#there were years and years of memories there | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darkmatilda · 3 days ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you got used to running away from the consequences of your actions, but it turned out to be incredibly difficult when the consequences are your coworker and their name is spencer reid.

𝐜𝐨��𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x fem!baureader, canon typical violence and topics, season 1/2 reid, GLASSES REID, queen elle greenaway herself, gideon being a little creep (as usual), reader clearly ovulating lmao, mention of a trauma connected with drowning, mention of one night stands of the reader, inspired by taylor swift song "the bolter", dominant reader (mostly), spencer being awkwardly sweet

𝐚/𝐧: i should be doing my history assigment now instead of writing another freaky long fic but here i am

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 10k

Fuck, you thought the moment you realized you’d woken up in someone’s arms.

Double fuck, you added as it dawned on you that this wasn’t some random guy you met at a club, the kind who’d bought you a drink, whose name you hadn’t even tried to remember, and whose life you could easily disappear from without a second thought. Instead, you were lying in the bed of a coworker—a teammate you saw almost every single day.

Triple fuck.

Maybe even quadruple, because of how much you liked it. That is, lying next to his bare skin. In a position where one of his arms was wrapped around your body, his face buried in your hair, in the curve of your neck. His breathing steady, occasionally tickling you. Pleasant. It was pleasant.

You were up to five fucks already, and you hadn’t even left the bed yet.

There was no doubt in your mind that you were going to do it. By the time Spencer Reid opened his gorgeous, chocolate-brown eyes, you’d already be gone. Long gone, behind the wheel of your car, speeding at the maximum legal limit with the window cracked open, despite the icy gusts of winter air rushing in.

You’d been perfecting this strategy for years. First, you’d lose yourself in strangers’ sheets with moans and gasps, only to slip away in the early morning, filled with a thrill even greater than what you’d felt just a few hours before. Why? A very good question. You wished you had the answer to it.

This situation shouldn’t have been an exception, though theoretically, it already was. After all, you’d never even considered doing this with people you knew so well. People you couldn’t just ghost without consequence. People you—leaning over to check the clock on the bedside table—were supposed to see again in less than an hour!

You rubbed your sleepy face with your hand, silently cursing yourself. If only you’d been drunk the night before. People dodge the consequences of far worse actions than having a sex with a coworker simply by blaming it on alcohol. But no—when all of this started, you’d been completely sober and fully aware. Incredibly turned on, it’s worth mentioning.

Before the memories of the previous night could start ambushing you, you scrambled out of the bed. First, of course, you had to untangle yourself from the mess of limbs—carefully, so as not to wake him. You gently moved his arm aside and adjusted the blanket over his hips. Where this sudden care and tenderness came from was yet another very interesting question.

Tiptoeing around the bedroom, you gathered your clothes. Your panties and bra you shamelessly clutched in one hand, intending to shove them into your jacket pocket later. Before heading for it, though, you paused for a brief moment in front of the bed, in front of the still-sleeping Reid.

The blanket, pushed low, revealed the upper half of his lean body—his prominent collarbones and the smooth, even tone of his delicious skin. His chest rose and fell steadily, his hand resting in the spot where you’d been lying just moments ago. As if you were still there.

What a shame it was only a one-time thing.

Some people, looking at his innocent appearance, had no idea how much he had to offer. Their loss, you thought, leaving the apartment on shaky legs, feeling soreness in most of the muscles in your body. When you finally got inside the car and the wind began to cool your flushed face and cheeks, the guilt faded away. You didn’t feel as good as usual, your heart wasn’t racing, and the adrenaline wasn’t surging through your veins the way you craved. Strange. Did it have something to do with who your one-night lover was? You shook your head, trying not to dwell on it.

You’d had a really great time together that one night, but that was it. You were officially leaving it behind, forgetting it.

Just like you always did.

It wasn’t an exception, you told yourself, as you took a quick shower in your own apartment.

It wasn’t an exception, and the fact that you worked together didn’t change a thing.

It wasn’t an exception, you kept affirming, crossing the threshold of the office with still-damp hair and the buttons of your fitted black shirt unevenly fastened.

“Are we not greeting each other anymore?” someone’s question snapped you back to reality.

Lost in thought, you realized you’d passed your friend Elle’s desk without even nodding at her. She was sitting on the edge of it, arms crossed over her chest, her dark eyes seeming to pierce through your skull, sifting through your memories. She was sharp—sometimes, too sharp. With nothing more than a sly smile, she let you know she knew something was going on.

"Sorry. I'm still half asleep," you said, approaching her for a hug. You let out a chuckle. "Or maybe I'm completely asleep if I missed such a hot chick in my path."

Elle pushed you away by a finger’s length, her eyebrows raised in a challenge.

"You think you're gonna distract me with compliments? Better start talking—who's the guy?"

“What guy?” someone asked, surprisingly not you, but Derek, who stepped into the room with a massive cup of coffee, nearly dropping it as he tried to greet both of you. You loved the laid-back atmosphere of the early mornings at work, when you had a moment to chat about whatever. “Well, good morning, ladies. From the looks on your faces, I’m guessing you had a nice weekend?”

"From that huge cup of coffee, I’m guessing you did too, if you need that much caffeine. Partying on a Sunday night, you should be ashamed," you replied sarcastically, eyeing your coworker.

His eyebrows shot up.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he whistled.

"She's just trying to change the subject," Elle informed him. "I was just interrogating our little bolter.

You rolled your eyes at hearing that nickname again. They’d started using it a while ago, as soon as they found out how you handled things with guys. There was nothing judgmental about it—they just really liked to tease you.

It took Morgan a moment to piece together what was going on. When he did, laughter burst from his lips.

"Is that why your hair is still wet? You left in such a rush you didn’t even have time to dry it?"

"She was afraid the sound of the hair dryer would wake the guy up," Elle snorted. "And, heaven forbid, they’d actually have to talk to each other."

“Oh, screw you both,” you muttered, aiming to act your age—in this case, by flipping them off. Before you could, Derek caught your hand, stopping you from spinning on your heel and stomping back to your desk.

“You know,” he said, suddenly a touch more serious, as if the question genuinely intrigued him, “I can’t help but wonder why you actually do it. For me, personally, waking up next to a lovely lady who made the night worthwhile is kind of the best part...”

"Are you asking about the psychological aspects behind it?" You raised an eyebrow. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Elle tilt her head slightly, clearly intrigued. "I don’t know. Something from childhood, probably. Everything stems from there, doesn’t it? Or maybe the reason is something else," you lowered your voice to a near conspiratorial whisper, leaning in closer to their faces as if about to reveal some great secret. "I simply enjoy it. As they say, you don’t pry into people’s bedrooms or wallets."

"That rule doesn’t apply to our friendship, sweetheart."

You chuckled at the remark; sometimes, you really did share a lot with each other. In any case, your response had nothing to do with modesty or shame on those topics. You chose to answer evasively because you didn’t feel like describing how addictive that feeling of escape was, how much control it seemed to give you. How your heart would race in those moments, and how all your fucking lives seemed to flash before your eyes then.

It was sick, many people have already told you that. Still, you couldn't stop.

"Good morning, everyone." Suddenly, JJ burst in, clutching a briefcase the size of an encyclopedia under her arm. "Hotch wants to see us all in five minutes, we have a new case. You'll find out everything in a moment, but I’ll say right away that it looks like a little trip is in store. Bring warm jackets."

"Mercy, not another case from Alaska..." Morgan started, rolling his eyes.

"Not this time. By the way, has Reid already arrived?"

Elle glanced around and shrugged.

"I don’t see him. Besides, if he were here, he’d already be telling us everything about the weather conditions in Alaska."

"Strange," Derek muttered under his breath. "I can’t remember the last time he was late."

You fixed your gaze on your shoes, as if there was something fascinating about them.

"It’s not like him," JJ agreed, a little worried. "Maybe I should call him..."

"He’s definitely stuck in traffic," you interjected quickly, forcing yourself to sound casual, though you tensed up involuntarily. The thought of confronting Spencer slightly scared you, though you wouldn't admit it to yourself. "I’m almost 100% sure. Anyway, shouldn’t we be heading out?"

You changed the subject, nodding toward the exit with your chin. And then, by accident, you made eye contact with Elle.

Elle, who knew you better than anyone.

Elle, who always, always knew when you were lying or hiding something. And whose eyes widened when she realized.

Feeling the blood rush to your ears, you subtly shook your head, silently pleading for her not to speak. But she, to your horror, opened her mouth.

"You two, go ahead," she directed at Morgan and JJ. Then she fixed her intense, demanding gaze directly on you. "We’ll join you in a minute. I need to have a word with our girl, privately."

Barely were you alone when she exclaimed:

"Did you sleep with Reid?!"

"Goddammit, Elle, could you say it any louder?" you hissed, glancing toward the door where your colleagues had just disappeared moments ago.

"Why not? So, you had sex with Dr. Spencer Reid...!"

"FOR GOD'S SAKE..."

"...our genius boy and a member of the same team?!"

"I’m fucking sure even Strauss heard that in her office," you sighed. "But yes, I did it, I regret it, and most importantly, this has to stay between us. Not a word to Derek, JJ, or Penelope, understood?"

To your surprise, Elle burst into laughter and raised her hands in a defensive gesture.

"You know I wouldn’t tell anyone without your permission. I was just playing around Anyway..." she sighed. "I find it hard to believe. You two? Honestly, there’s always been something between you…”

"No," you interrupted her sharply. The words left a ringing in your head. "There was nothing between us."

"So, you decided to sleep together just like that, out of boredom?"

"We need to go, Elle. The rest is probably waiting for us."

You moved forward, your friend trailing right behind you, like that little voice in the back of your mind urging you to order pizza at midnight.

"Oh, one more thing. You said you regret it. So, what, our genius didn’t meet your expectations..."

"End of discussion..."

"Last thing, you told me not to mention it to Garcia, Morgan, or JJ. What about Hotch? Can I tell him?"

You couldn’t keep up the seriousness any longer and burst into laughter, joined by Elle.

"Tell me what?" a voice called from behind you.

Fuck multiplied by twelve thousand seventy-nine.

Somehow, your boss appeared in the same hallway, probably heading to the same room where you were going to be briefed on your next case. You noticed how all the amusement disappeared from Elle’s face. You both exchanged a look, like teenagers caught smoking a cigarette by their parents.

You both turned, silently negotiating through eye contact—arguing, really, over who should speak up and save the situation. It fell to you.

"Um... we were wondering... if we should tell you... that we absolutely love your tie. It's so... red and... long..." It was only then that you noticed it was a gray tie. "Not that one. Another one. Absolutely stunning. And I’m actually looking for a birthday gift for a friend. He’s... a huge fan of... ties."

You tried not to look at Elle, fearing she might burst into laughter. She already seemed like she was suffocating inside. Improvisation was never your strong suit; you always had to say too much.

"So, I hope you don’t mind me asking where you bought it. That’s exactly the kind of tie I’m looking for. Red..." You bit your tongue before you could say long again. "Good quality. One that you’d just want to untie..."

Hotch’s completely stoic expression didn’t help.

"Oh." Suddenly, you realized you hadn’t even greeted him. "Good morning, boss. Are you having a good day?"

"Average," he replied, completely ignoring your whole tie spiel.

Silence fell. Elle stared at the floor, and the corners of her mouth twitched dangerously.

"Let’s get to work," Hotch suggested, clearing his throat. He extended his hand, gesturing for you to go ahead. As soon as you turned, you squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment. "I got it from Hailey," he spoke to you in a quieter tone, opening the door to the room where the rest of the team was already gathered. "But if you really care, I can ask her where she bought it."

Sometimes you had a hard time figuring out if the guy was serious or just messing with you.

"I’d be greatly appreciative," you managed to say, quickly passing him and taking a seat at the long table.

You heard Elle whispering to Morgan something that started with "You won’t believe this…” and contained a combination of the words red, long, and untie.

Actually, saying that all the team members were inside wasn’t entirely true. One of them was missing.

"Reid’s late?" Penelope wondered, just as your gaze fell on his empty seat.

"Let’s start without him," Hotch decided. "This can’t wait. JJ?"

She handed out the case files to everyone and moved to the screen, where the most important details and photos related to the case were being displayed.�� Before he could even say a word, a late Spencer burst into the room.

"Sorry, really, sorry..." he said frantically. "I know this never happens, but I overslept..."

He stopped mid-sentence as soon as his eyes met yours. It felt like he might as well have shouted, Hey, you know we had sex last night? and it would have been less suggestive. Or maybe it was just your inner paranoid voice talking.

"You could’ve informed us you’d be late," Hotch said.

Reid was still desperately trying to catch your eye, even though you were determinedly focusing on everything except him. It wasn’t until a moment later that he realized Hotch had said something to him, and he sighed in surprise, snapping back to reality.

"Oh... yeah, I should have. Definitely. Actually... I actually sent a message to y/n."

At that moment, all eyes turned to you. You furrowed your brow. There was no way he had written or called you — you would have heard it… which, of course, didn’t mean you would have replied. Your hand went to your pocket…

"I forgot my phone."

Only then did you look at Reid, your expression should have given him the message you intended. I left my phone at your place...

“I’ll look for it for you,” he offered. He immediately panicked, probably realizing that you'd rather keep your night together a secret. “I mean, I’ll help you look for it. If you want…”

“Reid, please, sit down,” Hotch stopped him from completely humiliating both of you. At that point, you had a burning desire to bang your head on the table. “And close the door.”

“Right…”

He followed the order and took a seat next to JJ, across from you, sending a small, uncertain smile. You didn’t react, your face remained unreadable, even irritated by how much he was giving away about what had happened between you.

Still, seeing his slightly wrinkled shirt, the same one he wore the previous evening when he opened the door for you, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander. Those small imperfections in the fabric were, of course, from how hastily you had removed it and tossed it to the floor, where it had stayed all night…

The first time you had met outside of work, as two ordinary friends and not colleagues, was a few weeks ago. You had to drop by his place in the evening to pick up some documents you needed for the next day at work.

“Thank god,” you sighed as the door opened. “Elle isn’t picking up at all. I have no idea what she’s doing or where she is, and I seriously need this. If I don’t bring it, I can pretty much say goodbye to BAU.”

Only then did you lift your gaze to the man standing in front of you, too absorbed in your panic over the missing papers to actually take a good look at him. One hand rested on the doorframe, dressed in a sweater vest with the collar of a shirt peeking out beneath it.

“I’m glad I could help,” he replied. Thin-framed glasses rested on his nose, which he only wore occasionally for work. It was a shame because they suited him well. “But I’m sure Hotch wouldn’t throw you out just for being one day late.”

“I’ve been putting it off for three weeks.”

“That definitely changes things. Are you coming in? I need to... check if I have everything. “I’m really sorry, but you actually called just a moment ago and I didn’t manage to…”

“Don’t worry about it,” you waved a hand reassuringly. “I should’ve reached out earlier and not bothered you at this hour. But since you’re inviting me, I’m coming in. I’ve never been to your place before.”

“You’re not bothering me at all,” he assured you as you both walked further into the apartment. The lighting was dim, creating a cozy and relaxed atmosphere.

You stopped in the living room when a familiar sound reached your ears—a melody you knew all too well. Without a second thought, you followed it to its source.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you huffed in surprise, coming to a halt in front of the glowing TV screen, its bright light cutting through the dim surroundings.

“What?” Spencer finally noticed you had wandered off and joined you a minute later. “Oh, sorry. I was watching it earlier and forgot to turn it off…”

“No!” You stopped him before he could reach for the remote. “Don’t you dare. History’s Mysteries is my favorite show.”

Spencer looked at you as though he expected you to burst into laughter any second and admit you were joking. But no, you genuinely, wholeheartedly loved that program. Especially the episodes about extraterrestrial life—deep down, you’d always been a bit of a nerd.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pretending to be annoyed.

“What?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow. “You think just because I’m hot, I can’t have any intellectual interests?”

He widened his eyes, shaking his head.

"Don't put those words in my mouth. I’d never say—or even think—something like that."

"That I’m hot?"

"No! What? I mean… I wouldn’t assume you couldn’t have intellectual interests just because you’re…"

"Hot," you finished for him, letting out a laugh. "Relax, Reid, I’m just messing with you. By the way, you have a really nice apartment. Honestly, I kind of expected, I don’t know, a lab or something."

"Well, so far, you’ve only seen the living room," he replied.

"And I'd love to see the rest of it," you announced, rocking slightly on your heels. "But I haven't seen this episode yet, and I'm very curious about what it's about."

You noticed him hesitate, clearly unsure how to respond.

"Unless, of course, you don’t want me to stay. Maybe you're expecting someone. A girl or a guy?"

"No, no, I’m not expecting anyone," he replied quickly, swallowing nervously. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—barely noticeable, but it was there. "You’re absolutely not bothering me. Actually, it’ll be... it’ll be nice to have you stay. But, um... the documents. I should—I'll go get those ready for you. Would you like something to drink?"

"...Four bodies were retrieved from a hole in the ice of a completely frozen lake. All the victims were young girls, aged thirteen to nineteen and each of them was involved in prostitution."

You were brought back to reality by JJ's words. You felt someone's gaze on you, surprisingly not from the direction you had expected. It was Gideon, and you were sure he had noticed the strange tension between you and Spencer. That was likely the reason behind his scrutiny. You had always thought he was a solid guy, but at times, he scared you. He looked at people as if he could see their original sin, not just theirs, but also that of five generations back in their family.

You shuddered, but for another reason. The subject... frozen lake, bodies pulled out... even though so many years had passed, and you could barely remember the event, the chill still crept down your spine, and your heart raced like you were running away.

"Wait a minute," Derek said, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. "How thick could the ice be on that lake?"

"Given the current almost extreme temperatures, probably around 50 inches. That's thick enough for even cars to move safely on it," Reid explained without hesitation.

You sighed, trying to hide a fleeting smile. You just... sounded like a fetishist, but you couldn't deny that it was a little exciting when he did that. He delivered long, flawless explanations, all while looking genuinely fascinated by the topic. It didn't matter what you were talking about.

Elle raised an eyebrow. You decided to ignore her.

“Doesn’t it make you wonder how he managed to cut a hole in the lake, in such thick ice, without anyone noticing?” Morgan continued.

“Actually, he didn’t have to do it personally,” Reid replied again. He took off his glasses and thoughtfully turned them in his hands. “Under different weather conditions, we might consider that, but these were most likely holes made for other purposes. Fishing, mostly, but also to test if the ice can support vehicles, for example. The unsub could have simply shown up, discarded the body, and that’s it.”

You all started the discussion on the topic without your input. You should have stayed focused, but you couldn't help but keep glancing back at his long fingers, holding the glasses...his touch so delicate and skilled…

The door opened once again, just like every Sunday, when the two of you caught up on the weekly episode of the show. After you stayed over at his place once to watch it together, it simply became a tradition. An unspoken one.

With each meeting, you talked less and less about work. It was still kept in a purely friendly atmosphere—otherwise, you wouldn't have shown up. You weren't looking for a committed relationship, but lately, the usual physicality wasn't enough, and you needed a new conversation partner on a deeper level. The range of your topics was vast, from casual chatter to deep analyses of the content you watched (you could talk for hours about conspiracy theories), or serious yet comforting conversations about life and the world.

"Where's my pillow?" you asked, pointing to the spot on the left side of the couch where you always sat.

"I spilled coffee on it, by accident. It's in the laundry. Sorry."

"Did you really just apologize for taking your pillow from your own apartment?"

"Sorry, It’s just my thing”

You both burst out laughing, sitting side by side on the couch.

"I miss something to rest my head on," you complained after just a minute. "I’ve got neck pain from sleeping on the jet."

"So, you should definitely sleep on a flat surface," he teased. "See, I took the pillow out of concern for you."

"Ladies and gentlemen, Spencer Reid before you. The man who will always find a scientific reason to make your life harder. Maybe I should just sleep on a bed of nails instead of a mattress, huh?"

“I just suggested a slightly flatter surface! Where did the nails come from?”

“That’s the same to me. I need softness.”

Spencer shook his head.

“I can bring you a pillow from my bedroom.”

“The episode is starting.”

“I’ll be back in a second…”

“Oh, and then you’ll complain you can’t talk about the plot because you missed the first minute, and so much probably happened,” you stopped him from getting up, grabbing his wrist. “Sit. I’ll survive the neck pain. Or… or I’ll just lie down here.”

Saying this, you simply rested your head on his lap, settling comfortably on your side.

“What did the autopsy reveal?” Elle asked. “Did the victims die from drowning, or were their bodies just dumped in the water with a different cause of death?”

You should have focused on the case at hand, but you couldn’t shake the discomfort this topic caused you. No wonder your thoughts kept straying to more pleasant places as you tried to distance yourself from it. Still, you read through the case files, knowing you had to stay focused to solve this. Lives depended on it.

“They were all alive when they were thrown into the water,” JJ said with tightly pressed lips. “And each of them suffered a heavy blow to the head.”

“That’s how he abducts them,” Derek summarized. “Knocks them unconscious with a strong hit. Maybe he pretends to be a client, and once they leave with him, he strikes.”

“The question is, why specifically the lake’s ice hole?” you mused, tapping your nails on the table in an anxious gesture. “Is it purely practical? Did he think it was the easiest place to dispose of the bodies?”

You couldn’t take your eyes off the photos of the drowning victims—it felt like self-inflicted torture. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Reid staring at you differently than before. Once, you’d told him a story about something that happened to you as a child, more like a casual anecdote than a heartfelt confession. Even so, you thought you saw some worry etched on his face.

For the first time since he walked through the door, you met his eyes directly, responding to his desperate attempts to catch your gaze. Surprised that you finally looked at him, he froze, his slightly parted lips emitting a short sound as if he wanted to say something but forgot what it was at the last second.

"No... I don't think so," he finally said, drawing out the syllables absentmindedly. The slight furrow in his brow suggested he was deep in thought. "Bathing in water symbolizes cleansing from sin in many religions, both physically and spiritually. For example, in Christianity, baptism washes away original sin. Prostitutes are often the targets of serial killers who believe they’re purging society in some way. Since we’ve ruled out a sexual motive, maybe this is where we should focus our attention."

"That’s a good lead," Hotch agreed, as the rest of the team considered the analysis in silence. "In that case, we’re likely dealing with a religious fanatic. Such perpetrators often believe they’re acting in the name of God or some higher good. Worse still, they see their actions as morally justified, which means they feel no remorse."

"And that, in turn, means they won’t stop killing until they’re caught," Gideon concluded.

"Then there will soon be another victim. We need to move now," your boss decided, quickly straightening his papers against the table before tucking them into his briefcase. "See you on the jet in fifteen minutes."

Throughout the meeting, you'd laid out the victims' photos in front of you, studying them closely. Preoccupied with gathering them up, you could hear everyone heading toward the door, convinced you'd been left alone in the room.

But when you looked up, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Reid. Your breath hitched for a moment. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but you'd worked so hard to push the thought of it away…

"Hey," he greeted with a small smile on his lips. He seemed almost excited about the conversation. "I just wanted…to ask how you're doing."

You shrugged, forcing indifference.

"Fine, I guess."

You finished sliding the photos back into the case file, closed it, and pressed it to your chest.

"We should get going. Hotch gave us fifteen minutes, but the sooner we leave, the better..."

"You don't even want to talk to me?" he asked unexpectedly, shaking his head slightly in genuine disbelief. He swallowed hard and added, "About last night?"

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment. You hated this—hated it with every fiber of your being. That awful moment when you had to tell someone you'd spent the night with that it didn’t mean anything to you, that you didn’t want to keep seeing them, let alone get involved. And it was so much worse this time. This wasn’t some random guy. This was Spencer—your friend, someone you genuinely cared about, whose friendship you couldn’t afford to lose, especially since you worked together.

Your body was conditioned to run, to escape. Waking up in someone else’s bed always signaled an immediate sprint to the finish line. But this time, it felt like you’d tripped over an untied shoelace barely a meter in.

"There’s nothing to talk about," you replied. The strange tension of being in the same room with him again, just the two of you in this small space—so much like last night—settled over you. "Actually, wait. There is. I think I left my phone at your place, though it might’ve fallen somewhere in the car. Could you look for it when we get back?"

He didn’t respond. You weren’t sure why, but you kept your gaze fixed anywhere but on him—his shirt, the space behind him, anything to avoid his eyes. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe you should look directly at him, let your words carry the weight they were supposed to.

Spencer suddenly let out a short, sharp laugh, filled with shock and maybe even… sarcasm?

"Did it really mean so little to you that you can't even look at me?"

You gave in and lifted your gaze. His head tilted slightly to the side, his brow furrowed. He looked somehow hurt even though hurt seemed too strong a word.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean how you disappeared this morning. I thought maybe you were in a rush or didn’t want to wake me, but when I got there, you barely even looked at me. Sorry—actually, you looked at me only once”

"What did you expect, that I’d throw myself at you and kiss you?"

"No, I expected that we’d talk about it like normal people."

"But there’s nothing to talk about. It happened, and that’s it. I don’t see any reason we should have to debate about it..."

Spencer wasn’t angry, like others might have been. He was simply stunned.

"I don’t understand this," he finally confessed, adjusting his glasses on his nose. It was as if they suddenly became a bother, so he adjusted them again, then, after a moment of hesitation, took them off. "Do you regret what happened?"

“No,” you answered quickly, it was the first honest thought that came to your mind. You pinched the bridge of your nose, unable to find the right words. “Well… I don’t regret it in the way you might think. It’s just… I’m not sure what you expect from me now. We spent one night together, it was amazing, but I don’t have anything more to offer you.”

“I don’t want you to offer me anything,” he said, irritation beginning to creep into his voice, though it didn’t seem to be directed at you. “The only thing I want is… to understand where we stand now. Look, we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, I thought you liked me…”

“Because I do like you,” you interrupted him mid-sentence. "Let me be honest with you, Reid. I don’t do relationships. And just so you know, I don’t usually sleep with my friends either, but it happened, and I can’t undo it, nor would I want to. Because I enjoyed it, I like you, and I have a great time when I’m with you. And up until now, I’ve really enjoyed how things have been between us. I don’t want anything to change."

You summed up what had been weighing on your heart, hoping with all sincerity that he’d understand. Spencer leaned his hands on the back of an empty chair, turning his body slightly toward you.

"So," he said, letting out something between a chuckle and a pained sigh. "Maybe you shouldn’t have gone to bed with me."

"Listen, sex doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a physical act, it doesn’t affect our friendship in any way."

"Do you really believe that?"

“Yes, I do,” you insisted stubbornly, refusing to let yourself even blink. Spencer turned his face toward you, looking for signs of a lie or uncertainty in your expression.

He wouldn’t have been able to find any, even if he tried with all his might. Because you were a brilliant actress. And it wasn’t that you hid your feelings so well. It was more that everything about you was so contradictory that it created a whole range of possible interpretations. And Spencer, with his deeply rooted need to hurt himself and test his own worth, chose to settle on the one that would guarantee him that.

“Well, good for you,” he finally replied, before leaving the room completely, not even turning back over his shoulder.

For a moment, you stood in silence, unable to identify what you were actually feeling. In truth, your earlier words had been honest. You cared about your friendship, the connection, the conversations, and the time spent together. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny that he simply attracted you. Just yesterday, you had convinced yourself it was probably just curiosity. Sometimes people wonder what it would be like to try something with a friend, they do it, and then all those similar thoughts fade away.

But was it the same for you two?

Your head and shoulders had been resting on his lap for a while, your cheek comfortably pressed against his thigh, and the glow of the TV occasionally lit up your focused face when something brighter appeared on the screen.

Spender seemed tense about the position for just a minute, then, for the next five, he was simply surprised. Although you focused your attention on the program, you could feel his gaze falling on your figure from time to time, stopping on it for a moment. After ten minutes, you were both lying comfortably, with mutual ease, and after an unknown amount of time, one of his hands was resting on your side.

Every now and then, you spoke to each other, exchanging short, often sarcastic comments about the episode. During one of these interactions, something caught your attention.

"Where are your glasses?" you asked. You turned onto your back, resting the back of your head on his lap instead of your temple and cheek.

You could look up at him from that amusing, lower perspective, from which everyone looks particularly unflattering. You smiled at his expression when he tilted his head to look at you.

"Oh, I have them here," he replied, lifting the glasses he must have set on the couch.

"But why aren’t you wearing them?" You could swear that when you started watching, they were on his nose. You had noticed because you really liked how he looked in them.

He shrugged.

"You’re straining your eyes. Put them on," you asked.

Spencer moved his hand as if he wanted to reach for them, but at the last moment, he hesitated.

"I... I don’t exactly like how I look in them," he finally confessed.

After those words, you stared at the ceiling for a moment, then pushed yourself up on your elbow, almost aggressively. His eyebrows shot up at that.

"You must be joking."

"What?"

"I said, you must be joking. You look great in them. They really suit you," you assured him, sitting up. "You know, when I was a teenager, I always wanted to wear glasses. I even envied the girls with poor eyesight."

"You know, I’m fully aware you’re saying this just to get me to wear them?"

"True, you got me. Did it work?"

"Not really."

You bit your lower lip, thoughtfully considering a certain idea.

