#wc: when in rome | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youthguk · 2 months ago

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Black Ribbon Bride ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

wc: 18k

WARNINGS: explicit content (minors do not interact), explicit smut, forced marriage, power imbalance, slight graphic violence, death threats, mentions of murder, forced intimacy

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

His touch, when it comes, is winter-cold against your cheek. Your soul flinches from those precise fingers even as your body remains still. He carries the scent of woodsmoke and exotic spice, foreign and dangerous.

The smile he offers holds neither warmth nor malice - just the satisfied smile of a man who always gets what he wants. "Don't look so scared," he murmurs, voice silk over steel. "We're going to have so much fun."

One week ago.

Dawn hasn't broken, but consciousness seeps in like winter frost. Your body knows the rhythm of secrets - when to rise, when to fade, when to become nothing more than a shadow against stone walls.

The pre-dawn air tastes of endings. Each breath crystallizes before you, little monuments of everything you can't keep. Your fingers, sheathed in black silk, trace meaningless patterns on frozen glass - a language of loss you're still learning to speak.

The chapel path recognizes your footsteps. Frost shatters beneath each step like promises, like futures, like the carefully constructed cage of expectations you've lived in since birth. Even your older sister Nora, who shared these halls with you for three years, never discovered this sanctuary where ancient pines hold their breath and weathered stones keep their silence.

Beyond the courtyard, the other girls drift between rose gardens and marble benches, their uniforms pressed to perfection, their laughter measured in careful octaves. But here, in this forgotten corner where mist meets morning, you've found something raw and real - a holiness that has nothing to do with their polished prayers.

Your Saint-Margaux winter uniform clings like a second skin, ivory wool buttoned to the throat like armor against uncertainty. The black ribbon anchoring your curls might as well be a crown of thorns.

"Je ne suis pas prête," you breathe, watching Lake Geneva stretch below like quicksilver. The French makes it sound poetic. Then, softer still, in Italian: "Non sono mai stata pronta per questo."

Your carefully constructed future lies shattered at your feet: The UN internship you earned through sleepless nights. Geneva's diplomatic corridors where you were meant to walk. Rome's ancient streets calling your name. All those perfect grades, those meticulously practiced curtsies, those debate championships – sacrificed to your father's unexplained whims.

London. The word tastes like ash on your tongue. Why there? Why now?

Your mother's note burns against your ribs, her elegant script a funeral dirge: "Be ready by sunset. They're coming."

École Saint-Margaux rises behind you, a cathedral to calculated futures. Here, where tears are forbidden unless quoted in Ancient Greek.

"We don't raise dreamers here," Madame Directrice always says, her smile sharp as cut glass. "We raise queens."

They're forged into living weapons, taught to smile while drawing blood.

"Queens who smile through gritted teeth," you whisper to the dawn. "Queens who negotiate peace while swallowing war. Queens who marry power because they're not allowed to claim it for themselves."

Your schedule mocks you with its pristine normality:"En garde!" at noon brings your final dance with steel, four o'clock tea with Professor Valbonne - discussing Machiavelli while pretending your world isn't crumbling.

Lavender-lined suitcases wait in your room, packed by your mother's trembling hands. Your sister's muffled sobs echo through the halls like ghostly footsteps. Your brother Luca's silence speaks volumes. And your father... his absence is a wound that both terrifies and relieves you, his iron grip on your future tightening even when he's not here.

Something crackles in your pocket - a dried white peach blossom, edges curled like fingers reaching for yesterday. Its fragrance unlocks a memory: blood on snow, trembling hands, a boy whose name you never learned but whose life you saved many years ago with nothing but quick thinking and forbidden fruit.

The blossom slips from your fingers, caught in the morning breeze. You watch it spiral toward Lake Geneva's steel-gray surface, this final piece of softness you can't afford to keep. Your sister's allergy to white peaches - your most cherished scent and flower - feels like fate's way to mock you once again.

A motorboat violates the lake's surface, its wake splitting the silence like an omen. You trace a cross in the frozen air - half benediction, half curse - and whisper words that taste like goodbye. The chapel bell announces noon with solemn finality. You turn toward the university, spine straight as a blade. Non importa più.

Queens don't look back, and prisoners learn to watch without turning. You've been both.

The salle d'armes wraps you in familiar scents - chalk dust hanging thick in afternoon light, ancient leather padding worn smooth by generations of calculated violence. Trophy cases line the walls, their glass clouded with age, each cup and medal entombed like frozen dreams that never learned to fly.

You move beneath centuries-old beams, your breath a whispered prayer behind cold mesh. The blade in your hand sings with deadly grace, an extension of everything you've been molded to become.

Your opponent dances the steps she's been taught - precise, controlled, a perfect puppet of propriety. But there's wild electricity in your veins today, something that makes your movements liquid lightning. You strike not with the measured grace they demanded, but with elegant fury barely contained.

The lunge comes like destiny - inevitable, beautiful, terrible. Your blade cuts through air like fate itself, writing tomorrow's grief in today's perfect form. Steel kisses steel with a sound like breaking promises.

Her parry comes a heartbeat too late. Your point finds her heart with butterfly gentleness, the touch both caress and condemnation. This is how we end - not with violence, but with devastating grace.

"Touché," falls like judgment in the hollow air.

You retreat with practiced poise, each step a study in contained rebellion. This is Saint-Margaux's secret language - not fencing, but warfare dressed in silk and centuries of refined cruelty. They taught you to fight like falling snow - beautiful, silent, deadly. To strike with a smile, to kill with courtesy.

But beneath your perfect form writhes something untamed - a creature of starlight and stolen chances, something they couldn't breed out or break down. It's the same force that once made you save instead of strike, that makes you wear defiance like perfume and weaponize tenderness.

Victory brings no applause - only silence thick as cemetery snow. The maître d'armes nods once, your wild heart thundering rebellion against your ribs as you lower your blade.

That's when you feel his presence - Professor Valbonne, half-shadow and unspoken truths at the gallery's edge. His stillness speaks volumes in this temple of calculated violence.

He waits until the salle empties, approaching like truth itself- inevitable, terrifying.

"Your blade speaks what your voice cannot," he says softly, studying you with that terrible gentleness that makes your ribs ache. "You fence like someone who has learned to turn cage bars into wings.”

A laugh escapes you, sharp as broken glass. "Wings are just prettier prisons, Professor."

"Perhaps." His eyes hold yours, steady as truth. "But they remember what freedom tastes like."

You turn away, sweat-damp black ribbon clinging to your neck like a collar. White peach and rosewood cling to your skin - soon to be scrubbed away, replaced with the sterile scent of duty and diplomacy.

"You look haunted today," he observes. "Or you’re just not happy to see me.”

"I’m not happy to leave," you answer, truth slipping past your guard like a blade between ribs.

Silence stretches between you like a bridge neither dares to cross. He leans against cold stone, a scholarly revolutionary in this fortress of careful conformity.

"If I could write you a future," he says, "it wouldn’t begin with someone else's last name.”

Something in your chest splinters, words hanging between you two like shattered stars. You both understand everything, there is no need to name things vocally. "I was born to be a transaction."

His jaw tightens, grief etching itself in the corners of his mouth. "You were born to be a revolution."

His arm appears like an offering - this small rebellion, this moment of pretend equality. You take it with the care of handling broken dreams.

The walk to the chapel gates is a funeral march in slow motion. Words would only pollute this last pure thing between you - this shared understanding of cages and wings.

At the threshold, he pauses, eyes fixed on horizons you'll never touch.

"When they write your name in history," he says, "make sure they spell it in lightning."

You look up at the ghost-pale sky, where even clouds know better than to break formation. He'll never read your name the way he hopes.

You slip away like morning frost before the sun, before he can watch another future die.

Raindrops streak down the airplane window like tear tracks you weren't allowed to shed at every carefully orchestrated farewell. The sky bleeds into the same shade of steel that haunted every funeral where your spine had to remain straight as a blade.

First class feels like a gilded cage - all polished chrome and hushed whispers. The flight attendant's eyes slide past you like oil on water, trained to see nothing, hear nothing. Somewhere between Geneva's promises and London's threats, you're suspended in limbo, watching France blur beneath cotton-wool clouds.

A quiet sob catches in your peripheral vision. Nora. Your sister - your perfect and pristine Nora - has mastered the art of beautiful devastation. Even now, she's practicing for her future role: the tragic bride. Her fingers tremble against Chanel-painted lips, but her posture remains museum-worthy. The tears that escape are precisely timed, like crystal drops in a champagne fountain.

"Have you heard-" her voice cracks like fine porcelain, "-what they whisper about him? The youngest Jeon?"

You trace patterns in the condensation on your window. Each swirl feels like writing epitaphs for the futures dying in your chest. The glass fogs with your silence.You don't answer - she's not speaking to you but to whatever god abandoned girls like you to fates like this.

Nora's laugh sounds like shattered crystal. "Last spring - crashed a Maserati through the Louvre's courtyard. Called it 'performance art.' Three million in damages, swept under imported Persian rugs."

"The auction incident," she continues, voice dropping lower, "when he used Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' as an ashtray. 'Too pedestrian,' he said. The curator nearly had a stroke."

"And the women-" her voice catches, "God, the women. Like butterflies in his collection. He pins them down with diamonds, watches them suffocate in luxury, then adds their tears to his champagne."

The papers call him 'l'héritier de marbre' - the heir carved in marble, as though his beauty could excuse his barbarism and his wealth could cleanse the blood from his hands.

The Jeon empire rises like a gilded fortress: Jeon Antiquities & Restoration. They polish history until it gleams, restore broken things until they're worth more than they ever were whole. But beneath every restored masterpiece lies a massacre; behind every preserved beauty, a battlefield. They don't just collect beauty - they weaponize it.

Their public face gleams like polished marble, but beneath? It's all gunmetal and old blood. The Jeons don't just run an empire - they curate violence, frame it in gold, and sell it at invitation-only auctions. They don't just kill enemies - they transform them into art, into debt, into whispered warnings.

And Jungkook Jeon? He's their youngest sin. Trust fund terror with a smile that breaks hearts and necks with equal elegance. The whispers follow him like perfume: genius, they say. Rebel, they whisper. Monster, they mean. Every society photo shows the same warning: beauty sharp enough to draw blood.

"He'll destroy me," Nora whispers, pressing her forehead against the cool window. "Like one of their marble angels - pretty and hollow and broken."

"Isn't that the point?" Luca's voice cuts across the aisle, sharp as a blade between ribs. "Better broken than worthless."

The temperature drops ten degrees. You turn, ice crystallizing in your veins.

"One more word," you breathe, "and I'll show you exactly what Saint-Margaux taught us about making pain look elegant."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" He doesn't look up from his Financial Times fortress. "At least crying prettily might raise your market value."

Nora's whole body flinches, a butterfly pinned to silk. Your mother's voice slides through the tension like a poisoned blade. “Fix your face, Nora. Tears age you. The Jeons prefer their art unmarred."

The silence that follows tastes like ash and dying dreams. You grip your armrest until your knuckles match your mother's pearls, trying to anchor yourself to something - anything - that isn't falling apart. But there's nothing solid left to hold.

Jungkook Jeon. The name sits like lead on your tongue. You've never met him, but you know him - the way prey knows predator. A man carved from privilege so ancient it's crystallized into cruelty. Living art with venom in his veins. A marble god with gunpowder for blood. And your sweet sister is being gift-wrapped for this demon in Dior.

Grief fractures through you like safety glass, a web of tiny breaks held precariously together. The pain comes in relentless waves - not just for Nora, but for the shadow of your own future. Her tragedy is merely a preview of what awaits you in the procession of sacrificial daughters, your fate already sealed in your father's ledgers.

Your family fortune bleeds out in frozen accounts and foreclosed dreams. The name still glitters - just enough to barter away daughters like vintage jewelry. Your father's already pricing your future, weighing your worth in potential alliances. He'll find someone hungry enough, cruel enough, rich enough to buy the last of his daughter's freedom.

London materializes beneath you like a tomb of fog and steel. As you watch Nora reapply her Chanel Rouge with surgeon-steady hands, you see her clinging to composure like a lifeline, still believing grace might be armor enough. Something hot and sharp lodges in your throat - she thinks dignity will save her, and you pray she never learns how wrong she is.

Rain hammers against the windshield as your car crawls through the rusted gates of Amare estate. The ancient iron groans like a wounded beast, London's sky weeping harder as though trying to wash away the shame of what you've become. Each raindrop feels like an accusation against the facade you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Home sweet home," Nora whispers beside you, her voice trembling like the droplets sliding down the glass. You say nothing, watching the ghost of your childhood dreams loom before you - a castle turned prison.

The marble steps are cracked now, nature's fingers prying apart what wealth once held together. You trace the familiar path with your eyes, remembering how your smaller self used to dance here, spinning tales of ivory moldings and enchanted corridors. Now the walls tell different stories - of water stains mapping your decline, of paint peeling away like shed skin, of chandeliers that sputter and gasp rather than sparkle.

The door creaks open before you reach it, and there he stands - Father, a shadow cut from faded glory. His suit whispers of too many wears, though his pocket square stands at attention, starched with the last remnants of your pride. The silence between you stretches like a taught wire.

"Twenty-three minutes late," he says, each word falling like ice. "I suppose punctuality wasn't part of that expensive education."

Nora's breath catches beside you, a butterfly trapped in a jar. You feel her fingers brush against yours, seeking anchor, but you both know better than to grasp it.

He steps aside - not an invitation but an order. As you pass, his fingertips graze your shoulder, light as frost but heavy with unspoken threats. Your body remembers before your mind can catch up - memories of shattered crystal, of cold water, of darkness behind locked doors. The bruises have faded but the lessons remain, written in your bones.

Mother's heels click against warped wood, a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The foyer air hangs thick with mildew and Chanel No. 5 - decay dressed in designer perfume. Each breath feels like swallowing stones, the weight of this homecoming settling in your chest like lead.

"Your rooms are prepared," Mother announces to no one in particular, her words floating in the shadows like lost things. "I trust you remember where they are."

Your suitcases land with hollow thuds against marble that's seen better days. Your father's presence fills the space like frost, immediate and biting.

"The Jeons arrive in two days." Each word falls like a death sentence, precise and final. "We'll be ready."

His eyes rake over Nora like winter wind, cataloging every imperfection. "Go upstairs. Fix yourself. You look weak." The last word snaps like a whip, and Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - folds in on herself like origami crushed in a cruel child's fist.

The question that's been poisoning your thoughts since Geneva claws its way past your lips, "Why would the Jeons even want us?"

Your father's smile is all broken glass and tarnished silver. "Because our name still matters." He savors the words like aged wine. "Because even monsters want their sons to marry nobility." He turns away, leaving you to drown in the acid truth of it. You don't push further - this rare moment of actual answers instead of his usual artillery of screams and humiliation feels like a trap you're too tired to spring.

Rain drums against the window panes like a metronome counting down to dawn. The sound almost - but not quite - drowns out Nora's muffled sobs filtering through the wall. Each hitched breath feels like a dagger between your ribs as you trace the sound to her room, finding her curled into herself at the edge of her bed. Her silk robe pools around her like spilled moonlight, mascara-stained tears mapping constellations of despair across her pillow.

"Don't-" she chokes out before you can speak, her fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please, just... pretend you can't hear me falling apart."

The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle beside her. Some wounds run too deep for words to reach, so you let the silence speak instead.

"God, you don't even see it, do you?" Nora's laugh shatters like crystal against marble. "The way they look at you - at Saint-Margaux, at every gala, every breath you take. Like you're something rare and precious. While I..." Her voice cracks. "I'm just... here. Taking up space. Fighting for scraps of attention."

The words hit like ice water. You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. You've spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, of folding yourself smaller and smaller until you barely cast a shadow.

"Nora, I-" But she cuts through your protest like a blade through silk.

"There was someone," she whispers, each word falling like a confession. "In Switzerland. Behind the old cathedral where the shadows grew long in winter. His hands were gentle - like he thought I might shatter. He looked at me like I was art worth preserving, not just another pretty thing to be sold."

Your heart stops. Dating wasn't just forbidden - it was heresy against the careful cultivation of your worth. You were precious commodities, after all. Pristine dolls waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

"He loved me." Her voice breaks on the past tense. "And I thought... for once, someone chose me first. But then the Jeons...I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me when we have you." She presses her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking. "Who would want the spare when they could have the masterpiece?"

Something fractures in your chest - not a clean break, but a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward. All this time, she'd carved out this tiny paradise of stolen moments, while you... you were an open wound she kept comparing herself to. The realization burns like bitter poison in your throat.

But looking at her now, trembling like a bird with clipped wings, how could you be angry? She'd dared to grasp at happiness in a world that offered only gilded cages. The secrecy stings, yes, but her pain cuts deeper than any betrayal.

Save her, your heart screams. But what power do you have? You're just another pretty puppet with strings of silk and obligation, taught to bend but never break, to endure but never fight.

Words fail, so you reach for her hand instead. Your fingers intertwine - a bridge across the chasm of secrets between you. You can't rewrite her tragedy, but you can stay there with her. At least for today.

Midnight strikes with mechanical precision, each chime reverberating through the drawing room like fate's own countdown. Through leaded glass, you watch them arrive – three obsidian vessels cutting through the rain, their polished surfaces drinking in what little light remains. No emblems mark their passage. No flourish announces their intent. They move with the silent certainty of apex predators.

At your vanity, fingertips ghost over the black ribbon – your chosen weapon for tonight's battle. Beside it, the perfume bottle gleams with poisonous promise. White peach, innocent as first love, deadly as the last. You anoint the silk with calculated precision, watching droplets seep into darkness like secrets into skin. When you weave it through your hair, the scent wraps around you like a lover's promise – or a noose.

Your mother's approval comes in glacial silence. Luca's scorn breaks it like thunder.

“Still playing the grieving virgin?” he sneers, eyes catching on your ribbon, your carefully crafted despair. “Or are we mourning your relevance, sister? The Jeons didn’t come for you.”

You meet his gaze with the weight of winter. “You’re standing in a house that’s falling apart.”

“Which is why we’re selling the prettiest thing we have left.” he hisses, teeth gleaming. “And it’s not you.”

The words dissolve like frost as you descend, each step carrying you closer to the awaiting storm. Your father stands sentry at the door, his spine curved in submission to powers greater than pride. The air shifts – not with cold, but with the kind of sharpness that precedes bloodshed.

They enter like darkness given form. The matriarch first, towering in her sovereignty. Her nineteenth-century choker catches light like a blade – emeralds and onyx, beauty and warning intertwined. She surveys your home as one might examine a failing empire: cataloging weaknesses, calculating worth.

The grandfather follows, silence his scepter. One nod to your father speaks volumes – here, at last, is someone who makes even your tyrant tremble.

Their entourage filters in like smoke – advisors, guards – until finally, he appears.

Jungkook.

He moves like sin made flesh, each step a study in controlled chaos. Power clings to him like shadow to night – from his obsidian gaze to his deliberately disheveled elegance. His suit, artfully askew, mocks propriety while his presence commands it. Dark hair kisses his throat like spilled ink, and raw energy radiates from him like heat from a forge.

His disinterested sweep of the room stutters when it finds you. Something flickers in those depths – recognition, perhaps, or hunger – as your carefully chosen scent reaches him. His posture shifts minutely, like a predator catching prey's scent on the wind. His gaze lingers, heavy as prophecy, and something molten coils in your core.

You don't yield. Nora materializes beside you, trembling like autumn's last leaf. Perfect in her dress, betrayed by the rising flush on her throat, her glassy eyes, her failing breath. Your mother makes introductions like offerings at an altar, your family name wrapped in silk and shame.

The scene unravels with terrible precision. Nora's curtsy falters. The white peach blooms around you like judgment. Her allergy reveals itself in stuttering breaths and panic-wide eyes, her composed facade cracking like ice in spring.

Guilt lashes you even as hope whispers that your plan might work. But the Jeons' reaction isn't pity – it's disdain.

"We were promised perfection," the matriarch pronounces, each word a blade. "Not fragility."

Your father's mask slips, pride warring with fear. "She's merely overwhelmed—"

"She's weak," Luca interjects, venom dripping.

The room descends into chaos – old money snarling at older money, wounded pride clashing against cold contempt. Until…

"She's not the one I want anyway."

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

The room falls still as breath catches in throats - your mother frozen mid-gesture, Nora swaying like a reed in winter wind, the matriarch's face transforming to cold, unforgiving marble.

"Jeon Jungkook—"

But his gaze remains unbroken, and the white peach at your throat burns like a brand. This wasn't the sacrifice you had intended to make - your carefully laid plans had twisted into something unrecognizable, leading you down a path you never meant to walk.

A silence falls like velvet, heavy with unspoken words that press against the gilt-edged walls until even the shadows hold their breath.

Your father's eyes dance between you and Nora like a master appraiser examining jewels. His gaze is cold arithmetic - measuring worth, calculating losses, tallying gains. To him, you were never daughters; merely assets in his grand portfolio. Two precious stones: one crystal, one porcelain. Now one bears a fatal flaw.

His lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer as he delivers your fate with businesslike efficiency. "If that's the one the Jeons want..." A careless shrug seals your destiny. "Then she's yours."

The words strike like winter frost, crystallizing the air in your lungs. Beside you, Nora's choked sound of despair is quickly muffled by your mother's gloved hand.

Your plan shatters — delicate, doomed, never yours to control. You were meant to be the savior, not the sacrifice. The thought of becoming his choice had never even whispered across your mind.

Memories assault you in violent flashes: your father's leather-bound ledger, your mother's desperate mantra of survival, the wicked glint of Jungkook's rings catching lamplight, white peach perfume clinging to black silk like a death shroud. The sound of breaking - not glass, but your very essence - as your name is bartered away without consent.

You shrink into yourself, a child's instinct to become invisible. But his gaze pins you like a butterfly to velvet. There is no hiding now. You are seen. You are chosen.

The Jeons regard you with clinical interest, recalculating your worth like merchants at auction. The matriarch's lips press into a blade-thin line. The grandfather's slight nod falls like an executioner's axe.

As they file out, you remain rooted, a marble statue carved from pure shock. Nora trembles beside you fragile as frost about to crack, but your arms hang useless. Screams build in your throat - take her instead, take me back, unmake this moment - but they die unspoken, turned to stone by terror.

He approaches with lethal grace, each step a claim of ownership. His presence weighs on you like storm clouds heavy with lightning. You've become his territory now, marked without permission.

The doors seal your fate with thunderous finality. You sink to the marble floor, barely conscious of the movement. Around you, the scene arranges itself like a baroque tragedy - Nora's muffled sobs providing the score, your mother's absence speaking volumes, Luca's triumphant smirk completing the composition.

Reality settles over you like a burial shroud: you are no longer daughter or sister or savior. You have become property, his property. And as this truth sinks its teeth into your heart, you wonder if anything of you will remain when he's done.

Time slips by like grains of sand through an hourglass, each moment dissolving into an infinite stretch of silence. The world outside your window fades to watercolor impressions, bleeding at the edges like a painting left in the rain.

You exist in whispers now. Food remains untasted, questions unasked. The house holds its secrets close - rewound clocks marking phantom hours, curtains drawn against persistent daylight. From your perch on the velvet chaise, you watch raindrops trace silver paths down windowpanes, each one carrying away fragments of the freedom you once knew - freedom lost by your own design.

When they come to take your measurements, you don’t move. The Jeons’ tailors arrive with tape and notebooks, their hands cold and precise. They don’t look at your face. They pull the fabric of your nightdress taut against your hip bones, murmur numbers in a language you don’t understand, and note the curves like they’re assessing a statue to be replicated.

Their fingertips brush against your skin as they take measurements - the inside of your arm, the curve of your neck, the gentle slope of your back. One whispers to the other in hushed tones, no doubt commenting on your rigid posture and reluctant demeanor.

Your mother hovers nearby, her voice drifting through the air like wisps of smoke. "Add more stones," she murmurs. "She needs to shine beside him. Something from the Jeons' blue vault - something rare." She pauses, eyes critical. "Yes, longer sleeves. Hide the ribs."

Your father's voice cuts through the room, sharp and businesslike. "If we're going to do this, make it count. Double the diamonds. Let it be known what house she's marrying into."

You stand motionless, a butterfly pinned beneath layers of silk and expectation. Numbness flows through your veins like winter frost - you neither flinch at the bite of pins nor stir at honeyed compliments. In the mirror, a stranger stares back: a creation of ice and diamonds, beautiful and hollow, already half-ghost.

Time blurs in the silence of the house, each day melting into the next. The halls have grown quieter, more hollow, with only the ghostlike passage of untouched food trays marking the hours.

But it's Nora's absence that weighs heaviest on your heart, making each breath more difficult than the last. No footsteps outside your door, no whispered conversations through the wall, not even the faintest sign of her presence in the dark hours.

You find yourself unable to cry, your grief crystallized into something too solid for tears. Instead, a single poisonous question haunts your thoughts: What was the purpose of your sacrifice if she doesn't comprehend what you tried to do for her?

And Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - remains distant, unreachable. She neither visits nor acknowledges your presence, as if the space between you has become an uncrossable void. Perhaps she harbors hatred for what you've done, or maybe the truth is more painful: she was never meant to be saved, and you were never meant to be her savior.

The veil floats like a whisper of tulle and threat, weightless as frost yet heavy with fate. Before the gilt-edged mirror, you sit wrapped in ivory and diamonds, a bride sculpted from winter's essence. The silk remembers your shape, clinging to your ribs while stones adorning your sleeves scatter morning light like scattered secrets.

Behind you, voices blend together - the dressmaker's soft murmurs, rustling house staff, and your mother's instructions cutting through the air like sheathed knives. But your mind wanders elsewhere, to someone unexpected.

Valbonne. His calm, curious voice echoes in your memory, speaking of how your mind was a cathedral and your anger a kind of music. He saw you differently then - the girl who fenced with restrained grace, never allowed to truly run free. His words linger like an unfinished promise: "If I ever read your name in history books..."

You wonder now if he would even recognize you. You look at your reflection, skin glazed in peach and powdered rose. This is not the girl who wrote essays in French about revolutions and smiled over Latin conjugations at dusk. This is not the girl who debated in the courtyard until her voice cracked, or the one who wanted to work for the UN, who wanted to be something.

“Je ne suis plus moi-même,” you whisper to the mirror. I am no longer myself.

The door opens without warning. Through the mirror's reflection, you see her - Nora, her hair pulled back too tightly, her lipstick perfect, looking like grief painted in gold.

"So this is the masterpiece," she says, her voice cutting through the silence. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with accusation.

"You came," you whisper, your breath catching.

She moves into the room with controlled fury. "I had to see it - the moment where you finally became what you always wanted."

Confusion breaks through your numbness. "What are you talking about?"

Her laugh rings out like shattering crystal. "Don't act innocent. YYou didn’t just take my wedding — you took the one time I was finally enough."

"But you said you'd rather die than marry him," you protest, your voice weak. "You were crying about someone else-"

"You think tears meant I didn't want this?" She advances closer, each word precise and sharp. "A man like him - rich, young, beautiful. I could have thrived. Do you know how many girls would kill to be chosen by Jungkook Jeon?"

Your pulse thunders in your throat as she continues, her voice turning to ice. "I would have let the other one go for this. For once, I wasn't second choice. But you-" her eyes narrow, "you couldn't stand it."

"That's not true," you manage, rising on trembling legs. "Tu pleurais. Tu disais que tu voulais disparaître-" ["You were crying. You said you wanted to disappear-"]

"You're so greedy," she cuts you off, ignoring your French plea. "You needed to be both savior and sacrifice, martyr and bride. You couldn't let me have anything without making it about you."

You can only stare, your carefully constructed world unraveling thread by thread.

"I hate you for it," she says simply, then turns and leaves. You want to scream that it wasn’t supposed to be this way — but guilt is louder than truth.

The door closes behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. In the silence that follows, you stand motionless before the mirror. The veil trembles in the breeze, but your eyes remain dry. There's no room for tears in a girl made of lace and betrayal - only silence, the lingering scent of peach perfume, and the sound of your heart shattering beneath a cathedral of lies.

The cathedral is carved from light and silence, its vaulted ceilings vanishing into shadow. Golden ribs and silvered arches trace delicate patterns overhead, while chandeliers hang like captured constellations. Candlelight pools along marble, dancing across a sea of couture-clad guests draped in legacy, their hollow eyes and diamond-adorned faces watching with barely concealed hunger.

You stand at the center of their attention, both masterpiece and sacrifice. Your gown, threaded in silver and framed with pearls, shimmers like a dying star. The train follows you like a whispered surrender, while your veil - long enough to mask your doubts but not your trembling - floats ethereally around you. In this moment of pristine ceremony, everything glows with an intensity that burns.

Your body glides down the aisle — but your mind lags behind, somewhere in the crushed space between Nora’s voice and your father’s warning. You don’t remember when the music began. You barely register the clicking heels, the cameras, the smell of roses imported from Florence. Everything is white and violent.

Your father walks beside you with measured grace, his hand firm on your wrist and posture iron-stiff with pride. You sense his movement before the words come — his mouth dipping close to your ear.

"If you dare to ruin this," he hisses through clenched teeth, "I will destroy everything you are."

Your breath catches as he continues, his grip tightening painfully, "One wrong move in Jeon’s mansion and you'll wish you were never born. No one will take you in after you displease Jungkook. You'll be ruined, discarded, a broken doll no one wants to touch."

Wordlessly, you nod, your gaze fixed on the endless expanse of marble before you - a pristine river of white that stretches like fate itself, each step bringing you closer to him, inevitable as gravity pulling stars from the sky.

Jungkook waits at the altar like a marble statue come to life, all sharp edges and cold beauty. His black suit might as well be carved from midnight itself, perfectly fitted to his frame like a second skin. The single pearl at his throat gleams like a tear frozen in time - a beautiful "fuck you" to tradition. His hair falls in a precise line across his nape, ink-black against stone-white, and you hate that you notice. You hate that you care.

You hate how your traitorous mind catalogs every detail - the fresh haircut, the way his jaw clenches slightly, the calculated perfection of his appearance. Each observation feels like a betrayal of yourself, like you're collecting precious stones to add to your own cage.

His eyes don't leave you as you approach, dark and assessing, like he's appraising a rare artifact he's already purchased. Your footsteps echo through the cathedral - not because you're walking slowly, but because each step feels like signing away another piece of yourself.

When your fingers finally meet his, the air shifts like it always does around him. His hand is warm, steady and sure against your trembling one. You try to hide it, this weakness, but his knowing smirk tells you he feels every quiver. Of course he does - the self-satisfied glint in his eyes suggests he anticipated your trembling long before you arrived. Nothing escapes that calculated gaze.

The vows dissolve like sugar on your tongue, crystalline and too-sweet, while the officiant's words blur into a symphony of carefully chosen platitudes. Unity, power, bloodlines, blessings - "eternity" floats past like a butterfly with broken wings, and "legacy" follows, heavy as a curse.

The ring they give you burns cold against your skin - platinum and promises binding you tight. Your "I do" emerges barely above a whisper, like a secret you never meant to tell, the words feeling foreign in your mouth as if borrowed from someone who knew how to want this. But Jungkook's response rings clear as church bells, sure as sunrise, as though he's been rehearsing this moment since birth.

When the ceremony concludes and the crowd rises in a wave of silk and diamonds, he leans in close enough to count your heartbeats. The kiss isn't proper - that would be too kind. Instead, his lips find the corner of your mouth, precise as a knife's edge yet soft as a threat, tasting of possession.

You freeze, a perfect statue in white as the cathedral carries on its ancient dance of sparkling chandeliers and clicking cameras. But deep inside your chest, something ancient and angry begins to stir, like the first crack in winter ice.

The ballroom unfolds, adorned with champagne and ancient bloodlines. Beneath vaulted ceilings, strings swell while crystal and candlelight dance together, every surface glinting with gold, diamond, and carefully crafted deception. At Jungkook's side, you stand like a statue carved from pearl, his arm a ghostly presence at the small of your back while you receive strangers masquerading as friends - your smile and curtsy perfectly measured, your voice carefully contained.

The first dance ends and your gown whispers warnings as the floor fills with aristocracy. Distant royals and international moguls move through the space while women drift by in couture worth fortunes. The air is heavy with imported orchids and centuries of refined violence, threatening to pull you under.

The Jeons move through the room like gods draped in tailored suits, untouchable and unreadable. His mother maintains her regal pose, wine glass pristine and untouched, while his grandfather sits motionless as heated marble, observing all. Around them, guests trade danger and influence with practiced ease, their diamonds and secrets competing for brilliance.

Though Jungkook's fingers remain steady at your waist, his eyes retain their coldness. Behind you, the Jeon security team emerges from the shadows - Namjoon, Jin, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin, and Yoongi. Their beautiful suits barely conceal the violence in their bones, each man moving with purposeful intent, awaiting instructions.

The music shifts. Your first dance has ended. The floor is filling again with distant royals and corrupt diplomats, soft laughter smeared across every corner. Toasts rise like smoke. Cameras flash. Every mouth says “congratulations” while every gaze says “how long until she breaks?”

The numbness, ritual, and pretending almost bring relief, until everything shifts. You sense their presence before you see them - in the subtle falter of musicians, the way Jungkook's posture stiffens, and how Namjoon and Jin move closer without touching, just hovering near.

When you look toward the entrance, they materialize: The Maranzano Syndicate. Their appearance is immaculate - perfect suits, gleaming shoes, and smiles that stretch too wide. Though you know nothing about them specifically, you recognize their nature - the kind of silence that's been trained to kill.

Leading them is a man your age, his presence commanding attention. Handsome and controlled, he moves across the floor with deliberate grace, champagne in one hand and clear intent in the other. As he approaches, you feel the temperature drop and every Jeon ally tense. When he stops before you, his smile carries weight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says, tone velvet-smooth. “It would be rude to leave without congratulating the bride.”

Jungkook’s hand twitches at your waist.

The man takes your hand — slowly, theatrically — and raises it to his lips. His mouth doesn’t touch. But it hovers just enough. Long enough. The entire room stills.

"Leo Maranzano," he murmurs. "Piacere."

The glass shatters from Jungkook's grip as he lunges forward, seizing Leo by the shoulder. His face transforms from marble to murderous fury. "Disappear," he growls.

Leo's smile widens with deliberate provocation. "You're not the only one who appreciates women's beauty, Jeon."

Violence erupts in an instant - too swift for the guests to follow, but precisely what these trained men anticipated. Tables crash and champagne sprays as chaos unfolds. Jin materializes to shield you while Namjoon steps protectively forward. Through the mayhem, you glimpse Taehyung dispatching an attacker, Yoongi's blade appearing and vanishing like lightning, and Hoseok moving with lethal grace.

At the center of it all stands Jungkook - sleeves torn, chain gleaming against his throat, transformed into something dangerous and wild. He doesn't command; he simply acts, throwing bodies aside with ruthless efficiency.

You remain frozen, deaf to Namjoon's urgent words. Your eyes fix on Jungkook - your husband - as he hurls another man to the ground. The wedding ring seems to tighten around your finger, a burning reminder of your vows.

Jungkook whirls toward you, blood staining his collar, eyes fierce. "Why the fuck are you still here?! GO!"

But your legs won't move. Namjoon curses and drags you backward as another violent crash reverberates through the floor.

And then silence descends as a single gunshot echoes through the room. At the center stands Jeon Grandfather, holding a pistol with an ivory-inlaid grip. His expression carries not anger, but disappointment as he raises the weapon, wielding it like a priest might hold a cross during sermon.

His voice slices through the tension. "Back in my day, men didn't dishonor women and children with their cowardice. They handled their vengeance where it belonged - in the dark, out of sight."

The assembled crowd remains motionless as Leo steps forward with deliberate confidence. "I came to honor the bride," he states simply. When Jungkook moves to retaliate, Jin restrains him with a firm hand and whispered warning.

Turning to you with a gaze both gentle and menacing, Leo continues, "The Jeon family killed my father. They will answer for that, but not tonight. My grandfather learned patience, as will I." His smile transforms into something sharp and dangerous as he adds, "Try to enjoy the wedding night, Mrs. Jeon."

Jungkook lunges forward, his face contorted with murderous rage. "Keep my wife's name out of your dirty mouth before I fucking kill you," he snarls, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Namjoon's arm shoots out to block his path while Hoseok grabs his shoulder from behind.

"Not here," Namjoon hisses through clenched teeth. "Think of the consequences."

Jungkook's eyes burn with barely contained violence, but he stills under their restraining grip, every muscle in his body taut with suppressed fury. Leo's satisfied laugh echoes through the room as he and his men retreat, the heavy doors closing behind them with finality.

In the tense silence that follows, a single voice dares to ask, "Shall we continue?"

The music returns, violins gliding back into waltz-time as champagne flows freely. The guests — trained creatures of legacy and fear — seamlessly resume their practiced dance of pretense, their laughter echoing through the hall as if violence had never touched these marble floors.

Jungkook, temple still stained with blood, vanishes down a darkened hallway while waiters weave through the crowd with fresh glasses. Under the glittering chandeliers, toasts rise and fall like waves against the shore, each clink of crystal a studied performance of normalcy.

You stand frozen, diamonds cold against your trembling collarbones, and face the terrifying reality of what you've married into — and wonder how long it will take to learn the art of survival in this glittering, dangerous world.

The ride is long and silent. One black car glides through the night like a hearse, and behind it — two more, identical in their gleaming precision. Their engines hum low like beasts beneath chains, headlights slicing through London fog as if daring the dark to follow. The city blurs past in streaks of silver and neon, but inside the car, everything is still.

You sit beside Jungkook, trembling quietly in a cage of lace and diamonds. Your gown spills over the leather like a spilled secret, crushed and wrinkled at the knees. You keep your hands folded like a prayer that will never be answered.

Across the seat, he is all silence and shadow.His jaw is clenched. His breathing even. But his mind is somewhere else — you can feel it, like storm clouds gathering in the distance. One leg draped loosely, his ringed fingers tapping once against the edge of the window. There is blood at his collar, dried now, half-hidden beneath the pearl.

No one speaks. Outside, security guards on motorcycles flank both sides. A third car follows behind, lights off, ready. One of the men in the front seat glances back, but neither of you look up.

The Jeon penthouse rises above the city, all glass and power, its windows gleaming with cold wealth. You don’t even remember how you got out of the car — just the blur of doors opening, voices murmuring orders, arms lifting packages and flowers and boxes of gifts wrapped in gold paper and blood-colored ribbon. They carry everything inside.

The penthouse is breathtaking in its silence — a towering open space where the walls don’t hold memories, only expensive taste. Marble floors echo under your shoes. The scent of white roses hangs in the air like a threat disguised as beauty. Chandeliers glimmer above you with a cruelty sharper than candlelight. Even the air here feels conditioned to perfection — expensive, perfumed, untouched.

Jungkook strides ahead silently, his jacket unbuttoned and fists clenched tight. His people dissolve into the shadows with practiced efficiency, bowing once before they disappear. The heavy doors seal shut with a decisive click, leaving you utterly alone.

You remain frozen where they abandoned you, rooted to the pristine living room floor like some tragic modern art installation. Your wedding gown - this beautiful, suffocating thing - pools around your feet like spilled moonlight. The veil still clings to your hair, a gossamer reminder of promises made under crystal chandeliers. Each breath is a battle against the corset's cruel embrace, while your legs have long since surrendered to numbness.

The silence stretches between you like a taught wire, ready to snap. He's there, a dark silhouette against darker shadows, methodically undoing his cuffs with elegant, calculated movements. Without a word, without even the courtesy of a glance, he vanishes into the bedroom.

When exhaustion finally drives you to follow, the bedroom rises before you like a gilded cage - all emerald walls and gleaming gold, with a bed that could swallow kingdoms whole. The sharp edges of wealth cut through any notion of comfort. You're a sparrow in a falcon's nest.

And there he is - sprawled across silk sheets like sin incarnate, jacket discarded but otherwise fully dressed, radiating the casual danger of a predator at rest. His silence fills the room like smoke.

"Why are you still dressed?" The words fall like ice between you.

You stand paralyzed, breath caught in your throat as your fingers nervously twist in the yards of white fabric. His eyes rake over you methodically, dissecting every tremor and fear until his expression settles into something more cutting than cruelty - pure disappointment.

His words shatter your composure, unleashing a tide of fury that drowns your fear. "I never wanted this," you whisper, voice trembling with raw emotion.

"What?" His expression darkens dangerously.

The truth pours out, bitter and sharp. "This marriage, you, this entire twisted world - I only did it to save her."

He rises like a storm gathering force, each movement a study in controlled violence. City lights paint him in shadows as he stalks closer. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Words become weapons: "You were never wanted. Not by her, not by me. You were a death sentence, and I stepped in because she was dying at the thought of you."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes - not shock, but a terrible fascination. His smile unfurls like a blade. "Interesting."

He advances slowly, and you instinctively back away, feeling every bit the cornered prey he sees you as.

"Did you think we'd sleep in separate beds on our wedding night?" he murmurs, fingers moving to his buttons. One by one, they come undone like falling stars.

You can't look away as skin appears - beautiful and brutal, carved from marble and midnight. He undresses like someone who's never known shame.

Then he's behind you, his presence radiating heat and shadow as his breath ghosts across your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your dress, methodically undoing them one by one while panic floods your veins, causing you to tremble uncontrollably.

He pauses, lips brushing your ear: "Anyone would want this night with me. But you're shaking like prey about to be devoured."

The warmth vanishes. His voice turns to steel. "I don't need this."

He collects his jacket like gathering shadows. At the threshold, without turning: "If you change your mind, I'll be in the other room."

Then he's gone, leaving you alone with your fear and your fury and your wedding dress coming undone.

You lie in the dark, cocooned in too much silence and too little peace. The sheets whisper over your bare skin as you shift — lace against skin, skin against memory. You hadn't meant to take the dress off so soon, but the corset had left bruises across your ribs, and your legs gave out the moment he left. Now you wear only your underwear and the quiet pulse of your thoughts, lying in the center of a bed too large, in a home too vast, after a night too violent to forget.

Sleep eludes you as memories of the night replay endlessly in your mind. The echo of gunfire lingers, accompanied by Maranzano's haunting presence - his smile forever imprinted in your thoughts, the way he regarded you like a silk-draped warning. Yet what truly unsettles you is the image of Jungkook - bloodied fists, disheveled collar, claiming you as his before a room of demons.

In a strange twist of fate, you realize he became your sole defender, choosing you for reasons still shrouded in mystery. This revelation propels you from the bed.

You wrap yourself in a robe of pure seduction - flowing silk that caresses your skin, its shortened hem and plunging neckline suggesting intentions you hadn't consciously formed. Or perhaps you had.

Moving silently through the penthouse, you find yourself before the open double doors at the hall's end. The room beyond bathes in amber light, where Jungkook reclines on an enormous bed, his bare chest catching gold like sculpture. A MacBook rests in his lap, screen light playing across his jaw, while his legs - long, parted, powerful - stretch across the duvet, clad only in black boxer briefs.

His eyes meet yours and he freezes, the air between you transforming into something tangible. You witness the exact moment desire overtakes thought in his gaze as it traces the curves beneath your silk-draped form.

Setting aside his laptop, he leans back with calculated grace, the embodiment of sin made flesh. "Knew you'd come to your senses," he drawls as he tilts his chin and widens his legs slightly, a silent command. "Go ahead."

Instead, you voice your turmoil. "The wedding... the Maranzanos... I can't sleep."

His jaw flexes, a slight tell. "I don't know what I'm more afraid of," you confess softly. "Them... or you."

Something in your words spurs him forward, his predatory grace on full display as he rises, his arousal evident against the thin fabric of his boxers. You try to steady your breathing as he approaches with measured steps.

"I will never let those filthy fuckers touch something that's mine," he declares, voice cold and sharp. "And you are mine."

Your slight nod draws his scrutiny. "Still afraid?"

"I believe you're powerful..." you hesitate, "but power itself can be terrifying."

His smile turns razor-sharp as he closes the distance between you, until his breath mingles with yours. "You think I'm a monster."

"I know you are."

His laughter - deep, rich, dangerous - slides down your spine like poisoned silk.

“Everyone’s a monster,” he murmurs. “You just happened to be lucky enough to marry the most dangerous of them all.”

His hands find your thighs. His thumbs drag slowly upward — grazing, pressing, testing. Your robe parts beneath his touch. You feel heat spread like fire through your veins, breath catching as his fingers brush over your hips, then the curve of your waist, the dip between your breasts. Your body trembles, not from fear anymore but from something deeper, more primal.

"Let me pull back the curtain," he whispers against your neck, "and show you what I might give you."

At your subtle nod, he guides you to the bed with the careful precision of someone handling their most precious weapon.

You’re guided gently into his lap — your thighs folding around him, your knees pressed to the mattress, your robe already falling from your shoulders. His hands don’t rush. They devour.

You begin to move — hesitant at first, your hips swaying forward with tentative rhythm, the silk of your underwear dragging against the heat straining beneath his boxers. It’s an unbearable kind of friction, featherlight but charged, as if every breath you take draws fire from the contact.

Jungkook exhales harshly — the sound low, broken — his head tipping back slightly as your hips grind again, slower this time, deeper. His hands stay resting at your thighs for a moment, as though he’s restraining himself, letting you move, letting you lead. But his muscles twitch under your touch, like a storm waiting to shatter the sky.

You find your rhythm. Back and forth, your hips brushing his with increasing urgency, and the softest moan slips from your lips, unbidden — a sound that startles even you.

His reaction is immediate as his mouth trails to your neck, pressing a kiss just below your jaw — hot, open, unhurried — then drifts lower, brushing over the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, teeth grazing so lightly it sends shivers down your spine. He’s not in a rush. He explores you like he’s reading a language he already knows but wants to savor syllable by syllable.

Your breath catches as his lips skim the edge of your bra, teasing the skin above the lace. He doesn't ask. He doesn’t need to. His hands slide up your ribcage, palms wide and reverent, finding the soft swell of your breasts and cupping them through the fabric — thumbs stroking lazily over the thin material, coaxing gasps from your throat like he’s plucking at the strings of some hidden instrument.

Every moan you release feeds the hunger in his eyes. And he’s watching you — every twitch of your hips, every parting of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. It consumes him.

You can feel his arousal beneath you, hot and solid, straining harder with every roll of your body. His hands move again — one gripping your waist with bruising intent, guiding your movements, while the other trails along the curve of your lower back, holding you flush against him.

The rhythm intensifies — friction now slick, pulsing, unbearable. Your thighs tremble. His jaw clenches. Every breath is shared now, your open mouths hovering close, not kissing but just existing in that charged space where desire lives and burns.

You can feel the tension building, hovering at that delicious edge. When he moans - low, guttural, nearly a growl - something inside you shatters. As you arch forward, his hands tighten their grip possessively. You feel yourself unraveling — not with shame, but with the devastating knowledge that no one has ever made you feel like this before.

You’re close — so close — when his hands suddenly shift.

With a strength that feels effortless, Jungkook lifts you in his arms as though you weigh nothing at all, his grip steady beneath your thighs. The motion steals your breath. The loss of rhythm makes your body cry out silently, aching and wanting.

He lays you down onto the bed like he’s placing something sacred — your hair fanning over silk, your skin burning against the cool sheets. The robe hangs loosely at your elbows, forgotten now, as your chest rises and falls with a rhythm that has nothing to do with breath and everything to do with him.

He kneels beside you, his gaze slow and molten, taking in every curve, every tremble, every shiver that escapes you now without resistance.

His hand skims down your stomach — fingers dragging with maddening slowness. The silk of your skin, the shallow dip at your navel, the heat blooming beneath every inch of his touch — he traces it all, not as a man in a hurry, but as one who means to memorize you.

His fingers find the center of your heat, where friction once burned and now aches for more. A gasp escapes your lips as he pauses, his other hand reaching for the clasp of your bra. Before you realize it, your palm presses against his chest, stopping him.

Not yet. Whether from fear, pride, or the need to maintain some control, you can't let go completely. The tension between you crystallizes into something quieter than rejection as he studies you, his expression unreadable.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks in a voice both molten and low. "This act of patience," he murmurs, "is exclusive. For you."

His words sink into your skin more than they reach your ears, and then he moves lower. He doesn’t remove the bra — doesn’t try again — but he does not ignore you. His mouth descends over the lace, hot breath seeping through the delicate fabric. His tongue flicks, teasing just above the cup. Then lower. The edge of your breast. The underside. He kisses there, open-mouthed, savoring the way your body arches, how your thighs tense around nothing.

His hands slide down across your waist, steadying you before moving lower with deliberate intent. You feel him shift, his shoulders slipping between your knees, parting them with a reverence that only makes the air leave your lungs faster.

He presses slow, searing kisses along the inside of your thigh. His fingers draw your underwear aside with maddening control, brushing lightly against sensitive skin before his mouth descends.

The first drag of his tongue is like nothing you were prepared for — slow, wet, deliberate. Your back lifts from the bed as your hand shoots out, gripping the sheets like they might anchor you to the earth.

He moves with the precision of someone who has studied power — who knows exactly how to wield it and when to be cruel with pleasure. His tongue circles slowly, testing you, tasting. Then deeper — firmer. His mouth closes over you, lips parting to suck gently, then harder, then teasing again, and again.

You cry out, a sharp, desperate sound you’ve never heard from your own throat before.

