figure you out one minute you were flirting like it was breathing, the next you were shutting down any genuine attempt at closeness like someone flipped a switch.

But the thing is… Mammon knows what it’s like to wear masks. He might be loud, impulsive, constantly trying to be the center of attention, but he’s not stupid. He’d recognize that your charm and chaos were just another kind of armor. And he’d start to see the cracks.

He’d never say it out loud, but he’d start watching your back more carefully during student events. You’d never catch him doing it, of course unless he wanted you to. Which he did. Obviously.

He’d complain every time you dragged him into one of your ridiculous schemes, but he’d still show up. Every. Time.

“Don’t think I’m doin’ this for you, alright?! I just didn’t want you messin’ it up without me.”

“Mhm. You’re totally not smiling right now, either.”

“I’m scowlin’, thank you very much!”

The teasing would never stop not from you, not from him. But somewhere in between all the banter and bad ideas, Mammon would start choosing your company on purpose. Not just when it was convenient, but when it mattered.

Because you might’ve been a handful, and yeah, you were probably going to get him in trouble half the time but at least it was never boring.

And if anyone else tried to push you around?

They’d get the full wrath of Mammon. No hesitation.

He might let you tease him all day, but the second someone else tried?

“Oh no no no. That one’s mine.”

Leviathan

Levi would claim you were the worst.

Too confident. Too smooth. Too good at getting under his skin. Every time you swaggered into a room with that cocky grin, Levi’s tail would twitch not from admiration (definitely not!) but because you had this unholy ability to throw him off his game in seconds.

“Why do you always talk like you’re the main character?”

“Oh, I am. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

You’d flirt with him just enough to short-circuit his brain, then turn around and act like it was nothing — like you hadn’t just called him “cute” during a raid party because “watching him focus is weirdly intense.”

It drove him insane.

And yet… you followed every dungeon rule to the letter. You didn’t cheat, didn’t slack, didn’t grief other players. You had respect for the grind. And Levi noticed.

You were chaotic, yeah, but you knew your stuff. He hated how much that impressed him.

At first, he’d try to avoid you call you normie-adjacent, too loud, too shiny. But that didn’t last. Because you were funny, and sharp, and never made him feel small. You roasted him, sure, but never where it hurt. And when someone else tried to mess with him?

“Touch him again and I’ll make sure your Devildom ranking drops lower than your charisma stat.”

After that, you somehow ended up in all his campaigns. Sitting beside him, mouthing off, tossing in half-serious pickup lines and dumb one-liners during boss fights that made him choke on his energy drink.

He said he hated it.

He didn’t.

Levi never really understood people like you. The kind who walk into a room like they own it but flinch when someone gets too close. The kind who tease because it’s easier than being honest. The kind who act like friendship’s a game and still play like they’ve never once been picked first.

He never tried to fix that. He just invited you to play. Again. And again. No questions asked.

Because maybe you weren’t always real with your words. But in the middle of a boss fight, healing him without being asked? That was honest.

And Levi? He always noticed the honest parts. Even in someone like you.

Satan

Satan would be intrigued by you from the very start not necessarily fond of you, but definitely curious. You’re clever, unpredictable, and irreverent in a way that both aggravates and fascinates him. You don’t bow to hierarchy, you challenge it. You don’t avoid conflict, you play in it. And for someone as deeply emotional as Satan, who often hides it behind control and intellect, that unpredictability of yours scratches at something he can’t quite ignore.

"You’re remarkably composed for someone who never stops causing chaos," he’d observe one day, eyes narrowed, a book resting closed in his lap.

"Composed? Me?" you'd flash a grin. "I’m just good at not caring too loudly."

That’s what would get under his skin the most the mask. You wear sarcasm like armor, charm like a dagger. The more he watched, the more he noticed how you used humor to dodge sincerity, flirtation to avoid vulnerability. You were sharp, sure but Satan was sharper. And your defense mechanisms were starting to look more like puzzle pieces than walls.

He’d test you constantly. Philosophical arguments, pointed questions, offhand remarks that struck a little too close to your emotional core all just to see what made you tick. You, in turn, would prod at his temper, playfully poking the beast to see if it growled. You found the cracks in his perfect scholarly calm, and he found the truths you tried to hide behind your grin.

"Don’t you ever get tired of pretending things don’t affect you?"

"Don’t you ever get tired of pretending they do?"

You clashed spectacularly but it wasn’t all tension. The way you’d challenge him in debates, toss out obscure references, or drop biting observations about Devildom politics mid-lunch? He lived for that. You kept pace with him in ways few others could. He liked the way your mind worked. More than that, he liked that you never let him stay comfortable. Around you, he had to be sharp, honest, alive.

And yet... the more time he spent with you, the more he started seeing the undercurrent of loneliness running beneath the bravado. He recognized it because he’d felt it too. That hollow ache of not being sure if anyone liked you, or just the version of you that’s easiest to handle.

One evening, after you stormed out of a heated argument with Lucifer, Satan would find you alone in the library feet kicked up on a table, pretending to read a book you’d clearly lost interest in ten pages ago.

"You’re not fooling anyone with that look of nonchalance, you know."

"Sure I am," you'd say, not looking up. "It’s my best trait."

He’d sit down next to you, unusually quiet. No jabs. No tests. Just presence.

"You don’t always have to prove you're above it all. It's okay to care. Even about people who don’t deserve it."

You'd go still for a moment, surprised by the gentleness in his voice and how much it cut through you. But just as quickly, you’d smirk again.

"That sounds dangerously close to an emotional breakthrough, Satan. Want me to fetch a tissue?"

He’d roll his eyes. But the next day, you’d find a book waiting in your seat at breakfast an annotated copy of a human-world satire, the margins filled with his snarky commentary. You wouldn’t say anything. But you’d carry it around for days.

You challenged Satan’s mind, irritated his temper, and disrupted his routines and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Because for all your chaos and charm, he knew there was something honest underneath. And he was patient enough to wait for the day you let him see it, even just for a second.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus would be utterly intrigued by you from the start your flirty sarcasm, your effortless charm, and that mischievous glint that promises you’re always up to something just out of reach. You’d frustrate him endlessly, pushing boundaries and refusing to be tamed, yet somehow drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

“Darling, you’re like a tempest in designer heels. Absolutely exhausting but impossible to ignore.”

He’d try to coax you out of your guarded shell, throwing teasing comments your way and proposing extravagant nights out, but you’d always keep him guessing, never fully giving him the satisfaction of knowing what you really think or feel. You’d sashay through his carefully curated world, stirring the calm surface with a sly grin and a perfectly timed quip.

Asmodeus would admire how you wield your sarcasm like a weapon and a shield, watching how you deflect real connection with a shrug and a wink. He’d sense the cracks beneath your confident facade, but instead of rushing in with platitudes, he’d relish the challenge of breaking through your walls on his own terms.

“You don’t have to pretend to be untouchable, you know. Even queens need someone who sees the crown but isn’t afraid to mess up the hair.”

But you wouldn’t let him settle that score so easily. You’d match his glances with your own, sharp and unapologetic, daring him to keep up. The tension between you would hum with unspoken truths and playful battles a dance neither wanted to end, even if it meant never quite reaching the finish line.

When he suggests a night of indulgence or a quiet moment of vulnerability, you’d flash that signature smirk and deflect with a challenge or a teasing remark because control is your game, and you’re not ready to lose.

“So, Asmo, are you charming enough to handle all this chaos, or should I find someone less dazzling?”

He’d lean in, eyes gleaming, ready to take the dare.

This wouldn’t be a story about soft confessions or easy comfort. It would be a relentless, electric push and pull where the thrill of the chase is the prize, and neither of you is quite ready to surrender.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub’s first impression of you would be a mixture of confusion and genuine curiosity. You’re loud, sarcastic, and seemingly always pushing the limits of good manners or patience everything he’s not used to. At first, he might be a little intimidated by your sharp tongue and the way you effortlessly tease everyone around you, yourself included. Your chaotic energy contrasts wildly with his calm, easygoing nature, but that contrast is exactly what draws him in.

He’d notice right away how you never sugarcoat anything. You say exactly what you think, and you don’t care if it ruffles feathers especially when it comes to authority or rules. Beel, who tends to take things at face value, might sometimes misunderstand your sarcasm or think you’re being harsh, but he quickly realizes that your words are more like a challenge a way of testing those around you to see who’s willing to keep up or look beneath the surface.

“Whoa, you really don’t hold back, huh? Not many people around here can match that fire of yours.”

He’d laugh nervously the first time you snap at him, calling him slow or clumsy with that trademark Ace smirk, but instead of getting offended, he’d take it as a compliment your way of letting him into your world, even if it doesn’t seem like it on the surface.

Beelzebub isn’t one to fight back with words, but he’d try to keep pace in his own way. He’d join in your banter with simple but genuine remarks, like a steady undercurrent beneath your more chaotic flow. When you make a sarcastic joke about how nobody understands you, he’d be the one to say softly, “I get it more than you think,” without making a big deal out of it. He wouldn’t push you to open up but would show up reliably because he understands that sometimes the best support isn’t words but presence.

One of the things that surprises him most about you is how, despite all the sarcasm and bravado, there’s a clear loneliness underneath. He’d catch glimpses of it in the quiet moments when your smirk slips, or when your eyes dart away after a particularly sharp comment. Beel has a gentle intuition about these things. He’d see how much you struggle to let your guard down, how much you want connection but don’t quite know how to ask for it.

Instead of trying to force you out of your shell, Beel would respond with his own version of companionship: simple, comforting gestures that don’t require words. Like showing up with food when you’re stressed (and he’d probably bring something ridiculously unhealthy just to make you laugh). Or offering a quiet shoulder to lean on when you’re having one of those days where the chaos feels like too much.

“You don’t have to put on a show all the time. Even the strongest people need a break.”

He’d say this softly, almost as a whisper, but with a firmness that makes it clear he means it. You’d probably scoff, pretending not to care, but he’d know better and he wouldn’t let it go.

Beelzebub would also be fascinated by your resilience and street-smart attitude. He’d admire how you navigate the Devildom with a fearless charm, never letting anyone see the cracks in your armor. When you playfully mock the pompous nobles or call out hypocrisy with that wicked grin, Beel sees a kind of brilliance someone who’s not just surviving but thriving on their own terms.

That would inspire him. Beel might not have your sharp wit or quick comebacks, but he’d want to learn from you. Maybe you’d teach him how to push boundaries without breaking everything, or how to use humor as a weapon and a shield. He’d be clumsy at first, tripping over his words or trying to keep up with your pace, but your easy teasing and his genuine enthusiasm would make for a surprisingly good team.

Of course, the way you treat rules and expectations would baffle him sometimes. You’re constantly testing limits, bending etiquette, and challenging authority figures with that mischievous spark in your eyes. Beel, who generally avoids conflict and prefers harmony, would both admire your courage and worry about the consequences.

Still, he’d never judge you for it. Instead, he’d quietly defend you when others misunderstand your rebellious streak. He’d remind anyone who tries to put you down that there’s more to you than meets the eye, and he’d get a little protective when you’re pushed too far.

Beel’s love for simple pleasures would match well with your surprising soft spots. He’d notice your obsession with strawberry tarts and tea parties those little moments where your tough exterior slips and the real you shines through. He’d probably sneak you homemade tarts now and then, hoping to earn a small smile or an approving nod.

And when you’re at your most chaotic, storming around or letting your temper flare, Beel would be there not to scold or fix, but to steady you. His calm presence would be an anchor, a reminder that you don’t always have to fight every battle alone. He’d let you vent, scream, or even throw a sarcastic jab his way, because he knows that’s how you process things.

“You don’t have to carry all this alone. Sometimes, it’s okay to just... be.”

You’d likely roll your eyes, mutter something about being “too soft,” but deep down, you’d appreciate that he gets it without making a fuss.

The two of you would be this odd pair his quiet patience balancing your chaotic fire, his kindness softening your sharp edges, and your wild spirit awakening something gentle and steady in him. It wouldn’t be neat, and it wouldn’t always be easy, but it would be real. And in a world full of pretense, that might be exactly what you both need.