"Okay, give them to me for a moment," you asked, extending your hand. "I’ll tell you something that will convince you to wear them. From now on, you’ll even sleep in them. Well, maybe especially sleep in them."

He tilted his head, trying for a moment to read your intentions from your face, but he couldn’t. He sighed and handed you the glasses.

"Don’t..."

"Don’t grab them by the lenses, I know that," you finished, rolling your eyes. "I’m not some animal."

With his glasses in hand, you changed your position on the couch, kneeling so that you were more or less facing each other.

"I’m waiting for your arguments," he said, his voice sly, to which you raised an eyebrow.

"Well, this will be an argument combined with a little presentation," you clarified. "Have you ever heard of the glasses theory?"

"Is that an actual concept in human psychology, or something you just made up? If it’s the latter, I’m afraid I haven’t”

Listen, it’s very simple, but you’d better focus on me," you demanded, ignoring his previous remark.

"I’m focused."

Indeed, he was. His gaze was fixed on you with such intensity and engagement, as if you were about to deliver a speech that could change the fate of the universe. Or maybe it just seemed that way because you were so close to each other.

"Forgive me for the unacademic language, Doctor, but I don’t like to complicate things too much. This theory says that with glasses, you can only look one of two ways: smart or hot."

Spencer had already chuckled, ready to jump in with a sarcastic comment, but you pressed your finger to his lips, moving even closer.

"Don’t interrupt me for now, I’m not done yet. This theory also says that your look in glasses will always be the opposite of your usual, everyday look. So, if without them you look like the typical intellectual who knows the meaning of every word in the dictionary, then in them…" You paused, tilting your head to the side. Up until now, your finger had been resting on his lips, which it had landed on by chance, but you couldn’t stop yourself from trailing it along his chin and jawline. He didn’t take his eyes off you, which only made it harder to stop. "In them, you look really, really attractive. Like, you know, sexually attractive”

You felt his chest rise. You felt it because one of your hands was resting on it as you sat on his lap, though you had no idea how you had ended up there. Spencer had been entirely focused on your face until now-on your speaking lips, not on how your bodies were positioned in relation to each other. He exhaled, loudly, far too loudly for comfort, the breath he'd been holding in. The sound escaped as you settled your full weight on his lap instead of just hovering above it.

“Do you really mean that?”

Yes, you wanted to respond briefly, right into his ear.

“That’s the theory. And I… I agree with it. I even have another example. You won’t deny that I’m hot, right? It’s just something people think when they see me. A statement of fact. So… when I put on glasses…” Saying this, you slid his glasses onto your own nose. Your entire field of vision blurred slightly, making it hard to see his reaction. You could only feel how his body responded..“Well? How do I look?”

He didn’t answer. His breathing grew deeper, his pulse quicker. You knew this because your hand, which had been exploring every corner of his face, had already made its way to his neck and decided to stay there for a while.

“Spencer,” you prompted, “I asked how I look.”

He lowered his head, the top of it brushing against your sternum, lingering there for a moment. When he straightened again, his eyes were in constant flux, like those of someone torn by too many desires at once.

“Smart,” he replied, his voice barely audible, the word catching in his throat. “Now you look really smart.”

You shifted higher on his lap, drawn to him by the pull of his voice.

“Smart,” you repeated with a laugh, your tone edging toward a whisper, slipping between the two of you and filling the small space like liquid poured into a vessel. “That confirms the theo—…”

You broke off when his lips finally surged toward yours, impatient and pushed to the very edge of restraint. His jaw pressed against yours, forcing your entire body to tilt back. You swayed on his lap, both of his hands falling tou your hips, his fingertips pressing firlmy into your skin to hold your body at the same place, right next to him, close, closer.

The kiss, born of desperation, quickly transformed into the release of a long-hidden hunger shared by you both. It was equal on every level, matched in intensity and force.

In the midst of it all, you lost your breath, repeatedly pulling your lips away from his to gasp for air, only to reconnect moments later. One of those brief pauses drew a wretched, urging whimper from him.

It was around then that you felt the pressure, growing stronger against your core.

An involuntary smile spread across your lips, breaking the kiss, during which you briefly took control, tilting his neck back for better access. Pulling away by barely an inch, you managed to notice that his barely open eyelids were still fixed on your lips, glistening with saliva and flushed with desire.

“Spencer? What is it? “

After asking that question you pressed yourself to his hips, pointing to the obvious hardness. His eyes widened, as if all the previous actions had taken place far beyond his body, to which he had only just returned. He inhaled sharply, his fingers gripping your body firmly and decisively as if trying to slide you off his lap. Something in the intensity of his touch and his attempt to take control only made you cling to him more.

“Didn’t expect you to be that hard after a kiss, but maybe it’s my fault” You muttered a joke under your breath, your lips briefly marking the space along his jawline, chin, and finally his lips. In the meantime, while one of your hands remained firmly on his neck, the other decisively reached its target. Then, griped it through the fabric of his pants. His lips parted, b loout no sound came out; it seemed to have been swallowed by his surprise. “Do you want me to take care of it?”

Your hand remained still, waiting for an answer. At first, he was silent, focused on his own breathing, not looking at your face, which you found quite unsettling.

"Spencer, I want you to answer me."

When he hesitated again, you gently brushed your lips against the lobe of his ear. But before you could repeat your request, he unexpectedly pulled both of you to the side, positioning you beneath him.

You gasped, surprised by the shift in dynamics.

“I want this” he whimpered into your ear, covering it with his mouth along with the space around it. “I really, really want this, please…”

But was it the same for you two?

You repeated the question in your mind and recalled how, arched like a bow, you placed the glasses on his face, wanting to see him wear them as he made you come.

You stood there in the empty room, replaying that moment in your head, well aware that you should join the rest of the team, but not so sure about the answer

"Please don’t tell me that those fifteen minutes when you were alone..."

"Disgusting, Elle, you’re just disgusting."

Your friend, sitting across from you on the jet, smiled as if you’d just given her a compliment. The rest of the team either engaged in conversation with each other or reviewed the case files once more, looking for new clues. Reid belonged to the latter group, though his absent expression didn’t suggest he was deep in thought about the case. But you made an effort not to look at him, feeling a bit guilty for how things had unfolded.

"What exactly did you tell him?"

"That I don’t date and I’m not looking for anything serious."

"You just told him that?"

"What was I supposed to do, draw him a picture?"

"It’s not about that, it’s just..." Elle hesitated, unsure of what she wanted to say. She didn’t seem as cheerful as before. "I guess you didn’t say it that directly, right? Don’t get me wrong, but it’s kind of... cruel."

Her gaze briefly shifted toward the subject of your conversation, looking concerned.

"Would you have come to that conclusion if it were any other guy you didn’t know?"

She sighed.

"Probably not, and that’s why I think I’m having some sort of moral crisis."

You fell into a bit of an unpleasant mood for the rest of the flight. Unsure of what else to do, you decided to think a bit about the case and the murders. You even came to a conclusion and were about to stand up to discuss it when it hit you that you wanted your conversation partner to be...Reid. You sighed and stopped halfway, not knowing if he was ready to talk to you again.

Soon enough, you arrived in the small town where the murders had taken place. Naturally, you headed straight to the site where the bodies were discovered. Bundled up in thick down jackets, the crunch of deep snow underfoot accompanied your every step. You busied yourself talking to the local police, deliberately keeping your distance from the lake. The vast expanse of frozen water seemed to glare at you, challenging and mocking, as though daring you to come and play. Every glance at the ice awakened an inexplicable urge to sprint to its center, to feel the chills coursing through your body and surrender to a reckless exhilaration.

Rain drummed against the bridge like a barrage of tiny bullets, sharp and unrelenting, as if determined to pierce straight through you. You stood huddled beneath an umbrella with Reid, but both of you were already soaked to the bone, shivering from the relentless cold.

“Where the hell are they?” you asked through chattering teeth.

As part of your investigation, you and Reid had been sent to a nearby high school to interview the teachers of a missing teenager. The rest of the team had been assigned different tasks, and someone was supposed to pick you up at the agreed-upon spot and time so you could regroup and share your findings. But the wait was dragging on far longer than expected.

“I’d just like to remind you that you laughed at me when I took this umbrella, saying there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky and it definitely wouldn’t rain,” Spencer remarked, switching the umbrella from his red, cold hand to the other one he had been keeping warm in his coat pocket.

You looked at him with envy. Your jacket didn’t even have pockets, and you started wondering why you’d even bought it in the first place.

“This is not the time to point fingers at me,” you retorted. “This is the time to make sure I don’t die of hypothermia. Come closer. And don’t stand so close to the railing.”

“We’re nearly two meters away from it,” he pointed out, but still followed your request and stepped forward. You took the opportunity to shove your hands into his coat pockets for even a momentary bit of warmth. His coat smelled like rain, and your nose accidentally brushed against it. Your hands touched his in one of the pockets.

“Jesus, it’s like touching an ice cube,” he muttered.

“You still have feeling in your hands?”

“Still do, but I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time,” he replied.

“They’ll freeze and have to be amputated. We’ll be the only two handless FBI agents. Hotch will never send us on an assignment together again,” you joked.

He chuckled softly and shifted the umbrella to his other hand once again. For a moment, you both stood in silence—him staring at the river flowing beneath the bridge, and you gazing toward the direction where you hoped your rescue would arrive.

“Can I ask you a question?” he broke the silence, looking down at you.

You were standing so close, your hands buried in his coat pockets, that you had to tilt your head back significantly to meet his gaze.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Are you afraid of water?”

You stared at his face, taken aback by the question. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead, and for some inexplicable reason, you felt a sudden urge to push it back.

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugged.

“It’s just something I noticed today—though, of course, there’s a possibility I’m wrong. But we’ve been standing on this bridge for twenty minutes, and you haven’t looked down once. And you keep telling me to step away from the railing.”

“I’m just looking out for your safety, klutz,” you teased, lowering your gaze. He wasn’t wrong about the water, and it surprised you that he had even picked up on it.

“When I was six, I almost drowned in frigid water,” you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Spencer’s brows furrowed with concern.

“At least, that’s what I’ve been told,” you added before he could say anything. “Apparently, my dad took me and my sisters to a lake to go ice skating. He used to go there as a kid with his siblings, and the ice was always thick enough that no one even considered it might break. But that was twenty years earlier. He didn’t account for climate change. The ice cracked right beneath me.”

“God,” he sighed. “You know… maybe it’s for the better that you don’t remember it. At least not exactly.”

“Maybe. Apparently, I spent the next two weeks in the hospital with pneumonia, but I don’t have a single memory of that. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that I shudder at the mere sound of water.”

“Your body must remember what your mind suppressed. But wait, didn’t you have to pass a swimming test to get into the FBI?”

“I did. But it was in a pool, where the water was calm and not trying to kill me. Hey, do you see that car? Isn’t that for us?”

After a few hours, you began to appreciate living in a state where winters were mild. Your hands were even colder than they had been that time on the bridge, despite wearing leather gloves. The hood over your head muffled the sounds around you so much that the first time Hotch called your name, you didn’t even hear him. You only approached him when you noticed him waving in your direction.

Something in his expression made you quicken your pace.

“We have the unsub’s identity,” he said before you could open your mouth to ask what had happened.

The rest of the team had already gathered. Reid’s cheeks were red from the cold, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He wasn’t looking at you, so you avoided looking at him.

“What?” you blurted, surprised. “How?”

“He abducted another victim, but this time he wasn’t as careful, and one of the cameras caught him. Using the footage, Penelope tracked down his information. She also found out that he came from a very poor family, and his sister turned to prostitution at the age of fourteen to support both of them.”

“I don’t understand. Then why does he kill young girls, just like his sister, who sacrificed herself for their survival?” Elle asked, suddenly appearing behind you.

Her question echoed in your mind.

“He thinks that by drowning them in freezing water, he cleanses them of the sin of prostitution—a sin he believes was unjustly forced upon them because of poverty,” you said suddenly, the chill biting into your body far more sharply than before.

“The unsub might even think he’s doing them a favor,” Reid added, animated, picking up your line of thought. “That he’s their savior, granting them a departure free of that sin.”

His eyes met yours, a flicker of admiration glinting in them. But then, as if reminded of everything, he quickly looked away. You felt like sighing. So this is how every single one of your interactions was going to look from now on?

“We need to catch him before he drowns another victim. We don’t have much time; it’s getting dark,” Hotch issued commands quickly. “Gideon, me, JJ, and Elle will head to one lake, Morgan, Y/N, and…”

“I should go with you,” Reid interrupted. “Elle can go with Morgan, and…”

“This is not up for discussion,” Hotch replied in a firm tone, a flicker of surprise crossing not just his face but everyone’s. When it came to time, his decisions were final. You all knew that. "Go," He commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Before you knew it, you were in the speeding car. The tension and sense of mission always left you silent, focused, and most of all, determined.

“He’s here. Do you see him? He’s dragging her toward the hole in the ice!”

Throughout all of it, not once did it cross your mind—the obvious fact that you’d have to set foot on the frozen lake. Before you even had a chance to react or fully realize it, Reid unexpectedly grabbed your sleeve, pulling you toward him. He seemed surprised by his own action, his eyes darting with adrenaline across your face.

“The ice won’t break, do you understand?” he said, not letting go of your arm. “It’s thick enough that cars can drive on it. “It’s safe, trust me. And if you feel like you can’t do it, just stay behind,”

His voice was surprisingly steady, offering a sense of comfort that you hadn’t expected. You listened, almost stunned, not just by the care in his advice, but also by the fact that he was even speaking to you at all.

You didn’t have time to respond or even nod; the car came to a stop, and every second counted. Somewhere deep inside, though, you felt a surge of gratitude for his gesture and words. Because as soon as you set foot on the ice, it was as though your senses vanished. All that mattered was the water—cold, sinister, and waiting for you deep beneath the blue surface.

Morgan and Reid moved ahead of you, with the latter turning his head over his shoulder. You saw it, even as the darkness quickly closed in around you.

“If you feel like you can’t do it, just stay behind,” echoed in your mind.

But you couldn’t just stand there and watch while the victim’s life was hanging by a thread. Focusing entirely on his words and voice, you moved forward, gripping your weapon tightly, yet with a steady hand.

And it was your shot, fired in a moment of desperate resolve, that brought the unsub down, giving Morgan the chance to catch the unconscious victim in his arms and rush her to the shore as quickly as possible.

You stood there, breathless, still holding the gun high, completely unaware of it until someone gently touched your hands, guiding them downward.

“It’s me,” Reid said quietly as you flinched. Only then did it start to sink in that you were standing on the ice. Your imagination began to feed you the feeling of the bone-chilling cold, the water pressing against your body with all its might. After all these years, still so vivid. You grabbed onto his arms tightly, your legs suddenly slipping beneath you. Why hadn’t they slipped before?

“Hey, careful. The ice is thick, remember? It won’t break,” he reassured you.

He held you tightly, offering you support as you both made your way to the shore, taking small, uncertain steps. You could barely breathe, let alone speak. Yet, a question loomed in your mind, one you were desperate to ask: why was he even still with you? Why hadn’t he just left you there, maybe for some internal satisfaction?

Finally, you were on solid ground, no longer gripped by panic. Still, your breath was rapid, every cell in your body shaking in spasms, but not in that teasing, playful way it had when you played the role of the bolter.

“Why did you do it?” you asked, still holding onto him like a lifeline. “I thought you were mad at me.”

Before answering, Reid studied you in silence for a moment.

“I could be furious with you, but I wouldn’t leave you there, alone and scared,” he said.

You opened your mouth, a warmth spreading across your chest, something that felt almost like a comforting embrace. But before you could say anything, the rest of the team reached you, with Elle hanging onto your shoulder, her voice full of concern as she asked how you were feeling.

In the darkness and the flood of emotions, his face blurred, along with the faces of the others. You closed your eyes for a moment, surrendering completely.

It was only then that you began to calm down, though it would take many hours before your hands stopped shaking.

You nervously paced around the office, two pairs of eyes watching you with clear amusement.

"Do you think he called me in because of that whole tie incident?" you asked, nervously biting one of your nails. "Shit, it’s definitely about that. It was so inappropriate, he’s probably going to fire me."

"Calm down," Derek said to you, the corner of his mouth constantly rising and falling. "First of all, if Hotch were going to fire you for every dumb thing that comes out of your mouth, you'd be gone after a week. Second of all, it probably has nothing to do with that. Knowing you, it’s probably some overdue paperwork..."

"You’re not helping," you said, raising a warning finger.

Elle’s laugh mixed with her yawn.

"God, I’m exhausted from this day. I’m out of here. Call me later and let me know what this was all about," she kissed your cheek as a farewell.

You briefly hugged her with one arm.

"Keep your fingers crossed," you asked them as they walked away.

Both of them raised their hands, making the gesture.

It was evening, and you had just returned to the office after closing the case. You had hoped to head home and sleep off all the emotions from the day, but then you found out that Hotch had called for you. And you had no idea why.

Before opening the door with his name on it, you crossed yourself in your mind.

"Listen, Hotch, about that tie, it was really just some messing around," you blurted out, before even fully stepping inside.

The man sitting at his desk raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t alone—across from him, in a chair, looking like a student called to the principal’s office for punishment, sat Spencer, looking just as confused as you felt.

"Did you want to see me now? Or did I mix up the time or the days...?"

"I wanted to see both of you," he replied, pointing to one of the two chairs next to Reid.

You exchanged a brief glance with your colleague. Since your last interaction on the frozen lake, neither of you had spoken a word, but the atmosphere wasn’t as tense as before. That didn’t, of course, mean that everything between you was back to normal.

"Listen, I’m just as exhausted as you, but I need to have this conversation with you now so we can resolve it as quickly as possible."

You shook your head in confusion.

"Resolve what?" Reid asked.

"Whatever happened between you two," Hotch started seriously, his gaze moving between your faces. "Any argument, I don’t care what it was about or how serious it is, it cannot affect your work or professional relationship in any way."

You couldn’t help it and let out a laugh. You imagined Elle’s expression on the other end of the phone when you’d tell her the real reason behind this summons…

"Hotch, there was no argument," you assured him, maybe not entirely honestly, but in an attempt to wrap up this somewhat, let's be honest, embarrassing conversation as quickly as possible.

Spencer nodded enthusiastically.

"Absolutely none. Never."

"I'm not blind or, as you’re both well aware, stupid," Hotch continued, his gaze shifting between you both. "I can see what's going on, and I’m telling you now—I don’t want any conflict in my team."

You let out a snort.

"So what are you going to do?" you asked challengingly. "Force us to shake hands and make up? If we do that now, can we finally go home?"

He met your gaze, his expression as stoic as ever, but you were certain—absolutely certain—that deep down, he was amused by it all. To your surprise, he suddenly stood up from his desk.

"No, I'm going to do something more effective," he declared. "I'm leaving you two alone for ten minutes. No one leaves this office. When I come back, everything needs to be settled. Understood?"

"Isn’t this some sort of elementary school method of discipline?" Spencer asked, raising his eyebrows, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw that beneath his amused expression, there was also a hint of concern.

"Exactly how it sounds," you agreed, briefly meeting his gaze before shifting it to your boss with a pleading look. "You're not our father, Hotch. We're adults, stop treating us like children..."

His hand landed on the doorknob without a moment’s hesitation.

"Then stop acting like children and talk to each other," he said, glancing at his watch. "I’ll be back in ten minutes."

You could’ve sworn there was a subtle smile playing on his face as he left.

You watched his figure disappear in disbelief.

And then, you turned to Spencer, who was already staring at you.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds smut #spencer reid criminal minds #bau team #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal mind #dr reid #spencer reid smut #aaron hotchner #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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sceletaflores · 1 day ago

Text

come on into my bed with me (i know you want to)

pair: old man!logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, some sad vibes because i can't function without them, large age gap (but isn't that obvious by now? mid 20s/old as fuck), established relationship but only kind of, falls in the logan 2017 timeline but very loosely, LONGINGGGG, gratuitous nickname use (kid, baby, honey, ect), nasty dirty talk cause he's old and gross, not so dry humping, JUST THE TIP RAHHHH, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: this was heavily inspired by imogen heap's 'i am in love with you' because that song fucks so hard and it really gave me lots of old man logan vibes. i was just so overcome with nasty thoughts that the beat possessed me and i blacked out and listened to it on a constant repeat while i wrote this instead of doing my a&p work. kisses!

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

you can't sleep, logan left his door open...

Rain pelts at the smudged glass of your window, drops trailing down the span of the panes that you follow with your eyes.

It's been raining nearly all week, a rare thing in Mexico, especially somewhere as dry as Sonora.

You used to love the rain. You felt a special kind of comfort anytime night would come and there'd be a certain chill swirling through the air, that familiar scent of damp soil and wet stone rising as the first drops hit the ground.

In Sonora, rain is supposed to be a gift—a reprieve from the unrelenting heat, a chance for the dry earth to drink.

It should feel cleansing, like a reset of sorts, and maybe it would have a few months ago.

Now it just feels heavy, oppressive. Each raindrop splattering against the glass feels like a reminder of everything that's stuck, unmoving.

The soft noise of it was almost enough to lull you to sleep, but it was still no match for your wandering mind.

You’ve been finding yourself here a lot recently, shrouded in the scratchy sheets of your bed in the quiet dark encompassing your room, mind racing.

It was raining the first night he touched you.

You've been with Logan and Charles for nine months.

A runaway hitchhiker turned caretaker after you fled from the meaningless scraps of your life back in Texas.

Logan found you on the side of the highway coming back from a shift in El Paso. One stop with the hazards on and a hasty conversation through a rolled down window later, you were throwing your bags in the back of his limo and climbing into the front seat.

You didn't realize until much later that he never truly asked you to stay, or to care for Charles alongside him.

It was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement, a roof over your head in exchange for your help. Watch over his ailing father for a few days while he went out to get him more medicine, that's what you settled on.

Yet somehow, here you are, nine months later.

You cook meals in a dusty kitchen that always smells faintly of motor oil, listen to Charles’ stories about a world you’ll never fully grasp, and watch Logan patch himself up in grim silence after he’s returned from whatever trouble found him this time.

It's strange how the days seemed to stretch endlessly, but the weeks have slipped past like a blink. You carved out a routine in this crumbling house in Sonora, built something that resembles a life even if it feels borrowed, like a second-hand coat that never quite fits right.

At first, you weren’t sure what kept you here. Maybe Charles.

You warmed to him almost immediately, drawn in by his gentle demeanor and the way he seemed to see right through you without a hint of judgment.

Even when his mind faltered, slipping into tangled memories or distant fragments of a life long past, he treated you with a kindness you hadn’t felt in years.

You’d come to think of him as a king, regal and noble. A king stripped of his castle, yet still wearing a crown, if ever so skewed—a king nonetheless.

You still aren’t sure, but you can’t shake the sense that leaving now would be like tearing off a scab—painful and unnecessary.

And then, one night, the rain came.

You remember it vividly, a torrent so sudden and unrelenting. The downpour soaking the dry dirt surrounding the plant.

You couldn’t help yourself from wandering out, stood barefoot on the porch as the cool air nipped at the skin of your arms and legs.

“You’re gonna catch a cold standin’ out here.” Logan said from somewhere behind you, his voice rough and low after the silence of a long shift.

You hadn’t moved, hadn’t even glanced his way. “I like the rain.”

There was a beat of silence before he stepped closer, the warmth of his body radiating against your back. His hand had been hesitant at first, a brush of calloused fingers against your arm.

You didn’t pull away.

The heat of his palm felt scalding, causing goosebumps to pebble along your damp skin. His thumb swiped across the circular scar just above your elbow, a cigarette burn, one of many.

He didn’t say anything as he turned and walked back into the house. You learned quickly that Logan’s not the type to fill silences with empty words, but you both knew something shifted.

He came into your room later that night. The squeaky mattress of your bed dipping under his weight as he slid his hand down your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of your shorts, a silent question.

He didn’t kiss you, but the rain pattering against the tin roof was enough to swallow your soft moans and gasps.

You settled into something undefined—a constant push and pull of need and silence. Logan touched you when he needed to, and you let him because you wanted to.

It wasn’t love, not then. It wasn’t even comfort. But it was connection. A tenuous thread in the quiet storm of your lives.

You figured that was enough.

The rain hasn't slowed. If anything, the howl of the wind is stronger than before.

The soothing rhythm of droplets hitting your window turned aggressively sharp, like darts thrown against a worn cork board.

The boom of thunder is nearly in sync with the pulse of your core, aching and insistent in its need.

It’s been weeks since Logan touched you last, his endless cycle of guilt stronger than it's been before. He’s never outright said it, but you know it’s there.

The silence between you both has stretched longer than you'd like to admit, a quiet that isn't comfortable anymore.

You know he’s got it in his head that he’s somehow taken advantage of you. A perverted old man falling weak to the pretty, young thing taking up space in the bed two doors over from him.

The thought stirs something deep within you, a mix of frustration and confusion. He’s not wrong, not exactly—but he’s not right either. You aren’t a child, and you aren’t helpless. You knew what you wanted, what you needed.

And that hasn’t dared to change.

You shift in bed, the sheets tangling around your legs as your body hums with a restlessness you can’t shake. The air in your room feels thick, charged, and suffocating, a mirror of the space between you and Logan.

He doesn’t understand that you want him too, that you weren’t some helpless thing to be protected or shielded from his darkness. It eats at you until your skin is practically buzzing with it, buzzing with the need to show him.

There’s only so much silence you can take before it becomes too loud to ignore.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwood cool against your bare feet. You know it’s late, but you don’t care.

You walk through the dimly lit hallway, the creak of the floorboards quiet under you as you make your way to Logan’s door. It’s cracked open, a yellow glow spilling through to guide you like a lighthouse guides its ships to shore.

When you reach the beat up wood you don’t hesitate, you push it open the slightest bit, peering through the widened gap.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know he knows you’re there.

You cross the threshold, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you pull the door shut behind you, leaning your back against it.

“Logan,” you say softly, your voice rougher than you intended.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The lamplight catches the sharp planes of his face, a familiar weariness etched into his features.

His fingers flex at his sides, and for a moment, you think he’s going to tell you to leave—to go back to your room where it’s safe, where you won’t make things more complicated than they already are. You almost brace for it.

But then he speaks.

“What’s wrong, kid.” His voice is nothing but a deep rumble, like gravel crunching underfoot.

You shrug noncommittally, hands messing with a stray thread hanging from the edge of your shorts. “Can’t sleep.”

Logan sighs long and slow through his nose, hands pressing into his thighs. “Thought you liked the rain.”

You smile faintly at the irony, chest swelling with something dangerous.

You take a step further into the room, pushing yourself off the closed door. The familiar scent of him invades your senses. It’s a mixture of leather, earth, and something raw—something undeniably him.

You stand there for a moment, letting the silence stretch thin and taut before you finally speak.

“Can I stay?” The words come out barely above a whisper, but they land like a crack of lightning.

You feel your heart thud painfully in your chest, not from fear, but from the sudden vulnerability that makes your skin burn.

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in as you step forward, each movement slow and deliberate. You stop at the edge of his bed, the sheets pressing against the bare skin of your thighs.

Logan’s gaze flickers over his shoulder, meeting yours briefly before he looks away again, like he’s trying to convince himself that the ache in his chest isn’t real.

“You should go back to bed,” he says, voice gruff. “It’s late.”

“I don’t want to go back.” You shake your head even though he isn’t turned around to see it.

Without thinking, you crawl onto the bed, the comforter making soft shushing sounds under your hands and knees. You reach out, fingers brushing the back of his neck, the muscles there tight with strain.

Logan flinches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the permission you need.

You shift closer, pressing your chest against his back, and letting your hands settle on his shoulders. The heat between you is electric, charged with something unsaid, something raw and undeniable.

“Please,” you whisper, your lips brushing against the back of his ear, your voice a mixture of defiance and desire.

Logan stiffens, but this time, you feel the shudder that runs through him, the way his body responds despite the walls he’s built around himself.

You know he’s torn, that he wants to fight this. You feel it in the tension that radiates from him, in the way his body seems to be fighting against the instinct to turn toward you.

But you don’t care anymore. You’re done with silence.

Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt against your skin as you press yourself closer. Your breath is hot against his neck now, and you can feel the rapid pulse in his veins beneath your lips as you hover just above his skin, waiting.

“Logan…” Your voice is softer now, almost pleading. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but you don’t have to.

His hand comes up, brushing against your wrist as if testing, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you lean into him further, your lips brushing the curve of his neck, whispering into the tension that still hangs heavy between you. “Please.”

The last shreds of Logan’s resistance snap under the cloying weight of your touch.

He’s moving before you can even register what’s happening, rearing up with heavy hands that land on your shoulders to push you backwards.

You fall back onto the bed with a soft gasp, bouncing on the mattress once, twice, before Logan follows. His body settles over yours like a warm blanket, thick forearms braced on either side of your head to support his weight.

"Why couldn't you sleep, honey?" he asks, dark eyes boring into yours intense enough to get your stomach churning. The green of them is deeper than normal, like fresh moss growing over stone.

“I was thinking,” you whisper, breathless. Your pulse races beneath your skin, you wonder distantly if he can hear it too.