Your hand finds his hair. Your fingers tighten in the dark strands as his rhythm deepens, his moans vibrating against you, low and hungry. Your thighs tremble as your breath breaks apart.Your body begins to spiral faster, helplessly — his tongue working in endless rhythm, his grip steady on your hips as you start to fall apart in his mouth.

You cum like something tearing open inside you — high and hot and trembling — your gasp catching, then breaking, then disappearing entirely as your body arches up into his mouth like it belongs nowhere else.

He maintains his steady devotion, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you lay completely still, breathless and undone beneath him.

When he finally rises, his mouth glistening and eyes dark with pride, he presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before meeting your gaze with a satisfied smirk. His voice comes rough with shadow.

"Now that," he purred against your trembling thigh, voice dripping like honey and sin, "was just the beginning of what I can give you."

You wake tangled in silk and shattered moonlight, sin still sticky-sweet on your tongue. Your robe whispers secrets against feverish skin, one sleeve sliding down like a lover's touch, sheets still singing hymns of his warmth. There's an ache threading through your muscles like golden honey, each pulse a reminder of hands that knew too well where to press, where to bruise, where to worship.

The air is thick with him still - spice and shadow and something darker, something that tastes of stolen prayers and midnight confessions. You stare up at a ceiling that gleams like polished bones, willing yourself to forget.

But memory is a cruel mistress. She paints his hands in watercolor bruises across your mind. His mouth - oh god, his mouth - the way he consumed you like you were his last meal, like you were salvation itself. And you? You broke apart like stained glass beneath a light, scattered and sacred and his.

You must have lost your mind.

You press trembling fingers against closed eyes, shame and want warring in your chest like caged birds. It should repulse you - this descent into darkness, this willing fall from grace. Some part of you remembers innocence, remembers when touch meant tenderness instead of torrential need.

But there's a monster living in your ribcage now, purring at the memory of worship wrapped in violence. It remembers the weight of him, the raw intensity of his focus, the way he made devotion feel like damnation.

Have you always been this hollow, waiting to be filled with fire?

The bedroom holds no answers. Just cold marble and colder air, roses drowning in some foreign scent that wasn't there before. Everything's too sharp, too sterile, too vast.

He's gone. Of course he is. Demons never linger for too long. The penthouse feels different now, hollow and cold in his wake. Stepping into the hallway, you're greeted like fine china - precious, pristine, breakable. The world wants its doll back, wants to forget how she shattered in the dark.

There's a ritual waiting by the window: breakfast laid out like an altar. Poached eggs under crystal domes catch morning light like tears. A blood orange bleeds perfectly on white china. Fresh brioche exhales steam into the silence. The Jeon family crest watches from your napkin, judging.

You don't dare touch any of it.A maid ghosts through the room, her "madam" falling too quickly, too properly, gaze skittering away like scattered pearls. Another servant arranges your armor for the day: silk blouse with a collar high enough to hide secrets, modest skirt, pearls to match your cage.

Steam curls from behind the bathroom door, a siren song of hot water and false comfort.Your feet refuse to move. This attention scrapes against your skin like sandpaper wrapped in silk. It's not luxury - it's surveillance dressed in gold leaf.

Watched. Always watched.

Every gesture is a report in waiting. Every bite you don't take will be noted. Every wrinkle in your robe tells stories to ears you'll never see. The mirrors - god, the mirrors - they're everywhere, reflecting your uncertainty in infinite angles until you're drowning in your own discomfort.His presence lingers like smoke, invisible but choking. The walls have eyes, and they all belong to him.

You perch at the table like a bird about to flee, clutching silk around yourself like armor.The perfect breakfast dies slowly in the sunlight.Your appetite fled with the night.

It starts like this: a whisper of rebellion, soft as moth wings against silk. Your fingers find the white peach perfume, its crystal bottle cool and dangerous in your palm. One spritz — delicate, precise — finds your wrist. Another graces its twin. The hollow of your throat accepts the third like a blessing. The scent blooms in the air, all summer-sweet defiance, honeyed memories that curl through empty halls like forgotten prayers. And no one — no one — dares stop you because of some allergies.

These marble halls may cage you in gold and expectations, but they can't dictate the way you smell anymore, can't police the way your bare feet whisper secrets against cold floors. Your robe trails behind you like a queen's cape, leaving echoes of fruit and rebellion in your wake. Deep in your belongings, the black ribbon waits. It remembers you, this small scrap of darkness. It remembers the shape of your defiance.

The silk slides home against your hair and it for a moment it feels like armor. He materializes like a dark fairytale - no warning, no preamble. Just the whispered code at the door and footsteps that paint promises across marble floors. When he enters, the room holds its breath. Storm-cloud presence, predator grace. His skin still gleams from whatever violence he's been courting - white shirt, rain-slick hair and a towel draped carelessly around his neck. Cedar and sweat and danger roll off him in waves.

Your ribbon-bound hair and peach-sweet defiance catch his attention like matches to gasoline. His grin splits the atmosphere. "Miss me, Pesca Mia?"

The Italian drips like honey-coated thorns - My Peach - far too gentle for a man whose smirk could cut glass. You answer with silence, with measured steps past him, with carefully crafted distance.And of course he follows, tigers don't let prey walk away.

"Playing ghost bride still?" His voice chases you down the hall. "We share a home, Peach. Looking at me won't turn you to stone."

But then the air thickens, and his shadow swallows yours whole. His hand finds your wrist - a brand of heat that stops your heart.

He materializes before you, all aristocrat skin and lethal grace. Too close. Not close enough. Your eyes refuse to trace the dangerous landscape of his chest.

"Why?" Confusion bleeds into his voice, softening its edges. "You're my wife, yet you treat me like a stranger."

You meet his gaze at last. Your voice comes arctic cold. "You are."

Two words, quiet as falling snow yet sharp as winter wind. Something flickers in his expression - pain, maybe, before pride swallows it whole. His laugh comes out all broken glass.

"You think I'm desperate for your attention?" Arrogance wraps around his words like armor. "Girls would kill to wear your crown, peach. Don't think you're irreplaceable."

Your silence lingers, though his statemnt stings. He exhales - one sharp breath that carries worlds of frustration. And he urns away like you're not worth the oxygen.

"I won't beg you to claim what's already yours," he mutters, defeat dressed as disdain. "You don't want me? Fine."

His exit is soundless, but it echoes in your bones. The door slams like punctuation. But the halls still whisper of peaches and regret.

IIt's 2:17 a.m. and the universe holds its breath.

Your heartbeat counts time with the expensive clock on the wall, both of you locked in this infinite moment of waiting. Silk sheets coil around you like living things as you sit there, spine straight as a blade, every nerve ending electric with that delicious cocktail of rage and loneliness. The lamp bathes everything in honey-gold light, making shadows dance across the pristine emptiness beside you - a canvas waiting for a body that isn't there.

He hasn't returned. You tried maintaining your cold façade, denying how the empty space beside you slowly hollowed out your chest, how the silence grew unbearable. You called it strategy, convinced yourself it was necessary breathing room. But now? Now you're done waiting. Your fingers find your phone with lethal grace.

Namjoon picks up on the second ring, his voice heavy with sleep yet carrying an edge of anticipation, as if he'd been expecting this call.

"Is he with you?" The words slip out like ice daggers.

The pause speaks volumes. "...No. He's at The Roselace."

Your lashes lower once, slow and dangerous. "A club?"

"Yes." The word hangs there, heavy with implications that flicker like warning lights in the dark. But you stopped needing warnings the moment you tasted rebellion on your tongue. Your voice doesn't just turn to steel. No, it crystallizes into something far more dangerous: diamond-sharp certainty wrapped in velvet menace. "Bring the car around. I want to go."

Another heartbeat of silence, shorter this time. "I'll be outside in five."

Night bleeds neon across rain-slick streets, your revenge wrapped in a dress that fits like a promise. The city's a living thing tonight, all electric pulse and wet concrete confession. And you? You're winter made flesh in the backseat, ankles crossed like loaded guns, while Namjoon pilots the car through streets that taste of destiny. He knows better than to speak - you can't small talk with gathering storms.

Jin materializes at the club entrance like a harbinger, umbrella in hand, face carved from marble. His words fall soft as burial dirt: "Back lounge. Always."

You ghost past him without acknowledgment. Some moments don't need words.

The Roselace wraps around you like sin in silk stockings - all crushed velvet shadows and dripping crystal light. Bass thrums through your bones while bodies write poetry against each other on the dance floor, everything drenched in rose-gold desperation and champagne dreams.

Then the VIP lounge opens its maw and your world tilts sideways. There. Him.

Jeon Jungkook. Sprawled like fallen royalty across black leather, shirt undone like an invitation to sin, silver chain catching light like stolen stars. A glass of scotch hangs from his fingers.

But it's the women that make your blood crystallize. They're draped across him like living jewelry, all velvet curves and sheer promises. Their hands map territories you were claiming last night, lips writing stories against skin that was against yours yesterday. One whispers something that pulls a smirk from him like poison from a wound.

His eyes find yours across the chaos.

And smiles like the devil has just been entertained.

Your body moves without conscious thought - a bullet made of silk and fury. The click of your heels against marble sounds like a countdown to chaos. Your fingers find soft flesh, yanking the nearest woman away from him with the kind of graceless violence reserved for scorned goddesses.

Her shriek pierces the air like shattered crystal. She stumbles backwards, a doll thrown from its perch.

"You selfish, arrogant, fucking idiot-"

His laughter cuts through your rage like a knife through velvet.

"You're so fucking sexy like this," he purrs, voice dripping with dark honey, watching your anger like it's the most exquisite show he's ever seen.

"I swear to God, if I ever see…" The words die in your throat. Because his mouth claims yours like he's signing a contract in sin.

He kisses you like he's trying to steal your soul - all open mouth and wicked smile. One hand cradles your face like you're made of precious things, while the other brands your lower back, pulling you into his lap like you're the missing piece he's been waiting for.

Time stops breathing.The bass still pounds through the walls but the world goes quiet. The women dissolve like smoke. Staff melt into shadows. Even the velvet walls seem to lean away. There's nothing left but the dangerous heat between your teeth and his. He breaks away just enough to trace your bottom lip with his tongue.

"Don't look at me like that in public," he whispers, eyes like molten gold. "I'll forget every rule I've ever learned."

Your palm finds his cheek - not gentle, not cruel but Jungkook only grins wider.

The city blurs past like smeared watercolors as Namjoon guides the car through rain-slicked streets. Jin's profile cuts a careful silhouette against neon-lit windows. The air between you all feels like the moment before lightning strikes.

You're a study in barely contained fury next to Jungkook - all crossed arms and white knuckles, electricity crackling beneath your skin. He's sprawled in his seat like a fallen angel, that split lip you gave him worn like a badge of honor, watching you with the kind of smile that makes devils nervous.

"Still giving me the silent treatment after that kiss?" His voice drips honey-sweet venom.

"Touch another woman," you breathe, each word dipped in ice and promises, “and I will bury your body in the same marble your family worships.”

Up front, Jin's cough shatters the tension. Namjoon's eyes catch yours in the mirror - a flash of pure amusement you choose to ignore.

And Jungkook? He laughs like you've just told him the most delicious secret, leaning in until his breath ghosts across your ear, voice pure sin, "Baby, your jealousy looks better on me than designer suits."

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. But your traitor pulse skips like a scratched record, and the devil's smile says he knows exactly what he does to you.

A knock that sounds like the universe holding its breath. Like fate writing the first line of a tragedy.

You're poised at the edge of the grand sitting room like a statue carved from anxiety and expensive silk. Your blouse is buttoned to your throat - armor, really. Chandeliers drip gold light like honey. White roses perfume the air with your false hope of Nora coming to visit you too with your family. And then the door opens the past comes crawling in like poison through your veins.

Your mother glides in first - her hairspray a helmet, her lipstick a warning sign in crimson. Then Luca, wearing wealth like a borrowed skin, pressing family obligation against your cheek in a kiss that tastes of nothing. And finally - because the universe has a cruel sense of dramatic timing - your father.

He moves through space like a black hole, warping reality around him. The kind of presence that makes rooms smaller, air thinner, daughters invisible. His suit whispers of faded glory but his eyes? They gleam with collector's greed.

Your flinch is barely perceptible, but Jungkook - beautiful and dangerous - catches the subtle movement like a treasured secret. He's sprawled in his armchair like it's a throne, all devastating grace and calculated nonchalance. Whiskey glass dancing between elegant fingers, watching, waiting. The temperature drops ten degrees when his gaze sharpens.

"Where's Nora?" Your voice plays at lightness. Fails.

Your mother's hand waves away concern like smoke. "Unwell."

Luca's jaw twitches. He won't meet your eyes. Your father has no such restraint.

"Well?" The word drips disdain. "This is all... quaint. But when are you buying me a proper mansion?"

His words splatter against the pristine air like acid on silk.

You straighten your spine. "The Jeons have already given enough."

Jungkook's laugh of disbelief is velvet-wrapped steel.

"Enough?" Your father's scoff could curdle cream. "I gave Jeons my precious daughter. Raised you right. Paid for her schooling. Trained her to speak six damn languages. And they give what? A glorified cottage and few millions on bank account. This is not serious."

Jungkook shifts - barely a movement, but it rewrites gravity. You speak first.

"Don't embarrass us." You aim for ice. Your voice cracks like spring thaw.

Your father whirls. "Since when did you grow fangs, little girl?"

His hand rises - a familiar choreography of pain, promising bruises that would match your designer earrings. But the blow never lands.

Jungkook's fingers wrapped around your father's wrist with quiet, absolute authority - a prophecy written in bone and blood.

“My grandfather raised me with manners,” Jungkook muses, voice soft, “taught me to never strike someone older.” He leans close. "Don't make me disappoint him."

The silence has teeth. Your father's face performs an ugly dance between rage and humiliation. He retreats, inch by inch. Jungkook releases him like dropping something contaminated.

Then, quiet as a blade between ribs: "And don't ever think of hitting my wife."

The room stills. Your mother's face turns to marble while Luca shifts uneasily on his feet.

They retreat like storm clouds dispersing - your father leading with violence still coiled in his shoulders, your mother trailing behind him like winter fog. At the threshold, Luca pauses to mumble an apology before disappearing, leaving only traces of expensive cologne.

When the doors finally close, silence blankets the room like fresh snow. You exhale years of fear.

Jungkook stands beside you, offering neither touch nor words - just his presence, steady as gravity, protective as shelter. In this space where fear once lived, something gentler takes root.

Warmth.

Maybe love isn't some grand revelation inscribed in starlight. Maybe it's quieter than that - like finding shelter during a storm you didn't know was coming.

There was something about that moment in the sitting room. The way his hand caught your father's wrist mid-strike, precise as a knife's edge, gentle as snowfall. Not a word spoken, just the weight of his presence beside you, heavy as gravity and twice as constant.

Protection wrapped in silence. Devotion dressed in designer suits.

And how it caught in your throat - this unfamiliar feeling of being shielded rather than shaped, protected rather than possessed. Like watching a bruise bloom backwards, violence turning to velvet beneath your skin.

You've spent so long being a prize to be won, an asset to be traded. But here, in the aftermath of that infinite moment, you taste something different on your tongue. Something that whispers of possibility, of paperback endings you never dared to want.

Because maybe love isn't about grand gestures or flowery declarations. Maybe it's in the way he caught your flinch like a secret worth keeping. The way he stood guard over your fear without trying to own it. The thought haunts you like perfume, sweet and lingering, as you drift through marble halls in bare feet. Past crystal that catches light like promises, through silence that feels, for once, like peace.

Tonight, you could let the walls down brick by brick. Maybe tonight, you could let the curtain open just a little wider. Not in surrender, but in hope of something softer. Something that tastes less like warfare and more like coming home.

The clock says 11:42 p.m. when you finally allow yourself to move. Your robe slips to the floor like dusk shedding its skin, and you reach for the lingerie that still carries its tag, something delicate and barely-there — lace the color of antique ivory, with ribbon straps that whisper against your shoulders like secrets.

You spray white peach across your collarbone, behind your knees, over your wrists. The scent hovers in the air like the memory of hands you don’t flinch from. You find the black ribbon — a little wrinkled now, a little tired — and tie it loosely in your hair. A small crown. A little defiance. A reminder that this softness is yours to give.

Then — because courage needs ritual — you pour yourself half a glass of wine. You sip it standing by the window, your reflection doubled against the city: bare legs, trembling fingers, a girl sculpted from want and silk and something beginning to resemble hope.

What if I’m allowed to be held gently? the thought hums behind your ribs. What if I’m not just a transaction in pearls?

Tonight, you want more than to be protected like property - you want to be wanted like a woman. You want to feel that warmth again and maybe dare to discover more of it. Setting down your glass with shallow breath, your heart presses against your ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom. Then, with quiet certainty, you call his name. “Jungkook.”

Not a shout, nor a whisper - just your voice carrying through the stillness. And somewhere in the penthouse, you sense the shift in the air, hear the soft footsteps approaching. You wait, your heartbeat marking time in the silence.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When the door finally creaks open, the light from the hallway carves his silhouette in gold.

Jungkook enters shirtless, barefoot, and breathing like he ran. The low waistband of his black boxers hugs his hips like sin sewn into fabric. His dark hair is tousled, damp at the ends. His chest gleams faintly from the shower or the gym — you can’t tell — but the muscles move tight beneath his skin as he scans the room, jaw clenched.

"Did something—" His words trail off as he takes in the sight before him.

Laid out across the pale sheets like a prayer wrapped in lace and quiet invitation. The ivory lingerie clings to you like mist, your legs tucked slightly to the side, bare shoulder framed by long hair and black ribbon. One hand holds the edge of the sheet. The other rests over your stomach — steady only in appearance.

You don't speak, simply holding his gaze and letting him take in the sight before him. His breath catches in his throat as he stands motionless, a moment of pure reverence washing over his features. Something raw and unguarded crosses his face, as if witnessing something he'd only dreamed of. You offer a gentle, uncertain smile and reach for him with tentative fingers.

“Jungkook.” A whisper. A gift. Like a flame lit in the darkness.

His expression shifts, tension and panic melting away in a single breath. What replaces it is hunger - not the violent kind that devours, but the kind that worships.

“Fuck,” he breathes, crossing the room like gravity commanded it. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch as he drops to the edge of the bed, body sinking against yours in one fluid, dangerous motion.

His skin is hot — all over, everywhere. His thigh presses to yours, bare and hard. His hands hover at your waist like he’s afraid to touch too much. But his eyes... his eyes consume.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You swallow. You’re trembling now, but it’s not from fear. “I wanted you here.”

That breaks the last thread of his restraint. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that starts tenderly - cautious at first, his hand cupping your cheek with careful reverence. But when you respond, matching his intensity, the gentleness gives way to something deeper, more urgent.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, your body pressing to his instinctively, lips parting under the low groan that leaves him like the last tether snapped.

That’s when he loses himself. His body crushes into yours, warmth and weight and scent — white peach still fresh on your throat, and he moans against your mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever been given something soft.

Is this what it means to be wanted? you think, dizzy under the weight of him.

His hand slides down to your hip, then your thigh, pulling you closer, and you feel it — his arousal, hard and unmistakable, pressing between your legs through the thin barrier of his boxers.

You gasp softly into his mouth. He pulls back, just enough to whisper — breath ragged, lips brushing yours. “You have no idea what you do to me, Peach.”

He leans down and begins trailing kisses down your throat, hot breath dragging over your skin, and then his fingers move to the front clasp of your bra — slow, teasing — as if asking silently. You nod once, breath catching in your throat as the fabric falls away. He pauses, eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the sight of you. With a low, reverent sound, his mouth finds your breast - tongue teasing your nipple with exquisite tenderness until you arch up against him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Jungkook," you breathe, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin. "Want more, baby?"

He switches to the other side, tongue dragging in a spiral before sucking — hard. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t gentle. He groans in approval then he’s back at your lips again, devouring you now, and his hand slides between your legs, palm pressing against the damp lace.

“Shit. You’re already this wet?”

Your hips buck as his fingers slip past the fabric, dip down, find you with terrifying precision. He circles once, testing. “Let me hear you,” he whispers against your mouth. He sinks one finger in and you cry out softly — not from pain, but from the sudden fullness.

“So tight,” he breathes, “fuck—” and adds another. He curls them both — slow, precise, devastating — and your body trembles like silk beneath a storm.

You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers stroke deeper, searching and finding the ache you never let yourself name. His mouth is at your neck again, tongue warm, breath hotter. He doesn’t rush and doesn’t demand. He explores you like he’s learned you — like every moan, every arch of your back, is a sacred response he’s waited lifetimes to unlock.

The pressure builds, low and thick, like a fire rolling beneath your skin. His palm grinds against the base of you with every push, every curl, and it lights you up from the inside — slow-burning, tender, terrifying.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips dragging against your throat. “Let go. Just feel me.”

And so you surrender to it completely, allowing yourself this precious first taste of freedom. You let go of the shame, the cold hands of your past, the bruises you were told to hide and the hunger you were told to deny. You let go of every time you were touched only to be controlled, looked at only to be priced. Because this is different - his mouth leaving trails of reverence across your skin, his voice a mixture of raw need and gentle wonder.

This is the silk of your thighs shaking against the sharp cut of his rings, and the way he slows his fingers just when your breath catches — just to listen to the sound of you breaking open.

And in the chaos of it, a thought blooms. You feel good. The revelation hits like lightning in slow motion. God, you feel so good. You didn’t know it could feel like this. Like warmth without danger. Like pleasure without debt. Like being touched and not owned, kissed and not erased.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s deeper — slow and thick and intoxicating. He kisses you like a man no longer teasing, but claiming. You moan into his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his neck. He groans low, a vibration that pulses down his chest, straight through to the way his fingers curl again, firmer this time.

“You feel this?” he breathes against your lips, his voice barely coherent. “How your body’s taking me so fucking sweet? You were made for this.”

You whimper — a sound of surrender, of disbelief, of joy. You’re trembling now, the pleasure cresting fast, and he knows it. He sees it. He watches you fall apart under him like he’s watching art come to life.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me see you fall, baby. Let me feel you break.”

And when he whispers “Come for me, Peach,” the world splits open. Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. And the moan that spills from your lips is broken and holy, like a prayer finally answered. Your body pulses around his fingers, over and over, as he coaxes every wave from you, patient and wicked and tender.

He doesn’t stop until you collapse back into the pillows, breathless, limbs heavy, the world spinning in white peach and warmth. You blink up at the ceiling, then at him, marveling at how the space between you finally feels like sanctuary instead of battlefield. Though familiar with pain, this experience is different. For the first time, pleasure flows through you without guilt or fear, and you find yourself yearning for more, unashamed of your desire.

You’re still trembling in the aftermath, breaths shallow, lips parted, your whole body drawn tight like silk thread loosened from its spool.

Jungkook kisses your throat — soft, slow — and you feel his breath against your skin, warm with awe, not just desire. His hand strokes gently along your thigh, then stills. For a moment, he just watches you.

You nod, breath trembling, body already molded to his heat. He shifts lower, moving from your mouth to the space between your legs, his skin brushing yours in a trail of quiet possession. The soft rustle of fabric draws your gaze downward — his boxers sliding off his hips with effortless ease, revealing him fully.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The sight of him — aroused, bare, utterly unashamed — steals the rhythm from your lungs. There’s fear, yes, curled low in your belly like something primal and unspoken, but it’s laced with something stronger, deeper: anticipation that feels like hunger, and the dizzying ache of knowing there’s no going back.

He sees the shift in your eyes — the tension, the heat, the way your thighs press together unconsciously — and his gaze grows darker, steadier. There’s no smirk now, no cocky remark, just quiet reverence carved into every line of his face as he settles over you, breath warming the skin below your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice rough but patient. “I’ll never take what you won’t give.”

You swallow, fingers curled around the sheets. “I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.”

And God, the look in his eyes — something wounded, something honored — like he’s trying not to fall apart just from hearing you say that. He kisses you again, slower this time. His hand cups your cheek. You feel him guide himself to your entrance, his length brushing against the soft slickness between your thighs. He presses forward, just the tip, and you gasp — a sound that’s more surprise than pain.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You inhale, long and slow, and when he begins to push in deeper, you feel the stretch — unfamiliar, thick, slow. Your body adjusts to him inch by inch, heat curling deep in your belly as he moves inside you, every second filled with breathless restraint.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, “you’re so fucking tight—so warm—it’s driving me insane.”

You whimper as he settles fully inside you, his hips finally flush against yours. He doesn’t move at first — just stays there, forehead against yours, eyes half-closed.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect, Peach.”

You shift your hips slightly, and the sensation ripples through you like wildfire. “Move,” you breathe. “Please.”

His first thrust is slow, careful. He draws out almost entirely, then presses back in — deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. The rhythm is slow at first, aching and tender. Every time he sinks into you, you moan softly, your fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling as they wrap tighter around his waist.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take me, baby. Let me in deeper.”

“You feel so good,” you whisper, dazed. “It’s… it’s so much—”

“You can take it,” he breathes against your mouth. “You were made for me.”

His rhythm builds. Not frantic, not rough — just sure. Deep. Intentional. You feel every part of him, each thrust grinding you deeper into the mattress. His name spills from your lips like confession. His hands grip your hips tighter as you start to move with him, arching, circling, giving as much as you take.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispers, panting against your shoulder. “So fucking wet, so tight—fuck. You were made to take me.”

You moan louder — the sound shameless, raw, a full-body ache turned into voice. The pleasure builds so fast it almost frightens you. Your walls pulse around him, fluttering each time he hits that spot inside you that makes the world collapse.

He thrusts deeper now, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, sweat-slick skin slapping against yours. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breath and moans and curses bitten between kisses.

You can feel the edge. You’re tumbling toward it, helpless to stop.

He starts to move faster — still careful, but no longer holding back. Your moans rise to meet his as he thrusts deeper, fuller, the wet sound of him filling you over and over echoing through the room, joined by skin meeting skin and both your voices breaking into the air like shattered stars.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust harder, rougher now, “say it—say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, legs tightening, eyes rolling back. “Only yours.”

Your climax builds like a storm held too long behind trembling sky — not sudden, but rising, demanding, layered with sensation you can barely hold.

Every thrust winds you tighter, every kiss unravels something old in your chest, every whispered word — you’re mine, you feel so fucking good, you were made for this — leaves you burning, open, filled. Your nails dig into his back as your moans dissolve into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. And then — it hits. Hard, deep, unstoppable.

Your body arches into him as if trying to fuse, your cry breaking against his lips like something holy, too raw to be pretty, too intense to be silent. The wave doesn’t crest — it shatters, again and again, your walls pulsing around him as pleasure rushes over you in waves so sharp it almost hurts. You barely register the curse he chokes into your neck, the way his rhythm breaks.

His hands grip your hips — tight, desperate — and he buries himself to the hilt one last time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a guttural groan that shakes you to the bone. The sound he makes is not triumphant — it’s wrecked, torn from his throat like he was holding it back too long. His forehead drops to yours, breath trembling, body shivering as he rides the aftershocks with you still wrapped tight around him.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper from the loss. He kisses your lips to soothe you, then your shoulder, then your hip. Then he lies beside you, pulling you to his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You wrap your arms around him. Your leg stays hitched over his waist, like your body doesn’t know how to stop holding him.

His hand rubs lazy circles into your back. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his skin. And for the first time in your life — in this warm, slow silence — you feel safe. And maybe, just maybe…

…a little bit loved.

Stillness hits different in the morning-after glow. And then there's the heat between your hips, like your body's keeping secrets from last night.

The black ribbon is tangled in the linen near your waist half-unraveled, like a confession. The air's thick with white peach and memory, and you're breathing it all in like it might disappear if you don't.

Love. The word sits in your chest like a bird that forgot how to be afraid. Is this it? This quiet after the storm, where nothing hurts and everything's warm and your body remembers kindness instead of fear? Where peace isn't just a pretty lie people tell in daylight?

His voice reaches you first - all sleep-rough and commanding, drifting through the penthouse like smoke. He's on the phone somewhere in the kitchen, words too far to catch but tone saying everything.

The silk of your robe whispers against your skin as you tie it. Your feet carry you toward his voice like you're caught in the undertow of last night's tenderness. Maybe you just want to see him. Maybe you just need to know this isn't another beautiful dream your mind made up. Maybe it's because for once, someone held you like you wouldn't shatter. You turn the corner.

And you stop.

You find yourself frozen in the archway, dawn's first light painting you in half-shadows. He hasn't noticed you yet.

There he stands - a study in contradictions. Bare chest catching morning light, sweatpants riding low, silver chain kissing his throat like a whispered threat. His shower-damp hair curls at the nape of his neck, soft in a way that makes your heart ache. The untouched water glass in his hand trembles slightly.

But his voice - winter steel now, nothing like the honey-warm murmurs from last night. All sharp angles and cold professionalism. You clutch your robe tighter, silk whispering against your skin like a warning. The transformation happens in heartbeats - his tone flattening, sharpening, becoming something familiar in its danger. Like watching a knife being unsheathed.

"No." The word falls like ice. "Don't bring him in." Silence stretches, taut as piano wire. "Leave him where he is. I'll handle it myself."

Glass meets marble with a gentle accusation. "I said leave him. Yoongi—this one's mine."

He turns, and time stops breathing. There you stand, a portrait in morning light - bare feet on cold floors, white silk clinging to last night's memories, hair still tangled with black ribbon. Peach perfume hangs between you like a broken promise.

The call ends abruptly, leaving silence to crystallize between you like. His phone finds its place on the counter with deliberate casualness. He shrugs, voice light as smoke. "What?"

Words fail you. Your eyes speak volumes. "It sounded like you were giving an order," you whisper, throat desert-dry. "To kill someone."

The pause that follows feels ancient. His response comes without hesitation even thought you see slight regret in his eyes. "I was."

Words echo through the kitchen like a shot that didn’t need a bullet. Your breath hitches before you realize it’s even left you, chest tightening under the satin tie of your robe. The morning light has turned unforgiving now — too clear, too sharp, too holy for a confession like that to survive without tearing something apart.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches you with that maddening, polished calm — the kind that doesn’t come from confidence but from certainty. The certainty of someone who has never had to regret his actions because power paved over everything that came after them. Jungkook stands there in black sweatpants and bare skin, the picture of a man too rich to be touched by consequence, too young to be so terrifyingly composed.

And you realize it — fully, bone-deep — that last night, you kissed a man who was capable of this. You let him touch your body with hands that break other men open. You slept in the arms of someone who casually decides whether another heart should keep beating.

You let him inside you. And he’s let death inside himself.

“I…” Your voice breaks like glass against tile.

He tilts his head slightly, unreadable. “Are you surprised?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He takes a step closer, but it’s not enough to reach you. Just enough to feel the weight of his presence settling into your skin like smoke.

“I never lied,” he says, quieter now. “You called me a monster. I never disagreed.”

You want to scream. You want to shake him, claw your way out of this invisible trap you’ve stumbled into, this house with velvet floors and bleeding walls, this man who kissed you like worship and murders without flinching.

“I know,” you whisper, and it’s all you can manage. “It’s just—”

The sentence never lands. It crumbles halfway through, pulled down by the gravity of your throat tightening. Your face crumples, lashes wet before you even know what you’re crying over — the shattered illusion or the horror of having ever believed in it. Tears spill silently down your cheeks as your trembling fingers fail to wipe them away.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper, and your knees almost give. “I am just so fucking stupid.”

He takes another step forward. His voice is softer now, unsure. “Y/N—”

“Don’t come near me!” It tears out of you like thunder, shrill and broken and sharp. He halts, hands open at his sides, stunned — and something flickers in his eyes then. Not guilt. Not remorse. Just something… hurt.

“You knew what I was,” he says, his voice rising now too, cracking like heat through glass. “Don’t look at me like I’ve changed. I didn’t pretend to be anyone else.”

You can’t stop the shaking. You want to run and tear and scream and break all the mirrors that ever told you this was safety. “I know. I just—I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you cry, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “I didn’t know I’d be the kind of girl who could fall for someone who kills people like it’s breakfast.”

He flinches. “You think this is easy for me?”

Your laugh is bitter, strangled. “Easy? It’s not normal to kill, Jungkook. It’s rotted. I guess I thought—God, I guess I was just confused. Maybe I mistook this all for love because I never saw love before? And maybe I am just broken—maybe I let you touch me and hold me and fuck me because I don’t know what else love could feel like.”

Silence slams into the room again. He stands there, chest rising, jaw tight.

"Could I ever be with someone like you?" you whisper, wiping under your eyes. "A man who deals in death? No. What you offer... this isn't love. This is just velvet and guns. And God help me, I got lost in how good they felt."

You turn then, robe twisting around your legs, footsteps already thudding back toward the bedroom before he can speak. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Don’t follow me!” you scream from the hallway, a sob catching on your throat. “I can’t even breathe around you anymore.”

For a moment, you hear nothing. Just the hum of the fridge. The distant city beyond the window. The silence that only comes after something inside you snaps. Then his voice, low and bitter behind you, cutting through the air like frost on glass.

“This is life,” he says, not loud, but deep enough to sink. “You’re either prey or predator. You think marrying a monster’s hard? Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be married to a coward.” You hear the door close seconds later.

He’s gone.

The bedroom is filled with lingering traces of your shared intimacy. Of everything that happened between midnight and morning — the black ribbon fallen half beneath the bed, the white peach still clinging to the hem of your robe, the echo of hands and lips and breath where silence now smothers it all.

You stand there for a while, motionless in the center of the room, one hand pressed to your lips like that might keep the sobs down. But they claw their way up anyway — low, gut-wrenching sounds that don’t belong to any version of yourself you’ve ever let survive.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the edge of the dresser. It’s instinctive, almost mechanical — the way you slide the drawer open, the way your hand curls around the strap of your old black backpack, the one you brought with you the day you arrived. It still smells faintly of Switzerland, of pressed notebooks and old perfume and snow.

Your body moves with the strange grace of someone else's strings - mechanical poetry written in desperate motion. Each movement is sharp, decisive, divorced from thought. Clothes tumble into the backpack like falling stars, necessities gathered by muscle memory while your mind screams white noise. Underwear. Blouse. Jeans. The basics of a life you're trying to rebuild, tossed together like a prayer. Your hands work faster than your heartbeat, racing against the clock of his inevitable return. You have to go - have to run - before his gravity pulls you back into orbit, before the dangerous warmth of him seeps back into your bones and turns your resolve to stardust.

With trembling fingers, you slip your ring off and place it on the marble counter of his bathroom beside his cologne. The note you write by hand comes out unsteady, the paper remaining crumpled as your shaking hands set down the pen.

If I ever meant anything to you, please don’t come after me. Let me go in peace. Let me have whatever life I can build without this. Don’t ruin it.

Your signature lingers at the bottom of the note, an inked farewell that feels heavy with finality. Placing it gently on his pillow, you turn away from the life you're leaving behind, knowing there's no turning back now.

The elevator descent feels like falling, each floor counting backwards as seconds slip by like shards of glass against your spine. When you reach the street, a grey and uncaring sky looms overhead as you step into a taxi, hood drawn up and voice carefully controlled while giving the driver your destination.

In the silence that follows, only the steady hum of tires and the blur of an indifferent city keep you company. Your phone's screen blazes too bright as you retrieve it with trembling hands. You try your sister first - one ring, two rings, then voicemail. You end the call before leaving a message.

When you dial Luca next, the four rings that pass before he answers feel heavy with unspoken weight.

"Luca," you whisper, voice trembling, "I left him. I need to come home."

There's a heavy silence before his voice comes through, flat and serious in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"You can't come home, Y/N. If Father finds out you walked out, he'll kill you."

His words carry no drama or shock - just the bleak certainty of someone intimately familiar with their father's nature.

"But where can I go?" Your voice breaks.

He exhales slowly before responding, "I'll send you an address. I have an apartment no one knows about. You can stay there while we figure things out."

"An apartment? I don't understand, when did you even…"

"Don't ask questions," he cuts in, his tone growing darker. "Just get off the street. Now."

The line goes dead and a message appears moments later - coordinates falling into your phone like a stone into still water. You read the address twice, memorizing it before turning to the driver.

He nods at your new instructions, changing course as the indifferent city slides past your window.

And then—time fractures like glass beneath winter's first frost. The world lurches sideways, reality splintering at its seams. The door bursts open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence. Dark figures emerge as rough hands grab you, pressing a chemical-soaked cloth against your face.

You fight with every ounce of strength, your body thrashing against the iron grip of your captors. But the chemical-laden cloth works quickly, and consciousness begins to slip away like all the maybes you’’ll never get to live. The world around you blurs and distorts, reality folding in on itself until finally, mercifully, everything fades to black.

final part is here

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

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amyzworldds · 1 month ago

Text

Title: Across Continents, Still You

Masterlist

Five years after leaving Seoul to protect Seokmin from a scandal, Y/N unexpectedly reunites with him at a wine festival in Rome, stirring old wounds and unspoken love. Pairing: DK x Y/N Genre: Slice of life, Angst, Drama WC: 5.4k

Y/N had carved out a life for herself in Rome, a far cry from the bustling streets of Seoul where she was born. Five years ago, she landed in the Eternal City for a job opportunity, trading the familiar hum of Korea for the sun-drenched cobblestones of Italy. The first year was a whirlwind of challenges—language barriers, a new timezone, unfamiliar weather, and the aching loneliness of not knowing a soul. But time, as it does, softened the edges. She learned to savor the bitter tang of espresso, mastered enough Italian to banter with locals, and even grew fond of the humid Roman summers. Most importantly, she found a small circle of friends who became her anchor.

Today was her day off, and her phone had buzzed early with a call from her friend Giulia. “Y/N, you’re coming to the wine festival in Greve, right? It’s tradition!” Giulia’s voice was bright, almost demanding, through the speaker.

Y/N laughed, pulling a light jacket from her closet. “Do I have a choice? You lot would drag me there if I said no.”

“Exactly!” chimed in Matteo, another friend, who’d grabbed Giulia’s phone. “We’re meeting at the usual spot. Don’t be late, or we’re starting without you.”

The Greve wine festival was an annual ritual for their group—two women, Giulia and Sofia, and two men, Matteo and Luca. They were locals who’d taken Y/N under their wing, helping her navigate the chaos of her new life. Over time, they’d become her family away from home. Y/N wasn’t a wine enthusiast when she arrived in Rome, but five years of festivals and late-night tastings had changed that. She could now appreciate a good Chianti, even if she’d never admit it to Matteo, who’d tease her endlessly about her “refined” palate.

Y/N drove to their meeting spot, a quaint plaza just outside Greve. The air was warm, carrying the scent of blooming lavender and fresh bread from nearby bakeries. As she parked, she spotted her friends lounging near a fountain, their laughter echoing.

“There she is!” Sofia called, waving dramatically. “Thought you’d bailed on us, Korea.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at the nickname. “And miss Matteo trying to pronounce ‘Sangiovese’ wrong again? Never.”

Matteo clutched his chest in mock offense. “My pronunciation is flawless, thank you very much.”

“Flawlessly terrible,” Luca added, earning a playful shove from Matteo.

The group fell into their usual rhythm, strolling through Greve’s charming streets. They stopped for pizza at a hole-in-the-wall trattoria, the kind only locals knew about, and then grabbed gelato—pistachio for Y/N, always. Luca, ever the photographer, insisted on snapping pictures, teasing Y/N about her “model poses” while she stuck out her tongue for the camera.

Y/N and Luca had a close bond, the kind that sparked whispers among their friends. People often teased them about being “more than friends,” and Y/N knew Luca harbored feelings for her. But her heart, stubborn as ever, wasn’t in it. She cared for him deeply, but romance? That was a door she’d locked long ago. So, they stayed friends, and Luca never pushed.

As the festival’s opening hour approached, the group joined the lively crowd at the entrance. They were near the front of the line, buzzing with excitement. Each grabbed a wine glass, the clinking of crystal signaling the start of their adventure. The festival was a maze of booths, each offering a different vintage, and soon the group scattered, chasing their favorite flavors.

Y/N wandered alone for a bit, her glass catching the golden afternoon light. She sipped a bold red, savoring the way it warmed her chest. As she moved through the crowd, she noticed a cluster of large cameras and a small crew. The sight piqued her curiosity, but what caught her off guard was the language she overheard—Korean. Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It had been years since she’d heard her native tongue in person, and the sound felt like a tether to a life she’d left behind. She smiled to herself, feeling a quiet joy at seeing fellow Koreans so far from home. Maybe they were filming a travel show, she thought, her mind drifting to memories of Seoul.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the tall figure in a white shirt until they collided. Her wine glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the cobblestone with a sharp crash. “Oh no, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, crouching to gather the shards before anyone could step on them.

The stranger knelt beside her, his voice soft but flustered in broken English. “No, no, my fault. Sorry, so sorry. Let me help.”

That voice. It hit her like a wave, familiar in a way that made her breath catch. She froze, her fingers hovering over a piece of glass. Slowly, she looked up, and the world tilted. Their eyes locked, and time seemed to unravel.

It was him. Lee Seokmin. DK. Her best friend from high school. Her first love. The man she’d dated when he debuted with Seventeen, only to break his heart two years later without ever telling him why. The reason she’d fled to Rome, carrying a secret she’d buried deep.

His eyes widened, mirroring her shock. “Y/N?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the festival’s hum.

“Seokmin…” Her voice trembled, barely a breath.

The world around them blurred. The chatter of the crowd, the clink of glasses, the distant calls of his Seventeenmembers shouting “DK, where are you?”—it all faded. For a moment, it was just them, crouched on the ground, surrounded by broken glass and unspoken history.

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Flashback

Back in high school, Lee Seokmin was already a star in the making, a trainee under Pledis Entertainment with dreams as big as his heart. Y/N, on the other hand, was just a regular student, her biggest worry being the pile of assignments due every Friday. The two were an unlikely pair, yet inseparable, their lives intertwined by chance and proximity.

It was a Friday afternoon, the school day done, and they walked side by side down the familiar Seoul streets toward their apartment building. Y/N’s backpack swung lightly as she rambled on, her voice bright with excitement. “Seokmin, I can’t wait for you to debut! You’re gonna be so famous, and you know what that means, right? Free food for me forever!”

Seokmin threw his head back, his laugh warm and infectious. “Yah, is that all I’m good for? Feeding you tteokbokki and ice cream?”

“Exactly!” she teased, nudging his shoulder. “You better keep your promise, Lee Seokmin. When you’re a big star, I expect you to buy me whatever I want.”

He grinned, his eyes crinkling in that way that made her heart skip. “Deal. I’ll buy you the whole world if I make it big. Just wait.”

Their closeness wasn’t just chance. They lived in the same apartment building—Seokmin in Seventeen’s dorm with his fellow trainees, Y/N with her family a few floors up. Their friendship sparked years ago when Seokmin, on his way home from practice, spotted Y/N outside their building, kneeling on the pavement, feeding a scruffy street dog with scraps from her lunch. He’d stopped, charmed by her kindness, and offered her a spare water bottle to wash her hands. From that moment, they were glued to each other’s sides. Same building, same class, same wavelength.

Seokmin was a golden retriever in human form—bright, warm, and impossibly kind. To Y/N, he was the gentlest soul she’d ever met, always ready with a smile or a silly joke to lift her spirits. He’d listen patiently to her complaints about school, sneak her snacks during late-night study sessions, and cheer the loudest at her small victories. To him, Y/N was his safe harbor, the one person who saw him as Seokmin, not just a trainee chasing a dream.

-------------------------------------------------------------

As they grew, so did their feelings. It wasn’t a sudden spark but a slow, steady deepening, like roots burrowing into the earth. They both knew it, felt it in the quiet moments—stolen glances during class, the way their hands brushed when they walked. When Seventeendebuted, and Seokmin became DK, their puppy love bloomed into something real. Y/N was there for it all, from his trainee days as Lee Seokmin to his first stage as Dokyeom. She cheered at his debut showcase, her voice hoarse from screaming, and he’d looked for her in the crowd, his smile brighter than the stage lights.

To Seokmin, Y/N wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was his future. Even as teenagers, he was certain. He’d lie awake in the dorm, exhausted from practice, dreaming of a life with her—lazy mornings, shared laughter, maybe a dog like the one she’d fed all those years ago. “I’m gonna marry you one day, Y/N,” he’d whispered once, half-asleep on her couch during a movie night. She’d laughed, thinking he was joking, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Years passed, and Seventeensoared. Their schedules grew hectic, their fame global, but Seokmin stayed true to his word. He spoiled Y/N relentlessly—not because she asked, but because he wanted to. A new scarf when she mentioned liking one in a shop window. Concert tickets to her favorite band. Late-night deliveries of her favorite desserts when she was stressed over college exams. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she’d say, holding up a box of pastries he’d sent.

“I know,” he’d reply, grinning over a video call from some far-off city. “But I want to. You’re my person, Y/N.”

They were each other’s anchor. When Seventeen faced pressure, Y/N was his voice of reason, reminding him to breathe. When college overwhelmed her, Seokmin was her cheerleader, sending voice messages full of encouragement. “You’ve got this, Y/N. You’re unstoppable,” he’d say, and somehow, she’d believe him.

-------------------------------------------------------------

But then came that night. Seventeen was in the middle of a world tour, cities blurring into one another. Seokmin was in a hotel room halfway across the globe when his phone lit up with Y/N’s name. His face brightened instantly. “Hey, you! Missed me already?” he answered, expecting her usual stories about college or a funny anecdote from her day.

But her voice was different—flat, distant. “Seokmin, let’s break up.”

The words hit like a punch. “What? Y/N, what are you talking about? Are you okay?”

“I just… I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” And then, silence. The call ended. He tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. Her number was blocked. Her social media accounts, gone. It was like she’d erased herself from his life in an instant.

Seokmin spiraled. He called her family, desperate for answers, but her parents were vague. “She’s busy with college,” her mother said softly. “Or work. She’s just… busy.” He went to their apartment when the tour ended, heart in his throat, but Y/N was never there. One night, he waited outside for hours, hoping to catch her, only for her father to step out, his expression kind but firm. “Seokmin, we love you. But Y/N has her reasons. She won’t tell us, and you need to stop waiting.”

Reasons. That word haunted him. What reasons? Why wouldn’t she tell him? Why had she vanished without a trace, leaving him with nothing but questions and a shattered heart?

-------------------------------------------------------------

Present

The world stood still as Y/N and Seokmin stared at each other, the shattered wine glass forgotten at their feet. The festival’s noise—laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of conversation—faded into a dull roar. It was as if the universe had carved out this moment just for them, a fragile bubble in the chaos of Greve. Their eyes held a thousand unspoken words, a history that neither time nor distance could erase.

“DK! We gotta go, man!” Na PD’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent, pulling Seokmin back to reality. At the same time, Luca’s voice reached Y/N, softer but insistent. “Y/N, you okay? What happened?”

A festival staff member approached, kneeling to clean the broken glass. “I’ve got this, don’t worry,” they said in accented English, waving them off.

Y/N and Seokmin stood slowly, their gazes still locked, reluctant to break the spell. Joshua, standing nearby, caught sight of Y/N and froze, recognition flickering in his eyes. He knew her instantly—the girl who’d been Seokmin’s world, the one whose absence had left him hollow for months. But the cameras, the crowd, the risk of a scene—it was too much. Joshua stepped forward, his voice steady in fluent English. “Sorry about the glass. Hope you’re okay. Goodbye.” He grabbed Seokmin’s arm, pulling him gently but firmly away.

Y/N watched as Seokmin was led through the crowd, his broad shoulders and familiar silhouette shrinking with every step. Her chest tightened, an old ache resurfacing, sharper now. Luca stepped in front of her, concern creasing his brow. “Y/N, seriously, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Seokmin was gone, swallowed by the festival’s chaos. She forced a smile, her voice unsteady. “I’m fine, Luca. Just… bumped into someone. No big deal.”

Luca frowned but didn’t push. “Okay, but we’re heading out. It’s getting dark, and Giulia’s starving. You know how she gets.”

Y/N nodded, letting him guide her toward their friends. But her mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment their eyes met. Seokmin had changed—his face sharper, his frame stronger, matured by time and fame. Yet those eyes, so lively and warm, were the same ones that used to crinkle when he laughed at her terrible jokes. He was different, yet achingly familiar, a living echo of the life she’d left behind.

For five years, Y/N had avoided Seventeen. No music, no news, no social media. She’d built walls around her heart, convinced herself she’d moved on. She’d endured the weight of her secrets, the pain of her choices, alone in a foreign city. But seeing him, so close yet so unreachable, shattered the illusion. The heartbreak she’d buried clawed its way back, raw and unrelenting.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, Seokmin was silent as Joshua pulled him through the festival, the other Seventeen members trailing behind with Na PD. The producer, ever observant, noticed the shift in Seokmin’s demeanor. “DK, what’s up? You okay?” Na PD asked, his tone light but curious.

Seokmin didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the ground. Joshua, quick to deflect, laughed. “He’s fine, just embarrassed. Bumped into a girl and forgot how to talk. Classic DK.”

The members chuckled, and Na PD grinned, letting it slide. “Who gets drunk off wine tastings?” he teased, clapping Seokmin’s shoulder. But Seokmin didn’t laugh. His silence was heavy, a stark contrast to his usual brightness. The members exchanged glances—something was off.

Joshua knew the truth. He’d seen Y/N, seen the way Seokmin’s face had lit up and then crumbled. He knew the devastation Y/N’s sudden departure had caused years ago. Seokmin had never fully recovered, carrying a quiet hope that their paths would cross again. The members had watched him struggle, piecing himself back together while clinging to unanswered questions. Joshua stayed close, shielding him from further probing.