Belphegor

Belphegor would be endlessly amused by you. You’re sharp-tongued, relentless with your sarcasm, and effortlessly chaotic qualities that both frustrate and intrigue him in equal measure. Where he thrives on laziness and a kind of quiet escape from pressure, you’re a whirlwind of restless energy, always pushing boundaries, challenging authority, and refusing to stay still or silent. You don’t just break rules you dance on their edges and dare anyone to stop you.

At first, he’d watch you with that trademark half-lidded smirk, shaking his head as you mock the world’s expectations like they’re a joke he’s heard a thousand times but you tell it fresher every time. Belphie would roll his eyes at your sharp retorts, but he wouldn’t deny that part of him admires the fire you carry underneath all that sarcasm.

“You’re something else,” he’d say lazily, voice slow but edged with curiosity. “Ever think about just... relaxing for once? Or is that too boring for you?”

You’d laugh maybe a little too loudly and fire back with some cutting remark about how boredom is the real enemy, that stillness kills, and that he should try living a little before lecturing anyone on ‘relaxation.’

Belphegor’s fascination wouldn’t just be about your wit or your rebellious streak. Beneath the surface, he’d sense something he recognizes all too well pressure. The same weight of expectations, the suffocating demand for perfection and control that once crushed him under his own family’s gaze. Your constant chaos isn’t just about rebellion; it’s about survival.

He’d catch those fleeting moments when your smirk falters, when your eyes dart away after a sharp comment, or when you retreat to solitude not because you want to be alone, but because it’s the only place where you can drop the act. Belphegor’s laziness masks a deep well of understanding, and he’d see through the facade you wear like armor.

“You hide a lot behind that sarcasm, don’t you? Makes me wonder what you’re really running from.”

You’d probably snap back because that’s your defense but he wouldn’t push. Instead, he’d let that challenge hang in the air, a silent acknowledgment that sometimes the hardest battles are the ones fought inside.

Unlike the others who might rush in with earnestness or try to fix things, Belphegor would take his time. He’d become a quiet, unexpected presence in your life the one who doesn’t demand your energy but shares space with you in comfortable silence. Maybe you’d find him lounging nearby during your late-night brooding sessions, not saying much but somehow making the loneliness less sharp.

Belphegor wouldn’t be the kind to coax you out of your shell with sweetness or grand gestures. Instead, he’d tease you relentlessly, calling you out when you push too hard, and bluntly reminding you when you’re wearing yourself down.

“Stop trying so hard to be perfect all the time. It’s exhausting to watch.”

His honesty would sting sometimes sharply but underneath that harshness lies a protective streak. He knows what it’s like to drown in impossible expectations and would want to see you find a way to breathe.

Your clashes would be frequent sharp words flying back and forth like a game neither of you really wants to lose. But somehow, in the midst of all that tension, there would be an unspoken understanding. You challenge each other because you see parts of yourselves reflected in the other’s chaos and contradictions.

Belphegor might deliberately break small rules just to get a reaction out of you watching your eyes flare, your temper spike, the way you almost snap at him but don’t. He’d find this game addictive because it’s rare to meet someone who pushes back so fiercely without backing down.

Yet, when the dust settles, he’d be the one to tell you to take a break, to nap, to stop chasing impossible standards. Not because he thinks you’re weak, but because he knows the cost of burning out all too well.

“You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders. Sometimes the smartest thing is to do nothing at all.”

And you’d glare at him like he just committed a sin, but somewhere beneath that frustration, you’d feel the weight of his words settle. It wouldn’t be a neat resolution or a tidy happy ending. With Belphegor, nothing ever is. The tension between you would crackle with sharp edges, fierce independence, and moments of reluctant tenderness.

When you finally find yourself relaxing maybe just a little it would be because you trust him enough to let the walls drop, even if only for a moment. Those rare quiet tea times you share would be charged with more meaning than either of you admit. Your conversation might be sparse, but the silence would be comfortable, a shared refuge from a world that demands too much.

Belphegor’s presence would remind you that it’s okay to be imperfect, to be messy, to not always have control. And in return, your chaotic spirit would challenge his comfort with stillness, pulling him into the unpredictable messiness of life again.

Together, you’d be a storm and a calm uneasy, unpredictable, and real. Neither of you fully tamed, but somehow better for the friction.

Diavolo

Diavolo would be utterly captivated by you from the moment you first sauntered into the Devildom’s grand halls with that irreverent grin and unapologetic swagger. Your flirty, sarcastic nature would be a dazzling contrast to the polished etiquette of the palace like a wild spark thrown into his perfectly curated world. It’d both irritate and intrigue him in equal measure, because no one quite matched your fearless, chaotic energy.

At first, he’d approach you with the curiosity of a king encountering a rare, exotic creature. You break every rule in the book sometimes just for the thrill of it and your sharp tongue spares no one, not even him. Yet, instead of reprimanding you like most nobles would, he’d find himself laughing at your jokes, even when they’re aimed squarely at his royal authority.

“You truly have no respect for tradition, do you?” he’d ask one day during a formal gathering, arching a perfectly groomed brow.

“Why would I waste my time on something so boring? Rules are more fun when you break them,” you’d reply with a sly grin, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Diavolo would be both exasperated and delighted by your attitude. You challenge the rigid order of the Devildom in a way no one else dares, and while he’s a ruler who values decorum, there’s something refreshing about your refusal to be tamed. You’d remind him that life isn’t just about protocol it’s about passion, unpredictability, and, above all, enjoying the moment.

He’d invite you to the most extravagant events, wanting to show you the finer things palatial ballrooms, royal banquets, glittering gowns and tuxedos places where your flair for chaos would shine brightest against the backdrop of opulence. You’d show up with that effortless cool, throwing back perfectly timed quips that leave the aristocrats gasping in shock and amusement.

At these events, Diavolo would delight in watching you navigate the formalities with a wink and a smirk, bending rules without ever breaking them entirely always just clever enough to keep the nobles on edge. You’d be his favorite kind of entertainment, and he’d find himself craving your company long after the music stops and the guests disperse.

“You have a way of turning every ceremony into a game,” he’d say during a quiet moment, the warmth in his voice betraying his usual royal composure.

“That’s because life’s too short for us humans to take seriously,” you’d reply, leaning casually against a marble pillar, eyes sparkling with challenge.

But Diavolo wouldn’t just be enamored by your wit and charm. Beneath your flirty bravado, he’d sense the guardedness the way you push people away with sarcasm and attitude because connection scares you. He’d catch those rare moments when your mask slips a flash of vulnerability in your eyes before you quickly cover it with a joke or a tease.

Instead of pushing, he’d match your pace, offering comfort in subtle ways. Whether it’s a private conversation in the palace gardens or an unexpected gesture like a gift that shows he’s paying attention to what matters to you, Diavolo would be patient. He’d respect your boundaries while quietly hoping you’d let him in.

“You don’t have to keep everyone at arm’s length, you know,” he’d say one evening, voice low, as the moonlight glinted in his eyes. “Even a king needs someone to trust.”

You’d flash him a grin, playful but unreadable. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like keeping things interesting.”

Diavolo would chuckle, accepting the challenge. Because with you, life is always a thrilling dance part rebellion, part flirtation, part something deeper neither of you wants to admit out loud.

Your chaotic energy would also bring out a lighter side of him, the side that loves fun and spontaneity beneath the weight of royal duties. He’d encourage you to relax, to let go of the walls you’ve built, and you’d find yourself drawn to his warmth even as you resist.

There’d be moments of friendly rivalry who can outwit the other at court, who can push the boundaries further without getting caught, who can keep a straight face the longest during the most absurd situations. But through it all, Diavolo would genuinely enjoy the challenge you bring to his world.

Your strawberry tarts those surprisingly perfect creations would become legendary among the palace staff, and Diavolo would never miss a chance to praise you for them in front of everyone, a secret way of showing his admiration.

In the end, Diavolo would see you not just as a source of chaos or entertainment, but as someone rare a partner who can keep up with his royal games and maybe even teach him a thing or two about living freely.

The tension between your impulsive, boundary-pushing spirit and his regal grace would never fully resolve, but it wouldn’t need to. Instead, it would keep the air charged with energy an ongoing, exhilarating dance where both of you hold the power to surprise, challenge, and maybe even save each other from the loneliness of your roles.

Because in a world of rules and expectations, you and Diavolo would be the perfect contradiction a spark and a flame, always igniting something new.

Barbatos

Barbatos would notice you the moment you entered the House of Lamentation not because you were loud or flashy, but because you carried a sort of effortless disruption beneath your polished exterior. You weren’t like the usual guests or residents, and your flirty, sarcastic remarks always delivered with that smirk that said you were half-teasing, half-guarded stood out against the usual quiet grace of the mansion.

To him, you were both a challenge and a curiosity. Here was someone who clearly knew the rules and yet bent or ignored them with a casual flair that both annoyed and fascinated him. You weren’t reckless, not truly, but your chaotic energy was like a subtle ripple through the calm waters of his world.

“Your timing is impeccable,” Barbatos would say softly when you barged into the kitchen unannounced, flirting with the line between disrespect and playful familiarity.

“Only the best for the Head Butler,” you’d reply with a lazy wink, grabbing a perfectly placed pastry and making yourself at home like you owned the place.

He’d admire your sharp intelligence, the way you could hold your own in any conversation, twisting words just enough to keep people on their toes. You had a wit that was effortless, yet layered with a complexity Barbatos found both refreshing and slightly disarming.

What intrigued him most wasn’t just your cleverness—it was the way you seemed to guard yourself so carefully beneath the sarcasm and flirty banter. There was a vulnerability there, faint but unmistakable, that Barbatos could see behind your ever-present smirk. He understood that kind of armor all too well.

“You carry yourself as though you’re the one in control,” he once remarked quietly, as you sat cross-legged on the floor, teasing him about the meticulous way he arranged the tea set.

“Because I am,” you said, with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Barbatos would never push you too hard. Instead, he’d offer small moments of calm an expertly brewed cup of tea, a quiet word of advice, a rare compliment slipped into the chaos. He knew when to hold back, when to let you keep your space, and when to gently guide you toward moments of real rest.

He’d become your unlikely confidant, someone you could tease mercilessly but who also saw through the walls you built. In those rare moments when you dropped the act when your sarcasm faltered and your eyes showed exhaustion or doubt Barbatos was there without judgment.

“You need not carry the weight of the world alone,” he’d say once, voice low and sincere, as you stared out over the gardens, shoulders tense.

You’d scoff, but he’d see the flicker of gratitude beneath. “Yeah, well, I don’t plan on letting anyone else in that easily.”

“That is precisely why I shall remain,” he replied with the faintest smile. “A steady presence in the midst of your storms.”

The balance between you was a dance he brought structure and quiet patience, you brought chaos and sharp edges. Neither would completely tame the other, nor would you want that. Instead, your interactions would be charged with an electric tension: a constant push and pull between order and rebellion.

Barbatos would be the one who knew when your witty remarks were shields, when your flirtations were tests, and when your provocations were cries for connection. He’d respond not with grand gestures but with small, thoughtful acts: a favorite book left on your desk, an extra blanket when he noticed you shivering, a carefully chosen moment of quiet companionship.

He’d appreciate your flair for the dramatic even if it meant cleaning up after your messes more often than he’d like. But he wouldn’t mind. Your unpredictable energy was a secret spice in the House of Lamentation, and Barbatos, ever the patient steward, would find himself drawn deeper into your world despite himself.

“You may believe yourself the master of chaos,” he’d say one evening as you recounted some wild tale with a wicked grin, “but even chaos has its rhythm. And I intend to learn it.”

You’d laugh, light and genuine, the kind of laugh that rarely reached anyone else’s ears. “Good luck with that, Butler.”

Because with you, nothing was ever quite straightforward. And Barbatos, in his quiet way, would love every twist and turn.

Simeon

From the moment Simeon noticed you in the House of Lamentation, he was both puzzled and intrigued. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met your flirty, sarcastic remarks like bright sparks in a room otherwise marked by quiet order and decorum. You had a way of pushing boundaries that felt both reckless and strangely refreshing to him, like a fresh breeze in a tightly sealed chamber.