“Thinkin’ about what?” he presses, breath fanning over your lips temptingly.

Your brows furrow, a soft noise escaping you. You can't help but tell the truth. “About you.”

Logan hums, eyes trailing along your face slowly. He slots a knee between your thighs, groaning softly at the wet heat that seeps through to his jeans.

You gasp, hips bucking down instinctively. Your pussy aches desperately, leaking arousal into the cotton gusset of your panties.

His jaw clenches at the sound, muscle ticking just beneath the grey of his beard. “Is that right? You been layin' in that bed, thinkin' about me, gettin’ all worked up?"

Your face burns under his scrutiny, but you don’t shy away. You arch your back, pressing yourself as close to him as possible, letting the heat of your body speak for you.

“Yeah,” you breathe, the confession trembling on your lips. “I need you, it hurts.”

Logan exhales sharply, like the words knocked the air out of him. His hands slide from your shoulders, rough palms gliding down the skin of your arms before settling right under the swell of your breasts.

“Where’s it achin’, baby?” he asks softly, words almost getting lost in the dark of the room. “Show me.”

You let out a soft breath, reaching down to take his hand in yours.

Without breaking eye contact, you guide his hand down your trembling body until his palm rests over the apex of your thighs, where the damp fabric of your shorts clings to your swollen folds.

“Here,” you whisper, voice barely audible above the rain pounding against his window.

A low growl rumbles from deep in his chest, and his fingers press more firmly against you, feeling the slick heat that’s soaked through the thin cotton. His eyes darken further, the green almost swallowed by the black of his pupils.

Logan’s thumb drags over your clit, slow and deliberate, coaxing a needy whimper from your lips.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice thick. “You’re drippin’ for me, aren’t you? Didn’t even need to touch you, and you’re already so fuckin’ wet.”

You whimper softly, bucking your hips against his hand, desperate for more.

"I've been like this all night," you admit, your voice going high and needy. "Thinking about how good you make me feel. How much I want you."

Logan’s eyes lock onto yours, and there’s something new swirling through them, something you’ve never seen before.

A beat passes—too long—almost agonizing. His free hand lifts from your hip, gently cupping your cheek, fingers brushing against your skin, like he isn’t sure if he has the right to touch you like this.

His thumb brushes your lip, his gaze flicking to your mouth before returning to your eyes, asking for permission, even though neither of you had ever really needed it before.

"Logan," you say, the sound a little breathless, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, but he doesn’t keep you waiting.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, lips crashing into yours with a ferocity you didn’t expect.

It’s like the world around you falls away, leaving only the warmth of his lips, the taste of him, and the pressure of his body against yours. The raging storm outside dulling until it’s nothing but fuzzy background noise.

His kiss is rough, deep, urgent, but there’s something more in it, a slow unraveling. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you, a permanent mark, a reminder that he was here, even if he never says it out loud.

Logan tastes like rich smoke and whiskey, the sharp edge of him mixing with the sweet burn of need. It sends your head reeling, arms coming up to circle around his neck.

You can’t find the words to describe it, not with the way his fingers slide through the wetness gathering at your entrance, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

Your hips thrust upward, begging for more, your body hungry for the release he’s just out of reach of giving.

“Want you inside me, Logan,” you moan desperately, slick lips brushing his with every word. “Please.”

Logan's body stiffens against yours at the sound of your pleading, his grip tightening on your cheek like he's trying to anchor himself in the reality of what you're asking.

“Shit,” he growls under his breath, his forehead pressing to yours as he closes his eyes. His chest heaves, the tension in his body palpable. "I—" he pauses, struggling to form the words, but you can see it in his eyes. He's conflicted, desperate, yet still hesitant.

You move against him, your body restless, your need undeniable, feeling the rigid outline of his hard cock pressed firmly against your thigh. A thick plane of heat that has your pussy clenching around the tips of his fingers.

You don’t want to push him, not anymore. But you’re past the point of waiting for permission.

Your lips meet his again, softer this time, coaxing, until he finally gives in, groaning against your mouth as he kisses you back with an intensity that steals your breath.

“I want to feel you,” you whisper, your hands trailing down to the hem of his shirt, pushing it over the swell of his pecs.

His skin is hot under your fingertips, rough and familiar. Your fingers trail lightly across his chest, nails scratching through the salt and pepper hair dusted across his skin as you urge him closer.

“Just the tip,” Logan mutters under his breath, barely above a whisper. His voice hoarse, like he’s bargaining with himself. “Just to make you feel good, but that’s it, understand?”

You bite your lip, the edge of frustration gnawing at you. It’s not everything you need, not everything you want, but it's something. And right now, it’s enough.

You nod your head, hands already moving to the front of his jeans. You undo the button with shaking fingers, tugging the zipper down and pushing the worn denim away.

His cock springs free, already hard, leaking with the same desperation you feel. You run your fingers along his length, feeling the heat of him, the steady throb of his pulse.

Logan peels down the thin layer of your shorts, cursing under his breath when he finds you completely bare underneath, your slick pussy shining under the dim light.

You watch him, chest heaving, as he stares down at you—his eyes dark and full of something primal, something raw.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers tracing the outline of your wetness. He groans low in his throat, his thumb circling your clit once before moving down, dipping inside you just barely. “You’re perfect, baby.”

“Logan,” you whine, thighs spreading in a clear invitation. You patience is running exceedingly thin, your whole body alight with the feeling of a raging forest fire

“I know,” he mutters, placating. He takes the throbbing length of his cock in his hand, swiftly settling between your legs. “I know.”

The thick head drags through your folds, smearing pre-come along your skin and adding even more to the mess between your legs.

A quiet moan passes through your swollen lips, your muscles tightening as he slides himself along your clit. A slow back and forth movement that sends sparks shooting up your spine.

Logan grits his teeth, his breath shallow, as he finally aligns himself with your clenching hole.

The air around you feels charged, a taut thread stretched between anticipation and restraint. You shift your hips slightly, just enough to encourage him, your eyes locked on his as you beg him silently with your gaze.

Then, with a low growl that vibrates through you, he pushes forward, just enough to make you gasp in relief, the head of his cock sliding home in your entrance.

And though it’s only the tip, the sensation of him inside you is enough to set your world alight.

You can feel it, deep in your bones—the simmering, searing heat that makes everything else fade into the background.

Logan presses his lips to your forehead, his breath hot against your skin as he keeps his movements slow, deliberate, his hands holding your hips steady. "This is what you wanted, huh? Got you begging for it, honey," he growls softly. "Even if I’m only givin’ you a taste."

His hips roll languidly, staying true to his word and never sinking deeper than the thick head of his cock. His hand grips the base tightly, his fist fucking slow strokes over the length of himself to where he’s spreading your pussy open.

His scarred knuckles bump against your clit with every stroke, fanning the fire building in your lower stomach.

“Feel so fuckin’ good, honey,” he groans into the skin of your neck, the pace of his hips speeding up ever so slightly. “Feels like heaven.”

You claw at the skin of his back, touch wild and desperate. It takes everything in you not to shift your hips down, to sheath the rest of his cock deep inside your and lock your ankles around his back so he can never leave again.

Logan’s lips find your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he shifts against you. “Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice low, almost a command, yet laced with something tender. “Tell me you want me.”

You meet his gaze without hesitation, your voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

The words come out without thought, raw and honest, and you see something in his eyes shift—a flicker of relief, of something deeper than lust.

Logan groans like he got shot, his body shuddering above you as a low growl tears its way from his chest. He fucks into you faster, short, quick thrusts that steal all the breath from your lungs.

Sparks go off behind your closed eyes, bright white and glittering. You can feel yourself getting closer, your body trembling as you grind up against him, meeting him halfway, needing more, needing release.

“Logan,” you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders harder, nails digging in. “I’m so close. Please—”

“Let go,” he growls, his pace increasing, his body pressing harder against yours. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

With his command, you unravel, the world spinning around you as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless, gasping for air, your body quivering beneath him as he holds you through it.

Logan follows, tearing himself from the tight grip of your pussy with a sharp jerk of his hips, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he shoots thick ropes of come over your slick folds.

Your body shakes at the feeling, a breathless whimper pulled from your slack lips at the sticky warmth of his release.

He collapses onto the mattress next to you, his body shuddering enough to match your own. The room falls into a deep silence, the only sounds your mingling breaths and the distant sound of thunder.

A sick sort of dread bursts through the sweet afterglow of your hazy mind, settling in your stomach like a lead weight. You think that this is the moment where Logan will realize what you’ve done, that he’ll retreat back into himself and send you away.

Send you back to your own room and leave you to lay in the cold aftermath of your own recklessness.

You brace for it, the instinct to pull away, to protect yourself from his withdrawal, but it never comes.

Instead, you feel his strong arm slide over your waist, pulling you closer, his body heat a stark contrast to the chill creeping in from the window.

His breath is warm against your neck as he shifts, his fingers tracing absent circles on your skin in a move that’s so endearingly human it has your chest aching.

"Stay here tonight?" he asks, his voice rough, almost a whisper.

Your heart clenches, tears burning at your waterline at the vulnerability of his tone. It breaks the dam inside you, relief and something dangerously close to love flooding your body in a bursting rush of water.

“Of course,” you murmur, your voice shaky.

Logan’s hand tightens around you, his thumb brushing over your ribs. He presses a soft kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder, settling onto the mattress with a slow breath.

You drift to sleep more relaxed than you’ve felt in years, even with the knowledge of the slow journey that lies ahead of you. It won’t be easy, it never is with Logan. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

Because even though the rain falls, the desert doesn’t bloom overnight.

And neither do you.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

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xshadowdelta · 3 days ago

Text

FORMER MANAGER

PART 5: PURITY.

Mashiro x Male Reader (4K length)

You observed your face in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, your messy hair, the marks of the sheets on your cheeks and some visible dark circles bordering your eyes, it definitely had not been your best night. You had barely slept, tossing and turning in bed all night while your head was spinning around the scene with Jang Wonyoung.

The image of her crying wouldn't disappear from your mind no matter how hard you tried, but how did this happen in the first place? The last memory you had of her was when you said goodbye years ago before returning home, back then she also cried, but this time it was totally different, her look of disappointment on you disturbed you even more than her tears.

You catched some water from the sink, throwing it over your face, trying to clear yourself up and wake up a little, because you had to continue with your life and your work, you would find a free time lapse to be able to fix this problem.

You showered, fixed your hair, and hid the traces of a terrible night on your face as well as you could before getting dressed and leaving your apartment heading to the company.

You arrived at the building where as soon as you entered, your boss was waiting for you, folder in hand, and while you both walked he explained the itinerary of the day and the schedule for the upcoming weeks. Kep1er’s members had returned from their last shows abroad, there had been a few changes at the management level, and a new comeback was already planned, so the work was going to be hard and intense.

Both of you stopped in front of one of the practice rooms, a light touch of your coworker knuckles on the door and you entered inside, a group of girls who were stretching stared at you.

“Good morning girls.” Your partner began to speak. “Before starting preparations for this new album I want to introduce you to your new full-time manager, starting on today he will take care of all of you and about everything you need.” He exclaimed, indicating for you to introduce yourself to them with a gesture of his hand.

You bowed them instantly. “Nice to meet you! I will be at your service from now on, I hope we get along well.” You said a little nervous, a feeling that disappeared when you saw the smiles and applause they offered you. “Nice to meet you, please treat us well!” They all said in unison bowing to you aswell.

"Good." Your boss interrupted. “The dance teacher will come right away to show you and start practicing the new choreographies, I hope the best from all of you. “Fighting!” He said with his fist, before handing you the information folder and leaving the room.

You watched him leave and when you looked back you jumped when you realized how the Kep1er girls had surrounded you, occupying any personal space you could have, their eyes analyzing you carefully.

"Hello!" One of them greeted with a huge smile on her face. “I'm the leader Yujin, nice to meet you, it's incredible, it's the first time I have such a young manager.” You smiled shyly, uncomfortable with the circle of people that had formed around you.

“Wow, can I call you oppa?” A girl with pink hair and rounded cheeks asked next to her, if you were not mistaken it was Kim Chaehyun, you nodded affirmatively at her question causing her to laugh.

You noticed that penetrating eyes were focused on you to the point that you realized that gaze was passing through you, you made eye contact with it, increasing your nervousness.

“Is something wrong, Xiaoting?” You asked softly making the mentioned girl blink a few times. “Do you know my name already?” She questioned surprised. “Our new manager has studied a lot!” Dayeon shouted, starting to laugh and causing the rest of the members to laugh.

“Look at his dark eyes, he sure hasn't been able to sleep all night!” Hikaru joked, releasing one of her particular laughs that resonated throughout the room, increasing the volume and joy of the rest of the members.

These girls were really loud and restless, they were going to give you a lot of headaches, yet a smile was drawn on your lips and for a while you forgot about the rest of your problems.

The dance teacher appeared and the morning passed with the girls memorizing and practicing the new choreographies, so you took the opportunity to go to your office to work on other aspects such as contacting the wardrobe team, making venue reservations where the filming would be done, hire the recording equipment.

The days went by and with the amount of work you had it was impossible to even think about Wonyoung. Your relationship with the members of Kep1er was improving and due to the characteristics of these girls, in just a week it seemed like you had been together since their debut, and that was something that relieved you and made everything much more enjoyable.

This day in question the girls would spend it in the recording studio, testing their vocals and recording the songs for the new album, so really your presence there was not very significant so your task for the day was to clean and organize everything in the house.

If you already hated doing housework, doing it in a home full of girls made you hate it excessively. A multitude of clothes scattered throughout the rooms, boxes and cardboard in every corner.

You were infinitely grateful to Bahiyyih for trying to keep the house in order, saving you some work, but the whirlwind that was Chaehyun Dayeon and Hikaru was simply unstoppable.

You finished off the apartment Yujin Bahiyyih Chaehyun and Xiaoting shared and headed upstairs to start cleaning the next one. You hadn't been there for long but there was a room that you had not yet accessed, it was a two-bed bedroom that did not belong to anyone in the group but that had serious signs of having been habited before, it was perfectly arranged and there were still clothes hanging in the closet.

You inspected said clothes, leaving them on one of the beds, you opened the drawers looking to know what, and this really had you confused.

“W-W-Who are you? What are you doing with my clothes?” A sudden voice surprised and scared you, almost making you fall on the bed when you turned to look at the door frame of the room, finding a small girl with brown hair and a rather cute appearance carrying a cardboard box in her hands, looking at you in a scared way.

“That's what I should ask, how did you get in here? The door has a password, and what's with your clothes?” You were trying to appear as calm as possible but you were really uneasy with that presence.

“Don't tell me…A SASAENG!” You both shouted at the same time, pointing your fingers at each other. "WHAT? ME?" Now your fingers were pointing towards yourselves.

“It's over I'm going to call the police.” The girl said, dropping the box and taking her mobile phone out of her pants pocket.

“That's exactly what I'm going to do, look at this.” You said, taking out the company ID, surprising the girl.

"Huh?"

“I'm sorry again, I had no idea you were the new manager.” The girl said with her head down, looking at the ground, feeling guilty for the previous misunderstanding.

“The mistake was mine for not having recognized you before, Mashiro-shi.” Now you knew who this room belonged to.

Apparently, and after left the grou, both Mashiro and Yeseo had been terribly busy with their new group and their own activities that they had been coming and going to the house making small moves of their things. However some things of their property were still there.

“If you need help with your…”

“Oh no no, please, I'm sure you're very busy, I don't want to bother you.” She commented, making notable gestures with her hands. You smiled at how adorable that was.

“The rest of the members say that you and Yeseo will continue to be part of Kep1er forever…” You commented, bending down to pick up the cardboard box from the floor and put it on the bed, opening it. “So now I'm also your manager, okay Mashiro-chan?” You smiled warmly at her causing her cheeks to turn a deep pink color.

“O-O-Okay” She agreed shyly, approaching you and helping you pack more clothes from her closet.

Together you cleared out the closet and packed all the clothes, and you organized the rest of the room and cleaned it. You glanced at Mashiro from time to time, even with that strange first impression you had with her, you really thought she was a super adorable girl. Her small stature, her beautiful face and the dimples that were marked on her cheeks reaffirmed it.

“What do you think of the members?” She asked casually while doing her task, your gaze drifted towards the ceiling, sketching a slight smile after a few seconds of thought.

“Noisy.” You responded simply causing her to giggle, covering her mouth with one of her hands.

“I understand you perfectly.” She supported you.

“But they are really amazing.” You continued. “They spend the day laughing and making a fuss but they don't lower the effort they put into their practices one bit, sometimes I envy them. I would also like to enjoy my work like they do.” Out of the corner of my eye you could notice a small smile melancholy on her face, so you decided not to say anything else and continue with the cleaning.

You walked over to one of the nightstands next to one of the beds to open the drawers, see what they kept and see if there was anything else that needed to be packed.

“Don't open that!” Mashiro screamed hysterically, throwing herself on the bed trying to stop you but you had already opened the drawer. You looked at her confused, even more so when she threw her hands over her face trying to hide herself, while her ears turned red.

You looked down, looking at the vibrator that was inside the drawer, blushing too and quickly moving away, falling on your ass to the floor.

"I'm sorry." You whispered embarrassed, unable to look up, noticing how your face was burning.

“Noooooo…how embarrassing.” Mashiro sobbed, rolling on the bed. You grabbed a lock of your hair, analyzing the situation, looking for the right words for a moment like this.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of Mashiro, it is something totally normal for someone your age and…Mashiro?” You were absorbed as you looked up to see directly at the girl who was still sobbing, covering her face with one hand, while the other was now rubbing her crotch over her pants. So those sounds weren't sobs, they were moans.

You saw how she relaxed her body and lie down on the bed. The hand that covered her face no longer did so, she was now looking at you clearly, intently, a look very different from what you had seen from her before.

“It has been such a hard, stressful and emotional weeks. Leaving one group to enter another, new members, comeback, and performances. Even now all the responsibility of being a leader falls on my shoulders.”

“Mashiro…” Your words were interrupted by a new moan.

“And I forgot my stress reliever during the move, I tried using my fingers but they didn't have the same effect…” You turned your gaze to the vibrator and took it in your hands, Mashiro's eyes did not take their eyes off the device. You turned it on, listening to the vibrations it produced, making Mashiro groan in despair.

“You said before that you were also my manager…” The Japanese girl began to say. “So, I need your help, manager oppa, please…” You swallowed after hearing that request of deep need in her tone of voice.

You stood up and approached the bed, sitting on the edge near Mashiro, who lowered the zipper of her sweatshirt a little, revealing a bit of the shirt she was wearing underneath and then, moving against the bed, she managed to lower her pants until her underwear was visible.

“You are very wet Mashiro-chan.” You commented looking at the huge stain that had appeared on her panties. “You really are so needy…”

She didn't respond but she brought her hand back to where the stain was now, caressing herself again with circular movements, closing her eyes enjoying her own touch.

When she stopped she opened her eyes to look deeply at you, eyes that were screaming for your help. You sighed and got even closer to her body, vibrator in hand, gently bringing it to her desired area, coming into contact causing Mashiro's back to arch due to excitement.

“Yes, please…” She continued asking needily.

You pushed aside the fabric of her panties, visualizing her wonderful pink pussy completely flooded that was crying out for pleasure.

The sex toy now caressed Mashiro's folds mercilessly, forcing her to moan loudly, her eyes closed again enjoying the waves of pleasure that ran through her body.

That scene was fucking erotic for you, so much so that a huge bulge peeked out from between your pants. With your free hand you managed to free that bulge from outside your clothes, however it was somewhat difficult to satisfy both of you at the same time.

A naughty idea crossed your mind. If you were busy offering pleasure to Mashiro she was free to give it to you, so you took her hand closest to you and placed it around your cock.

Upon feeling that she opened her eyes again, offering you a small smile when she knew your intentions, grabbing your penis tightly and beginning to move her hand up and down constantly.

“Oppa hentai…” She whispered, biting her lip, watching how she was masturbating you.

“It's your fault in the first place…” You responded, emitting the occasional small moan caused by her touch, and lowering the zipper of her sweatshirt completely with your free hand, allowing yourself to caressing her stomach and her hips.

You threw the vibrator to the side of the bed and began to caress her pussy with your own hand, separating her folds with your fingers and inserting a couple of them inside causing a squeal of surprise from her.

“Shit oppa…it feels so good…”

“A girl as adorable as you talking so dirty.” You said increasing the pace of your caresses on her pussy, feeling how your hand became wet with Mashiro's fluids.

“You love when I talk dirty, right oppa?” She asked continuing the caresses on your penis. “It hasn't stopped growing…”

You smiled, leaning over her body, placing a few kisses across her bare stomach. She released her grip on your cock to allow you to position yourself more comfortably on top of her, slipping your hands under her shirt touching everything within reach.

Mashiro slowly melted under your body, moaning louder and louder as your fingers caressed her tits. She was breathing heavily and her hair fell over her forehead giving it an even sexier touch, her entire face was flushed and hot.

Due to the constant movement of your bodies on each other there was a moment where your cock rubbed against Mashiro's pussy, tensing her body and placing her hands against your chest, pushing you away slightly.

You raised an eyebrow in confusion, realizing how hot this whole scene had become and how you had gotten carried away with it.

“I'm sorry if I…

“I have only used that vibrator… I have never had anything inside me beyond my fingers, I am completely a virgin.” She admitted, looking away embarrassed.

"It’s okay." You whispered softly, offering her a smile, caressing her right cheek with your hand. She took your hand and let herself be caressed by you.

“It's really strange and we just met...but I feel very comfortable with you, oppa. Although I don't think I'm ready to cross that line yet, I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize for anything.” You leaned your head over her, kissing her lips, being instantly reciprocated by her, lightly biting her lower lip, drawing a moan from her and allowing your tongue to explore every corner of Mashiro's mouth.

“Oppa.” A thread of saliva separated your mouth from Mashiro's. “I need an orgasm.”

You smiled, recovering the vibrator lost in some corner of the bed, activating it again, this time with more power making the girl's body tremble.

“OH FUCK!” Squeals and moans came non-stop from the idol's mouth as you rubbed the toy again and again over her weak area.

You alternated the vibrator with the caresses that you provided with your hands. You lay down on the bed next to Mashiro without stopping masturbating her, she quickly took your cock again with one of her hands and now you were both pleasuring each other.

You inserted two of your fingers inside her completely tight pussy, stretching it slightly feeling her walls contract against your fingers. The girl's hips moved unconsciously as the moans did not stop and her grip on your cock tightened.

You then stroked her clit with your thumb, which was like touching the self-destruct button on Mashiro's body. You touched and pressed her clit as much as you could until her back arched again and a huge scream escaped her mouth.

Her body hit the mattress again, her chest rising and falling excitedly. It took her a few seconds to catch her breath and recover from that orgasm, she turned to look at you and you quickly wiped away some tears that were now flowing from her eyes with your hand.

“God…you're better than any toy, oppa.” Despite continuing to pant, her smile was wide, she laughed at herself for the situation she found herself in.

You laughed, also flattered but somewhat embarrassed by her comment. You tried to get up to get out of bed but Mashiro immediately stopped you and forced you to lie down, surprising you with her sudden reaction.

“Wait, you're not done yet.” She said and then you looked down at your penis.

“Please let me help you, oppa.” Mashiro demanded in distress, because she had been able to free herself thanks to your touch and you, on the other hand, were still hard.

How were you going to refuse that, you thought, lowering the clothes that covered your lower area to your ankles, leaving your member in full view. Mashiro was stunned to see it like that.

“It's even bigger…” She whispered, wrapping her hand around it again, beginning to cover it completely and therefore starting the massage.

You let out a moan and bit your lip. Under normal conditions it would take you long enough to cum to get a long treatment, but the hard work of these last few days had taken its toll on you too. You hadn't downloaded for days, even weeks, and none of the Iz*One girls had crossed your path during this time, so you and your friend were especially sensitive at the moment.

That Mashiro was inexperienced was obvious, not only because she had confessed to being a virgin, it was obvious that it was the first time she had masturbated someone.

She did it delicately but nervously, her hand trembled on your cock, so you decided to help her, placing one of your hands on hers, guiding her on top of you. This helped her to calm down and gain confidence, copying the rhythm that you were setting.

You moved your hand away once you saw her more prepared and in response to that she wrapped her other hand around your penis as well.

Now both of the girl's hands were working on your erect dick, covering the entire length between them, with slow and delicate movements that made you shudder.

Your moans began to get uncontrolled due to her touch, giving her more and more encouragement and causing the pace of masturbation to increase.

Her two hands worked now at high speed on your penis, with enveloping movements, noticing how it swelled and began to tremble.

“Shit...Mashiro-chan I'm about to...” You couldn't finish the warning when the first shot was propelled upwards, surprising the girl by seeing that white liquid escape from the tip of your penis.

After the first, the rest of the shots followed, progressively decreasing the intensity with each one until finally there was not a single drop left inside you.

Mashiro's hands raised the skin of your penis one last time, observing the brilliance that the tip of your penis now offered. Finally she let you go and you were able to sit up on the bed, seeing the mess that had formed on your abdomen, now covered in your own sperm.

You diverted your gaze towards Mashiro whose eyes did not stop observing that increasingly sticky area.

You moved your hand towards it, taking some of the sperm with your fingers and looked back at the girl, who now looked back at you.

"Do you want to try it?" You asked, smiling sideways, sneaking into her thoughts. She did not utter a word due to shyness and embarrassment but nodded affirmatively.

You brought your fingers closer to her face and she closed her eyes, opening her mouth, allowing you to insert them inside, licking and tasting your seed. Her tongue moved between your fingers, wetting them but absorbing all the liquid they were impregnated with.

She opened her mouth again for you to remove your fingers and you looked at each other.

"It is...you are...you taste delicious..." She admitted self-consciously but happy and satisfied. “C-C-Can I take some more?”

A few seconds later you had Mashiro leaning over you licking all the remains of sperm that were on your abdomen and thighs. That was making you hard again but you knew you had a line that you must not to cross.

The idol's tongue cleaned you completely, savoring every last bit of liquid she could get, repeating to herself how delicious it tasted. Once she was over with you, you left the room for a moment to go to the bathroom, cleaning yourself and put your clothes back on properly, when you returned Mashiro was also dressed.

You inserted the vibrator into the cardboard box, camouflaged between several layers of clothing, and took it into your arms, despite the girl's insistence that she could carry the box.

You went down together to the street, parked there was one of Mashiro's new group's cars waiting to pick her up.

"Thanks for everything, manager oppa." Mashiro smiled sweetly at you.

"Keep this between us, okay?" She nodded briskly heading to the car, turning around before opening the door.

"I'll think about you the next time." Those words caught you off guard, making you blush.

You watched as the car disappeared into the distance of the street, blending into the traffic. You sighed and walked back up the stairs to the apartment, there was still a lot to clean.

Just when you were about to grab the broom again the phone in your pocket started ringing, you picked up after reading the name of the caller and brought it to your ear.

“Finally, I only had to call you 7 times to get a callback.” You heard a sleepy yawn from the other side.

“I've been non-stop for months, many performances, shootings, ceremony awards, and exhausting trips, you know. I deserved a good restful sleep…of 14 hours.”

“Of course, we must keep the star Ahn Yujin in good condition.” Your laughter dissipated as you took a more serious tone. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I know. See you in like 1 hour? I will send you the location.”

“Sure, see you.”

You hung up the call and heaved a long sigh, rushing to get all the work done. You had a date in an hour.

#kpop smut #male reader #smut #kep1er smut #mashiro smut #mashiro x reader #kep1er x reader

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sunshine6ixty · 2 days ago

Text

I was working as a stage hand at a liberal college the day that marriage equality won. It was during a poetry writing program, and a number of attendees and speakers were at Stonewall, were at Compton's Cafeteria; had lived through epidemics and murders and riots and beatings. They were old, now, they had been through so much, and they'd been fighting so long, and you could see all of it carved in the lines of their faces.

The announcement came down, that Obergefell v. Hodges shook out how it did, and my most concrete memory of the moment was watching a smile crack on the face of this serious, studious old woman. She grinned from ear to ear, her glasses started fogging up, and it was like the last forty years were put to rest, all at once.

Someone put Britney Spears on over the speakers, and the entire theater started dancing.

And this, this was the lesson I learned. Fuck your protestant work-ethic. Your self-flagellation. None of that was the point. The point, finally, at the end of this long, exhausting road, was dancing to club music with the people you love.

Celebrate. Rest when you can, fight when you have to. Desperation, despair, panic-- none of that will see you through. I'm not fucking with you when I say, from the lips of those who made it all the way down to us, that fear cannot save you. Dancing to Britney Spears will.

I’m sorry but if there is one thing the Tumblr left needs crucially, it’s the ability to celebrate.

I remember when marriage equality was called and there were waves of rainbows and love wins posts. When we successfully defeated Donald Trump, there was lukewarm relief, a reminder that you were only allowed one or maybe two days to celebrate and then it was back to work. That is if you were even a good person for voting Biden. We never did settle if he was better than Trump. (We did.). We didn’t celebrate student loan debt relief or any of the accomplishments of the Biden administration, or any of the times Trump was blocked, or other countries succeeding in keeping fascists out of office. Who cares if we had successes? It’s not good enough. Back to work!