That night, at the restaurant, Seokmin was a ghost of himself, pushing food around his plate. Na PD raised an eyebrow. “DK, you’re scaring me. Where’s the guy who was singing karaoke an hour ago?”

Joshua jumped in again, laughing. “Told you, he’s drunk on wine. Lightweight.”

“Drunk on wine?” Na PD scoffed, grinning. “What is this, a rom-com?”

The table laughed, but Seokmin’s smile was forced, his eyes distant. The members sensed the shift, their curiosity growing, but Joshua’s subtle glances kept them quiet. He knew this wasn’t the time or place.

-------------------------------------------------------------

On the bus back to their transient house, Joshua slid into the seat next to Seokmin, tapping his knee gently. “Hey. You okay?” he asked, his voice low, meant for Seokmin alone.

Seokmin nodded, staring out the window. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Joshua didn’t buy it. He knew those eyes, the way they hid a storm. But he didn’t push, just rested a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder, a silent promise of support.

Later, in the quiet of the transient house, with the cameras off and Na PD gone, the members gathered in the living room. The air was heavy, the unspoken tension finally breaking. Joshua spoke first, his voice steady. “It was Y/N. We saw her at the festival.”

The room stilled. Every member knew her name, knew the weight it carried. They’d seen Seokmin unravel when she left, watched him search for answers that never came. Now, here she was, in Italy of all places.

Hoshi broke the silence, his tone light but cautious. “Y/N’s in Italy? What, was she hiding from you in Rome this whole time?” He laughed, trying to ease the mood, but Jeonghan nudged him, whispering, “Don’t be insensitive.”

Hoshi shrugged, sheepish. “Just trying to lighten things up.”

Jeonghan sat beside Seokmin, his voice gentle. “So, what’s the plan, DK? You’ve been waiting for this, right? A chance to talk to her?”

Seokmin shook his head, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t know, hyung. I don’t know what to do. Or what to feel.” His voice cracked, raw with confusion. “We’ve got an early schedule tomorrow. Let’s just… rest.”

The members hesitated but respected his words, filing off to their rooms. Seokmin lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness pressing in. His mind replayed her face, her voice, the way she’d looked at him—like she was seeing a ghost, too. Five years of questions swirled in his chest, but one burned brighter than the rest: Why did you leave me?

He exhaled, turning to the wall. “I’m okay,” he murmured to no one, or maybe to himself. “Let’s just sleep.”

But sleep didn’t come. All he could think about was her, and the truth he’d been chasing for years, now closer than ever yet still out of reach.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The moment in Greve lingered like a ghost for both Y/N and Seokmin, a fleeting collision that lasted mere seconds but unraveled years of carefully buried emotions. It was their last interaction, a brief spark in the chaos of the wine festival, and neither knew if their paths would ever cross again. For five years, they’d built walls around their hearts, but that single glance had cracked them open, exposing the raw, unresolved ache they’d both tried to outrun.

For Seokmin, the encounter was a cruel tease of hope. Back in the transient house, he lay awake night after night, replaying her face, her voice, the way her eyes had widened with recognition. Was she living in Rome? Just visiting? He had no way of knowing, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. The odds of seeing her again in a city of millions felt impossibly slim, yet he couldn’t let go of the fragile thread of hope. “Maybe it’s a sign,” he whispered to himself one night, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe we’re not done.” But even as he said it, doubt crept in. What if that was it? A final, fleeting glimpse of the girl who’d once been his everything?

Y/N, meanwhile, fought a different battle. She’d spent five years avoiding Seventeen, steering clear of their music, their faces, their world. But seeing Seokmin up close shattered her resolve. Back in her Rome apartment, she found herself typing his name into her phone, hesitating before hitting search. When she finally gave in, the flood of results overwhelmed her—Seventeen’s global success, sold-out stadiums, awards piling up. Her heart swelled with pride, but it came with a sharp pang. “They’ll never know how proud I am,” she murmured, scrolling through photos of their NANA Tour, their laughter lighting up Rome’s streets. She remembered the grueling days of their trainee years—Seokmin stumbling home from practice, exhausted but smiling, trading normal teenage adventures for endless hours in a practice room. She’d been there through it all, from their debut struggles to the sleepless nights of their early tours. Knowing they were in Rome for NANA Tour, enjoying the city she now called home, brought a bittersweet comfort. But it also hurt, a reminder of the life she’d walked away from.

Life in Rome marched on. Y/N threw herself back into work, her days filled with meetings and deadlines. But the encounter with Seokmin lingered, a quiet undercurrent to her routine. Then, a rare gift arrived: her boss granted her a month-long vacation. She called her parents that night, their voices crackling with excitement over the phone. “Y/N, come home,” her mother urged. “It’s been five years. We miss you. Spend your vacation in Korea.”

Y/N hesitated, her mind flashing to Seokmin’s face in Greve. Could she handle being back in Seoul, where memories of him waited around every corner? But the longing for home was stronger. “Okay, Mom,” she said softly. “I’ll come.”

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Now, here she was, standing outside Incheon Airport, breathing in the crisp Korean air for the first time in half a decade. The familiar chaos of the city buzzed around her—taxis honking, travelers rushing past, the faint scent of street food in the distance. She adjusted her scarf, waiting for her parents’ car, when her eyes caught a massive billboard across the street. It was an advertisement, bold and colorful, and there, plastered across it, was Seokmin’s smiling face. His grin was as bright as ever, those lively eyes staring out at the world. Y/N’s breath hitched, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Of course,” she whispered to herself, her voice tinged with both fondness and pain. “You’re everywhere.”

She stood frozen, staring at the poster, memories flooding back—late-night walks, his promises to buy her the world, the way he’d looked at her like she was his future. Five years ago, she’d walked away, carrying a secret she couldn’t share. Now, standing on her home soil, with his face beaming down at her, she wondered if fate was playing a cruel trick—or offering her a chance to finally face the truth.

-------------------------------------------------------------

A week had passed since Y/N landed in Seoul, her hometown now feeling like a distant memory she was rediscovering. She spent her days with her parents, playing tourist in the city she once knew by heart. They ate steaming bowls of tteokbokki at bustling street stalls, wandered through Gyeongbokgung Palace like wide-eyed visitors, and laughed over old family stories at cozy restaurants. But Seoul, vibrant and alive, was overwhelming. The biting winter air, the spicy tang of kimchi, the rhythm of the city—it was all so familiar, yet it stirred a deep ache in Y/N’s chest. Everywhere she turned, Seventeen was there. Their songs spilled from coffee shop speakers, their faces beamed from mall billboards, their names lit up restaurant TVs. Each encounter was a jolt of nostalgia, tangled with a guilt that gnawed at her. For five years, she’d carried a secret, one that had driven her to hurt the one person who’d deserved nothing but her love. “I’m such an idiot,” she muttered to herself one night, staring at her reflection in her childhood bedroom mirror. “Why did I think I could just erase him?”

Tonight, unable to sleep, Y/N slipped out of her parents’ house and found herself walking toward the Han River. It was a place etched into her soul, where she and Seokmin used to stroll, sometimes with his members in tow, laughing and chasing each other like kids with no cares in the world. She smiled at the memory of Hoshi tripping over a rock, Seungkwan’s dramatic reenactments of their latest practice mishaps, Seokmin’s arm slung casually around her shoulders. Her laughter faded as she reached the riverbank, the water glinting under the moonlight. Then she froze. A familiar figure stood a short distance away, gazing out at the river, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light. It was him. Lee Seokmin. DK.

Her heart stuttered. She could turn back, pretend she hadn’t seen him, and let the moment slip away like she had in Greve. Or she could stay, face him, and finally confront the truth she’d buried. “Is this you, universe?” she whispered, her breath visible in the cold air. “Giving me a chance, or just messing with me?”

She hesitated, then glanced at him again—and her breath caught. He was looking at her now, his eyes wide with the same shock she’d felt in Italy. For a moment, they just stared, the river’s quiet ripple the only sound between them. Then Y/N smiled, a small, tentative thing, and walked toward him. She stopped a few feet away, her hands gripping the railing as she gazed at the water, gathering her courage. Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, her smile steadier now.

“It’s been a while, huh?” she said, her voice soft but clear. “How are you? You guys are huge now, aren’t you? I’ve been here a week, and your faces and songs are literally everywhere.” She laughed, light but nervous, her eyes flickering to the river to avoid his gaze.

Seokmin’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, we’re doing great. Working on a new song, actually. It’s… been a ride.” His voice was warm, but there was a cautious edge to it. “What about you? How’s life been?”

Y/N’s smile widened, a playful glint in her eyes. “Oh, I’m a full-on Italiano now. Just a tourist in Korea.” She laughed, then softened, her tone turning wistful. “I’ve been living in Rome for a while. Five years, actually. This is my first time back, and it’s… so nostalgic. Everything feels the same, but different, you know?”

Seokmin nodded, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for something she wasn’t sure she could give. They fell silent, standing side by side, the Han River stretching out before them, its surface reflecting the city’s lights. The quiet was heavy, filled with years of unspoken questions. Then, out of the stillness, Seokmin’s voice came, low and raw. “Why?”

Y/N’s heart clenched. She knew exactly what he meant. She turned to him, meeting his eyes for a brief, aching moment before smiling faintly. “I didn’t break up with you because I fell out of love.”

The words hung in the air, a fragile confession that left them both suspended, the truth teetering on the edge of revelation.

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Flashback

Five years ago, Y/N’s world had crumbled in a single moment. She’d just gotten home from college, exhausted from a long day of classes and drowning in stress over a pile of paperwork for a presentation due tomorrow. She slipped into comfy sweats, tied her hair up, and sank into her chair, reaching for her phone to call Seokmin. His voice always had a way of grounding her, no matter how chaotic her day had been. But just as her thumb hovered over the call button, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

Her heart stopped as she opened it. Videos and photos of her and Seokmin—intimate, private moments, stolen snapshots of their love—filled the screen. Below them, a chilling message: Break up with DK, or I release these and ruin his image. Her blood ran cold, her hands trembling. Seventeen was still rising, their name just beginning to shine. She’d seen the grueling years Seokmin poured into his dream—the endless practices, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. How could she let a scandal destroy that? How could she be the reason his world fell apart?

She was only a teenager, scared and unprepared. Acting out of fear, she made a choice. “Seokmin, let’s break up,” she’d said over the phone that night, her voice flat to hide the way her heart was shattering. When he pressed her, frantic—“Y/N, what’s wrong? Talk to me!”—she hung up, blocked his number, and cut him out completely. She knew he’d fight for her, knew he’d show up at her parents’ house, so she avoided him, hiding behind excuses of school and work. After graduation, when a job offer in Rome came, she seized it, fleeing to a new life where she could bury her guilt and try to mend her broken heart.

Present

Y/N stood by the Han River, the moonlight casting a silver glow over the water. Seokmin’s question—“Why?”—still hung between them, raw and heavy. She took a shaky breath, her eyes meeting his, and began to unravel the truth she’d carried for five years.

“That night I broke up with you,” she started, her voice trembling, “I’d just gotten home from school. I was stressed, exhausted, and all I wanted was to hear your voice. But before I could call you, I got a text. From someone I didn’t know.” She paused, her fingers tightening on the railing. “It was pictures of us. Videos. Private moments I thought were just ours. And a message saying if I didn’t break up with you, they’d leak everything and ruin your image.”

Seokmin’s eyes widened, his breath catching. “What? Y/N, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared, Seokmin,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was just a kid. Seventeen was just starting to make it, and I saw how hard you worked—how hard all of you worked. The sleepless nights, the practices, the sacrifices… I couldn’t let some stupid scandal destroy that. I couldn’t be the reason you lost everything.”

He shook his head, stepping closer, his voice thick with emotion. “Y/N, I would’ve fought it. We could’ve figured it out together. You didn’t have to carry that alone.”

“I know,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “But I wasn’t brave enough. I thought… if I told you, you’d try to fix it, and it’d make things worse. So I left. I blocked you, avoided you, and when I got a job offer in Rome, I took it. I thought I could move on, fix myself. But I never stopped feeling guilty for hurting you.”

Seokmin’s eyes glistened, his jaw tight as he processed her words. “All this time… I thought you just stopped loving me. I kept asking myself what I did wrong, why I wasn’t enough.”

“No, Seokmin,” she said fiercely, turning to face him fully. “It was never about you not being enough. You were everything to me. I loved you so much it hurt. I just… I couldn’t be selfish. I couldn’t risk your dream for my love.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, my dream meant nothing if you weren’t there. You were my anchor. Losing you… it broke me.”

Her tears fell faster now, her smile bittersweet through the pain. “I guess I just wasn’t brave enough back then. But I loved you, Seokmin. I still do. And I’m so proud of what you’ve achieved. Seeing you everywhere here, hearing your songs… it’s like you’re part of the city’s heartbeat. But I don’t know if love is enough right now.”

Seokmin stepped closer, his hand brushing hers on the railing, tentative but warm. “Y/N, I never stopped loving you either. Not for a second. Every city, every stage, I looked for you in the crowd. Even in Rome, when I saw you… I thought maybe the universe was giving me a second chance.”

She laughed softly, wiping her tears. “The universe is funny like that, isn’t it? Throwing us together in Rome, now here. But I hurt you, Seokmin. I don’t know if I deserve that chance.”

“You were protecting me,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes. “You made a choice out of love, even if it hurt us both. That’s not something to punish yourself for. It’s something we can learn from.”

Y/N looked at him, her heart aching with the weight of his words. “If we ever meet again… and we’re still looking at each other the same way…” She paused, smiling through her tears. “Then I’ll know. That even after everything, it was always you.”

Seokmin’s hand closed gently over hers, his touch grounding her like it always had. “Then I’ll keep looking your way, until the universe brings you back.”

They stood there, hands entwined, the Han River flowing quietly before them. The city hummed around them, but for that moment, it was just them—two hearts that had weathered years of pain, finding solace in the truth. Whether the universe would weave their paths together again, they didn’t know. But under the Seoul sky, with the river as their witness, they held onto the fragile hope that love, in time, might be enough.

-------------------------------------------------------------

an: DK looks like total boyfriend material to me! He seems like such a green flag, like a perfect prince. Where can I find someone like him???

561 notes · View notes

stylesispunk · 6 months ago

Text

The soldier in the armour | part ii

marcus acacius x f!reader

masterlist | previous part | next part

summary: Acacius left for battle while emperor Geta makes his way back to you in a sinister way. After returning, Acacius realizes he is not enough to protect you and you reunite with someone from your past.

wc: 14k???

warning: angst, fluff, age gap, power imbalance, harassment, anxiety, someone bites another person on here, allusions to smut, mentions of poisoning, mentions of blood, reader has a mental breakdown on this one.

a/n: hello! First of all I want to thank everyone for the amount of love you gave to the first part of this fic that was a request and it was going to be a one piece only. But now it has become a series. This chapter is full of a lot of things so i hope you like it and share your thoughts with me. I spent the whole afternoon finishing this and the weather is almost killing me. 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

You could feel the change of beating in your heart when marcus acacius looked at you now. The years of yearning and longing for freedom felt like they had met a fate the moment he said three words to you.

The golden cage you had been part of, the years of being of prisoner faded to nothing after he poured all his love for you in that kiss, in the way he touched every single inch of your skin when he made love to you.

You felt the freedom kissing your skin because you had him. You felt a string connecting both hearts beating and that was the way you coped with everything that was taken away from you.

acacius saved you, he completed you and made this world feel less lonely for you.

He felt the same, since how his hand burn over your skin or your heart beated like a beast under his palm.

He had come to learn how to love you, beyond the duty and protection he has swore to work for.

Now you were his heart and your life his purpose.

The hours before he had to leave for battle, the air around the Villa felt heavier. Charged with and unspoken tension of an impeding separation just when he had become addicted to your presence next to him.

Acacius busied himself with preparations, knowing he would give up everything in order to stay back with you. But he knew better. He was aware of how the glories he brought back from battles became the privileges that would keep your life safe.

After Lucilla sent Lucius away, you and her stayed in Rome, becoming prisoners under the ruling madness of Emperor Geta and Caracalla.

Always at bay, always with your life depending of the outcomes of Acacius battles.

And you, bound by blood and beauty, remained, a pawn in a dangerous game where your survival now depended not only on Acacius’ victories but also on Geta's unpredictable affection.

Geta’s obsession with you had become a double-edged sword. His love, if it could be called that, offered a semblance of protection, a shield against Caracalla’s wrath. Yet it was a prison of its own, trapping you within the steel of a cage, where every glance, every word, was laden with passive threats. You lived in constant vigilance, knowing that Geta's favor could turn to fury in an instant, and that fury could mean your end.

Now, Acacius battles weighed heavier over his shoulder. From this moment, with every campaign, he would risk his life, leaving you to endure the suffocating air of the emperor’s court, where you were little more than a gilded possession. He hated it, the helplessness, the waiting, the gnawing fear that one day he might not return, and you would be left to fend off Geta's advances alone.

You watched him from a distance, your fingers gripping the edge of the balcony railing. His broad shoulders bore the weight of his duty, but the occasional glance he cast your way betrayed the turmoil beneath his composed exterior. He was a man bound by honor, but also by a love that had grown more profound with each stolen moment between you.

"Will you look at me?" you whispered, your voice breaking the silence that had grown unbearable for him.

Acacius paused, his hands stilling on the edge of the balcony. Slowly, he turned to face you, and the weight of his gaze, filled with longing, regret, and the love he could never fully express in words, made your breath hitch.

"I fear," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "that if I do, I may never be able to leave."

You stepped closer, slowly, as though you could hold back time itself. "Then don't," you said, your hands reaching for him, your touch soft yet insistent as you placed your palms over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath his clothes.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "You deserve more than this life of waiting, of uncertainty. I cannot give you freedom, not truly. All I can give is my promise that I will return."

"Acacius, that’s all I need from you." you said, your voice firm, closing your eyes as you felt his warm enveloping you. “I have a surprise for you”

Acacius raised his head slightly, his brows knitting together in curiosity. “A surprise?” he asked, his voice soft but tinged with intrigue.

You nodded, a small smile breaking in this moment of madness. “Come with me,” you said, taking his hand in yours. He hesitated for a moment, his sense of duty tugging at him, but the warmth of your touch and the glimmer in your eyes proved irresistible.

You led him through the villa, weaving through the familiar halls now draped in the golden hues of early evening. The air grew warmer as you approached the chamber where the servants had worked quietly under your instruction. Pushing the doors open, you revealed the scene you had prepared.

The bath was set within a sunken marble basin, steaming water rippling gently beneath a scattering of rose petals. The room was lit by the soft glow of dozens of candles, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. The scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in the air, soothing and rich.

Acacius stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. “You did this… for me?”

You turned to face him, your smile soft and filled with affection. “You’re always giving so much of yourself to Rome, to the battles, and now to protect me. Tonight, I want you to let me take care of you.”

His eyes softened as they landed on you. "You’ve thought of everything," he murmured, his voice laced with gratitude.

You graced a small smile. "You deserve at least this much."

Acacius began to remove the layers he had worn all day, setting them aside piece by piece until he stood before you in nothing but the bare vulnerability you had come to know by yourself. He stepped into the bath, sighing as the warm water enveloped him, washing away the weight of the day.

You moved to leave, thinking he might prefer solitude, but his voice stopped you.

"Stay," he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours. "I want you close tonight."

Your heart skipped a beat at the quiet plea in his tone. You hesitated only briefly before nodding. Removing your dress, you stepped into the bath, the warmth of the water immediately soothing your tense muscles.

Acacius reached for you, pulling you gently toward him until you were nestled against his chest. His strong arms encircled you, his hand brushing lightly against your damp hair.

"For all the battles I’ve fought," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, "this one feels different. I can’t bear to leave you behind."

"You’ll come back," you whispered, your voice firm despite the lump in your throat.

He tilted your chin up, his gaze piercing and filled with emotion. "I will move heaven and earth to return to you, my lady." he promised.

You sat in the water together, the silence filled with the unspoken fear and hope that swirled between you. For that moment, there was no war, no emperors, no uncertain future, just the two of you, bound together by a love that defied everything else.

But still, you shifted slightly, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The warmth of his body and the soothing water wrapped around you, but the weight of reality pressed against your mind. After a moment, you spoke, your voice soft but filled with worry.

"I don’t like you fighting Geta and Caracalla’s battles," you admitted, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “They have done nothing to deserve the place they are at. All his glory comes from blood and murder. They don’t deserve loyalty.”

He sighed deeply, his hand stroking your back in slow, comforting motions. "I know," he said, his voice heavy with the same frustration. "I’ve questioned my place in their service more times than I can count. But my duty... it’s the only thing that keeps you safe. As long as I fight their battles, they have no reason to turn their cruelty toward you or Lucilla."

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. The name of your mother troubled you. You couldn’t even name the feeling, perhaps jealousy. After all, the years Acacius had spent his life on battle were to protect her before you.

"My happiness," he whispered, “It’s you.” He said as he could read your thoughts

"How was it like?" you asked softly, your voice barely audible above the gentle ripples of the water. "When you served in Maximus's army?"

Acacius shifted slightly, the tension in his body growing palpable. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, and he took a moment before responding. "It was... different," he began cautiously, his hand never ceasing its soothing caress along your back. "Maximus was a man of honor. He fought for the empire, yes, but also for something greater. For justice, for the people."

You noticed the change in his demeanor, the way his jaw tightened and his gaze drifted, as though he were remembering something painful. You knew there was more he wasn’t telling you, a truth hidden beneath his words. "You respected him," you said, more a statement than a question.

"Yes," Acacius admitted, his voice low. "He was a leader unlike any other.”

You studied his face, searching for more, for the deeper truth that lay behind his guarded expression. "Did you know him well?" you asked, your heart pounding in anticipation.

Acacius hesitated, his eyes meeting yours with a flicker of hesitation. "I knew him," he said carefully. "He was a great man, but like all great men, he carried his burdens."

There was something in the way he spoke, a weight that suggested he knew more than he was letting on. Your curiosity piqued, but you decided to tread carefully. "My mother never spoke much about him," you said quietly. "Only that he was a noble warrior."

Acacius's hand stilled on your back, and he took a deep breath. "He was loved by people." he said gently.

You nodded, understanding the unspoken words. "I remember him more than I remember my own father," you murmured, your mind drifting to the stories you had heard of Maximus’s valor and strength. “I remember seeing him fighting at the colosseum and I remember how Lucius got obsessed with becoming a gladiator…”

Your eyes drifted somewhere else as if you were trying to find an exact extract of a moment where you would find your brother inside your memories. Acacius’s expression softened, but there was a shadow in his eyes. He knew a truth beyond, something Lucilla had confessed to him only and he had sworn never tell.

"He defeated your uncle," he reminded you, his voice barely above a whisper trying to bring you back from your thoughts.

“I know. I can recall that day.” You said, and after a pause you spoke again. “He wasn’t different from Geta or Caracalla, but I remember how much he loved Lucius. More than me even.” You looked up at him for a moment, “I’ve never feel truly seen, truly loved…”

Acacius kissed your head, his lips lingering against your damp hair as though trying to imprint the moment into his memory. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space between your bodies.

“You will always be loved by me” he whispered as you closed your eyes at the sensation of his lips on your head. “Until my last breath.”

You tilted your head back slightly to look up at him again, your eyes searching his face. The flickering light of the lamps cast soft shadows across his strong features, but it couldn’t mask the vulnerability in his expression.

"You remind me of Maximus” you said, tracing his jawline “You’re the strongest man I know," you whispered, placing your hand gently on his cheek. "You’ll come back to me, General Acacius. I believe in you."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained solemn. "You make me want to survive every impossible fight, just to see your face again."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own. The bathwater lapped softly around you, the warmth a stark contrast to the cold reality of the coming day.

"Promise me something," he said after a long silence.

"Anything," you replied without hesitation.

"If I fall—"

"No," you interrupted, your voice sharp.

"Listen," he urged, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your arm. "If I fall, I need to know you’ll keep going. You’ll live, for yourself.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch impossibly gentle. "You’ve always been the braver of us," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "But I need to know you’ll fight for your happiness, even if I’m not there."

You swallowed hard, nodding despite the ache in your chest. "I’ll try," you promised, though the words felt hollow. You didn’t want to confess he had made your life easier to bare.

He kissed you then, not with urgency or desperation, but with a deep, abiding love that seemed to say everything words could not express. It was devotion in a silent vow; he would return to you.

And as the water cooled and the night deepened, you stayed in his arms, unwilling to let go, even as the weight of tomorrow loomed over you both.

When the early morning light peeked through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the bed where you still slept. Acacius lay awake, his arms wrapped around you, his chest pressed to your bare back, feeling your skin against his own. He observed the gentle rise and fall of your breathing, committing the peaceful moment to memory. Every fiber of his being ached at the thought of leaving you behind haunted by the demons that threatened to take you away.

Quietly, he shifted, slipping his arm from under you and placing a kiss on your shoulder. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake. With a heavy heart, he got out of bed, moving through the bedroom as he dressed in his armor, getting ready for another senseless battle. The sound of leather straps and the faint clink of metal echoed softly in the room.

Acacius paused at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you one last time. Your face, serene and unguarded in sleep, was a sight he wanted to carry with him into battle. He closed his eyes briefly, murmuring a silent prayer for strength before placing a longing kiss on your temple and stepping out into the hall.

Outside, a handful of guards waited, their expressions tense but respectful. They fell into step behind him as he strode toward the courtyard, the weight of his duty heavy on his shoulders. The morning air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the warmth he had just left behind.

“General!” a guard called suddenly pointing at behind him, stopping him in his tracks.

He turned, his heart clenching at the sight of you running toward him, barefoot, wearing your nightgown you must had put on in hurry. Your hair was loose, tumbling in waves around your face, and your eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Acacius!” you called out, your voice trembling with urgency.

He met you halfway, his hands reaching out to steady you as you nearly collided with him. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, his tone both tender and concerned.

“I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye,” you said, your breaths coming in quick gasps from running. “Not like that.”

His expression softened, and he pulled you into his arms, ignoring the curious gazes of the guards. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his armor as though you could anchor him to you.

“It’s too early for you to be outside. You’re freezing,” he murmured, rubbing his hands over your arms to warm you.

“I don’t care,” you replied fiercely, looking up at him. “I couldn’t let you go without telling you that I love you, Acacius. And I’ll be waiting for you to come back to me.”

His breath hitched at your words, and for a moment, the stoic general was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a man who adored you with every fiber of his being.

“I love you, too,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“You have made my life worth living again,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the weight of your words hung heavy between you.

His breath caught as he stared into your eyes, the raw vulnerability there piercing through every defense he had ever built. The battlefield, the war, the chaos Rome had become, all of it disappeared in that moment. There was only you, grounding him, giving him a purpose beyond the duty that had defined his life.

Acacius covered your hands with his own, the calloused warmth of his touch steadying your shaking fingers. “You’ve done the same for me,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I was lost until you brought me back to life.”

You smiled faintly, though tears streamed down your face. “Promise me you’ll come back. Promise me this won’t be the last time I see you like this.”

“I swear it,” he said firmly, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “By the gods, I’ll return to you. Nothing will keep me away.”

Your lips brushed his in a fleeting kiss, filled with all the love and hope you couldn’t put into more words. When he pulled away, he gently placed your hands back at your sides, as though committing every detail of you to memory.

“I’ll see you soon, my lady.” he said softly, before mounting his horse.

As he rode away, you stood there, the wind tugging at your gown, your heart heavy with emptiness. Watching him disappear into the horizon, you clung to his promise and touch, letting it light a spark of hope in the uncertain of what was coming without him anchor.

A gentle hand touched your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts. You turned to see one of your loyal servants, her eyes filled with concern as she took in the sight of your tear-streaked face.

"Come with me, my lady," she urged softly, her voice full of care. "You’ll catch a cold out here."

You nodded silently, allowing her to guide you back toward the warmth of the villa. The wind whipped around you, carrying the scent of the olives and the distant sound of Acacius’s departing horse still in your mind. Each step felt heavier than the last, your heart aching with the weight of a farewell.

Once inside, the servant led you to your chambers, where a fire crackled warmly in the hearth. She helped you out of your damp gown, wrapping a thick shawl around your shoulders. "You need to rest, my lady," she said kindly, her hands lingering on yours in a gesture of comfort. "General Acacius will return sooner than you expect.”

You offered her a faint smile, though the ache in your chest was still fresh. "Thank you," you whispered, sinking into the plush cushions of the chair by the fire.

The servant bowed her head slightly before retreating, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, their warmth doing little to ease the chill in your heart. You stared into the fire, replaying Acacius’s words in your mind, clinging to his promise as though it were a lifeline.

A few weeks had passed since Acacius left for battle, the days had stretched into endless hours that seem not to meet the dawn, time felt longer, the nights colder without Acacius filling the space. You found yourself feeling more tired lately, there were new changes happening to you body, some pain, uncomfortable sensation that you blamed on the deep emptiness settling in your heart that nothing seemed to fill.

So, as you sat at the table for breakfast, the familiar clink of silverware was the only sound in the room. Lucilla sat across from you, her regal presence unshaken, but there was a softness in her eyes as she regarded you. The way he looked at you, as a mother who was supposed to love her daughter.

"Acacius will return soon, my child," she said gently, her voice calm and reassuring. "He never—"

Before she could finish, you interrupted, a sharp edge to your tone. "You must know a lot about it," you said, your gaze fixed on your plate. The bitterness in your voice was unmistakable.

Lucilla’s expression shifted, a flicker of pain crossing her face. She set down her cup, her hands folding neatly in her lap. "What do you mean?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with a sorrow that mirrored your own.

You looked up, the walls you had built around your heart beginning to crack. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words and shared pain. “You were the one he returned to before.” you said, bitterness inking your tongue.

Lucilla's face softened, her eyes reflecting the guilt he carried, the story between her and Marcus that seemed unfinished. She took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as they rested on the table.

“Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was bound to me once, by duty and by the burdens we shared. But that was a different time, a different life.”

You felt the sting of her words, the truth you had known but never fully confronted. “Different time?” you asked, your voice trembling.

Your question hung in the air, thick with the weight of your emotions. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you looked at your mother, waiting for an answer. The air between you was charged with uncertainty, like the quiet before a storm.

Lucilla shook her head, her gaze steady and filled with an intensity that made your heart ache. “Yes” she said firmly. “You are his heart now. I see the way he looks at you as if the world begins and ends with you.” She paused for a bit "I never wanted you to be caught in the politics of this empire, my dear," she said, her voice soft but laden with guilt. "I never wanted you to be a pawn in a game of power between two men. But I feared what would happen if I didn't do something."

You looked at your mother, the weight of your question pressing on you. The air between you was thick with the tension of everything unspoken, of truths that had been hidden for so long. Your voice trembled slightly as you asked, "Would you have married Acacius if the emperor hadn’t courted me first? Would you have still arranged for him to marry me, or would you have chosen a different path for us?"

Her gaze fell for a brief moment before she raised it to meet yours again. "Had it not been for Emperor Geta, I would have never allowed Acacius to marry you.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips as you absorbed her words. "But you didn't expect he would end up loving me instead of you," you said, your voice laced with a mix of hurt and defiance.

Lucilla’s eyes flickered with a flash of emotion-wether it was regret or something deeper, you couldn’t quite tell. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her tone measured but filled with a quiet resignation. "No, I didn’t expect that. I thought his loyalty would always lie with me. I never imagined he would find in you what he once saw in me."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her confession settling heavily in your chest. "And yet, you still pushed us together, knowing it would tether me to a life I never wanted."

"I believed I was protecting you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "From the dangers of court, from the whims of powerful men. I thought if you were with someone like Acacius, someone strong and honorable, you would be safe."

"Safe?" you echoed, incredulity seeping into your tone. "You call this safety? Acacius leaving to fight battles to kept your place in this empire and protect me?” You took a deep breath, anger raising within you. "And what about Acacius? Did you ever consider how he felt in all of this?”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she met your gaze once more. "I didn’t think he could love anyone else," she said, her voice breaking. "I thought his heart was mine alone, even if our paths diverged. I never anticipated that he would find solace, comfort, love... in you."

The room seemed to close in around you, the weight of her words pressing down. "Well, he did," you said, your voice steady but filled with a quiet strength. "And now we’re both paying the price for your miscalculations."

Lucilla reached out, her hand hovering in the air between you. "I never wanted to hurt you," she whispered. "I only wanted what was best for you."

The silence stretched once more, but this time, it was not filled with bitterness. It was laden with understanding, a shared pain that neither of you could escape.

“I only want him to come back,” you whispered, finally allowing the tears to fall. “I want him to be safe.”

Lucilla reached out, her hand covering yours in a gesture of comfort. “He will,” she promised, her voice soft but resolute. “Acacius will return, because his heart belongs to you now, and nothing will keep him away.”

You couldn’t bear the thought of a life without him. Ever since Acacius had shown you kindness, the warmth his love could offer, he had filled the hollow spaces in your heart. You had become addicted to him, to the gentle way he would brush a stray hair from your face, to the force of his arms around your waist when the weight of the world threatened to crush you.

Before Acacius, your life had been a series of obligations and sacrifices, each day blending into the next in a monotonous cycle of duty you didn’t choose. But then he appeared, his unwavering loyalty and quiet strength breaking through the walls you had built around yourself. He had finally seen you as a woman with dreams, fears, and a desperate need for freedom.

You and Lucilla remained in a heavy silence, the weight of your shared worries filling the space of the room. The warmth of her hand on yours felt protective as never before.

A servant entered the room, bowing respectfully before addressing Lucilla. "My lady, Emperor Geta has requested your presence."

Lucilla shook her head, her voice firm yet calm. "Later," she said, unwilling to let the fragile moment between you both be shattered.

The servant hesitated, shifting uncomfortably before speaking again. "No, not you, my lady. Her." His gaze flicked toward you, and the room seemed to grow colder.

Lucilla’s hand tightened on yours, her expression hardening as she closed her eyes briefly, understanding the implications of Geta’s request. She knew this moment would come, had dreaded it ever since Acacius left for battle. Geta’s twisted fascination with you was no secret to her to you, neither to Acacius. That was the reason of your marriage after all, him providing protection from him. She feared what it meant now that Acacius was no longer there to shield you.

"Stay calm," she whispered, her eyes opening to meet yours with a shining light. "I will do everything in my power to protect you. Remember, you are stronger than you think."

Her words were meant to reassure, but the unease in her voice betrayed her true fear. You swallowed hard, trying to gather your courage as you stood. The servant’s eyes avoided yours, his discomfort evident as he waited to escort you.

With one last squeeze of your mother’s hand, you followed the servant, each step feeling heavier than the last. The shadow of Geta loomed over you, his intentions clear and menacing. But even as dread settled in your chest, you clung to Lucilla’s words and the hope that Acacius would return, his promise lighting a fragile spark in the darkness.

The quiet of the palace gardens was only broken by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant murmurs of servants. Emperor Geta was sitting on the stone bench, perhaps trying to gather his thoughts, when he noticed your presence. He turned around to face you, his golden robe gleamed faintly under the pale light of the sun, and there was an intensity in his eyes that unsettled you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he accused you, his voice carried yearning and longing. “I understand why, but I needed to see you. To speak to you.”

You stayed silent, your gaze fixed on the ground. His presence was overwhelming, and the weight of everything he had done, and might still do, pressed heavily on you. Yet you knew there was no escaping this conversation.

Geta crouched before you, his piercing gaze softening as he studied your face. “You’ve always been kind, even when you had no reason to be. Even when I didn’t deserve it. That’s why I love you,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Not because you are the princess of Rome, not because of your beauty or grace, but because you have a heart unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”

You flinched slightly at his words, unsure how to respond. “Emperor Geta,” you began hesitantly, “I’m your prisoner and my heart belongs-“

“To General Acacius,” he interrupted, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Yes, I know. But does he truly deserve it? Does he love you as I do? Does he see you for who you are?” He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I would give you everything,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “The empire, my loyalty, my life… I would burn the empire for you.”

You felt a lump in your throat as his words echoed in the morning. His words were both a confession and a threat, a reminder of the power he wielded and the danger that came with it. Before you could move away, he leaned closer, his forehead briefly resting against yours as if seeking solace.

Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around you in an embrace. It wasn’t harsh or demanding, it was almost tender coming from him. But the closeness made your heart race with fear. His lips hovered near your ear as he spoke again, his voice low and possessive. “You were made for me. There is not marriage, no power that can change that.”

Before you could respond, you felt the sharp sting of his teeth against your shoulder. It was a claim. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and wild, and you could see the faint trace of blood on his lips.

“That mark,” he said, his voice steadier now, “will remind you that you are mine, no matter what. Even if you deny it, even if you run to Acacius, you will carry me with you.”

You stared at him, horrified and furious, your hand instinctively going to your shoulder. The pain was sharp, and you knew the wound would scar, a permanent reminder of his obsession.

“You’re mad,” you whispered, your voice trembling with fear “This isn’t love, Geta. This is control. And I will never belong to you.”

His expression flickered, as though your words had struck a nerve. But the defiance in your voice didn’t deter him. Instead, he straightened, his composure returning. “You may hate me now, but time will change that. You’ll see,” he said softly, almost as if convincing himself. “One day, you’ll understand.”

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving you alone under the light of the sun, that now seemed to disappear. Your hand remained pressed against your shoulder, the wound throbbing painfully against your fingertips.

Your gown clung to your shoulder, damp with the blood running from the bite Geta had inflicted. The metallic smell lingered in the air, and the dull throb of the wound made your steps falter as you returned to the villa. You wrapped a shawl tightly around yourself, hoping to conceal the evidence of what had transpired.

The flickering lamplight in the villa's corridors cast long shadows as you entered quietly, your heart pounding in your chest. You prayed no one would notice your state. But as you made your way toward your chambers, a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Daughter?” Lucilla’s voice was soft but carried a tone of concern. She had emerged from her own chambers, her sharp eyes immediately taking in your pale face, the stiffness of your movements, and the crimson stain slowly seeping through your shawl.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re distressed. What happened?”

You shook your head, attempting to brush past her. “It’s nothing. I’m tired. I need to rest.”

But Lucilla was relentless. She reached out and gently pulled at the shawl covering your shoulder. “Let me see,” she insisted, her voice tinged with a maternal sternness that left no room for argument.

You hesitated, swallowing hard, but the look in her eyes left you no choice. Slowly, you loosened the shawl, revealing the blood-soaked fabric of your gown and the angry bite mark on your shoulder.

Lucilla gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “What in the gods’ name happened to you?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to find the words. “It was Geta,” you whispered hoarsely. Regretting the words you had throwing at her earlier, “He... he bit me. He said I was his. That I would never truly belong to anyone else.”

Lucilla’s face hardened, horror contorting her features. “That monster,” she hissed, her voice trembling with anger. “He’s lost his mind. He has no right to lay a hand on you- no right at all!”

She took your hand, guiding you firmly toward your chambers. “We need to clean this wound before it festers,” she said, her voice now brisk and focused.

You followed her silently, the weight of the revelation pressing heavily on your shoulders. The pain from the bite throbbed with each step, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. Lucilla’s grip on your hand was firm, a silent promise of protection despite everything that had transpired between you.

Once inside your chambers, she set about gathering water and cloths, her movements efficient and practiced. She didn’t speak, but the tension in the air was palpable, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. You sat down, your hands trembling as you tried to steady yourself.

Lucilla knelt beside you, gently peeling back the fabric of your gown to get a better look at the wound. Her expression darkened at the sight of the raw, inflamed skin. "This will sting," she murmured, dipping a cloth into the water and pressing it against the bite.

You winced, biting back a cry as the cool water met the tender flesh. "He said I could never escape him," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "That no matter what, I would always be his."

Lucilla’s hand paused for a moment before resuming her careful cleaning. "You are not his," she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for doubt. "You are your own person. No one has the right to claim you, especially not in such a barbaric way."

You observed her, focused on mending your wound with such caring.

“Was it worth it?” you asked.

Lucilla’s hands stilled, her eyes momentarily closing as if the weight of your question struck her deeply. When she opened them again, her gaze was heavy with emotion.

She set the cloth aside and sat back on her heels, her hands resting in her lap. "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I was doing what was best, what would keep you safe. I believed that Acacius could protect you in ways I could not. He brings the glory they lack of and-"

Her eyes met yours, the pain in them reflecting your own. "But I never anticipated this. I never thought Geta would..." She trailed off, her voice faltering as she fought to find the words. "I wanted to shield you from the dangers of this world, from the cruel games of men like him. I thought I was giving you a chance at something better, even if it meant sacrificing my own happiness."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing heavily on your heart. "But it didn’t stop him," you whispered, the bitterness and sorrow mixing in your voice. "Even with Acacius by my side, he still came after me."

Lucilla’s expression crumpled, her composure breaking as tears filled her eyes. "I failed you," she admitted, her voice cracking with the weight of her guilt. “I should have sent you and Lucius away.”

Her words hung in the air, a heavy confession that seemed to echo through the silence of the room. You felt a pang of sadness at the mention of your brother, the thought of him bringing back memories of simpler, happier times.

"You wanted to protect us," you said softly, your voice trembling as you tried to console her. "You did what you thought was best."

Lucilla shook her head, her tears falling freely now. "I thought keeping you close would be safer, that I could shield you from the worst of it. But I underestimated him, underestimated the depths of his cruelty." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "Sending you away might have spared you from this... this nightmare."

You reached out, placing a hand over hers. "We can’t change the past," you said, your voice steadier now.

As you held her hand, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over you, making the room spin. You blinked, trying to steady yourself, but the sensation only intensified. Your grip on Lucilla’s hand tightened involuntarily.

Lucilla’s eyes widened in concern as she noticed your pallor. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice laced with worry. "You’re pale."

You nodded weakly, though the dizziness persisted. "It’s nothing," you murmured, attempting to downplay it. "It’s been happening lately... just moments of dizziness. They pass."

Her brows furrowed with worry, and she guided you to sit down, her hands firm on your shoulders. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard," she said, her tone gentle but insistent. "Rest now. I’ll send for the healer."

You wanted to protest, to assure her that you were fine, but the fatigue and the weight of everything that had happened made it hard to argue. With a reluctant nod, you allowed her to help you lie down, her concern evident in every movement.

"Promise me you’ll tell me if it gets worse," she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "We can’t afford to ignore this."

"I will," you whispered, the heaviness of your eyelids pulling you into a restless sleep, Lucilla’s soothing presence the last thing you felt as you drifted off.

The moon casted a pale glow across the courtyard as Acacius rode back into the Villa. His horse’s hooves echoed softly against the stone pathway, a familiar sound that had once brought comfort. Now, with the weight of the world pressing down on him, it only seemed to remind him of the uncertainty and chaos that had taken hold of everyone he cared about.

As he dismounted, he glanced toward the fountain where Lucilla was tending to the delicate flowers growing around its edge. The peacefulness of the moment, in stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him, caught him off guard. His breath caught in his throat when Lucilla looked up, a soft smile appearing on her lips despite the weariness in her eyes.

"Acacius," she said warmly, her voice filled with relief as she walked toward him. Before he could say anything, she closed the distance between them and enveloped him in a tight hug. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, the familiar embrace both comforting and bittersweet.

"I’ve missed you," Lucilla murmured against his chest. "We’ve all been worried."

Acacius hesitated for a moment, then slowly returned the hug, the feeling of her presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. The tension in his shoulders seemed to lessen, but only slightly. He pulled back, searching her face for answers, as if he could find some peace in her expression.

"Where is she?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. His eyes flicked to the passages of the place, his heart racing at the thought of seeing you again.

Lucilla sighed softly, her expression softening with concern. "She’s asleep," she said gently. "She’s been resting a lot today."

“I need to see her.” Acacius said.

Lucilla placed a hand on his arm, stopping him from moving toward the door. "She’s asleep, Acacius. She needs rest more than anything right now," she said, her tone firm but caring. "Let her sleep, please. You’ve been gone too long. You need to eat something first. You’re no good to her if you’re running on empty."

Acacius clenched his jaw, his gaze flickering toward your chambers once again. "It doesn’t matter," he said, determination in his voice. "I’ll see her now."

Lucilla’s hand tightened on his arm; her voice soft but insistent. "Please, Acacius. For her sake, you need to rest too. She’ll be fine. I’ll wake her once she’s had some rest."

He looked at her, torn between the urge to be with you and the concern for your well-being that Lucilla had so clearly expressed. The room was heavy with unspoken words, the tension between what he wanted and what was best for you both almost too much to bear.

“No. I have to see her first.” He said, walking towards where you were.

The door creaked softly as Acacius entered your chamber, his heart pounding in his chest as the longing and concern filled his. The room was dimly lit by the fading light of the moon, casting soft shadows across the bed where you lay, still deep in sleep.

He moved quietly toward you, his steps light, careful not to wake you. His gaze softened as he looked at you, taking in the way your body relaxed under the weight of exhaustion, your face serene in a peaceful slumber. The sight of you brought a bittersweet smile to his lips, and without thinking, he sat down beside you on the bed.

His hand hovered for a moment before gently caressing your face, the touch tender and filled with affection. His fingers traced the delicate curve of your cheek, as if he could somehow erase the pain and hardship, you’d endured His thumb brushed over your skin, a silent apology for everything that had happened, for everything he hadn't been able to prevent.

He observed you. He watched over you memorizing every inch of a face he had missed you for weeks.

He lived for you, breathe for you.

At the touch, you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open slowly, the fog of sleep still clouding your mind. For a moment, your gaze was unfocused, as though you weren’t fully aware of where you were or who was beside you. Your eyes met his, but there was a distant look in them, as if your mind was still caught somewhere between the dream world and reality.

Acacius held his breath, his heart aching as he watched you struggle to fully wake. "It’s me," he whispered softly, his voice barely above a breath. "I’m here."

But before he could say more, your eyes fluttered closed again, and you drifted back into a deeper sleep, your breathing slow and steady.

A soft chuckle escaped him. He leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as he whispered to you, his words meant only for your ears.

"Rest, my love," he murmured, his voice full of emotion. "I’m back.”

+++++++++++++++++++

The soft light of morning filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. The air felt fresh, the quiet stillness of dawn wrapping itself around you like a gentle embrace. You slowly stirred, the remnants of a dream still lingering at the edges of your mind. For a moment, everything felt hazy, like the lines between the real and the imagined were blurred.

As your eyes fluttered open, you felt the comforting weight of warmth beside you, and a soft breath against your skin. For a heartbeat, you thought it was just another dream. Your mind was still foggy, the night’s turmoil and the strange sense of peace from the past few hours making it difficult to separate reality from the dreamworld.

But then, as your gaze shifted, you saw him.

Acacius was there, lying beside you, his presence so real, so tangible that it almost hurt. His features were softer in the morning light, his expression calm and peaceful as he slept. His hair fell in gentle waves around his face, and the steady rise and fall of his chest was a reminder that he was truly here.

You blinked, unsure whether this moment was part of your dream or if you had truly woken up to find him next to you. The feeling in your chest, the warmth, the weight of his presence, it was so vivid that it seemed too perfect to be real.

You slowly shifted, sitting up slightly, careful not to disturb him. Your hand reached out tentatively, brushing a strand of hair from his face. The touch was soft, hesitant, as if you were afraid, he might vanish like a dream upon waking.

But he didn’t. His warmth was solid, his breath steady, and as your fingers lingered near his skin, you realized with a rush of relief that he was truly there. You felt the tightness in your chest ease, the anxiety that had plagued you for so long slowly dissipating in the comfort of his presence.

Acacius shifted slightly, his eyes opening slowly, and when they met yours, they were filled with warmth, tenderness, and something more, something deeper.

"You’re awake," he whispered, his voice still thick with sleep but filled with a soft affection that made your heart flutter.

You nodded, still taking in the reality of the moment, still unsure whether you were dreaming or not. "I... I thought you were just part of a dream," you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I came to see you last night, but you didn’t truly see me” he smiled softly at you.

Your smile widened; he mirrored your smile. It made your heart swell. You were overwhelmed by the certainty that he was real, that he was here, and that this was not just another fleeting dream.

Without thinking, you leaned closer, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face, pulling him toward you. The space between you shrank with every heartbeat, and before either of you could say another word, your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle testing of the waters, but the emotions swirling inside you, the love, the longing, the relief, soon poured into it. It deepened, quickening, both of you unable to hold back the fervor that had been building for so long. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging him closer as if you couldn’t bear the distance between you.

Acacius responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you to him with the same urgency. His kiss was filled with the same passion, his hands tracing the lines of your back, pulling you into the warmth of his embrace as if you were the one thing that anchored him in this world.

You broke the kiss slowly, your forehead resting against his neck as you both breathed heavily, your heart racing. You lifted your head, looking at him into his eyes, searching for the same love dancing on them.

"I’ve missed you," you whispered, your voice shaky with the intensity of your feeling. “I’m glad you are back.”

Acacius's eyes softened as he gazed at you, the smile still lingering on his lips, but there was a quiet intensity now as he studied you more closely. "Last night, you didn't even see me," he chuckled, his voice low and full of affection. "Why are you so tired?" His gaze lingered on your face, searching for an explanation, a hint of concern creeping into his words.

But before you could answer, his eyes drifted to your shoulder, and the lighthearted smile faded instantly. His hand reached out gently, brushing aside the fabric of your gown to reveal the angry bite mark on your skin. His breath caught, his face contorting with anger as he traced the wound with his fingertips, his touch almost sacred.

