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radawaycunt · 7 months ago

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Aqua Thermae

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Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 2.3k words

Summary: After a particularly great victory in the arena, Lucius is rewarded with both a visit to a bathhouse and you -- a high-ranking courtesan -- to keep him company.

Warnings: SMUT (minors DNI this fic is 18+), reader is a courtesan (so SW), mentions of violence, shenanigans in and out of water, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, maybe some historical inaccuracies? forgive my sins please, and I thinkkk that's it but lmk if anything else!

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It had been a very long time since he’d been somewhere so luxurious. One of Rome’s finest bathhouses brought echoes of a comfortable life long past in the emperor’s palace. The marble pillars and fine mosaic floors, the detailed frescoes on the walls, and a large thermal pool all for himself.

Then other flashes of memory came to him – his mother’s kindness, his father’s armor, his uncle Comodus’ booming voice, and the cross of their swords…

He shucked his heavy breastplate and immediately felt the steam on his already sweat-slick skin. He let out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. If only memories were so easy to get rid of, he might not always feel so tormented.

Lavishness was not something he had ever actively sought out, even if he was entitled to it as the direct descendant to the throne, but it was strange to think he was once accustomed to it. So much had happened since his forced departure, like a hundred lives melding into one.

Now, after a long, grueling fight with a mighty rhinoceros and its fierce rider, he wanted nothing more than to luxuriate in the warm water until his head swam and his muscles no longer ached so badly.

But then he noticed you standing on one side of the pool, a carafe of wine and a platter of dates, cheese, and nuts waiting on a low table next to you. You smiled as your eyes locked and Lucius’ back immediately straightened. Not much took him by surprise anymore, but this certainly had.

“Who are you?” He asked, curious rather than irritated at your presence.

You inclined your head genially. “You may call me whatever you like.”

He huffed in amusement, giving you a once-over. “Very well, then. And who sent you here?”

“Macrinus wanted nothing but the best company for you, his champion,” you said, serving him some wine. “I am to be your prize, along with this bath.”

His eyebrows lifted infinitesimally and he looked away in an almost bashful manner. His profile was proud and handsome, kissed by the sun and the strikes of his opponents. He had the face of a hero history would always remember – Or at least you would, certainly.

He was hesitant at first, unsure if he could trust anything that came from Macrinus. But as he took another look at you, your allure was too great for him not to be stirred. He could tread carefully, but he didn’t really want to deny himself pleasure, however fleeting it may be.

“I take it your company is quite coveted around here?” He asked, approaching to accept the wine you offered.

You nodded in response, fingertips barely brushing his as he took the glass. He held your gaze as he took a sip and you almost lost yourself in the infinite blue of his eyes.

“By the likes of who?” He asked.

“Fierce gladiators such as yourself,” you said pointedly, unable to help your wandering eyes from finding the rippling muscles of his chest. “Merchants. Senators. Even emperor Geta has had his fill of me, but Caracalla was content with just watching.”

“Let us not speak of them now,” he said, shaking his head and grimacing at the names of the bloodthirsty twin emperors. “Within these walls, it is just the two of us. Nothing more.”

You nodded in understanding as he set down his glass on the table. “Would you like me to help you finish undressing?”

“I can manage,” he said, but now his eyes roamed appreciatively over your form, barely covered by a nearly see-through shift. “But I should like to help you, so you may join me.”

“How very kind of you,” you grinned, a salacious edge to your tone.

He stepped even closer, reaching to unclasp the bronze brooch at your shoulder. The shift fell in a puddle of fabric at your feet, your body completely bare underneath. He let out a small, shuddering breath, fingers lightly tracing one of your clavicles.

For a moment, his expression was clouded as something crossed his mind. He stared off into the middle distance, but before he could really lose himself, you decided to intervene. You pulled him in, one hand cupping the back of his head as you went on your tiptoes and brought your lips close to his ear.