And this anti-celebratory attitude stretches back to the past. On the 100th anniversary of female suffrage in America, we were reminded that not all women had the vote and so we weren’t allowed to celebrate. The only post I saw about Juneteenth was reminding us that there were enslaved people who were killed instead of freed and therefore celebrating the end of chattel slavery was wrong, and besides, we have prison labor so nothing really changed or got better and there’s nothing to celebrate anyway. Trans Day of Visibility comes with Trans Day of Remembrance so that people don’t fill the tags with hate crimes and death. So on and so forth. Nothing gets better. Nothing changes. Back to work!

So of course when we have a major setback, we fall apart and have to start frantic damage control. Frantic discourse ensues over how much people are allowed to unplug before it becomes bad and selfish. Yes, maybe you can have this one day off Mr. Cratchit but you better be here and miserable early the next morning. Like abusive bosses always insisting you squeeze out more, more, more, and any achievement is just proof you were lazy the other times and impetus for more work.

If we are never allowed to acknowledge any of our victories, how are we supposed to survive our defeats?

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whosscruffylooking · 3 days ago

Text

Militiae Species Amor Est

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Part II Is Up Now!

This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!

warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.

word count: 6.7k

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The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.

“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”

The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.

Lucius.

The boy who had once been your entire world.

Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.

Lucius.

He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”

Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.

He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.

That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.

Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.

You couldn’t look away.

As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.

He knew you.

Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.

“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.

You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was him.

Lucius.

And you would find him again. No matter what it took.

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The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.

Another victory. Another step toward survival.

He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.

Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.

And he saw her.

At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.

It was her.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.

She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.

The girl he had loved.

Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.

His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.

And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.

Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.

The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.

But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.

She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.

Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

Hope.

His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.

And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.

She was here. She had found him.

And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.

He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.

He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.

But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.

“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”

Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”

Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”

Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.

“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”

Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”

“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”

Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”

Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”

“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”

Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.

“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.

Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”

Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.

Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.

The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.

He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.

He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.

“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.

Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”

“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”

Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”

“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”

Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.

Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”

Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”

“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”

Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.

Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”

“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“

Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”

Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.

Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”

“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars.

Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.

Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.

The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?

It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.

He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.

When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.

“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.

Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”

Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”

Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”

Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”

Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.

“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.

“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”

There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”

Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”

The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.

The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.

It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.

He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.

His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.

“Iris.”

Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.

Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.

“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.

“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”

Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.

“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.

Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.

As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.

This was far from over.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.

Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.

There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.

Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.

Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.

“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.

“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”

“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.

Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”

“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.

She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.

Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.

But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.

She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.

She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.

Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.

The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.

He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.

She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.

Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”

Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”

Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.

“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”

Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.

He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.

“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”

“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!”

He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.

The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?

“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”

He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”

The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.

“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”

His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”

There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.

"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”

Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.

Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.

But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.

But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”

And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.

#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator ||#hanno x reader #paul mescal #paul mescal x reader #lucius verus x y/n #lucius verus x you

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meleeyz · 2 days ago

Text

୭ 𝗔𝗨𝗡𝗧 𝗣𝗢𝗪𝗗𝗘𝗥 ˚. ᵎᵎ

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ God, Wyeth and Violet are my precious babies, I'm excited to write the next chapter 😼 THIS IS A BIT OF ANGST BUT I PROMISE I WILL MAKE UP FOR IT, THE NEXT CHAPTER COMES OUT TOMORROW 😓

୨୧ THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT, IT MEANS A LOT TO ME

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Ekko stepped out of The Last Drop alongside you, his mind a tangled mess of emotions he didn’t know how to untangle.

“See you tomorrow, Silco,” you called over your shoulder, waving at the man. “And tell Vander not to forget the balloons this time. It’s Violet’s party, after all!”

Silco chuckled, his sharp features softened by a surprising warmth.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t disappoint. Powder would never let me hear the end of it.”

Ekko opened his mouth to comment on the absurdity of those words—Silco and birthday parties didn’t belong in the same sentence—but before he could speak, you grabbed Wyeth’s hand, ready to lead him down the street, and before Ekko could even process what he’d just witnessed, his son slipped his small fingers into his free hand.

“Let’s go, Dad!” Wyeth said with a grin, swinging their joined hands as they walked.

The simple gesture made Ekko’s chest tighten. It felt so normal. So… good. And yet, it brought a pang of sadness that he couldn’t shake. How much had he missed? The thought gnawed at him.

Wyeth glanced up, his expression turning sly.

“You think Mom will forget I’m grounded if I say she’s pretty?”

Your laughter drifted back toward them as you approached a street vendor, completely oblivious to your son’s plotting.

Ekko didn’t respond. He barely heard the boy’s words, his mind too busy grappling with the strange reality around him. Wyeth looked so grown, his bright smile and curious eyes a reminder of everything Ekko had never gotten to see. He’d been there for Wyeth’s first steps, first words, first everything… hadn’t he?

“Dad?”

Wyeth’s voice snapped Ekko out of his thoughts. The boy tilted his head again, mirroring the gesture that so often punctuated your own confusion.

“Why’re you looking at me like that? I didn’t even do anything yet.”

A sheepish laugh escaped Ekko.

“Nothing, kiddo. Just thinking.”

Wyeth raised a brow, unimpressed by the weak excuse, but before he could press further, his attention shifted.

“Mom! Aunt Powder’s place is up there!” he shouted.

Ekko followed his gaze, his stomach tightening at the sight of the towering structure ahead. The entrance was unmistakably Powder’s handiwork—vivid, colorful, and chaotically creative.

Your arm slipped through Ekko’s as you stepped closer to him, your head resting lightly against his shoulder. The gesture was effortless, familiar, and it sent an odd pang through him. It wasn’t just something you would’ve done in his world—it was something you had done countless times before.

Powder’s hideout loomed closer, and the knot in Ekko’s stomach tightened. Memories of his childhood flooded his mind—Powder laughing as she tinkered with one of her bombs, her face lighting up when she succeeded. But those memories felt so far away, belonging to someone who no longer existed.

“Aunt Powder!” Wyeth called, his voice echoing through the space as he dashed ahead.

Powder sat on the floor, her back turned to them. She was hunched over something, her shoulders swaying slightly. Ekko froze in the doorway, his feet unwilling to take another step.

She turned slowly, and Ekko’s breath caught. In her arms was a baby.

The child couldn’t have been older than a year, her curly white hair catching the light. Her skin was a shade darker than Wyeth’s, but her eyes—Ekko’s heart skipped a beat—her eyes were undeniably yours.

He stared, dumbfounded. It was as if the Ekko of this world had decided to create smaller versions of himself just for the hell of it.

“Powder!” You hurried past Ekko, reaching for the baby. Powder smiled and handed her over without hesitation.

“There’s my little Violet,” you cooed, lifting the baby into the air before kissing her cheek. Violet giggled, her chubby hands patting your face with affection.

Ekko barely registered the interaction, his focus drawn to a small shrine tucked away in the corner of the room. It was simple but striking—candles flickered in a soft circle of light, surrounding scattered trinkets and flowers.

His stomach dropped when he saw the pictures.

Vi’s pictures.

There was no mistaking her sharp features, her trademark smirk immortalized. The realization hit Ekko like a freight train.

He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought a world so perfect could still hold such grief. The weight of it settled on him, twisting his heart in ways he couldn’t describe.

“Dad?” Wyeth’s small voice pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. The boy’s wide eyes were filled with concern as he tugged on Ekko’s sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

You turned at the question, your gaze sharpening when you saw Ekko’s expression.

“Wyeth, why don’t you go play for a bit?” you said gently, brushing a hand over his hair.

The boy frowned.

“But I—”

“Please,” you said, your tone soft but firm.

Wyeth hesitated, then sighed dramatically before go.

Ekko's breath coming shallow as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Little Violet, with her bright eyes and curly white hair, cooed in your arms as you rocked her gently. You gave Ekko a pointed look and gestured to the spot beside you on the worn couch. Ekko moved mechanically, lowering himself onto the worn cushion, his legs feeling like lead.

His voice broke the silence, hoarse and uncertain.

“She’s... dead?”

Powder, seated besides from him, shifted uncomfortably, her face tightening.

“That’s not funny, Ekko.”

He turned to her sharply, his old friend—his childhood companion—now a stranger and yet not. His voice dropped, heavy with accusation.

“Was it you?”

Your head snapped up, your expression a mix of surprise and frustration.

“Ekko!”

Powder’s eyes darkened and her voice rising.

“It was you,” she spat. “You gave the tip. We went to that job because of you.”

The air in the room grew heavy as Powder’s words sank in. Ekko’s breath caught in his throat. His memories of another life swirled with the knowledge that here, in this version of the world, everything was twisted. His hands trembled as realization hit him. The raid on Jayce’s workshop... That was where Vi—this Violet—died. That was why there was no Hextech here, why this world felt so fragmented.

“I think you should go before I say something I’ll regret,” Powder said quietly, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger.

Ekko stood, the sudden movement making Violet stir in your arms. He didn’t look at you, Powder, or the baby. His body moved automatically, his legs carrying him toward the door.

“I’m working on it,” he mumbled, though the words felt hollow even to him.

You called after him, your voice sharp with concern, but he kept walking.

“Dad?” Wyeth’s voice called out from nearby, concern lacing his tone. Ekko didn’t respond, his thoughts too tangled and chaotic to register anything else.

You watched Ekko leave, your jaw tightening in frustration. The strange behavior, the short temper—it was too much. You handed Violet to Powder, murmuring softly.

“Hold her for a second, please.”

Powder’s expression softened slightly as she took the baby, hugging her carefully though her gaze lingered on you in concern. You followed him out.

“Ekko!” you called sharply. He didn’t turn, but you grabbed his wrist, forcing him to stop and face you. His expression was tense, his eyes darting everywhere but to you.

“What the hell is going on with you?” you demanded, your tone low but fiery. “You’ve been acting weird all day. You know what tomorrow is—it’s our daughter’s birthday. You’re not going to ruin this over something stupid.”

That word—daughter—caught him off guard, sparking the storm of confusion inside him all over again. His mind rebelled against the warmth in your voice, the certainty in your words. How could you say it so easily, so naturally, as if everything about this world made sense?

He shook his head, his voice rising in frustration.

“I’m not ruining anything. I just—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Powder didn’t do anything to you. If you’re tired, fine, but you owe her an apology. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Ekko swallowed hard, his throat dry. The words escaped before he could stop them.

“I’m not even sure those are really my children!”

The moment the sentence left his lips, he froze.

The look on your face was enough to make him wish he could disappear. Anger flashed in your eyes, but beneath it, he saw the hurt—the disbelief. He didn’t mean it like that.

God, he didn’t mean it.

“What did you just say?”

“I—” he stammered, the words tangled in his throat. “I didn’t... that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Ekko?” you demanded, your voice tight with controlled fury.

He wanted to tell you the truth. That he wasn’t your Ekko, that the children weren’t technically his, that he didn’t even belong in this world. But he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come, and the weight of what he couldn’t say crushed him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your jaw tightening as your anger simmered. Finally, you took a deep breath and stepped back.

“Go for a walk and cool off.”

Before he could respond, you turned and walked back toward Powder’s hideout.

Ekko stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where you had disappeared. The weight of everything—this world, its expectations, the people who had unknowingly tied themselves to him—pressed down on him, suffocating and inescapable.

He ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath.

“Great job, idiot,” he muttered bitterly to himself.

The streets around him blurred, the laughter and light of this version of Zaun clashing against the turmoil in his mind. He felt like a stranger in his own life, and no amount of sunshine or clean air could change that.

But as he stood there alone, one thought refused to leave him:

He just hurt the people who mattered most in this world.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

You re-enter the cave with silent steps, the cool air brushing against your skin as you wrap your arms around yourself. Your chest feels tight, the pain blooming there sharper than any gunshot wound. You bite down hard on the urge to cry, swallowing it like bitter medicine.

When you reach Vi's sanctuary, Powder is holding Violet in her arms. She turns to look at you, and whatever she sees in your face makes her pause. Her expression softens, though it doesn’t lose the edge of mischief. She lets out an exaggerated sigh, the kind meant to ease tension and distract.

"Well, look who’s back," she says, forcing a smile that stretches a little too wide. “Guess what, Mama? Aunt Powder got new crayons!” Her voice takes on a sing-song lilt, as if a few minutes ago her old friend hadn’t accused her of being the cause of her own sister death.

Before you can say anything, Wyeth is at her side in an instant, his excitement bubbling over. Powder laughs and hand him the crayons, vibrant sticks of color in every hue.

“Take your little sister and draw something pretty. Something cool for Aunt Pow-pow.” she says with a wink.

Wyeth nods eagerly, leaning in to kiss Violet on the head. He scoops her up with the care of a child trying to prove just how grown-up he is and carries her to the makeshift tent Powder had set up—a cozy hideout of blankets, pillows, and soft light. Violet’s soft babbling carries over as Wyeth settles her down, and began instructing Violet on how they’d make the “best drawing ever.”

Powder straightens, brushing imaginary dust off, and finally looks at you fully. Her smile falters just a little.

“Alright,” she says, “spill. What’s up with your husband?”

You shake your head, frustration and confusion vying for dominance.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice strained. “He was fine this morning, and now… now, I don’t even know who I was talking to back there.”

Powder watches you closely, her blue eyes narrowing slightly before she lets out a small sigh.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said to him...”

You wave her off, sinking onto the small couch and resting your face in your hand.

“You’re not the one who should be apologizing.” Your voice is muffled, tired.

Silence settles between the two of you, heavy but not suffocating, just long enough for the tension to ebb. Powder leans back, her usual energy subdued but still present in the way her hands fidget with the edge of her shirt. Then, without a word, she drops something into your lap.

You look down and pick it up—a sketch, delicate lines drawn with an artist’s touch. It’s a design for a baby dress. The fabric in the sketch flows softly, a pastel green shade that feels gentle and light. Little embroidered fireflies dot the hem, their wings detailed with tiny lines of imagined thread. Flowers bloom along the neckline, subtle and sweet, and the sleeves are puffed ever so slightly, adding a playful charm. The waist is cinched with a sash, and a small bow ties neatly in the back, making it utterly perfect for a little one’s birthday.

You trace the design with your fingertips, your heart softening despite the ache still lingering. Ekko was just upset, you think. He didn’t really believe that those babies weren’t his, did he? Hell, they’re his spitting image. Violet has his nose, his hair, his everything, down to the small furrow of concentration she gets when she’s focused.

Powder’s voice breaks through your thoughts.

“What do you think?” she asks, her tone light.

You glance up at her with a faint smile.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, the words more heartfelt than you expect.

Powder waves it off like it’s nothing.

“Please,” she says, smirking. “That’s nothing. I’ve got like eight more gifts saved up for the princess.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound breaking through some of the tension still clinging to you. Powder grins back, the energy in her expression more genuine now.

For a moment, the pain in your chest feels just a little easier to bear.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

tags: @xelzaria @honeyfewr @bubblegupyy @iwasholic @chaeisbroke @emforjin @itszazouu @kriss-w @moonlight-dreamer04 @iloveavatar

#ekko x reader #arcane x reader #arcane season two #arcane ekko x reader #ekko fluff #dad!ekko

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whatifitis · 2 days ago

Text

♡ So American - FC 43 ♡

Summary: You and Franco celebrate Thanksgiving together for the first time and Franco nearly gags when he sees American Thanksgiving dishes

Author's Note: this is so ass so I’m sorry 😭 feedback is always appreciated

WC: 2296

CW: american reader 😲, fluff, thanksgiving food, wicked mentions, more overuse of song lyrics

You and Franco had been together for the better part of the year, about 7 months. Thanksgiving was coming up and, on the same weekend F1 would be racing in Qatar, not allowing Franco to be with you on Thanksgiving day, which was honestly a disappointment to the both of you. However, after moving around some plans, the two of you managed to pick a date that worked for everyone to be in your hometown to celebrate the holiday, before Franco had to go off and be a star (and an icon).

To say you were excited was an understatement. It was not only your first time having a boyfriend, but having a boyfriend during the holidays. You were excited to create new memories with Franco and show him how you celebrate the holidays in America.

Your family typically divides the work for the food every year and this time you were in charge of making the sweet potato and marshmallow dish, something you knew was gonna throw Franco into a whirl about. Your boyfriend enjoys making fun of some American dishes and you don’t mind because it’s fun and you can see how some of them are strange.

You two were in your apartment the morning of Thanksgiving dinner. You got ready for the day and decided it would be best to change into your outfit after you’ve cooked. You settled on wearing one of Franco’s shirts and a pair of his shorts for now. You then decided to head to the kitchen to prepare your dish, Franco trailing behind you like a puppy.

“You look pretty wearing my clothes.” Franco complimented.

You deadpanned to Franco with an emotionless face asking, “do I not look pretty any other time? Is this the only time I look pretty?”

Franco’s face turned red and he was panicking, “I- no, no, amor. Thats- that’s not what I-“

“I’m kidding, love. Relax, looked like you almost shit yourself then.” you laughed.

Franco took a breath of relief and just smiled at your antics, “ha ha, so funny.”

As you pulled out the ingredients you’d be needing, Franco watched in confusion.

“Amor, what- what are you making? You have sweet potatoes, marshmallows, and pecans on the table. Is it all for one dish? No, right?” he questions, cocking his head to the side.

“It is for one dish. I’m making a sweet potato casserole!” you exclaim excitedly, knowing it was one of your favorite dishes and you can only have it during Thanksgiving.

“Eugh. No, amor. No.”, you watch as Franco makes a face of disgust, “Why?”

“It’s good, baby. I promise. When it’s all baked together with the seasonings, it tastes like heaven.” you think, displaying a picture of the dish in your mind.

Franco all but side eyes to your response, “I thought I tasted like heaven…” he pouts.

“Sweet potato casserole tastes better, babe. Sorry.” you flash a toothy smile.

“Ay dios mio. Is this what I’m marrying into?” Franco jokes, dropping head into his hands.

“Ehm! I beg your finest pardon?! Where the fuck is my ring?”, wiggling your ring finger at him, “Don’t joke about marriage, bitch. Or I’ll start doing the ending riff of Defying Gravity all day long.”

“Ay no, por favor, no. As much as I love your singing, amor. I can’t listen to any songs from Wicked right now. It’s all you’ve been playing the past month! Please, anything but Wicked, anything!” Franco pleads with you.

“Fine. Your funeral though.” you say, carrying on with your cooking.

“Que?”

“Nada”

Franco is left speechless, but you carry on with your actions.

After plopping onto a chair and pouting, Franco got curious, “Amor, can you tell me what Thanksgiving is? I know you give thanks, but why?”.

“Well, in school we were taught that years ago, around this time, the pilgrims and Native Americans came together to share a meal and be peaceful with one another. They basically celebrated a successful harvest but with most of American history, there’s some lies. But Americans really don’t care about history. It’s just a day where most of us don’t have to work and an excuse to stuff our faces with food that’s really bad for us.”

“That’s….nice.”

“I can feel the judgement from here.”

“I’m not judging, just learning.” he smiles cheekily, “but in all honesty, your reality is so different from mine. In Argentina we don’t have this holiday and strange foods, but I want to learn all about your crazy American traditions if it means I get to be by your side. I go where you go.”

“I go where you got too.” you say, still blushing from his words.

“Maybe ‘I go where you go’ can be our ‘always’.”

You tried to suppress your laugh and threw a few marshmallows at his response, “You’re done. You’re done. I cannot believe you just quoted The Fault In Our Stars.”

He’s giggling to himself and it’s one of your favorite things in the world. It’s just not fair of him to be so cute and funny. If he keeps this shit up, you swore you were gonna marry him.

-=+=-

During the drive to your parents house for dinner, you and Franco listened to music. As passenger princess, Franco had control of the aux and he played a playlist he had made when you two first started dating. He knew that sharing music was sort of a love language of yours so he saved all the ones you had mentioned at times or the songs he would always find on repeat when you were around.

It was a peaceful drive, that is until No Good Deed from Wicked came on. As soon as the opening chords started, Franco knew there was no stopping you. He watched as you put on a one woman performance for him, and him only. Yes, it was from Wicked but he couldn’t lie. If you’re the one singing, he didn’t mind the constant sound.

He was also thankful it wasn’t Defying Gravity or else you would’ve been asking for a broom to hold. He also knew you would’ve fucked up your voice a bit if you attempted Cynthia Erivo’s riff.

The two of you arrived at your parents house and were warmly welcomed by the rest of your family. Though the house was already decorated in Christmas decor, the feeling of Thanksgiving was flowing through the air. Your dad already had the (American) football game

playing on the tv, calling Franco over to once again try and convert him into a fan.

You watched as your boyfriend was practically dragged away from you, laughing as he mouthed the words ‘help me’. Your dad adored Franco and your Franco loved hanging with your dad. As they went on to do their antics, you walked to the kitchen, setting down the dish you had prepared and began to help your mom finish up some cooking.

“So,” your mom starts, “how are you and Franco?”

You couldn’t help but smile, you’re glad she brought him up first because you can never have a conversation if it’s not about him.

“We’re good. When he found out that he was able to make it to dinner, he was so excited. He’d immediately asked me a million questions on whether he should bring something or not as a gift. But I told him to not worry about it, there’s enough food and drinks so we didn’t need anything.”

“He’s a sweet boy. I’m glad you found him, he’s brought back a light in you that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

You looked up at your mom and almost burst into tears. You didn’t know that color was coming back to you. Before any tears spilled, Franco walked into the kitchen and went straight to you. When you were close enough, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close and kissing your hair.

“Do you guys need any help?” he’d asked you guys.

“I don’t think we need any help here but you know what I need help with?” you aunt asks, raising a cheeky eyebrow at Franco, “I need help dancing to this song.”

You watched as your aunt grabbed Franco's hand and pulled him away from you to dance with him. The two danced and swayed to the music as the rest of you laughed and cheered them on. You’re glad your family gets along with Franco well.

Music, laughter, and chatter filled the air, along with the savory and sweet smells of the food that was almost ready to eat. Once everything was cooked, your mother, aunt, and yourself began to set the table with the silverware and make the table look as beautiful as can be. As if they could sense that everything was ready, Franco, your father, uncles, aunts and cousins joined you at the table.

As each of you began to take your seats, Franco was almost split in half. Everyone wanted to be seated next to him. You were all for sharing but Franco was yours. As long as you got to sit on one side of Franco, no heads would roll and peace would prosper.

In the end, one of your cousins ended up sitting on the other side of Franco, ready to bombard the poor boy with questions about racing and F1.

Before digging into the food, everyone had to give thanks and say what they were grateful for. Most of your family said the typical stuff like thankful for having a happy, loving family and having a roof over their head. That was until it was your cousin’s turn…

“This year, I’m grateful that Logan was dropped from Williams and that Franco was able to have that seat. My best buddy is a F1 driver now. But R.I.P. Logan, my American king. Also R.I.P. Sebastian Vettel, you would’ve loved Franco. Anyways, who's next?” your cousin clapped his hands, looking around the table.

Crickets could be heard from the silence.

Franco, thankfully, moved the conversation forward and said his thanks. “Well, ehm. I think I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I’m thankful for my opportunity to drive in F1, and even though I don’t know where I’ll be next year, I’m still happy I got this chance. I’m also super grateful for y/n. We only met this year but she’s still amazing and has been there for me through a lot. And I’m also grateful for having been invited to join you guys today and that you guys are so cool and welcoming, so thank you.”

Everyone basically awed at Franco and his little speech. Meanwhile you were on the verge of tears. You’d never known love like this and you couldn’t believe he chose you. He was like a poem that you wished you’d written.

After some deep breaths from you, everyone began to dig into the food, well, everyone except for Franco. The boy was absolutely lost, he didn’t know what half the stuff was and he wasn’t sure how to go about anything. You took it upon yourself to start his plate for him so that he could familiarize himself with some of the foods and not get overwhelmed.

When you set his plate down in front of him again, he looked at the plate confused and then turned to you, silently asking you to tell him what everything was.

“You’ve got some ham, sweet potato casserole, green beans, and mashed potatoes to start. I know you like all those even if you haven’t tried some yet. From here you can work your way around the dishes on the table.” you smile.

“Gracias, amor. I really am grateful for you and all that you do.”

“Tell me, lover. How grateful are you?” you cheekily ask.

With a wink, Franco replies, “I’ll show you after dinner.”

-=+=-

“The only thing I will be showing you if anything is my shit because I am so full.” Franco tells you as he settles himself on the couch.

The whole family had wrapped up dinner and finished off the night with some dessert. Now some of the family were chatting over some drinks to end the night.

“Please don’t.” you tell Franco.

“Ok, I wasn’t actually planning on showing you my shit. Ay dios.” states as he rolls his head to rest on the back of the couch.

You take a seat next to Franco, resting your head on his shoulder, his arm instinctively wrapping around you. His other arm reached for your hands and held them close. You swore his hands were so warm that they made hell seem cold.

You really were grateful for him. The two of you had been through some tough times so early into your relationship. There were times where you wondered if it was meant to be and if it would all work out. You’d even tried to push him away at some point, believing his life would be easier if you weren’t there to drag him down. But he stayed. There have been moments where you’ve been mean to him, times where you were so depressed that you would stay in bed all day and didn’t move. Days where you didn’t respond to his texts or calls because you couldn’t. But despite all that, he’s still here.

You’ve burned so many bridges in your life. You’ve made the same mistakes over and over but now you know you did one thing right. You love Franco with everything you have and he’s the person you trust the most. He knows you better than you know yourself most of the time. Even when you lose your mind, he’s still yours.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fic #formula 1 fanfic #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto fanfic #franco colapinto fluff

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yunniverse · 2 days ago

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You’re My Dream

౨ৎ PAIRING— rockstar!jeong yunho x reader

౨ৎ GENRE— fluff, ended relationship, fem!reader

౨ৎ WARNINGS— angst, fluff

౨ৎ WORD COUNT— 1.4k

౨ৎ SUMMARY— you broke up because he was too focused on his music dream, but maybe you and love were the real dream all along.

౨ৎ A/N— i saw a lot of people saying they wanted a oneshot with the concept photos from the 2025 seasons greetings, so i made one! i hope you like it, even though it isn’t quite as angsty as you probably wanted :( still, feedback is appreciated and thanks for reading, lovelies! <3 (i’ll tag a few people who said they were interested if someone wrote one: @beabatiny, @goldendynastys, @kibs-and-bits)

Staring at the fire crackling, you try to hold back the tears that threaten to escape. When had it all gone so wrong?

Just last year, you had been enjoying your boyfriend’s Christmas show with his rock band, and now you’re sitting alone, the night before Christmas.

The crackling of the fire adds to your melancholy, the harsh cold winds blowing outside creating a gloomy atmosphere. You know you should forget like he has, but you can’t throw away two years of your life that easily.

The memories of last Christmas come flooding back to you, even as you try to suppress them. Memories of sitting beside the fire with Yunho, cuddling as you watched a cheesy Christmas movie. Or baking Christmas cookies together at his apartment, laughing as you threw flour at each other.

Turning to the remote controller, you press the power button, not expecting to see him on the screen. His band is playing, and you immediately feel a pang in your chest at the sight of him, his fingers dashing across the keyboard.

Even though he’s the keyboard player and not the lead singer, he has an air about him that draws you in, making it unable to look away, even as you know you should. Why is he still having this effect on you?

The song is one you recognize. “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call,” by Bleachers.

It’s a song he’d introduced to you last Christmas, and, even though it’s sad, it had been a source of joy for you in a way last year, because you remember dancing to the song with him, smiling and laughing.

Now, it really is sad.

When he gets up at the end of the song, leaning into the microphone, you furrow your eyebrows, listening.

“That song goes out to someone I lost a year ago today.” He looks right at the camera, his brown eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, baby. I wish it had been different, but know that I never really stopped loving you.”

You gasp, only momentarily questioning if he’s really talking to you, before you jump up, now determined to make things right for some reason. You know it’ll probably end in more heartache, but you have to try.

Grabbing your keys and coat, you hurry out the door into the winter storm, unlocking your car before hopping in.

Even though the roads are horrible tonight, you know the way to his apartment like the back of your hand, only slowing because of the snow.

About twenty minutes later, you arrive at his apartment complex, hurrying out of the car, through the blinding snow, and into the lobby of the building.

You try to calm yourself down, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button to the fourth floor.

When you get to the floor, you walk down the hall, slowing to a stop in front of his door. Taking a deep breath, you knock.

It takes about two minutes, but the door opens, revealing a messy-haired Yunho, a few locks of his dark blue hair having fallen in front of his brown eyes, which widen at the sight of you.

“Y/N?” he whispers, his hand clutching the doorknob so tight you think he might break it. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw the program.”

“Oh.”

With a sigh, you rub your arm, biting your lip, really starting to wonder what you’re really doing here yourself. “H-How have you been?”

“Is that really what you’re going to ask?” Yunho asks, giving you a half-smile.

“What else would I say?” you question softly, suddenly feeling stupid for coming to see him. “I can’t just say Merry Christmas or something stupid like I’ve missed you—”

“Can’t you?” he asks, his dark eyes searching yours. “Because I’ve missed you.”