Simeon would often watch from a distance at first, quietly observing how you navigated the household—how you bent rules with a smile, how your eyes gleamed with mischief, and how you seemed to challenge the very idea of restraint.

“Do you really think it’s wise to be so… bold all the time?” he asked gently one afternoon, catching you mid-tease during a council meeting.

You shrugged with an easy grin, unbothered by his earnest tone. “Bold’s just another word for not boring.”

He’d shake his head softly, the faintest smile touching his lips. There was something about your energy that unsettled him like you carried a storm just beneath the surface, even if you masked it with charm and sarcasm.

Simeon, with all his warmth and kindness, wanted nothing more than to protect you from whatever shadows you kept tucked away. But he also knew better than to smother you with too much care.

Instead, he approached you gently, offering support in subtle ways. A carefully brewed cup of tea when he saw your sharp edges soften into exhaustion. A quiet word when your sarcastic barbs got a little too sharp, reminding you that you didn’t always have to wear armor.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of kindness,” he once told you, voice low, as you stared out the window, lips pressed tight in frustration.

You scoffed, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m just trying not to get hurt.”

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Sometimes the hardest person to be kind to is ourselves.”

Your conversations with Simeon would be a delicate balance of teasing and sincerity. You’d push him with sarcastic quips, testing the limits of his patience, while he offered gentle reminders that he saw the person beneath your defiant facade.

When your temper flared a rare but fierce thing it startled him, but he never recoiled. Instead, Simeon tried to help you channel your frustration, encouraging you to find peace rather than chaos.

“You have such a strong sense of justice,” he once said, “but anger is a fire that can burn everything if left unchecked. Let me help you find a flame that warms, not destroys.”

He was patient, unwavering, always ready to listen without judgment. When the walls you built around yourself cracked those brief moments when your sarcasm faltered and your vulnerability peeked through Simeon was there, a steady anchor in the storm.

“You don’t have to face everything alone,” he’d say softly, his eyes full of genuine care. “We’re here for you. Always.”

And even if you’d flash him a cheeky grin and a playful jab, you’d know that beneath all the teasing, Simeon was one of the few who truly understood. The one who believed in you, even when you struggled to believe in yourself.

Your dynamic was a dance of contrasts your chaotic, boundary-pushing nature weaving around his gentle, steady presence. He challenged you to soften without demanding change, and you challenged him to see the world beyond rules and tradition.

Simeon’s kindness wasn’t about fixing you or changing you; it was about standing beside you, letting you know that even in your messiest, most chaotic moments, you were never alone.

And that, somehow, was more powerful than any sharp wit or clever quip could ever be.

Solomon

Solomon’s first impression of you was one of utter fascination and a bit of exasperation. You were a whirlwind of flirty sarcasm and chaotic energy, a puzzle wrapped in clever smirks and street-smart wit. To someone like Solomon, who prized knowledge, order, and calm reflection, you were a spark that threatened to ignite the quiet halls of the House of Lamentation.

At first, he observed you with an amused detachment. You challenged rules with a grin, skirted around authority like it was a game, and carried yourself with a confidence that seemed both effortless and carefully constructed. You pushed boundaries like a master strategist, always a step ahead in the verbal sparring matches that became your signature.

“Are you deliberately testing my patience, or is this just how you navigate the world?” he asked one day, his tone half amused, half serious.

You tilted your head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Why choose? Life’s more fun when you keep people guessing.”

Solomon admired that spark in you the way you twisted expectations, refusing to be boxed in by rules or roles. But beyond your teasing and flirtation, he saw glimpses of something deeper. A restless energy that wasn’t just about causing chaos, but about craving something more connection, understanding, a place where you could be more than the clever mask you wore.

He was intrigued by your magical abilities, too how your power seemed to flare unpredictably, especially when your emotions surged. Solomon, ever the scholar, wanted to study that link between your inner world and your magic. He found himself intentionally pushing buttons, breaking small rules just to watch your reactions, fascinated by how your magic would spark to life.

“Remarkable,” he mused one afternoon, eyes gleaming with intellectual curiosity. “Your power is clearly tied to your sense of justice and order, yet you wield it with such unpredictable flair. Have you considered that your strength might lie not in rigid control, but in your ability to adapt?”

You laughed, a sharp, quick sound that echoed in the quiet room. “Adapt or break everything? Not much of a difference when you’re as chaotic as me.”

Solomon smiled, appreciating your wit even as he challenged you to think beyond your instincts. He became a kind of intellectual sparring partner—sometimes teasing, sometimes serious, but always pushing you to question the rules you lived by and the expectations you set for yourself.

You pushed back, of course, with the same sharp tongue and sarcastic grin. But beneath that playful tension, something real grew between you. You found his steady, inquisitive mind a strange kind of anchor, and he found your unpredictability a refreshing contrast to the usual order he navigated.

Solomon respected your independence and the walls you built around yourself. He never tried to tear them down but sought instead to understand what lay inside the fears, the hopes, the messy truths you rarely showed. He was patient when your sarcasm sharpened into defense and gentle when your guard slipped and the vulnerability peeked through.

Your conversations ranged from quick quips to deep philosophical debates, often revolving around the nature of power, justice, and freedom. You challenged each other, pushed boundaries, and sometimes clashed, but the friction only fueled the connection.

One evening, after a particularly heated debate about the role of rules in society, Solomon caught you off guard with a rare moment of candor.

“Do you ever wonder if all this—” he gestured around the House of Lamentation, “—is just a way to keep control of what scares us most?”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms. “Control? Or maybe it’s just easier than dealing with the chaos inside.”

He nodded slowly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps the trick is learning to find strength in the chaos without letting it consume you.”

You looked at him, your usual smirk faltering just for a heartbeat. Then, with a sly grin, you shrugged it off. “Sounds like a nice idea for a fairy tale.”

Solomon laughed softly, appreciating your deflection even as he saw through it. You were a challenge a puzzle with no easy solution. And that was what made you endlessly fascinating.

He knew this wouldn’t be a simple story with neat endings or clear answers. The dance between order and chaos, between your sharp edges and his calm wisdom, was ongoing. Sometimes exhilarating, sometimes frustrating, always charged with an electric tension neither of you fully understood.

But Solomon didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

Because with you, every moment was unpredictable. Every conversation was a game. And beneath all the sarcasm and boundary-pushing, there was a connection that neither of you were quite ready to name but both felt deeply.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

Thank you for reading I hope u all enjoyed! 🩷 As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

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nyxs2 · 22 days ago

Text

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 23/?)

Bargaining is a game of power — some are born to make demands, others to obey. But power is fickle. And sometimes, the one who once dictated the terms finds themselves with no choice but to accept whatever is offered… no matter how bitter the price.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 10,5K

Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, "death", emotional manipulation, allusion to human experiments, threats with weapons, canon-typical Silco violence, home invasion, reader and Silco are two peas in a pod, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, proceed at your own risk.

Part 22

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

The shift in power dynamics was almost amusing—if one could strip away the heavy weight of context behind it. In any other scenario, with any other person, Silco would have crushed such audacity without hesitation.

To sit in his chair, to assume even the illusion of control within his domain, to look at him with such blatant contempt—it was the kind of insolence he did not tolerate. He would have made them regret it. Made them understand, in no uncertain terms, that no one stole authority from him. Not in his own office. Not in his own city.

But not her.

She could sit there, in that leather-bound throne that served as a hollow symbol of his rule, and he would do nothing. She could pierce him with that gaze, laced with disappointment, resentment, and still, he would not look away. She could demand anything of him—his resources, his influence, his loyalty—and Silco could not summon the strength to deny her.

He had always been weak when it came to the few things he allowed himself to love. The only things that mattered in the grand scheme of his existence: Jinx, the nation of Zaun, and her.

Silco moved with deliberate slowness, lowering himself into the chair across from his desk—her desk now, if the shift in positioning meant anything. It was a seat he had never taken before. It was unnatural, sitting on this side of the desk, looking at her where he should have been. And yet, he did not correct it.

She watched him through the mask, impassive, unreadable. He masked his own reaction just as well, though the urge clawed at the edges of his restraint—to reach across the desk and tear that damn thing from her face, to finally see her after weeks of absence.

Silco would not apologize. He did not believe in apologies, nor did he feel guilt. But he could admit—to himself, if nothing else—that he had felt her absence in a way that was wholly inconvenient.

"How did you get in?" His voice carried its usual weight, the authority that was his by right, even though the very nature of this interaction threatened to undermine it.

"Your men are incompetent, but you already know that." She leaned back in the chair as if it had always belonged to her, as if she belonged there. "I didn't kill them, if that's what you're wondering. Their deaths would have been unnecessary."

Silco tilted his head slightly, studying her. Unnecessary. The word implied a level of calculation he could appreciate, though it was hardly reassuring. Especially coming from her. That was weird.

"And what exactly would you consider a necessary death in this context?" His voice remained cold, polished, as if her sudden reappearance did not rattle something deep inside him. It was a well-crafted illusion, the pretense of indifference, but she had always been irritatingly adept at seeing through him. "Mine? Is that why you came back? To finish what you started?"

"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have made it through that door." She exhaled loudly, exaggerated, as if the very suggestion bored her. "Your death doesn't interest me."

Silco let out a dry, humorless laugh, more a breath of air escaping his throat than anything else. "Says the one who tried to kill me."

"And can you blame me?" Her voice held no hesitation, no regret—only the quiet, razor-sharp edge of conviction. "After everything you did, I had the right to take revenge on you."

There was a bitterness on Silco's tongue, sharp and acrid, as the irony of the situation settled over him like a cruel joke. He had been the one to teach her how to see vengeance with different eyes—to look beyond blind fury and understand its true purpose, its true power. And now, here she was, using that very understanding against him. A perfectly executed twist of fate.

"Then why are you here?"

She held his gaze for a few lingering moments before turning her face away, as if searching for the answer somewhere beyond the walls of his office. Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding, as he watched the gears in her mind turn, watched the conflict play out in the slightest shifts of her expression. And then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the sharp, murderous tension in the room—in her—dissolved into nothing.

"I spent a long time thinking about this. About what I would do... if I ever saw you again." She went on, slower now, choosing each phrase with the care of someone picking through glass. "I ran through every version of it. Barging into your office. Screaming at you. Putting a knife to your throat. Just to see if you'd flinch." Her lip curled into the faintest, bitter smile.

Silco let out a slow breath, but didn't break eye contact. He could almost taste the storm still swirling in her—anger, grief, betrayal, all weathered now, matured into something quieter but no less potent.

"But I didn't come here to hurt you." she shaking her head slightly, as if that realization still baffled her. "That would've been easy. Too easy. Just another cycle of blood and pain and—"

"Then what you want?"

"I want clarity, closure, maybe. I don't know." Her brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, he saw the weight of her journey—emotional, mental, everything in between. "I came to a conclusion, that if I confronted you, it wouldn't be with fists or fury. It would be on my terms. Calm. Measured. Just... words." Her voice faltered for a second, and she inhaled slowly, grounding herself. "I told myself I would be better than you."

He tilted his head slightly, searching her face. "And here you are. Not screaming. Not armed. Just standing there."

Her eyes met his again, and this time, there was something fragile behind them. Wounded, but not broken.

"Yeah, that was the plan."

A pause. She exhaled, and her shoulders sank—just enough to signal the collapse of all that hard-won control.

"Until I saw you... It's realizing how much I missed you."

When she moved to stand, Silco's body reacted on instinct, mirroring her, rising before he could think better of it. He met her in the middle, stopping just short of closing the distance between them. Now, they stood face to face, and the silence between them was no longer empty—it was heavy, brimming with everything unsaid. Words neither of them had the courage nor the willingness to speak aloud.

"I still love you, Silco."

The words struck something deep inside him, something buried beneath layers of hardened resolve and carefully cultivated detachment. He had expected accusations, anger, maybe even another attempt at retribution—but not this. Not love.

Her gaze softened, and then, slowly, her hand rose to his face. The tips of her fingers, unnervingly cold, traced over the ruined side of his cheek with a gentleness that should have felt familiar. That used to feel familiar. But something was wrong.