"What... what is this?" His voice was a whisper, edged with disbelief and a growing fury. "Who did this to you?"

You winced slightly at the touch, but it wasn’t from pain, but from the overwhelming flood of emotions that rushed through you at his reaction. You were ashamed.

"It’s... from Geta," you said softly, your voice trembling as the memory of that night flooded back. "He... he bit me.”

Acacius’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he clenched his fists. He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, his gaze never leaving the wound as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. "Geta..." he growled, his voice low and filled with contempt. "That animal."

You swallowed, feeling a lump form in your throat as the weight of the situation settled on you. "It’s nothing," you tried to reassure him, but the words felt hollow. "It’s just a bite. I’ll be fine."

But Acacius wouldn’t be soothed so easily. He leaned closer, his hands gently cupping your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. "It’s not just a bite," he said firmly, his voice steady but full of determination. "You’re not just a victim of his games, and I won’t let you be."

His thumb traced the line of your cheek, his expression softening with an intensity that took your breath away. "I will make sure this never happens again," he promised, his voice low and filled with an unspoken vow.

Acacius's words hung in the air, carrying a promise as his hands gently cupped your face, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin. Without a word, he leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead, a tender kiss that seemed to erase some of the heaviness in your heart. His lips lingered there for a moment, as if grounding you in the warmth of his protection, before he moved to kiss your temple, his touch both gentle and filled with an overwhelming tenderness.

Each kiss was a quiet declaration of his love, his need to soothe the pain and the fear that had taken root in your heart. His lips trailed down your cheek, the soft pressure of each kiss igniting a calmness in you, a sense of safety that had been lacking during his absence. As he kissed your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks, his touch was soft and reverent, like he was willing to erase every trace of hurt you had face.

"You don’t have to carry this alone," he whispered against your skin, his breath warm as it fanned across your face. "I’ll be here. Always."

Your heart beat wildly in your chest, the overwhelming emotions of relief and love flooding through you as you closed your eyes, letting him soothe your pain. You weren’t his to fix but you were his to love.

The way he kissed you with such care, it was as if he was healing not just the physical wound, but the deeper, hidden scars.

As he kissed your lips, a soft, lingering touch, you finally opened your eyes to meet his once more. His gaze was full of such raw emotion, as though he, too, was feeling the depth of the moment.

"I love you," he whispered softly, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ll do anything to keep you safe, to keep you whole."

He knew the plan he had under his hands. He would free Rome from the tyranny and free you from the fear.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the announcer introduced the key figures present at the Colosseum. The names of the emperors, Geta and Caracalla, echoed through the massive arena, met with cheers and restrained applause. Then came Lucilla's name, and the reaction was thunderous.

"Lucilla, the beloved daughter of Rome!"

The cheers were wild, a wave of adoration sweeping through the crowd. People stood, clapping and calling her name, their admiration evident in every gesture. You watched as Lucilla stood gracefully, acknowledging the crowd with a serene smile, her presence commanding the space in a way that only she could.

Your eyes flicked to Acacius, who was seated beside you. His gaze lingered on Lucilla, a soft, unreadable expression on his face. Admiration, respect... perhaps something more?

Your thoughts were threatening to betray you again, after the accident with emperor geta not even Acacius’ reassurance could take you away from that dark place of your mind.

The thought clawed at you, your chest tightening painfully. You tried to look away, but the image was seared into your mind: the way his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, the way his eyes seemed to curse you.

Acacius was holding your hand, tightly but your skin felt empty. A cold wave of detachment washed over you. The cheers around you became distant, muffled, as though you were underwater. Your heart felt heavy, your thoughts spiraling into the possibility that you had been wrong all along.

Had he chosen you, or had he simply settled for you?

You were lost in the haze, barely registering the sound of the announcer continuing the introductions. It wasn't until you heard your name being called that the fog lifted.

"And now, the princess of Rome, our General Acacius' beloved wife!"

The crowd clapped politely, but it was nothing compared to the ovation Lucilla had received. You blinked rapidly, startled back into the present. Acacius had turned to you, his hand still touching yours.

"Are you all, right?" he asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His brows knitted with concern as he studied your face.

You forced a smile, though it felt brittle. "I'm fine," you replied, the lie slipping easily from your lips.

Acacius' gaze lingered, his frown deepening slightly, but he said nothing more. He turned his attention back to the arena, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as though to reassure you.

But the seed of doubt had been planted, and no matter how tightly he held onto you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he might not truly be yours.

You weren’t naive, nor blind to the reality of the world you had grown up in. The web of alliances and betrayals, the quiet manipulations cloaked in love and duty, those were woven into the very fabric of your existence.

And now, here you were, seated beside Acacius in the Colosseum, as the echoes of Lucilla's name still hung in the air. You couldn’t stop the twisting knot in your stomach. The way Acacius had looked at her earlier, the subtle warmth in his eyes, wasn’t something you could ignore.

You weren’t stupid. You had always known there was a past between your mother and Acacius, a bond that ran deeper than either of them cared to admit aloud. They might have buried it under the guise of duty, but you saw the shadows of it, lingering in their words, in their looks.

This wasn’t just about the admiration Acacius showed Lucilla in the public eye or the respect the people of Rome gave her. It was about how every move seemed calculated, as though Lucilla had once again positioned herself as the center of the narrative. And you? You were a mere piece on the board, trapped by the choices made to “protect” you, thrown into a marriage that sometimes felt like a gilded cage.

Your mind raced. Were you just another pawn in a game of power, destined to be discarded when your use was up? A part of you feared that Lucilla had orchestrated this entire situation, not to protect you, but to ensure Acacius stayed close, tethered to her orbit under the guise of protecting her daughter.

How Geta looked at you as if he owned you.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

"You’re unusually quiet today," Acacius said beside you, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity.

“I’m just… thinking,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, avoiding his intense gaze for a moment.

Acacius shifted closer, his presence radiating the strength you so desperately needed right now. “Thinking about what?” His tone was soft, but there was a sharpness in it, the concern for you evident beneath the calm surface.

You hesitated, biting your lip as the image of Geta’s cold eyes lingered in your mind and sitting just centimeters from you. "How he looks at me," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like he owns me. Like I’m a possession."

Acacius’s expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening as if he were struggling to keep his emotions in check. "He will never own you," he whispered for yourself to hear, his hand gently grasping yours. “You belong to no one but yourself.”

Before you could respond, the distant sounds of the gladiators preparing for the fight reached your ears, shouting commands. The world outside seemed to snap back into focus, the heavy air now filled with tension as Acacius’s duty called to him.

His hand lingered on yours, but there was a palpable shift in the air between you. The intensity of the moment, the weight of his words, and the fear of what might come next made everything feel suddenly fragile. For a heartbeat, you wished you could stay suspended in this moment, untouched by the chaos that was about to unfold.

Your attention also shifted to the arena, where the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd filled the air. A single gladiator stood out among the combatants, his movements precise, calculated, almost effortless. Something about him felt oddly familiar, tugging at the edges of your memory.

He moved with a grace you’d only seen in a few, his strikes landing with deadly accuracy, his stance reminiscent of a soldier rather than a slave. The sun caught the sharp lines of his face for a moment, and for a moment, your breath hitched.

It couldn’t be.

The gladiator turned slightly, and you swore you could see the faint scar across his cheek, the same scar you remembered tracing with your finger once, years ago. Just as he used to do it with yours, the one you had just above your eyebrow.

It can’t be Lucius.

Your heart raced as you sat frozen, unable to look away. What was he doing here? Why was he in the arena, fighting for his life as if he were no more than a pawn for entertainment?

"Are you all, right?" Acacius asked, leaning closer to you, his tone concerned.

You barely heard him, your focus entirely on the gladiator. The crowd erupted in cheers as he disarmed his opponent, standing victorious in the center of the arena. His chest rose and fell heavily, but his gaze lifted, scanning the crowd as if searching for someone.

When his eyes met yours, the recognition wasn’t there, but you feel in your heart.

He didn’t smile, didn’t falter, but you could see the fire in his eyes, the defiance, the unspoken words that passed between you in that fleeting moment. He was here for a reason and it wasn’t just surviving.

The ride back to the villa was suffocating. The echoes of the crowd’s cheers and the clash of steel still lingered in your ears, but your thoughts were consumed by Lucius. You had barely spoken a word since leaving the Colosseum, and Acacius, sensing your unease, remained silent beside you.

Your mother, seated across from you, attempted to meet your gaze, but you kept your eyes focused on the window. The weight of the day pressed down on you, and exhaustion threatened to pull you under.

When you finally arrived at the villa, you stepped out of the carriage without a word. The evening air was cool, but it did little to soothe the fire burning in your chest. You didn’t wait for anyone, heading straight to your chambers, your footsteps echoing through the empty halls.

Acacius called your name softly as you walked away, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t face him. Not now.

Once inside your room, you shut the door and leaned against it, the tension in your body finally breaking as you slid to the floor. You felt tears prick your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet.

Instead, you crawled to the bed, too drained to even remove your sandals. You climbed under the covers, pulling them tightly around you as if they could shield you from the storm inside your head.

Your eyelids grew heavy, and though the weight of the day lingered in your chest, sleep began to claim you. The last thing you heard was the faint creak of the door opening and quiet footsteps entering the room.

Acacius.

He didn’t say anything, and you didn’t have the strength to look at him. You felt the bed dip slightly as he sat beside you. A warm hand rested lightly on your shoulder, and his thumb brushed against the fabric of your sleeve.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice low, filled with a quiet worry.

+++++++++

The night was quiet as you walked through the villa, your footsteps muffled on the stone floors. The house felt empty despite the people inside, the silence pressing in on you. When you stepped into the garden, the cool breeze brushed against your skin, but it did little to calm the restless thoughts swirling in your mind.

It was there, among the shadows of the tall, ancient trees, that you saw them. Acacius and your mother, Lucilla, standing close together, speaking in hushed tones. Their words were soft, but you could feel the weight of the conversation, the tension between them thick enough to be felt even from where you stood. Acacius’s hand hovered just above Lucilla’s arm, his posture protective, and though their expressions were unreadable, there was something in the way they stood together that felt... familiar. Too familiar.

A sharp pang of jealousy gnawed at your chest, but you didn’t dare move closer. Instead, you turned silently on your heel and walked back to your chambers.

You couldn’t bear to stay in that room any longer, not with the questions swirling in your mind, not when you felt so abandoned in the very space that should’ve been your refuge. Without a second thought, you grabbed a cloak and threw it over your shoulders, the fabric billowing softly as you exited the villa once more.

The air outside the villa was cool and quiet as you slipped through the shadows, your heart pounding with each step. The guards were focused elsewhere, their attention scattered by the faint buzz of the city. The path to the gladiator quarters was one you had never taken before, but your determination pushed you forward.

When you reached the holding area, the scent of sweat and iron filled the air. Lanterns flickered dimly, casting long shadows on the walls. The clinking of chains and low murmurs from the gladiators made your stomach churn, but you pressed on.

Hanno, you were told his name was.

But in your heart, he was Lucius.

You spotted him immediately. His broad back was turned to you, his head bowed as he held something in his hands. The sight of him like this inside this cell, broke your heart.

Taking all your courage, you stepped forward. “Hanno.”

He didn’t look up. “What now? You people love seeing prisoners like this, don’t you?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

You flinched but held your ground. “I’m not here to gawk. I’m here to talk.”

He finally turned; his sharp features illuminated by the lantern’s glow. His eyes locked onto yours, cold and untrusting at first.

He stood in front of a prisoner dressed in gold, not knowing the story interlocked between you both.

You said nothing, frozen under his piercing stare.

Hanno stood slowly, his presence sent shivers down your spine, you didn’t fear him but the possibility of him being your beloved brother.

Hanno’s eyes narrowed as he looked you up and down, his stance growing more rigid. The silence between you felt thick, charged with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low and clipped, filled with suspicion. “Are you the general’s wife?” His words were sharper than the chill in the night air, and they stung like a slap.

You held your ground, refusing to be intimidated, though your pulse quickened at the mention of Acacius. The tension between you and Hanno was palpable, and yet you could sense something else, something more.

“I’m not here for him” you said, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. “I’m here to see the gladiators. To make sure they’re well.”

Hanno scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “You think they deserve your pity? These men? You’re nothing more than a part of this twisted game, just like the rest of them.” His words hit like a blow, but you didn’t flinch, though they stung nonetheless.

He stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the guards who watched from the shadows, before turning back to you with disdain.

“You wear their pain like a cloak, but you’re not one of them,” he spat. “You’re just another piece of property, owned by the man you married. Don’t pretend you’re anything else. You can’t fool me. You-”

He stopped abruptly, his eyes catching on something above your eyebrow. His gaze sharpened, his face shifting from scorn to recognition. His expression faltered slightly, and he took a step closer, his attention now focused entirely on the scar.

“That scar…” he whispered, his voice faltering. “No. It can’t be...”

You said nothing, frozen under his voice.

The world seemed to slow as your heart raced. You had never told anyone about it, not in years. It was a relic of another time, another life before this one, before the crown, before Acacius.

Hanno’s eyes widened, his hand rising instinctively toward your face, as if drawn by some invisible thread.

“Your name is Lucius Velarius,” Tears welled in your eyes as you spoke “You’re the brother to a siste who is stand in front of you right now, hoping that’s is you.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if trying to convince himself you were real. Then, without warning, he pulled you into a tight embrace, his rough hands trembling as they held you., You could hardly breathe, the weight of the revelation pressing down on you. The realization came slowly, but it hit you hard, like a hammer to the chest.

Your brother.

His eyes softened as the truth sank in, and for the first time in years, you saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the scar on your face, as if confirming you were truly there, truly the same person he had once known. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“I thought you were dead” you replied, your throat tight with emotion.

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his tunic. “I thought I would never see you again.”

He pulled back slightly, his hands gripping your shoulders as he studied your face. “Why are you here? This is no place for someone like you.”

“I had to see you,” you replied, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t stand not knowing if it was really you.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening. “You shouldn’t have come. If they find you here-”

“I don’t care,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “You’re my brother, and I won’t abandon you.”

His eyes softened again, and for a brief moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Then we have much to talk about, sister.”

+++++++++++++

Lucius sat down heavily on a wooden bench, wincing as he shifted his weight. The dim light of the small cell barely illuminated the fresh gashes and bruises marring his skin. Your hands trembled as you dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wringing it out before gently pressing it against a cut on his shoulder.

He hissed in pain, but you didn’t stop. “Hold still,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “These need to be cleaned, or they’ll get infected.”

Lucius watched you closely, his gaze flickering between your face and the careful movements of your hands. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

“And you shouldn’t be fighting for their entertainment,” you shot back, your eyes narrowing. “But here we are.”

He let out a dry chuckle, though it quickly turned into a wince. “You’ve grown sharper since we last saw each other.”

“You left me no choice,” you replied, dabbing at a particularly deep cut. “I had to learn how to survive without you.”

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the sound of water dripping back into the bowl. Lucius finally spoke, his voice quieter this time. “You know it wasn’t my choice.”

You paused, your hands stilling as his words sank in. “You never tried to come back.”

“I would be dead.” he admitted, his jaw tightening.

You shook your head, resuming your work. “But you are not.”

His hand reached up, catching yours and stilling your movements. “But what about you?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “What have they done to you?”

You hesitated, the question cutting deeper than any blade. “It doesn’t matter,” you said finally, avoiding his gaze. “What matters is getting you out of here.”

Lucius’s grip on your hand tightened. “And how do you plan to do that? These people… they don’t let anyone go, not without a price.”

“Then I’ll pay it,” you said, meeting his eyes with determination. “Whatever it takes, I’ll free you, Lucius.”

He stared at you for a long moment, “You’ve always been stubborn,” he said with a small, bittersweet smile.

“And you’ve always underestimated me,” you replied, dabbing at his wounds one last time.

Lucius's gaze softened as he watched you work, the rough edges of his hardened exterior beginning to crack just slightly. There was something in the way you spoke, the quiet determination in your voice that made him believe, if only for a fleeting moment, that maybe, just maybe, you could change the outcome of his life.

+++++++++

The trip back to the villa was a blur, your mind heavy with the thoughts of Lucius, and the promise you had made to him. As you arrived at the villa, the sight of the grand stone walls did little to ease the tension in your chest. You couldn’t stay in that cell forever, and you knew there would be consequences for what you’d just done.

Inside, the quiet stillness of the villa seemed to press in on you. You didn’t want to face Acacius, not after everything. Not after what had just happened with Lucius, with the way he had looked at you and spoken to you, reminding you of the bond you shared, the family that had once been torn apart.

But you didn’t have a choice.

Acacius was waiting for you in the courtyard, his broad figure standing against the fading light of day, the tension in his posture unmistakable. His eyes, dark and intense, followed you as you walked toward him. You could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical presence.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice edged with something sharp, something that wasn’t just concern. It was frustration. Maybe anger. You didn’t know anymore.

“I’m not here to discuss time, Acacius,” you replied, your voice cooler than you intended, but the fight in your chest was growing.

He stepped forward, his expression tightening. “Where were you?”

“Out, taking a walk,” you said bluntly, not willing to sugarcoat it.

Acacius’s eyes flashed with anger, and before you could even process it, his hand shot out, grabbing your arm with an intensity that caught you off guard. “Where?” he asked, his voice low but simmering with rage. “What were you thinking?”

You yanked your arm back, glaring at him. “What does it matter to you?” The words escaped before you could stop them, frustration bubbling over. “You were busy with my mother, right?”

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening at your words. His hand dropped from your arm, but the tension between you both was thick. "That's not the point," he said, his voice colder now. "The point is, you didn't come to me. You didn't think to tell me where you were going, what you were doing. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to go off on your own, especially with everything going on? After what Geta did to you?"

His anger was palpable, but so was the hurt. You could see it in the way his fists clenched at his sides, the way he stared at you as if you were slipping away from him, slipping away from the bond you shared. It was clear to him that there was something more, something deeper happening, and he didn’t know how to reach you in this moment.

He stepped closer, his breath coming quicker now, trying to seem calm, maybe even desperate, hidden behind the harshness of his words. "I care because I love you," he said, his voice low, almost broken. "Even when I’m angry.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, the raw honesty of his words piercing through the fog of anger that had clouded your mind. You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come.

"I don't need your love, Acacius," you said finally, the words slipping out more bitter than you intended, making up a lie you didn’t believe “Your love made me weak, Acacius.”

Acacius froze, his face going pale as your words cut through him like a dagger. The air between you both seemed to freeze, his body stiffening as if the words had physically wounded him. For a long moment, neither of your spoke, the only sound in the room was the heavy, labored breathing from both of you.

His voice trembled when he spoke again. "You think I made you weak?" He took a slow step toward you, his eyes searching yours with disbelief and pain. "You think my love for you made you weak?"

You tried to steady your breath, but it caught in your throat. Your heart twisted painfully as you met his gaze, seeing the hurt in his eyes, the raw emotion that mirrored your own. But you held firm, even as your chest tightened with regret.

"Yes," you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to remain cold. "I had to rely on it. On you. And now..." You couldn’t finish your sentence, the words getting stuck. The truth you refused to admit was suffocating you.

Acacius didn’t move. His face was unreadable, but his eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once looked at you with so much tenderness were broken.

The moment you saw the tears fall from his eyes, something inside you shattered. The wall you had so carefully built around your heart crumbled, and you felt the weight of everything you’d been holding in, your fears, your anger, your pain, all come rushing to the surface. You had hurt him, and the sight of his vulnerability, of the pain in his eyes, made you feel like you were drowning.

"I didn’t mean it," you whispered, your voice breaking as the truth tumbled out of you. "It’s a lie... I’m sorry, Acacius. I didn’t mean it."

Before you even realized what you were doing, you stepped toward him, closing the distance between you, and kissed him. Your lips crashed against his with an urgency you couldn’t contain, as if trying to take back all the hurt, all the mistakes, in one breath. The kiss was desperate, frantic, and full of apologies you didn’t know how to say.

He couldn’t hold back, he kissed you back, his arms pulling you closer, his hands sliding into your hair. His kiss was full of relief, as if he had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

You broke the kiss reluctantly, your forehead resting against his as you tried to catch your breath. "I’m sorry," you repeated, your voice barely a whisper. "I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t know how to... how to deal with my jealousy.”

Acacius cupped your face, his eyes searching yours as if looking for the truth in them. "I love you. Only you." he said softly. "

“Show me.” You pleaded, “Show me how much you love me, Acacius.”

His hands were gentle, but there was an urgency in his touch that matched the racing of your heart. Acacius pulled you closer, his lips finding yours again, this time with a fiercer intensity, as if he couldn't get enough of you. The way he held you made everything else in the world fade away.

You circled your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the warmth of his body press against yours. His arms were around you, steady and strong, and for a moment, it felt as though the weight of the world had lifted. There was no war, no political schemes, no uncertainty, only the two of you, caught in a moment of raw, vulnerable truth.

Acacius broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "You have me," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "In every way. I always have."

You could feel his heart pounding, matching the beat of your own. He held you tighter, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands roaming to places that made your breath hitch in your chest. "Show me," you whispered again, more desperately now, wanting to feel every piece of him, to bridge the gap between the broken parts of you both.

++++++++++++

The next morning, a summons arrived from Emperor Geta, delivered by one of his trusted attendants. You knew you couldn’t avoid him forever, though a sense of foreboding settled deep in your chest. As you entered the emperor’s hall, you were greeted with the sight of an opulent feast laid out on a long table, the scents of roasted meats and sweetened wine filling the air.

Geta stood at the head of the table, his expression warm but calculating. “Ah, the princess of Rome,” he said with a smile, gesturing for you to join him. “Come, sit. Let us enjoy the morning together.”

You hesitated before stepping forward, your gaze flicking to the feast. “Do you do this for all your prisoners?” you asked, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Geta laughed, a rich sound that echoed through the hall. “For you? Always.”

You took your seat cautiously, your back straight and your hands folded in your lap. Despite the lavish setting, there was no mistaking the undercurrent of tension in the room.

“I’ve heard some interesting tales,” Geta began, leaning back in his chair and studying you. “Stories about my dear princess sneaking into the gladiators’ quarters. Healing slaves, no less.” His eyes glittered with amusement and something darker.

Your stomach tightened, but you met his gaze steadily. “I didn’t realize compassion was a crime,” you said evenly.

Geta chuckled, pouring himself a goblet of wine. “Compassion? Is that what you call it?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Tell me, what’s going on? Why risk yourself for men who are nothing more than property? What would General Acacius say if he knew his wife was spending her nights in such unsavory company?”

Your heart raced, but you kept your expression calm. “Acacius has no reason to doubt me,” you said carefully.

Geta swirled the wine in his goblet. “How noble. But I wonder... is there more to this than you’re letting on?”

You forced a small smile, even as your hands tightened in your lap. “What could there possibly be, Emperor? I am simply doing what I can to ease the suffering of others.”

He watched you closely, as though searching for a crack in your armor. Finally, he leaned back with a sigh, his playful demeanor returning. “You are fascinating,” he said. “A woman of such fire and mystery. It is no wonder I love you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you maintained your composure. “I am married to General Acacius,” you reminded him firmly.

“And yet here you are, sitting with me,” he said with a smirk.

You said nothing, unwilling to give him more power over you.

The feast continued in strained silence, and though Geta’s attention remained fixed on you, you managed to deflect his probing questions. By the time the meal ended, you felt as though you had just survived a battle of your own.

As you left the hall, your mind raced with thoughts of Lucius. You couldn’t let Geta or anyone else discover the truth about his identity.

As the feast continued, Emperor Geta leaned forward, his piercing gaze fixed on you as you took a sip of the wine he had poured. The drink was sweeter than you expected, with an almost metallic tang that lingered on your tongue.

You set the goblet down, a faint unease creeping over you. Your head felt oddly heavy, as though the air around you had thickened. Still, you forced yourself to maintain your composure, unwilling to show any weakness in front of him.

“You seem quiet,” Geta remarked, his voice smooth and casual, but his eyes glimmered with something far more dangerous. “Is the wine not to your liking?”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “It’s... fine,” you managed, though your voice sounded distant, even to yourself.

He smiled, leaning back in his chair as though satisfied. “Good. It’s a rare ancient. Fit for a princess such as yourself.”

A strange warmth spread through your limbs, dulling your senses. Your vision blurred slightly, the edges of the room softening. Alarm bells rang in your mind, but you pushed them aside, trying to focus on Geta’s voice as he continued to speak.

“I can see why Acacius is so fond of you,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “You have a way of captivating men, don’t you? Even ones who should know better.”

You clenched your hands beneath the table, willing yourself to stay upright. “If you have something to say, Emperor, say it,” you replied, though your voice wavered.

Geta’s smile widened, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, I’ve said enough. The rest... well, time will tell.”

A wave of nausea hit you suddenly, and you reached for the table to steady yourself. Geta’s expression didn’t change, but you caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Perhaps the wine was too strong for you,” he said, feigning concern. “You should rest. Shall I have someone escort you back to the villa?”

You shook your head, forcing yourself to stand despite the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm you. “No... I can manage.”

He rose as well, stepping closer to you. His hand brushed your arm, the touch cold despite the heat radiating from your skin. “Take care, my dear,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

You pulled away, your heart pounding as you stumbled toward the door. The room spun around you, and each step felt like a battle. By the time you reached the villa, your body was trembling, and your breath came in shallow gasps.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,”

Acacius whispered, his arms pulling you closer, cradling you against him.

“I’ve got you.”

+++++++++++

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sunnami · 1 year ago

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❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)

pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)

wc. 24.1k.

tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?

cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.

a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!

act i. dear god, please save the little man.

“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”

Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.”

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all.

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly.

How repulsive.

In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.

And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest. “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.

Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting.

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.”

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.”

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.”

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life. “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.

So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.”

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.”

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.”

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.”

Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)

The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?

You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy.

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.”

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few.

With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)

act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.

THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.”

The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother.

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?”

You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.”

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?”

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.”

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?”

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.”

You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think.

For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance.

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?”

You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?”

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.”

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.”

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work.

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.

You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance. “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.”

A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.)

You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.

You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.

Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand.

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.

A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.

Children.

Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?”

“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position.

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children.

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?”

You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.

Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls.

Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally.

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”

You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.

After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots. The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)

After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you.

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.”

You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?”

Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks.

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.”

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)

Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?”

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!”

Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?”

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.”

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?”

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it.

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow.

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.”

James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought.

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion.

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

That, after all, is how you learned.

The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails.

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor.

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.”

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!”

A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.”

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?”

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?”

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.”

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.”

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?”

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”

The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders.

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly.

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.”

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”

And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background.

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!”

Turns out, you are not fine.

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen.

—

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly.

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.”

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.”

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius.

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.”

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!”

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!”

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.”

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.”

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close.

—

You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.”

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors.

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.”

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.”

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase.

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.

As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.”

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling.

For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you.

You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?”

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly.

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.

On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others.

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.”

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)

You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades.

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.

And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.”

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.

The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you.

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)

Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?”

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.”

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.”

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more:

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!”

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets.

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.

After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary.

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?”

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?”

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?”

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.”

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.”

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.”

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders.

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes.

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words.

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them.

Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell?

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive.

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.”

You want to go to sleep already.

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.”

You miss your cat.

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.)

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument.

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!”

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy.

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.)

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire.

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!”

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.

You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes.

“Daphne, get away from there!”

You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.

But there is nothing.

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom.

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.”

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.

He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.”

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile.

No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side.

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you.

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms.

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor.

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever.

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to.

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic?

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else.

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!”

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.”

The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.

On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.”

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)

Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another.

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.

As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you.

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.”

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?”

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.”

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.”

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye.

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.

How confusing.

All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.

(Hogwarts is the best!)

The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.

“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.

As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?

(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in.

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”)

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane.

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor.

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S.

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?”

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his.

He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing.

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl.

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.”

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.

But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie.

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)

In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her.

“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?”

Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.”

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching.

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.”

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . . I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground.

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.

“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.”

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!”

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.”

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle.

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents.

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.)

“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?”

“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.

Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.

You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”)

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time.

But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely?

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.

A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders.

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.”

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!”

“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!”

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!”

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!”

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?”

You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.”

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.

The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.

(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.)

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.

Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard.

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.”

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.”

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!”

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation.

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.”

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?”

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word.

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name.

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.”

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills.

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)

If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours.

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)

And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter.

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.”

“I promise. . . you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.”

You pass out in her arms.

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.

You are tired.

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?

The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now.

Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you?

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.

For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.

Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit.

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.”

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with.

You let your weight shift over the window.

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly.

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?”

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.”

An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.

Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.”

You stay silent.

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice.

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.”

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

Another.

Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion.

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days.

To do what is right.

To endure.

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve.

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.

Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—

Your mother.

Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands.

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!”

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands.

One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.

Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!”

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.”

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.”

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.”

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.

“Mum, wake up, please!”

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s.

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!”

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.

The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor.

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.

a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA

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lorelune · 5 months ago

Text

(michael kaiser x reader // 18+ MDNI // cws: yandere kaiser, stalking, reader smokes cigarettes, toxic behaviors // wc: 2.2k)

"so you really did it?"

"did what?" you ask, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke into the frigid air. your fingers are numb.

"break up with him!"

"kaiser?" you snort, taking another drag before speaking. "i guess? i called things off earlier today, but we weren't actually dating. so it's not like it's really a breakup."

"... sure."

your friend on the line hardly sounds convinced. but it is... true. you and michael kaiser never dated. you never had a label, never discussed any type of commitment or potential future together. though you had spent more than one weekend (try a dozen plus) at his apartment, oscillating between cuddling, fucking, and being in each other's presence's in a way that was distinctly not platonic—

you and michael kaiser were never dating. you were not together. (Regardless of him flying you out to one match in Vienna, and the another in Rome—) you weren't dating.

you never were.

you never expected to either. michael kaiser was transparently damaged, and handling it in an unproductive, destructive manner. you saw this from a mile away, but entertained your chemistry regardless. maybe it was the influence of a few drinks and a few heated arguments that got you in bed with him to begin with, despite clocking his toxic tendencies early on.

you fought a lot, for not being a couple.

care made kaiser squirrely and angry. kindness made him snap. aggression, biting and clawing— angry sex that metastasized into something carnal and closer to a fight resonated with him far more than little affections. you only saw moments of vulnerability from him when you were both fucked out and exhausted. or, when he thought you weren't looking. you felt him pet through your hair while he thought you were asleep, more than once.

you broke up with kaiser because you couldn't handle things as they were anymore.

maybe you wanted to be loved. maybe you wanted to be held, openly and tenderly. maybe, you wanted a partner and not a man with an ego problem who fucked like a god and treated you like invasive creature nine times out of ten when you showed him affectionate.

(you just want to be loved.)

the luxuries and innate chemistry of your relationship simply wasn't worth it.

so, you broke things off. over text, because it seemed the least messy.

[you]: hey, what we have isn't working for me anymore. i don't want to see you any longer. i care about you a lot, but what we have is not sustainable. i wish you all the best, michael.

(you try not to be too affectionate with your message, lest you rile him up. you want to be gentle, but not too... emotional. it's better this way.)

you block him after sending the text. clean breaks— it's kinder in the long run, isn't it? even if it hurts more in the moment.

you sigh into the receiver, tossing your cigarette butt to the side, "i mean it, we weren't ever serious."

"if you say so."

you kick at the snow beneath your feet. there's an inch or two of it on the ground, coating the cobblestones of the path you walk on. the river that cuts through your city runs, despite the cold. there's no one around, and it's peaceful beneath the amber-tinged street lights.

"you don't sound convinced."

"because i'm not." your friend pauses. "... have you seen his instagram story from today?"

"nope," you pop the word from your lips. "i blocked him."

"already?"

"immediately."

"damn. that's cold of you."

"you don't know kaiser like i do," you shake your head. it's better this way, to be cleaner.

(you have always been able to foresee the way that man would tear you apart, if you misstepped too grievously.)

"well regardless," a notification comes up on your phone. your friends has sent a screenshot of kaiser's story. "look. he flew out to your city."

your stomach drops. sure enough, the screenshot has a location stamp over a photo of kaiser's deft hands, twirling a flute of champagne from what is clearly a first class seat.

"... maybe he has a match."

(he doesn't. you know this; there's no league that plays in your city.)

"or, he's coming to see you!"

"that would be insane," you laugh. that bastard... wouldn't, would he? he is... was halfway across the world.

"it would be romantic."

"it would be insane," you repeat.

you turn on your heel, back the way your came through the parkway. your apartment is... about a mile away, maybe. it's dark and cold, but you can probably get back there quickly. you're not sure where this particular sense of haste comes from—

but it's a frantic sort of feeling.

your friend pouts, "you have no sense of romance then, i guess."

(and your friend doesn't know michael kaiser.)

anxiety pitches around between your stomach and lungs. you swallow, and it feels too dry.

"i promise i do," you shake your head. "that's the problem."

"sure. tell me more about it later, 'kay? i gotta get ready to go out. let me know if your man shows up!"

your stomach rolls. "gotcha."

"bye bye!"

the line goes dead. your drop your arm to the side, your phone like a deadweight in your hand. you take a few steadying breaths, looking out at the rush of the river. the roar of it is just far enough away to not be overstimulating. the rest of the night is blanketed in snow and stillness.

you nearly trip as you begin to walk again, panic unfurling in your chest with each step.

(there's no way michael came all the way to your city, on a fucking last minute flight no less, for you. there's no literally no fucking way.)

why would he anyway? to try and salvage your not relationship? that hardly logical. there has to be another reason— his team has had him in a few PR campaigns lately, maybe... maybe that's it.

(you know that you are lying to yourself.)

you slip, just for a step or two, on some ice that's beneath the layer of fluffy snow. barely, you keep yourself upright, your arms flying up to find your balance once more. you take a steadying breath, pressing a hand to your chest.

"you should be more careful."

the blood in your veins freezes, numb and chilled like the air around you. your head jerks up.

kaiser sits on a bench, about ten paces in from of you. his arms are spread out over the back of it. he regards you with a tilt of his head, almost playful.

he looks you up and down, voice full of poison, "you could have hurt yourself."

"why the fuck are you here?" your voice barely manages to stay steady.

"why wouldn't i be?" kaiser shakes his head, a laugh bubbling in his chest. the cadence of it makes you feel nothing but unease. "i've got a match in London. i'm just picking you up."

"what are you talking about?" you swallow, audibly. you know that he hears it.

"don't be obtuse." he stands up. your stomach fills with leaden dread.

"you don't be obtuse," you snap back. "we're done. this—" you point between the two of you, "— is over."

"that's a mutual decision." he steps toward you.

you step back. "no, it's not."

kaiser is faster than you, he's up against your front in a moment. it makes you stumble back, nearly falling on the same patch of ice as before.

deftly, he gets an arm around your waist. the force of it is immediately too much, too tight, too hard. you're pulled against him, chest-to-chest. you brace your hands on his shoulders, some attempt at distance, but he doesn't budge. he stares down at you, the cold heat of his own presence engulfing you effortlessly.

"i-it's not," you whisper, voice wobbling. "you need to leave."

"you're an idiot."

"please let go."

"now, you're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" kaiser smiles, something acidic that you can almost taste.

he bends the two of you, so your back arches. you scramble against him for some purchase.

"there's nothing to 'let go'," his sneers. you hit your fist against his shoulder. "you're coming with me to London, and you'll stop throwing this tantrum now, or along the way."

"it's a not fucking tantrum!" you snap at him. your voice matches the roar of the river. you meet his gaze, angry slipping into your tone as it so often does with him. "we are done. i don't want anything to do with you, michael— especially now. i can't believe you hopped on a fucking plane to, what, harass me on my own turf?"

his palms circles your jaw in a swift, uncomfortably fast movement. the pressure of him is unyielding. you can't look anywhere other than him.

the way he looks at you scares you, now more than ever. the frigid blue of his eyes is haunting and as hollow as it is full of vitriol. anger. all directed at you.

"i 'hopped on a plane' to take you home," kaiser dips you further. if he wasn't holding you, you'd crash to the ground. "i should've done so earlier, but i didn't expect that you'd lose your shit so quickly."

you weren't—, "i’m not—"

his grip on your jaw grows tighter. from a distance, this may look romantic to an onlooker.

from your position, you are in the jaws of a beast that you thought you had escaped.

"you're mine—" he pats your cheek, hard, as he tells you. the angle is bad, given it's with the same hand that's holding your jaw. your brain rattles inside of your skull. "don't think you can run away just because you got a bit scared."

"that's not why i broke up with you—"

"but, it is."

you want to cry, run away, jump in that goddamn fucking river. "no—"

"i get it," kaiser noses into your cheek. he's just as cold as you are. his voice is too soft; it unnerves you. "it's scary, loving someone. i'm scared too"

"i—" you don't love him, you can't love him—

he pulls back just enough to dip your body as far as it can go, and look into your eyes, his own pupils blown.

"let's be scared together," he says, just above a whisper, before slotting his lips against yours.

you slam your fist on his shoulders, his chest, the back of his head— you don't fucking care. whatever you can reach. kaiser doesn't relent. instead, he licks into your mouth. kisses you filthy in a public park just because he can.

maybe his words seem romantic, if you were to recount them to someone else. maybe. maybe someone could read his plane ride to you as a grand, romantically-driven gesture.

but, as he holds your head squarely in place, and fucks your mouth with his tongue, stealing your words and breath in tandem— you know, so lucidly, that none of kaiser intent here is 'romantic'. not in a way that's normal, that's sane.

no, this is the only way a deeper connection can exist for him, you think. the hand on your jaw slips down to your throat, holding you there. it's a collar and kaiser's holding the leash.

you whimper; you feel so foolish. you feel so fucking stupid for thinking you could disentangle yourself from him so easily.

"do you get it now?" kaiser says against you lips.

all you can do is nod, it's all the action he allows you.

all of the fights and tension that made connection between you before so intoxicating— it evolved into this. it was always destined to. you've been ensnared since day one, but didn't have the foresight to see you.

kaiser did, though.

as he pulls away, you're light-headed. he rights you and steadies you at the waist. he pats your head and even coos at you.

"are you done now?" he begins to walk you with a hand at your lower back— back in the direction you came. probably toward the nice hotel in the center of town where he undoubtedly has a suite. where he'll fuck you stupid into the king mattress. "if you cry, i'll just make it worse."

'worse'.

you shake your head, hard and fast, and suck down any tears beading at the corners of your eyes.

he seems pleased. "good."

there's nothing you can do but walk by his side. this has always been his design, even if you couldn't see it. regardless of any attempts to sever things and run off, even cleanly, this is where you'll end up.

hip-to-hip, with his hand on your lower back. with the promise of pain and pleasure doled out to you in equal measure.

as you step through the doors of the, as expected, upscale hotel, a wave of warm, fragranced air hits you. and with it, some part of you sags, defeated so simply. crushed. you sniffle and rub at your eyes.

(you don't see kaiser smiling at your side. you don't see the way he slips the concierge a wad of bills with the understanding that he'll be given a room far away from others, and that you won't be disturbed.

he has work to do. you— were going to fucking leave him? he— he needs to make sure that you understand that that is not your choice to make.

and, as he sees you, stifling tears and shaking like a leaf, your little act shattered so seamlessly, he thinks you really are starting to get it.)

you are his.

#lore writes #drabbles #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser x you #michael kaiser x you #okay. anyways.#tw yandere #he fascinates me and haunts me #i am chewing #digesting LOL #i will read this for grammar in the meantime SOUUUUP

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svt-luna · 4 months ago

Text

ʚིᵋ ⋆ NANA TOUR ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── episode 1-3.

Nana Tour with SEVENTEEN

synopsis: Episode 1-3! First step of the travel. Their first destination of the group tour in Italy is Rome! Find out SEVENTEEN’s fourteen ways to enjoy the Colosseum.

wc: 12.2k

we have finally made it to Italy! this took a while but please expect that already when it comes to nana tour since i will be writing the entire episodes word per word, so please be patient!! see you on the next one, my lovelies 🩵💙

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST

╰ ౨ৎ fan reactions ╰ ౨ৎ nana tour masterlist

[added captions are in brackets] ღ

bold dialogues are spoken in english ღ

The plane touched down on the runway with a slight jolt, the tires screeching softly against the pavement as the aircraft slowed to a steady taxi.

It was 7:30 PM in Italy, and after hours of travel, the SEVENTEEN members had finally arrived at Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. A quiet murmur filled the cabin as passengers stirred, stretching out their limbs after the long-haul flight. The overhead lights brightened slightly, signaling that they were allowed to prepare for departure.

[And they have finally arrived]

The members, still somewhat sluggish from sitting for so long, started moving at their own pace, reaching for whatever few belongings they had brought. Since this was a completely spontaneous trip with no luggage, there was little to collect aside from the essentials— passports, phones, and any random comfort items they had managed to carry aboard.

Mingyu, already standing near his seat, turned to Dokyeom with an exhale of realization. “We don’t need to look for our bags because we don’t have any,” he pointed out.

Dokyeom let out a short, almost tired laugh as he stood up, rolling his shoulders back. “Seriously.”

Luna, still seated, stretched her arms above her head, fingers flexing as she let out a small sigh. The slight ache of travel was settling in, but she wasn’t in any rush to get up just yet. Jeonghan, standing beside her, had already begun collecting their things— his movements unhurried but precise, making sure nothing was left behind.

[Make sure they don’t leave the little they have]

Around them, the rest of the members were already on their feet, some groggy but focused, scanning the seats and floor to ensure they weren’t forgetting anything important.

“Let’s go,” Hoshi announced from Luna’s other side, ready to move.

Luna glanced over at him, and before he could take another step, she pointed toward his armrest. “Shi-shi, don’t forget your passport, please.”

[oops]

Hoshi followed her gaze and immediately chuckled when he saw the small booklet sitting atop the armrest, completely forgotten. “Oh, right,” he laughed, picking it up. “That would’ve been bad.”

“That would have been terrible.” Luna chuckled.

[That would have been detrimental]

Luna’s reminder seemed to trigger something in Dokyeom’s brain. He paused mid-step, eyes widening as a realization hit him. “Wait, my passport,” he blurted out suddenly, his hands already patting down his pockets in a frenzy.

[What?!]

Luna turned to look at him just as Mingyu’s head snapped in his direction.

“You lost it?” Mingyu asked, a mix of disbelief and amusement creeping into his voice.

“I just had it—” Dokyeom mumbled to himself, already lowering into a crouch to peer between the seats. He shifted forward, checking the crevices between the cushions, his panic growing when he didn’t immediately see it. Mingyu, despite his teasing, crouched down next to him, joining in on the search.

As if sensing the potential disaster unfolding, PD Na’s voice rang through the cabin. “Passports. Make sure you have your passports.”

Luna, still sitting, exchanged a quick glance with Jeonghan before the two of them smoothly lifted their passports into the air to show PD Na they had theirs. They began making their way down the aisle, maneuvering through the scattered members still gathering their things.

“Mingyu, make sure you have your passport,” PD Na reminded, specifically directing it at him. Given Mingyu’s history— having already lost his passport once before they even took off— it was a warranted concern.

Mingyu, however, let out a laugh and instead pointed at Dokyeom, who was still hunched over, checking every possible place his passport could have disappeared into.

“Really? Again… really?” PD Na’s voice was laced with exhaustion, as if he had already accepted that dealing with these two was his fate.

Mingyu simply nodded.

[He is not one to judge]

The exchange immediately caught the attention of the nearby members. Luna turned toward them, brows raised. “Did you really lose it?”

“Really?” Jeonghan echoed, his tone teasing but genuinely curious.

[In disbelief]

Dokyeom, still entirely focused on his search, didn’t even look up as he absentmindedly patted his pockets. “Oh?” he murmured to himself.

Mingyu burst into laughter, shaking his head.

“What? Again?” PD Na repeated, now also joining in the search as if that would somehow speed up the process.

Dokyeom groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Why don’t I have my passport?”

Luna, standing near the exit, tilted her head, trying to be the voice of reason. “You had it earlier, Kyeomie. So it’s probably just somewhere in the plane.”

PD Na exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re lying, right?” He was practically pleading at this point.

“No, he’s being serious,” Jeonghan confirmed with a soft chuckle, watching the chaos unfold with entertained amusement.

Before anyone could dwell on it further, Dokyeom suddenly perked up. His eyes widened as he reached forward, pulling something out from an empty seat a few rows ahead.

“Found it,” he said, relief washing over his face.

There was a beat of silence before PD Na sighed heavily, shaking his head in disbelief. “Crazy. He’s crazy.”

“You found it?” Mingyu asked, standing up straight.

Dokyeom nodded, holding up the passport like a prize. “I had to sit over there before, so I left it there.”

Luna and Jeonghan exchanged a knowing look before finally stepping off the plane, deciding they had seen enough of the disaster unfolding behind them. They left Mingyu, Dokyeom, and PD Na to deal with the aftermath while they joined the other members who had made it out first.

“At this point, they better just hang their passports around their necks,” Luna deadpanned as they walked down the tunnel.

[Don’t give PD Na ideas]

Jeonghan grinned, chuckling under his breath.

From behind them, PD Na’s exasperated voice carried through the tunnel. “You guys are crazy!”

“He’s the passport killer,” Mingyu declared dramatically, pointing an accusatory finger at Dokyeom.

Dokyeom, still clutching his passport, could only let out a sheepish chuckle.

[He is two for two]

PD Na blinked, the realization fully dawning on him. “Come to think of it, Mingyu has no fault either. It was your fault.”

“It is all my fault,” Dokyeom admitted, laughing.

Luna sighed before linking her arm through his. “It’s okay, Kyeomie. We still love you.” Her tone was flat, but the amused glint in her eyes gave away her fondness.

Dokyeom chuckled as she pulled him along, her other arm hooked around Jeonghan, who was carrying Cherry, her red plush bunny, for her.

“It’s a relief you checked in the end,” Jeonghan told Dokyeom.

“Right. I don’t wanna imagine if you didn’t,” Luna added with a shake of her head.

[Let’s not]

As they walked further down the tunnel, the chaotic energy of their group trailing behind them, it was clear this trip was going to be anything but ordinary.

The moment Dokyeom sighed, relief evident in his voice, it was as if the weight of their spontaneous journey finally settled.

“At least we’re here. We are really here. I really wanted to get off.”

His voice carried that mix of exhaustion and sheer disbelief, but there was also an unmistakable tinge of excitement bubbling underneath. He turned the GoPro in his hands toward himself, then smoothly angled it to include Jeonghan and Luna walking beside him as they moved through the airport along with the rest of the members and the production crew. The camera’s lens framed the three of them in the middle of a bustling Italian airport, their expressions ranging from fatigue to amusement to sheer anticipation.

As they stepped onto the escalator, PD Na’s voice cut through from behind them, his tone laced with humor.

“You brought a clutch.”

The way he said it made it sound so ridiculous that laughter immediately rippled through the group. The members, as if suddenly remembering what they were all holding, looked down at the small beige amenity bag in their hands— the ones they had all taken from the plane because they quite literally had no other belongings.

“Everyone… everyone has the same,” Wonwoo noted with a soft chuckle, his gaze sweeping across the identical beige clutches in their grip.

[“I love my team, I love my crew” ~]

“All of you brought a nice clutch. Was it a group purchase?” PD Na teased further, and that was all it took for another round of laughter to erupt.

Luna, however, simply raised an unimpressed brow, her expression so deadpan that it only made it funnier. She turned slightly to look at PD Na, arms crossed over her chest, before delivering her response with effortless sass.

“Well, we don’t exactly have a choice, considering someone didn’t allow us to bring anything,” she quipped, dragging out the last word for emphasis.

[She will NOT be letting that go]

Her tone was light but pointed, making the members laugh even more, a few of them even pointed at her quick-witted remark. Jeonghan chuckled beside her, nudging her playfully with his elbow as if impressed by how smoothly she threw that in.

PD Na, on the other hand, blinked at her in mock disbelief, mouth slightly agape as if he truly had no words. Luna, fully aware of his stare, immediately averted her gaze and started looking around as if suddenly finding the walls of the airport terminal absolutely fascinating.

[Out of sight, out of mind]

The way she did it— so obvious, so deliberate— only made the situation funnier, and Jeonghan smirked, shaking his head as he chuckled at her antics.

“You guys got off with it because we don’t have bags. Smart,” Mingyu observed, pointing out how they had taken the airplane’s amenity kits while he, clearly, had not.

The group continued moving, falling into step with the stream of people heading toward passport control. The airport was busy, filled with travelers arriving from different parts of the world, the atmosphere buzzing with movement and murmured conversations.

The SEVENTEEN members, still riding the high of their impromptu trip, were actively engaging with their cameras, speaking in bursts of excitement and disbelief.

“I came to Rome, what do I do?” Mingyu muttered, almost to himself, shaking his head in sheer wonder as if he still couldn’t fully process it.

“It kind of hit me now that I came here,” Dokyeom added, his voice holding that familiar mix of excitement and slight overwhelm.

Meanwhile, next to them, Luna and Jeonghan were having an entirely different conversation with their camera.

“I’m tired,” Luna stated, her voice carrying that soft lilt of exhaustion as she turned slightly toward Jeonghan.

“I’m sleepy,” Jeonghan followed up immediately, mirroring her tone perfectly.