Sighing, you frown slightly, “This can’t be happening. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let me just—“

He grabs your wrist as you turn to leave, making your gaze snap back to his. “Every day without you has been torture. You came to see me for a reason. Do you feel the same?”

“Yunho, it doesn’t matter how we feel. It can’t work now anymore than it did then. We have different goals.”

“We don’t have to!” he exclaims, almost desperately. “I can give up the band if that’s what you want. You were upset it took up so much of my time? I’ll quit.”

Your eyes widen as you shake your head, “Yunho, the reason you couldn’t give it up for me before is because it’s what you love to do. I can’t take that away from you. I can’t make you live without it.”

“Well, I can’t live without you.”

His words hang heavy in the air, making you suck in a sharp breath, “Yunho…”

“Don’t say anything,” Yunho tells you, taking a single step closer. “Just tell me…”

“Tell you what?” you ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“What do you feel?” he asks, just before he leans in, his face inches from yours. Your heartbeat quickens as his warm breath fans across your lips. “If you feel nothing, I’ll leave you alone.”

You’re torn between wanting to close the distance and knowing you shouldn’t.

You don’t have to wait for long.

It feels like the world stops when his soft lips brush against yours for the first time in months. It isn’t like an electric shock, with fireworks exploding, rather it’s like coming home after a long time away. Like warmth and softness and… love.

It only takes a few seconds for you to melt into him, the kiss deepening as he lifts his hands to cup your face, your hands finding his chest, his heartbeat quickens beneath yours fingertips.

After a few moments, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours as he pants softly, waiting for you to respond.

“I wish I could say I felt nothing,” you whisper, feeling a little helpless against your emotions. “But I can’t. I’ve never been able to.”

“Then give us another chance,” Yunho pleads, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbones. “I meant what I said during the program. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“But what about the band? What about all the reasons we broke up months ago?”

“You and I both know we were being petty then. And I can quit the band, like I said,” Yunho replies, his tone serious.

“I don’t want you to,” you respond quietly, making him furrow his eyebrows.

“What?” he asks slowly, confusion etched into his features.

“I don’t want you to quit what you love,” you clarify. “That’s what ended things between us before. We quit on our love, and I won’t let you quit on the band now. I was stupid to think you loved me any less because of your passion for music. Please don’t stop playing, Yun.”

“Are you sure?” he asks slowly. “It’ll still take up as much time as it did before, maybe more, since we’ve grown a little more popular now.”

“I don’t care,” you smile softly. “All I care about is being with you again. And I won’t let my jealousy over your time get in the way again… as long as you let me come to your shows.”

“Every single one.”

With a small laugh, you lean forward, pressing another soft kiss to his lips before burying your face in his neck, inhaling his calming scent you’ve missed so much.

“Maybe we should get out of the hallway?” Yunho chuckles, tugging your hand, guiding you into his apartment. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

You smile shyly, nodding, as you let him close the door behind you both.

Three months later, you’re cheering for Yunho and his band as he performs, smiling widely when he finally comes backstage, his arms open as you laugh, throwing yourself into his arms for a hug. “You did so well, Yunnie,” you whisper in his ear.

He grins, nuzzling his nose into your hair, “Thank you, baby. You’re always the best cheerleader.”

“Can’t say I don’t like the fake tattoos on your hands either,” you tell him wryly, tracing the markings with your finger.

“Oh?” he asks, chuckling softly, his eyes sparking with mischief. “Maybe I’ll leave them on for a little while. And I’ll be sure to tell the stylist you like them.”

“Good,” you grin. “I’m good with anything now as long as you never tell me ‘please don’t call’ like you did last winter ever again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

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youraverageaemondsimp · 2 days ago

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〄 BORDERLINE

⤷ Aemond Targaryen x F!Reader

{ CHAPTER I ; LOST & FOUND. }

You save a man from drowning and he claims he's Prince Aemond Targaryen who you know died in 130AC, surely he's just crazy, right?

Warnings: f&b spoilers, nothing too triggering really, reader thinks he's gone bonkers, fake dates, 1024 is basically 2024 + not proof read.

masterlist ; next >>

He felt Vhagars body giving up beneath him, her poor wings too exhausted to hold up her own weight to fly anymore as they battled, her croaks as she struggled to breathe fire onto the enemy before him.

His uncle, Daemon targaryen.

Aemond is sweating, he had been waiting all his life for this moment- to fight his uncle and at last his dream came true because of the witch he had taken in.

It was an open trap.

She envisioned that he'd win the battle, that he'd be alive.

That was a lie.

“Dracarys!” Daemon yelled distantly the fire being spit out by Caraxes, Vhagar— in a final attempt at protecting her rider, shielded Aemond with her wings, but that sudden movement caused Aemond to lose hold on her reins, His body falling down from the dragon's.

He only realised the lie as he fell through the skies, piercing through the wind at an intense speed as the dragons continued to fight before him.

Nonetheless he had no other choice but to accept his death, and so he did.

The waters welcomed him as if they had been waiting for him, he felt his life slowly slip away just like his sister had predicted that he would die, he closed his eye, just accepting his own fate, hoping that at least he'd find peace in the after life, or maybe he wouldn't; maybe he'd suffer in hell, after all he hurt many innocent people.

“You were swallowed up in God's eye, never to be seen again.” Helaena's words rung through his head, voice clear as day, feeling more suffocating than the water he's drowning in.

Just as Aemond's mind was reeling through the possibility, he felt a gust of air which made him breathe on reflex as he was pulled up by someone. He opened his eye in surprise.

He was… alive?

Someone saved him? Was it Alys? Was her prophecy right?

Many questions ran through his mind as he adjusted to his vision, but it was then he realised that he didn't recognise this place. Neither did he recognize you.

“Sir! Are you okay?!” You ask in a panic at the man who almost drowned before you. You were just taking a walk nearby the lake when you saw bubbles floating up to the surface with a silhouette of a man below, you immediately jumped in; knowing how to swim and ended up saving this man's life.

You took a note of his attire, noting that it might be very old fashioned style, perhaps he liked the medieval aesthetic? His shiny locks clung onto his clothes.

He coughed, water spurting out from his mouth and nose as his body desperately tried to get rid of the liquid that he drowned in. Aemond stared at the ground in shock.

His careful eye took note of the surroundings that were around him. Tall buildings that had square openings that shone brightly, even during what was supposed to be called a nighttime.

Quite frankly, it hurt his eye, the lights blaring into his cornea. He shut in reflex, not adjusted to whatever place he was at. You watched in silence as he sat up completely. His clothes were sticking to his body in an uncomforting manner.

“Where am I?” He asks, his face and tone sharp, behavior notwithstanding someone that was just drowning mere moments ago. “Uh? We're currently at God's eye lake.” You reply, not wanting to be too judgemental.

“God's eye? Where's Harrenhal?” He asks and you laugh at the mention of that place. “You mean the old castle? Yeah that was towed down years ago, they tried reconstructing it but weird incidents occurred, now that area is nothing but a memory.” You inform him.

“This doesn't look like God's eye.” He states out loud, taking in the difference in sight, a few boats floating on top of the waters, tied to a ledge, they did not look like the wooden boats.. They seem like they were made of steel. His eye widens. “Metal floats on water now? What is this sorcery?” He exclaims.

“Sorcery? Chill out with the medieval vocabulary, my guy. Aren't you too invested in your aesthetic?” You reply, shrugging his behavior off. “You mere— peasant, I am a Targaryen prince. Dragon blood runs through my veins, how dare you speak and mock me?” He grits his teeth, his voice low and dangerous.

You blink for a few moments before bursting out in laughter. “Oh gods! You're quite hilarious for a man that was drowning mere moments ago, say you didn't damage your brain did you?” You chuckle, checking his temperature.

The air gets knocked out of your lungs when he grabs you by your throat, pushing you onto the ground as he gets on top of you. “I will have your tongue, shall you speak any further mockery.” He whispers cruelly, his grip tightening around your neck. You gasp for air as you claw at his hands trying to pry them off, but he's too strong.

Great, is this how you're going to die? By the hands of a man who seems like is homeless or on drugs whom you saved? The seven are indeed cruel.

Your cursing to the God's was probably heard when you feel the oxygen rushing back in your lungs as he removes his hand away, but still straddling you. You look at him with doubt, wondering if he'd gone insane.

“I am Prince Aemond Targaryen, what is the Lady's name?” He asks, referring to you while getting off you and you wanted to laugh once again but you decided not to.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen? Are you serious? If you're Prince Aemond Targaryen then I'm Alicent Hightower.” You roll your eyes at his words waiting for him to act embarrassed as you made fun of him, but he doesn't say anything. He squints his eye in disbelief.

“Seriously? Cosplaying a historic character is one thing but claiming you're them seems more of a mental illness.” You tell him, getting off the ground and standing before him, looking down at him from above.

You waited for him to drop the act, yet nothing came out of his mouth. “What year is this?” He asks and you blink in confusion. “Uhm 1024, why?” You reply and his mouth drops in shock.

He had been sent 894 years into the future. His heart begins to race as he takes in his surroundings once again, nothing looking the same way as it did before.

He looked at you, the one who pulled him into this world, was it magic? No, you were too much of an airhead for this to be magic. Aemond sighs.

He had nowhere to go in this world. All his family was likely dead. So he stares at you in thought, acknowledging that he probably looks like an insane person to you right now. A person from the future.

He gulps as anxiety eats away at the pit in his stomach. “You alright?” You ask, but he suddenly stands up grabbing you by your shoulders. He had only you now.

“Watch.” He tells you, one of his hands travelling to his eyepatch before pulling it off and revealing his eye. Hoping that it would convince you that he's not crazy.

“A sapphire.. in your eye like Aemond Targaryen, wow the dedication is indeed there.” You clap lightly but Aemond tuts, annoyed at your skepticism.

You couldn't help but feel a little intimidated by him, the subconscious of your mind seemed to know more than you did, for some reason, it believed him.

He didn't look like a crazy person while claiming those things, he looked you dead in the eye while claiming that he was a Prince, and Aemond Targaryen himself. So you couldn't help but wonder if it was really true.

“Can I touch your hair?” You ask, the question leaving your mouth unexpectedly and you cover your lips in shock. Fuck, you needed to hold your tongue. He tilts his head.

“Nobody except the Targaryens have platinum blonde hair, the hair colour now cannot be inherited genetically as they are long extinct. Every last one of them died. Now you can only see this hair color if you bleach your hair or wigs.. But they have weird textures so.. I need to see if you're telling the truth.” You explain yourself as fast as you can before he gets mad. He processes your words and gives you permission to touch his hair, and you touch it indeed.

Your eyes widen at the smoothness, his hair showing no signs of dye or bleach, it's way too healthy and non frizzy. Out of curiosity, you pluck one of the hair strands which makes him wince. “You wench how—” He begins to speak.

“Shh!” You shush him, holding the hair closer to your face, as you stare at the root part of the hair, platinum blonde just like the rest. Your heartbeat starts picking up its pace as you stare at the shiny hair intensely.

You turn your head to look at him, his features stoic, way too calm and collected. You ignored this before but he radiated off such a mightier energy, his posture was prim and perfect, his sapphire eye glinted and stayed snuggled up in his eye. His working eye just stared at you, the pupil shrinking and expanding, mimicking the turmoil of emotions within him.

Your gaze took in his features intently, the nose, the lips, the eyes, the face shape all were similar to the painting you had seen when you were in high school, studying history.

That's when your history teacher's lesson replayed in your memory, recalling the memory, pulling you into a flashback.

“Aemond Targaryen, fell into the Lake God's eye during the battle with his uncle.. His dragon, Vhagar, was found at the bottom—” You write down the notes as the teacher speaks, writing down the dates of the incident.

“However, eerily enough, his body was never found. Not at the bottom, nowhere. It was as if he just vanished. Never seen again.”

‘His body was never found.’ you scribbled.

‘As if he vanished, never seen again.’ you took out your highlighter and highlighted the point.

You stared at the man in front of you before you looked at the lake you guys were standing at the edge of, the water coming to your feet, pulled by the wind, towards you.

‘His body was never found.’

‘Never seen again.’

The words repeated in your mind as you look at him again.

“So you really.... are Aemond Targaryen?” You question, your body shaking with the realisation, the weight of it feeling heavy on your shoulders, you hoped it was a joke, that the man in front of you was playing a joke. But everything fell in place way too perfectly.

‘never found ; never seen again.’

“Hmm.” He hums.

#; borderline !#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader #reader insert #x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #fics

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dumbkiri · 3 days ago

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A FEAST FOR BIRDS

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐱 𝐅! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

When Jason Todd comes back to earth and faces off with his vigilante family along with villains, he settles his problems as much as he could. He reunited with his family, but still kicked villain ass. As the holidays approach, Jason is struck with a range of emotions. An unexpected visitor makes her way in Wayne manor with a child in her arms. Apparently, the child belongs to him.

[ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP]

“I am moving back into Gotham due to some company issues. I wanted to see if Jay can stay at your place for a bit? Maybe spend Thanksgiving with you and the boys? He would love to see his uncles and of course, his grandfathers. It would mean a lot to us if you can do this. If not, I can work around the company with him by my side. One day he will inherit what my father built, and I might as well get him to see his own building. Anyways, please let me know what you think. We miss you and the family a lot, see you soon Bruce.”

Dick leaned back into his chair and listened to the recent voicemail [Name] left for Bruce. Her voice rang with some truth while it felt like she was hiding something. He fiddled around with one of Batman’s batarangs thinking about the woman. They haven’t seen her or Jay in two years. He had to have missed something in her voice message. He knows it.

Dick leaned forward and pressed play on the voicemail, listening to it for the fifth time this afternoon.

“I am moving back into Gotham due to some company issues.”

This part alone made no sense to him. If his memory serves him right, Bruce and [Name] came to an agreement that he would watch over the [L.Name] Industry allowing her to live her life with Jay. Bruce never mentioned any “company issues” that she brought up in the call. Then again Bruce has Lucius to run Wayne Enterprise, so maybe Bruce neglected her company due to his commitment to being Batman. Although, that still made no sense because [F.Name] and Bruce had a great partnership.

[Name]’s dad knew who Bruce truly was in the night thus granting Lucius to work very closely with one another. [F.Name] would create technology that Lucius would then make into gadgets for Batman. After [F.Name] passed away, the plans he had were burned to make sure they didn’t get into the wrong hands. Bruce feared to keep the works [F.Name] worked endlessly on and made sure to get rid of everything he could in his archives.

“Maybe spend Thanksgiving with you and the boys?”

Thanksgiving…that is tomorrow!

“Bruce! Alfred! ” Dick shot up from his chair when the realization hit him. He dressed out of his uniform and into his casual clothing as quickly as he could. Whenever [Name] did drop Jay off for the holidays, she did it the day before so he could spend more time with them.

A million worries were hurdled at his body thinking back to another Wayne that was present in the house. “Jason, if you can hear me from down here!” Dick huffed up the stairs, “Let’s go out for some lunch! I am so hungry!” Was it a lame excuse for his brother-in-arms, yes. But if he had a chance to spare Jason from seeing [Name], he would do it in a heartbeat. Jason doesn’t know he has a kid, let alone a kid with his ex-girlfriend.

When Bruce described the relationship between Jason and [Name], he went on about true love. A happiness he didn’t think would surround him when he watched Jason smile at [Name]. The teasing he would do to the both of them like a real parent. Bruce watched them create a beautiful bond at a young age.

Then when Jason died, Bruce watched the heartbreak crush [Name]’s heart. Dick remembers the conversation between him and Bruce when the news of her pregnancy hit him like a truck.

“She looked at me like I killed him.”

“Bruce, you can’t think like that. [Name] is just hurting, you said so many times. They were meant to be together.”

“She told me that she’s pregnant.”

“W-what? She’s only 16, Jason really- Fuck, what do we do now? We have to support her, you did tell her that right?”

“Of course, I did. She accepted my help and she told me that she wants us to get to know the child. That she still wants to be a part of our family. So I told her that I will send $4000 to her account every month for any expenses she has. She didn’t accept any more and I didn’t agree to any less. I don’t feel right though.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that we get to live and see the child Jason made with [Name]. We get the luxury of knowing his child while he rots in the ground. If he knew, do you think he would have left? If [Name] got to him before the fake letter, would he have stayed?”

“Maybe, but at least we can do right by him and support his family. That’s all we can do for him now. It’s okay to cry, Bruce. Loss shouldn’t be associated with shame.”

He reached the top of the stairs and cringed at the sound of the doorbell ringing throughout the mansion.

As casually as he could, Dick entered the living room and heard the echo of two voices at the entrance of Wayne Manor. He sneaked around the couches and furniture thinking someone at the door would catch him from so far away.

“Who are you hiding from?”

Dick panicked and spun around to see Jason on the couch reading a book. He heard Alfred welcome [Name] into the manor and he knew the old man would lead her to them. With fast thinking, Dick ran over to Jason and shoved his sunglasses onto his face, “Quick! Wear these and this!” Then he stuffed a black face mask into Jason’s book.

“Dick, what-”

“Jason, please!” Dick pleaded and helped put the sunglasses on while Jason reluctantly put the face mask on. Jason wanted to ask more until Alfred walked in with a woman and a child in her arms. Swiftly, Dick pulled Jason’s red hoodie over his head and turned around to greet the visitors.

“[Name], it’s so nice to see you!” Dick shouted and enunciated her name to get it through Jason’s thick skull. He walked over to the woman and gave her a hug mindful of the sleeping child in her arms…wait, what? Jason squinted behind the sunglasses and observed the child some more which Dick fawned over like some lovesick idiot.

“Wow, he’s grown so much,” Dick awed at the sight of the child and gently touched the unruly black hair that reminded him so much of the Wayne boys.

“I’m sorry for the apparent unexpected visit, I did leave a voicemail for Bruce,” [Name] huffed and shifted her child more comfortably in her arms to which Dick reached his arms out to her. Without hesitation, [Name] smiled gratefully and handed her kid over to Dick. She watched Dick whisper to her sleeping son and told him, “We’ve decided to do a road trip instead of flying. Jay insisted that he wanted to see the “world”, but there’s only so much adventure he can handle. He’s going to wake up super excited to see his favorite uncle.”

Dick’s mind blew up as his eyes looked from Jay to [Name] who giggled at his reaction. “You’re kidding, he said that? I’m his favorite uncle?”

Well that confirmed to Jason that the kid is definitely not Dick’s. Honestly he’d be pissed if Dick had a child with his ex-girlfriend. There were so many questions running through his head and he wanted to ask them. But the silent glare he got from Alfred in the corner of the room told him to stay put with not a word.

“Yes, it’s always been you, Dick,” [Name] unwrapped her scarf from her neck and shoulders. Finally her eyes spotted the giant man sitting on the couch adjacent to where her family was at. She observed him quietly and looked down at the book in his gloved hands. Dick nor Alfred introduced the stranger to her, so she took it upon herself to be polite.

“Hello,” She stepped around Dick and reached her hand out with a courteous smile, “My name is [Name] [L.Name].”

Jason closed his book and stood up from the couch. He towered over her and flashbacks of their time together brought longing in his chest. He remembered everything about her from her smile, to her eyes, to her personality. She hadn’t changed one bit. He reached his hand out and shook hers. His tongue twisted and more questions slammed into him.

“This is my friend, Lazlo,” Dick chimed nervously, internally cringing at the fake name he gave Jason.

This piqued [Name]’s interest and she giggled, “Lazlo, that’s a cool name. Can he hear me or speak to me?” She asked, releasing Jason’s hand and quietly whispered the last part over her shoulder to her friend.

Dick shook his head and said, “He’s actually a mute. Anyways what brings you here to Gotham. Don’t say holiday cheer either.” He walked between Jason and [Name] and took a seat next to Jason's closed book. Meanwhile Alfred dismissed himself knowing that Jason will not be able to say a word.

Jason sat back in his seat while [Name] sat on the couch across from them. She visibly relaxed in comfort and sighed tiredly, “My mother wants to force a marriage onto me and like some teenager, I ran away. Plus there are some things I have to do at the company. I wanted to see if you guys are okay with babysitting Jay while I dust the old mansion down the street. Haven’t been there in years.”

She laughed and Dick joined her. He shifted Jay into his lap and said, “Of course, we would be happy to take care of the little one. I, for one, missed him a lot. Is the marriage the reason why we haven’t seen either of you? It seems like a lot.”

[Name] straightened out her back and looked away from his bright blue eyes. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she explained a bit more, “Yes, it’s a reason. The marriage is with a business partner. He’s a bit older than me and has spoken about having a family with me. My mother is ecstatic about more grandchildren, but I am not. There is only one person I truly love and that is Jay’s father. I cannot imagine having children with someone else when Jason is still fresh on my mind. And he gave me a brilliant child to cherish in his memory.”

Dick could see Jason tense up at the revelation and saw from the corner of his eyes Jason look at Jay sleeping in his arms. The atmosphere grew heavier by the second and he had to do something. Something to appease Jason’s longing.

“Do you think Lazlo can hold Jay? He knew Jason before his death and-”

“Of course!” [Name] gestured to Jason, with a kind smile on her face, “I’m sorry for your loss, Lazlo. But I’m going to tell you now, Jay looks exactly like his father.” She giggled and Dick looked at Jason with expecting eyes.

Slowly, Jason sat up and hesitantly opened his arms up. He wasn’t ready to hold his child while keeping his emotions bottled up. “You can do this, Lazlo,” Dick’s voice reassured him, “He won’t break in your arms.”

[Name] laughed from her spot and pointed at Dick, “Hey, you were afraid to hold him the first time too!”

Dick shrugged and argued back, “He was a lot smaller back then.” Then he scooted closer to Jason making the transfer a lot easier for the both of them. In his sleep, Jay immediately snuggled up against Jason’s chest surprising the boy’s mother.

“Oh wow,” [Name] awed at the sight, “He normally doesn’t do that. Jay only snuggles into me, I’m kinda jealous he’s doing it with someone else.” She gave Jason a fake pout with a teasing tone in her gentle voice. But all he could focus on was the peaceful look on the child’s face.

This boy is his son.

Jason pulled Jay closer to his body as his chin touched the crown of the boy’s head. Then he felt a lone tear slide down his cheek. Thankfully he wore a face mask and sunglasses to hide his joy. [Name] spoke the truth when she said Jay looked like him. Jay is his mini-me.

“So how many instruments can he play now?” Dick asked.

“He only plays the piano, Dick,” [Name] rolled her eyes playfully, “but he can speak three languages. Sign language being one of them.”

Sign language? Jason thought and picked his head up with interest. He recalls that they learned sign language for fun to talk behind her mother’s back.

“That’s right, I remember you teaching him. Although, I think he flipped me off once.”

“Don’t say that!” [Name] laughed.

“I’m being serious!” Dick shouted back with a smirk on his face.

Jason leaned back into the couch while Jay fit perfectly in his arms. The boy laid on his chest with his legs being held in a gentle, but protective grip. Jay’s head laid onto his shoulder and Jason could hear the soft breaths that left the boy’s lungs. Soon, the voices of [Name] and Dick dissipated and the breathing of his son lulled him to sleep.

Jason would do anything to keep [Name] and Jay to himself. Even if that means revealing himself to them in the near future. For now, he’s comfortable with blissful ignorance.

……

“Mama, can I stay in Mister Lazlo’s arms a bit longer?”

A tiny voice woke Jason from his sleep and he felt small hands clenching the sides of his hoodie. He blinked his weary eyes open and saw the living room in a dark tint. He forgot he wore sunglasses to hide his face along with the face mask.

“Jay, it’s time for dinner. You and Mister Lazlo have slept long enough. You both need to eat. And you don’t want Grandpa or your uncles waiting for long do you?”

“But he feels safe and warm, mama.” Jay mumbled and Jason slowly rose up from the couch, steadying a startled Jay in his hold. He looked down at the child with a funny bedhead and couldn’t help but chuckle at the surprised look on the boy’s face.

[Name] fixed her son’s hair and looked at him lovingly, “See, Mister Lazlo is ready to eat too. Perhaps you can ask if he wants to sit next to you for dinner?” She looked at her son expectantly and the little boy nodded his head. He raised his arms up and sighed to Jason,

“Mister Lazlo, would you sit next to me, fuck you.”

The ending part took Jason and [Name] completely off guard and the mother reacted quickly pushing her son’s hands down to his sides. With a scolding shout, she said, “JJ, where in the world did you learn that?” She gave Jay a hard look and the little boy obviously seemed confused.

“What do you mean, mama? I asked him nicely.” Jay tilted his head to the side in a questioning manner.

“That last sign, isn’t really- It’s a bad word, JJ!” [Name] huffed and softened her look, “Who taught you that and what did they say it meant?”

What Jay answered made sense to Jason, “Uncle Damian said that it meant ‘please’. He said to only use it for them and not you though.”

“So Dick was right when he mentioned you flipped him off,” She rolled her eyes then focused back on her son, “Please, don’t use that anymore, it’s really rude. Use the sign for me as please from now on, understood?”

Jay nodded his head obediently then looked at Jason with bright silver-blue eyes, “Understood, mama. Sorry Mister Lazlo.”

Jason chuckled and shook his head, signing, “It’s okay, you did great. And yes, I would like to sit by you for dinner. As long as you give me any leftovers you have.”

Jay giggled and jumped up signing back, “It’s a deal!” The little boy ran off towards the direction of the kitchen and the adults were left on their own.

“He gets excited to meet new people,” [Name] spoke softly, her eyes warming up talking about her son. “JJ has a heart of gold and he loves everyone he meets like his own family. Especially the Waynes. When his father passed away, I panicked because he wouldn’t have a father figure to be his mentor. Yet Bruce proved me wrong. JJ instantly grew fond of his grandpa and uncles. They all became his father figure, some better than others in different aspects. Speaking of which, I might have to wrestle Damian for teaching Jay that obscene gesture.”

[Name] laughed at the end and looked at Jason for some approval. He quickly signed to her, “We can jump him together. The demon spawn won’t know what will hit him.”

Just like her son, she smiled and said, “It’s a deal.”

#x reader #x female reader #dc imagine #batman imagine #batman #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd #dick grayson

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kamisatomay018 · 2 days ago

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I’ll Always Stand Up For You

Sylus x fem!reader

Warnings: mentions of childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, angst with lots of comfort, fluff!

Here is the Sylus version, enjoy!

Your life before you met Sylus was nothing but painful. Being the eldest daughter of two parents who failed at their jobs, you had to shoulder the responsibility of raising your two siblings. Your childhood memories were filled with covering your young siblings’ ears while your parents yelled and fought with one another after drinking too much. Glass breaking, cursing and screaming were all that would be heard all night long. You were only 6 years old when all this began, and it traumatised you for life. But that would only be the beginning of your suffering.

Your parents hated you for no reason. Perhaps they saw you as a burden, perhaps they were just vile people at heart. Your family was broke thanks to your parents, and you can no longer remember just how many days you spent skipping meals so that your family would have food in their stomachs. And yet, neither of them were ever grateful. You barely managed to get education thanks to your brilliance in studies which thankfully landed you scholarships. However you didn’t even get the chance to go to college, because your parents were so deep in debt that you needed to take up the burden and start providing for them.

Since the day you turned 16, you started doing odd jobs, exhausting yourself everyday so that your family wouldn’t go hungry. A waitress, a bartender, a babysitter; you name it, and you did all the jobs that you could get without needing a college degree.

And still, your family remained ungrateful.

They called you all the time, asking for money as if you weren’t out there working endlessly to pay their bills. You barely had two pairs of clothes, your once soft hands had gone rough from the labour you endured daily. Trying to put food on the table, pay off debts and endure your family’s emotional torture was too much to bear for you. You were deep in depression, hanging by a thread until you knew you’d break.

But everything changed the moment you turned 24. The day, you met Sylus.

Was it a coincidence, or was it luck? You could not tell. You worked at a restaurant he owned as a receptionist, when one fine day he walked in, and his ruby eyes landed on you. Never had he seen a beauty like you, never had he felt so drawn to a woman before. You were the most simple girl he had ever seen, and yet, he couldn’t get his eyes off of you.

From there began your fated encounter with the leader of Onychinus himself. It took him a very long time to gain your trust. But sylus was a man of patience. Truthfully speaking, he could’ve just used his aether core to know everything about you. But something in him told him to stop. The sadness and exhaustion in your eyes had made his heart churn, and that was the day he vowed to himself that you would never work yourself to death the way you had been doing since you were just a teenager.

Falling in love with Sylus was your saving grace. He was the air you needed to breathe, the pillar you needed to lean against and the embrace that always caught you before you fell. He brought colour into your life, he gave you a taste of things that you could never even dream of in your wildest dreams.

He had unlimited wealth, and his way of showing love for you was by spoiling you rotten. But to you, money had a whole different value, it was something that you could never waste. It took you months of convincing and reassurance from Sylus that he was more than happy to spoil you, and that you deserved it. And it took you months to confide in him of the truth about your life.

The day he learnt of just how much you had been suffering at the hands of your failed parents and ungrateful siblings, he truly wanted nothing more than to throw them out of your life. But he knew that even after everything you had to suffer by their hands, you still cared for them, even if he could never understand why. How could you ever be so selfless? That; sylus soon understood, was one of the main reasons why he fell in love with you.