Silco remained utterly still, his breath shallow as her fingers ghosted over his scarred skin. The touch should have grounded him, should have felt like her. And yet, it didn't. It was too cold, too distant. There was no warmth in it.

Wait... Cold? No—his dove had never been cold.

She had always been warmth, his warmth—the only thing in this forsaken city that had ever felt alive against the endless chill of Zaun. She had always been the comfortable heat that clung to him, defying the cold that ran through his veins, defying the ruthless world that had tried to strip them both of their softness. That was who she was.

This woman? This woman was a ghost, wearing her face, speaking in her voice. But she was not his.

His dove had not returned to him.

Whatever had crawled back into his office tonight was something else entirely.

Silco moved before he could think—before hesitation could sink its claws into his mind and convince him to stop. In an instant, he had her pinned against the desk, the force of it making papers and trinkets scatter onto the floor. His grip was iron-clad, one hand pressing her down, the other drawing his dagger with practiced ease. The cold edge of the blade met the delicate skin of her throat, just firm enough to warn, just sharp enough to threaten.

Her hands shot up to his wrist, fingers curling around it—but she didn't push him away.

"What was the name of your friend? The one I killed?"

"What?!" She frowned, confusion flashing across her face. "You're seriously questioning if I'm me right now?"

Silco didn't blink. Didn't waver. "Say her name."

A flicker of something—anger, disbelief—passed through her expression. "Alright, that's enough." She began to push against him, movements shifting from restrained patience to genuine force. "Let me go, Silco."

"Answer me."

Her fingers tightened on his wrist. "Don't make me hurt you."

The way she said it—so casual, so offhanded, as if it were merely an inconvenience—only made the dread coil tighter in his stomach. That wasn't right. She wasn't right. She struggled harder, enough that he had to readjust his grip to keep her in place. The moment she tried to break free, Silco shifted the dagger downward, the tip now hovering just above her heart.

"One name." he ground out, his patience fraying by the second. "Give me one damn name and I'll stop."

He wasn't asking for much. Just proof. Just something to hold onto, something to tell him he was wrong, that the creeping, suffocating certainty in his gut was misplaced. He needed to be wrong. Because if he wasn't—

"Say the name!"

"Enough!"

Silco didn't give her the chance to strike first.

In one swift motion, he drove the dagger forward, the blade piercing through fabric, through flesh, through the fragile thing that beat beneath her ribs. For a second—just one agonizing second—nothing happened.

Then, he felt it. The subtle resistance of muscle and bone giving way, the faint shudder of her body beneath him. The warmth of blood seeping over his fingers, staining the hilt, pooling between them. Her lips parted, and at first, there was only a shallow, breathless gasp. Then, a sickening, wet cough, crimson spilling past her lips like a promise of death.

Silco exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath without realizing it. He withdrew the blade just as quickly as he had plunged it in, the motion smooth, practiced—too practiced. As if he had done this a hundred times before. As if it were no different from all the other lives he had taken without hesitation.

But this was different.

He didn't even think before his hands moved, reaching for her, ripping away the damned mask that had separated them. He needed to see. Needed to know. The moment the mask fell, he almost wished he hadn't looked.

Pain twisted her features, raw and unfiltered. Her mouth trembled, bloodied, a ragged breath catching in her throat as if she were struggling to pull air into lungs that had already betrayed her. And her eyes—fuck—her eyes weren't defiant or cold or vengeful. They were wide. Shocked. Searching. Something inside Silco twisted, something primal and gut-wrenching, something he had not felt in a long, long time.

Regret.

The taste of it was bitter, acrid, suffocating. He watched, helpless, as the life bled out of her, as the weight of her body sagged, limbs going slack, breath stuttering into silence. And then—nothing. Her body was still. Her eyes, once filled with something fiery and alive, were now empty, fixed on a meaningless point beyond him.

Dead.

Oh God... what had he done?

His breath came shallow. His grip loosened, fingers hovering uselessly near her as if there was still something left to save. But there wasn't. He had made sure of that. But before the weight of what he had done could fully settle, before he could feel it—

She moved.

Silco's blood ran cold. The body beneath him, the corpse, shifted. Her head tilted, slow, unnatural, and then her eyes—wrong, impossibly wrong—golden, inhuman—snapped to meet his.

"Didn't think you had it in you..." Her voice was still hers. But it wasn't. The cadence, the weight, the very presence behind it was someone—something—else entirely. A mocking, amused lilt twisted through her words, stretching them into something sickly sweet and dripping with satisfaction. "You people never cease to surprise me."

Silco didn't move. Couldn't breathe. Then she smiled. A small, knowing, cruel thing.

"So, tell me, Silco... How does it feel?" Her voice dipped lower, almost intimate, as if sharing a secret meant only for him. " How does it feel to kill the love of your life?"

Silco did not answer.

He didn't react the way she wanted him to. There was no sharp breath of regret, no whispered admission of horror, no desperate attempt to deny the truth she dangled before him like a rotten fruit waiting to be plucked.

The fear that had gripped him, cold and insidious, burned away in an instant—consumed by something far older, far uglier. A rage that had been carved into his bones, that had been refined through years of blood and betrayal. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her arms, forcing her body down against the desk with such brutal force that it had to be painful. The wood groaned under the pressure, but he didn't care. Let it splinter. Let her splinter.

"What did you do to her?"

The imposter—because that's all she was now, an imposter wearing a face she had no right to wear—tilted her head, utterly unfazed despite the weight bearing down on her. If anything, there was amusement in the golden glow of her gaze, as if she were savoring his reaction like a well-aged wine. Silco pressed harder. A sick part of him wanted to hear her wince.

"What. Did. You. Do."

"I didn't hurt her, unlike you. I simply helped her see the truth." She exhaled, almost playfully, the air brushing against his scarred cheek. "She had to learn sooner or later, didn't she?"

His patience snapped. His hand moved, fingers wrapping around her throat—not to crush, not to kill, but to control. To wipe the damnable smirk from her face and force her to give him the answers he needed.

"What you gain from this." His grip flexed, his thumb pressing into the hollow of her throat, the pressure just enough to steal her breath. "What the hell do you want?"

She grinned—actually grinned—as if all of this was playing out exactly as she had hoped.

"The noble satisfaction of watching a soul freed from its captor." She spoke as if it were a divine revelation, as if she had done something good. "It's a beautiful thing, really."

Silco's jaw locked. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything but her words.

"You think yourself her savior?"

"No, but what makes you so different from her old master?"

The air between them turned sharp, suffocating. Silco knew what she was trying to do. He knew the game she was playing, the way she wove her words like a blade meant to cut at his weakest points. But it didn't stop the wound from bleeding.

Silco released her as though burned, his fingers recoiling, as if merely touching her had seared through flesh and bone. He took several slow steps back, distancing himself—not out of fear, but as if space alone could provide him some level of understanding, some way to discern what exactly was standing before him.

Because whatever this was, it was not her.

The realization settled into his gut like a stone. He had always been a man who prided himself on his ability to see through deception, to cut past the layers of pretense people draped themselves in. Yet here he was, fooled, for even a second, by this thing that had taken her form. Something powerful enough to twist minds, to coerce, to force people into submission with nothing but its will—and now, it seemed, something capable of wearing another's face, stepping into their skin like an actor slipping into a role.

Violence would not solve this. No blade, no bullet, no well-placed knife between the ribs could fix what stood before him. His dove had likely reached that same conclusion at the masquerade. She had chosen a different approach—negotiation.

Then negotiation it would be.

With a slow inhale, Silco smoothed his expression, allowing the previous flicker of rage to be wiped from his face, replaced instead with something cold, calculating. The anger was still there, burning low beneath the surface, but he would not allow it to rule him. He slipped into the role he knew best—the careful, composed manipulator.

"You must be the one she mentioned at the ball." His voice carried an even, almost conversational tone, as if this were nothing more than an ordinary business exchange. "She said you'd be interested in negotiating."

The imposter—no, the thing—settled itself atop his desk, utterly unbothered by the blood soaking its clothes from his earlier attack. The crimson stained the fine wood beneath her, pooling, dripping, a grotesque contrast to her composed posture. She crossed her legs, lifted her chin in a show of effortless arrogance.

"You and I agree on one thing." Her voice was smooth, lilting, almost indulgent. "Her former master was a fool. A shortsighted man who squandered her potential, reducing her to nothing more than a mindless weapon, an unleashed beast of war. But you...you made the same mistake. You thought you could control something that does not require control."

Silco did not react—not visibly. But the words dug their way beneath his skin, their intent obvious. A provocation. A test.

He did not rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped forward, closing part of the distance he had placed between them, though not enough to be within reach.

"Spare me the poetry." his voice was calm, even, but razor-sharp beneath the surface. "You mock me for trying to control her, yet what is it your little organization wants, if not the very same? Or is it only a mistake when I do it?"

A dry smirk flickered across his lips, though it did not reach his eye.

"If she were truly beyond your grasp, if she were as free as you claim she ought to be, would we even be having this conversation? Or would you already have taken what you wanted and left my city to rot?"

She regarded him in silence, her expression unreadable. Then, a quiet chuckle slipped from her lips—soft, almost melodic, the kind of laugh that could be mistaken for something pleasant if one didn't know better.

"If we wanted control, Silco, there would be no need for words." She tilted her head slightly, the movement almost fond, as if she were entertaining a child's flawed reasoning. "Zaun and Piltover alike would already be beneath Noxian rule. There would be no struggle, no rebellion, no delusions of autonomy. Just silence. Obedience. And yet, here we are, speaking as equals. Now, what does that tell you?"

Silco clenched his jaw, but he did not speak. Her lips curled in something akin to satisfaction.

"We do not want this land." she continued, her tone dismissive, as if Zaun and Piltover were mere insignificant blights on the map. "There is nothing here that interests us. No armies, no riches worth the trouble of conquest. But the technology, more precisely what scientists can achieve with the right incentive... ah, now that is another matter entirely."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking onto his, and for the first time, Silco felt the weight of something far older, far more dangerous than mere politics pressing down on him.

"There is a thin line between magic and technology, Silco. One that your little dove managed to cross thanks to the technological advances of this city's scientists." A slow smile stretched across her lips, and it was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who already knew the ending of the story. "That is what interests me. Not your city, not your petty power struggles. Only her. And the question you should be asking yourself is... Does she even understand what she's become?"

Silco felt something cold curl at the base of his spine. Because for all his careful planning, for all his ruthless control—he wasn't sure he knew the answer to that question either.

Her smirk remained as she studied him, watching every flicker of thought pass behind his one good eye. She was enjoying this—enjoying the weight of her words settling over him like an iron noose. But Silco was not a man who reacted without purpose. He did not flinch. Did not scowl. He simply listened.

"Immortality comes at a cost. A price must always be paid." her voice was smooth, almost gentle, as if explaining something inevitable. "Sometimes it is longevity, like the Yordles, creatures who outlive empires, watching generations rise and fall. Other times, it manifests differently... an inability to die by natural means, or even by the hand of another. But each version has its own burden. Its own sacrifice."

She let that sit between them for a moment, then tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with something dangerous. "And your little dove? Her price is one that can be controlled. And you know it. You knew it the moment you started scheming to bend it in your favor."

Silco remained silent, but his hand clenched into a tightly clenched fist, as if to contain his dissatisfaction. A small tell—one she surely caught.

"She cannot die, not by natural causes, not by another's hand." she exhaled, almost wistfully, as if the very concept fascinated her. "The only thing that can end her is herself."

Hearing those same words from Singed was a completely different thing than hearing them coming out of the mouth of the being sitting at the desk. A being who knew more than he let on, who understood her more than Silco could possibly understand. Who was now declaring loud and clear that there was magic involved—which was problematic because his dove probably didn't even know that detail.

But if aquele ser thought that this knowledge would rattle him, she was sorely mistaken. He had never been one to flinch from unpleasant truths. If anything, it only made him more determined.

He placed both hands behind his back, and straightened his posture. More erect, more indifferent, more imposing. "You went through all the trouble of taking her from me, and now you sit here, giving me the answers I've been searching for. Why reveal all of this?"