[The ‘I’m tired, I’m sleepy’ counter: 1]

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, their eyes locking as if silently communicating their shared state of drowsiness. Then, in perfect synchronization, they both chuckled— small, knowing laughs that felt warm and easy, the kind that naturally came from years of knowing each other inside out.

“Should we just sleep here?” Jeonghan mused, his voice light and teasing as he subtly tilted his head, as if actually considering the absurdity of the idea.

Luna sighed dramatically, stretching her arms before pressing her face on his arm. “Honestly? If there was a bench right here, I’d probably lie down.”

Jeonghan grinned at that, amusement flickering across his face. “You’d be that person?”

She hummed in confirmation, then pulled back slightly to glance at the camera. “If you see a viral video of an idol sleeping in an airport, don’t be surprised.”

Jeonghan let out a soft laugh, shaking his head before glancing toward the camera with a knowing look. “At this rate, she might actually do it.”

“I will,” she confirmed with zero hesitation.

[Viral moments by Luna]

Their back-and-forth was calm, effortless, and filled with the kind of natural chemistry that needed no exaggeration. It wasn’t loud, but it was the kind of exchange that felt warm and familiar, like a quiet pocket of their own amid the chaotic buzz of the airport. The teasing was easy, the humor understated, yet their energy bounced off each other so seamlessly that even the camera seemed to pick up on it.

Jeonghan shifted slightly, adjusting Cherry— the small red plush bunny he had been holding for Luna— before offering it to her. “Here, you can use Cherry as a pillow if you want.”

Luna looked at the plush in his hands, then back at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you… using Cherry to get out of lending me your arm?”

Jeonghan smirked. “Not at all. Just… giving you options.”

Luna let out a soft scoff but took the plush bunny anyway, cradling it in her arms before glancing at him with an exaggeratedly skeptical look. “Mm-hmm. Sure.”

Jeonghan simply chuckled, clearly entertained, before leaning in just a fraction closer. “I mean, if you really want my arm that bad, just say so.”

Luna rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” Jeonghan quipped, grinning, “here we are.”

[This is their way of staying awake]

Their quiet banter continued as they moved along with the crowd, the warmth of their laughter blending into the soft hum of the airport around them.

As they neared the passport control lines, the airport’s organized chaos became more apparent. Travelers shuffled forward, passports in hand, the soft hum of different languages filling the air.

Suddenly, a staff member stationed near the entrance of the lines started calling out, their voice cutting through the airport noise with clear direction.

“Korean here! Korean here!”

The SEVENTEEN members instinctively followed the call, moving toward the designated line as a group, their feet dragging slightly from exhaustion yet still carrying a spark of excitement. They were finally in Rome, and now all that stood between them and the outside world was passport control.

Just as they moved forward, Jun and Minghao hesitated for a brief moment, glancing at a different section of the immigration checkpoint.

“We need to go there, right?” Jun asked, looking toward their staff for confirmation.

One of the managers gave a small nod. “Yeah, that’s for visa screening.”

Understanding the situation, Jun and Minghao nodded back before veering off toward their respective line for passport holders requiring visa checks.

“Go safely,” Mingyu called after them, waving casually as the two Chinese members separated from the group.

The rest of them continued forward, the line moving at a steady pace. Jeonghan, who had been loosely linking arms with Luna for most of the walk, felt a sudden shift as she unhooked herself from him and took a step back. His head instinctively turned toward her, eyebrows slightly raised.

[???]

“Where are you going?” Jeonghan asked, his tone laced with mild curiosity, enough to grab the attention of a few members around them.

Luna didn’t answer immediately. Instead, a smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she slowly raised her hand, revealing a navy blue passport with a golden crest— her United Kingdom passport. She then pointed toward a separate immigration line designated for EU passport holders.

[Surprise]

“She has an EU passport,” PD Na announced.

The realization dawned on the members in waves, their tired minds taking a second longer to process before collective reactions of shock and amusement erupted around her.

“She gets to go through the fast lane?” Mingyu gawked.

“That’s so unfair,” Hoshi muttered, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh.

“You should’ve let us sneak in with you,” Seungkwan joked, crossing his arms with a mock pout.

[Impatient no. 1, no. 2, and no. 3]

As the members continued their playful protests, PD Na handed Luna her own GoPro so she could film herself now that she would be separated from the group. She took it with ease, adjusting the grip before giving them all a small nod.

“I’ll see you guys outside,” Luna said with a smile, turning toward her designated line.

[The biggest smile on her face]

The difference was immediate. While the Korean passport line moved steadily but was packed with travelers, the EU line had significantly fewer people. With effortless ease, Luna stepped through the zigzagging ropes, barely pausing as she moved through the line at a near-skipping pace, Cherry the bunny plush tucked securely in her arm.

[There she goes]

From behind the ropes, the members and crew stood watching her, expressions ranging from jealousy to pure comedic disbelief.

“Look at her go,” Dokyeom whispered, shaking his head.

“She’s already at the front,” Joshua pointed out, eyes narrowing slightly.

“This is so unfair,” Hoshi muttered, watching as Luna reached the officer in record time.

[Jealous no. 1, no. 2, and no. 3]

Meanwhile, Luna, now at the passport control desk, was greeted by the airport staff.

“Hello,” the officer greeted her in a professional yet polite tone.

“Hello,” Luna responded, immediately taking off her cap out of respect before handing over her passport.

The officer gave a brief nod, flipping through the pages as they scanned the document. It took all of a few seconds before they stamped it and handed it back to her with a small smile.

“Thank you so much,” Luna said with a slight bow before stepping forward, officially cleared for entry.

Without missing a beat, she lifted her GoPro and adjusted the angle, switching into full vlogging mode.

“Alright, so,” she started, her voice carrying that casual yet amused tone as she began narrating to the camera, “as you guys can see, I’m already through.”

She panned the camera briefly to show the empty space behind her, a stark contrast to the still-crowded lines where the members remained.

“I got through so fast because of my European passport,” she explained with a small laugh, turning the camera back toward herself. “And now, it’s just me and Cherry.”

Luna lifted the small red bunny plush into the frame, wiggling it slightly in greeting.

[Hello!]

“We are the only survivors,” she joked, her voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “We have lost the others… we don’t know when we’ll reunite.”

She paused for dramatic effect before sighing.

“I miss Cheollie.”

She let out another exaggerated sigh, glancing down at Cherry before shaking her head. “Leader-nim, where are you?” she muttered in fake despair, as if she had been abandoned on a great solo mission.

[He is now back in Korea… sleeping]

Still holding the camera, Luna made her way toward the airport exit, the large glass doors ahead signaling her transition from traveler to full tourist.

“I guess I’ll just wait outside,” she continued, panning the camera toward the doors before turning it back to herself with a resigned smile. “It’s hot. Just like I expected”

And with that, she pushed forward, stepping out into the fresh Italian air, ready to reunite with the rest of them once they finally made it through.

With a small sigh, she shifted Cherry the bunny plush to her other arm before slipping her jacket off, leaving her in her white cropped halter top. The light fabric was much more comfortable in the heat, and she welcomed the breeze that brushed against her skin. She folded the jacket neatly over her arm, securing it in place before glancing around.

The airport entrance was bustling with people, some waiting for taxis, others greeting family and friends. Luna leaned against a nearby railing, lifting her GoPro once again to document her wait.

After a couple of minutes, faint but familiar voices began filtering through the noise, growing clearer with each passing second. A small smile tugged at her lips before she even turned her head.

“They’re here. Finally,” Luna told the camera, her tone carrying a mix of amusement and relief.

[Translation: “I want to go to sleep.”]

She turned the GoPro slightly, aiming it toward the direction of the voices, though they weren’t yet visible.

“I want to lay down already,” she muttered, tilting her head back with a dramatic sigh.

Just then, an enthusiastic voice rang out loud and clear.

“We arrived!” Dokyeom announced, his excitement evident despite the long journey.

The moment the members finally emerged through the airport doors, they were met with the reality of their long-haul. However, the group wasn’t complete— Jun and Minghao were still missing.

“They’re still in visa screening,” PD Na noted, glancing at the large crowd still gathered inside.

“Where all the passengers were found,” Woozi muttered, shaking his head as he observed the long, seemingly endless line through the glass doors.

It was clear Jun and Minghao weren’t getting out anytime soon.

Despite that, the rest of the members spotted Luna almost instantly. She stood casually by the railing, one hand holding the GoPro while the other clutched Cherry.

As they made their way toward her, PD Na signaled for them to follow him toward their transportation.

Jeonghan, who had been walking near the back of the group, naturally gravitated toward Luna’s side. Without saying a word, he reached over and plucked her jacket from her arm, shifting it onto his own without a second thought.

“Wow, we’re really in Rome,” Jeonghan mused as they walked, his voice carrying a sense of realization that had only now fully sunk in.

“Are we taking a bus?” Hoshi asked, his eyes scanning the parking lot as they approached the large vehicle waiting for them.

“We need to,” Luna replied with a grin, motioning toward their entourage of staff, managers, and production crew. With their large group, taking separate cars would’ve been impractical.

As they neared the bus, the members slowly began to pile inside, each greeting the driver as they climbed the steps.

“Hello,” Luna greeted with a warm smile as she stepped up, still holding her GoPro in one hand.

Once inside, she instinctively gravitated toward a window seat, settling in before pulling out her phone. Jeonghan wordlessly followed, dropping into the seat beside her without hesitation.

She quickly unlocked her phone, tapping out a message to her mom to let her know they had arrived safely.

Meanwhile, the rest of the members settled into their seats, stretching out after their long journey.

“Did all the members get on?” Vernon asked, his head turning slightly to scan the bus.

“Other than Minghao and Jun,” Seungkwan answered, adjusting his bag as he sat down.

[The Chinese members still in line for their visa screening]

“Their line was really long,” Luna added, still focused on her phone as she sent her message.

Almost as if on cue, one of the producers, Hyo Jung, stepped onto the bus, addressing the group with an update.

“The visa screening line is kind of long,” she informed them. “I think we need to expect thirty minutes to an hour.”

PD Na, ever the instigator, turned toward Jeonghan. “Or Jeonghan…” he started, addressing him since he was the vice leader and, in Seungcheol’s absence, the one technically responsible for them.

“Should we go to our place first and play?” PD Na suggested.

“Oh, sounds good,” Jeonghan nodded without hesitation whatsoever.

[Translation: “Let’s go home and rest.”]

The sheer lack of deliberation sent the entire bus into laughter.

“You really have no affection,” PD Na deadpanned, shaking his head as the members burst into chuckles.

“I just baited you. I thought you would do that,” PD Na added, watching as Jeonghan chuckled, clearly unbothered by the comment.

The atmosphere inside the bus had settled into a comfortable quiet, the only sounds filling the space being the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustling of fabric as the members shifted in their seats.

Most of them were occupied with their own devices, heads bowed, thumbs moving at rapid speed over their screens. It was the easiest way to pass time while waiting for Jun and Minghao to finally clear their visa screening and join them.

Luna, however, had already started dozing off. With Cherry, her beloved bunny plush, hooked securely around her arm, her body naturally gravitated towards Jeonghan’s warmth, her face smushed against his chest. She didn’t even seem to register how his arm was draped around her shoulders, holding her close in an almost absentminded manner while his other hand was busy on his phone.

[And she’s out]

Jeonghan, much like the rest of the members, was completely immersed in his game. His eyes were sharp, focused, his expression unreadable as he played with practiced ease. Around him, the other members were equally engrossed— some locked in silent battles with their screens, others whispering occasional exclamations of triumph or defeat as they competed with each other.

“What are you guys doing? Are you guys playing games?” Hyo Jung PD’s voice broke through the silence, cutting through the heavy concentration in the air.

Jeonghan barely spared her a glance, a small chuckle leaving his lips as he answered, “Go-Stop. We are playing Go-Stop right now.” His tone was nonchalant, his focus still glued to his screen.

Hyo Jung PD blinked, looking around at the group of fully grown adults hunched over their phones as if their lives depended on it. The scene was ridiculously hilarious.

[This is how idols wait]

Meanwhile, Jeonghan’s eyes briefly flickered towards Mingyu. “Mingyu, how much money do you have?” he asked, referring to their in-game currency.

Mingyu, still tapping away at his screen, responded without looking up, “This? Right now?”

“Yeah.”

Mingyu hummed in thought before answering, “1.3 billion won.”

At that, Jeonghan nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Let’s play.”

Mingyu glanced up for a split second, clearly intrigued. “What’s your name?” he asked, referring to Jeonghan’s in-game ID.

A small smirk played on Jeonghan’s lips. “Hani Hani.”

Mingyu huffed a small laugh before diving back into the game, the competitive energy between them instantly intensifying.

As the game progressed, Mingyu suddenly asked, “You got five times worth right now?”

Jeonghan’s gaze flickered to his screen. “What’s good if I get five times?”

Mingyu, fully invested now, explained quickly, “When you win, you get five times more points.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at Jeonghan’s lips. “Man, that’s amazing… let’s just stop.”

Mingyu’s head snapped up, eyes wide in betrayal. “I lost 300 million to you?” He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “Jeonghan, I don’t want to play anymore.”

Jeonghan merely tilted his head innocently. “Why?”

[Cause he is losing]

Before Mingyu could protest further, Dokyeom suddenly piped up from the seat next to Mingyu at the back. “Jeonghan, do you want to play with me?”

Jeonghan’s brows lifted slightly. “Yes… what’s your name?”

Dokyeom grinned proudly. “Meow.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Your name is Meow?” Wonwoo, who had been silently listening, finally spoke up, staring at Dokyeom in mild disbelief.

Dokyeom nodded, completely unbothered. “Yes, Meow.”

Jeonghan, meanwhile, checked the game’s leaderboard and nearly choked. “Hey, you have 13.4 billion?”

Dokyeom shrugged casually. “I got all of Mingyu’s.”

A chorus of amused laughter followed. Mingyu let out a defeated groan, slumping back in his seat.

[Exhibit A on why he doesn’t want to play anymore]

“Wow…” Jeonghan chuckled, the sound light and teasing. The movement caused Luna to shuffle slightly against him, a sleepy grumble escaping her lips.

[shh]

Jeonghan glanced down at her, amusement softening his features as he reached up to pat her head lightly. She barely reacted, just burrowing deeper into his side. With a small shake of his head, he turned his attention back to his phone, continuing his game with Dokyeom.

Minutes passed in the same comfortable silence, only the sound of tapping screens and occasional murmurs breaking the stillness.

Then, finally, one of the producers called out, “They’re here.”

The response from the members was as lackluster as it could possibly get.

“Wow.”

“Congrats.”

“Come in. Come in.”

“Welcome.”

“Great job.”

Each reply was delivered in the same monotone, half-heartedly spoken without a single person actually looking up from their devices.

[No one is looking]

PD Na, who had been watching the entire scene unfold, let out an amused chuckle. “They didn’t come yet,” he clarified. “The car is here.”

Still, no one reacted much.

With a shake of his head, PD Na made his way up the aisle, his laughter growing. “But you guys were answering so half-heartedly. No one was looking.”

The members finally broke into laughter, realizing how ridiculous they must have looked.

“No one was looking. Everyone was on their phones… those two are sleeping…” PD Na gestured towards Luna and Vernon, both completely knocked out. Luna was still nestled against Jeonghan, and Vernon had his cap pulled low over his face, his arms crossed.

At that, more laughter erupted.

Then, at long last, the doors of the bus swung open, and two familiar figures finally stepped inside.

“Oh, you guys came,” PD Na acknowledged, his tone light.

This time, the members actually reacted, clapping as they greeted the newly arrived duo.

“You’re here!”

“Congrats!”

“Good job!”

[A complete opposite reaction from earlier]

The sudden noise startled both Luna and Vernon awake. Luna groggily lifted herself from her previous position, rubbing her eyes as she tried to blink away the sleep.

Jeonghan turned his head towards her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You were drooling on me,” he teased, his voice dripping with playful amusement.

Luna, barely registering his words, simply ran a hand through her hair before muttering, “You’ll live.” Her tone was dry, completely unfazed, making Jeonghan burst into laughter.

Still half-asleep, she turned to look at Jun and Minghao, offering a small smile as she mumbled, “Great job.”

Jun let out a dramatic sigh as he plopped down into his seat. “I didn’t know the line was this long.”

“It was so long,” PD Na agreed, shaking his head.

And with that, their group was finally complete.

The moment everyone had settled into their seats, one of the crew members announced, “We will leave!” signaling the start of their journey. As soon as the words left their mouth, the engine of the bus rumbled to life, and with a soft jolt, they were finally on their way. The movement was met with immediate, albeit somewhat delayed, enthusiasm from the members.

[On their way to their next destination]

“We are finally leaving and heading to the destination,” PD Na declared from the front, his voice filled with the same mix of excitement and exhaustion that often accompanied any trip with SEVENTEEN.

A round of claps and cheers erupted from the members, their energy reigniting now that they were officially on the move.

“Rome!” Dokyeom exclaimed loudly, his voice booming through the bus.

“Italy!” Joshua chimed in, equally excited.

“Italy!” Mingyu echoed right after, not wanting to be left out.

And as if to add a final flourish to their declaration, Dokyeom repeated with extra flair, “Italia!” stretching out the word in an exaggerated accent.

Joshua, seated beside him, turned to him with a grin. “DK is a pizza boy,” he announced, shaking his head in amusement.

At the mention of pizza, Dokyeom immediately perked up, as if the word itself had recharged his energy. “Pizza! Italy pizza!” he exclaimed, once again putting on his best— and worst— Italian accent.

[The loudest group are the ones at the back]

From her seat, Luna could only smile at the antics unfolding at the very back of the bus. Their energy was relentless, filling every corner of the space with chaotic yet infectious excitement. Meanwhile, PD Na, who was already dealing with the inevitable exhaustion that came with managing SEVENTEEN, let out a tired chuckle, rubbing his temples as if bracing himself for the long journey ahead.

“This is Italy,” he confirmed, as if saying it aloud would help him maintain control over the increasingly rowdy group.

[Exhausted]

To steer the conversation back to something remotely educational, one of the producers added, “The name of their airport— it’s called Leonardo da Vinci Airport.”

There was a moment of silence as the members nodded in acknowledgment, their brains momentarily digesting the information.

And then—

“Vernon!” Dokyeom suddenly called out with a sense of urgency, as if he had just made a groundbreaking discovery.

Immediately, Joshua, Mingyu, and Wonwoo turned their heads toward him, their expressions varying from confusion to mild concern.

Up front, Luna, who had been listening in with mild amusement, couldn’t help but grin.

“Wrong Leonardo,” she pointed out from her seat, effortlessly seeing through the misunderstanding.

Mingyu, finally catching on, let out a chuckle. “Not DiCaprio… da Vinci,” he clarified, shaking his head in exasperation at Dokyeom’s mistake.

Realization dawned on Dokyeom’s face, and the moment it did, he burst into laughter, as if even he couldn’t believe what he had just done.

Joshua, deciding this moment needed further explanation for PD Na and the crew, leaned in slightly. “Long time ago, Vernon, he heard that he looked like Leonardo DiCaprio,” he began, his tone carrying the weight of an old legend being retold.

PD Na raised his brows with interest, while the crew chuckled, already sensing where this was going.

“So when you said it was da Vinci…” Joshua trailed off, throwing a knowing look at Dokyeom before delivering the final punchline, “‘Dokyeom went, ‘Vernon!’”

That was it— the entire bus erupted into laughter. Dokyeom, at the center of it all, was already doubled over, his shoulders shaking as he covered his face in embarrassment. Even PD Na let out a chuckle, shaking his head at just how absurdly their minds worked sometimes.

“I said it to be funny!” Dokyeom reasoned, still laughing but now attempting to defend himself.

Joshua, who clearly wasn��t going to let this go so easily, nodded in exaggerated understanding. “A different Leonardo.”

“I said it after hearing Leonardo,” Dokyeom chuckled, finally accepting his fate.

As the laughter from Dokyeom’s Leonardo mishap finally died down, the energy in the bus settled just enough for PD Na to seize the opportunity to continue his announcements. He cleared his throat, sitting up slightly in his seat as he addressed the group once more.

“It takes about thirty minutes to the city,” he informed them, his voice cutting through the lingering chuckles. “Our dorm for today is an Airbnb.”

The announcement was met with an immediate and enthusiastic response from the back of the bus.

“Airbnb!” Dokyeom and Mingyu chorused in perfect sync, their voices filled with excitement as they cheered.

[Na PD’s cheerleaders]

PD Na, who was by now well-accustomed to the members’ habit of reacting to literally anything with enthusiasm, could only chuckle as he shook his head. “You guys like it all when I say anything.”

“Airbnb is nice,” Dokyeom explained matter-of-factly, as if justifying their excitement.

“Nicer than a hotel,” Mingyu followed, nodding in agreement, despite the fact that neither had actually seen the place yet.

Luna, seated near the front, turned slightly to glance at the two from her seat, her lips curling into an amused smile. Their enthusiasm for even the simplest things was both endearing and hilarious, and at this point, she wasn’t even surprised anymore.

PD Na, who had already resigned himself to the group’s chaotic nature, simply pressed on. “On the way to the Airbnb, since we have arrived at Rome, I thought that you might be kind of sad to just go home.”

“Oh, it is disappointing,” Dokyeom immediately agreed, nodding seriously, as if PD Na had personally read his thoughts.

“So,” PD Na continued, undeterred, “we are going to have a group photo at the Colosseum.”

The moment the words left his mouth, a wave of excitement swept through the bus.

“Colosseum picture!” Dokyeom practically leaped out of his seat, throwing one hand up in pure enthusiasm.

[It’s either the excitement or the lack of sleep]

From her seat, Luna turned to look at him again, this time pointing at him as she let out a chuckle, obviously amused by how quickly his energy rebounded with every new announcement.

“The Colosseum— you all know how it looks like, right?” PD Na asked, shifting the conversation towards something slightly educational.

“Yes,” the members responded in unison, their voices harmonizing in a way that almost sounded rehearsed.

“Round,” Hoshi added confidently, as if he had just unlocked a deep historical fact.

PD Na nodded approvingly. “It looked round,” he repeated, acknowledging the correctness of Hoshi’s very basic observation.

Still in his educational mode, PD Na continued, “It’s a building that was made about two thousand years ago. It’s an ancient theater. Simply put, it’s an amphitheater.”

The members fell into a brief silence, listening attentively— though some of them were probably only half-paying attention, distracted by the thought of taking pictures there.

“There’s an audience, and what do you think they did in the center?” PD Na quizzed them, clearly trying to keep their engagement up.

“Fight,” Luna answered first, her voice confident.

“Duel,” Mingyu followed right after, nodding to himself.

“Bullfight,” Hoshi added, looking particularly intrigued.

PD Na nodded. “Gladiators fight each other, or for example— tiger versus human.”

At the mere mention of a tiger, Hoshi immediately perked up, his eyes widening with interest. His entire posture shifted, as if his soul had momentarily left his body and then returned stronger.

[Horanghae]

PD Na, pretending not to notice Hoshi’s reaction, continued, “Or lion versus human. They fight like this too.”

The information made some members murmur in interest, while others simply absorbed it with mild curiosity. PD Na, sensing a moment for yet another educational tidbit, cleared his throat and went on.

“There was sand underneath it, like a wrestling ring. They call sand ‘rena’ in this country,” he explained.

The members blinked at him, processing the new information.

PD Na, never missing a chance to test them, quizzed again, “Isn’t there anything that comes to mind?”

A beat of silence passed before Mingyu confidently answered, “Leonardo DiCaprio?”

[???]

The entire bus chuckled as PD Na instantly shot him down.

“No, wrong,” he said flatly before shaking his head and repeating dramatically, “Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

His exaggerated rejection, reminiscent of his famous game show catchphrase, immediately made the members burst into laughter.

“Arena,” Luna answered confidently, cutting through the laughter with the correct response.

PD Na’s eyes lit up as he pointed at her. “Correct!”

A collective sound of realization spread through the bus as the members went, “Oh…” all at once.

“Ah… rena,” Mingyu repeated, now understanding where the word came from.

“This is why an amphitheater is called an arena,” PD Na concluded, nodding as if pleased with himself for successfully delivering a history lesson.

“Ah…” a few members chorused before playfully adding, “…rena.” They chuckled amongst themselves, amused at how easily they could turn anything into a running joke.

“Feels like we met a smart history teacher,” Seungkwan mused, referring to PD Na, his voice filled with newfound respect.

“Right?” Luna agreed with a grin. “It’s like we’re at a school field trip. It’s so much fun.”

“So, the Colosseum is one of the biggest arenas. It’s one of the representative arenas,” PD Na added before clapping his hands together, signaling the end of his impromptu history lesson. “Let’s go there and take a picture.”

With that, the bus erupted into excited chatter once again, the members buzzing with anticipation as they imagined their upcoming visit to the Colosseum.

The bus rumbled softly as it made its way through the dark streets of Rome, the dim glow of streetlights casting fleeting shadows on the tinted windows. Jeonghan let out a small chuckle, his head tilting slightly as he squinted outside.

“When will we be able to see the outside? I can’t see anything,” he mused, his voice laced with amusement as he leaned closer to the glass. His comment immediately caught the attention of the members, who instinctively followed his lead, pressing their faces toward the window with curious expressions.

[Pitch black]

“I can’t see anything,” Mingyu echoed, his brows furrowing in confusion as he stared into the pitch-black abyss outside.

“There’s nothing,” Dokyeom added, his face practically smushed against the window as if the closer he got, the more he would be able to see.

Luna, who was seated next to Jeonghan by the window, mirrored Dokyeom’s action, leaning in as she cupped her hands around her face in an attempt to block out the reflection. But instead of a view of Rome, all she saw was her own faint reflection staring back at her. Between the nighttime darkness and the bus’s heavily tinted windows, the outside world was completely invisible to them.

“It’s practically a mirror,” Luna noted with a small chuckle, giving up on trying to see outside and instead using the window’s reflection to fix her hair. She fluffed up her strands, tucking a few pieces behind her ear before turning her attention back to the lit interior of the bus.

[Uses it as mirror]

Slowly, the initial excitement of arrival began to settle down, and the members fell into their own quiet activities as the journey continued. Some scrolled through their phones, thumbs lazily flicking across the screens, while others engaged in hushed conversations, their voices blending into the soft hum of the engine. A few members, exhausted from the long day, had already dozed off, their heads lolling against the seats or resting on each other’s shoulders.

In their own little world, Luna had rested her head on Jeonghan’s shoulder, her body comfortably curled up against him as the steady motion of the bus lulled her into a peaceful state. Her fingers absentmindedly reached for Jeonghan’s hand, tracing small, invisible patterns over his skin before she started playing with the silver rings adorning his fingers. She twisted them gently, rolling them up and down before slipping them off entirely, trying them on her own fingers just to see how they fit.

Jeonghan allowed her to do whatever she pleased, his arm resting relaxed on his lap as he silently watched her with a lazy grin. He found it amusing how she entertained herself so easily, her curiosity evident in the way she examined each ring before returning it to its rightful place.

Then, an idea crossed his mind.

Without a word, Jeonghan gently took Luna’s hand in his, flipping it open so her palm faced upward. His fingers lightly brushed against her skin as he started tracing something with deliberate strokes.

Luna, quick to catch on, didn’t pull away. Instead, she glanced up at him with intrigue, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Is it a word or a drawing?” she asked softly.

“A word,” Jeonghan replied smoothly, the corners of his lips tugging into a teasing smirk.

Luna hummed, her brows furrowing slightly in concentration. “Write it again.”

Jeonghan obeyed, his finger gliding across her palm with feather-light precision, forming the same letters once more.

Luna’s lips parted as she concentrated. “Hmm… Is it ‘Rome’?” she guessed, tilting her head.

Jeonghan shook his head. “Wrong. Try again.”

Luna pouted slightly, pretending to be deeply offended by his rejection. “At least give me a hint!”

“No hints,” Jeonghan teased. “You’re smart, aren’t you?”

Luna huffed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Let me think.” She closed her eyes for a second before opening them again as he write it again. “Is it ‘sleep’?”

Jeonghan chuckled. “Close, but no.”

Luna groaned. “Okay, just tell me—”

“Nope. One more guess.”

She squinted at him suspiciously before turning her attention back to her hand, trying to recall the exact movement of his tracing. “Oh! Is it ‘tired’?”

Jeonghan’s grin widened. “Bingo.”

Luna smirked triumphantly. “See? Smart.”

“Barely,” Jeonghan teased, earning a playful shove from her.

Now it was her turn.

Luna took Jeonghan’s hand, flipping it over in the same manner he had done to hers. She gave him a knowing look before dragging her finger across his palm, forming a slow, deliberate pattern.

Jeonghan, eyes locked onto her face, waited until she finished before guessing. “Is it ‘Luna’?”

She scoffed. “You think I’m that predictable?”

Jeonghan smirked. “I mean, you love me. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Luna rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress her smile. “Wrong. Try again.”

Jeonghan tilted his head, closing his eyes as if that would somehow help him recall the movement more clearly. “Ah… is it ‘cute’?”

Luna raised an eyebrow. “Are you complimenting yourself?”

Jeonghan grinned. “I was referring to you, obviously.”

She sighed exaggeratedly. “Wrong.”

Jeonghan tapped his chin. “Then… ‘sleepy’?”

Luna’s eyes twinkled as she clicked her tongue. “Ding ding ding! We have a winner!”

“I knew it.” Jeonghan smirked. “You’re always sleepy, Nana-ya.”

“And you always look tired, so we’re even.”

[The ‘I’m tired, I’m sleepy’ counter: 2]

Jeonghan let out a dramatic sigh. “It’s hard work being this handsome.”

Luna snorted. “You mean, it’s hard work being this annoying.”

They continued taking turns, lost in their own bubble, whispering and teasing each other in the dimly lit bus.

Jeonghan’s next turn had Luna stumped for a bit before she finally guessed “sleepyhead,” correctly accusing him of drawing letters differently to confuse her.

Luna’s next turn had Jeonghan blinking at his palm, completely lost before she smugly revealed it was “cheat.”

And finally, Jeonghan’s last turn.

He took his time, making sure to write slowly and carefully this time. He watched Luna’s face, waiting for her reaction.

The moment he finished tracing, Luna’s eyes widened. A second later, she turned to look at him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“Really?” she whispered.

Jeonghan shrugged, his expression feigning innocence. “What?”

Luna shook her head, biting her lower lip to suppress the fond grin spreading across her face. “‘143’, huh?”

Jeonghan chuckled, leaning in slightly. “Took you long enough.”

Luna rolled her eyes, but her fingers tightened slightly around his, her warmth lingering. “I knew right away, idiot.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Then why didn’t you say it immediately?”

Luna leaned closer, her voice just a whisper. “Because I wanted to see you get impatient.”

Jeonghan scoffed, amused. “You really are a menace.”

Luna squeezed his hand. “And yet, you love me.”

“Yeah,” Jeonghan admitted without hesitation, his voice soft as he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze back. “I do.”

A few more minutes passed, the bus humming softly beneath them as they rode through the streets of Rome. The city lights flickered outside, casting warm glows on the tinted windows.

The chatter among the members had died down into occasional bursts of laughter or quiet conversations as they settled into the journey

Then, PD Na’s voice crackled through the intercom, snapping everyone back to attention.

“Nana Tour will be arriving at the Colosseum in five minutes.”

Immediately, there was a shift in energy. Some members perked up in their seats, stretching and blinking away sleep, while others eagerly turned towards the windows. This time, the city lights were brighter, allowing them to finally see the world outside their previously pitch-black reflections.

Jun was the first to spot it. “I can see the Colosseum,” he said, pointing excitedly out the window.

A chorus of gasps and exclamations followed as the others pressed closer, their faces nearly squished against the glass.

“Wow.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s so cool.”

Even the quieter members found themselves marveling at the sight before them.

[Time to get out of the bus]

Finally, the bus pulled to a stop. The members began gathering their things, stretching their limbs before stepping off one by one into the cool Roman night. The moment their feet touched the ground, they were greeted by the towering presence of the Colosseum, illuminated against the dark sky.

Luna stepped out, cradling Cherry the bunny in her arms as she followed behind the others. She tilted her head back to take in the grand structure before her, her eyes widening in awe. “Wow, it’s huge,” she murmured, her voice tinged with amazement.

Beside her, Wonwoo adjusted his glasses as he observed the massive amphitheater. “It feels different after seeing it from down here,” he commented.

PD Na, standing in front of the group with a tour guide flag that proudly read NANA TOUR— just in case anyone got lost, turned to them with a grin. “Isn’t it so cool? This has been here for two thousand years.”

Hoshi, ever the imaginative one, clasped his hands together as if he were seeing something completely different. “If you look at it like this— this is the Olympic Stadium,” he declared confidently.

The group burst into laughter, entertained by Hoshi’s unique perspective as they followed PD Na, who led them closer to the Colosseum’s entrance.

“I just want to walk around. What do I do?” Mingyu sighed dramatically, taking in the vast open space.

From next to him, Luna raised a brow. “We are walking around,” she pointed out, giving him an amused look.

Dokyeom let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “The fact that I’m walking around Rome right now… it’s funny.”

They finally reached a spot near the Colosseum where they could pause and take in the view properly. That was when PD Na turned to them with another announcement. “I think we are each going to film on our own and look around,” he said.

[Photo time]

At that, the members immediately scattered, some pulling out their phones to capture photos and videos while others simply took in the atmosphere with their own eyes.

Luna, like the rest, reached into her pocket and retrieved her phone, angling it up to take a picture of the Colosseum. Just as she was about to snap the shot, Mingyu, who was standing beside her, suddenly chuckled.

“Wow, I left my cell phone.”

[Mingyu’s favorite phrase: “I left…” or “Where is my…]

PD Na, who had clearly heard too many of these confessions from Mingyu throughout the trip, turned to him with exasperation. “What are you doing? How many things are you leaving behind?” he playfully scolded.

Mingyu, ever the carefree giant, simply shrugged. “I am seeing it with my eyes,” he said, as if that was enough justification.

Luna, narrowing her eyes at him, tilted her head. “Left it where? In the bus, right?”

Mingyu let out a sheepish laugh. “Of course, at the bus.”

Luna, unimpressed, gave him a teasing look. “Just making sure. You could have left it on the plane for all we know.”

She shot him a playful smirk before turning on her heel to walk away. But before she could get far, she suddenly felt a weight on her back— a very large, very heavy weight.

“Ya—”

Mingyu had draped himself over her like a giant koala, his long arms wrapping loosely around her neck as if he was waiting for her to carry him like a piggyback ride.

[Gets tackled by a man half her size]

“Stop— Kim Mingyu!”

She squealed, staggering slightly as she tried to balance herself under his weight. His laughter rumbled in her ear as he clung onto her, completely unbothered.

From the side, Jeonghan and Minghao had already reacted, each moving instinctively to grab one of her arms, keeping her steady.

“Ya, Kim Mingyu,” Jeonghan scolded, though his voice held a twinge of amusement.

[Scolded by the vice-leader]

Luna could only struggle, her body slightly hunched forward as Mingyu continued to leech onto her like an overgrown child. “Kim Mingyu, get off! What do you think I am? Do I look like I can carry you?”

Mingyu simply let out another laugh, still not letting go as they waddled forward like an awkwardly fused pair.

Luna let out an exasperated breath, still trying to steady herself as Mingyu remained latched onto her like an overgrown koala. She shot him a glare over her shoulder, her voice sharp yet undeniably amused.

“Kim Mingyu, if you’re going to cling onto me like this, at least do something useful and carry me instead!”

Mingyu, who was still comfortably draped on her back, let out a deep chuckle. Releasing his hold, he slowly peeled himself off of her, standing back to his full height with an amused glint in his eyes.

Then, without a word, he slightly crouched down in front of her, patting his shoulders in invitation.

Luna blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise before she let out a small huff, but a grin tugged at her lips as she stepped forward. She climbed onto his back, wrapping her arms securely around his neck— one hand gripping her phone while the other still held Cherry the bunny safely between her arm.

[And now she’s happy]

Mingyu’s hands found their place under her legs, his large palms securing her comfortably before he gave a light bounce, adjusting her weight.

“You good?” Mingyu asked, turning his head slightly to check on her.

Luna nodded, shifting slightly. “Yeah, just don’t—”

Before she could finish, Mingyu took off.

“Ya! Kim Mingyu!”

Her startled yelp turned into uncontrollable laughter as Mingyu dashed forward, carrying her closer to the Colosseum. His long strides covered the distance quickly, and before she could even regain her breath, he suddenly started spinning.

[#SaveLuna]

“Oh my god, Gyu— stop! Stop spinning, you maniac!” Luna squealed, tightening her grip around his shoulders.

Mingyu only laughed louder, clearly enjoying the chaos he had created.

Luna, knowing there was no way to stop him with sheer force, resorted to the only logical solution— she smacked the back of his head. “If you trip and fall with me, I’m going to actually kill you.”

Mingyu let out a dramatic groan, still laughing. “Ouch! Violence!” he teased, but he did slow down, eventually coming to a stop as he stood in front of the Colosseum.

Luna exhaled, still catching her breath, before an idea popped into her mind. She lifted her phone and adjusted the angle, preparing to take a picture.

“Don’t drop me, I’m serious, Gyu. I’m going to take a photo,” she warned, her tone shifting into something genuinely serious despite the amusement in her eyes.

Mingyu scoffed, tightening his grip on her legs. “What do you take me for? You’re precious cargo, you know. I’m basically your personal tripod right now.”

[Kim Mingyu the tripod]

Luna laughed at that, shaking her head as she focused her camera. Deciding to trust him completely, she slowly removed her other hand from around his neck, leaving her entirely unsupported except for the firm grip Mingyu had on her legs. Holding her phone with both hands, she framed the shot, her gaze focused on capturing the grand structure before her.

For a moment, she was completely still, trusting Mingyu’s strength as she immersed herself in the view.

But that moment of peace was short-lived.

Jeonghan, who had been watching from the side with his usual mix of fondness and exasperation, immediately moved behind her. Without hesitation, he placed a firm palm on her back, his touch grounding.

“Ya, Bae Jiyeon– tsk.”

The sharp yet affectionate sound of his tongue clicking had Luna turning her head, her expression immediately shifting into a sheepish smile as she met his unimpressed gaze.

[Scolded by the vice-leader pt. 2]

And just like that, her reckless fun had been caught red-handed.

Jeonghan’s unimpressed gaze remained locked on Luna, his dark eyes carrying the weight of a silent scolding. He didn’t even need to say anything— the look alone was enough to make it clear that he was not amused by what she had just done.

Feeling the heat of his stare, Luna quickly wrapped her arms around Mingyu’s neck again, as if that would somehow protect her from Jeonghan’s impending lecture. But the moment Mingyu caught sight of Jeonghan’s expression, his instincts for self-preservation kicked in.

Without hesitation, he let go of her legs and gently set her down, stepping back as if he had never been involved in any of this. His hands shot up in surrender, and he took a few cautious steps away. “Okay, yeah, you two can deal with that. I was never here.”

Luna turned to glare at him. “Traitor.”

Mingyu only grinned sheepishly before making a quick escape, leaving Luna alone to face Jeonghan. She turned back to him, her lips forming a small pout before she took a step closer, wrapping her arms around his waist in an attempt to soften him up.

“Sorry.” Her voice was small, almost childlike, as she rested her forehead against his chest.

Jeonghan let out a deep sigh, his irritation melting away as he felt her warmth against him. He raised a hand to gently smooth over her hair, his fingers carding through the soft strands.

“Be careful, please.” His voice was softer now, the warning laced with nothing but concern.

Luna nodded obediently, pulling back to give him a small smile before they resumed walking, taking in the beauty of the Colosseum while the other members scattered in different directions, capturing their own moments. Some were snapping photos, some were simply standing still, absorbing the view, and others—like Mingyu— were probably still running away from Jeonghan’s wrath.

As they strolled through the historic site, Jeonghan suddenly let out a sigh. “I’m tired.”

Luna, who had been glancing around, hummed in agreement. “Me too… I really want to sleep.”

[The ‘I’m tired, I’m sleepy’ counter: 3]

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, her exhaustion was momentarily forgotten, her eyes lighting up with excitement. She tugged on Jeonghan’s hand eagerly.

“Take a photo of me here, Hannie, please.”

Jeonghan didn’t protest, simply holding out his hand as Luna eagerly handed him her phone. She positioned herself in front of the Colosseum at a spot she liked, adjusting her posture before striking a pose.

Jeonghan crouched down, angling the phone to get the perfect shot. He moved slightly, tilting the phone to find the best perspective, his gaze focused entirely on capturing her in the best light.

Just as Luna shifted, assuming she was done, Jeonghan held up a hand to stop her.

“Stay there, Nana-ya,” His voice was firm yet casual, his eyes still locked onto the screen.

Luna blinked but complied, watching as Jeonghan smoothly pulled out his own phone, switching from photographer to personal paparazzi. He snapped a few more shots, his sharp gaze ensuring each one was perfect before he finally lowered his phone and looked at her.

“Pretty girl.”

The simple compliment caught Luna off guard, and she felt warmth creep up her neck. She quickly glanced away, her cheeks slightly flushed— but before she could recover, her eyes landed on Joshua.

Excited, she grabbed Jeonghan’s hand. “Joshie! Can you take a photo of me and Han, please?”

She handed Joshua her phone, which he accepted without hesitation, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he watched the two of them move closer together. The couple posed comfortably, Jeonghan standing next to her while Luna leaned in slightly, their expressions relaxed as Joshua took a few shots.

Once the quick photo session was over, they thanked Joshua and moved towards the group, reuniting with the rest of the members.

As they neared the Colosseum wall, Jeonghan suddenly made his intentions clear.

“I am going to touch the Colosseum and go.”

Without waiting, he reached out, pressing his palm against the ancient stone surface, nodding as if he had just completed a great achievement.

Dokyeom, who had been nearby, immediately followed suit, mirroring Jeonghan’s action. “How is it? Hand that touched the Colosseum?” he asked, grinning.

Luna chuckled at their antics, quickly snapping a picture of the two of them before her gaze shifted to another scene— Hoshi, crouched down, reaching for the ground with great enthusiasm.

“The Colosseum ground.” Hoshi declared dramatically, as if touching it held some deep historical significance.

[The tiger is pawing the ground]

Luna giggled, lifting her phone to capture the moment. “You guys…” she trailed off, shaking her head fondly as she continued filming their antics.

As the group remained caught up in their own fun, Luna walked ahead, taking more photos on her phone. She was too focused on capturing the scenery to notice that Jeonghan, instead of walking beside her, had slowed his pace. His phone was lifted in her direction, quietly taking pictures of her as she moved.

Her back was to him, her form bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, completely unaware that he was documenting her existence in the most candid way possible.

Soon, she found herself nearing Minghao, who was sitting on one of the steps, his eyes fixed on the view in comfortable silence. Without a word, Luna moved to sit next to him, mirroring his posture as she let the peaceful moment sink in.

Her gaze drifted back to the group, just in time to see Dokyeom lying fully on the ground as Joshua stood over him, taking a photo.

Luna raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help but smile. This was exactly what a SEVENTEEN trip looked like— pure, chaotic fun in the most ridiculous ways possible.

[Only SEVENTEEN]

Luna had been watching them but as she giggled at the scene, an idea suddenly sparked in her mind. Her eyes widened slightly, and she clutched Cherry— the cherry red plushie she had been carrying around all day— before quickly standing up.

Without a word, she moved closer to the Colosseum, scanning for the perfect spot. Finding a small, clean patch of ground near the base of the ancient structure, she gently set Cherry down, adjusting the plushie’s position as if it were a real person.

Taking a few steps back, she crouched down with precise focus, her phone angled carefully in her hands.

[Strike a pose and Vogue]

She had promised Seungcheol that Cherry would take his place first while he was back in Korea, and she intended to fulfill that promise properly.

The plushie sat proudly in front of the Colosseum, looking oddly regal despite its small size. Luna tilted her head, making sure the framing was just right, before snapping a few pictures. Then, unsatisfied, she shuffled slightly to the left, adjusted Cherry’s posture, and took a few more.

[Her own muse]

She was so engrossed in her mission that she didn’t notice the members slowly gathering a few feet away. One by one, they huddled around Hoshi, who was now holding his phone, an idea of their own forming.

“What time is it in Korea right now?” Dino asked, tilting his head.

“Six in the morning,” Jeonghan answered smoothly, barely needing to think.

“Coups must be tired,” Dino said, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

But instead of leaving their leader to rest, Hoshi’s finger hovered over the screen, dialing Seungcheol. They all leaned in, eyes fixed on the phone, waiting for him to pick up.

“It’s funny if he picks up at this time,” Jeonghan remarked, smirking slightly.

“I think he might pick up,” Dino countered, glancing at the screen expectantly.

And after just a few seconds— against all odds— the familiar face of Choi Seungcheol appeared on the screen.

“He picked up,” a few of them chorused in shock, their voices overlapping in disbelief.

“Hyung!” Dino called out excitedly.

“We came to the Colosseum,” Hoshi added quickly, flipping the camera to show the grand structure behind them.

On the screen, Seungcheol was barely awake, his eyes squinting as he adjusted to the brightness from the phone. He blinked a few times, his gaze darting around to take in all of the members who had gathered.

[The leader has been woken and did a head count]

And then, his tired brain seemed to register something— or other, someone— was missing.

“Where is Jiyeonie?” was the first thing he mumbled, his voice groggy but immediately concerned.

The members froze for a second, glancing among themselves as if suddenly realizing she wasn’t part of their little huddle.

Then, like a slow-motion scene in a comedy film, their heads turned in sync toward the side, where Luna was still busy crouched down, snapping pictures of Cherry with intense concentration.

[Peek-a-boo]

“Aigo… noona…” Seungkwan chuckled, shaking his head.

“She’s…” Mingyu started, but laughter overtook him before he could finish his sentence.

Hoshi chuckled as he flipped the camera towards Luna, capturing her completely oblivious to their antics. “Our Jiyeonie is busy,” he narrated dramatically, making the others snicker.

S.Coups let out a deep sigh on the other end, rubbing his face. “Don’t lose her,” he muttered as if he were scolding a bunch of irresponsible babysitters.

[The second time they lose her today]

At that, Jeonghan, who had been watching with amusement, finally decided to call her over. “Nana-ya!”

Luna looked up immediately at the sound of Jeonghan’s voice, her large doe eyes blinking in curiosity. She clearly hadn’t noticed that the entire group had gathered without her, nor did she seem to care. But the moment she spotted Seungcheol’s sleepy face on the screen, her entire expression lit up.

Grabbing Cherry with both hands, she shot up from her crouched position and practically skipped towards them, squealing, “Coupsie!” as she joined the huddle.

Seungcheol gave a small wave, still looking half-asleep. “Is it fun?” he asked, now that their chaotic group was finally complete.

“We came to the Colosseum. Do you see that behind us?” Seungkwan said, angling the phone up dramatically to showcase the massive landmark.

“Let’s take a photo,” Hoshi suggested excitedly. He turned the phone to face the crew, who were already in front of them, filming and preparing to take a picture of the whole group now that they had their leader on the call.

“We are together,” Hoshi declared as Seungcheol, still lying in bed, managed a sleepy peace sign. The members all smiled as the camera flash went off.

[Flash! Flash! Flash!]

For a few seconds, the light flickered as the photos were taken, and Luna, arms still loosely wrapped around Jeonghan’s waist, deadpanned, “I’m sure that woke him up.”

[It did]

“My eyes hurt,” S.Coups groaned, confirming her statement as he blinked rapidly to adjust.

Once they were done, they thanked the crew for taking the picture, laughter still lingering in the air as they continued speaking to their leader.

Hoshi turned the camera around, his hand steady as he positioned the phone to showcase the grandeur of the Colosseum. “Should I show you the Colosseum?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of excitement as he prepared to act as Seungcheol’s personal tour guide despite the limitations of a phone screen.

On the other end, Seungcheol, still groggy from being woken up, blinked at the sudden movement of the screen. His voice was low and drowsy as he mumbled, “Yes, show me.”

Hoshi enthusiastically flipped the camera, angling it so that the full scope of the Colosseum was in view, but even through the screen, it was clear that the sheer scale of the monument couldn’t be captured properly. The members, who had gathered around to watch, hummed in agreement.

“But… it won’t capture it on the screen,” Woozi pointed out, tilting his head as he observed the way the structure shrank in comparison to its real-life magnitude.

“The marvelousness won’t get captured,” Wonwoo agreed, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the video feed.

[The camera doesn’t do it justice]

Seungcheol, despite his sleepy state, managed to process the scene before him and let out a soft hum before remarking, “‘Super’ MV… it looks like the ‘Super’ MV set.”

The members chuckled at the unexpected comparison, and Hoshi, ever the enthusiastic one, nodded in agreement. “It’s big, right?” he said, his voice filled with awe.

Seungcheol hummed again in response, but before he could say anything more, Luna, who had been quietly watching, leaned closer to the phone, concern laced in her voice.

“Coupsie, you should sleep more,” she said softly. Then, with a playful but gentle touch, she cupped the phone with both hands as if shielding her words from the rest of the members— though, of course, they all heard her anyway. She whispered, “Don’t worry, like I promised… I’ll take you here when you’re better.”

[That’s a promise]

The warmth in her voice made Seungcheol’s groggy features soften further, a small fond smile tugging at his lips as he gazed at her through the screen.

It was a promise he knew she would keep.