It was the way you cared, the way you didn’t care about his own past, about his misdeeds. You just saw sylus, and you loved him unconditionally. Your love was enduring and passionate, it was never ending. You kept Sylus a secret from your family, not wanting them to exploit him for his money. Sylus had long since offered to just shut your family up with some money so they’d leave you alone, but you firmly stopped him from doing that. It was his hard earned money, and with how greedy your family was; they’d never stop asking him for money at your expense.

So Sylus respected your wishes, only after you complied with some of his conditions. Soon after he began dating you, he realised that you had a sharp and brilliant mind and he got you a better, well paying job in Onychinus itself, and he made sure that you never spent your hard earned money on yourself. Why? Because that was his job now. He spoiled you absolutely rotten, treating you like a princess. Soon, you got used to it, but even then you managed to surprise him by giving him small yet meaningful gifts from your salary. And that man cherished every single thing you gave him.

A crow keychain? It was now attached to his bike keys. A new blazer? He wore it to every important meeting. A new pendant? He swore to get buried in it but never take it off.

His love was pure, and so the day he knelt down on one knee to ask for your hand in marriage under the snowfall, you had no hesitation in saying yes and pulling him into a passionate kiss.

You were so grateful for Sylus that you could never explain in words. He gave you everything that you had desperately needed in life- love, security, kindness and respect. He made sure to never raise his voice when you were around because he knew it triggered you due to your childhood, he took care of you when no one else had, he spoilt you with endless luxury, but most of all, he made you truly feel important.

Along with your engagement however, came one burden- breaking the news to your family. You had sat down with Sylus, telling him nervously that you didn’t want to hide such an important news from them, and that if, and only if, he wanted to, you wished to introduce him to your family. You hadn’t seen them in years now and they never even showed any interest in wanting to see you. Their calls were always only for money, so Sylus couldn’t fathom why you were still attached to them.

But as understanding and patient as he was, he agreed to your request with a loving kiss on your forehead. After all, there was no way he was letting you go there all alone.

You both dressed up simply but elegantly, Sylus deciding to use one of his simplest cars- an Audi- to drive you to the apartment your family lived in, an apartment that you had rented for them.

To say that your family was shocked was an understatement. They were baffled the moment they saw you and Sylus, a man with an intimidating aura that screamed power and luxury. He held your hand in his, after he had promised you that he would be as civil as possible with them upon your request. But he had made one thing very clear- he would not tolerate any nonsense that came at the price of your respect.

The atmosphere was unbelievably tense as you broke the news of your engagement to Sylus. Your parents were infuriated that they had no idea that you were dating. But not for the reason any ordinary person would think. They didn’t care who you were with, they cared about the fact that they could see just how rich Sylus was, and that they could’ve had so much money by now. Of course, they didn’t say it out loud, but Sylus knew. One look at their greedy faces and he knew that he hated them even more now.

Soon your two younger brothers, whom you had been protecting all their lives, appeared, shocked to see you with a man as perfect as Sylus. They snickered to each other, looking at you condescendingly. “Wow, sis. Never thought that you would end up with such a good man.” Their comment made your parents laugh too, and your heart ache.

But Sylus? He was not amused. Not at all. His ruby eyes became darker as he glared at the two sorry excuse of brothers, his fist clenching. You noticed immediately, placing your hand over his before he could say anything. He was forced to keep quiet after he saw the subtle shake of your head and your pleading eyes. He wanted to get you out of here and just shower you with affection. You were an angel, and you didn’t deserve any of this.

“So son, when is the wedding? We expect it’ll be quite lavish, yes?” He heard your mother say, making him feel absolutely disgusted, even though his expression remained stoic. Him and be her son? Absolutely not. “Soon.” was all he replied with, although he was tempted to tell them that he didn’t want to invite them at all.

“A man of a few words, aren’t you? Ha! Thats what makes a good man.” He heard your father say to him. Sylus raised his eyebrow at that. What irony, he thought, for this man and his sons were the exact opposite of that. “Indeed.”

Meanwhile you remained silent, knowing it was taking everything in sylus to keep his promise of being civil to your parents. You were so grateful to him, as he continued holding your hand. That however, caught your mother’s attention as she saw the shining diamond ring on your finger, a big solitaire adorned with rubies, a symbol of your love with Sylus.

“You greedy girl, is that how I raised you!? How could you ask for such an expensive ring from your fiance?” She snapped at you, her voice loud which made you flinch. Sylus felt it immediately, as he pulled you closer, looking at your mother darkly. Seeing Sylus’ intimidating glare her sharp gaze faltered a little, but she continued to look at you in a disgusting manner.

Your father also looked at the ring now, and he scoffed. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Hoarding all your finance’s money for yourself while your poor family lives in such bad conditions? I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger!” Your younger brothers sneered at you, shaking their heads. You felt your breathing get heavier, remembering just how damaging it used to feel being around your family.

But then, all your thoughts were silenced by the familiar warm embrace that once again caught you right before you felt yourself fall. Sylus.

He stood up abruptly while hiding you in his arms, his evol emanating from him as it surrounded you both with its dark glow. Your family looked up, afraid of the man as he glared down at them with such anger in his eyes.

“Say that again. I dare you. Call my love a gold digger again, and I will make you beg me to kill you.”

Your family was speechless, stuttering and trying to find words. But Sylus didn’t give them a single chance. “You all are so fucking lucky to have this angel in your lives, yet all you have done is make her life hell, make her cry, make her ache. She has spent the better part of her life putting food in your worthless bodies and you have the audacity to call her a gold digger?”

“And you two.” He spoke, seething in anger as he turned to your brothers. “You are disgraces at the name of brothers, failures as men. You forgot so easily just who had been protecting you and feeding you since the day your worthless selves were born? Sitting here with no jobs, no ambitions laughing at a woman who pays for your food, for your clothes and for the roof above your goddamn heads, tsk, feel some fucking shame.”

You didn’t stop Sylus, rather, you felt yourself fall so in love with him again. For the first time, someone had stood up for you. For the first time you were the one hidden in someone’s arms, away from the pain. For the first time, you were taken care of in the face of danger.

“From this day forth, you all will get no money from her. My fiance will no longer send your worthless selves any money. Try to harm her, and I will make you regret every breath you take. Be glad that I am sparing your lives, because it is her love that has made me merciful. This will be the last time you see us. Once you learn just how difficult it is to earn money without a roof above your heads, you will understand how much she has suffered. Truly, I have not seen people as useless as all four of you.” Sylus spat harshly, giving one final glare to your family as he gently picked you up in his arms, hiding you away from them as he walked out, still seething in anger.

Once he reached his car, he let his evol open the door as he sat down, settling you down on his lap. “Sweetie, are you alright?” You heard his deep comforting voice, coaxing you to look at him. And you did just that, letting him see your teary eyes. Sylus swore that there was nothing that hurt him more than seeing your beautiful eyes full of tears. He’d rather take a hundred bullets, get stabbed all over than see you sad. He kissed your tears away, holding you close. “Sweetie, I’m so-“

You didn’t even let him finish, pulling him close by the collar of his shirt as you kissed him oh so lovingly. Sylus was taken aback, but he melted into the kiss immediately. His arms enveloped you once more with such protectiveness that it made your heart skip a beat. God, you didn’t deserve him.

“I love you…I love you so much Sylus..” you spoke breathlessly against his lips, parting just enough to look into those beautiful red eyes of his. He smiled at your words, as if those were the most beautiful words he would ever hear. And that was definitely true. “I love you more than anything, sweetheart.”

“Thank you for saying all that to my family..”

“You’re not upset?” He asked, caressing your cheeks gently. You shook your head immediately. “Why would I ever be upset at you standing up for me..? That’s the first time I felt someone protect me like that..”

His eyes softened, as he kissed your forehead. His gaze was full of love, as he spoke gently “Sweetie, I will always stand up for you. I will always protect you. You can lean on me, yeah? You’re never alone when I’m here.”

You smiles even wider at his words, nodding in response as you took a moment to hug him tightly. “You were always right, I should’ve cut them off long back..I just…I don’t know why I couldn’t do it..”

“It’s because you have a heart of gold, sweetheart. You are pure and loving, even to those who do not deserve it. But don’t love someone at the expense of the love you should give to yourself. You’re worth more than all of that, okay? You deserve only the best.” God, how was it that Sylus always knew the right thing to say?

“You’re right, Sy..thank you for always being there for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you..” you spoke, your eyes genuine and loving.

He smiled at you, kissing your lips softly as you felt him whisper a lingering promise “You do not need to know sweetie, because I will always be there with you. Forever.”

#love and deepspace #lads #lds sylus #sylus x you #sylus qin #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #sylus

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zara-renata · 2 days ago

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Before you came, things were as they should be | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You spend a lot of time wrestling with questions of morality, there's more poetry because the author has no self control, you may or may not burn out Mephisto's eye optics with your antics trying to provoke Sylus, Noah and the twins drag you to the club.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV This story contains: profanity, alcohol use, mc with self esteem issues, nudity

This is how it goes.

You watch Sylus as he moves around the kitchen, the dark marble counters gleaming in the soft light, the fire crackling in the huge fireplace, his fortress a yacht in a sea of desolation.

His hands are strong, sure, as they slice vegetables, as they slice meat, as they flip colorful medleys of ingredients in the carbon steel wok.

He leans over the corner of the island, where you’re perched on one of the black leather barstools, offering you his pinky dripping with sauce. “Taste.”

You watch him as you lean forward, wrap your lips around his finger, let your tongue run along his skin, obeying him and tasting the sauce. When you’ve sucked it clean, you continue watching him, the sweep of his soft white hair, the flush in his pale cheeks, his eyes on your lips, your lips wrapped around his finger.

You’ve been focusing on all the wrong things. You’ve been paying attention to all the wrong things.

Sylus has all but admitted that you are his beloved. That you are the one he adores, the one he has been trying to win over. You would be mad about his manipulation, if you didn’t also recognize that you wouldn’t have believed him, three days ago, that you are who he wants to convince of the sincerity of his intentions. You wonder if Sylus’s evol can manipulate time—every second here in his home feels like the equivalent of a year in the outside world. You wonder if the changes you feel in yourself, the changes in the way you’re looking at him, are a result of time being sped up somehow without you realizing it.

You’ve been so wrapped up in your pain, in your fear, that you’ve let your fear of the end, your fear of rejection, your guilt, your unworthiness—you’ve let all these things distract you. It’s easy to wallow. It’s much, much harder to open your eyes and look.

You should have died when Caleb died.

You probably should have died before your memories begin—who knows what caused you to lose your childhood? What accident led to you being taken in by your grandmother’s lab, your heart fodder for experimentation, because you shouldn’t have lived anyway?

Expendable. Your whole life, expendable—your mangled heart the byproduct of that expendability—and yet Caleb is the one who is dead.

But you didn’t die. You didn’t die in whatever calamity took your parents. And if they weren’t killed, then you didn’t die when your parents abandoned you—what do you know? You know only fear, guilt, a lack of memory, and now—with Sylus playing records for you, playing the piano for you, providing you with poetry in his library—now you’re full of, if not memory, then familiarity. What do you know?

Nothing. Too much. Not enough.

You watch Sylus. You want to see him, without fear, without awe, without judgment. He said he’d give you time. You weren’t ready to acknowledge that you are who he wants, despite the mounting evidence that he has never lied to you. But he also hasn’t told you the whole truth, has he? Sylus, the master of the fine print.

The question is: if you are Sylus’s beloved, why?

And if you are Sylus’s beloved, what are you willing to accept in order to return his feelings?

You think of the executioners singing their joyful songs.

The refugees going nowhere.

The ships whose fate is salty oblivion.

You watch Sylus, whose lovely finger slips from between your lips. You watch his big hands, and think of them letting blood diamonds carelessly clatter to the floor as so much of the world starves.

What does it mean to love a man like Sylus Qin? What does it make you, if you want to be loved by a man like Sylus Qin?

You watch him as he pops his finger into his own mouth, despite it being clean from your tongue. His nostrils flair. “The verdict?” he asks.

“It’s good. Not too salty. Nice umami,” you murmur, honestly. Sylus is a good cook. You wonder where his chef is. Why you haven’t seen any other staff that he has to have in order to maintain a house of this size in the clean, meticulously kept state that it’s currently in. Not like when you first met him, with dust coating everything.

“Oh, nice umami, huh?” he teases you.

“You’re not the only one who can say pretentious shit.” You lean over the counter, stretching your body, resting your cheek on the cool marble. You watch him watching you, his eyes tracking your chest, your waist, before they slide back up to meet your eyes.

You don’t feel worthy of his eyes on you. This feeling is compounded by the fact that this man is opposed to everything you’ve spent your career working to fight. You aren’t worthy of the man and wanting the man, makes you more unworthy still.

What would Caleb say, if he saw you with Sylus’s fingers in your mouth? His wealth wrested from the hands of the dead, clothing your body, filling your belly, soothing your tired, hurting soul?

But Caleb’s dead too. He doesn’t have anything to say at all, anymore.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Sylus says, watching you watching him. He must see something in the expression of your face.

“Only a penny? Why are the rich the stingiest fuckers of all?” you ask without heat.

“I don’t know the value of your thoughts. What if I offer my heart in payment, only to find out that you’re thinking about indigestion, or the latest plot twist in Super Hunters?” he asks, turning away, spooning fluffy, fragrant rice into a pretty little black bowl, heaping the stir fried meat and vegetables, with the delicious sauce, over the rice.

“I would hope that even my most inane thoughts are worth more than a penny to a person who properly values me,” you say, taking the bowl and the chopsticks he offers you. You say this, while not believing it. You don’t dare hope for the knowledge of your indigestion to be of value to anyone but yourself. But for the people you care about—you would want to get Xavier Tums if he had a stomachache. Get Tara a hangover remedy if she’s too hungover to move. Make Rafayel a snack while he whines melodramatically on the couch in his studio after having been so wrapped up in completing a painting that he forgot to eat.

Sylus pours sake into little cups, slides one over to you before turning and plating food for himself. “Ah, kitten is in a contemplative, belligerent mood tonight. How about I offer you a tour of my favorite part of the greenhouse in exchange for your current thoughts?” he asks serenely, joining you at the counter.

“You already promised me that,” you say, just to vex him.

“Driving a hard bargain tonight, darling.” He sips the sake, closes his eyes, savors. “What can I do to cheer you up?”

“Just tolerate me when I’m like this,” you say honestly. It’s not his fault that he is who he is. That his wealth, his manner of approaching the world, his appreciation of the mutilated world poses such a conundrum for you. You suspect that he has his reasons for doing what he does, for how he does it. You think of the sense of loss you felt hearing The long and winding road. The piano piece he composed. The sense of familiarity that his touch brings when his fingers are gliding along your skin.

You wonder again what he was like as a little boy. What he must have survived to be this bored, cynical, cruel man.

You already feel unworthy of the good things in life. Of the accolades of being a successful hunter. Of having lived, when Caleb died. It’s not Sylus’s fault that you look at everything he has to offer and wonder what you will have to sacrifice in order to fully accept him. You're unworthy, and ungrateful.

As you watch him watching you, as you revel in the glow of his eyes, the uneven slope of his nose, his big lovely mouth—but more importantly, the softness in his gaze as he watches you watching him—you already know how it ends.

This is how it goes.

You sleep the sleep of the dead. One of the things you cruelly, unfairly, envy Caleb for. Because he’s at peace. He’s not hurting anymore. All the sorrows and cruelty of surviving in this world are behind him. Or they had better be. You can’t bear to believe in a universe cruel enough that even the dead know no peace.

You sleep the sleep of the dead. Sylus provides this for you, most nights. Wrapped in his arms. Underneath him. Spooning his big body, your arm thrown over his waist, when you wake in the middle of the night and find that he's too far away. You fall back asleep almost instantly.

As the days pass, as Sylus follows you like a shadow, and the nights which are actually days slip by without another night terror, without the endless hallways of your gran’s house, without falling to your death, you feel that you’re steadily growing stronger. Rested. Your broken pieces knitting back together, if a little jaggedly.

You know that there are some wounds that will never heal.

Your guilt that Caleb died, while you survived. Your jealousy that Caleb died, while you have to live. Your jagged pieces still rub against each other unpleasantly at times, even as you physically heal. But you feel more alert. Physically, you are stronger than you’ve been in months.

You’ve only been here a week, but already you feel like you’ve been gone from your normal life for months, years.

Your feet heal. Whatever balm Sylus rubs along your soles each night must contain something priceless with how quickly your skin knits back together.

You try to give Sylus space. You don’t want him to tire of you too quickly, after all.

Every time he gets a phone call, you leave the room. You wander to other parts of the house. Mephisto follows you each time. And each time, Sylus finds you again. No matter what you’re doing, he joins you. In the theater room, starting a film that you plucked from his collection. He stretches out on the couch, pulls you alongside him, spoons you from behind. The film is in black and white, and it takes its time telling the story. You don’t mean to, but you fall asleep. He’s there when you wake up.

One time, you drift to the gym and find the twins in the boxing ring, pummeling the shit out of each other. You have a feeling the twins chose the decor in the gym, because it looks like a video game streamer’s ideal setup in terms of lighting. The twins are shirtless, well-muscled torsos slick with sweat reflecting the LED lighting ringing the edges of the ceiling which changes colors every few minutes, a constantly morphing rainbow. Screens line the walls showing various athletic competitions as well as video game tournaments.

You turn and find Noah on a stair stepper facing the boxing ring. She’s sweating, her braids pulled back and up and held in place with a wide colorful cloth headband.

“Wanna join? Are your feet up for it?” she asks, eyes flicking between you and the twins. Kieran lands a punch to Luke’s stomach that has him doubling over, laughing breathlessly.

“Nice,” he pants, before wrapping his arms around Kieran’s torso and ramming him into the ropes. Kieran shoves him to the mat, and they wrestle for a while, grunting and laughing. They sound like they’re having the time of their lives.

“My feet may be, but not the rest of me. How are you not bored out of your mind on that thing?” you ask her. You’ve always hated cardio machines like the stair stepper, the treadmill, the elliptical. You’d rather run outside, Caleb at your side. Or lift weights, loud music and the strain on your muscles distractions from the monotony of the workout.

“Knowing my fine ass is only getting finer keeps me going,” she grins at you. She glances back at the twins. “The view isn’t awful, either. Not that I’d tell them that again though.”

“Oh?”

“Luke’s ace, and I don’t wanna creep him out.”

You stare at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m a car thief, not a creep. I'm appreciating art now, nothing else.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you laugh. You watch Kieran and Luke for a while longer when a thought occurs to you. “Will you tell me now what you meant by not doing Sylus’s work for him?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it doesn’t matter if you know now.” She pants a little, adjusts the speed of the stair stepper. “I’m not Sylus’s driver. Can you imagine that man letting anyone else drive his big ass around?”

The way she worded that sentence makes you imagine a driver just carting Sylus’s ass, and only his ass, around in a wagon. It could use its own zip code, so you don’t think the imagery is that absurd but you still have to stifle a laugh. “Not really, no. I can’t see him trusting someone enough to do the job as well as he thinks he can,” you say drily.

“Yeah, exactly.”

You gaze up at her. “So?” You prompt, when it’s clear that she’s gotten a little distracted by Kieran downing a water bottle, the water spilling over his mouth and down his broad chest and splattering onto the sweaty mat.

She looks back at you, not looking at all ashamed at being caught gawking. “You’re supposed to be a detective or some shit. So detect. Who do you think I’m supposed to be driving around?”

You think back to the argument she and Luke had while you were having a mounting anxiety attack about the bet. On standby in case the hunter wants to go anywhere.

“Sylus hired you to drive me around?” you ask, stunned.

“Ding ding ding, there’s hope for you yet.” She rolls her eyes.

“When?” you ask, trying to wrap your mind around this fact. Sylus only ever came to your place, before the night he asked you to Amnesia. You’re perfectly capable of driving yourself anywhere, on either two or four wheels. Why would he think you need a driver?

“The other night at Amnesia.”

“So he had just hired you when I saw you for the first time?”

She nods serenely, back to looking at the twins.

“But why?”

“I’m just the driver, ask your scary boyfriend,” she says distractedly.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you protest.

She looks down at you incredulously. “Does he know that?”

“What?”

“The way that man carries you around like a damned koala is not friendly. It’s boyfriendly. Or like, obsessively. Also, he hired me and hasn’t made me do anything at all. I am getting paid more than I ever have in my life, I have paid holiday, insurance, holiday bonuses, and all he asks is that I’m available anytime you need a ride or a getaway driver. Would the scary-ass motherfucking leader of Onychinus do that for just anyone?”

You just gawk at her.

At the look on your face, she snorts. “That poor bastard must have the worst case of blue balls in the history of men who love clueless idiots. Truly, the duality of man. Sinister overlord of the N109 Zone on the one hand, a helpless simp on the other.”

“Okay, okay, no need to call anyone names,” you mumble, reeling from this information. Why Sylus thinks you would trust anyone to drive your ass around any more than he would allow anyone to drive him around is beyond you. But the thought is so fucking sweet, even if you don’t understand what he’s thinking at all.

After a few minutes of sitting with Noah in companionable silence, Sylus finds you in the gym. He nods to Noah and opens his arms. “Come, I’m hungry.” You stare at him for a moment, thinking about what Noah just told you.

You have no idea how long I’ve already waited.

But why won’t he kiss you? What if Noah is wrong too?

You walk into his arms, let him lift you and carry you out of the gym. Noah mouths Boyfriend at you as you meet her amused look over Sylus’s broad shoulder.

This is how it goes.

Another day, after yet another phone call, you wander back to the library, pull out more poetry. You stare at the twisting wrought-iron staircase. He told you to explore, didn’t he?

Before you take the first step, you test a theory. “Fire,” you order, and the fireplace roars to life. You stare into the flames. The house recognizes your face. It recognizes your voice. Mephisto watches you from a perch in the corner of the library, ruby eyes glittering. You watch him in return. You think about Sylus watching you through all those long weeks after he released you from his home after the auction, through Mephisto, through the twins. What did he see when he looked at you? The dark circles under your eyes. Your clumsiness in battle from the endless insomnia, the injuries. Your solitude, even when surrounded by people. What do you have to offer such a man? Why was he looking then, and why is he looking now?

You approach Mephisto, clutching the book in one hand. “May I?” you ask. He caws softly, a terrible little sound. You run your hand along the soft feathers along his back and he lets you.

You step back, and he tilts his head.

The library is warm. Warmer than the rest of the cold hallways. It wasn’t this warm when Sylus first showed you the space.

You stare at Mephisto, who stares at you in return. Sylus will use him to find out where you are, when he’s done with his phone call. As he found you in the pool.

He licked cinnamon and sugar from the side of your mouth. He bit your lip. He pushed your hand away when you touched the tie of his pants. His body responds to you, but he does not acknowledge it.

If you’re his beloved, what is stopping him, when you can’t hide your emotions from him at all? Surely he can see the want all over you when he’s near.

You think about his hands, soaked in blood. Blood diamonds clinking on a cold marble floor. His signature bombs bringing down buildings while people are inside, the collateral damage a price he’s willing to pay with other peoples’ lives.

You reach down with one hand, clumsily lift the hem of your sweater, pull it over your head. You’re wearing a tight tank top underneath.

You turn, set the book on a table in the soft pool of light from one of the colorful stained glass lamps. You shimmy out of your sweat pants. You place your sweater and your pants on the table, neatly. You turn and face Mephisto again, watch him watching you, as you stand in your underwear in the warmth of the library.

After a moment, you turn again, and softly pad up the winding wrought-iron staircase.

At the top, it’s warm. Heat rises. It’s a sort of crow’s nest, a lighthouse, a lookout. Windows in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle, a pinnacle of Sylus’s home. You see the greenhouse sprawling into the distance below. The barren N109 Zone wasteland in one direction, its cityscape in the other. Lining the little circular room under the windows is a soft bench seat, almost all the way around. Pillows and blankets. This is a reading room at the top of the world. You can breathe. The red moon is waning, less full than when you first arrived, but its light still fills the room, blankets everything in softly sinister light. The flap of Mephisto’s wings alert you to the fact that he has followed as you knew he would. You watch him for a moment, wondering if Sylus is looking yet, and then stretch out on your stomach along the curving window seat, resting on your elbows, your legs bent and crossed at the ankles in the air. You begin to read.

You lose yourself in the poetry.

After a while—it could be a few minutes, it could be hours, time feels like it has no meaning here after all—Mephisto flutters his wings and suddenly a swirl of scarlet and ink flows up the stairs and winds around your ankles, cuffing them together. The mist flows under your elbows and stomach, and you’re gently lifted until the tendrils solidify underneath you. Where before you were leisurely reading on your stomach, now you’re draped across Sylus’s lap and he has both of your ankles in one big hand.

You just drop your head onto your open book and laugh a little helplessly.

“Well, are you going to read to me or just continue to laugh?” Sylus asks, as if him appearing underneath you is perfectly normal and requires no further comment.

“And if I’m just going to keep laughing at your theatrics?” you tease him.

He rests one big hand on the back of your naked thigh, runs his palm up, up, until it rests just under your ass. “I don’t mind this position at all. Keep laughing, see what happens.”

You laugh again, and wiggle on his lap. “Empty threats,” you taunt him. He grunts, softly, and then squeezes your thigh almost to the point of pain, in what seems to be an attempt to get you to stop moving.

Your heart sinks a little. He doesn’t want this flirtation from you. You all but invited him to slap your ass, to do something. Noah is wrong. Maybe his idea of a beloved is someone on a pedestal, whom he simply wants to admire like an interesting accessory, a collectible that he never takes out of the box. What the fuck do you know?

You give up.

“Do you want me to read to you?” you ask, trying to crane your neck so you can look back into his face.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he scolds you, lifting you with his evol. You’re weightless, suspended before him, before you’re gently turned, spun from your stomach until you’re floating on your back. His evol sets you down again, this time with your head in his lap, and you can look up into his face comfortably. He graces you with a slight smile, one corner of his mouth lifted. “And yes. Read to me.”

You watch him, watching you. He makes no comment about the fact that you’ve taken off half your clothes. You wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

You think of how warm his lap is underneath you. How he now rests one of his hands on your bare thigh, caresses it with a calloused thumb.

You think about his trigger finger along your skin, and wonder how many people he’s killed with it.

What kind of person does it make you, that you want his hand with its calloused thumb and trigger finger to drift up, up, to where your thighs meet, and have them live there. Despite all evidence pointing to the fact that he does not want to touch you in that way.

You think about Noah saying that Luke is asexual. You wonder if Sylus is too. If he cares for you, but will never be interested in physical intimacy, can you live with that?

And how do you return to your job hunting men like him, with the memory of his hands on your skin?

What would Caleb say if he saw you now, spread out along this most wanted criminal’s lap, yearning for more of his hands, for his mouth, for his everything?

You begin to read.

Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine.

You stop. You have never read Faiz before. You wonder what the original language sounds like to a native speaker, if it’s different from the translation you’re now reciting. The translation itself is gorgeous in its simplicity.

This time, Sylus doesn’t tease. He doesn’t rush you. He just watches you as you read, as you pause, as you let the words soak into your skin.

You continue, Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires.… You have to stop again. You’ve never read this poem before. It’s not familiar to you in a way that the Zagajewsky collection was. But this poem speaks to you in a way that all good poetry does—describing a universal experience in ways that render the experience new to you again. You continue for a few more lines— And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing.

The more you read, the more your heart hurts. Sylus seems to sense your distress. He begins to caress your hair.

Don't leave now that you're here — Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

“The end,” you whisper. You set the book down on your chest and just stare up into Sylus’s face.

“Are you a fan of Faiz?” he asks, still caressing your hair. You turn your face into his stomach and breathe in the scent of his warm skin, the softness of his sweater.

“I had never even heard of him until I found his book on your shelf today.”

“Do you like what you’ve read so far?”

You think about what a vein feels like when it’s about to break—you know that feeling all too well. You think about what it feels like when Sylus is not in the same room with you, not touching you with his blood-soaked hands. You think about how, no matter how this ends, you’ll never be able to drink another glass of wine without seeing him, the sky with the blood moon looming, the road littered with corpses that leads to and away from him, in its reflection.

“I do, very much.”

He just smiles down at you, faintly, watching you watching him.

“And you? Is this one you’ve read, or one for the future?”

“One of my favorites.”

“What other poems from him do you like? I can read them to you.”

Instead of agreeing like you expect, he turns his head, gazes through the windows with the night spilling into this crow’s nest at the top of the world. He squints, continues to run his hands along your hair, the curve of your cheek, and starts to recite in his low, soft voice.

When whatever you want to do cannot be done,

When nothing is of any use;

—At this hour when night comes down,

When night comes, dragging its long face,

dressed in mourning...

He shifts his gaze, looks down into your face,

Be with me,

My tormenter, my love, be near me.

He grows quiet, but his fingers still drift along your skin. “I have them memorized. You can ask me to recite them for you in the future, if you’d like.”

“I'd like that," you whisper. Clear your throat. "Is that the whole poem?" you ask.

He shakes his head a little. "No, just the last few lines."