“Whatever you’d like to forget, I should really like to help you,” you whispered.

“Everything,” he rasped, one callused hand grasping your hip, while the other gently tilted your head to one side so your lips would meet his.

You tasted the sweet wine on his tongue and breathed him in. He smelled of the arena — blood and sand and sweat. It was not unfamiliar to you, but it was heady coming off of him, fueling your growing desire.

Deftly, he managed to reach between your bodies to undo his pteruges and the loincloth underneath, both joining your shift on the floor. You felt the hardness of his own want against your lower abdomen, but he made no move to hasten things along.

“Come now, let us wash the day off of you,” you said softly, pulling away to guide him into the water.

You waited by the edge for him to submerge himself first, watching the way his muscles worked as he walked. He had the grace of a warrior, as if poised for attack at any moment. You almost shudder at his deep groan of contentment, leaning back against the edge. Sliding closer, you massaged his broad shoulders to try and relieve some of his tension. His hand found your calf, caressing it.

He closed his eyes and let himself be pampered, your touch transporting him far away, beyond even the shores of Ostia. He thought of your luminous eyes, the honeyed taste of your lips, and the smell of rose oil on your skin… What lovely comfort you offered. He wanted more of you and he suspected he would still not have enough.

If winning meant earning moments like this, with you, then he would never let himself be defeated in the arena. Or elsewhere, for that matter.

“My very own Venus Pompeiana,” he said softly, turning around so he could slot his body between your legs and face you. “The Gods seem to be favoring me greatly today.”

You cupped his face tenderly. “Something tells me they will continue to do so, too.”

He grinned, eyes heavy-lidded as they dropped to your lips. “Tell me, did you emerge from the seafoam, too?”

You laughed, delighted at his words. “Yes, I am salt, and brine, and pearls made flesh.”

His strong arms enveloped you, pulling you into the water with him. His lips found yours again and your legs wrapped around his hips, anchoring yourself to him. He submerged both of you for a moment and you chuckled against his lips when you resurfaced.

He kissed you like he might never be able to do so again — like a desperate lover forced to say goodbye before sailing off to war. Your fingers threaded through his damp curls, his beard tickling the lower half of your face. Your head swam and you wished you could spend an eternity there, in that moment.

You let his hands wander a little, getting bolder by the minute, but then you pulled away and playfully swam away from him. A safe distance away, you splashed some water at him, inciting him to give chase.

He swam after you unhurriedly, his head low in the water so that you mostly saw his eyes. You could tell he was smiling from the way they creased at the corners, and you felt a thrill low in your spine as he drew closer. It reminded you of a crocodile pursuing its prey, biding its time before the right moment came along.

A nervous giggle escaped you as you backed away, even daring to splash more water in his direction. He slipped under the water and for a delirious moment of uncertainty, you thought your heart might leap out of your chest. You searched for any sign of him, but the water was cloudy and concealed him well.

Suddenly, you felt the graze of teeth on your hip and you cried out, startled. Lucius re-emerged, shaking water from his hair and cornering you against the edge of the pool.

“Got you now,” he rasped, pressing you against him and bending to kiss your throat.

“Mercy,” you gasped, smiling wide as you amiably submitted to his attention. “Oh, please have mercy.”

He lifted your hips further so that his cock rested against your folds. You tried to move against him as best as the angle would allow and he helped guide you with one hand on your hip.

“Mercy?” he said against your jaw, the deep timbre of his voice like music to your ears. “You see how you’ve got me? I’ve not had any mercy from you.”

You grinned slyly. “You thought I’d yield so easily?”

He hummed, pretending to think about it. “Never crossed my mind.”

“Actually, you make it very hard not to, as much as I like to play,” you conceded, biting your lip.

He chuckled, sucking in a breath through his teeth as he fought the urge to slip inside you and claim you for himself. But not yet, of course, as he wanted to play with you a little while longer too.