Luna then pulled away and waved at him with a bright, reassuring smile. “Sleep well, Coupsie.”

Seungcheol, despite his exhaustion, lifted a lazy hand and waved in response. “Mm.”

“Yes, Coups. Good night,” Hoshi added, waving at the screen before turning the phone to show the other members, who were all gathered around, sending their own waves and goodnights. Seungcheol waved back, albeit sluggishly, before he finally ended the call, his screen going dark.

[Good night]

The moment the call ended, Jeonghan, who had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his declaration, clapped his hands together, his tone decisive. “Okay! Let’s film reels and go!”

Luna giggled at how clear it was that Jeonghan wanted nothing more than to get to bed. His energy, which had been somewhat sustained by the excitement of the trip, was now rapidly depleting, and she could tell he was ready to collapse at any given moment.

“Members, please all come here,” Seungkwan called out, taking charge as the group began assembling in front of the Colosseum.

They linked arms, forming a straight line, their movements slightly sluggish from exhaustion but still full of enthusiasm for the final task before they could officially call it a night.

“What are we doing?” Luna asked, confused but still following along, slotting herself between Hoshi and Jun as she linked arms with them.

“We are gonna lean and fall down,” Mingyu explained, motioning with his free arm to demonstrate what they were about to do.

It took Luna a second to process before realization dawned on her. “Ah…” she nodded in understanding. They were about to do the viral trend where they all leaned and fell sideways, creating a seamless transition to another location in their video.

[Trendy SEVENTEEN]

As the crew positioned themselves to film, some members took the time to ensure everyone knew exactly what needed to be done. Amidst the light chatter, Luna glanced down at Cherry, still held securely in her hand. Without hesitation, she took the plushie’s small arms and looped one through hers before turning to Hoshi and offering him Cherry’s other arm.

[Hello!]

Hoshi, instead of questioning it, simply looked down at her with a fond smile before linking his own arm with the plushie’s, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He understood without words— Luna was a woman of her word. Cherry would take Seungcheol’s place for this entire trip, just as she had promised their leader.

“Remember this spot right now,” Hoshi reminded them, knowing that they’d have to replicate the exact setup in another location for the transition to work smoothly.

The members murmured the names of the people beside them under their breaths, making mental notes to ensure they stood in the same order later.

Then, Hoshi, taking the lead as the performance leader of the moment. “Guys, we’ll go after three. Let’s fall after three,” he instructed, making sure everyone was ready.

A small pause settled over them before he counted down. “1… 2… 3… let’s go…”

In perfect synchronization, they all leaned to the left, tipping over as if being caught in a wave before catching themselves at the last second. The camera captured it all smoothly, sealing the moment for their content.

“Okay, let’s go,” PD Na announced, satisfied with the take.

[On to the Airbnb]

“Let’s go,” Jeonghan immediately echoed, his voice filled with relief.

“Let’s go home,” Minghao followed up, his tone just as exhausted.

“Yes… finally,” Luna sighed dramatically, her voice filled with longing as she practically skipped forward, catching up to Jeonghan, who was leading the group alongside PD Na. They were right at the front, practically glued to the staff members directing them back to their transport.

The excitement of the trip was still there, but at that moment, it was overshadowed by the undeniable exhaustion creeping into their bones. It felt like they had been traveling for twenty-four hours straight. Maybe they actually had— from Tokyo to Korea, then to Italy. The time zones were blurring together.

Jeonghan and Luna, the self-proclaimed sleep bunnies, were ready to crash.

Tomorrow, they would wake up rejuvenated, ready to fully immerse themselves in the experience. But for now… they just needed to recharge… if PD Na would let them…

[To be continued in Clip 1-4]

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ghstyles · 25 days ago

Text

Performer | H.S

The cobbled streets of Rome gleamed under the warm glow of streetlights as Y/N and her friends stumbled through the city, their laughter echoing off the ancient walls. The wine had hit. Hard. Everything was hilarious. Everything was magical. Her limbs felt loose, her mind light, and everything seemed like the best idea ever.

So when she spotted an empty spot by a fountain, inspiration struck.

"Hold my purse," she slurred to no one in particular before immediately reconsidering. Instead, she dropped it dramatically on the ground, opened it ,stepped back, and threw her arms wide. "Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment tonight. Me!"

Her friends erupted in cheers, already pulling out their phones to record.

Then, with absolutely no rhythm, no shame, and barely any recollection of the lyrics, she launched into As It Was.

The words were slurred, the tune nowhere near the original key, but the performance? Oscar-worthy.

A few passersby stopped to watch, phones out, amusement clear on their faces. Coins clinked into her purse. Her friends were doubled over, filming every second.

"Holdin’ me back… gravity’s holdin' me back… uh, somethin' 'palm of your hand… why don’t we leave it at hat… runnin’ awayyyy—”

She was butchering it. Notes off-key, words jumbled, voice cracking. But damn if she wasn’t feeling the performance of a lifetime.

A few tourists stopped to watch, some throwing in a few coins just for the spectacle of it. Her friends were in hysterics.

And then, a voice cut through her glorious display. Deep, amused, undeniably British.

"Practice will definitely make perfect, sweetheart."

She blinked, wobbling slightly as she turned to the source. A man stood nearby, hands in his pockets, lips quirked in amusement. Tall, wavy hair, sharp jawline, dimples.

She squinted. "Excusez-moi?" she demanded, forgetting for a moment she was in Italy and not France.

His smile deepened. "French? Thought we were in Italy," he teased.

She gasped, clapping a hand to her chest. "Oh my God, did you just mock me?"

"A little."

"Unbelievable," she slurred, stumbling toward him with all the righteous indignation of a drunk girl on a mission. "I'll have you know, sir, that I— I am a performer. And performers deserve respect."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Is that right?"

"That's right," she huffed. "And who even are you to criticize my artistry?"

For a split second, something flickered across his face. Amusement, maybe a bit of disbelief.

"Just someone who knows the lyrics," he mused.

Her jaw dropped. "Ohhh, so now you're a music expert?"

He bit back a laugh. "Something like that."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Well, Mr. Music Snob, if you're so good, why don't you sing it?"

"Nah," he said, grinning. "Think I like your version better."

She huffed, turning back to her audience (which had dwindled significantly). "That's what I thought."

It wasn’t until the next morning—hungover, scrolling through the blurry footage—that she realized.

Harry. Fucking. Styles.

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dreamersparacosm · 30 days ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part five)

part five ; bergamot and cedar

warnings ; extreme alcohol consumption!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

a/n ; WE ARE SOOOO BACK. and before i get screamed at, this is 12k words worth of longing. slowburn to the max. i truly do not think i could have made this anymore devastating if i wanted to. on the one hand, we have oc who might be the blindest bat in all the land, and then we have jungkook who is just ready for the taking. open. honest. unfortunately and undeniably obsessed. (and if you thought they were kissing in this chapter or the next two, ha. i laugh. i read emhen and lynn painter for a living, i live laugh love slowburns. but also more one shots coming your way to hold over while we're in this drought) there's a LOT going on in this chapter so read slow my pookies, rome wasn't built overnight. i shall be waiting patiently on the sidelines!!! (also be gentle i crashed out in @httpsincity's dms already about how i lowkey hate this but oopsie daisy.) ENJOY!

playlist here

series masterlist here

wc ; 12.1k

Tonight’s no longer about your comfy blanket fort and ice cream binge while watching Suits.

Regretfully, your night now involves you, in a swanky penthouse while surrounded by unwelcoming coworkers, chugging some fancy Chardonnay like it’s the elixir of social survival.

You enjoy being just another face in the crowd. It’s like joining an exclusive club where the only requirement is to take up space. You've spent countless hours trying to fit into places that had all the warmth of a refrigerator, but tonight, you’ve squeezed yourself into so many nooks and crannies that it's starting to feel like a pro sport.

Blending in has become so natural that you’re starting to welcome it.

Rihanna’s currently belting out something about not stopping the music, and honestly, who knows what else she’s saying at this point. You’re three sips into your wine and the world’s gone a little fuzzy around the edges.

Emma? Yeah, you’ve completely misplaced her in this vortex of comfy couch heaven. Seriously, this couch is like a supportive, heavenly embrace that’s saying, “Stay here, forget about the outside world!” And let’s be real, no one needs the outside world when you’ve got a plush throne and this kind of wine buzz.

You take another sip of your wine and it takes all of your might not to spit it back out when you watch Emma wrap an arm around Paul like she’s the man in the situation.

You mentally file that for Monday’s debrief where you’ll inevitably make fun of her for her poor choices.

The guest list for this afterparty is pretty bleak. There’s twenty other correspondents from different news outlets, all mingling under one roof, not one remotely worth speaking to for more than five minutes.

After reluctantly agreeing to attend, you had opted to take a solo Uber to the location Emma texted you. When you arrived, Jungkook was lounging by the entrance as if he had been existing solely for you to push through the heavy glass doors. Luckily, you noticed him before he noticed you — you credit that to how you secured your spot on the aforementioned couch.

Plus there’s also this lingering scent of his whiskey and his cedar-y cologne and his newfound love for vodka sodas making a home in your nostrils, and it’s making you incredibly lightheaded.

From a young age, you’ve always been hyper-vigilant, attuned to details that often go unnoticed by others. You caught things other people would let fly under their noses. A raised voice behind a closed door. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway at the wrong hour.

It’s mostly why journalism fits you like a second skin. Control disguised as curiosity. Authority masked as observation. There’s power in knowing more than you’re supposed to, tucking details into the fissures of your mind.

If you can anticipate the story, stay one step ahead, maybe everything else will stay in its place. Maybe you will too.

(That’s the illusion you like best. That if you’re the one asking the questions, no one can ask them of you.)

Sometimes though — rarely, frustratingly, devastatingly — you miss things.

Hence why you overlook the sound of Jungkook’s footsteps crossing the penthouse. Or the way he grins as he flops next to you on the couch you were deliberately occupying alone.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of a glance. He’s already won more than enough of your time. You raise your wine glass to your lips tentatively, eyes wandering across the room, trying to find anything else to fixate on besides him.

But then your eye twitches slightly when you look down to your right. You see the clear liquid in a glass cup in his hand, lime wedge resting silently on the rim. Hm.

There’s a growing list of unhelpful facts about Jungkook that your brain seems determined to catalog. Are you prepping for a bar trivia night (category Jungkook for 500 points) that you don’t remember signing up for?

“What’s up with these vodka sodas you’re pawning off me?” You’re still not looking at him. He’s really leaned on this copycat act heavily tonight.

“What’s up with you ditching the crowd for this couch?” He shifts ever so slightly beside you, as if testing the couch for its comfort to understand why you could possibly be holed up here.

“I’m evolving.” You snort, finally turning to peer at him. You don’t know why you do it but you regret it upon impact. Your body isn’t entirely sure what it’s looking for.

The soft glow from the overhead lights the structure of his jaw. You never realized how strong it is; he could probably chop wood with that kind of bone. In his hand, his drink looks comically tiny compared to the rest of him.

His brown eyes meet yours trepidly. “Well,” he starts, lifting his glass in some form of solidarity. “If you’re wondering, I only switched to vodka so I could end my night on a high note. Whiskey makes me introspective after one too many.”

“Oh, right.” Your eyes hone in on the cheek scar he has. Seriously, is this dude part of a secret fight club you don’t know about? Where would he possibly obtain such a thing? “I doubt your definition of introspection is the same as mine.”

“Hm.” He hums thoughtfully. “You’re in a mood now.”

Well, the invitation to the afterparty you didn't want to attend and the fact that he’s sidled up beside you all comfy and cozy definitely isn't contributing positively to your mood.

You tip your head toward him, skull landing right on the back of the couch. “I’m in a penthouse with people I barely tolerate, watching Emma flirt with a man who listens to NPR and Joe Rogan unironically. Shoot me now or forever hold your peace.”

He fake shoots a gun at you with his two nimble fingers before settling back into comfortable silence. His shoulder skims yours briefly as he exhales, and your spine jolts a little at the contact. It’s not intentional, but it’s enough to make you wonder why your body always seems to notice his.

You take another lengthy sip of wine. You wonder if he’ll let you have a sip of the vodka soda in his hand. You’re not sure what persona you were trying to slip into when you poured yourself a glass of the buttery wine.

“Kinda starting to miss my whiskey though,” he says after another moment slips by. “But I guess this makes more sense tonight.”

Your brows furrow. Numerous sharp comments twitch on your tongue, some you want to say out loud and others you want to mash down. You were never really good at swallowing your words, though. “You switching it up for me?”

The look that flashes across his features is filled with amusement. “Obviously. Didn’t want to smell like a distillery when I inevitably ended up next to you.”

Your pulse skips awkwardly. Luckily you’re trained to recover quickly, even when someone says something you’re not expecting. “Oh,” you clack your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “So you planned on sitting here.”

“You weren’t saving this spot for me?”

Your eyes dart around the room frantically, like you’re searching for someone you can latch on to save you from the rest of the conversation. What was once your safe haven couch has now become that old plastic-covered couch in your grandparent’s living room they refuse to get rid of and no one sits in but them.

But when you size up your contenders, you realize your options are desolate. Between Emma and Paul, and Jenna and her husband, and Sana, who has now even found herself a companion, there’s no one to run and hide with. No one but Jungkook.

“In your dreams, Jeon.”

“In my dreams, you do way more than just save this spot for me,” he retorts confidently.

The man clearly doesn’t have a single crumb of dignity left.

With a roll of your eyes, you let another sip of your wine drip down your throat. “Okay.” You brush past his previous comment with nothing but a clearing of your throat. "What's your take on the night?”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Bleak.”

Funny, you think to yourself. You thought the same earlier.

“Very bleak indeed.”

“I think I had a better time two weeks ago when I was watching that intern from Reuters try to flirt with the CNN correspondent in the elevator than tonight.” He sighs upon the memory re-entering his brain.

You let out a short giggle before catching yourself, and his eyes angle themselves toward you at the sound. As if his eyes and your laugh were two opposite ends of a magnet.

“Are you sure she was flirting? I’m also privy to being forced to speak to annoying ass coworkers,” you tease.

“She probably was.” His eyes flick down to the fabric of your red dress that has bunched up at your hips slightly, then back to your own glazed-over ones.

There's a moment of silence that lingers long enough in the air that, under normal circumstances, would be awkward. But because it's you and Jungkook, you’re grateful for the fact his voice isn’t blaring in your ear for once. Gives you a second to avert your attention to Emma or the bar or the glass doors or literally anything else.

“I mean..” He breaks you out of your thoughts. “..at least she was trying.”

You hum in agreement. “Is that what this is? You trying?”

You want to kick yourself the moment it leaves your mouth. Why the fuck did you just say that? If it was him trying, you wouldn’t even want that anyway. In fact, you detest it and—

“Would it work if I was?”

Your body turns to his fully, wine and vodka and lemon drop clouding your thoughts, your judgment. It brings you inevitably closer to Jungkook, knee brushing his, and you do your best not to notice. “Depends on what you’re trying for.”

His lips twitch gently and you look away. You know that if you continue to look at him, continue to make eye contact with his lips or his cheek scar, you’re going to need to get up, walk right out those glass doors, and order the fastest Uber of all time.

“I’m just talking.” His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass. “Thought we were allowed to do that now.”

It feels like a pebble has lodged itself in your throat. You’ve spent years perfecting your craft, avoiding any and all signs of potential thawing. Because if you weren't fighting him, what were you doing?

Jungkook being tolerable — let alone, likeable — is not something you’ll allow tonight or possibly ever.

You glance down at your hands awkwardly. “Right. Talking.”

He leans forward until he’s in your line of vision again. You catch a whiff of his scent, the cologne that now apparently lives in the folds of your subconscious. It hits you that he knows exactly what he’s done, that he’s perfectly aware of the effect he has on you — albeit, little to none, but still present.

He opens his mouth like a fish out of water, pauses halfway, and snaps it back shut. There’s a look on his face you haven’t seen before. An anxious swarm of bees buzz in your throat, and the more he sits there silently, the worse they feel.

But then it’s as if he went through a full system reboot, screen turning back on in high-definition. “So, what would you be doing if you didn’t come here?” He leans back against the couch.

A puff of air falls from your lips as if to expel the taste of Jungkook’s cologne from your mouth. “I don’t know. Probably watching Netflix. I also just got this new charcoal face mask I want to try. You?”

He takes a small sip of his drink. “Rewatching Suits right now. I had it paused on Season 3, Episode 5. Fucking love Harvey.”

Your head whips to face him. You don’t know why the idea of him watching the same exact show as you matters (because it doesn’t. Everyone watches that show.) but your heart does some ridiculous thing in your chest. You ignore it to the best of your ability, placing a hand over your ribs as if it'll ease it.

“You would love Harvey,” you retort, rolling your eyes so far back they nearly roll across the floor and order another glass of wine.

He furrows his brows, eyes glinting like they always do when he senses a battle on the horizon. “Harvey’s the man, so I’m not gonna defend myself.”

“Harvey would be nothing without Donna,” you remind him, pointing a finger in the air.

“Well, you are forgetting that Donna is madly in love with him.” He points out, swirling his drink, like he’s been spending considerable time analyzing fictional workplace dynamics.

“Oh, so you’re saying that a woman can’t be successful without the motivation of love?” Your eyebrow arches. There is a logical fallacy in this argument and now you’re way too determined to prove him wrong.

His own competitive instincts flare to life. “No. I’m just saying, they are a package deal.”

“If that's what you want to call it.” You take a contemplative sip, nearing the stem of your glass. “Plus, I'm pretty sure he was the one in love with her. Power dynamic was completely reversed.”

He pauses. Clearly considers your perspective. Then goes completely rogue in a league of his own. “Isn’t that the crazy thing about love? I swear, you can never choose who you want. It’s always someone ridiculous. Poor Harvey.”

“Didn’t know I was talking to the love prophet,” you say, and there’s genuine amusement in your voice rather than normal tactical mockery.

“I know a thing or two about a thing or two.”

“Is Jungkook Jeon a secret hopeless romantic? Do you spend your days reading Emily Henry novels and praying for a long lost love to show up at your doorstep?” Your body reacts before your mind can, poking him in his ribcage playfully. The muscle is hard and barely budges against your finger. There’s also an image manifesting in your head of Jungkook with a girlfriend, and the flutter from earlier snakes its way back into your stomach.

“No, you clown.” The word slips out with enough endearment to make you laugh. You hardly notice it, but he pauses to watch the sound fall from your lips. “I just… know things. I know how to love someone.”

The statement hangs in the air like it’s supposed to be some sort of confession. Like it’s monumental news to know how to love someone, or to be in love. It’s the most normal thing you’ve heard, but you’re not entirely sure you ever thought Jungkook was capable of it.

“Oh, really?” You lean into him gently, his knee brushing against yours again for a millisecond.

“I do.” He lifts his chin confidently.

“Prove it,” you answer automatically, brain operating solely on auto-pilot.

“Huh?”

The challenge lands with the weight of a gauntlet at both your feet.

“Prove you can love someone.” Your eyes hold his. He has incredible eye contact, even after a night of drinking. Maybe this dude really is the love prophet.

“What do you mean?” he asks, sincerely confused.

“Here.” You gesture between you two with your near-empty glass, creating an invisible stage for whatever performance you’re about to request. His knee moves away from yours, and your heart tugs a little at the seams. “Compliment me. Be nice. I know that might be challenging for you and all, but I really want you to dig deep in that heart made of ice.”

“How is that supposed to—”

“Can’t back out now, Jeon.” You only use his last name when you’re serious, and he knows this. It’s been established since your very first debate in college. “I’m wilting over here.”

“I–” He starts, then stops, and for the first time since you’ve known him, Jungkook looks genuinely uncertain.

“Imagine,” you barrel on. “I just slipped into the ballroom. I look around, overwhelmed by all the beautiful people. And then — oh, wow, there you are. The love of my life.”

The way he’s looking at you right now tells you that maybe this was the most abysmal idea of all time. You’re never going to drink alcohol again.

You clasp your hands over your chest dramatically. “I waltz over and—”

“I like your dress,” he blurts out. “Makes your eyes look really fucking nice.”

It’s a crude compliment. Superficial, even. But it comes out like it escaped from his brain. Your entire body tenses up and your ears ring and the grip on your wine glass disappears completely.

The glass falls to the couch with the same effect as a pin dropping. The ballroom fades into irrelevant background white noise, and it’s just you and Jungkook, who apparently uses curse words in compliments and sends nerve-ending tingles to your spine these days.

“Thats, uh—” You cough a few times while you rack the entire dictionary in your mind to find words that suffice. “That’s one way to do it.”

“Is that not a compliment?” There’s confusion laced into the words, eyebrows furrowing anxiously.

“Only if you mean it,” you manage to get out. Your voice sounds like you just swallowed a vat of cement.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

The question comes out so simply and matter-of-factly, that it makes literally everything worse. As if he’s genuinely confused as to why anyone would offer you an insincere compliment.

“Okay.” He takes over the conversation, which you thank God for, because your journalistic self is no longer in the mood to speak. “Now you compliment me.”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head stubbornly, reaching for your wine glass on the couch only to realize it is still very much empty. You need more liquor if you’re going to sit here all night. “That’s not part of the agreement.”

“We have agreements now?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Shut up. I am not complimenting you.” But there’s something panicked in your tone. Returning his vulnerability terrifies you more than great white sharks do.

“C’mon, one thing about me.” He leans into you again. He needs to stop doing that before you pass out from a new medical emergency you’re coining as fragrance inhalation.

You scramble to come up with something, eyes darting across the room like players on a football field. “How about I hit you over the head with my glass instead?”

“Oneeeee, come on,” he coaxes.

“No.”

“Okay, so you’re saying you’re a virgin loser who doesn’t know how to compliment a man?”

He always knows which nerve to hit to provoke a response.

“You’re hardly a man,” you snort. “But alright.”

“One.” He holds up a singular finger.

“This goes against my morals, you know that right?” You’re practically squirming now. Being nice to him conflicts with a very fundamental aspect of your worldview.

“The universe will make an exception.” He wiggles his eyebrows tauntingly.

And then you freeze before alcohol makes a decision for you.

“You smell really good.”

You realize that somehow, in the space of this ridiculous conversation, this is the most honest you’ve been in a while.

Compliments about appearances are one thing, but noticing how he smells — yeah, he’s going to make fun of you for this until the apocalypse happens.

The smile that was once beaming on his face slides right off. It’s gone with so much ease that you start worrying you said something wrong, like maybe he uses the same cologne that his dead grandpa gave him. But there’s no retort, no bite-back, nothing but silence amongst a rush of noise that seems to dissipate into the background.

But then a smirk slowly grows on his features and the moment is gone as soon as it came. “Hmm, wanna sniff me?”

You kind of feel like you’ve been hit by a freight train. He tuts disapprovingly, and you can't understand why you're suddenly struck by the desire to drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness for praising his scent.

“Bitch, where’s your drink?”

Emma’s voice slices through the noise, startling you enough that your shoulders shake and the invisible thread tethering you to Jungkook snaps in half.

You jerk your head toward her, eyes wide like you’re a kid who got caught drawing dicks on a library book. She towers over you, cheeks a rosy glow, hair tousled, Paul in tow behind her like he’s some kind of accessory.

“I…I finished it?” Your voice is still scratchy from your unfortunate confession.

Emma eyes you suspiciously. “Finished it? And you didn’t get another one because..?”

Great question, Emma. Didn’t get another one because you were too busy getting complimented by your arch nemesis and then promptly inhaling him right after.

You shrug. It’s not actually that serious. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Mhm.” She smirks and plops down on the other side of you, pushing Paul to stand up beside her like he’s her bodyguard.

“Anyway, hiii,” she sing-songs to Jungkook, finally noticing his presence. “Still here?”

All Jungkook does is nod, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, he actually looks… confused? Scared? You can’t piece it together.

Emma turns back to you obliviously. “You know what you need?”

“To go home?”

She scowls. “More alcohol, dumbass.”

“Fuck no,” you reply instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Alcohol has been your worst enemy tonight. One more glass of it and who’s to say what you’ll do next?

“Yes,” she insists, standing up and struggling to pull you by the wrists like your bones are made of rocks. “You’re being way too chill tonight. It’s creeping me the fuck out. Come on.”

And then your feet are betraying you and propping you upright. You flatten out your red dress a little. Now that you think about it, the dress isn’t actually as uncomfortable as you thought it was. Maybe you’ll wear it again.

As you mobilize away from the couch, away from Jungkook without a single word, you shoot a final glance over your shoulder.

Jungkook’s sprawled out, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, cufflinks rolled up and showing off those tattoos. His head tilts as he locks eyes with you.

Your heart stutters like a scratched CD.

Damn it.

You look away before you can do something stupid like walk back.

How many glasses of wine has it been?

Three? Four? Perhaps two too many, considering you’re now having an existential crisis about grapes.

How is wine even made? Like actually made? There’s something having to do with stomping, possibly. Feet? Is someone out there just… squishing grapes with their toes in a field and packaging it up for your consumption? That feels illegal. You should look into it on Monday.

Shaking your head, you try to orient yourself in space and time but that makes the room spin a little. Who let you drink this much?

Oh, right. Emma did. (And Jenna, but you’ll spare her tonight.)

The penthouse has completely transformed. Where was once a coffee table has now been turned into a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the open-plan living room. It truly has no business being a dance floor; it’s slippery and someone’s shoe was abandoned in the corner.

Fifteen people remain scattered around the room. Five others have gone missing entirely — two of those being Jenna and Greg, who you last saw doing tequila shots with a Senior Correspondent from New York times.

Blue Tie Guy even made an exit too. Left Emma and Paul in the dust. Now it’s just you, lingering near them like an unpaid chaperone.

A 2000s hit blares over the speakers that makes your chest fizzle with nostalgia. It might be JoJo, or early Rihanna. Either way, there’s synth and bass and you’re quite enjoying yourself.

But, whatever. Back to the wine. How does one ferment wi—

“What are you thinking about?”

Emma’s eyes peer at you expectantly, as if you’re on the cusp of some great big revelation you need to share with her.

“I’m thinking about wine.” You blink back at her, a stupid drunk smile on your face.

She nods at your words. “As one does.”

You babble on, having been given the green light by Emma. “Also, like, how it’s made. Is it fermented? Or do people step on grapes and hope for the best?”

“Probably both. Maybe that’s how we got rośe, it’s like foot juice but cuter.” Emma’s cheeks are flushed, lashes batting furiously as one does when they’re trying to fight the alcohol haze out of their eyesight. You would know because you’re also trying to do the same.

“Cheers to whoever invented that,” You raise your glass to hers and clink it softly.

She turns her body away from her newfound lover, leans into you with all the subtlety of a booming explosion. “Also I’m pretty sure Paul and I held hands four times tonight.”

“Oh, god.”

That’s the only two words you can find in your vernacular to respond.

“He’s kinda good at it.” Her lips curve upwards into a sheepish smile, like she’s talking about her crush from the playground.

“Holding hands?” you ask incredulously.

“Very good.” She shakes her head in agreement. “Was his friend nice to you?”

Sure, if you qualify nice as the most boring man you’ve ever had the displeasure of speaking to.

��He was okay. Not my type.” You wave her off with your free hand, because from what you know about Emma, feeding into her delusions will never end well for you.

“And what is your type, missy? I swear I’ll never know.” She pokes your side, toothfully grinning at you.

The thing is, you’re not entirely sure. You’re not a complete loser, despite all signs pointing to yes, she is a virgin who has never touched a man. You’ve had sex with finance boys, nerdy guys, the whole shebang. However, you’ve only ever had one boyfriend, and you’re certain that if Emma met him, she wouldn’t find any striking resemblance to you.

“Not blue tie guy, I’ll tell you that.” You snort.

That answer seems to suffice for her, because she turns around to entertain Paul and leave you to your never-ending thought spiral again.

What is your type?

You guess, if you're being truly honest with yourself, you want someone smart. Someone witty. Maybe someone who smells good. Or someone who remembers things about you. That’s important.

In a world that makes you scream to be heard, all you really want is someone to listen to your whispers.

Your eyes peek over at Emma, ready to resume your jokes about the wine industry or ask if she has any of those shrimp cocktails left in her bag, only to be met with sheer horror.

She’s now dancing with Paul.

They are fully slow dancing in the middle of a penthouse with 2000s throwbacks blaring in the background. Paul’s head is tilted like he’s trying to smell her shampoo. You might die.

You giggle in disbelief. What the fuck. This is your friend, your partner in crime in journalism. You’re going to lose her to a man who owns loafers with tassels.

You’re also a little too drunk to care properly.

The song changes, right in tune with Emma and Paul’s dancing. More RnB, less college frat party based in 2006. A Doja Cat and Jack Harlow song you only recognize because Spotify has been pushing it on you for weeks.

It’s a pretty sensual song for a work afterparty. Who approved this playlist? Was it Emma?

You sway a little on your feet. A half-drunk, eyes closed movement where your hips catch the rhythm. The stem of your wine glass dangles precariously between two fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?”

He really needs to stop creeping up on you like this.

Your eyes shock themselves back into awareness. Out of all the five people who had left, it seems that Jungkook was not one of them. He’s standing right in front of you, tattoos on full display and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You can see a bit of the hardened muscle underneath.

And suddenly your brain no longer cares about the music. It only cares about your red dress, his woodsy scent that lives in the crevices of your mind, tangled knees and crude confessions that probably shouldn’t have happened.

He’s holding another vodka soda as if the first ten weren’t enough. His big brown eyes glimmer under the light, like honey.

Damnit.

“Not everything is about you, you know?” you retort quickly. You spin the stem of your glass to keep your hands busy.

“Never said it was.” His eyes drop to your glass briefly. “Looked like you were about to make out with that glass though.”

“It’s been more dependable than most men tonight,” you taunt, crossing your arms over your chest protectively.

“Still no prospects?” He stares right through you. He’s smiling, but something you don’t recognize in his eyes has shifted.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Gonna go and tell them all I have cooties or something?”

“Cooties is juvenile.” He replies with mock seriousness, and his eyes are fonder now before delivering the world’s most diabolical statement of all time. “Chlamydia seems more likely.”

Your jaw drops in actual shock. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He chuckles lightly, then lets his gaze drift over your shoulder. His face morphs into sympathetic horror. “Have they been like this all night?”

You follow his line of sight to Emma and Paul who are still engaging in some kind of mating ritual you don’t recognize. They might as well have raw sex in front of you two. “Yeah. they have.”

“God, I’m sorry.” And he sounds like he means it.

“It’s okay,” you shrug. “I’ve been enjoying the little dance circle I created on my own. Extremely sophisticated choreography going on here.”

As if summoned by your words, the music gets louder, and more people drift to the emergency dance floor. Jungkook tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, as if pondering his words before letting them tumble out.

“Can I join this dance circle,” he asks tentatively, “or is it a really exclusive membership situation?”

You tap your chin, pretending to consider the offer. There’s pros and cons to both (although the cons are gruesome.) “Oof. Just closed applications. Terrible timing on your part.”

“Anything I can do to secure entry?” He half-smiles at you. Why is he fighting so hard to join this imaginary dance circle?

Never mind that — what the hell are you doing? You’re creating hoops for him to jump through just so he can dance with you at an afterparty you should’ve left from 30 minutes ago.

But then you remember a very specific afternoon in your Public Policy seminar where Professor Chen posed some stupid question about market inefficiencies, and Jungkook — Mr. Always Has The Answer, Jungkook — completely spazzed on the answer. You’d watched him stumble through his explanation, clear as day that he was guessing. You’d raised your hand promptly after, mostly because the correct answer was burning a hole through your brain and you couldn't stop yourself. Ten extra points on the midterm exam later, Jungkook didn’t even say great job.

“Hmm.” you pause dramatically. “Negative externality and information failures are both examples of…”

He glares at you in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Entry fee is an entry fee, Jeon.” You cross your arms again around your chest. “Standards must be maintained.”

Jungkook stares at you like he’s trying to figure out whether you’ve completely lost your mind or if this is part of the tango you two have awkwardly been doing around each other all night.

“Market failures.”

Damn. You weren’t expecting him to know that.

“Professor Chen is rolling over in his bed right now.”

His grin expands triumphantly. “So about that dance circle membership…”

Over the beat of your heart hammering away in your chest, you can barely think about anything but the terrifying prospect that maybe, possibly you actually want him to join your ridiculous one-person dance party.

“You want it that bad?” you say, softly.

His eyes don’t waver from yours. “What’s wrong with that?”

Jungkook says it so plainly as if desire is the most casual thing in the world. Like he hasn’t spent years purposefully interrupting you at briefings, cutting your questions short, stealing your quotes.

But now he wants to dance with you.

“I can think of five reasons off the top of my head.”

“Alright, let's start with number one.” He responds with a twinkle behind his eyes.

“You’re so…” you trail off. The words are in there somewhere. You just can’t get them to come out without sounding like you care. “...weird”

He lifts his drink in your direction. “Guilty as charged.”

“So… “ You let yourself study him for a second. Under this light, his tattoos are a sharp contrast to the rest of his golden skin. His biceps strain underneath his shirt. His lips are flushed, plump and pink and pillowy. “if I let you into my elite dance circle.. what’s in it for me?”

“Your one person party becomes a two person party.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, complete with a shrug. “Is that not good enough?”

To mask the sensation building within you — something you would label as shyness, if that term didn’t seem so utterly absurd, a feeling that radiates warmth from your core — you put on a facade of indifference and say, “Probably not, but you’re lucky I’m drunk.”

“Incredibly lucky. You don't normally spend this much time with me by choice.”

He’s not wrong. Sober you would’ve ejected him from this conversation approximately four hours ago.

"Didn't know you were itching for my time, Jeon.” You try to joke, but your voice comes out a little warbled.

He opens his mouth as words are about to exit, but decides against it. You need to say thanks but no thanks and go do something sensible like eavesdrop on the correspondent from Politico that’s somehow still here.

Your hand tugs at your dress, and Jungkook’s eyes follow your movement. There’s a pause where you look at the expanse of the dance floor behind him and really think about it. Mull over your options. There’s still time for you to go home. Some new Rnb song comes on, and you wonder if anyone else notices how suggestive this whole setup is.

Your breath trips over itself as you look back up at him. Your options are pretty dull right now, but the wine in your hand makes your mind up for you.

“I don’t really… dance.” The two of you hover at the edge of the crowd. You move to stand next to him, eyeing the stragglers that are left. He looks over at you, peers down through his lashes. You’re searching for any excuse, a distraction, anything else.

“Neither do I.” He replies nonchalantly. “I was gonna sway slightly and hoped nobody noticed my lack of rhythm."

“So we're both frauds,” you laugh. “Two people who can’t dance. What could possibly go wrong?"

“Everything.” He responds without hesitation. “Absolutely everything.”

He places his drink on a nearby side table. For a guy who claims not to dance, he’s stepping into you with all the confidence of a professional.

There’s probably a few inches of space between you. Maybe more. But his eyes can’t seem to leave yours.

You pick up your previous motions; sway left, to right. His body echoes the movement. You feel vulnerable, laid bare, completely open in front of a man who is basically a stranger to you.

His shoulder brushes yours gently. You can feel the heat of him like a sunburn before it settles in. You want to press down and see just how hot it is.

“This is terrible.” Your lips press into a tight-lipped smile.

“Horrific,” he whispers back. You have to tip your head back to read his lips. You never realized how tall he really was when you were busy arguing with him.

You burst out into a fit of giggles. It’s all too much — the dancing, the music, him.

Wine is a liar. Wine is whispering that his body heat mingling with yours is completely fine. Wine, you’re beginning to suspect, might be the most dangerous wingwoman you’ve ever encountered.

Your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. Looser and lighter. And then somehow your body is drifting closer to him like a maelstrom of water lapping on top of a shore. In this crowded sea of people, it’s just you and Jungkook.

You need to look away from him. This is bad, bad, bad news. If you stand even a millimeter closer to him, you’ll be close enough to finally analyze the moles on his face that connect like constellations in the sky. So near that you could just reach out and grab one with your hand.

Nothing about this is funny anymore.

It’s not funny that your mind flips back to Rosalie, back to the DM, back to your eyes in the dress you’re wearing, back to his scent that envelops you like a warm hug. It’s not funny that Jungkook is running through your mind like a flashback reel.

And before you’re about to do something monumentally idiotic, like ask who that girl was that he’s interested in, the universe stops you.

Your feet entangle themselves mid-step, and you trip forward into his body. Broad arms wrap around you, propping you upright before you can fully land on the floor. Jungkook looks down at you, lips slightly parted. His hands are warm against your skin. Really warm. Like a human furnace wrapped around your biceps.

Jungkook hums softly, his breath brushing against your face. There’s hardly any space left between you now. You’ve lost any and all trains of thought.

Fuck. If he were anyone else but Jungkook…

“I should… go home.”

You absolutely should. You know this; it’s crystal-clear certain. You’ve been skating dangerously close to the edge of a cliff for the better part of the night, pretending the ground beneath your feet isn’t steadily crumbling away. This is exactly the point in the night when sensible intelligent people would extract themselves from whatever quicksand they’ve stumbled into.

You should go home before you do something irreversible, like admitting that the way he’s looking at you right now makes your entire nervous system go into overdrive.

“Yeah, maybe.” Jungkook says and fuck, it shouldn’t matter that he agrees with you. But it does.

Because somewhere in your wine-soaked brain, maybe you thought he would protest. That he’d give you some ridiculous reason why leaving is a bad idea.

You find yourself cataloguing the exact shade of brown in his eyes and wondering what would happen if you just… didn’t go home. If you stayed in this moment where the rest of the penthouse fades to black and the only thing that matters is the way he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he��s finally figured out how to solve.

“Right. Well, I’m going to go home,” you say again because apparently once wasn’t enough. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince — you or him.

Jungkook shifts on his feet, and it seems like only then does he realize his hands are still on you. He snatches them back so quickly it almost stupefies you. “Yeah, totally. Makes sense.”

You both blink at each other like two actors stuck in a scene with no director.

“I’ll… walk you out,” he offers, lifting his shoulders, trying to play it casual. His hands slide back into his pockets, knuckles twitching slightly when they disappear into the fabric, and your stomach churns with the knowledge he’s just as off balance as you are.

You pretend to hesitate. “That’s not necessary.”

“I know,” he replies, already moving towards the glass doors. “But I’m still doing it.”

Something simple and stubborn has exited his mouth yet again. You want to hurl your shoe at him.

The walk to the exit is eerily domestic. He trails behind you, as if to make sure you won’t slip and slide on these floors again. Once you’re past the heavy doors, you pass the hallway where someone’s making out against the wall — you check twice to make sure it’s not Emma and Paul — and Jungkook doesn’t even laugh, which is alarming.

You glance behind you. “No commentary? I expected at least one snide remark.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “I thought about it.”

At the end of the hall is the coat check. You give your name and the attendant disappears into an inconspicuous room while you two stand there in silence. Again.

You pull your phone out of your handbag just to have something to do, thumb brushing over the screen like you're monitoring something urgent, when really all you’re doing is checking the weather in Cupertino.

You have absolutely nothing to say to him. Nothing.

Your entire vocabulary — curated over years of university, sharpened through interviews with politicians — has apparently decided to go on leave. It’s honestly hilarious in the most mortifying way possible.

Your career is built on the ability to extract meaningful quotes from unwilling subjects. The irony isn’t lost on you that you, someone who gets paid to ask the right questions at the right time, have been rendered speechless by someone who you could normally argue with for hours.

The attendant returns with your coats, and you take it, fumbling with the sleeves. Jungkook grabs his own. Together, you walk towards the elevator, the sound of your shoes echoing like punctuation marks between thoughts.

You punch the button a few times with your pointer finger. An awkward silence spreads between you two, punctured only by the sound of Jungkook clearing his throat.

“Okay, real question,” you say finally, eyes boring into the screen as you watch the elevator jump floors to come and save you. “Are you trying to be nice? Or is this part of some scheme where you're gonna reveal you stole my credit card and you’re gonna hold it hostage until I agree to say something nice about your reporting?”

Jungkook cracks a smile. You can hear it in his voice when he speaks. “No evil scheme. Maybe I wanted five more minutes in a world where you don’t hate me.”

“Oh.”

What else are you supposed to say to that?

The elevator dings and opens up in front of you. It feels like your stomach dropped somewhere to the vicinity of your feet.

Jungkook coughs loudly. “Well? You going in?”

Your feet finally get the hint and trudge into the elevator. Your heart’s pounding loud enough that if he got just a little closer you’re pretty sure he could hear it.

Time ticks like molasses in that tiny box as it transports you down 40 flights of stairs. You just want to get out as quickly as possible. There’s no telling what your mind will do next, and what damage it’s already done.

Beside you, Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He stands a few inches away, looking like he’s trying to remember what planet he’s on.

The warmth from the penthouse evaporates instantly when you step out of the elevator, nodding a farewell to the doorman. Goosebumps race down your arms as you push open the door, cool autumn air enveloping you. Your dress is criminally ill-equipped for this weather.

You mutter something under your breath about climate change.

Digging into your bag with numb fingers, you pull out your phone, typing in your address furiously. Every letter feels unnecessarily complicated after liquidating the bar.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

You try to lighten the mood. “Ordering my uber. Unless you were planning to carry me home on your back, in which case I’ll cancel it.”

Jungkook snorts. “I mean, I did a pretty intense back workout the other day.”

You tap the confirm button on your Uber. “Okay, Hercules. Let me know when you’re offering sleigh rides. I’ll knit you a red suit and attach a bow to my head.”

Uber arriving in 4 minutes.

You tuck your phone back into your bag. He stands there, looming over you like a guardian angel. “You good? You’ve gone very… pensive.”

“A man can’t think?” He fights back a smile.

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Funny. You’ve said that before.” His eyes squint at you.

“Yeah, because that was the time you decided to challenge Senator Jones about his own voting history without your notes in front of you.” You chuckle at the memory.

“Boldness is a virtue,” he says, lifting his chin.

“Getting eaten alive is a consequence.” There’s an ache in your head slowly starting to take form.

“I was on my best behavior tonight and somehow I still got roasted.” He huffs out a laugh.

“I know.” Your breath clouds the air between you. “It was very unsettling.”

“I’ll take that as a thank you.”

There’s a hum of traffic, the sound of Washington bustling, even at this late hour, in the distant background. You feel the cold all the way to your kneecaps.

You wish the ground would open up to swallow you whole.

Rocking back on your heels, you mumble, “You know you really don’t need to wait. You can go back inside, or.. home.”

“I’ll wait to make sure you don’t get kidnapped.” He’s completely deadpan when he says it.

“Very noble of you.”

“I read a book about feminism once. Felt wrong to leave you alone.” He kicks a pebble with his polished shoe.

You scoff, pulling your coat tighter around you. “If you believe in feminism, then you should leave me be to fend for myself.”

“You’re drunk, [Y/N]. I’m fine right here.” He responds sternly, and that shuts you up.

The stars twinkle overhead in the night sky. You’re close enough to the suburbs that you can count every one if you wanted.

A pair of headlights round the corner. Your heads both snap at the sound of the engine, your Uber slowing to a crawl as it pulls up to the curb. The driver leans across the front seat and waves over at you.

Jungkook moves closer, squints into the window like your bodyguard. “This yours?” He turns his head to you.

“No, I'm just getting into strangers' cars now,” you mock, feet shuffling in the direction of the backseat.

Your hand reaches the handle, barely grasping your fingers around it before you hear “[Y/N]?”

“What?” You pivot and face him. You didn’t really think there was anything left to say. Unless he thought of the world’s wittiest comeback to your last dig.

The light from the entrance of the building casts little shadows across his features. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his slacks.

“Just… don’t let this get to your head or anything,” he pauses, swallows, looks you up and down again for what you think might be the millionth time in the past five hours. “You looked really pretty tonight.”

Pretty?

Your brain short-circuits. A full screen crash, blue screen, Mac rainbow wheel of doom.

It doesn’t look like he’s trying to flirt with you. On the contrary, actually. It looks like he just wanted you to know.

Your pulse is climbing Mount Everest. The memory of his voice saying those words is already stitching itself into the fabric of your red dress.

You nod at him, a small smile playing upon your lips. Your fingers fumble for the handle and this time, you rip open the back door. Slipping inside, the door slams shut behind you.

The driver doesn’t speak as he drives away from the curb, from the penthouse, from the afterparty you should’ve never went to, from Jungkook.

You don’t dare look out the window to check if he’s still there.

The driver pulls up to the parking attendant, sharing a few words as you shakily open your phone up. Your heart rattles inside your chest like loose change in a vending machine.

But what if he’s still there? you think, what if he’s waiting for you like he always does outside of press rooms and briefings to catch you?

So your head turns slightly to look out the back window as the driver ends his exchange with the attendant.

Jungkook is still waiting at the curb. Still waiting for you.

Monday rolls around with the grace of a semi-truck reversing over your skull.

Somehow, you’re still nursing the hangover of the century. Your head is pounding like it’s been struck by a baseball bat, and your stomach is flip-flopping around the lone bite of a chocolate chip muffin you managed to eat earlier. In total, you probably scraped together about 4 hours of sleep all weekend. Even your teeth seem to throb in protest.

You also spent countless hours trying not to replay Jungkook calling you pretty in your head.

Which, to your dismay, you failed at. You replayed it… a lot.

What was that exactly? A prank? You’ve spent 48 hours cycling through every possible explanation except the one that might actually be true.

And now, as reparation, you’ve been dropped right back into the gladiator pit.

In the dingy interview room, your elbows dig into the arm of your chair, notes scattered like landmines in front of you.

You need to recalibrate. You’re not going to let some Friday night fluke ruin your Monday morning murder.

It’s been a week since you and Jungkook were in contact with Monroe, and even though you know exactly what angle you want to play, there’s still some residual anxiety bubbling inside you. You reread a paragraph you wrote a few days ago about Monroe’s version of the vote count night, highlighter cap tucked between your teeth.

You hardly notice the door creak open, halfway through scribbling your opener when a familiar sigh breaks through the air, followed by the thump of a human sitting in the chair next to you.

“Hey.”

You blink at your notebook like you’ve forgotten how to read. Against your better judgment, you crane your neck to look over at him.

He’s in a blue shirt with the collar unbuttoned, eyes sagging like he too, lost sleep over the things that were said Friday night. There’s a stupid half-smile on his face you want to wipe off.

Your body is not behaving. It’s doing that inconvenient swoop again, the one where the birds and the bees and the butterflies have some meetup in your stomach. You’re going to buy a shotgun and kill each one of them.

“Hi.” is all you really have to offer this morning.

“...How are you?” His leg shifts uncomfortably.

“Don’t do that.” you warn, dropping the pen into your notepad.

He lets out a soft chuckle, “That good of a Friday night?”

“I’m still hungover, Jeon.” You’re not lying. You’ve gone through three Liquid IV’s already in the past 3 hours.

He takes a quick scan over your body, and you shrivel a bit into your chair. “I can see that.”

“And I feel like I partially blacked out on Friday.” you continue on, “which was probably the only reason I tolerated you so much.”

“Tolerated?” He sounds borderline offended. It makes your skin prickle with joy.

“Let’s make one thing clear.” You meet his eyes that are expectantly waiting for yours.

“Which is…”

You pick up your pen and play with it to give your brain something to focus on other than his brown eyes that resemble chocolate chips from the muffin you had earlier. “That thing you said? The… compliment?”

Compliment, confession, insult… they’re all blending together like synonyms.

“Yeah?” He leans back in his chair like he’s settling in for a show,

“Let’s just forget it. We can’t start being too nice to each other.” Your pen presses too hard into the note paper, ink bleeding into the sheet.

“Why not? I liked soft you better.” Jungkook shifts more into you, like he’s trying to get a better look at your face. Like he’s trying to see the you from Friday.

“I am not soft.”

You’re about as soft as a brick in a cashmere sweater.

“You are. You’re actually super nice when you’re wine drunk.”

And then you’re thinking back to those infinite glasses of chardonnay, the dance that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. His comment about your eyes in the red dress. Pretty.

You clear your throat and adjust yourself in your chair. “I am— did you not just hear me?”

“I did, but I’m enjoying how angry you’re getting over it.” His smile is all picturesque white teeth and twinkling eyes.

You groan, facepalming. Your voice comes out all muffled. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“Ask my mom.” He shrugs.

“Okay, just, enough. You heard what I said. Let’s go with that.” This conversation needs to end now before you have an aneurysm.

“Whatever you say, bestie.”

You’re going to kill him and it’s not even the afternoon yet.

Halfway through your retort — “first of all, you calling me bestie makes me want to rip my skin off” — the door swings open, both your heads swiveling like you’ve been caught passing notes in class.

The woman at the door, the one with the mysteriously timed week-long illness, saunters in. Monroe looks more like she was at an exclusive spa in the French Alps all week, not battling a severe strain of the flu. Her hair is done in a perfect blowout, neither a frizz or flyaway in sight, and she’s donning unnecessarily large black sunglasses.

“Monroe,” you greet. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“Oh. Thank you.” she exhales, tugging her sunglasses off and folding them delicately between two fingers. “You know how it is. Some virus, probably something my trainer’s kid brought back from Aspen. I was a mess.”

You peer over at Jungkook, who meets your eye. A silent exchange of Aspen? Aspen.

“We managed,” he offers up with a smile. “Hope you’re back to a hundred percent.”

“Close enough.” She waves her hand like she’s chasing off a mosquito. “I’ve been living off bone broth and IV drips. I’m as good as new.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. You had a bag of hot cheetos and a three-day migraine. Maybe you should’ve looked into bone broth.