"More surprises from the boogeyman of the N109 Zone,” you say, instead of surging up and kissing him, sucking his poetry-soaked tongue into your mouth, feasting on him, your tormenter, your—

He ignores your taunt, and probably the look of naked want all over your face. “I’m pleased, though not surprised that you like his work.” He smirks a little, as if daring you to ask why he’s not surprised.

Kindred spirits.

You don’t need to ask.

“Did your phone call end okay?” you ask instead.

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Did we get bored with our clothes, kitten?” he asks instead, eyes drifting from your face to your chest, your bare legs.

“It was warm in here,” you say, watching, watching. “Problem?”

His eyes flick back to your face. He runs his fingers up, just as you had imagined, but right as they reach the edge of your underwear, they reverse direction, drift down again.

If you are his beloved, why won’t he take what you are clearly offering? He has already taken so much without asking, without permission. You are still here. You can’t bring yourself to take from him first—or to offer first, any more obviously than this. What if you’re wrong?

“No,” he says, simply.

You stare into his eyes, and he stares back. You want him. You want more than his hands on your skin. More than his eyes on you. More than his voice in your ears. You want to be inside him. You want him inside you. You remember a kiss that never happened, and you can taste it. Your mouth waters.

He leans down, his soft hair falling over his forehead, and you resist the urge to lean up, to meet him. “Do you want to keep reading?” he asks.

You shake your head.

He leans down even further, his big body curved over you, his breath warm—coffee and toothpaste. “What, then?”

Kiss me. Swallow me. Don’t turn me away.

“Your favorite part of the greenhouse,” you say, arching your back, suppressing a whine of irritation that he’s so close, that he’s asking you what you want to do, instead of doing what you’re clearly asking him to do.

“Still not ready to go out?” he murmurs, slipping a hand underneath the arch of your back, big palm splayed over and across your spine, pulling you up. The movement brings your face up, up, and he runs his nose against yours.

“Why? Getting bored?” Your heart stutters at the thought. Not yet. He can’t be bored yet. You haven’t had enough. Not nearly enough.

“Far from it.” With his hand on your back, he straightens, pulling you with him, against his chest, until you’re drawn into his lap, until his other hand slides up the back of your thigh, holds you right under one ass cheek.

He’s hard.

He stands, guiding your other leg around his waist, pulling you up his body, so that you’re no longer pressed against the hard length of him. You want to scream.

“You’ll want your clothes again, for the trip to the greenhouse,” he says, carrying you down the spiraling staircase.

He sets you on the table where you had set your clothes. You reach for your sweater, but he picks it up first. He spreads it in his hands, opening the bottom hem. You stare at him, and he stares back. You take the hint and lean forward—he settles it gently over your head, pulls it down your torso, adjusts the cuffs after you’ve slipped your arms through.

He then takes your sweatpants and lifts one of your legs, his hand wrapped around your calf. You lean back on your hands to support yourself. He watches your face as he works one pant leg over your foot, as he slowly drags it up your outstretched leg, as he repeats the motion with your other leg. He then steps between your legs, slides one hand under your ass, lifts you, and lifts the waistband with his other hand until the pants are settled around your waist properly. When he’s done, you are dressed again, your hips are flush with his, and you can feel his still-hard length against you.

You watch him, watching you. His cheeks and ears are pink. But other than that, you can’t see a change in his expression. You want to lean forward and bite one of his nipples faintly outlined by his thin v-neck sweater.

You shake the thought from your head and wrap your legs around him. You told him when you first arrived that you didn’t need to be carried everywhere, but he offers every time you move from one room to another, and you can’t bring yourself to say no, to deny yourself this constant embrace.

“There’s no hurry for you to want to go somewhere,” he says as he takes you into the hallway, as the chill settles through your clothes. “But there is something I’d like to do with you, in a couple days. It’s in the heart of the Zone. Interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, how could you deny him anything? But you are interested. You’re curious. Your feet feel better. You can’t hide in his home forever. “Yes.”

“It’s a date,” he says, pleased.

In the greenhouse, he follows one of the slate pebbled paths that leads away from the garden fuck-bed, the fountain, the bar. The heavy foliage gradually gives way to a little clearing and a smaller building, nestled within the larger greenhouse. He sets you on your feet as his phone begins to vibrate.

His brow furrows and his mouth hardens, the tension rolling off of him palpable. You turn without thinking, grab one of his hands and put it on your cheek, your own hand against the back of his.

He exhales, slowly, and he seems to relax. He lifts his other hand and traces your eyebrow with his finger. When he speaks, his voice is calm.“Go in. I’ll make this quick. Don’t touch or eat anything.”

You nod into his palm and let go, stepping back, out of his reach. His hand drops, and he flexes it at his side, before turning away and reaching for the phone in his pocket.

The greenhouse within a greenhouse's door swings shuts behind you.

It’s much cooler in here than in the main part of the greenhouse. A tall arching trellis overgrown with what looks like ivy forms a long tunnel leading further into the building. You walk for a few minutes, admiring the fairytale feel of the tunnel, until it opens into a space that is surprisingly not so large. Slate stones, flower beds filled with plants and flowers. There are several you recognize—foxglove, with its lovely little spotted flowers drifting down the thick stem, purple and white autumn crocus, oleander with its pinwheel petals. There are also many bushes and other flowers that you don’t recognize, but which don’t look particularly striking. Along with the vegetation, there are a couple benches, torches giving off soft light—they circle a reasonably sized, but not gigantic, still pond, ringed with stones. You can’t see anything particularly spectacular about the space, or why Sylus would favor it compared to the riotous life of the tropical part of the main greenhouse. It’s quiet. Maybe he likes it for the same reasons he likes the solitude of his library. You walk to the edge of the pond and see large koi fish swimming leisurely in the serene water.

You wonder who maintains this space, along with all the others of his sprawling home.

You turn again, and spot what you now know is a bush of datura flowers. You wander over to them, let your fingertip caress one of their sharp little pointed petals. It feels like a lifetime ago that you found a pot of datura on your kitchen island and had no idea who it could be from.

It occurs to you that you need to ask Sylus if it’s possible to have someone water your plants while you’re gone. You suddenly can’t bear the thought of them dying in your absence. You will have to return to them, and your real life, probably sooner than you’d like. You can’t neglect everything, even as you still refuse to check your phone. Your friends may survive without you, but your plants won’t.

You don’t want to think about that right now.

You turn back to the datura plant, and then look at the other plants. You recall the threatening aura of the datura before you knew what it was, what it could be used for. Hallucinogen. Poison. Aphrodisiac. Your eyes drift over the other plants you recognize—foxglove, crocus, oleander. He told you not to eat anything in here. You suddenly know that the other plants in here, like the datura, are not random, or innocuous.

Sylus’s favorite part of his greenhouse is his poison garden. Because of course the edgy bastard would have a poison garden. You don’t recognize many of the plants because they’re not common houseplants that you’ve ever looked into adding to your own collection.

You huff a laugh, put your hands on your hips. An idea occurs to you.

You walk to one of the benches near the koi pond, stretch out on your back. You let your head roll, gaze wandering over the pretty, deadly flowers. Your mind drifts to the poem you read him earlier. Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine.

You think of how flowers are no longer simply flowers, but threats. Promises. Reassurances. Tools.

A pomegranate is no longer a pomegranate, but the feel of his body underneath yours before you throw him off a bed.

A cinnamon roll is no longer a sweet treat, but the taste of Sylus’s finger in your mouth.

Feathers, wine, the poetry of your youth, a bomb exploding, Caleb’s absence, a motorcycle revving its engine, the grip of a pistol in your hand, blood dripping from your wounds.

Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns.

This is how it goes.

You already know how this ends.

You huddled in Sylus’s gem vault and bemoaned the blood diamonds piled high, and then you rolled over to him in the night, wrapping an arm around his waist, breathing in his skin, and slept like the dead.

He said that his favorite stone was whatever you’re wearing, and your heart thrilled and despaired—stones from him come at the cost of someone else’s pain. And he’ll give you as many as you want, and revel in your wearing them, and you’ll soak in his admiration like the vast desert that you are. You’ll bloom like these poison flowers under his care, your feet and hands covered in the same blood as his.

Don't leave now that you're here — Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.

Even if you were to leave right this second—even if you were to move to the arctic and cut every tie to him from your life, you’d be tearing out your own veins, carving out chunks of your own flesh, in an effort to remove his talons from how deep they’ve dug into you, starting from the moment he found you in a crowded nightclub and drove you around all night just so you could finally sleep. Maybe from a moment even before that. The auction, with your hand in his pocket, clutching the detonator, his arms around you, his voice in your ear. Look at me. Look only at me.

And you did. And you haven’t looked away since, no matter how hard you tried.

It's already too late. You made your decision the moment you let him into your home when you found him wounded on the sidewalk near your home. You have known what, who he is, all along. The only way you can continue, the only way you can move forward without crippling yourself, is to find a balance.

A balance between the horror that is inseparable from Sylus’s rough hands softly touching you, the horror inside of you that you’ve always known is there, and the goodness that you want to offer the world since you lived when you should have died, over and over again.

Caleb’s dead. It doesn’t matter what he’d say, because he’s dead and he’s never coming back, and you lived when you shouldn’t have, and he gets to rest and you have to move through each fucking day, one after the other, without him, without Gran, so that you can watch the sunsets for them, so that you can snatch lives back from death’s maw every time a wanderer attacks, and offer the world and Caleb and Gran these gifts because only you can.

A balance between remembering and forgetting, of living in the moment and refusing to looking away from the terrible fruit of Sylus’s labor.

A balance of walking your path in the light as the Association’s sword, of seeking refuge in the glittering night of the sanctuary Sylus is offering you.

If you are his beloved.

If he wants you at all.

Is it so terrible, to want something just for yourself, even if that thing is a knife in the wounds of the world you struggle to save?

You huff a laugh again. You want him. You want him so much, it hurts. So what if he never touches you beyond holding you close? Biting your lip? Offering to carry you everywhere through his house, turning to you in the night and wrapping his own arm around your waist so that you mirror each other, curved towards each other. When did you become so greedy? What gives you the right to be so greedy?

You throw your arm over your eyes. Enough. Enough.

You think about your little idea when you realized that this is Sylus’s gothy poison garden. You wonder if it’s too mean, but then you remember how mean he was to you when you first met him. You’ve forgiven him. But you haven’t entirely forgotten.

After a while—who knows how long, you hear the crunch of Sylus’s footsteps on the slate pebbled path.

You let your arm fall, your fingers uncurling against the pebbled slate path and letting a pair of little purple berries roll from your palm to the ground.

You hear his footsteps stop, and then nothing. You resist the urge to open an eye and peek, to see what he’s doing.

“Asleep again, darling?” he murmurs, quietly. So that if you really were asleep, you wouldn’t wake.

You say nothing.

A footstep, and then a creak of the bench underneath you as he settles his weight, the warmth of his thigh next to you on the bench.

He runs featherlight fingers along your neck.

“You’re not asleep,” he says, low.

You ignore him, make no move.

“I’ve been with you long enough while you sleep to know the patterns of your breathing when asleep versus awake. Feeling playful, kitten?”

You ignore him.

He walks two fingers up your neck, gently pats your cheek. “Look at me. I don’t like not having your eyes on me when you’re awake.”

You stay still.

“Sweetheart.” He pats your cheek a little harder. You let your head loll to the side. “You have terrible taste in pranks,” he tsks, but he’s starting to sound worried.

You start to hold your breath. Begin to count.

You feel one big hand come to rest heavily on your chest. There’s a pause. “Oh? Raising the stakes?”

You’re at thirty. You keep counting.

“If you had really eaten nightshade berries, you’d be surrounded by vomit and probably would have shit your pants. You wouldn’t be lying here pristinely, looking beautifully asleep.”

You’re at sixty. Your lungs are starting to burn. You’ve never been good at holding your breath for very long.

“Your heart is starting to pound from your efforts to hold your breath, darling, you’re not fooling anyone,” he scolds, sounding increasingly irritated, but he leans over, rests his ear against your mouth.

You can’t help yourself. You lick the shell of his ear.

He jerks up like you just lit him on fire and glares down at you. You take a huge breath, struggling to both breathe and cackle at the same time.

“You were a little worried, admit it,” you pant, grinning up at his indignant expression.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans down, hauls you up into his lap like a sack of potatoes, and squeezes you tightly, burying his face in your shoulder. “You can joke about anything, except the idea of you dying. It’s not amusing. It will never be amusing.”

He holds you so tightly you can hardly breathe. You feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin, his breath warm on your neck. You just sit still, not knowing what to say. You did not expect this response at all.

After a long time, he finally speaks. “What was the point of this little prank?”

“Can’t have you getting bored with me,” you murmur.

He lifts his head, looks at you with a strangely pleading expression on his face. “I will tell you as many times as it takes. I am the farthest from bored when I am with you.”

You stare at him, taken aback by his gentle reassurance even while clearly upset with your immature prank. But why are you still surprised when he is tender with you? He has been nothing but indulgent, tolerant, generous, since he secured a promise from you to use your home as a safe house. He has treated you so gently through all of your worst moments since then.

But if you say that out loud, if you acknowledge it, you won’t be able to stop yourself from asking for more. You’re so greedy. It’s not enough, to be held by him. Now you want his mouth. His tongue. His everything.

“You sent me into a poisonous garden without telling me. Rude.”

He lifts a dark silver eyebrow. “I told you not to touch or eat anything in here. Are you a pet, or a child?”

You don't know why you're arguing. “You know the fastest way to get me to do something is to tell me not to do it.” He knows this. He has used this against you before, in fact.

He finally smiles a little back at you. “A child then, I see.”

You stick your tongue out at him, remember what he has done every time you’ve done that, and immediately pull it back into your mouth.

“But you’re a quick learner,” he smiles wider, revealing one sharp tooth.

You just scowl at him.

He exhales heavily, as if letting go of a great weight, and you feel bad for making him worry. “Is everything okay with business?” you ask, trying to change the subject, to take his mind off of whatever he just went through because of you. You resolve not to prank him like that ever again.

“Business is good. Too good. Hence the constant calls. Nothing to worry about,” he says, letting you distract him. He sinks a little lower onto the bench, spreads his long legs. You lower your head, rest it on his big shoulder.

“So. A poison garden,” you say. “Your favorite part of the greenhouse. Not the lovely jungle, the fuck-bed, or whatever else you have hidden in this huge place.”

“I’ve always had a particular weakness for deadly, lovely things,” he says, running a hand soothingly up and down your back.

You feel like he’s trying to tell you something, beyond his appreciation for flowers.

My beloved is perfect to me.

The bet was about how long it will take for my beloved to realize how I feel about them.

But how could he have waited so long for you, how could he feel so strongly for you, when you only just met?

You think about how strongly you already feel about him, and wonder if it even matters.

You think about his little quip, time is a construct and inherently meaningless, when you asked him about his drinking.

It was a joke, but maybe there is truth in it.

Does it even matter? Is it so bad for you to just want to take what he’s now so clearly offering? Even if he’ll never kiss you?

“Do you ever use these plants for nefarious purposes?” you ask. “Or just to admire and brood around?”

“I do not brood. I plot,” he sniffs indignantly. “And you already know that I like a more direct approach. Sometimes Luke and Kieran used plants from here for pranks, back when I had guests more often.”

Guests? More often? Do you want to know? What kind of guests? Does it matter?

You lift your head and ask a question that has been on your mind for a while now to distract yourself. “Who takes care of your house? Your greenhouse? Your pools?”

He raises his eyebrows a little in surprise at your non sequitur. “I have staff who take care of everything.”

“Where are they? I’ve not seen anyone else but the twins and Noah since I arrived.”

“I’ve asked them to adjust their schedules for the time being. They come while we’re sleeping.”

“Why?”

He gently flicks your forehead. “Why do you think?”

“Can you never just answer a question without asking another question, Socrates?” you huff.

“I’m not going to spoon feed you answers that you should already know by now,” he taunts.

“What should I already know?”

“That I know you don’t like being around people you don’t know. That you find it uncomfortable to be around people who you aren’t sure are safe. That you wouldn’t be able to prance around my library in your underwear if you feared some stranger walking in.”

You poke him in his firm stomach. “I prance about as much as you do, Mister Broody McPoisongarden.”

He laughs softly.

You close your eyes. Let his answer sink in. His thoughtfulness shouldn’t surprise you by now. But every time, the tenderness, the kindness he shows you—it hurts. What will you do, once you have to return to your real life? What will you do, if you ever fall off the pedestal he has built for you? What have you done to deserve his attentiveness?

You are trying to live in the moment. You will find a balance. Maybe it’s for the best if he doesn’t want to kiss you. If he never wants closer physical intimacy. He already has so much of you already.

Enough. Enough.

You rest your head on his shoulder again and sit with him in comfortable silence.

This is how it goes.

Another day. He receives a phone call. You wave at him, back away, his eyes tracking you as you go, until the door swings shut.

You drift to the pool room again. Its humid warmth, the bar in pale wood, the zen garden. You take a bottle from the shelf behind the bar, pour a shot. Does it matter what time it is? Not right now, in the timeless night of Sylus’s fortress. Mephisto has followed you. You toast him, holding up the shot glass, and then down it. It burns. You wonder how Sylus can drink this shit. Even the good stuff hurts.

You walk to the edge of the pool. Think about the twenty different swimsuits Sylus showed you after he found you naked in his pool the first time.

You turn, making sure Mephisto is watching. You remind yourself that he’s a robot. He doesn’t care what he sees. But the man on the other side might care. You're lying to yourself when you say you can live without Sylus ever kissing you. You remember a kiss that never happened, and the memory haunts you.

You strip out of your clothes, watching Mephisto watching you.

Look, then. You’ve been watching me since before we even met. You’re the only one I want looking, and you won’t take what I’m offering. I’m now watching you, watching me.

You don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve with your sad little provocations. Sylus has only ever responded with covering you up. You’re just being greedy. Why can’t you be satisfied with him just being near? My tormenter, my love, be near me.

You pause, watching Mephisto thoughtfully, your clothes piled at your feet. After a few moments, you turn and dive into the pool.

You enjoy the water, your empty mind as your body takes over. You feel stronger than you’ve felt in months. You enjoy the strength in your muscles, the weightlessness. You slap the edge of the pool after yet another lap, are about to turn, go again, when you glance up and see Sylus right there, standing above you.

This time, his eyes are open. He’s looking down at you, eyes fixed on your face. His thumbs are hooked in the pockets of his dark pants, the picture of relaxed, a fluffy towel hanging over one wrist.

He says nothing. He simply looks. You make no effort to conceal yourself under the water. You return his gaze, watching him watching you.

The silence stretches. You wonder what he’s thinking. “Everything okay this time?”

He frowns a little. “Worried about my business?”

“I just want you to be happy,” you say truthfully. You don’t want him to be worried about business, or your time here to cause problems for him. No matter what his business actually consists of. Balance. Balance.

“Then we’re both in luck,” he says. “I’ve been happy all week.”

You tilt your head. “Just this week?”

“Mmhmm.” He looks down at you, fondness softening his features.

You think you can live without him kissing you, if he will look at you like this every once in a while.

“Are you not happy with the swimsuits I arranged for you?” he asks, his fond look melting into a bored expression.

“I’m happy with them,” you answer, looking steadily back at him.

“And yet you won’t wear them.”

“There’s no one here.”

“Am I no one?” His gaze flicks down your body, then back to your face.

You look at him. You look at him, and want him so terribly. You’re lying, every time you tell yourself you’ll be satisfied with a look, an almost kiss.

“You’re the only one,” you force yourself to say.

He’s too far away. You can’t see what effect, if any, what you just said has on him. His face is still impassive.

“Am I to interpret this, as well as the library the other day, as an invitation?”

Your heart is pounding. “Do you want it to be an invitation?”

He opens his mouth, only for it to snap shut again. Even from here, you can hear his phone vibrating in his pocket.

You want him to ignore it. You want him to answer your question.

He takes the towel in one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other.

You’re already so greedy, wanting him to ignore his business for you. You suddenly feel incredibly pathetic.

You look down at yourself. Muscle and scars. What are you doing? Trying to tempt a man like Sylus Qin with what you have to offer, such as it is. A dull, scratched blade.

His beloved?

His tormenter, his love?

It’s only been a week, and you’re this delusional.

You sink underwater, turn, launch yourself from the side of the pool, knife through the water. You haul yourself up on the other side, walk through the barroom to the door, and stride, dripping through the cold hallway.

You shower. You try to keep your mind blank. You don’t want to betray yourself, when you have to see him again. There’s nowhere to hide.

You’re relieved when you find his bedroom empty when you’re done in the bathroom.

You throw on clothes.

You slip back into the hallway. Mephisto must have stayed in the pool room with Sylus. You start to jog toward the lift leading to the underground garage. Sylus never said you had to stay in the house while you waited for him to be done with business. You’ll be back when you can trust that your face won’t give away how stupid you feel for trying to seduce him through Mephisto.

You’ll strangle the wanting inside you like Sylus strangled you when you first met.

As you’re passing the living room, Noah steps into the hallway.

“Whoa, there. You look like you’re on a mission.”

“Maybe,” you say, trying to smile. She stares at you.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” You nod. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.

“Is this another case of we need to call the boss?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well since you ask so politely,” she smiles at you. It’s genuine. You think this is the first genuine smile she’s ever given you. “You want company?”

“I don’t even know where I’m going,” you say.

“I’ve found that just going for a drive can make me feel better,” she says. “I am your driver, after all. Wanna put me to good use?”

You blink at her. She’s not going to call Sylus and tell on you? She’s not going to badger you with questions?

“You sure? I’m not amazing company.”

“Coulda fooled me with how Boss follows you like a lovesick puppy.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s go.” She turns and leads the way toward the garage lift. When you pass the theater room, Luke and Kieran poke their heads out. “Going somewhere?” Kieran asks.

“We’re going for a drive. C’mon, nerds,” Noah says breezily, waving them forward.

They look at each other, seem to have a silent conversation, and then follow obediently.

“Does Boss know we’re going somewhere?” Luke asks.

“Not unless you snitch,” Noah answers.

“Is it like, a secret?”

“No. But maybe the hunter needs a little breathing room.”

Luke and Kieran turn and stare at you.

“Do you need some space from Boss?”

You grimace. “Not because of anything he did. I just need to get a little perspective.”

“You’re not leaving him, right?” Both twins look stricken at the idea.

“Leaving him? We’re not together like that.”

“Why the fuck not?” Luke demands.

Kieran puts a hand on his shoulder and looks at you. “You don’t have to answer that.”

You squint at them. “You say that like it’s up to me if we’re together or not.”

Luke squints back. “Isn’t it?”

You shake your head. “I’m not going to discuss your boss’s private life when he’s not here.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re loyal to him, you’re nuts about him. We already like you, there’s no need to prove anything.” Luke rolls his eyes. He’s about to speak again when Kieran begins to steer him away by gently pressing on his back. “We will meet you in the garage,” he tells Noah. “We’ve got to get our masks if we’re going out.”

“Ah yes, the cosplay twins make a reappearance,” Noah grins. “See you in a few.” With that, she takes your hand like you’ve been friends forever, and swings your joined hands as she practically skips to the lift leading to the garage.

In the underground garage which is surprisingly spartan for a man of Sylus’s tastes, she drags you to the tank. You eye with longing a long row of vehicles that look like they’d be amazing to go offroading across the N109 Zone’s wastes in.

“No, nooooope,” Noah says, hurrying you along. “Boss’s orders. I have to cart you around in the Phantom anytime we’re in the Zone. It’s why he bought it.”

You let her herd you to the tank. “What?”

She opens the backseat door and makes a sarcastic sweeping gesture. “Your chariot awaits.”

You sigh. “The backseat? Really? I can’t even ride up front?”

“You’re the VIP. Get in.”

You decide not to fight her this time. You’re going to take out the beat up Toyota Hilux you saw parked amongst the other vehicles to see if you can get it to flip one of these days, and you want her on your side when you do it.

She slams the door shut after she’s ensured you’re buckled in and then swings around to the driver’s seat. She puts on some music that sounds like metal, but you have no idea what particular genre. It’s loud.

“What do you mean Sylus bought the tank because of me?” you shout over the music.

She has mercy on you, reducing the volume, then resumes tapping her long fingers on the steering wheel as you both wait for Kieran and Luke to arrive.

“What’s there not to understand? He bought something that’s advertised as being able to survive the apocalypse to protect you when you need to be in the Zone.”

You think of Sylus, vulnerable on his motorcycle. Just as vulnerable as you on yours. Okay, so he can heal quickly, but you doubt he can heal from being decapitated in an accident. “I can protect myself. That is ridiculous.”

She shrugs. “You worry about these things when you love someone. Doesn’t matter if it’s logical.”

You stare at her. She sounds like she speaks from experience.

“And the Zone is fucking dangerous. More dangerous than Linkon City. His worry is logical in this case. There’s more than just reckless driving to account for in the Zone.”

You startle when the front passenger door and the other back passenger door fly open at the same time, and both twins launch themselves in, almost in sync. They’re both wearing the masks that they were wearing when you first met them, which are probably meant to be crows but just look like plague doctor masks to you.

Noah backs out of the parking space and screeches out of the underground garage like the unwieldy tank is a rocket ship instead of a roided out SUV.

“Can we change the music?” Luke whines. “It’s so fucking… uh. Cock-cockiphinous.”

“Cacophonous,” Kieran corrects gently.

“I’m the driver, I choose the music,” Noah says, swatting Luke’s reaching hand away from the dash.

Luke just groans and then twists in his seat, poking his beak into the backseat.

“So we know you’re loyal and wanna protect our boss. Your secrets are safe with us. Blah blah. Now spill the tea, why do you need space from him?”

You groan and cover your eyes with your hand. “Not gonna talk about it.”

“Is it because he almost kissed you and then didn’t?” Luke ignores your protest. “Or about him spying on you with Mephisto like a creep even though he claimed it was an accident?”

You drop your hand and stare at his masked face. “What?”

Kieran starts making a throat cutting gesture at Luke, as if to say Shut the fuck up NOW.

“Oops,” is all Luke says.

“Let’s talk about something else!” Noah says in a sing-song voice. She then proceeds to make a very controversial statement about the latest video game they all played together, and they argue animatedly all the way into the urban heart of the N109 Zone.

“We’re going to Amnesia?” you ask in a daze as Noah steers into the now-familiar underground garage.

Noah shrugs. “Yup. Fastest way to see how someone really feels.”

“What?” You feel like a broken record. What the fuck does she mean?

The twins look at each other and then nod in unison. “Jealousy is a powerful motivator,” Kieran says thoughtfully. “Good plan, Noah.”

“What?” you ask again, more forcefully.

“Don’t worry about it.” Noah grins. “C’mon, just get yourself a drink and dance a little. It’ll take your mind off things. I, for one, have been going stir crazy without having anything to do while you and Sylus dance around each other while simultaneously being attached at the hip.”

You’re too shocked to resist, and let yourself be dragged along by the trio of Sylus’s unruly children, past the security at the door of the lift, through the winding hallways, out into the main part of the club where the night is in full swing. The dance floor is packed, the beats organic and animalistic, and the aerial dancers still spin from the ceiling.

You can’t believe it’s only been a little over a week since you were here for the first time.

Noah pushes you to the packed bar, where you’re immediately served by one of the exceedingly attractive bartenders despite other people already waiting. “Shots!” Noah cries, handing one to you, Kieran and Luke.

“To Boss’s bizarre mating ritual!” Luke crows, and they all down their shot, the twins bringing it up to their mouths under their masks.

You look at it the neon glowing shot in your hand and grimace. Eh, what the hell. You shoot it as well.

“C’mon, let’s dance!”

You do not want to dance. You need to think. You just wanted to get out, to find a little space to breathe away from Sylus’s overwhelming presence, and weight of your suffocating hunger for him.

“I’m fine here!” you shout.

“Fine, but don’t leave without us, got it?” Noah shouts back.

“Same for you!”

They melt into the crowd.

You squeeze your way through the crowd to take up a spot leaning against the wall, eyes scanning the mass of dancers, the aerial artists leisurely twisting above, the lights a seizure-inducing fever dream.

You keep an eye on Noah, who finds a group of gorgeous women to dance with. The twins, who dance next to each other, are seemingly oblivious to all the attempts by various men and women to slide in and dance with them.

After a while, you head back to the bar. You’re immediately served again, as if the staff recognize you. You take your frilly cocktail and resume your place along the wall.

Mind blank. Just soaking in humanity, feeling like you have a purpose, protecting Noah and the twins in case the unlikely happens and some asshole escapes the notice of Sylus’s extensive security to fuck with them. You don’t let yourself think about anything at all.

Your meditative vigil is interrupted when a big man leans against the wall next to you, squinting out over the crowd like you are.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and you think that maybe he’ll leave you in peace.

“What are we looking for?” His voice is deep, and close to your ear as he leans over to be heard over the deep bass of the music.

You flick your eyes up to his face, and then back over the crowd. Handsome, in a rugged way. Dark hair, dark eyes. A nose that's a little too perfect to actually be perfect. Not like Sylus's actually perfect nose.

You’re feeling loose from the drink, a little tipsy. You answer honestly.