There was no amusement in her smirk this time. Instead, there was something far more unsettling—satisfaction. It was uncomfortable to see her acting in a way that didn't look like her at all. It was almost sinful in fact, an affront to her image.

"Because, Silco..." She brought her hand to her chest, the tips of her hands tracing the now-dry blood, as if she wanted to remind him of his actions. As if the image of her dying in his arms wasn't traumatic enough. "You are not my enemy. Never have been. And more importantly—" she looked up at him "I know exactly what kind of man you are."

Silco tried not to look like this was ringing all the alarm bells in his mind. It wasn't pleasant to have someone watching every aspect of his life, much less someone saying they knew him.

"You will break every rule. Shatter every alliance. Tear down everything you built with your own hands if it means keeping what you love protected. and in the end, when the weight of that price comes crashing down..."

A slow, knowing smile.

"You will still pay it."

This damn woman...

He squeezed the wrist he held behind his back. She seemed like a woman who played with tongue like an artist played with paint, weaving meaning between the lines, dressing threats as wisdom, shaping deception into something dangerously alluring.

"She is like fire. Uncontrollably beautiful, untamed in its destruction. But fire, can be directed. It can be pointed toward what must burn."

She raised a finger at him, half accusatory, half demonstrative.

"You were mistaken in thinking you could control her." She tilted her head slightly, her gaze never wavering from his. "That was never your role. You do not have to hold the leash, you simply have to be the one who guides her."

She then leaned back, her hands bracing themselves on the table, her body in all its morbid glory. Silco would have enjoyed the sight if it had been his real dove there and not some unfortunate cheap imitation. All he could feel when he looked at her was anger, disgust, and distrust.

"But for that to happen, she must understand herself first. She must stop molding herself to the expectations of others, yours, her old master's, anyone's. Only when she accepts what she truly is, when she stops denying the inevitable, will she allow herself to be led."

Silco inhaled slowly through his nose, carefully measured. The weight of her words pressed against him, the implications curling around his thoughts like a vice. He didn't really trust her, but that didn't mean her words didn't make him think. Because, despite everything, she seemed to know very well what was going on.

He did understand what she was saying. His dove had clung to remnants of an identity she no longer fit into, as if afraid to step fully into the reality of what she had become.

And he—he had wanted to shape that reality for her. To make it something manageable, something that fit within the vision he had for Zaun, for himself, for her. But that damned woman—thing—was right about one thing. She would never be controlled. Not by him, not by anyone.

Silco's lips pressed into a thin line. He had never been a man who liked to admit when he was wrong. But he wasn't so arrogant as to deny a truth when it was staring him in the face.

She seemed to see the shift in his expression, because she let out a soft hum of amusement. "You understand the implications of what I'm telling you, don't you?"

Silco exhaled slowly, his voice a quiet murmur. "I do."

"Good." her posture still impossibly composed, impossibly self-assured. "That's why I want an alliance with you, Silco. Not to keep you on a leash, not to subdue you." A smirk played at the corner of her lips. "Because, once again, if we wanted Piltover or Zaun under our rule, nothing could stop us."

Every time she spoke about this Noxian grandeur capable of subduing both cities, he felt compelled to stab her again even though he knew it wouldn't kill her.

"I want an alliance because I know the value of having someone like you in my ranks. You are not a man who bends. but rather the one who understands the game. And in the right circumstances, with the right leverage, you are a man who is willing to burn the world down if it means getting what you want."

A pause.

"And that, Silco, is precisely the kind of man I like to keep close." Silco felt his muscles tense the moment she continued. "For your information, she is not in Zaun anymore."

The words cut through the air like the edge of a blade, sharper than anything she had said before. He masked his reaction well, years of control keeping his expression impassive, but inside snapped into place. His grip tightened.

"Where?"

She smiled, slow and knowing, as if she had been waiting for that exact reaction "She is safe. That is all you need to concern yourself with. She is following her own path now, as she was always meant to."

Silco's eye narrowed. "And you expect me to simply accept that?"

"Yes."

A quiet rage burned beneath his ribs, simmering beneath the surface like a slow-moving poison. He did not like being played. Did not like having the rug pulled from beneath him by someone who wielded words like a weapon. But she was no fool. She knew exactly where to press, exactly how to lay her traps without ever needing to get her hands dirty.

"You should let her complete this journey on her own. Only then will she truly understand what she is. What she was always meant to be."

Silco exhaled slowly through his nose, his patience a taut string on the verge of snapping. He wanted—needed—to see her for himself, to know that she was safe, that she was still the woman he had fought to keep at his side. But that damn thing in front of him was making it clear that this was not his choice to make. Not anymore.

"And what guarantee do I have, that she will remain alive long enough to reach that understanding?"

She chuckled, shaking her head slightly, as if the question itself amused her.

"Oh, Silco... Do you truly believe that it was fate or luck that kept her alive every time she reached the limit?" Her eyes gleamed with something dark and unreadable. "She will live. That, I can promise you. But in return, I ask something of you."

Silco remained silent, waiting.

"Consider my offer." she said smoothly. "Consider what it would mean to stand at my side rather than fight a battle you cannot win. I do not ask for your chains, nor do I seek to shackle you. I only ask for your loyalty, a rare and valuable thing in a world of liars and thieves."

Silco studied her, weighing her words with care. She was a master manipulator, a woman who saw the world as a chessboard, every piece carefully placed to serve her will. He did not trust her—would likely never trust her—but trust was never a prerequisite for negotiation.

And the truth was, she had him trapped. She had what he valued most. And she knew it. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Silco closed his eye, inhaling deeply, before finally exhaling through his nose.

This negotiation was never in his favor from the beginning.

"Fine." he murmured. A single word, but one that sealed the deal. "I will consider this alliance."

She smiled like a cat that had caught a particularly troublesome mouse.

"A wise choice."

But he wasn't finished yet.

"But I still fail to see what you gain from this. If all you wanted was someone to guide her, you wouldn't need me in the equation. So why?"

Her smile did not fade. If anything, it grew wider. "That doesn't concern you."

She rose from the desk with an effortless grace. Silco watched her as she moved, carrying the weight of someone who knew the exact effect they had on the room. She made her way to the large window of his office, her hands clasped behind her back as she gazed out over the neon-lit sprawl of Zaun. The city flickered below, alive and restless, but she looked upon it with the disinterest of a woman who had seen a thousand cities rise and fall before.

"A small warning, Silco." her voice was thoughtful, almost amused. "Consider it a kindness... a gesture of goodwill for what I foresee as a most promising alliance."

"Say it."

"Love will be the cause of your death."

The statement was simple, matter-of-fact. Not a threat. Not a taunt. A prophecy spoken with the certainty of someone who had already seen it unfold.

Silco felt a slow coil of tension tighten in his gut, something dark and insidious curling at the edges of his mind. It was not the first time someone had weaponized the notion against him—love, after all, was a vulnerability, a weakness, something he had long since learned to wield against others but had never quite managed to keep from infecting himself.

His eye met hers in the reflection of the glass when she turned her head slightly, just enough for him to catch the knowing glint in her gaze. They held the stare for a breath, a moment suspended in time, before—

"Boss." Sevika's voice cut through the tension, Sevika's voice cut through the tension, steady, grounding and muffled. "Can I come in?"

Silco's eye flicked toward the door for the briefest moment. When he turned back—

She was gone.

On his desk, as if placed with the utmost care, lay a single black rose. Its petals were impossibly dark, absorbing the dim light of the room rather than reflecting it. And beside it, the mask she had worn. A symbol of the illusion, now discarded, unnecessary.

"Boss?" Sevika's voice came again, more insistent this time.

Silco exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. "Enter."

The door creaked open behind him, the heavy sound of Sevika's boots stepping inside filling the space. But Silco did not turn. He remained as he was, her words echoed in his mind.

"Love will be the cause of your death."

How quaint.

Sevika took in the room with a quick, assessing glance—always vigilant, always reading the atmosphere, though she was wise enough to know when to keep her observations to herself. If she noticed the strange tension that still clung to the air, the lingering weight of something other, she made no mention of it.

Good.

Silco preferred it that way.

The last thing he needed was questions. Questions led to speculation. Speculation led to doubt. And doubt, in their world, was a dangerous thing. Sevika was smart enough to let it lie. She had learned long ago that some things weren't meant to be spoken aloud. If Silco wasn't bringing it up, then it wasn't important—at least, not to anyone but himself.

And that suited him just fine.

"Marcus sent this," she said, her tone neutral, her posture loose but still carrying that ever-present edge of readiness. She held out an envelope, thick and folded neatly, the paper bearing the subtle creases of careful handling. "Thought you'd like to read it."

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

Marcus's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

A few hours before.

Marcus hated the night shift. Not just because of the exhaustion that clawed at his bones every morning, leaving him a useless wreck for the rest of the day, but because it meant missing the quiet moments with Ren. He told himself she was strong, that she could sleep without him tucking her in, that she didn't need a bedtime story or the comfort of his presence.

But that didn't make it any easier. Especially when every hour spent out there, obeying Silco's goddamn orders, felt like another crack forming in the fragile wall he had built to keep his home—his real life—separate from the filth of his work.

It was hard enough finding a trustworthy babysitter. Not just someone reliable, but someone incorruptible. Silco's reach was long, and Marcus couldn't afford the slightest risk of that bastard slithering his way into his sanctuary. His house was the only place left untouched, the only thing still pure. And now, as if things weren't bad enough, he had to deal with her.

The first encounter had already been a nightmare, and he had barely managed to keep himself from snapping under the weight of it. He couldn't afford another encounter.

For his daughter's sake, for his own, he had to keep playing the part. Keep the mask on. Keep being the obedient dog. If only he could go back, undo that first mistake, refuse that first deal—maybe, just maybe, things would be different.

Marcus sighed heavily, running a hand down his face before stepping inside. He moved on autopilot, unhooking his badge and setting his weapon down as he approached Ren's room. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but the familiar sight of her small, peaceful form always made it worthwhile. A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips. No matter how much filth he waded through, this—she—was his reason to keep going.

But the moment he pushed the door open, the warmth in his chest turned to ice. The smile died, contorting into raw horror as his eyes locked onto the scene before him. There, sitting on the edge of the bed, was her. His personal ghost. His worst fucking nightmare.

And in her arms—Ren. Unconscious. Limp.

His world lurched, his breath catching in his throat. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to move, to do something, but for one agonizing second, he was frozen, staring at the impossible. His hand instinctively twitched toward the holster at his hip—empty. His gun was back at the door.

His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, his blood roaring in his ears as a thousand thoughts clashed and tangled in his mind. How? How did she get in? How did she find Ren? What the fuck was she doing here?

And, most terrifying of all—what had she done to his daughter?

Marcus's breath came fast and shallow, his chest tightening with something primal—fear, rage, the desperate urge to act. But he forced himself to stay still. To think. If he moved too fast, if he let the panic take over, he could make this worse. And he couldn't afford that. Not with her sitting there. Not with Ren still cradled in those hands.

Those hands.

The same hands that had ended lives without hesitation, that had bathed in blood and left ruin in their wake, now touching something as pure as his daughter. It was obscene. A twisted mockery of tenderness. The way she ran her fingers through Ren's hair, slow and deliberate, rocking her ever so slightly—it looked gentle. Protective, even. If he hadn't known better, if it had been anyone else, maybe it would've been a picture of comfort.

But it wasn't anyone else. It was her.

Marcus swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady. It barely came out as more than a breath.

"Put her down."

She didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge the words, not really. Her gaze remained on Ren, studying the sleeping child like some strange puzzle she was trying to solve. A quiet moment passed before she finally spoke, her voice calm. Almost amused.

"She has no survival instinct."

Marcus stiffened.

"She didn't even hesitate." she continued, fingers still combing through Ren's hair. "Didn't question why a stranger was in her home. Didn't scream. Just let me in like it was the most natural thing in the world." She let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. "You'd think a child raised by you would know better."

Marcus clenched his fists. His body screamed at him to do something, but he knew better than to let emotion drive him. Not now. Not with her.