Monroe lowers herself into the chair across from you two. She smoothes a hand down her silk blouse, placing her phone screen down on the table. “So,” she starts, “do you two have anything good for me?”

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks up.

“I’ve got about a thousand questions,” Jungkook taps his ballpoint pen against his lap. “But I need you to actually answer honestly.”

“Is that not what I've been doing?” Monroe asks innocently.

You glance up from your notepad. “Yes, but… this is still off the record. We want the truth. The honest truth, before we go public.”

There’s a brief pause on her end. Irritation flashes across her face. Or maybe it’s amusement — it’s hard to tell with women like Monroe. She’s polished to the point of opacity.

“A hell of a demand from a junior correspondent,” she retorts cooly.

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was worth it,” you say.

“At a certain point,” Jungkook adds casually, “we’d like to do these on the record.”

“As we agreed on,” you echo. Mark had made a very lucrative deal with you two. His end of the bargain needed to be held up.

“Hmph.” Monroe makes an indignant noise in response.

Your thumb brushes over the corner of your notepad. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go back to the very beginning this time.”

Her brows lift, but there’s not a wrinkle in sight. Her plastic surgeon is working overtime.

“Not the vote count night,” you clarify. “Before that.”

“Alright.” She’s visibly hesitant to your advances. Then again, she should’ve known what she signed up for when Mark sent two eager correspondents her way.

“So… when you two first met. What was that like?” you ask.

“That’s the angle you’re taking?” she snorts, delighted by your audacity.

“It is.” You cross one leg over the other, attempting to seem as nonchalant as you sound. But your pulse ticks behind your jaw. It’s always a gamble when you go off-script, and your opener had nothing to do with this whatsoever.

“Is this amateur hour?” She tosses her hair over her shoulder dramatically.

You snap your notepad shut. The sound recoils off the cream-colored walls. “Listen, public opinion right now isn't great. Without us, people think you’re just some money hungry cheater. If you want your story told, you’ll have to tell it right.”

She stares at you intently before pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. You can practically hear the thoughts in her head ping-ponging back and forth.

“You know,” Monroe remarks, “people always believe things without listening to both sides. I guess if you are listening to Delgado, you would think I'm some crazy obsessed woman.”

Oh. Oh. You’re getting somewhere.

“Are you not?” Jungkook asks, like that’s the most reasonable follow up in the world.

You shoot him a glare, but Monroe laughs loudly.

“No. I'm not. I’m normally very poised.” You imagine so. The woman probably spends her days hanging out with her personal trainer and delaying the aging process as much as possible.

“So, when you met him…” you press. You know you have her; her shoulders dip, her fingers toy with the hem of her skirt.

“Well,” Monroe sighs, “we met like most people do. We were at a retreat in Virginia. A policy weekend thing. I saw him in real life for the first time.. and, I don’t know. I’d heard murmurings of him, nothing good.”

“What did you hear about him?” you ask, flipping your notepad open, writing furiously.

She ticks off the words like items on a grocery list. “Arrogant. Obnoxious. Rich. Entitled. Do I need to go on?”

No, she doesn’t. Quite frankly, it sounds a lot like the man sitting next to you.

“Got it.” You scribble the words on your page. “So when you two were finally in the same room?”

“It was electric. He’s electric.” Her tone wavers a little as she recalls it, and the vulnerability takes you aback.

Your pen slows to a halt. “Really? This self-absorbed, entitled man?”

“Even the worst storms can light up a sky.”

That’s one way to describe a congressional sex scandal.

She hunches toward you both, like she’s about to impart vast amounts of wisdom. “Have you two ever met someone who, the minute you meet them, it feels like your whole world shifts? Like they were put on this planet to haunt you?”

You know about that in more ways than one.

“Maybe.” Jungkook says. You’re keenly aware of how claustrophobic this room suddenly feels.

Monroe nods triumphantly. “That was us. It took one look, one conversation, and I knew it was going to be like that.”

“Was it… like that? While you two were fraternizing?" Jungkook questions. The edge in his voice has gone dull.

She tosses her head back in laughter. “Definitely. He always had the upper hand, and I was chasing him while he dangled the carrot.”

A weird feeling settles in your stomach. You know what it’s like to chase, to want to matter to someone who doesn’t deserve it.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” you offer.

She exhales a slow breath. “You know, as a woman who’s incredibly intelligent, I’m used to men putting me down in rooms I’ve been made to feel like I don’t belong in. But with him, it was different. Like he wanted to hear what I had to say. I was important.”

Your pen stills again.

“So I chased him. I chased him until we couldn’t anymore.”

“So it wasn't one sided?” you ask without preamble.

She eyes you, lets her gaze drag along your figure. “You tell me.”

You hadn’t planned on answering honestly but something about the heat in the air, the sting of your half-sober Sunday still clinging to you makes you mutter, “I don’t think so”

Monroe points both manicured fingers at you like you’ve just won a game show. “Ding ding.”

“Women on the Hill are spectacles,” she says. Her stare pins you where you sit. “We’re all too smart for our own good, and sometimes we’re made to feel otherwise. Haven’t you ever felt like that?”

“I have.” you admit. “More than once.”

“I entangled myself with him because I was his equal. In the past, I’ve never been someone's equal before. Men adored me, sure. But they never matched me. I just wanted that for once.” Her bracelets clink softly as she gestures.

As you observe her, a wave of empathy washes over you. Each slight tremor in her voice reveals a vulnerability that calls out for compassion.

“I get it.” you say. The words taste sour on your tongue. “I’ve never had that.”

That earns you a sympathetic hum. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s exhilarating. When you find the man that loves your brain more than just you, you’ll understand why nothing else could ever work.”

Your laugh is stuck behind your ribs.

“The last and only boyfriend I ever had thought I was too smart. He said girls like me should be seen and not heard.” Your fingers tighten on your notepad.

And you don’t know when you ingested truth serum, but it flows out of you with ease. So easily that it makes you twitch in your chair when repeating the words out loud that have haunted you for years.

“What the fuck?” Jungkook blurts out incredulously, completely ignoring the audience in the room. It’s the first three words he’s said in minutes, and it punches through the room with force. His eyebrows are pulled taut, jaw tense. He blinks at you, like he’s trying to discern if he heard you right.

“What the fuck.” He repeats when you make no move to offer up a response or explanation. Not that you owe him one.

But you feel like you need to calm him down before he gets up and throws his chair across the room. “It was a joke,” you murmur. “He said it jokingly.”

“Oh,” Jungkook curses under his breath, then goes, “Hilarious. Real knee slapper.”

His jaw is still clenched so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t cracked. His fingers flex on the armrest repeatedly.

Monroe’s eyes flicker between you both, intrigued. “Men are so fragile.”

Your pen tip presses an inky bruise into the paper.

“Now you see it,” she says, like she’s handing you a mirror. “Delgado enriched my mind.”

It’s a pretty sentence, a poignant reflection on the bittersweet reality of having someone unexpected love you for exactly who you are.

You flip a page in your notes. “Public opinion of you right now… is not great.”

“Oh?” One side of Monroe’s lips curl.

“They all think you did it for money.”

A humorless laugh escapes her. “That’s rich. I was never getting his money.”

You pause. Pen hovers above paper. “Then what did you want?”

“Him.”

There’s a desperate ache inside you that begs to be seen — not in fragments, not in convenience — but entirely.

“Have you seen what he’s been saying?” Jungkook switches his pen from his left to his right. It’s a beautiful shade of black. You’ve noticed his signature pens lying around rooms sometimes.

Monroe nods. “I have.”

“And?” He lets his pen fall to his lap.

“I can’t let it bother me. If I let every man rewrite my story, I’d never get out of bed.” She rolls her eyes.

“Well, I’d love to rewrite your story.” He props his elbow on the armrest, eyes twinkling the way all journalists do when they’ve been presented with the opportunity to write.

“We,” you correct. “We’d love to help rewrite it.”

There’s no way you’ll let him write this alone. This is your story as much as it is his.

“Right. Both of you.” Monroe bemuses, lips quirking.

We’d love to rewrite it.

We.

When the hell did that start happening?

Nine years ago, you had a boyfriend.

You didn’t necessarily want one. Didn’t go looking for it like most people did your age.

See, your plan was always this — college, job, and pay your parents back for everything they did for you. There was no line item for ‘boyfriend.’

Once, when you were too young to understand the logistics of the world, you had sketched out your life with the precision of an artist, every detail carefully outlined. A prestigious Ivy League university, a fulfilling career as a journalist, a charming home for your family — each element of your future unfolded like a well-rehearsed script. The house you envisioned was nestled just down the road from your parents, a lovely two-story home with three cozy bedrooms that danced in your dreams.

Even when you were ten, sharing a cramped bedroom with your family, you had determined that this would someday be your parents’. A token of gratitude for all their hard work, for everything they did to put food on the table.

Then came him — the soft-spoken classmate who unexpectedly wove himself into the fabric of your life during your senior year of high school. He was a gentle soul, effortlessly blending into the background of your AP English class. He drew little attention to himself amidst the bustling energy of teenage life.

And so you let your plan alter a little. You let yourself fall for someone to fulfill the void. You etched him into every crevice of your plan until there wasn’t a single part of it that didn’t include him.

Despite how easily he fit into it all, he made an effort to undo it. He pulled away at pieces of yourself until there was nothing left to give. He took and took and took.

And when you’re seventeen from a poor family that has had to make peace with owning nothing, you accept being taken from.

So when you walk out of the interview room after your time with Monroe is up, after spending an hour talking about a man who is taking more from her than he’s giving, you run. Speed down the hallway as quickly as you can.

When you turn the corner, leaning against the cold wall to ground yourself, a quick patter of footsteps follow you but you try to ignore it.

“Are you alright? You kinda ran out of there.”

Jungkook hides behind the wall, slightly out of breath, as if he too was maintaining your speed down the hall. His dark hair is tousled over his forehead.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You wave him off, hitching your bag higher on your shoulder. “Guess I’m still hungover.”

You attempt to laugh but it’s clear he doesn’t find that the least bit funny.

“I thought it might’ve been because of what you said in there.” His words land between you like a dropped match on dry grass.

“Huh?” You blink up at him.

“That thing you said.” He clears his throat. Looks up at the ceiling like it might have the answer on how to ask what he’s asking properly. “Was that true?”

You know exactly what he means. You’re just too busy trying to find an exit route from this hallway.

“What part?” you ask, because it buys you time. Maybe if you keep playing dumb, this whole conversation will dissolve and he’ll call you a dimwit so you can return to some sense of normalcy.

“About what your ex said to you?” he says, quieter. “That you should be seen and not heard?”

The memory has followed you into adulthood like a shadow that forgot to disappear at night.

“Jungkook, it’s fine.” You straighten your shoulders, looking down the empty hallway before looking back at him. “It was in the past. I don’t need you to pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you.”

“Sureeee.” You shift your weight onto your other foot. “Because this whole ‘intervention’ doesn’t feel at all like pity.”

“I’m not. I just… “ He struggles with the words for a second. “I just don’t think you should walk around thinking that he might be right.”

Hilarious, because that’s the exact thing you have been walking around thinking, ever since high school. Ever since someone looked at your ambition like it was a flaw, like being too intelligent made you less lovable.

“Trust me, I don’t.” You lie right through the skin of your teeth.

“Okay, good.” He pauses, eyes flicking from your chest that’s still heaving up to your mouth. “I wouldn’t have anyone to argue with if you started playing dumb for me.”

“I would never.” You push his shoulder playfully, hoping to blow out the fire behind his eyes. If anything, it just intensifies at your brief touch.

Your attention splits when you hear someone heaving down the hallway, and Jungkook’s eyes gaze behind your shoulder at the sound of a poor man dying.

When you turn, it’s Mark, who you actually forgot about a little after agreeing to write the piece on Monroe. You’re about to offer him an inhaler as he catches up to you, tie flung over his shoulder, bracing the wall for support, but he speaks before you can.

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere.” he gasps, “You’re quite the runners, aren’t you?”

You meet Jungkook’s eyes for a second, barely containing your laughter.

“Did someone chase you down here or is this some kind of fitness challenge?” Jungkook folds his arms as if he also didn’t just run down a similar hallway.

Mark straightens, face blotchy. “I haven’t broken a sweat like that since the holiday party in 2019 when the heater combusted and it was like, a thousand degrees.”

Jungkook grins widely. “You okay, man? Need a defibrillator or something?"

“I need,” Mark pants, pointing between you both, “the two of you. That’s what I need. You’re not going to like it, but it’s urgent.”

Nothing good has ever followed a sentence like that.

“By all means, continue to ruin my day,” you mutter under your breath.

Mark pulls out his phone, ignoring your snide remark. “Delgado’s team just announced he’s holding a surprise press conference in Manhattan on Friday. Monroe’s team, in retaliation, is doing one Thursday morning.”

“Wait, so…” you deadpan.

“They’re going head to head, pretty much.” Mark turns his phone towards you, showcasing his calendar that is color-coded to a T. “In New York. They’re spinning this like it’s some truth tour.”

You have a feeling the truth won’t actually be told here.

“Listen, this could be huge. We need people in the room we can trust, people who know the case.”

Oh no. You know exactly where this is going.

Your hangover headache returns with a vengeance.

He must see it written in your face, because he goes, “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s all expenses paid.”

Your first instinct is to bolt. To fake a cough and say, “oh no, I think I have Monroe’s alleged flu.”

The last thing you need is a getaway to New York with Jungkook. You haven’t been in that city with him since graduation, when you took your respective seats as valedictorian and salutatorian. He tried to trip you as you were getting up to deliver your speech, but you dodged him in time.

Jenna leaps into your mind as if she’s always lurked in there. The promotion. Senior correspondent. The raise. The money you could use to buy your parents that home.

Mark keeps going, unaware of the war inside your brain. “Transporation is covered. Rooms covered. Media badges cleared for you. I can tryyy and squeeze you in the front row.”

Jungkook looks between you and Mark with an unreadable expression.

You have a promise to uphold to yourself — a vow you’ve been building your life around since you were old enough to know what the word ‘eviction’ meant.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

It surprises you when it leaves your mouth.

“Yeah,” Jungkook echoes. “Me too.”

Mark claps his hands together gleefully like you just agreed to be his groomsmen at his wedding. “Amazing. I’ll work on sending all details to your emails. God, you two are the best.”

He doesn't really say much more, spinning on his feet and clacking away on his phone already, whistling like he hasn’t put a dent on your weekend.

Your stomach knots itself into a bow, and you pray New York won’t take more from you than you have left to give.

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

#jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts #bts x reader #bts smut #bts x you

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flofaiiry · 5 days ago

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it's a garden life // michael robinavitch x reader

part two · myrtle ( wc. 1.2k )

↞ prev // next ↠ · [ series masterlist ]

The date went well. She liked the flowers, though she didn’t say anything other than pretty, thank you. Robby started trying to explain what you had told him, but she didn’t seem charmed in the way he expected. After her face twists in confusion for the umpteenth time he just gives up on trying to rationalize the choice.

They made good conversation- even had a few laughs. Something about her dog destroying a couch cushion while she was at work— or was it her cat? He's not entirely sure. His mind was admittedly elsewhere for the duration of the dinner.

All Robby could think about the whole time he was sitting across from a perfectly nice and pretty woman was the kind eyed, crossword-doing florist he promised to go back and see afterwards.

He knew he was in trouble when the first thing he did this morning wasn't texting his date to set up a second, but silently praying he hadn't cancelled his subscription to the New York Times.

Sure enough, he hadn't, and there was a copy rolled up and sitting on his front step. The outer pages were a little damp from last night's rain but the crossword was still doable- thank God.

Robby also had the day off today, he'd traded the shift with the other dayshift attending who wanted a day off later in the month for his daughter's birthday. He went back into his Google search history to find your shop again, scrolling until he found your opening hours. 10am, so he still had to wait a while.

In the meantime he filled in what he could of the crossword and took a shower to get himself presentable. It was stupid- he didn't put half this much effort into getting ready for his actual date. He literally went after work, still covered in antiseptic smell and hospital air. But for you, he thought, this would be worth it.

He heads out around 10:30, not wanting to seem too eager and get there right when you open. When he walks in you're helping a customer, something about a 5th wedding anniversary dinner tonight. You still acknowledge him though, shooting him a quick smile and millisecond of eye contact when he walks in. He returns the informal greeting then moves to linger in the back of the shop while you wrap up their flowers and cash them out, and pretends to look through your selection.

"Hey!" You turn your attention to him as soon as the customer has left the store. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he says, finally stepping up to the counter you’re behind. You quirk an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.

“She didn’t know about the birth flower thing apparently. Looked like I was speaking a foreign language when I tried to explain.” A little amused look comes on his face when your jaw drops in response. “You’re kidding! Damn, I’m sorry, I thought that would’ve blown her away- maybe even gotten you laid," you wink.

"That's not really my type," he mumbles, trying his hardest to fight off a blush from overtaking his face. "Ah it’s okay," he shrugs, "must not have been that into the Romans.” A smile pulls at your lips hearing that he remembers your little fun fact. "Speaking of the Romans," he continues, reaching around to his back pocket. He pulls out a folded New York Times paper and opens it to the crossword, half of the squares filled with chicken-scratch handwriting the others empty or chock full of eraser marks.

"You wouldn't happen to know what goes in today's 16 down would you?" He turns the paper over to you. The curves and edges of his writing catch your eye first, before your gaze drifts over to the clues. "A senators deputy, as in Ancient Rome," you flick up to look at him, "you think I'm just chock full of facts about Rome?"

He raises his shoulders to his ears in an over emotive shrug, "ohh I don't know. Thought I'd take a chance at you maybe harbouring a few more up there," he raises his eyebrows towards you.

You try— and fail— to fight off a smile before relenting and revealing that you do in fact know many more facts about Ancient Rome. "Equites," you say, "the class below senators in Roman civilization."

"How about this one,” you ask, taking out your own half filled copy of the Times, “Immaculate Steelers play," you read, passing it, "whatever the fuck that means." Robby fishes a pair of reading glasses from his pants pocket and slides them over his ears.

You take a deep breath.

He takes the paper from you and scans his eyes down it, mumbling the clue to himself once more before humming. "It's reception. Immaculate Reception. Some iconic play from '72."

"You that old?" You tease, taking the newspaper back. He scoffs, "sometimes I feel like I am." You laugh at his self deprecating joke before turning to scribble the answer into the boxes.

Robby's too enthralled in the way a few strands of your hair have fallen into your face. He eyes over the texture and the way the sun flows through the shop window and bounces against it just right and- wait, did you say something? Shit. He was too occupied to notice.

"What's that sorry?" He asks, shaking his head quickly like it'll make you forget that you just caught him staring. You smile, "the date," you clarify. "Flowers aside... did it go well?"

"Yeah, it was good." He breathes, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a quick nod. Robby doesn't offer anything else, and you widen your eyes in anticipation. "That's it?" You shake your head slowly, "are you gonna see her again?" He just shrugs, "maybe! Maybe, I- to be honest, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Well, when you're ready to think that far ahead, you let me know and we'll get you another bouquet." You smile knowingly. "I'll definitely let you know," he returns your smile and nods his head. You two hold eye contact for a moment- not saying anything just... looking.

Then an all too familiar vibration in his pocket takes him out of it.

His pager.

"Fuck, he mutters, reaching around to pull it out and check the notification. "Duty calls?" You ask, though you already know the answer. He nods- regrettably. "Yup. Classic emergency room. Day off can't even stay a day off." Robby shoves the pager back into his pocket and takes his copy of the Times off your desk and puts that back too.

"Well, if I need any flowers going forward this'll definitely be my place." He says, taking a step back in preparation to leave. "Some may say I'm also good for crossword help- particularly when it's related to the Romans." You add, cheeky grin tugging at your lips.

"Right," he smiles, "that too. I'll keep you in mind-" his natural progression would be to say your name but then he realizes- he doesn't know it.

"Wait, I uh- your name," he says quickly, "I don't know your name." You smile, then tell him. He nods like he's committing it to memory. "I'm Michael. Robinavitch. Michael Robinavitch. Everyone calls me Robby."

You smile, "well then, Robby. I'll see you soon."

thank you for reading!!! plsplspls leave a comment/reblog with your thoughts it means more than you know!!! <3 <3 <3

taglist (comment if you'd like to be added/removed!!) ; @robbyrosierobinavitch @dreamamubarak @disassociation-daydreams @twiddledeedumsworld @pope-codys @beebeechaos @memoriesat30 @vystasea @antisocialfiore @thedamnqueenofhell @blackwidownat2814 @peggyofoz @sabi127 @sanchann @bookoffracturedescapes @jazzimac1967

#guys i feel like this is boring and just yapping but #tell me what u think pls #anyways it will get better i promise just let the slow burn burn slowly and u will be rewarded #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch x you #dr robby x you #the pitt x you #michael robinavitch fanfiction #dr robby fanfiction #the pitt fanfiction #it’s a garden life🪷#michael robinavitch #dr robby #robby #robby robinavitch

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fadedmunson · 7 months ago

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like him | l. verus

pairings ; lucius verus x fem!reader

summary ; you find once he's captured. you attempt to strip away the gladiator mystique and find out who he really is.

genre ; kinda angsty-ish buuuut cayoot ending

notes; shocker! i watched gladiator II and it was complete eye candy soooo i finally got the paul mescal hype ><

wc ; .7k words! sorry so short :,(

"aren't you a sight for sore eyes," you purred at the unknown man

he blankly looked at you, feigning a look exhaustion you mistake for annoyance

you pout at his expression, slumping on the stone next to his sweaty and bruised body

it had to be around 35° celsius in rome; the hot sweltering sun beating down on the dehydrated gladiators that had them dropping like flies left and right

many of the roman "call girls" would linger around these parts, you being one of them

"tell me gladiator," you began

"what did they take from you?" you gently asked, while poking at his chestplate

he didn't reply, just stared blankly at your figure, before adverting his gloomy gaze

he thought you seemed gentle and sweet, nothing like someone would call a common "whore"

obviously the life you're living was chosen for you, he wondered who made that decision

you laughed at his lack of response

"ah, so you're the stoic type? we've had many of those," you reminisce

"they come and go so quickly," you breathe out, "a real shame."

"i've become well versed in losing the things i love. i'm sure someone like you has as well." he surmised quietly

you whipped your head to look at him clearly

he face was completely wiped of emotion, oh he's serious

you dawn a wry smile, "i have."

he leans in further into the conversation, almost like his desire is to actively listening to you

you notice this and pull back a little

"you're a busy man," you nervously noted, "shouldn't you be training?"

he looks around for a minute, seeing everyone else occupied on some other mundane exercise

"i think i can push my training by a couple minutes," he suggested, wearing a cheeky grin before giggling with you

oh gods above please never let this moment end

you talk for what felt like forever, come to find out it had only been mere minutes

"there's something about him," you tell one of the girls in the brothel

"yeah, like what? his phallus?" she jeers playfully

you stay silent and just shake your head gently while helping her

there was a part of you that had yearned for a connection,but instead you're here, helping naive girl fix their makeup for men who do not deserve them

you stand up suddenly, confusion written on all their faces

"i'll be out until dawn," you say sharply

they all look at you with an unspoken agreement lingering in the air

you take a hooded cape and be on your way, you have to see your gladiator

in the dead of the night, you had arrived to the prison chambers that held the fighters

it was dirty and filled with little creatures, rusted blood on the metal, only illuminated by some rickety lanterns, you could hear the almost silent cry of some of the men, wishing they could return to their homes,

you were hastily let in, a loud BANG! heard before the gates shut completely

his stature completely melts when he sees your eyes, he knows it's you underneath the covering

you take a seat right next to him on his uncomfortable mattress, and you look at him deeply while he takes off your cloth hood

"i want to know you.."

"lucius," he whispers, his eyes moving all over your face to analyze every littlest feature

you hold his face in your hands and swipe your thumb over his cheeks "i desire to know you lucius."

"it feels like we've known each other a lifetime," he completely melts into you hands, placing his over yours

gently kissing your knuckles, he looks to you for comfort in an empire that wants to see you both dead

your eyes well with tears at the love you feel, its gentle and sweet, no malice or underlying lust

it's overwhelming and all you can do is stare at his while he admires you, treating you with such kindness that you think it's turning you nauseous

he confided in you, about his father, his life in numidia, and his desires in life

his eyes lit up thinking about what his future life could've been if it weren't for the literal chains that restricted him

your silence spoke volumes as you ran your hands through his rugged hair, nodding your head at every little thing he had to say

for the first time since being in rome, he's felt solace. only with you

#paul mescal #paul mescal x reader #lucius verus #gladiator 2 #gladiator ll #gladiator 2 x reader #gladiator ii fic #lucius verus x reader #paul mescal x y/n

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mackk122 · 7 months ago

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Tittle : First time (part 1).

Part.2

Pairing~Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 5k.

Warnings~ none :)

Summary~ Younger Sister to the twin Emperors.As you are forced to sit and watch the games, a certain gladiator catches your attention.

Notes: This is just a build up to the next part. Raw, next question…

.·:*¨༺𓆟༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺𓆟༻¨*:·.

As I sat there awaiting my brother’s speech to announce the general, my mind wandered off searching in the crowd.

‘How could so many people sit here and enjoy these brutal games?’ I thought, I could hear the commotion but cared less of what was being spoken.

Still lost in my thoughts I jumped at a hand being placed on my shoulder- it was Lucilla.

“And where does the mind of the young princess of Rome, wander off to?” She spoke softly smelling the little bundle of flowers in her hand.

“Ah, just thinking about the games” I gave a fake smile. I had to be cautious about what I said or did, for my twin brothers didn’t take criticism lightly.

She smiled and gave a soft nod, understanding where I was coming from. All of the sudden the sound of horns and the crowd’s cheers erupted, drawing me out of my mind. The gladiators all came out, these men which have not felt peace since before their homes were taken.

I noticed very quickly a young man in the center of them, from what I could see he was a natural born leader, and very handsome. He commanded the gladiators as if it were his own personal army, when he moved they moved at his discretion. As the game went on I could barely stomach the man getting throw into the pillar. I turned away only for Caracalla to speak.

“Sister you must watch, isn’t it magnificent?” He grinned devilishly. I didn’t respond, for fear I would vomit because of the gore.

“YOUR EMPEROR IS SPEAKING TO YOU!” He shouted staring at me as if I was the crazy one.

“Brother! Our sister doesn’t mean to offend, remember it is but her first time sitting here to watch” Geta replied calming our brother down. As Caracalla turned back around amused at the center of the arena, Geta gave me a warning look.

As all of this was happening the rhino then slammed into the wall, and the two gladiators began to fight. My stomach began to turn, I prayed the man I saw earlier would not be slain.

As he fell to the ground and the bigger man stood above him asking the crowd for mercy or death, my heart sank.

The crowd began to cheer ‘Mercy’, and my brother stood to his feet, he turned to Lucilla who looked as if she was terrified for this man’s life.

“Shall I spare him?” Geta asked.

“Yes!” I shouted before Lucilla could answer her face slightly confused.

“Spare him” she spoke strongly to the Emperor.

With his body now facing the crowd and arm stretched out, he began to speak the words muffled in my head only focusing to the stranger on the ground, the crowd cheered and I looked up to see he had granted him mercy, I took a breath of relief.

“No mercy! I would rather die by the sword than receive mercy from the Roman’s!” Lucius shouted as he was on his hands and knees.

My eyes widened and I turned to Lucilla, she equally fearful for this young man. And they began to fight again, this time Lucius took victory. The crowd erupted into applause at the sight of this gladiator. He looked up into where we were sitting, and our eyes locked for a moment before he walked out of the arena.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

“Lucilla” I said softly, catching up to her and the general. She turned to me with a soft smile but I knew something was wrong.

I pulled her into a hug, “That man, who is he?” I whispered in her ear. The manner of tone she used for him to be spared, was almost as if she’d known him.

“I’m afraid I know not what you speak” she spoke back pulling away. “Princess” she nodded and they continued to walk.

‘There is something she knows’ I thought to myself. I began to walk back to my brothers only for them to have left me at the colosseum.

“Fantastic” I breathed out.

“Ah, Princess” Macrinus spoke.

“Oh!” I turned stunned, not expecting him to be there. “Your gladiator is really something, what was his name?” I smiled.

Macrinus gave a sly look before responding, “He goes by Hanno…” he looked at me head turned slightly, “huh… princess” he said before leaving.

‘Hanno..’ I thought and a small smile appeared on my lips. ‘I will meet this man’ I thought to myself determined to speak to him.

.·:*¨༺𓆟༻¨*:·. .·:*¨༺𓆟༻¨*:·.

As Lucius sat at the table getting stitched up, his mind kept wandering to the woman, behind the Emperors.

“What is on your mind gladiator?” Ravi asked him.

“That woman… not the generals wife- the other one, she is the princess… correct?” He asked staring at him.

“Yes… and why do you care?” Ravi smiled his brow raised. Lucius gave a look before it turned into a smile. Macrinus appeared

From around the corner congratulating him.

“Keep doing well and you’ll get what you want” he spoke.Lucius stopped him before he walked away.

“I want to meet the princess as well” he said stern. Macrinus chuckled and continued to walk.

#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator movie #paul mescal #lucius verus #maximus #pedro pascal #general acacius #gladiator ll #paul mescal x reader #lucius versus x reader #emperor geta #emperor caracalla #rome #ancient rome #fanfic #Hanno #lucilla #Lucius versus fic

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averagewriter-inthedark · 7 months ago

Text

To Be Loved is To Be Seen 👑 | Gladiator II Imagine

My Masterlists

Characters & Pairings: Emperor Geta x Empress!reader

Content Warnings: fluff, mentions of violence and insinuated murder. morally ambiguous reader (They match each other's freak), slight NSFW—MDNI 18+, mentions of pregnancy, soft!Geta, historical refences and mythology (not completely accurate to the timeline) | female!reader (she/her) no use of Y/n | wc: 3.6k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: On the evening of their son's first name day, the Imperial couple of Rome find solace and comfort in the rare moment their afforded when keeping the order of the Empire on their shoulders. Basking in the genuine softness that is only reserved for each other, away from the preying eyes of their court who constantly test their patience and bring upon the wrath of Mars and Venus.

Note: my love for Joseph Quinn has returned full force and it makes me hate Stanger Things again for killing Eddie off.

---------------------------------------

Under the stars and Gods of the Roman night sky, the Empress stood on the balcony of the Royal chambers overlooking the beautiful city. A symphony of music and chatter from the people below, filling the streets as torches light the pathways and far beyond. The Colosseum, the battleground for Rome’s gladiators, once consumed by spectators to witness the blood and glory of her fighters now remained silent and steadfast as the day’s celebration came to an end.

And the Empress, adorning in the comfort of her nightwear and robes, held the celebrations honoree in her arms. Pius Septimus Caius. The one-year-old Caesar, heir apparent to the Roman Empire, stared up at his mother with wide eyes full of wonder. Reaching up with a chubby hand to grasp her hair, freed from its braids, pins, and curls.

“One day, this will all be yours,” she declared, adjusting the child so he was perched on her elbow, leaning his entire weight onto her side. Her mouth pressed to his head as she cradled him, “Everything the night touches, and what the sun shines upon when Sol comes to claim the sky from Nox, belongs to us.” Tiny fingers play with the seam of her robe, the young heir fixated on the gold detail.

Down below the Empress heard cheers erupt, peering to find citizens by the gates of the palace dancing and waving to the ruler. “Blessed be the Caesar on his first natalicium!” “Empress, may the Gods bestow great fortune to you and his Grace!”

Grinning, she raised her hand, fingers cupped to wave at the crowd, who grew in size--all vying to catch a glimpse of the Empress and Caesar before they retreated into the chambers. The balcony stood high off the ground and yards away from the streets, but the guards stood firmly with their weapons ready for any threat. Caius mimicked his mother. Arm moving up and down, igniting more cheer from their subjects.

“And when you’re older,” her voice dropped an octave, despite no soul in proximity. A menacing shift in tone all while the smile remained on her face. “Your father and I will teach you the ways of ruling this great empire with an iron fist and the secrets to prevailing without bringing destruction onto yourself. Where the people of Rome shall adore you, worship the ground you walk on, and stay loyal to you even when their hearts scream at them to run.”

Giving one last wave and shielding the boy from the cool breeze, the Empress retreats inside, the smile dropping to a dubious smirk, reflected in the way her eyes seem to darken now she is away from prying eyes. “You’re too young to understand, my dear Caius, the lengths your father, uncle, and I have gone to keep the favor of the people while hiding the truth of certain matters they surely would spread fire to the streets if they discovered.” Her chuckle echoes with the sound of the doors shutting. Sealing the chambers from the outside world.

“Gods be damned, the lengths I went to secure my position could bring upon ruin.” The bodies of the Senator and his daughter, who plotted to usurp her betrothal to the Emperor, now rotted to bone and dust beneath the Colosseum. “Not to mention the lengths your father went to ensure my hand.” At the bottom of the sea laid the box containing the man her father initially betrothed her to. Who’s life was forfeit the moment Geta laid eyes upon the woman he vowed would be his Empress.

And any and all Concubines knew not to dare breach the boundaries of the Imperial couple. Certain actions and intimacies were reserved for each other.

Do not kiss the Emperor or the Empress on thy lips.

The Emperor takes pleasure, he does not give. Only to her.

The Empress does not lay below, she remains above. Except for him.

The Emperor does not allow anyone on top of him, only her.

The Empress takes no seed but his. He releases in no one, but her.

The one time a brave soul attempted, ended with their passage to the Underworld.

Pulling back the duvet, the Empress settled into her side of the bed. Back pressed against the headboard and Caius tucked in her lap, she lit the candles on the nightstand for more the light the flames of the fireplace were unable to reach.

“Let me tell you a little story, my son, of the love between two Gods that is not so far from your father and I. Mars and Venus.” Eyes full of intrigued, the boy babbled in approval and snuggled closer into her embrace. Warmth of the duvet and fire hugging him alongside her skin. “The tale goes like,” she began hoarsely, “there was once a beautiful Goddess. More beautiful than any Goddess in Mount Olympus and the lands below, who held the bounds of love like no other. Venus. And every man, God and mortal, wanted Venus to be theirs. But she was married to Vulcan, the blacksmith God, who relished in being the one to have secured her hand by the order of her father, Caelus.”

The Empress’s jaw tightened, tone hardening at the last sentence as she thought of her father and former betrothed. The Senator twice her age whom her father agreed to marry her too once she reached marriage potential. Sentencing her to a life where the home he built would be her own personal prison. Hidden away from the likes of preying men, but would show her off as a prized gift from the Gods when he desired satisfaction from his peers.

Gods be damned he’d be her husband. She would’ve slit his throat on their marriage bed the night of the wedding. But alas, Mars rescued her.

“Venus spent every waking moment planning to rid Caelus from her life. Leaving Mount Olympus to live among the mortals. Drown herself in the sea. Poison him little by little until his body could no longer put up a fight.” The Empress had been so lost in her rising anger, staring at the flames of the fire, that she forgot what she was talking about. It wasn’t until hands brushed her cheek, and she glanced away to find her son tilting his head, wondering why she stopped the story.

“But one day while attending a feast, just when the Goddess believed all hope was lost, she was visited by Mars, the God of War.” Caius’ awed expression made her smirk, falling to a whisper, “and in that moment Venus knew her prayers had been answered.”

The smooth surface of the pillar beneath her finger guided her with each step, the column the only thing between the two as they circled each other. Eyes locked, drawing out the voices of the guests in the dining hall yards away. Leaving them the only two, standing on the balcony as they welcomed the cool night breeze and allowed Nox to be their only witness to the instant connection they both met the others gaze.

“You should not be without your guards, my Imperator. Tis a foolish thing to do when so many souls occupy your home.”

“Sounds as though you have plans to strike me down, my Lady.” His smirk indicated he did not feel threatened at all by her. Continuing to circle the pillar, he moved at the same pace as though not to lose sight of her face. Her entire being beckoning him like a siren luring their prey.

“Oh no,” she purred, lips curling up to match his smirk. Sending heat up his spine as the air around them shifted. “I wouldn’t dare dream of striking the likes of you down.

“No?” came his mock, like he didn’t believe her. “Is that not why you lured me out here?”

“Who said I lured you?”

“Ah, so it was luck you betted on that I’d follow you.” Geta suddenly stopped and turned to intercept her, the woman nearly running into his chest. But she made no sound of surprise, expecting him to eventually end their dance around the pillar.

The moonlight shined against her eyes, mimicking the twinkle of the stars above. “I did not have to bet on luck. You’ve been waiting the whole night to have me alone.”

Geta’s expression shifted to a mix of intrigue and lust, mesmerized by her confidence of speaking so freeling in front of him, knowing he’s killed men who’ve dared to do the same. “Is that so, my Lady? Care to enlighten me what assured you I’d leave the company of my guests to follow you into the night alone without my guards.”

Leaning closer, enough for him to feel the heat radiating off her body, she lifted a finger to trace the image of Mars on his golden chest plate. Smooth metal beneath her fingertip.

“I’ve felt your eyes trail me the moment I stepped through those doors,” she spoke into the night, never straying her intense gaze from him. “You may be good at masking your thoughts, my Emperor, in front of your subjects and Senators. But when that man introduced me as his intended….” her head tilted, challenging him to reject the claim about to leave her lips. “You appeared rather displeased.”

Geta’s hand came up to her arm, trailing up until it reached her neck to cup her jaw, rather rough yet she showed no trace of fear. In fact, she appeared aroused. It enticed him.

“Any man would when they are in the presence of Venus herself.”

“I’m flattered by your kind words, my Emperor. And if I may, being in your presence feels as though I've been visited by Mars.”

“Does that frighten you?” He questioned.

“On the contrary, I’m pleased,” she didn’t hesitate, making his grin widen.

“And like Venus, Vulcan has claimed you as his own.”

“He has not claimed me and never will.”

“You intend to kill him then? Before your wedding?” A trace of surprise laced his tone, but more so amusement.

Once again, she challenged him with her eyes, hand coming up to his own on her neck, “Would that please you, my Emperor.”

Geta’s eyes were as dark as hers, the tension between the two thickening as their goals of the night since the feast started finally came together. She was in his arms, and he was wrapped around her finger.

He brought his head to hers, leaving his mouth roughly centimeters from hers, giving her the promise she prayed to the Gods in the image of Mars himself.

“Very much so, but leave him to me, my Lady, I rather enjoy removing those standing in the way of what I want. And what I want, is you,” Their lips brushed together, sealing the vow in a single kiss, “Swear yourself to me, and I shall free you from him. You will be my Empress.”

“Mars and Venus loved in the shadows until they finally could show the world they belonged together. Vulcan was indisposed, thanks to Mars,” The Empress’ finger was grasped, Caius attempting to take her ring that caught his attention. It made her grin, letting the boy take her hand to inspect the jewelry. “And Venus made sure the maidens and Goddess alike knew better than to tempt Mars with their seduction,” voice dropping to a murmur, she added with a smirk, “those who dared were removed with ease.”

A squeal left Caius when he was suddenly lifted in the air, waving his arms rapidly as giggles echoed against the walls of the chambers. The Empress stared up with adoration, “and born from Venus and Mars’ love was their son, Cupid. The winged God of affection.”

Caught up in the moment, the little prince giggling as his mother continued to hold in the air as though he was flying, the Empress did not hear the chamber doors opening. The troubled expression on Geta’s face wondering why his son wasn’t in the nursery vanished upon his eyes landing on the scene before him. A sudden warmth filled his veins hearing Caius’ laughter, followed by the view of a beaming smile on his wife.

“Make no mistake, Cupid was as clever and mischievous as his parents. They say that when struck by his golden arrow, one is gifted with uncontrollable desire. But when he sends his arrow tipped with lead, they flee with great aversion.” Returning the boy back down, the Empress nuzzles her nose against his. Giggles still falling from his mouth he nearly drowns her voice out, but Geta manages to hear her. “And let us not forget dear Cupid was known to steal honey straight from the hives of bees. The sweetness too tempting to resist.”

The Empress swore she saw Caius’ brown eyes light up at the mention of honey. For he, too, loved the golden liquid. Especially when infused with bread or cookies.

Geta, who’d been watching from a distance fondly, finally made his appearance known, “and when Cupid’s stung by the bees he’s stolen from,” the Empress does not even flinch by the sudden intrusion. Having felt her husband’s eyes on them when he entered the chamber.

She turns Caius in her arms as her gaze shifts to Geta’s, smirking at the sight of him strolling to his side of the bed, robes clasping his figure and leaving nothing to the imagination. The light of the candles illuminated his gorgeous face, the vision of Mars, her Mars.

Caius reaches out to his father. Escaping the Empress’ hold when Geta settles onto the mattress. Letting his son fall into his arms while he continued, “he ran to his mother Venus claiming no creature that small should bring upon such pain. But Venus did not consol the young God like he hoped, no…” Geta’s eyes fixed on his wife, who met his gaze, their expressions full of delight. “She reminded Cupid how he was not so different from the bee’s. He was small, like them, and he delivered the sting of love.”

Of course, Caius was too young to understand the extent of his parents' stories. Just one year old and yet to speak his first words to the world. But he was captivated nonetheless, eyes big with awe and wonder.

“Poetic justice at best,” The Empress whispered, smirk never faltering as she leaned closer, her lavender aroma filling his nostrils. Leaving little room between the two now that Caius laid claim to sitting on Geta’s chest. The Emperor held him upright with one hand under his armpit and the other on his side.

“You gave me a fright, wife,” Geta remarked, tauntingly. “I went to the nursery, and imagine my surprise when I looked in my son’s cradle to find it was empty. Then I heard the guards chattering about how the front gates were flooded by citizens shouting their desire to see the Empress and Caesar.”

Chuckling, the Empress returned his playful smile, “My apologies, husband. Caius and I were enjoying the view of Rome at night Nox has blessed us with. I was showing him what will be his one day.”

Geta lifts a brow, “already preparing him for the throne? My dear, I thought you’d wait at least until his second name day.”

A hand lightly taps his shoulder in offense, though it does no damage and Geta simply laughs at the action. Caius, the bold prince, reaches his chubby arm to swat at his mother as to protect his father, making the two gasp with grins etched on their visage.

“Such loyalty, my son!” Geta lifts him up, causing giggles to erupt. “I shall dismiss my Praetorian guards and make you my sworn protector. No man shall harm the Emperors of Rome so long as the mighty Septimus Caius is by their side.”

Laughter echoes along the walls of the Royal chamber that any passersby outside, servant or guard, stopped momentarily on their journey just to hear the joyous sound of their Caesar. Geta brought his son back down only to bestow soft kisses against his soft cheek. The Empress gazing upon the scene with deep reverence.

Moments like these were rare. With the state of the Empire constantly on the shoulders of Geta and his brother and the Empress maintaining their facade of benevolent rulers to the public as to keep their favor, finding time to be a family proved rather difficult than they intended. Caius often got the attention of one parent at a time during busy days. Either Geta tucking him in at night before bed after a days worth of politics and scheming, or the Empress bringing the boy alongside when attending her duties. Hardly allowing the servants to care for him. Going as far as to refuse the wet-nurse when she birthed the child to feed him from her own breast.

An action that appalled the Senate and ladies of the court, but garnered the affection of Rome’s people.

Caius' laughter settled, the boy nuzzling into Geta’s chest as his mother brought her hand to caress his cheek. Lulling him to sleep. “Tis unfair you know,” she spoke softly, though Geta recognized the mischief in her eyes. “I held him in my womb for nine moons and he betrays me by having all your features and no trace of mine.”

Melted chocolate for eyes, hair reddish golden like the setting sun, and skin light as peaches from their garden trees, Caius was the spitting image of his father. He had plump lips and freckles adorning his tiny face. The only attribute he took from his mother was her nose. Other than that, he could be mistaken for the offspring of a concubine had the servants not attended the Empress first hand during her labors and subsequently the birth.

A chuckle left Geta’s lips, stroking his son’s hair as said matching eyes fluttered shut to find slumber. “He might have the likes of me physically, but rest assured wife, he’ll take on after you in every other way.”

“How so?”

“He’ll have your ambition,” he drawled, looking down at his son. “Your assertiveness and confidence. He’ll know to love no one but his family, and to remain loyal to them above all else. He’ll know how to sniff out traitors.” Geta’s voice is serene, his attention now toward his wife. “No one will ever deceive him. He will be the greatest ruler Rome has ever seen. All because he has you as his mother.” Tears pricked in her eyes, heart full of love and feeling butterflies in her stomach by his words.

Hand coming to his cheek, the Empress pressed her forehead against his temple, her voice featherlike against his ear, “and with you as his father, he’ll prevail. He’ll know how to be a fearless emperor, a doting father, and devoted husband. And maybe…” she trailed off, biting her lip as a smile threatened to grace her face. “A loving brother as well.”

The air caught in the back of Geta’s throat. Eyes wide and moving down her figure to follow her free hand trailing to cradle her stomach. “Are you…you’re certain?” The Empress confirmed his suspicion, kissing his lips as the lone tear fell from her eye.

“Yes, my love.” she whispers against his lips with a slight nod, careful to not wake the sleeping prince. “I have not bled in two moons. You’ve blessed me again with the honor of carrying your child.”

Overcome with emotion, Geta carefully sits up, holding Caius against his chest as he pulls his wife up as well to crash his mouth against hers. The passion filled kiss made her head spin, enough to make her fall had his one arm not wrapped around her waist to keep her upright. The kiss was wet, sloppy. Full of love, full of devotion. A kiss actors at the theater could never accurately portray. As the feelings behind it are what truly brings it to life.

Pulling away after a minute, flustered and consumed with lust, Geta holds her gently by the neck, forehead pressed against her own. “The Gods have granted me you, my Venus, and I cannot thank them enough for the gift you’ve given me. Our son, and the child in your womb. I need not anything else in this world but you and our children.”

Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she uttered, “I love you, Geta,” kissing him again with the same amount of passion as before, which he met feverishly.

When they pulled apart once more, Geta let his lips trail to her forehead before leaning back to announce, “I’m going to escort our little prince back to the nursery. I’ll only be a moment.” Adjusting his body, Geta lifted himself off the bed, a sleeping Caius pressed tightly to his chest. The soft patter of his footsteps headed for the chamber door, his wife watching him depart. However when he was about to open the door, Geta stopped and turned back to face her, a lewd smile painting his features.

“When I return, you shall take your place on top of me,” arousal flooded the Empress, his order producing the wetness between her thighs on command as it always did. Igniting the fire boiling within her stomach. Geta licked his lips, blood rushing to his groin by the predatory glint in her eyes. “Then I’ll have you under me after I’ve feasted upon your cunt. We have much to celebrate tonight.”

“Much to celebrate indeed….” Sinking back into the cushions of the bed while teasing the opening of her robes, the Empress sighed in content. Pleasure forming at what’s to come in the next five minutes. “I’ll be waiting.”

#emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x female reader #emperor geta x you #emperor geta imagine #gladiator ii imagine #joseph quinn imagine #gladiator ii fanfiction

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dilemmaontwolegs · 2 years ago

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Irresistible || CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader Summary: A one night stand comes back to haunt you when your father plans to marry his mother. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, smut, cheating, time skipping, kind of taboo (future stepbrother) WC: 6.1k F1 Masterlist || One || Two

December 2019

Two years ago you had spent an amazing week in Monaco during a European getaway. It was meant to be a once in a lifetime trip but now you sat opposite your father at the kitchen table in your family home trying to understand what he was saying.

“…the kindest woman. You’ll love her, just like I do.”

He fell in love so now you were expected to leave behind everyone you knew and just start a new life with his new family. You knew he had been happier since the trip but you never would have thought it was because of some long distance relationship. He had kept that to himself for a long time.

“Can’t you just have a midlife crisis like everyone else?” you asked. “Why are you moving us across the world for a stranger?”

“Did you not hear me? Pascale is not a stranger. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I love her.”

Resentment built and you pushed your chair back as you stood up. “You loved mum too, and look how that ended.”

Your father sighed and you immediately felt guilty for the heaviness in that one breath. It wasn’t his fault your mother decided domestic life wasn’t for her and left when you were just a baby. It wasn’t his fault that she met a man who had a motorcycle and flirted with the wrong side of the law. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that they crashed in a high speed police chase when you were 15.

You sank back into your seat and picked at the chipped Formica table top. “I’m sorry, dad.”

A calloused hand from a life of hard work gently patted yours. “It’s a big adjustment, pumpkin, but you said Monaco was a beautiful place. I thought you would be happy.”

“It was, but I’ll never see my friends.”

“I’m not saying you can replace them, but you’ll make new ones. And even with the different timezones I’m sure you can make arrangements to video call each other.”

He was making an effort, you could recognise that at least. “Fine. I suppose it won’t be that bad.”

August 2017

All of the streets seemed to look the same, the stonework buildings towering over you as the afternoon sun dipped even further below the mountains that bordered the place. You had no idea which way it was to get back to the hotel and you weren’t going to risk the international roaming charges to use the internet on your phone, you already spent most of your savings on the clothes in the bags that hung from your wrists.

You were too busy looking up and trying to get a sense of direction that you didn’t see the man getting out of his car. Pain flared in your knee as a door slammed into it and you dropped the bags to clutch your leg that throbbed and drew a groan from your lips. It was worse than hitting your funny bone and you grabbed the hood of the car to balance when you nearly teetered over.