“Possible threats.”

“You security?”

“Nah. Just a concerned citizen.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. “Those are rare in the Zone. Usually people mind their own business around here.”

You just shrug.

“Can I get you a drink?”

You look down at the drink in your hand, lift an eyebrow.

“Okay, let me try again.”

You turn, look expectantly at him. In another life, you would have found him charming. You would have responded to his obvious interest, maybe taken him home for the night. Maybe even dated for awhile, before he realized that the person he met in the club is the person you are all the time: closed off, alert, never dropping your guard even while being honest. Not like how you are with Sylus. Pliant. Affectionate. As open as you can bear to be while still not knowing what he truly wants from you.

“Dance with me?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay here.”

“You come to one of the most exclusive clubs in the Zone just to decorate the wall?”

You snort. “Don’t insult this place’s interior design.”

He gives you a slow once over. “Oh, I’d say you’re the focal point here.” Before you can scoff, he tries again. “Just one dance. I promise not to step on your feet.”

You think of Sylus holding you in at the auction's banquet. Look at me. Look only at me. Sylus holding you in the seedy BOOM BOOM ROOM. Dancing slowly while the rapid beat shook your chest, as if only you and he existed in the entire world.

“I’d rather lean on this wall and pine,” you say.

His eyebrows shoot up, but then he smirks. “I bet I have more to offer than whoever is stupid enough to make you pine for them instead of recognizing what’s right in front of them.”

“Doubt it,” you smirk back.

“Try me. What’s so great about this person?”

“I don’t think there’s enough time to list everything,” you say.

“I’ve got time for you. Unlike this person, since they’re not here with you.”

You frown. Sylus is busy as fuck, but he has always offered you his time. Even when he’s pulled away by the near-constant phone calls, he tries to come back to you as quickly as possible.

“For one, he’s gorgeous. Tall, big.”

“I’m big and tall,” he flexes a bicep. It’s respectable. But it’s not as big as Sylus’s.

“He’s bigger, and taller.”

He shrugs, concedes. “All right, but that’s just the package. What’s he got on the inside?”

“He’s perceptive. Clever. Funny. Fearless. Unbearably sweet.”

“Damn. You’re not making this easy for me.” He sounds forlorn.

“Sorry, man.” You smile at him. He seems nice. But he does nothing for you. You’re worried no one else ever will again. Despite all of your fretting, all of your wallowing, your moral dilemma, you know how this is going to end. Sylus is under your skin now. You are going to do everything in your power to satisfy your greed, to keep both your job and the man who is coming to mean as much to you as your job, formerly your sole reason for continuing to fight so hard to survive. To earn your breath, your life, your having lived while Caleb died.

“So what’s the problem? Why are you here pining, instead of with this perfect guy?”

“I can’t tell if he feels the same way.”

“Have you told him how you feel?”

“He’s perceptive, remember? I’m pretty sure it’s fucking obvious. But no matter what I do, he won’t even kiss me.”

“You tried kissing him first?”

You grimace. “Can’t bear to be rejected if he doesn’t feel the same way. I’d rather just pine.”

“Here you are, badass ready to take on an entire club if a fight breaks out, but scared of just going for it with your man?” He smiles at you, slides closer to you along the wall.

“See? I’m not as great as my packaging suggests.”

“Oh I doubt that. But now I know I have something that your man doesn’t.” He turns, leaning one shoulder against the wall, and bends down toward you.

You watch him curiously. If he gets too close, you’ll sidle away, say thanks but no thanks, again. If he doesn’t get the hint, you’ll punch him in the throat. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m here, and he isn’t. And I don’t have the same self control—how could he not kiss you when you’re standing right here outshining everyone else?”

You’re about to roll your eyes at his obvious exaggeration and move away when you feel a sudden warmth blanketing your back.

“Announcing that you have a lack of self control isn’t the flex you might think it is.” Sylus’s deep voice is next to your ear, his leather-clad arm is wrapping around your waist.

You turn your head, meet his blood-dark eyes. He tilts his head, frowns at you questioningly. “When have I denied you anything?” he asks.

You’re confused until you realize he was listening to your conversation. Oh fuck. How much did he hear?

“Kitten, don’t tell me you’ve had so much to drink that you can’t remember if I’ve ever not given you what you’ve asked for.”

It occurs to you that you’ve asked for very little from him, because he has always offered you everything you could have wanted without you having to ask in the first place. But anything you have ever asked, he has promised to give.

“Never,” you murmur.

“So if you wanted me to kiss you, you could have just asked. No need to torture me through Mephisto.”

You feel your face flush red. “Torture you?” You want to pull away, but he holds you tightly.

“Yes. Torture me. My tormenter, my love,” he says, leaning down, his lips almost touching yours. “May I kiss you?”

You can’t get over the mortification of Sylus having heard what you said to the guy hitting on you.

“How much did you hear?” you ask, wincing.

He looks smug. “I’m big, and tall, and perceptive and—” He asked to kiss you. Surely it’s okay if you lean forward, try to brush your lips against his lips. Just to shut him up.

He leans back. “No.”

Your insides freeze. What the fuck? What kind of fucking mindgame is he playing? He asks to kiss you and then rejects you in the next breath? You try to jerk out of his hold.

“I’m not kissing you for the first time in this ridiculous nightclub,” he growls, his arm a steel bar over your waist.

What? Because there are so many people? People who might know him? And see him with… you.

You want to crawl out of your skin, leave it behind so that no one can recognize you when you move to the arctic to escape this feeling. This is what you get for being greedy. For reaching for what you don’t deserve.

What would Caleb say, if he saw you here, an object of embarrassment for this lord of war, the antithesis of everything you’re supposed to stand for?

It occurs to you for the first time that maybe Sylus hasn’t kissed you because he’s wrestling with the same questions that have been running through your mind since you had yet another pathetic meltdown in his gem vault. You’re a hunter. A tool of the Association. A fucked up mental case. What do you have to offer him in exchange for what he would have to risk, to give up, in order to actually be with you?

A hell of a lot of nothing, aside from all the emotional baggage.

“Because you’re ashamed that the person you’re kissing is me?” you ask, watching his face for microexpressions, for the bored mask, for anything to give away what he’s really feeling.

He scowls, his frown line deep between his eyebrows, like he’s just bitten into something foul. Well that’s fucking clear. You squeeze your eyes shut. You may not be able to escape his hold, but you don’t have to endure him looking at you like he did when you first met him. Like he can’t believe how utterly disappointing you are.

“Look at me,” he demands. You want to cry.

“Please,” he says, tone softening. You open your eyes.

Suddenly the crowd, the guy flirting with you, the lights—everything disappears as Sylus cups your cheeks in his big hands, leans down, and kisses you.

Warmth. His impossibly soft lips. You feel like you’ve been here before. You’ve tasted him before—his tongue parts your lips, filling your mouth. You open your mouth wider, trying to take more of him in. You can hear soft whining noises under the loud music, and realize that you’re the one making them. He uses his hold on your cheeks to tilt your head the way he wants as he tastes you. He takes a step forward, big thigh pushing between your legs, and backs you into the wall, blanketing you with his big body.

You suck on his silken tongue. He presses his thigh with more force between your legs, and you wrap your arms around his neck, grind back against his leg.

It’s not enough. You wanted his mouth, and now that you have it, you want more. You’re so hungry for him, even as he’s feeding you his tongue.

He tears away from you, panting, a sloppy trail of saliva falling away from his bottom lip.

You stare at his flushed face, wide eyed.

What now? Is he going to regret it? Tell you it was a mistake? Maybe this is another dream. Another dream you’ll only half remember. Nothing that has to be undone. Nothing that will ruin the rest of your stay in his house. You’ll be better, you promise yourself. You’ll stop being greedy. You’ll be thankful for the generosity he’s already shown you, and you’ll never hope for more again. It will be enough, him holding you in his arms, him showing you precious glimpses into his lovely, complicated mind.

You’ll wake up any minute now, and maybe you’ll forget everything, including the taste of his tongue. You’re haunted enough.

He turns to the guy who was hitting on you, the aether core in his eye glowing bright. “You’ll forget you ever met my beloved,” he orders, and the guy’s face goes blank. He then frowns and shakes his head a little, like he’s coming out of a daze. He turns and wanders back into the crowd without looking back.

You gape after the poor bastard. “What did you just do to him?”

He looks at you, looks back at the guy’s retreating back. Then looks back at you, squinting. “Isn’t it obvious? I made him forget that he ever met you, so he can’t sell intel about my biggest weakness.”

You stare at him. “Your biggest weakness?”

He hangs his head, the soft fall of his hair whispering against your cheek. “Can we leave now? I really want to keep kissing you, and I’m not doing it with an audience.”

You’ll wake up any second now, you tell yourself. You didn’t just guilt him into kissing you in public despite his better judgment. You didn’t endanger him by being an insecure freak.

He flicks your forehead gently. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong. I didn’t want our first kiss to be in a nightclub. I wanted it to be somewhere romantic, like you deserve. And once I start kissing you again, I don’t want to have to stop. Any objections?”

You stare at him, feeling like you’ve just stumbled off of a goddamned roller coaster. “You want to keep kissing me?”

“Kitten. Sweetheart. Darling. Beloved. Yes, I want to keep kissing you. No, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop kissing you, and more, once I start. Any objections?” He stares into your eyes.

You find yourself shaking your head.

He closes his eyes, exhales. Opens them. All you see is red. His big hand finds yours. He clasps yours tightly. “Resonate with me,” he says.

You look at him in confusion. “Please trust me,” he says, voice strained.

“I do trust you,” you say. “I just don’t trust that this is real. Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”

He smiles. Big. Genuine. His sharp canines gleaming in the flashing lights of the club. He squeezes your hand gently. “I promise that it’s finally not just a dream,” he says.

You stare into his beautiful ember eyes. You’re so fucking scared to believe that this is real, but he promised you that it isn't. And Sylus says he always keeps his promises.

This is how it goes.

You've already known how it ends, from the first time you willingly took his offered hand in yours.

You squeeze his hand in return, and let your power flow through you.

End note: hopefully more smooches in the next part.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #my fanfic #hope it's enjoyable

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whosscruffylooking · 2 days ago

Text

Militiae Species Amor Est II

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Re-read Part I Now!

a/n: if you would like to be added to a taglist, please let me know in the comments!

warnings: // a small threat of violence is made between Iris and her partner, but no physical contact is made. canon typical violence.

word count: 4.2k

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You step cautiously into the grand halls of the estate, the place you once roamed as a little servant girl, where your bare feet had once echoed softly against the cold marble. The air is thick with the weight of memories, each one pressing heavily against your chest. This was the house where you had grown up, where you had once been invisible, and where your life had irrevocably intertwined with his.

A voice pulls you from your thoughts. It rings out, familiar and poised, yet carrying a tension you haven’t heard before.

“Iris. It has been quite some time.”

You turn sharply, your breath catching as you face Lucilla, the mistress of this house—and the mother of the man you’ve spent a lifetime aching for. She stands before you, as elegant and commanding as you remember, her beauty untouched by the years. For a moment, you falter, caught between the awe she still inspires and the fury simmering just beneath your surface. But there’s no time to linger on reverence. Not now.

“We need to help Lucius escape,” you say, your voice steady despite the fire raging in your chest.

Lucilla’s expression hardens, her posture as composed as ever. “You are in no position to plot something like this. An engaged woman. A woman of low birth who has risen to a place of promise.” She steps closer, her gaze piercing, as if to drive the point deeper. “It isn’t safe for you.”

Her words land like a blow. You bristle, your hands curling into fists at your sides as anger floods through you. “You mean to insult me? When you know—when you must know—that I have loved your son since childhood?” Your voice rises, trembling with the weight of years left unspoken. “Do you truly believe that I could ever forget him? Forget the way we laughed, the way we cried, the way you sent him away as if he were nothing but an inconvenience? I have not had a single night of peaceful rest since that day! Not one!”

Lucilla’s carefully composed mask cracks, but you don’t stop. The words pour out, sharp and unrelenting. “And you? As his mother, do you feel nothing? No anguish, no torment? Or do you simply find it easier to look away, to let him suffer alone? Now he’s here—he’s here, Lucilla—and you expect me to sit back, to watch him fight the same fight that took his father from him? With no attempt to save him, no attempt to shield him from even more pain?”

The silence that follows feels deafening. For a moment, Lucilla looks at you as though she’s been struck. Her lips part, trembling with words that won’t come. Then, to your shock, her face crumples, and tears begin to spill down her cheeks.

She crosses the space between you in an instant, wrapping you in an embrace that is both unexpected and suffocating. Her voice shakes as she speaks. “I subjected one child to a life of pain. I—I couldn’t bear to see you suffer the same. Don’t you see? I’ve only ever wanted you to find peace, Iris. Contentment. That’s why—” She pulls back, her hands gripping your shoulders tightly. “That’s why when Caius’ father approached me, I agreed. I thought he could give you the life you deserved, one free of sorrow. I never meant to make you feel betrayed.”

You push her hands away, stepping back as the weight of her confession settles over you like a leaden cloak. “Peace?” Your voice is bitter, sharp as broken glass. “Do you truly believe I could ever find peace without him? All I ever wanted was your son. Not your pity. Not a life designed to ease your guilt.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You straighten your spine, your voice unwavering. “If you truly cared about me, you would have sent me with him. Instead, you left us both to live lives filled with nothing but longing and regret. So save your excuses, Lucilla. If you truly care now, then tell me—” Your voice hardens, each word a command. “Tell me the plan to rescue Lucius.”

And she does. Through trembling breaths and tear-filled eyes, Lucilla tells you the plan—how her husband, Acacius, will orchestrate Lucius’s escape from the prison. She explains the carefully laid steps, each one steeped in risk, each one reliant on precision. But there’s one missing piece.

“Someone needs to warn him,” she says, her voice wavering as she meets your gaze. “He has to know what’s coming, or he’ll resist. He won’t trust it.”

The moment hangs heavy between you, her words an unspoken plea. You don’t hesitate.

“I’ll do it,” you say firmly, the fire in your chest burning brighter now. “I’ll warn him.”

Lucilla’s eyes widen, her lips parting as if to protest, but you shake your head, cutting her off before she can speak.

“No one else knows him like I do,” you continue. “He’ll listen to me. He’ll trust me.”

For a moment, Lucilla studies you, her expression a war between doubt and something that almost looks like hope. Then, finally, she nods, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her choice.

“Be careful,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. But you’re already turning away, your mind focused on one thing: reaching Lucius.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The corridors of the barracks stretch before you like an endless void, every shadow a whisper of your guilt, every creak of the stone beneath your feet a reminder of what you stand to lose. Wrapped in a dark cloak, the cool air bites at your skin, but the ache in your chest burns hotter. You cling to the cover of night as you make your way toward Ravi, a gladiator-turned-medic who once saved soldiers from the edge of death. Tonight, you hope he’ll save you in a different way.

When you reach his room, you knock softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Ravi.”

The door creaks open, his wary eyes scanning the hall before they settle on you. “What are you doing here?” he hisses. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place.”

“I won’t tell you the details,” you reply quickly, your voice trembling. “If anyone questions you, I don’t want you to lie on my behalf. All I ask is that you point me toward Hanno—let me speak with him privately.”

Ravi’s expression hardens, torn between caution and compassion. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he nods. “You shouldn’t do this,” he murmurs, but he leads you through the labyrinthine halls. When he stops outside a cell, his voice is heavy with warning. “He’s in here. Be quick.”

Ravi pushes the door open slightly, just enough for the man inside to hear. “Someone is here to see you, Hanno,” he announces.

Lucius turns at the sound of his name, his face hardening the moment he sees you. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing before he looks away sharply. “I have nothing to say to her,” he bites out, his voice rough, almost broken.

Your heart twists painfully at his words, but you nod at Ravi, signaling for him to let you in anyway. He hesitates, but when he sees the determination in your eyes, he steps back, locking the door behind you as you slip into the dimly lit cell.

Lucius stands with his back to you, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His silence is deafening, but you don’t let it deter you. You step closer, the ache in your chest swelling with every step. Tears sting your eyes as you finally find the words you’ve been rehearsing in your mind since the moment you decided to come here.

“I cannot begin to express how sorry I am,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “For how I treated you. For what I said.”

He doesn’t move, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders. You press on, desperate to reach him.

“I never should have assumed you would return to this place—to the pain, to the life you’ve fought so hard to escape—and risk everything for the very place that destroyed your family. It was selfish of me to ask, selfish to think I had that right. I suppose these emotions, these feelings I’ve tried so hard to bury, have clouded my judgment.”

His breathing slows, the air between you thick with words left unsaid. You take another step, your voice breaking now.

“But know this, Lucius: you are far more than just a gladiator. Even before I saw you in those cursed games, you were so much more to me. You always have been. You were the boy who gave me his last piece of bread when I had nothing. The boy who made me laugh when the world felt too heavy. The boy whose soul captured mine long before I knew what love even was.”

His shoulders slump slightly, and though he doesn’t turn, you see his hand tremble. The silence stretches, heavy with everything you’re too afraid to ask. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, raw with pain.

“And yet you stood there, questioning who I was,” he murmurs. “Doubting the choices I made to survive. Do you know what it’s like to have someone you love look at you as though you’re a stranger?”

The words cut deep, sharp as any blade, and tears spill down your cheeks. You move closer, desperate to bridge the distance, to close the chasm that has grown between you.

“I was wrong,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I was so wrong. But I swear to you, Lucius, I have never stopped seeing the boy you were. And I will never stop loving the man you’ve become.”

Lucius stares at you, his eyes swimming with emotions too tangled to name. The air between you crackles, heavy with unspoken words and the years of longing that have built into this single, fraught moment. You search his face for a sign that your words have reached him, that the wall he’s built is beginning to crumble.

Lucius's gaze burns into yours, his expression a tempest of anguish and desire, before he moves. His hands are on you in an instant, rough but careful, as though he's afraid you'll vanish if he doesn't hold tight enough. He presses you against the cold, damp wall of the cell, the chill of the stone seeping through your cloak and biting into your skin. It's grounding, sharp against the heat that erupts between you as his lips claim yours.

The kiss is everything you've imagined and nothing like it all at once-wild, desperate, and unrelenting. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to memorize the feel of you. His lips are firm, demanding, pouring years of suppressed longing into the kiss. You can feel his ragged breaths mingling with yours, and the faint taste of salt from your shared tears lingers between you.

Your hands find his chest, trembling as they trace over the worn fabric of his tunic and the hard planes of his body. His heart is pounding beneath your palms, as wild and erratic as your own. When your fingers curl into the fabric to pull him closer, he growls low in his throat—a sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

The cold wall presses unyieldingly against your back as he leans into you, his body a solid, unmovable force. The contrast of cold stone and his scorching heat sets your senses ablaze. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if he could somehow fuse the two of you together, and the pressure of his touch ignites a fire that consumes you whole.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you both struggle to catch your breath. His lips hover near yours, as though the distance is too much to bear, and his voice, rough and low, brushes over your skin.

"Do you understand now?" he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. "Do you see what you've done to me? You've been the only thing keeping me alive, Iris. Even when I hated the world, I still loved you."

Your tears spill freely as you clutch at his tunic, your voice trembling. "I see it, Lucius. I see it, and I feel it, because l've loved you just as fiercely.”

He tilts your chin up, his dark eyes softening, and his thumb brushes tenderly across your jaw. "Then let there be no more fear," he whispers before capturing your lips again.

This kiss is softer but no less consuming, filled with a desperate hope that perhaps the two of you, against all odds, can still claim the love that's been waiting for so long.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The sun blazes mercilessly as the crowd fills the arena, their cheers deafening and bloodthirsty. Your seat offers a clear view of the sand-covered pit, where the fighters enter with stoic faces and heavy chains. Among them is Lucius. Even in the sea of bodies, your eyes find him instantly.

He walks with his head held high, his shoulders squared. You can see the fire burning in him now—a determination that wasn’t there before, knowing that people are ready to rescue him. The weight of hope, of knowing freedom waits just beyond the reach of this hellish stage, has reignited something in him. Yet, the sight of him under the watchful eyes of guards and the jeering crowd still twists your stomach with dread.

Your fiancé, Caius, sits beside you, oblivious to the storm raging within you. His hand rests possessively on your arm as if to remind everyone—and perhaps himself—of who you belong to.

When the fight begins, Lucius is relentless. His movements are sharper, faster, more focused than ever before. You watch in awe as he disarms one opponent and dodges another’s blade with a grace that feels almost otherworldly. But it’s not enough to calm your nerves. Every strike, every blow he lands only tightens the knot in your chest.

And then it happens. A spear slices across his shoulder, leaving a vivid trail of crimson in its wake. He stumbles, his hand instinctively going to the wound, and for a moment, your world stops.

You stand without thinking, your breath catching in your throat. “Lucius,” you whisper, though the name escapes like a prayer rather than a call.

Caius turns sharply to you, his grip on your arm tightening. “What are you doing?” he hisses, his voice low but sharp. “Sit down, Iris.”

But you can’t. Your heart is pounding too loudly, drowning out his words. All you can see is the blood staining Lucius’s tunic, the grimace of pain that briefly flashes across his face before he forces himself back into the fight.

“Iris!” Caius snaps, his voice rising now. “This is unseemly. People are watching!”

You don’t care. The moment the fight ends and Lucius is escorted out, you wrench free from Caius’s grasp and run. His angry protests fade behind you as your sandals slap against the stone corridors leading to the medic chambers.

When you burst through the door, Ravi looks up in surprise. Lucius sits on a stool, blood dripping from his shoulder as Ravi prepares to clean the wound. His gaze snaps to you, and for a moment, he freezes, the stoic mask slipping to reveal something raw and unguarded.

“What are you doing here?” Ravi asks, his tone filled with warning.

But Lucius speaks first, his voice low and strained. “Iris.” Your name on his lips feels like both a question and an anchor.

You cross the room in a rush, ignoring Ravi’s protests and Lucius’s raised brow. “Let me,” you say softly, reaching for the cloth in Ravi’s hand. Your fingers tremble as you press it against the wound, but you don’t flinch.

Lucius watches you, his gaze piercing. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, but there’s no anger in his voice—only concern.

“And you shouldn’t be out there,” you reply, your voice breaking. “But here we are.”

His hand rises, hesitating for a moment before it brushes against yours, smearing your skin with his blood. “I’ll be fine,” he says, though his eyes betray him.

“No, you won’t,” you whisper, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Not if I lose you.”

Ravi clears his throat awkwardly, stepping back. “I’ll give you two a moment,” he mutters, leaving the room.

Lucius exhales shakily, his gaze never leaving yours. “Iris, you have to be careful. If Caius—”

“Let Caius think what he will,” you interrupt, your voice trembling with conviction. “I won’t sit by and do nothing while you suffer.”

In the space of a breath, his restraint snaps. "Damn Caius," he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse, just before his lips capture yours.

The kiss is wild and desperate, like a clash of wills—a battle neither of you is willing to lose.

His hands tighten around your waist as yours tangle in his hair, the metallic taste of blood faint on his lips, a reminder of the wounds he's endured. He kisses you with the fervor of a man who's fought too long to deny what he feels, each movement urgent and unyielding.

He lifts you onto the nearby table, the rough wood cold beneath your legs as papers and tools clatter to the ground, forgotten. You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn't falter, his body pressing into yours as if to prove something-to you, to himself, to the world that's tried to keep you apart.

Outside, the sound of footsteps halts, followed by a frustrated sigh. Ravi's voice mutters something inaudible, and you know he's standing there, trying to give you privacy while also likely cursing your recklessness.

Lucius pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the narrow space between. "This is madness," he whispers, his voice rough and thick with emotion.

"Then let it be madness," you reply, your voice just as unsteady. Your hands trail down to his face, cupping his jaw as your thumbs brush over his cheekbones. "Because l'd rather have this moment than a lifetime of silence."

His lips crash against yours again, the kiss even fiercer than before, as though he's pouring all the words he can't say into the connection. His hands linger around your thighs, gradually pushing the hem of your dress higher and higher up your leg.

“Lucius, I—” Ravi’s voice cuts through the haze, and you pull back abruptly, your chest heaving.

Lucius turns toward the door, his body instinctively shifting to shield you from Ravi’s view, though it’s already too late. Ravi stands in the doorway, his face a mixture of disbelief and exasperation.

“I left you alone for mere minutes,” Ravi mutters, crossing his arms as his eyes dart between the two of you.

Heat rises to your cheeks, but you hold your ground, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze. “I was helping,” you say, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you.

“And clearly you’ve been very thorough in your assistance,” Ravi replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Lucius steps forward, his voice low but firm. “Enough, Ravi. You’ve said your piece.”

Ravi exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If anyone finds out about this, it’s not just you two who’ll pay the price. Keep that in mind.” He turns on his heel, muttering something under his breath as he leaves.

The door clicks shut, and silence settles over the room once more. Lucius looks at you, his eyes clouded with both regret and longing. “I’ll deal with him,” he says softly, though his hand lingers at your side, as if reluctant to let you go.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The door slams shut behind you as you step into the quiet of your home, the night air still clinging to your skin. Your heart is pounding in your chest, adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the events that transpired just moments ago. You barely have a chance to steady your breath before Caius appears in the hallway, his sharp gaze locking onto you as he takes in the sight of you—disheveled, hair slightly tousled, your dress still crinkled from the tension of the night.

“Where have you been?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s an edge to it, an undeniable undertone of suspicion that you cannot ignore.

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, a familiar lie already forming on your lips. “I was just out for a walk,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s a slight quiver in your voice that betrays you.

Caius takes a slow step forward, his eyes narrowing, scanning you with unsettling precision. He glances down at your dress, and for a split second, his gaze lingers on a small stain of blood near the hem. His face hardens.

“That doesn’t look like the mark of a walk,” he says, voice tight with suspicion. “Where did you get this from?”

You freeze. The blood—it wasn’t from you, but from the hurried touch you had shared with Lucius. His words echo in your mind, Damn Caius. You can feel the weight of that kiss, the dangerous closeness, and the desperation in his touch. It lingers in your skin, like a brand that you can’t erase.

“Nothing happened,” you lie again, your heart racing in your chest. You want to scream, to tell him the truth, but fear clamps down on your throat. “I helped Ravi again, like I used to.”

Caius isn’t fooled. His eyes flicker with recognition, and before you can take another breath, he’s stepping toward you, his hand gripping your wrist tightly. “Tell me the truth,” he demands, his voice low and threatening. “You’ve been with him, haven’t you? The Eagle of Rome.”

The mention of Lucius sends a shock of panic through you, freezing you in place. No—you try to deny it, but the truth is already written across your face. “I haven’t—” you start, but the words falter. You try to pull your wrist free, but his grip tightens, pulling you closer.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls, his voice a razor’s edge, the anger seeping through each word. His fingers are like iron, digging into your skin as he pulls you toward him. “I saw the way you looked at him in the stadium.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse quickening as the weight of his accusation hits. Lucius—the name lingers like a forbidden prayer. “I was helping all of the warriors today. I promise you, I didn’t even touch him,” you snap, your voice shaking with a mixture of anger and guilt, but the words feel hollow, like a lie you want to believe but can’t.

“Stop!” Caius interrupts, his voice rising now, each word thick with rising fury. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? That I haven’t seen how you’ve been sneaking around? How you’ve been lying to me?”

His words hit you like a slap. In an instant, his frustration boils over, his anger flaring in his eyes. He moves toward you, forceful and sharp, and you stumble back into the wall, trying to escape his grasp. You gasp, your heart pounding as you try to steady yourself.

But before you can recover, Caius is right there, his face inches from yours, his breath ragged with fury. “You have no idea what kind of reproach you’re bringing against our family,” he spits, his voice dangerously quiet now. “Your actions make us a mockery. The choices you’ve made—make us look like fools.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, your heart aching in your chest. His words cut deeper than you expected, and guilt rises in your throat. He’s right—this has always been the choice, between him and Lucius. Between duty and love. But you couldn’t let go—not when Lucius needed you, not when you were the only one who could do something for him.

“Let me go, Caius,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if asking for the smallest mercy. “Please.”

But there’s no mercy in his eyes now. Only betrayal, and the realization that whatever it is that’s come between you, whatever feelings you’ve tried to bury, are on the cusp of release. He stares at you, and for a moment, you think you see something softer in his gaze—but it’s fleeting. He lets out a jagged breath, his grip still tight on your wrist.

“I never wanted this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

You don’t know what to say to that, because you feel the same way. Every word from his lips is a weight pressing you into the wall, and yet, you can’t escape it.

“Clean yourself up,” Caius says, stepping back. His eyes linger on you, raw and unrelenting. “And can’t stand the sight of you right now.”

Caius turns away, his shoulders tense with unresolved anger, and the silence between you stretches, thick with unspoken truths. As he walks out, leaving you standing alone in the dimly lit room, you feel the weight of the choice you’ve made—and the painful certainty that nothing will ever be the same again.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

tag list: @willowpains

#lucius verus x y/n #lucius verus x you #lucius verus x reader #lucius verus #hanno x reader #gladiator ||#gladiator 2 fic #gladiator ii #paul mescal x reader #paul mescal #paul mescal fic

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