"She's just a kid." he said, firmer this time. "She doesn't—she shouldn't have to think like that."

That earned him something. A reaction, finally. She let out a quiet laugh, low and humorless, and it sent something cold curling in his gut.

"She shouldn't have to." she echoed, her voice almost mocking. "But the world doesn't give a damn about what children should or shouldn't have to do." Finally, she turned to him. Her gaze pinned him in place, sharp and unreadable. "It's almost impressive, really. That something so... innocent came from something as corrupt as you."

Marcus swallowed the retort that burned in his throat. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. He wouldn't let her goad him into a fight, not when Ren was still within her reach. Instead, he took a slow step forward, hands open, careful, measured.

"Please..." The word tasted foreign in his mouth, bitter, but he forced it out anyway. "Just let her go. She's—she's just a child."

The laughter that followed was soft, almost delicate. And absolutely devoid of warmth. Her grip on Ren didn't tighten. Didn't shift, but something in the air between them did.

"I was too."

Marcus didn't move. Couldn't. Not until she finally shifted, finally stood from the bed and—thank god—placed Ren back down onto the mattress. The moment her hands left his daughter, his lungs seemed to remember how to work again, and he took in his first real breath since stepping into the room. He exhaled shakily, eyes locked on Ren's small form, watching—waiting—for any sign of distress. But she didn't stir. Didn't even react. Just curled into the blankets, breathing steady, undisturbed.

For a split second, Marcus considered waking her up, just to see those bright eyes, just to know she was alright. But he forced himself to stay still. The last thing he needed was to drag Ren into this nightmare. She'd had enough ghosts creeping into her world already.

And then, finally, he looked at her. Really looked at her.

His stomach twisted.

Maybe it was the weight of the moment, the sheer force of dread that had gripped him when he first stepped into the room, but somehow, somehow, he hadn't noticed the mask. A simple thing, almost unremarkable. A second skin over her features, concealing everything but the sharp glint of her eyes beneath the dim light.

Marcus wasn't sure if it made her presence better or worse.

She moved toward the door, her steps slow and deliberate, the soft sound of her boots against the wooden floor suddenly the loudest thing in the house. He didn't trust it. Didn't trust her. The fact that she was walking away without a fight, without some final cruel remark—what the hell did it mean? Was this over? Was it ever that simple?

His muscles tensed, but he forced himself to move. Marcus turned, trailing a few steps behind her, his eyes flicking to where he had left his gun. If he could just get to it, if he could just—

His stomach dropped.

She was already there.

His blood ran cold as he watched her effortlessly dismantle the weapon, fingers moving with an ease that sent ice straight through his veins. The bullets clattered softly against the wooden surface, discarded like useless trinkets, the empty gun left behind just as quickly.

She had done it without even looking. Like she had done it a thousand times before.

Marcus clenched his jaw.

"How did you find out my address?" his voice was low, controlled. But before she could answer, he was already demanding more. "How the fuck did you get into Piltover without an Enforcer catching you?"

She didn't hesitate. Didn't stop, didn't fumble, didn't waver.

"Well..." She tilted her head slightly, voice calm, almost thoughtful. "First of all, if you threaten someone enough, they'll even tell you their mother's address. Secondly, unconscious enforcers aren't much use to anyone."

Marcus felt something hot coil in his chest—rage, fear, dread. But before he could react, before he could push further, she set the empty gun down with a quiet thud and added, almost as an afterthought—

"I didn't kill anyone, if that's what you're worried about."

Marcus felt his body tighten at her words. I didn't kill anyone. He should have been relieved. He should have felt something close to relief. But the fact that she even needed to clarify it, the fact that an unconscious Enforcer somewhere in Piltover was proof of just how easily she had walked right past every security measure, past him, into his goddamn house—

No. Relief was the last thing he felt.

His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, itching for a weapon that was now nothing more than a useless hunk of metal on the table. He shifted his weight forward, watching her closely as she adjusted the mask on her face, her posture unnervingly relaxed, as if she belonged here, as if this was just another room, just another night.

"Did Silco send you?"

He expected an immediate response. Some bored quip, maybe a sneer, or even a carefully measured lie. What he didn't expect was the reaction he actually got. Her entire body tensed—not with hesitation, not with fear, but something else. Something deeper. Something Marcus couldn't quite name.

A crack in the mask.

It was barely there, a fleeting moment, but Marcus was trained to notice details. And for that fraction of a second, her hands tightened ever so slightly at her sides, her shoulders going rigid. The weight of the name alone was enough to drag something out of her, something she hadn't meant to show.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"Silco and I no longer have any business."

Marcus raised a brow, masking his own unease with dry skepticism. "I thought you were his Baroness."

The corner of his mouth curled slightly, just the smallest trace of sarcasm bleeding into his words. He was baiting her, testing, pushing—because whatever that reaction had been, it meant something. And if there was anything Marcus had learned in his years as an Enforcer, it was that knowing why someone flinched could be just as important as knowing when they'd strike.

But she didn't take the bait.

"I renounced that title." Simple. Cold. Her head turned slightly, and though he couldn't see her expression beneath the mask, Marcus felt the weight of her gaze. "Silco is no longer my concern."

That set off about a dozen alarms in his head.

Silco didn't just lose people. He owned them. And the ones who tried to walk away? They didn't stay breathing for long. If she was still alive, still standing here in his goddamn house, it meant one of two things—either Silco had let her go, or she had made it so he couldn't stop her. And Marcus wasn't sure which option was worse.

His fingers twitched at his side, itching to reach for a gun that wasn't loaded anymore. "Then why are you here?" he asked, voice tight. "Why risk coming back to Piltover when you know you're being hunted?"

A pause. Just a beat.

Then—

"I need you to find someone for me."

For a long moment, Marcus just stared at her, his mind trying to piece together the implication behind her words.

"You're still going on about that? I told you, I haven't found the man yet. It's not exactly easy to track down someone who doesn't have so much as a single public record under the name of this so-called founder of the old Institute—"

"I'm not talking about him."

Her voice cut through his words with a sharp finality that made Marcus stop short. His brow furrowed, confusion creeping in.

"Then who—"

She hesitated. And that alone sent a fresh wave of unease crawling up his spine. Because she never hesitated.

Whatever she wanted, whatever she came for, she always seemed to know exactly how to say it. Every word, every movement was calculated. But now—standing here, in his home—now, she was hesitating? Her fingers flexed slightly at her sides, a small, almost imperceptible motion. Like she was questioning something. Or maybe, questioning herself.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"I'm looking for my daughter."

Marcus felt the words land like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs. Of all the things she could have said—of all the possibilities he had tried to brace himself for—that sure as hell wasn't one of them. His mind stalled, struggling to process it.

"Your daughter?"

She nodded once, short and firm. "Yes."

His first instinct was to call bullshit. Because what she was saying—it didn't fit. It didn't make sense. He had known her, had seen the blood she left in her wake, had watched her tear through anyone in her way like they were nothing but obstacles to be removed. She was the embodiment of death, of cold, merciless efficiency. She didn't hesitate. She didn't doubt.

She wasn't a mother.

And yet—

"She should be around seventeen or eighteen by now," she continued, her voice steady, but there was something beneath it. A weight. A hesitation she was trying to bury. "I don't know for sure."

Marcus forced himself to blink, to breathe, to think. She didn't know for sure? His stomach twisted. The way she said it—it wasn't just uncertainty. It was something else. Something deeper. Something Marcus had heard before, in the voices of people who had lost things they never expected to get back.

And for the first time since she had stepped into his house, Marcus didn't know what to say. His instincts screamed at him to be careful. To keep his guard up, to measure every word, every movement. But curiosity—it was a dangerous thing. And right now, it was gnawing at the edges of his mind, urging him to let her speak. To listen.

She stepped closer, the dim light catching against the mask that still obscured her face. When she spoke, her voice was steady, deliberate.

"She has pink hair. Messy, always looks like she's been in a fight. Because she usually has. A mouth that gets her into trouble, a temper to match, and an attitude that makes people want to either strangle her or drag her into a fight. She's stubborn. Too damn stubborn for her own good." She paused, tilting her head slightly. "You must've come across a kid like that before."

Marcus felt his stomach drop.

He knew exactly who she was talking about. How the hell could he not?

Pink hair. Fights too much. Always mouthing off. A walking storm, too much fire in her for a kid that young. He had seen that fire firsthand, had watched it burn too brightly in her eyes when he dragged her kicking and screaming into Stillwater.

Vi.

The name hovered on the edge of his tongue, but he didn't say it. Not yet. Instead, he let her talk, waiting, watching, trying to fit the pieces together.

"She was one of Vander's." her voice was quieter now. There was something in the way she said it—something careful. "One of his kids."

Vander.

That name alone was enough to make Marcus tense. The man had been a problem—one that the previous Sheriff had known how to handle, how to keep in check. Vander had his own kind of power in Zaun, a quiet influence that had managed to keep the Undercity from tearing itself apart. And for a long time, there had been a balance. A deal. One that had died along with the old Sheriff.

Marcus frowned. He wasn't sure which part was stranger—the fact that she was talking about Vander like this, or the fact that she was calling that pink-haired girl hers.

He let the silence stretch just a little longer before he finally spoke.

"You and Vander..." he said slowly, testing the words, "You were their parents?"

Because the math wasn't adding up. It didn't make sense. She and Vander? The timelines didn't match. The ages didn't match. And yet, she didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. But she didn't answer, either.

"Yes."

There it was. The reason she was here. The reason she had dared to step back into Piltover, despite knowing that the second the wrong person spotted her, it would be a death sentence. But it wasn't the words themselves that unsettled him—it was the way she said them. Steady. Unshaken. Like she had already made up her mind that this was happening, whether he agreed or not.

He forced himself to keep his expression blank, to not let anything slip. Not anger. Not hesitation. Not fear. Anything that could be used against him, anything that could be twisted into another weakness—he had to shut it down before it even surfaced. He needed to control this conversation, or at least pretend that he could.

"Find someone..." he repeated slowly. "So, what? I get you a name, a location, and then we're done? You stop haunting me?"

He didn't miss the way her head tilted ever so slightly at that, the faintest flicker of amusement—or maybe pity—crossing behind the mask.

"No." she said simply. The answer came fast, almost too fast, as if she had already predicted the question before he even asked it. "But I won't harm your daughter. That's the only bargain you're getting, so save your breath."

The words stung in a way he hadn't expected. Not because of the threat—there wasn't one, not explicitly—but because of what they meant.

She had the power here.

No matter how much he wanted to pretend otherwise, no matter how much he wanted to push back, to fight, the reality was simple: he didn't have a choice. He never had a choice. And she knew it. Marcus clenched his jaw, swallowing back the retort that threatened to rise, the bitterness pooling at the back of his throat.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her to go to hell, to take her goddamn games somewhere else. But he wasn't an idiot. He knew when he was backed into a corner. And if this was the only way to make sure Ren stayed safe—to really make sure—then fine. She would make another deal with the devil for this.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing the words out like broken glass. "Fine."

Marcus barely kept his voice steady. He didn't need to be convincing—he just needed to be convincing enough. Enough for her to walk out that door, enough for her to leave, enough for him to shut it behind her and pretend, for just one fucking moment, that none of this had happened.

"I'll start looking immediately and I contact you when I find any clues." The words came out smooth, professional. Distant. As if this was just another case, another request, another goddamn errand in the long list of compromises he had made to survive.

She didn't move.

Didn't take a single step toward the door. Instead, she took a step toward him.

Marcus fought the instinct to recoil, to pull back, to put even the smallest amount of space between them. But it wouldn't matter. She was like a storm pressing in, suffocating, drowning him beneath something unseen but felt.

Her voice was quiet, measured. Almost casual.

"Have you seen the girl?"

"No."

It was quick, clipped, automatic. A good answer. If it had been anyone else, it might have worked. But it wasn't just anyone. It was her.

And she was still staring.

That goddamn stare.

Marcus had faced criminals, traitors, Silco himself, and yet there was something about her that made all of them seem lightweight in comparison. She had that look, that presence, like she could peel back skin and muscle and bone and see the worst parts of a man just by standing there, breathing the same air.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a puzzle with too many missing pieces. "Are you sure?"