“Mon Dieu, est-ce que tu vas bien?”

You couldn’t understand a word he said but the accent was almost enough to make you feel better, until you looked up. The setting sun cast a golden glow around the man and you swore he was more beautiful than the godlike statues you had seen in Rome the week before.

“I, I,” you stammered stupidly as he knelt down beside you and repacked the bags that had fallen to the street. His bright green eyes lingered on the red lace bra and panty set you had spent a small fortune on before he cleared his throat and shoved them in the bag. “I don’t speak French.”

“You should really be watching where you are walking,” he said as he stood up, his accent saturating his words and making the scolding sound sexy. And it was most definitely a scolding. “You could have been hit by a car.”

“I was,” you pointed out as you tested your leg and winced when you put your weight on it.

“I meant one that was driving past. It was a good thing I was parked.” He looked down his nose and shook his head. Somehow this stranger had managed to make you feel guilty for disappointing him, and it started to infuriate you.

“I really don’t think this is all my fault,” you snapped as you swiped your bags back. “This is a footpath, and that is a no parking zone. Maybe you should concentrate more on where you should be driving than how I should be walking.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and he did the same until his lip twitched and a smirk broke out. “You think I am a bad driver?”

You looked at the double yellow lined he was parked over and squared your shoulders. “Does a duck quack?”

He mouthed the question back before he understood what you were implying and laughed as he took a step closer. “I like you, you are funny, and delusional. What is your name, and what are you doing tonight?”

You were still trying to figure out if he had complimented or insulted you when someone called out and stole his attention before you could answer.

“Charles, dépêche-toi!”

You both turned to the group that had arrived, all of the young men looking almost as handsome as he did. They had to be from the same modelling agency, or there was something seriously strong in the water here.

“Well?”

You looked at Charles and found he was still waiting for an answer. “Probably still trying to find my hotel.”

“Funny,” he chuckled before waving his friends off. “Je te rattraperai plus tard.” He took your bags and stuffed them in the backseat of his car before offering his hand. “I can’t have you walking these streets all night, god knows what trouble you could cause.”

“I was doing fine, until you hit me with your car, and now you want to drive me in it? Nuh-uh, I would rather take my chances on foot.”

You stepped around him to get your bags back, or at least you tried to but your aching knee gave out. You would have fallen to the pavement but a strong arm curled around your waist and pulled you against him.

“You could have just asked if you wanted to hold me, biche.”

“Excuse me?” You pushed away from him and gritted your teeth through the pain. “I’m not sure in what world you think that is flirting, asshole.”

Charles threw his head back with a laugh and easily caught up to you, his palm heating the small of your back as he guided you around to face his car again “Biche, not bitch, it’s a cute little deer. I can call you Bambi instead, I quite like that. Unless you want to tell me your name?”

You rolled your eyes, unsure whether the endearment was an improvement at all, but stepped into the car when he opened the door for you. “No thanks, I don’t know if you are some sort of stalker.”

He laughed again before walking around to the driver's seat. “What hotel are you staying in?”

“The Fairmont.”

The flashy car roared to life and you turned to face Charles when his laughter grew. “So you would tell a stalker where you are staying but not your name?”

“That sounds to me like you are admitting you are a stalker,” you shot back with a daring arch of your brow. “Besides, I’m staying with a man that would snap you like a twig if you tried to turn me into a skin suit. I don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Your boyfriend?”

You snorted at the question and shook your head. “My father.”

He smiled at the news as he pulled out into the traffic and drove the short distance to the hotel. Your meandering had only left you two streets away from it so it was probably more of a nuisance to drive you there but Charles didn’t seem to mind.

“Are you enjoying the city?”

“It’s beautiful,” you said with a nod. “It’s almost a shame to leave tomorrow.”

“Have you been to Jimmyz?”

“Not yet.” You had heard of the club but most nights had consisted of a late dinner with your father and then bed. It was actually the first day you hadn’t spent hanging out with him, he had gone to get a haircut that was long overdue after all the travelling and you had used the alone time for a little girl shopping.

“You should come tonight, my friends and I are going and I owe you for hitting you with my car.”

January 2020

Your father thought it would be a good idea for Pascale to come and stay for a week before the big move. She owned a hair studio so it was easy to take some time off and she was due to arrive any moment. He had all but begged you to make an effort with Pascale before leaving for the airport. He had never brought a woman home, or at least while you were there, so it was strange to see how he fussed over the crumbs in the kitchen sink.

You did a quick final inspection through the house but with most of the belongings already sold or shipped off to Monaco there was next to nothing that could make a mess. You only hoped all your things arrived in time at the other end. It was bad enough you were going to be staying with one of your step brothers to begin with but it was only for a few weeks while the renovations on the new house dad and Pascale had bought were finished. He promised that your room would have a view of the ocean and your own bathroom - it was absolutely a bribe but you were fine with that.

The car pulled into the driveway, past the large real estate sign with an unmissable SOLD sticker across it. You had seen a handful of pictures of Pascale on your dad’s phone but when she stepped out of the car you realised they didn’t do her justice. Despite being on multiple planes that never made for a decent sleep, she looked refreshed and even her hair was still in a perfect blowout. She was really pretty, or maybe it was the bright smile she gave your dad when he parked the car.

“Do I look alright, Peter?” she asked as she touched her hair nervously and straightened her blouse.

“It’s not an interview, sweetheart,” he chuckled as he grabbed her suitcase. “You look beautiful.”

August 2017

The club was unlike anything back home. The music seemed to seep into your skin, the bass vibrating in your bones. Even the air was intoxicating with the promise of a night of bad decisions.

“Bambi, I didn’t think you would actually come.”

You turned away from the bar and found Charles drinking in the sight of your short, tight dress. His eyes followed every line, dip and curve of your body and he bit his lip as he dragged them back up to your face. For the price you had paid you were happy it had the desired effect.

With your confidence bolstered you sent him a smirk and grabbed your drink that had been placed down. “Well you did say you owe me, you can start with my drink.”

Charles didn’t look away as he reached into his pocket and stepped closer, his hand reaching past to slap a bill on the bar top. His scent reached you, the cologne inviting you to lean closer and inhale the decadence of vanilla and bergamot. “The usual, please.”

He could have stepped back while his drink was made but he chose to stay close, his eyes flicking down your cleavage to see the red lace set he had been daydreaming about all evening. “How about we get out of here?”

You had fantasised about a summer romance since the trip began, what young woman wouldn’t when they were going to Europe? But you hadn’t been able to conjure a face as handsome as his when you closed your eyes late at night and your hand drifted beneath the blankets. Now you had the opportunity in the palm of your hands and you weren’t going to let it slip from your fingers.

Tipping your head back, you met his green eyes that dared you rise to the challenge. “Lead the way.”

February 2020

You were jet lagged and exhausted when you finally reached your temporary accommodation.

“Charles is just on his way back from work but he shouldn’t be too far away. Make yourself at home, sweetheart,” Pascale said as she helped you with your bags.

The apartment was bare with mostly blank white walls and a few framed pictures of Ferrari cars. It was a typical boy space that was in desperate need of soft furnishings to liven it up, but that wasn’t your problem to deal with.

“He just bought the place so he’s still finding his ‘vibe’,” Pascale noted when she saw you eying up the empty space, the words sounding like they were verbatim and not her own. “But there’s two bedrooms and two bathrooms so you’ll have your own space. The builder said our house will be finished in a few weeks.”

“It’s great, Pascale,” you assured her as you set your bag down on the bed with a long yawn. You were surprised to find it had a floral duvet and a sheet set already made up - something you were sure she had done for you.

She nodded and placed your other suitcase down before leaving, closing the door most of the way. “I’ll let you rest for a bit.”

You woke to voices down the hall and found a blanket had been draped over you at some point.

“Can’t she sleep on Enzo’s couch? I don’t even know her, she could try to sell my things. There have been stranger things done before.”

“Ah-ah, no, and she doesn't even watch racing. Peter said she had no interest in the sport.” Pascale sighed heavily, the same way your father did when he was having to repeat himself. “She’s a lovely young lady, and she’s going to be family so please treat her as such.”

August 2017

“Where are we going?”

Charles just smiled and kept driving through the quiet streets before pulling into a hotel far nicer than the one you were staying in.

“You live in a hotel?”

He laughed and tossed his car key to the valet driver. “No, but I have a roommate who would probably not be very happy with me if we woke him.”

He already had a room and led the way to the elevators with the confidence of a man who had certainly been here before. You didn’t mind, you were hardly a saint, and you knew exactly what you were doing when you dressed for the night out. You knew how you wanted the night to end.

For a man who looked eager to undress you, like he had done with his eyes, he didn’t touch you until the door was firmly closed behind him. But once that door locked shut it was as if the leash he had kept a hold of himself with was dropped and he pinned you against the wall, his lips finding the hollow of your neck.

The temperature in the room seemed to swell as his kiss climbed higher and he finally reached your lips. You moaned at the feel of his hands roaming your body and his tongue slipped past your parted lips when he dragged the zip down your spine.

“J'ai envie de le faire depuis que je t'ai vu pour la première fois. You are so fucking sexy.” [I have been wanting to do this since I first saw you.] He stepped back and watched the material fall away to reveal the tempting red lace he had been dying to see.

Your heart skipped a beat at the hunger in his eyes and you reached behind your back to unclip the bra. It was thrilling to watch the colour of his eyes fade to black as you revealed more skin to him but when you reached for your panties he spurred forward to stop you.

“Mine,” he stated as he brushed your hands aside and hooked his fingers into the waistband instead. Falling to one knee, he dragged the lace down your thighs and let them tangle around your ankles before kissing your hip. Your head fell back against the wall with a thud as he nudged your legs apart and pulled one leg over his shoulder. “What’s my name?”

Your forehead crumpled as his breath warmed your cunt and you buried your hands in his hair to hurry him up, but he was too strong.

“What’s my name?” he repeated.

“Ch-Charles,” you stammered as his fingers teased your entrance without delving further, driving you wild with need.

“Good girl, remember that when I make you scream.”

The words left you drunk and you would have dared him to make good on them but his tongue found your clit and two fingers curled into your cunt. All thoughts left your head while he was knelt fully dressed before you and all too soon his name echoed across the room as he brought you to your first of many highs.

You could barely walk by the time you collapsed on the king bed and your head was spinning from the various positions you had found yourself in. You only bothered to move when a phone vibrated on the bedside table and you reached over to see if it was yours.

Giada: When are you coming home?

“Need a break, Bambi?” Charles teased as he returned from the minibar with a bottle of water, cracking the top off and offering it to you first.

You took the bottle with a grateful smile and swallowed a few mouthfuls to ease your dry throat. “Who’s Giada?”

His eyes flicked to his phone and he grabbed it, quickly replying to the message before tossing it aside and caging you beneath his body. “My roommate. Now, where were we?”

You should have been in a dead sleep but something had woken you. It was an ungodly hour given the darkness that was still outside but it did mean you saw the light of Charles' phone. His soft snores were silenced by the pillow he buried his face in and you took a second to admire the sight of his toned body in the moonlight.

Giada: It’s so hard to sleep without you here. I love you xxx

You slipped out of the bed without waking him and hated how good the ache between your legs felt because of him. You should have known a man like him was bound to have a girlfriend. She was probably a model.

You quickly gathered your clothes and dressed on the way to the door, closing it silently behind you. No one had to know you were even there and in a few hours you would be heading to the airport, never to see Charles again.

It took far longer than you expected to find your way back to the hotel and your father was already awake when you entered the room.

“You look like you had a rough night.”

You continued on your way to your bedroom in desperate need of a shower before packing. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough.”

You reemerged looking refreshed but you still felt contradictory inside. You told yourself that you did nothing wrong but it didn’t help when you knew there was a woman waiting at home for the man you had fucked. Fucked didn’t begin to cover what you had done - he had hung the stars and the moon, he had expanded your mind to the pleasures that could be sought with the right experience and partner. He had ruined you for all the men back home.

You fought to tug the zip of your suitcase closed, more than ready to leave the place behind, and growled in frustration. Your dad knew better than to bring attention to your mood but he gently moved you aside and closed the stubborn zip himself.

“How was your night?” you asked as you went to the kitchenette and made a strong brew of coffee.

He smiled to himself and picked up the suitcase to add it to the pile by the door but his smile dimmed when he saw how miserable you looked. “Nothing special, I just had dinner and a walk by the water.”

Normally you would have picked up on the lie, but you were too self centred to notice how happy he looked. He was glowing.

February 2020

You followed the voices to the living room and found Pascale in the doorway saying her goodbyes. You couldn’t see the face of the man she was talking to, only a head of dark hair, but he turned when his mothers attention was drawn away.

“You…” you breathed as you recognised the green eyes that had haunted your dreams for two years. Pascale frowned and you plastered a fake smile as you held your hand out. “You must be Charles.”

“I am,” he hummed as he looked at your hand before enveloping it in his much larger one. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ll see you both for dinner tonight, Charles can drive you until we get you a car.”

Charles seemed to be hearing the news for the first time. “I can?”

“Yes, you can. Now make sure she feels at home alright, maybe introduce her to some of your friends.” Pascale blew a kiss and left Charles to close the door.

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he locked it and you realised at that moment just how fucked you were because, despite the quick prayer you had sent, Charles had recognised you too. “Hello again, Bambi.”

“Fuck me,” you muttered beneath your breath.

Charles smirked and booped you on the nose as he walked past you and towards his kitchen. “No thanks, you’re going to be my sister soon.”

You hated that for a second you were disappointed before common sense returned and you went to your room to find your phone. “Dad, I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Charles is an asshole, that’s why,” you whispered angrily, your eyes scanning the bottom of your door to see if he was eavesdropping.

“It’s only for two weeks, three at the most, plus he will be heading back to Italy for work on Monday.”

“Who the hell works in Italy and lives in Monaco?”

“He does, you would know that if you had a conversation with him and got to know him.”

“I don’t want to get to know him, I want to go home.”

“This is home now,” your dad said quietly as you heard Pascale arrive home at the other end. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

You flopped onto your bed with a groan as the call ended. Two weeks. Two fucking weeks. You groaned again as you realised that it may be just two weeks of living with him but there would be a lifetime of having him as your step brother. “Fuck!”

“I might have to get a swear jar to cover your half of the utilities.”

You surged upright and found Charles leaning against the balcony door, a balcony you apparently shared with his room next door. “Can I just make one thing very clear? As far as I am concerned, whatever happened two years ago - it didn’t. Nothing happened. I never saw you before today.”

“Nothing happened?” he chuckled as he walked into the room. “You still have that sense of humour because I remember a lot happening. Do I need to jog your memory?”

You hated how your body betrayed you, how your eyes followed his every step as he closed the distance between you. “You’re actually sick. Our parents are getting married.”

He stopped in front of you, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and his eyes traced your lips. “You were gone when I woke up.”

“Giada wasn’t your roommate.”

“No, she wasn’t,” he admitted with that same smirk that simultaneously had you wanting to both slap it or kiss it away. “I have a new roommate now.”

“Not for long, I am gone as soon as the house is ready.”

“Oh, Bambi,” he laughed, swaggering his way back to the balcony door. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Asshole.”

“Biche.”

“Charles, you should introduce Y/N to Charlotte,” Pascale said as she poured another wine for you. “That’s his girlfriend. You would probably get along with her, she’s about your age and a very nice girl too.”

You bit your tongue as you raised your glass to your lips and stared at Charles over the rim. Placing the glass back down, you smiled sweetly. “Is that right? I could do with making a girlfriend here, someone to talk about boys with. Maybe she can set me up with a handsome Frenchie.”

A foot kicked you under the table and you chuckled at the glare he was sending you over the greek salad.

“We go to brunch on Sunday,” Pascale said with a pat to your hand. “You should come.”

“Count me in.” You stabbed a sweet cherry tomato with your fork before sealing your lips around it and humming in delight. “This was a delicious meal.”

Charles soon declared he was exhausted from the drive back from wherever it was he worked in Italy and Pascale looked a little disappointed that the first family dinner was cut short. Since he was your ride, you had to say goodnight to everyone too and followed him out to the car that was even flashier than what he had two years ago. His Ferrari fixation was more than just pictures of the cars in his apartment but he drove one too.

“You are quite eager to leave,” you noted as you lowered yourself into the passenger seat, your skirt riding up your thighs as you settled into the leather. Charles inhaled sharply as he saw the hint of your panties peek out and slammed the door shut before storming his way around the car.

“I’m in half a mind to take you over my lap and turn your ass red,” he growled as he pulled out of the driveway.

“Arthur is lovely,” you commented as you smiled at your reflection in the window. You were absolutely enjoying the way Charles gritted his teeth, but he had started this dance in your bedroom. “He offered to keep me company while you are away next week. I think I might enjoy his company more than yours.”

“Biche,” he warned as he broke the speed limit and practically skidded to a stop in his reserved parking spot. “You’re mine. No one else touches you. Ever.”

You slipped out of the car and felt his eyes on your ass as you climbed the stairs to the apartment. Though you had a key you waited for him to open the door and kept your voice low while he fumbled with the lock in his frustration. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

“Everything looks good on me,” he argued as he turned the key and shoved you through the doorway.

“Is that what your girlfriend tells you?”

“No, she prefers me with nothing on.”

You could understand why that was but didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you agree as you went to your room. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Night, ma biche.”

It was still early but you refused to leave your room, instead opening your laptop to watch a movie. You were halfway through a stupid rom-com when you heard a feminine voice in the apartment and you paused it to check you weren’t hearing things.

“Oh, Charles, bébé, baise-moi!”

You rolled your eyes at the sounds of the headboard banging on the wall you shared and rifled through your bag to find a pair of headphones. It seemed that they grew louder or you became hyper aware of what was happening in the room next door, and a needy throb began between your legs when you heard Charles moan deeply.

Your frustration built until you disappeared into the bathroom and doused yourself in a cold shower, cursing him the entire time you waited for your blood to cool. You could finally think clearly after drying off and recognised he was only making his next move in the game he had started. It was time to start planning yours.

Charles' steps faltered when he emerged from his bedroom shirtless but he recovered quickly and walked past your position on the couch as he went to get himself a drink of water.

“You should try Gatorade,” you suggested as you flipped through the channels leisurely. “I find it better than water after a good fucking.”

“What are you wearing?” he finally asked after emptying the glass in one breath and wiping his lips dry.

“This is how I sleep,” you said as you stretched your legs out onto the ottoman. “Is that a problem for you?”

His eyes followed the line of your legs to the edge of the black and red babydoll you wore and cleared his throat. “No, no problem.”

“Charles, who are you talking to?” A pretty brunette emerged from the room and scanned the room, taking in her half naked boyfriend talking to you who was barely dressed much more than him.

You rose to your feet before Charles could recover and bounced over to the young lady, wrapping her in a hug. “You must be Charlotte, maman’s told me so much about you. I thought I would have to wait until Sunday to meet you.”

“Maman? Sunday?” she asked as she looked at Charles for the answers.

“This is Y/N, my step sister - or soon to be -” he added quietly. “Maman invited her to brunch.”

“We are going to be great friends, Lottie,” you sang as you stepped back with a grin. “I just know it.”

Charles nearly broke his glass as he tossed it in the sink and headed back to his room, returning a moment later with a sweatshirt and jeans on. “Allez, mon amour,” he called to Charlotte as he grabbed his keys.

You pouted playfully as he led her to the door. “She can sleep over, I don’t mind - I have earplugs.”

Charlotte flushed pink and clearly had no idea you were in the house while they were getting down and dirty. It made it all the more entertaining as you waved goodbye. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

Charles waited until Charlotte had passed the doorway before following, casting a final glance your way. “Don’t wait up.”

You felt his presence in your room before you saw him step out of the shadows with just a towel slung low on his hips and the bed dipped under his weight. “Well played,” he admitted, flopping back and making himself comfortable.

Rolling over, you turned to face him and tucked your arm under your head. “Did you think about me when you were with her?”

His lips twitched before he gave in to the smile. “Every fucking second.”

“She’s pretty.”

He reached out and brushed your cheek with his knuckles. “You’re beautiful.”

You could feel yourself falling to the temptation that his lips provided and it was getting harder to resist taking what you wanted. “You should go back to your room.”

“Your lips say one thing but these say another,” he teased as his touch drifted over your collar and down to your breasts, the thin babydoll doing little to hide your nipples that had hardened since he laid down in the bed. “They are begging for something else entirely.”

“Charles,” you whispered as you leaned into his touch before you could think better of it.

“I forgot how good my name sounded on your lips,” he hummed as his hand slipped beneath the material, “but I like it better when you scream it.”

“This is a bad idea.”

It didn’t stop him from rolling your nipple between his finger and thumb and drawing a soft sigh from you. “Why is this a bad idea, biche?”

“Because you have a girlfriend, and you’re my step…step…fuck…” Your eyes fluttered shut as his hand slipped between your legs and he touched you over your panties.

“Let me worry about Charlotte, you just relax and spread those lovely legs wider for me.”

“This is going to end badly.” You knew it but it didn’t stop your knees from parting for him. There was something about him that threw caution to the wind, it had been that way the first time you met too. He was pure temptation. He was the apple and you were Eve, unable to resist taking a bite. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”

He bit his lip as he watched how your body danced for his touch. “But not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” you conceded as you watched his eyes darken with lust. “Now please fuck me.”

Charles woke alone for the second time after sleeping with you but he smiled when he heard music playing in the living room. “You stayed,” he teased as he walked down the hall, trying to tame his hair along the way.

“Didn’t have another option but I have found some short term rentals to view next week.”

He froze and his hands dropped to his side. “Wait, you were serious?”

“Yes, this isn’t going to work because if I’m anywhere near you this will just keep happening, and it was a mistake.”

The pop music suddenly grated on Charles' nerves and he grabbed the remote, changing it to another channel before tossing the remote away. You knew he was sulking at the thought of losing his plaything but you ignored him and watched the French news that you couldn’t understand.

Something on the tv caught Charles’ attention though and he sat up straighter, his arms unfolding as his mouth parted in surprise. The breaking news headline was one that was universal and you realised something big was happening.

“What is it?” you asked as he remained fixated on the tv.

“It’s that virus,” he murmured. You had seen it on the news at home before the move, the outbreak reaching all across the globe as it spread person to person. You had been worried about it on the plane with each cough you heard. “It’s spreading here.”

“Okay, and?”

His hand found its way to his mouth and he bit his nails as he listened, translating and relaying the information for you in sporadic bursts. “You won’t need that rental, Bambi.”

“Why?”

He turned to you with an odd look that you couldn’t quite figure out, possibly apprehension or anticipation or a mix of both. “At midnight tonight the whole country is going into lockdown.”

His phone started ringing almost immediately and he excused himself to take the call. “It’s work.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” You grabbed your phone and dialled your dad. “Did you hear what’s happening? What do we do?”

“Relax, pumpkin, it’s going to be fine,” he assured you. “It’ll all blow over quickly, I’m sure. They can’t stop the world from turning, can they?”

You laughed in agreement and felt a little better by the time you hung up the phone, but Charles returned looking stressed as he dropped onto the couch beside you.

“Good news or bad news first?”

You didn’t think it mattered either way and just shrugged.

“Italy is also going into lockdown so there’s no reason to go back on Monday.” He draped his arm over your shoulders and pull you into his side. “Looks like we are going to be seeing a lot more of each other.”

“Is that the good or the bad news?”

“Well, I like my job so not being able to do it is bad for me, but being trapped with you indefinitely certainly sounds good to me.”

“Indefinitely?” you laughed and shook your head. “As soon as the house is done I’m gone.”

Charles' laughter silenced you and his kissed your temple. “Oh, Bambi…The builders will be locked down too, nothing will be finished any time soon. You’re all mine.”

“Shit,” you groaned in realisation. It was going to be impossible to keep your hands off him and from the grin on his face he knew it too.

“This is going to be great.”

Click here for part two.

#charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #formula one imagine #formula one fanfiction #formula 1 fanfic #lando norris fanfic

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astrids-blog333 · 3 months ago

Text

A Ruin of His Making

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: You’re engaged to an emperor you hate. One night, in the palace halls, hatred turns to something much louder, and far more public.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, enemies to lovers, hate sex vibes, power imbalance, semi-public, possessiveness, manhandling, dirty talk, ref to past trauma.

A/N: Set post Gladiator II, deviates from the original plot (help sorry I can't resist). All physical interactions are consensual within the story's context, despite emotional intensity and imbalance. The reader is not weak or passive; she is angry and complicated and chooses to stay. That being said, if you are triggered by cnc situations, maybe skip this one <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.6k

The city smells of sweat and heat and gold-painted victory. You stand at the far end of the atrium, among garlands and silks, your fellow nobles and senators are fawning and chattering like carrion birds circling a lion.

They say Lucius Verus has returned from war.

They say he’s changed, but you never knew him well enough to tell the difference anyway.

The guards enter first, tight-faced and too tense for a triumphal return. Then comes the man himself. He's taller than you remember, broader, somehow. His cloak hangs from one shoulder, dirt-streaked and travel-worn, and there’s blood at the corner of his cuff that no one dares mention.

He does not smile. He does not bow. He does not stop. The crowd parts for him like wheat under a scythe. His eyes scan the room once and find you.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

Not even when he walks directly toward you, ignoring the extended hands, the simpering greetings, the half-kneeling senators who hold out rings for him to kiss.

You stand with your back straight, chin lifted. You are not some doe-eyed virgin waiting to be gifted into this marriage like a prize pig. You were someone’s wife once. And though that man is rotting beneath the stones of a family crypt, he left you with a name. And scars.

Lucius stops a foot too close.

You feel the heat rolling off him, the stench of sweat and leather and rage barely held at bay. His jaw is dark with stubble, his mouth a tight line, unsmiling.

"You didn’t bow," he says, voice rough with the weight of months spent shouting over battlefields.

You arch an eyebrow. "I am not yet your wife."

He smiles at that. Crooked. Wolfish. “Not yet. But soon.”

You hate the way his voice drags over those words, like he’s already tasted them and has decided to spit them back out.

"Did the Senate send for you?" you ask. "Or did you run back early for your wedding night?"

Laughter dances in the crowd, polite and forced. But Lucius doesn’t join in. "I came because Rome grows soft in my absence," he replies. "And because I don’t trust them to protect what’s mine."

The air between you pulls taut.

"Is that what I am?" you ask, voice flat. "A possession?"

He leans forward. Close enough that you can see the smudge of dried blood at the collar of his tunic. You don’t know if it’s his.

"No," he murmurs. "You’re a puzzle. A provocation. And they promised you to me without ever asking whether I could stomach the taste of something so bitter."

Something ugly curls in your chest, a kind of fury that never burned out properly.

"And I suppose you think I’ll be grateful to be claimed by a monster?"

Lucius tilts his head, studying you. "Gratitude isn’t required. But you will belong to me."

He says it so plainly, so calmly, as though the matter were already settled in blood and ink. Perhaps it is. You never had much say in it to begin with.

"You don’t know me," you snap.

"I know enough."

A beat. The space between you closes, breath to breath. His voice drops lower. "I know you didn’t cry at your husband’s funeral. I know he hit you. I know you learned to lie still and quiet and pretend that was love. I know that scares you more than I do."

It hits you like a thrown gauntlet, because it’s true. There is no pity in his words. No sympathy. Just knowing. You hate that he’s read your history like some battlefield report. That he’s looked at your wounds and seen something useful.

"Then you’re a fool," you whisper, throat tight. "Because I’d sooner die than lie beneath another man who thinks he owns me."

Lucius doesn’t flinch, instead, he steps closer. A breath between you. You don’t step back. Not even when his voice curls behind your ear like smoke.

"What a shame, I happen to need you alive."

You slap him.

The sound cracks across the chamber like lightning. Every eye turns. Every whisper hushes.

His head turns with the blow, but he doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t even lift a hand.

He turns back slowly, a smile blooming like blood across his face.

There’s something almost unholy in his expression, a delight and fury which you cannot decipher for the life of you.

"Careful," he says softly. "You’re starting to excite me."

You stare at him, chest rising, blood roaring in your ears. You don't know if you want to scream, cry or push him away. Instead, you step back. Only one step.

Enough to remind yourself that you still can.

The feast had barely begun to die down, but already, the guests have begun to trickle out. The heavy scent of wine lingers in the air, mixing with the distant traces of roasting meats and sweet spices. You’ve stepped away from it all, retreating into the quiet of the balcony that overlooks the garden.

Lucius had left the feast earlier, his back straight, face unreadable, no parting words to anyone but the occasional curt nod. You watched him go, and for a moment, something like relief flickered within you.

But you hadn’t expected him to come find you.

The silence on the balcony is deafening as the shadows stretch across the marble. The cool air bites at your skin, tension now gathering between you and the man who’s just stepped into the frame of the door behind you. Lucius.

You don’t turn. The weight of his presence alone makes you stiffen, your back rigid. You can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, a whisper that still manages to echo in the stillness of the night. “Enjoying the peace?”

“I thought you’d be too busy being the hero to notice,” you say, a sharpness to your words, though you refuse to turn to face him.

“You think so little of me?” he asks, the amusement in his voice somehow making it even more infuriating. He’s close now, so close that you feel the heat of him behind you. Every inch of space seems too small for the way his presence presses against you.

“I think you’re entitled,” you mutter, fingers tightening against the stone railing in front of you. “And I think you act like you're entitled. To everything. To the power. The land. The people. And whatever part of me you can claim.”

He steps closer, his boots soft against the marble as his hand rests on the stone next to yours. His voice drops lower. “You think you’re the only one who’s been forced into this?”

You scoff, unable to hold back a short, mocking laugh. “Please. You live for this. For control. For dominance.”

His face is inches from yours now. You don’t flinch when he leans in, his breath a whisper against your ear. His voice low and venomous. “You think I enjoy this, do you? Do you really believe I enjoy being forced into a marriage I don’t want? To a woman who can’t even look me in the eye without thinking herself superior?”

The words sting, but you don’t show it. Instead, you match his venom with your own.

“If you’re so miserable, why don’t you find a way out?” The challenge is clear in your tone, daring him to try, to do anything that might make him leave you be. “But you won’t, will you?”

Lucius steps in even closer, so close now that his chest nearly brushes against your back. You can feel the heat of him, the power he exudes, and yet you still refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning to face him.

His fingers trail dangerously close to your neck, and you can’t help but shiver at his touch. “You want to make me angry, don’t you?” he says, his voice thick with something darker. “You want me to lose control.”

Then, with a suddenness that has you gasping for breath, his hand shifts, gripping your chin and tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes sends a chill down your spine, but there’s also something dangerous flickering there, a hunger.

For a moment, the world is silent. He holds you in place, staring at you. You barely breathe. You can feel the weight of his stare, the storm building in his chest.

“You have a sharp tongue,” Lucius murmurs, his grip tightening around your chin, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips. “But I’m starting to wonder if you really want to use it.”

You feel his thumb trace the shape of your mouth.

Without thinking, you jerk away, snapping, “I don’t want this.”

Lucius steps back, giving you space, but you can feel the tension in his movements, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. The air is thick between you and Lucius, and the moment feels like a ticking time bomb.

The silence stretches, suffocating, but somehow neither of you seems willing to let it end. The distance between you feels impossibly small, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to move.

He looks at you like a predator eyeing its prey, and you feel it in the pit of your stomach, an unsettling pull.

“Like I said, you want to make me lose my temper, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dark, but laced with a wicked, almost amused edge.

You want to hate him, to despise every part of this situation. But it’s getting harder to ignore the way his eyes burn through you, the way he looks at you as though you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“You think you can scare me?” You bite back, stepping forward, though the words come out sharper than you intended. Lucius watches you carefully, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“No,” he says, voice dropping lower, just enough for you to catch every word. “I don’t want to scare you, but I know I could.”

You’re both too proud to back down. You hate him. He doesn’t like you, either. But there’s something else there, something neither of you can ignore.

Lucius takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, and in a single movement, his hand reaches for your arm, pulling you toward him. The movement is swift, like a coiled spring finally snapping, and before you can react, you’re pressed against the cold railing of the balcony, his body a solid wall in front of you.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the intensity, the rawness of it. You’re angry, so fucking angry, but that anger isn’t enough to push him away.

You manage to fight through the fog of emotion, trying to spit out something sharp, something to cut him down to size. But the words die in your throat when he presses his thumb to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I thought you were supposed to be strong,” he murmurs, the challenge in his eyes matching the taunting tone of his voice. “Or is that just a front?”

The words cut into you like shards of glass. You try to turn your face away, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers tighten on your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You want me to hurt you, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low, almost too soft for the sharpness of the question. “I can see it in your eyes. You want me to make you feel something, anything. Don’t lie.”

You want to scream, want to tell him to go to hell. But something in you won’t let it. You hate him for it. You hate the fact that you don’t want to pull away, don’t want to run.

You press your lips together, jaw tight with defiance, and finally you speak. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Lucius chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “No,” he says, his voice a mockery of sympathy, “you’re not. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Before you can respond, before you can even think of another insult to throw his way, Lucius closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, ruthless, punishing. It’s not gentle, not at all.

It’s a kiss that takes, that demands.

You can’t help but gasp, the shock of it flooding through you. You don’t want to respond. You don’t want to let him win. But as his hands move to your hips, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, something inside you unravels.

The kiss deepens, and you’re lost in it, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressing against yours, the way his tongue demands entrance, the way he doesn’t give you the space to breathe.

“You’re a fool,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and dark, laced with satisfaction. “You think you can control this. But you can’t.”

You're drowning in him, and you despise that your body is reacting to him before your mind can stop it.

You push against him, trying to break free. But he only pulls you tighter, his hands sliding down your back, pressing you harder against him.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget that you’re supposed to be angry. Forget that this is supposed to be a confrontation.

You barely register the first sound of tearing fabric.

Your back is pressed to the balustrade, the cold stone biting through the thin silk of your gown, but Lucius doesn’t give you the chance to think. His hands are already on the fastenings at your waist, tugging hard enough to make the seams strain.

You gasp, a noise laced with fury and arousal, and push at his chest. “Is this how Roman emperors take what isn’t theirs? In gardens, like dogs?”

Lucius breaks the kiss to laugh, a laugh so low, rough, and amused in the most infuriating way. “If I were a dog, darling, I’d have taken you by now. But I’m patient. And you’re very, very close to begging.”

Your palm cracks across his cheek before you even realise what you’re doing. The sound is obscene in the quiet night, but it only seems to deepen that look in his eyes, hunger laced with something wild.

He catches your wrist before you can drop it, pinning it to the stone behind you, and leans in close enough that you feel the scrape of his breath against your jaw.

“That's the second time you've slapped me, do it again,” he growls, eyes blazing. “I dare you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, trying to twist free. “I’d rather sleep with a beast.”

His mouth finds your throat. Biting. Sucking. “Liar,” he mutters. “You’d rather sleep with this beast.”

And then his other hand rips through the neckline of your dress, fabric tearing, your breath hitching, and suddenly you’re half-bared to the open air, marble halls echoing behind you, columns offering far too little cover.

You try to cover yourself with your free hand, but he shoves it aside easily. “Oh no, don’t be modest now,” he says, voice syrup-thick with mockery. “Not when you’re standing there like a goddess meant to be ruined.”

“You arrogant bastard-”

“You like this,” he cuts in, tone taunting. “You like being manhandled. You like me doing it.”

You want to shout. Want to slap him again. Want to deny everything.

But the heat between your legs betrays you. The way your hips press forward into him, your legs shifting restlessly, you can feel how wet you already are, and you hate it.

“I hate you,” you hiss, even as he hooks a finger under the torn edge of your bodice and yanks again, exposing you further.

“I know, you keep saying that,” he breathes. “You hate me, and yet here you are, letting me touch you like this. Moaning into my mouth. Parting your legs. Do you know how sweet you sound when you're angry?”

He kisses you again, more teeth than tongue, and your wrists are pinned again before you can react, your body arched and open to him, your gown falling in tatters around your ankles.

“I should scream,” you pant when he moves to your jaw, biting there too, as though claiming.

“Do it. Let them hear. Let them see.” His voice is low, wicked. “Let the whole palace know that you're mine.”

You hate how that word coils low in your belly, how it makes something flutter in your chest.

With one arm, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you gasp as your back slams into the stone column behind you, your feet no longer anchoring you down. You can feel him hard against you, thick and hot even through his tunic. He grinds into you, just once, and it forces a sound out of you that doesn’t sound like hate at all.

His mouth brushes your ear. “There’s the real you,” he whispers. “You’re dripping. I could take you right here. Against the stone. Would you stop me?”

You should. You don’t.

“Coward,” you hiss, trying to reclaim the moment. “You think I’m impressed? You’re nothing but-”

He lets go of you so suddenly you stumble, but only for a moment. He catches you again, strong arms around your waist, and then he’s carrying you, half-naked, down the colonnade.

You wriggle against him, fists pounding his chest. “Put me down-”

“I will,” he snaps. “When we reach my bed. And not a moment before.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, but all he does is laugh, cruel and triumphant.

The doors of his chamber slam open under the force of his boot. He doesn’t even pause; he strides through the room and drops you onto his bed like a prize. Like a victory.

You scramble back, shaking, hair wild, lips swollen.

He unfastens his belt, watching you all the while with that same awful, smug amusement. “Still planning to insult me, or are you going to lie back and spread those pretty legs for me?”

You launch a pillow at him. “You’re the most arrogant bastard I’ve ever met!”

“And you’re the loudest little whore in Rome.”

You gasp, half outrage, half heat, and he’s on you again before you can draw breath. He's laughing low in his throat as you claw at his tunic.

“You’re still fighting me,” he says, dragging your ruined gown off the rest of the way, “but you’re wetter than any Roman virgin. Were you always this easy to break?”

“You haven’t broken me-”

“Haven’t I?”

He’s between your legs now, and the teasing stops being verbal. His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and you whine when he draws one circle around your clit, just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You hate me so much you can’t stop shaking.”

You try to push him again, but this time he catches your hand, kisses the palm, and presses it against his chest.

“Go on. Keep hating me.” His eyes gleam. “But don’t you dare stop moaning.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Because his fingers are slipping lower, slow, deliberate, two of them curling inside you, and the sound you make is more like a sob than a gasp. You want to turn your face away, but he’s already watching too closely, already smirking like he knows.

“You feel that?” he says low, pushing deeper, twisting his wrist. “How wet you are? It’s obscene.”

“Stop-” you manage, but it’s pathetic. Your thighs are shaking.

“No,” he breathes. “You don’t want me to stop. Say it. Say you want it.”

You grit your teeth. “I want you to choke on your own ego.” He laughs again, lips brushing yours, still fucking you slow with his fingers. “Admit it, little bride. You’d rather choke on me.”

“Fuck. You.”

His grin widens. “Believe it or not, love, but that's the idea.”

Then he slams into you with his fingers, harder now, and you arch off the bed with a strangled sound. Your nails dig into his shoulders, seeking something to hold onto that isn’t your dignity.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “You’d let me take you anywhere, wouldn’t you? Against the column, the floor, right in front of the Senate. You like being ruined.”

“You’re disgusting,” you pant.

“And yet you’re dripping for me.”

Every roll of his fingers is pushing you closer, making it harder to breathe, to speak, to hate. You try to close your legs, to regain even the smallest control.

“Don’t,” he snaps, pushing your thighs apart. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” His voice dips. “But I want to see the moment you break. I want to feel it.”

You growl, but your hips are still grinding down against his hand. You’re trying to win a war on a battlefield he’s already set aflame.

Then he pulls his fingers free, wet and glistening, and holds them up between you.

“Look at that,” he says darkly. “And still pretending you don’t want me.”

You slap them away.

He grabs your wrists again, pins them above your head, and grinds his cock against you through the thin barrier of his clothes. You moan despite yourself.

“Say it,” he breathes, teeth gritted now. “Say you want me.”

“I don’t-”

He lets go. Just long enough to shove his tunic over his head, exposing the scarred stretch of his chest, the line of muscle down his stomach. You don’t mean to stare, but you do.

“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re staring. That’s new.”

You lunge up to push him, but he grabs your thigh and flips you onto your stomach like a rag doll. You yelp, trying to twist back.

He presses your chest to the bed with one hand, pulls your hips up with the other, and drags the head of his cock through your folds.

You go still.

The moment stretches.

“Ready to beg now?” he asks, tone silken.

“I will bite your fucking throat out.”

“Then I’ll fuck you while you try.”

And with no more warning, he drives into you.

You scream. Not in pain, not entirely. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, but it’s the invasion that overwhelms you. He doesn't ease in, doesn’t wait. He sinks all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust and stays there, one hand locked on your hip, the other on the back of your neck.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hiss, voice trembling.

But you clench around him.

He groans, deep and unrestrained, and begins to thrust. Rough, relentless. The bed slams into the wall, your moans torn from you against your will.

“You sound like a whore,” he mutters, reaching forward to grab your throat, pulling you up against his chest.

You gasp, back arching, hair falling in wild tangles as he fucks into you from behind. Your legs tremble.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Say you want me.”

“No.”

He slides one hand between your thighs again, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, relentless circles.

You break.

Your body clamps down on him so violently that it makes him stutter. He thrusts through it, snarling, riding it out as you tremble and shake, breathless and wrung out.

“Liar,” he hisses in your ear. “You wanted this. You needed this.”

You’re still spasming around him when he flips you onto your back, fast and rough, before he plunges in again. This time you cry out with every movement, overstimulated and gasping.

“You should see yourself,” he pants, rutting into you. “Hair a mess, mouth open, legs shaking. Ruined.”

“Fuck… fuck you-”

“I am.”

He leans down, bites your lower lip, and slams into you harder. You moan into his mouth.

“You’re done pretending,” he whispers. “You can’t lie anymore.”

You claw at his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”

“Then why do you keep pulling me closer?”

You hate how right he is. Hate how good he feels. Hate the second orgasm building already, tighter, fiercer.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he says, tone mocking. “My poor little bride, soaking and speechless.”

He slams into you again. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.

“Thought so.”

Your eyes roll back.

He fucks you like he’s trying to prove something, not just that he owns your body, but your pride, your defiance, every last bit of control.

When the second climax hits, you cry out so loudly he has to smother your mouth with his palm.

“Too loud,” he growls. “Don’t want the whole palace hearing how well I fuck my bride-”

But he doesn’t really care. You can see it in his eyes. He wants them to know.

You collapse beneath him, breathless, soaked, undone.

He comes not long after, hips snapping, voice raw as he spills inside you with a shudder and a growl of your name.

Silence, for a breath.

Then he shifts and leans over you, bracing himself on shaking arms.

Lucius moves slowly. And when he withdraws, you feel the thick, wet ache of it. You shift, a low hiss escaping your throat.

“Too much for you?” he drawls, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Pity. You took it well enough while I was ruining you.”

You manage a scowl, though your body’s trembling with aftershocks. “I should kill you.”

“You’d miss me.” He grins. “So would your cunt.”

He rises from the bed in a single motion, his body shadowed by the low lanterns, and you don’t expect it when he leans down, hooking his arm beneath your knees and lifting you from the sheets.

“Put me-”

“No.”

Your fists beat weakly at his chest, but you’re too sore to mean it. His seed still slicks your thighs. You’re marked, ruined, utterly dishevelled. And now you’re being paraded.

He strides from the bedchamber and out into the marble corridor of his private suite, bare, flushed, and grinning like a wolf. His bathchamber lies across the hall.

The door is open.

So is your mouth when a figure, a servant, pale and wide-eyed, turns at the end of the corridor. Sees everything.

Lucius does not flinch.

In fact, he smirks.

“Get out,” he says, not even glancing their way. The command is casual, but lethal.

They flee.

You burn.

“Scandalous bastard,” you hiss.

“Shall I drop you in the corridor then?” he offers, eyes glinting.

You don’t answer.

Steam curls from the bronze basin sunk into the floor, warm and waiting. The scent of oils hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin even before it’s wet.

Lucius doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask. He steps straight into the bath, water clinging to the muscle beneath as he lowers himself, and you, into the heat.

You hiss when it touches the rawest places. Bruises. Scrapes. You still feel where he stretched you.

His hold on you tightens, not to restrain, but to shield.

“I was going to warn you,” he murmurs near your temple, voice silked with cruel satisfaction. “But you just had to be difficult.”

You half turn in his arms, scowling, exhausted. “You enjoyed it.”

His teeth flash. “Of course I did.”

He reaches for a cloth, dips it into the steaming water, and wrings it out with a lazy flick of his wrist. The motion is slow, like the way a man sharpens a blade, not because he needs to, but because he enjoys the ritual of it.

Then he touches you.

The cloth slides up your thigh. Gentle. Unreasonably gentle.

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m not him,” he says, low and close behind your ear.

The cloth moves higher, over the place where his fingers left bruises. It’s tender, the touch. Not apologetic, but… reverent.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He doesn’t reply.

Just continues, slow, precise. Cleaning you as though you belong to him and no one else may touch. The cloth traces your waist, your belly, your breasts. Over the angry red marks blooming on your throat.

“Filthy little thing,” he says, almost absently, as if it’s a compliment. “Look what I’ve done to you.”

You shift against him, half-hearted. “Is this what passes for aftercare in the palace?”

“I could leave you filthy, if you prefer,” he offers, mock-casual, dragging the cloth up between your legs now with unbearable slowness.

Your breath catches.

He smirks against your neck. “Didn’t think so.”

His free hand is splayed across your stomach, keeping you against his chest. You’re in his lap, flushed and quiet.

When he finishes, he doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, pushing your wet hair aside to press his mouth once to your shoulder, unhurried, like claiming land he already owns.

Then he reaches for a towel, presses it into your hands.

“You can walk,” he says. “Or I can carry you back.”

“I can walk,” you mutter again, clutching the towel.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding a little.”

You pause. Then glare.

“From me,” he adds, calm as marble. “You’ll forgive my pride.”

You turn away before he can see your face twist with fury, and shame, and something deeper, quieter, that gnaws at your ribs.

But you only make it a step before he steps into your space and lifts you again, without asking, without effort, arms locked tight beneath your knees and back. The towel shifts, slipping down one shoulder.

“Lucius-”

“I’ll carry what’s mine.”

You tense, heart pounding, as he strides from the bathchamber bare-chested and unbothered, with you cradled like a spoil of war.

And then, the worst.

Not a servant.

A senator.

A senior one, older, important. His brows lift, his jaw tightens, and for a long moment he simply stares.

You freeze in Lucius’ arms.

Mortified.

Bare legs, damp collarbone, bitten lips.

You try to twist, to cover your face in his chest, but the towel shifts again, and Lucius doesn’t even slow his pace.

“Domitius,” he says, cool and smooth as ever.

“Emperor,” the man replies after a beat, eyes still sharp with thinly veiled judgement.

Lucius only smiles.

Then shifts his grip around you, just enough to make it clear you’re not just some fleeting mistress. No, he’s holding you like a bride.

“You’re not dismissing him?” you whisper furiously as they pass.

“Why would I?” he murmurs. “Let him tell the court how you looked when I was carrying you home.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Shall I walk slower?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re trembling. Again.”

He carries you back into his bedchamber like nothing happened.

Deposits you on the rumpled sheets with the same hands that had bruised your thighs and cupped your face like glass.

Lucius lies beside you. He doesn’t reach for you. Just watches.

The fire’s down to embers now, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

“You’ll hate me again tomorrow,” he murmurs, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head toward him. His hair’s a mess. A dark curl falls over his forehead. He doesn’t brush it away.

“I already do.”

There’s no heat in the words anymore. Just a strange, exhausted ache. Like you’ve both burned through something and don’t know what’s left.

You lie in silence.

Until, after a long while, you feel his arm shift and settle across your waist. Not tight. Not demanding.

Just there.

You don’t move.

He breathes, slow and steady, and just before you drift, you feel him press his forehead into your shoulder.

Almost like he’s praying.

You wake to sunlight cutting sharp across the marble floor.

The bed is warm. Too warm. Your legs are tangled in silken sheets, and your mouth tastes of salt and heat and something darker still. You shift and wince.

Everything aches.

Your thighs. Your hips. Your throat.

You drag the cover up as you sit, slowly, wincing again when the bruises sing beneath your skin. There are fresh marks on your wrists. On your collarbone. Teeth, fingers, his name written across your body in touches no one will dare speak of aloud, but everyone will know.

The door creaks.

Lucius enters fully clothed.

Hair swept back. Tunic dark and rich, imperial red. There’s a goblet in his hand and a parchment tucked under one arm.

He looks at you like a man admiring the aftermath of war.

“Sleep well, betrothed?”

You glare. “Barely.”

A slow smirk.

He steps forward, sets the goblet down beside the bed and takes the seat across from you like you’re in court again.

“I expect the palace has already heard.”

“I expect the city has.”

He tilts his head. “Let them. What can they do?”

You stare at him, this man who had torn you open with teeth and hands and never once begged forgiveness. He’s not softened in daylight.

You pull the covers tighter.

He watches.

“Say it,” you snap, before you can stop yourself.

“Say what?”

Whatever insult he’s been sitting on. Whatever cruel line he’s crafted for the moment he saw you like this, rumpled, silent, aching from him.

Instead, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees.

“I like you better ruined.”

Your breath catches.

And he smiles, slow and hungry, like he already knows that when he touches you again, you won’t fight quite as hard.

I'm so tempted to write a part two to this, but I have another Lucius fic idea I want to write first. If anyone would be interested in a part two to this, lemme know and I can bump it up in my priorities 🤗

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