The question was sharper this time. A dangerous edge beneath the surface. Marcus forced himself to hold her gaze.

"I haven't seen her."

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew it was useless. She wasn't just listening to him—she was measuring him. The tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, the way he had answered just a little too quickly. She wasn't like the officers under his command, the ones he could wave off with half-truths and firm orders. She wasn't like Silco, who thrived on careful words and calculated moves.

No.

She knew. She saw through him like he was made of glass. And in the very next second, her hand was around his throat.

Marcus barely had time to react before his back slammed against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, but it was her grip that stole the rest. Iron fingers pressing into his windpipe, tight enough to warn, not yet enough to crush—but that could change in a heartbeat. He gasped, hands instinctively flying up to grab at her wrist, but it was like trying to move stone.

Her voice was lower now, almost a whisper, but it was sharp.

"Let's try that again." The grip tightened. "Have you seen her?"

Marcus's lungs screamed for air. Every muscle in his body fought the pressure at his throat, twisting, clawing, begging—but it was like trying to fight the ocean with bare hands. Her grip didn't shake, didn't falter, didn't waver. He had seen violence. He had inflicted it. But this... this wasn't rage. This wasn't personal.

She looked at him with a face carved from stone—expressionless, empty, unmoved. As though choking the life out of him wasn't even a matter worth emotional investment. And somehow, that terrified him more than anything else.

His vision began to dim at the edges, narrowing to the mask in front of him and the weight of her stare, cold and unblinking. Spots danced in his vision. His heart thundered in his ears. His legs kicked once—twice—before going numb beneath him. And then, just before he slipped under completely, his mind dragged him back.

The river.

The suffocating weight of her hands, the sand beneath him, the sound of the river loud in his ears, the chill of the night, the exact same pressure on his throat, the world dimming. The panic. The chaos. The death.

Even now, with everything different, everything changed—his final thought was still the same. The same thought before death.

Ren.

That was what broke him.

His pride, his fear, his carefully-constructed mask—all of it crumbled beneath the pressure of survival and the memory of those tiny hands clinging to his uniform, his daughter's soft laugh, the way she tilted her head when he handed her a drawing of him as if he were a hero.

He couldn't let it end here.

He wouldn't.

"Yes..." The word cracked from his throat, barely more than a gasp, torn from him like a confession dragged from the soul. "I've seen her."

The hand didn't loosen, not immediately. But her eyes narrowed—there it was. The faintest flicker of something other than cold control.

"Where?"

Marcus coughed, voice raw and strained. "Stillwater. She's in Stillwater."

For the first time since entering his home, she actually looked surprised. "Stillwater?" she echoed. Her voice wasn't loud, but it hit like a slap. "How long?"

"Three years."

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind of silence that carried the weight of too many things left unsaid. And then her voice came again, sharp with disbelief, and this time, there was something real beneath it—something jagged and furious and breaking.

"Three years... she was a child..."

And just like that, the grip on his throat tightened. Marcus let out a strangled, broken sound as the air vanished again. His fingers scrambled against her wrist, his nails digging in, desperate, trying to hurt her, to do something— But it was like trying to claw at iron. She didn't even flinch.

"You imprisoned a child?" she hissed. "In Stillwater? You locked a child in that hellhole?!"

Marcus choked. "Please..."

"Was it you?" she asked, lower now, slower—almost calm. But the calm that came before an executioner pulled the lever. "Did you do it?"

And Marcus—body pinned, lungs collapsing, guilt festering under his ribs like rot—

The second Marcus failed to answer, she slammed him against the wall again—this time without restraint, without precision, without any of the surgical control she'd shown before. This was raw brutality, and it tore through him like glass.

His skull collided with the wall hard enough to crack. He felt it—heard it. A dull, sickening thud that sent lightning bolts of pain shooting through his entire body. The edges of his vision blew wide open, white-hot with agony. The room tilted, gravity distorting. For a split second, he was certain he'd lose consciousness. Maybe that would've been mercy.

But she didn't let him slip away.

Her voice came through the fog, low and razor-sharp, cutting through the ringing in his ears like a blade across flesh.

"You better open your damn mouth." she growled. "Or your daughter going to wake up and find her father's corpse on the floor."

That did it.

That threat cut deeper than the pain in his skull, deeper than the fire burning in his chest from a lack of air. His instincts screamed. Not for himself—but for Ren. Always for Ren.

His body trembled as he nodded, weak, pathetic. A single, silent gesture that cost him the last shred of strength he had left. And for some reason, that only made her angrier. Her voice dipped lower, laced with a rage so tightly contained it felt like the walls themselves might crack under the pressure.

"I should kill you, but unlike you, I'm not going to traumatize a child."

Then she released him.

Marcus dropped like dead weight, collapsing into a heap on the floor with the gracelessness of a broken marionette. His limbs refused to work, his breath came in short, shallow gasps, and his lungs burned like fire was pouring in instead of air.

He didn't look up. He couldn't.

Shame clung to him like oil. The humiliation of it all—being dragged, choked, crushed—it hurt almost as much as his body did. His hands trembled as he coughed, blood painting the back of his throat with metallic heat.

Every breath was agony. Every second felt like he was dying just a little more. And all he could think was that if she changed her mind—if she decided Ren wasn't reason enough to spare him—he wouldn't even have the strength left to beg.

"You'll take me to Stillwater." her tone was flat—not a request. "And you'd better pray that Violet is in good condition. Because if she's not... not even god will be able to save you, Marcus."

It was the way she said his name—like a final verdict. Like his fate had already been sealed. Marcus didn't speak at first. His jaw tightened, and he let his eyes drift up to meet hers through the slits of that cold, expressionless mask. And that's when he noticed it.

Something flickered behind the lenses.

For a second, he thought it was just the low light playing tricks on him. The flicker of a lamp. A reflection. But then—no. It was there.

Her irises were violet.

Not just purple—glowing.

A deep, unnatural hue that shimmered faintly with an all-too-familiar radiance. He had seen that glow before. That distinct, haunting gleam that Shimmer gave off as it burned through veins, changing people from the inside out.

Marcus stiffened. A slow, creeping dread slithered down his spine like ice. That wasn't her natural eye color. He knew it. He'd looked this woman in the eyes once, long ago—back when things were simpler, before she'd vanished into the undercity fog and reemerged as a ghost. And they hadn't been like this.

So what the hell had Silco done to her?

Was it him? Had he experimented on her the same way he did to those wretches in Zaun? Had she volunteered? Been forced? Was this why she wasn't the same? Why there was something off about the way she moved, the way she looked at him now, like she wasn't even fully human anymore?

Marcus felt something he hadn't felt in years claw up his chest. Not fear. Not quite. Something worse. Uncertainty.

He swallowed thickly, but kept his composure as best he could.

"I have to send a letter first." his voice was even but tight. "Stillwater transport only runs on official pre-clearance. I can't just show up at the gates with you in tow."

It was a lie.

Of course it was.

There was no protocol. No official pre-clearance for Stillwater transports, not anymore. Marcus had long since been granted unrestricted access. One of the many perks that becoming a sheriff afforded him. But she didn't need to know that. The lie had to be enough.

It was his only card now. His only window to breathe, to think, to figure out what the hell to do with the nightmare standing in his living room, threatening to unravel everything he had clawed to keep intact.

All he needed to do was get a message to Silco. That was it. Just a single letter, a single warning. Silco would know what to do. He always did. He had eyes in every corner of Zaun, influence that reached places Marcus didn't even want to know about.

Maybe he'd send one of his monsters. Maybe he'd send that maniac with the claw. Hell, maybe he'd send that brute with that damn cybernetic arm. At this point, Marcus didn't care who. He just wanted Silco to do what he always did—step in and clean up the mess.

"Send the damn letter, but make it quick."

Marcus nodded once, tight and mechanical. Then he rose from the floor. He needed to get to his office. To his desk. To the encrypted channels. One message—that was all. Just one message to his handler. Just one note to say: She's here. Do something. Anything.

He just wanted her gone. Out of his house. Out of his life. Away from his daughter. Because whatever shimmer-stained thing stood behind him now—it wasn't just a woman with unfinished business.

It was something far, far worse.

Part 24

AUTHOR'S NOTES: If you're expecting a reunion, well—it’s not happening just yet. But did you all notice how she’s picked up Silco’s mannerisms? Striking where it hurts the most, just to be more effective. As you’ve probably noticed, the whole scene with Marcus was based on Silco’s own scene when he invaded his house. Poor Marcus, he really suffers in my hands. The next chapters are already planned out, so now it’s just a matter of getting through the hard part—writing them. But don’t worry, I won’t abandon this story.

↓ ┊ TAG LIST ┊ ↓

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#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane silco #reader insert #silco x reader #silco x you #minors dni #no beta we die like silco

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wonwoosmagnetic · 4 months ago

Text

No Saints Here | kmg

Pairing : bodyguard!mingyu x rich!reader

Genre : angst, romance, mystery

synopsis :

Some secrets are meant to stay buried. Some love stories were never meant to begin.

Evangeline Perez thought she buried the past along with her sister. But when whispers of the truth resurface, she finds herself tangled in a web of secrets, power, and deception—one that could cost her everything.

Mingyu is a complication she never asked for. Cold, relentless, and far too protective, he’s determined to keep her from chasing ghosts. But Eva has never been one to obey orders, and the deeper she digs, the harder it becomes to ignore the tension pulling them together.

Because some things refuse to stay in the dark.

And some hearts are doomed from the start.

CHAPTER ONE

You had spent your entire life performing.

The daughter of Rafael Perez didn’t get the luxury of being anything else. Every movement, every carefully measured smile, every moment of silence in a room like this—it all meant something. Tonight was no different.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, the golden light reflecting off silk gowns and polished shoes. Laughter drifted through the air, mingling with the clinking of glasses, but beneath the practiced pleasantries lay a current of power. Deals were being made, alliances solidified, and Eva, as always, was a pawn on the board.

You lifted a champagne flute to your lips, though she barely took a sip. The bubbles fizzed against your skin, but you weren't drinking. You never drank at these events. Staying sharp was a necessity, not a choice.

You sat on your bed, eyes fixed on the blank canvas before you. The brushes, untouched and coated in dust, sat idle on the windowsill. You used to be able to lose yourself in the colors, the strokes, the world you created. But now? Now, it all felt hollow, a reminder of the life you were supposed to want, but couldn’t seem to care about.

Every day felt like you were moving through a fog, playing a part in a show you didn’t audition for. The more the days passed, the more you felt lost. A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts, and before you could even respond, the door creaked open. Rafael Perez, your father, stepped inside with that cold, calculated look he always wore.

His presence was like an impenetrable wall, looming over your every move. “I see the canvas is still here.” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, but there was a clear disappointment in his words.

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond immediately. He’d been saying the same thing for months, as though avoiding painting would somehow fix everything in your life. You stood, brushing your hands together, as though trying to dust off your frustration.

“I told you, I’m not interested in your... ‘vision’ for me, Dad,” you replied, trying to keep your tone neutral, but there was a sharpness to it you couldn’t quite hide. Your father didn’t react to the anger in your voice, like he didn’t even hear it.

He just stepped further into the room, his gaze never leaving yours, and approached the canvas with that same critical look. “You’re wasting your time, Evangeline. You’re wasting your potential. You have a responsibility to the family, to the company, to everything we’ve built.”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. “What about what I want? Does that even matter?” His eyes flickered to you briefly, the hint of irritation flashing in them, but he quickly masked it. “What you want doesn’t matter. What matters is what needs to be done.” He paused for a beat before adding, “I’ve arranged for you to attend an event tonight. Mingyu will be there to make sure you’re... presentable.”

The mention of Mingyu made your stomach twist. You'd almost forgotten about him—almost. That damn bodyguard was always around, like a shadow, looming over your every move. He wasn’t just your father’s watchful eye; he was the constant reminder that you weren't in control of your own life.

Your eyes narrowed. “Mingyu,” you muttered, trying not to let the frustration creep into your voice. “What a surprise.” Rafael turned toward the door, as if the conversation was over, but not before adding, “You should be grateful he’s here. He’s only doing his job. I trust you’ll behave.” Your teeth ground together.

“I’m always behaving, Dad,” you spat, sarcasm dripping from the words. Your father didn’t flinch. “I’ll see you later.” He gave you one last look, this time more piercing, before he left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. You stood still for a moment, staring at the door, your chest tightening with frustration.

You could hear his footsteps fading down the hallway, but the suffocating feeling remained, heavy in the air. You hated how his presence seemed to fill every corner of your life, like you were never allowed to breathe without someone watching.

And Mingyu? He was just the physical embodiment of everything your father represented. The rules. The control. The expectations. You let out a shaky breath and glanced over at the window, the bright sunlight streaming in, but it felt like the room was closing in on her.

Every day felt the same—tethered to your father’s demands, suffocated by the people he surrounded you with, and watched over by Mingyu.

You tossed your phone onto the couch, frustration building in your chest. Another message from your dad about the upcoming event—the usual “you need to look perfect” reminder. You sighed deeply, your fingers dragging through your hair as you sat down beside Caro, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor flipping through a fashion magazine.

The two of you had spent the entire afternoon together, but your mind was miles away. “I hate these events,” you muttered, glancing down at your phone. “Everything’s always so perfect and expected. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Caro stayed silent, a soft smile playing on her lips as she nodded. She was used to your rants, always ready to listen even though Caro’s own thoughts were a little more complicated when it came to these events. She didn’t have to attend them. She was always on the outside looking in.

You, completely oblivious to the weight of Caro’s thoughts, looked up, her eyes bright with determination. “I need your help. I have to look perfect tonight.” Caro blinked, not sure what to expect. “What do you mean?” Her voice was soft, but she couldn’t quite hide the curiosity.

You tossed her phone aside again and turned to Caro, her eyes lighting up. “I need a dress. Not just any dress—something that'll make a statement, you know? Something that says, ‘I’m here, and I’m not going to play by anyone’s rules’.” Caro’s heart skipped, the awkwardness creeping in as soon as she realized what this was about. She shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the floor.

She knew the drill—Your extravagant events, the expectations, the people. It wasn’t her world. She didn’t belong there. “I—I don’t know if I’m the right person to help with that,” Caro muttered, her voice faltering slightly.

She fiddled with the corner of the magazine, a nervous tick she always had when she was uncomfortable. You, however, didn’t seem to notice. She was already on a roll, thinking about all the details. “But you know fashion better than anyone, Caro. Please, just help me pick something out. I trust you. You always know how to make me look amazing.” Caro didn’t answer immediately.

She just nodded, forcing a small smile, even though the thought of stepping into that world made her feel out of place. She was just the friend—the one who didn't belong to the circle of high society, the one who had to watch it all from the sidelines.

Your excitement seemed to fill the room, making Caro’s discomfort that much more pronounced. You weren't just talking about a dress; you were talking about fitting in with your father’s world, about being the perfect image for all the people who would be watching. And Caro wasn’t even invited to those events.

When you suddenly brightened, your smile widening, Caro’s stomach twisted. “Oh! And you can come as my plus one. I mean, you’ve got nothing to do tonight, right?” Caro’s throat tightened. She stayed silent for a long moment, biting her lip as the awkwardness settled over her like a heavy blanket.

You were expecting her to say yes, but all Caro could think about was how out of place she’d feel surrounded by people who had everything she didn’t. She forced herself to nod, her voice barely above a whisper. “I... yeah, I guess I can come. If you want me to.”

Your face lit up at her agreement. “Of course, I do! You’re my best friend. You’re going to help me pick out the perfect dress, and then we’ll go together. It’ll be so much fun.” Caro smiled weakly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She didn’t want to be the one to burst your bubble, but it was hard not to feel like a pawn in this whole thing. You had no idea how different their worlds were. No idea how uncomfortable it made Caro to be asked to be her “sidekick” in a world that would never accept her.

Instead of speaking up, Caro just nodded again, still feeling out of place. “Sounds fun,” she said quietly, her voice almost sounding distant. You, completely oblivious, bounced up from the couch, heading toward the door.

“Let’s go! We’ve got to find that dress, and then I’ll text Mingyu and tell him I’m all ready to go.” And as you dragged her out the door, Caro couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was going to be another reminder of just how different they truly were.

The venue was dazzling—golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the sea of elegantly dressed guests. Laughter and the soft clinking of glasses filled the space, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and champagne.

Everywhere Caro looked, people moved effortlessly, slipping in and out of conversations like they belonged to some secret world she could never quite step into.

You, on the other hand, fit right in. The moment they arrived, you were swept up in a flurry of greetings—soft cheek kisses, perfectly rehearsed compliments, and warm, effortless smiles exchanged between people who had known each other since childhood.

You shined in the dress Caro helped you pick, a sleek midnight blue gown that hugged your form just right. Confidence radiated off you as she laughed, gesturing animatedly while talking to a group of perfectly put-together people.

Caro, however, stood off to the side, her fingers wrapped tightly around the stem of her untouched champagne glass. She shifted on her heels, her dress—borrowed from your closet—feeling a little too tight, a little too foreign.

The conversation around her moved like a fast-flowing river, and she was just a rock stuck on the bank, watching it all pass her by. You had promised they’d stick together, but within minutes, she was off mingling, seamlessly blending into the crowd.

Caro swallowed, her gaze flickering over the room. There was no one here she knew, no one who would even think to talk to her. And maybe that was the point—she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was just the friend. The outsider.

"You know you have to say no to her someday, right?" The deep, measured voice made her flinch. She turned to find Seungcheol Perez- your brother, standing beside her, a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand.

His dark brown eyes, always sharp and unreadable, carried a hint of amusement as he glanced toward Eva, who was across the room, laughing with a group of perfectly polished socialites. Caro sighed. "Oh, is this where you deliver another one of your grand lectures?" He smirked, tilting his glass slightly.

"Not a lecture. Just an observation." He took a slow sip. "She drags you into this world like you belong here. But we both know you don’t." Caro scoffed, arms crossing over her chest. "Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence." He chuckled lightly.

"I’m just saying, you let her pull you around like a shadow." There was teasing in his voice, but something else, too. Something heavier. "She’s my best friend," Caro muttered, glancing at you again. Seungcheol nodded. "I know."

His voice softened, just slightly. Then, after a pause, "But you don’t always have to say yes just because she asks." Caro hesitated, shifting on her feet. "Why do you even care?" He tilted his head slightly, considering her. "Maybe I don’t. Maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm." Caro huffed out a quiet laugh despite herself.

"You are the absolute worst."

"Mm." He smirked again. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me." She rolled her eyes, but the warmth between them was unmistakable. Seungcheol may have been blunt, but he wasn’t cruel. And despite everything, she knew he was right—you never saw how hard it was for her to be in this world. But Seungcheol did.

And for the first time that night, standing beside him, Caro didn’t feel so alone. “Come here to steal my best friend as well?” Your voice cut through the air, her words dripping with barely-contained irritation as she approached them. There was no warmth in her tone, only an edge of frustration. Her eyes narrowed as they settled on Seungcheol.

He didn’t react, his expression calm as always, though there was an underlying tension that was hard to ignore. He took a casual sip from his drink, his gaze steady on you as he replied, "I’m not stealing anyone, Evangeline. Just having a conversation." Your lips tightened into a thin line. You didn’t miss a beat.

"You should know better than to waste your time," you said coldly, your voice flat, like she was talking to a subordinate. “If you’re not here to work, I don’t know what you’re doing.” There was no affection in your words—just the distant, sharp edge of someone who had long ago put up walls. Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “I’m not here to waste anyone’s time,” he replied, his tone smooth, his posture professional.

Your gaze shifted to Caro for a split second, “you really think I need you to babysit her too?” Seungcheol glanced briefly at Caro, whose awkwardness was palpable, before responding in a level voice. "I’m not babysitting her, Evangeline. We’re just talking." You took a step closer, your heels clicking against the floor in a purposeful way. “It’s not your job to talk to her,” you said with a brittle smile, now aiming your words directly at him.

“So why don’t you go find something else to do?” Caro felt herself shrink a little, the tension in the air thickening with every word. She wasn’t sure what had caused the rift between them, but it was clear that whatever it was, it was deep—and it wasn’t about her. Seungcheol didn't flinch.

He met her sharp gaze with the same unflinching calm. "You really don’t need to control everything, Evangeline." Your eyes flashed for a moment, your jaw clenching as your fingers curled slightly around your drink. “And you don’t need to lecture me," you snapped back, your voice low but cutting.

“You’re not in charge here. Stay out of it.” There was a moment of silence before Seungcheol sighed, as if he was tired of this back-and-forth, but he didn't show it. "Fine," he said simply, his voice calm as always. "Enjoy your night." He says raising the glass in Caro's direction as he leaves. Caro watched as Seungcheol disappeared into the crowd, and for a moment, she felt an ache in her chest.

But before she could linger on it, your voice broke through. "I don’t know why he has to make such a scene everywhere he goes." Caro didn’t even look up at you. Instead, she took a slow sip from her drink, trying to steady the chaos in her mind.

"It’s not a scene," she replied quietly. Caro let out a soft breath, glancing over at you, who was clearly still fuming. She could feel the weight of the conversation, but at this point, she wasn’t going to let it ruin her night. Not when you had gone out of her way to make sure they were having fun tonight.

“We don’t like him, Caro. He’s is an asshole,” You said again, her voice steady, but there was a sharpness in it that made it clear you weren't backing down. Caro nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd for a moment, avoiding the topic. She wasn’t sure what else to say. “Yeah, of course. I was just—” “There is no ‘just,’ Caro. He is a fuck up, and I won’t let him ruin our night,” You cut in, more serious now, your expression set. Caro turned back to you, her voice a little quieter as she sighed. “Yeah, yeah obviously.”

There wasn’t much else she could add. She knew you were just looking out for her, but sometimes it felt like everyone had an opinion on Seungcheol. He was complicated, yes—hard to deal with, yes—but he was her friend, and that made things harder. She didn’t want to argue with you about it. Not now. Not tonight.

Caro let the music wash over her, the bass thudding beneath her feet as she tried to shake off the lingering tension. You, on the other hand, had already moved on, flagging down a server to order another round. “You need to stop letting him get under your skin,” Caro said, forcing a smile as she leaned against the bar beside her best friend. You scoffed, picking up your drink.

“I don’t. He’s just always in the way.” You tossed back a sip, your nails drumming against the glass. “It’s pathetic, honestly. He acts like he’s some kind of protector.” Caro hesitated, glancing down at her own drink. “Maybe he’s just—” “Don’t,” You cut in, her voice firm. “You don’t owe him the benefit of the doubt, Caro. Not him.”

Caro swallowed back her words. There was something unshakable in your voice, something that made arguing feel pointless. Maybe you were right. Maybe Seungcheol wasn’t worth defending. But if that were true, why did Caro feel the way she did? Before she could think too much about it, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Ladies.” Caro turned, blinking as she took in the man who had appeared beside them. Sleek suit, charming smirk, an air of confidence that was just a little too polished. Elias Park. Your posture relaxed instantly, a slow smile curling at your lips. “Elias,” you greeted, tilting your head in interest.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” “I could say the same,” he replied smoothly, his dark eyes flicking over to Caro for a second before returning to you. “But then again, you do have a habit of making any place worth being at.” You let out a quiet laugh, clearly enjoying the attention. Caro, however, just gave a small, polite smile before turning back to her drink.

Elias leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” You raised a brow, intrigued. “Oh?” “Yeah.” His eyes gleamed under the dim lighting. “There’s something I think you’d be very interested in.” Caro barely heard the rest of the conversation.

Her mind was elsewhere, her thoughts drifting back to Seungcheol. Something about the way he left—unbothered on the surface, but carrying something heavier underneath—stuck with her. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over.

#seventeen ff #kpop ff #kpop fanfic #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen angst #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #mingyu ff #mingyu x reader #seventeen fic #scoups ff #bodyguard romance #seventeen smut

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