“Shall we put you to the test?”

He lifted you out of the water and sat you back on the edge. With one broad palm on your sternum, he gently pushed you backward. Instinctively, your legs hiked up, but you let him be the one to spread them.

He let out a low groan at the sight, his gaze incandescent as it met yours. He kissed your calf, then the inside of your knee, and steadily progressed up your inner thigh as he propped himself half out of the water.

Your hips shifted as he got close to his target, but then he moved to your other leg, repeating the same torturously slow process. You propped up on your elbows to give him a slightly annoyed look and he grinned cheekily.

“How’s that for mercy?” He asked, but before you could respond, his head dipped and his tongue finally found where you were aching.

A breathy Oh escaped you as your back arched, fingers digging into his curls once more. He was just as skilled with his mouth as with a blade, easily finding the tenderest, most sensitive spots. He had you squirming on the tiled floors, the tip of his tongue tracing circular patterns on your clit.

“Gods,” he moaned, the taste of you only making him hungrier and greedier for more.

You tried to grind against his face, chasing the waves of pleasure that already crested over you. His beard added just enough friction to create another layer of stimulation, and soon enough, your eyes were searching for constellations at the back of your skull.

“Lucius, oh, Lucius,” you panted. “You’re gonna make me– Ah!”

He felt triumphant at your trembling under him, more honey flowing from you and onto his tongue. You made soft, almost pleading sounds, holding onto his head as if to anchor yourself. He groaned, prolonging your pleasure for as long as you both could stand it. His blood felt near boiling and yet the only cure for it was you.

Ravenous and near feral, he pulled himself out of the water and crawled over you. Finally – mercifully – he slid into you with ease, going slow and deep at first so you could adjust to him. He watched your reactions closely, feeling himself twitch inside of you — so warm and soft and perfect for him.

But that wasn't the only way he wanted to have you, and every time either of you grew closer to the edge, he changed positions. His stamina was astounding, especially considering he had been fighting for his life only a few hours earlier.

It wasn’t until you were on top of him, his hands aiding the gyrations of your hips, that you could get revenge for all his teasing. You set the pace, finding an angle where you could grind your clit against his pelvis with each move. His eyes roamed over you reverently, like you were the true goddess of love, and he was your subject worshipping at your temple. Sweat slick skin, the bounce of your breasts, your bared throat as you tilted your head backward in ecstasy… He found divinity in all of this.

His self-composure began to dissolve as his grip on you tightened. His brows furrowed and his mouth was slack, his moans spilling out wantonly. He was beautiful, so truly beautiful.

“Don’t stop,” he groaned, his hips positioning upwards to meet your movements.

As you happily complied, leaning forward to kiss him, he lifted his torso to meet you halfway. He cupped the back of your head as his body tensed, spilling his seed inside you hotly. You came harder than before, your cunt squeezing him tightly in time with the twitching of his cock.

Spent, you collapsed on his chest, the two of you sharing a laugh, high on endorphins. He wiped a stray strand of hair from your forehead with even more tenderness than you thought you’d ever experienced. He felt like the most fortunate man in the world, having found something so good in a place as hostile as Rome. He wouldn’t let you go so easily.

“Come to the next games,” he said softly before he could really think about it.

You hesitated. As much as you’d love to see him in action, you didn’t think you could bear to see him get hurt… Or worse.

“You want me to watch you fight?” You asked, trying to keep the fear away from your expression.

“I want you to see me win,” he said without a shred of doubt. “That way, you can be sure that no man can stop me from claiming my reward right after.”

You shuddered, biting down a giddy grin. “I’ll be there for you to find me, my champion.”

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#lucius verus x reader #gladiator fanfiction #lucius verus x fem!reader #lucius verus x you #lucius verus smut #minors dni #lucius verus #x reader

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oceandolores · 7 months ago

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ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

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beloveds-embrace · 7 months ago

Text

(The awaited regicide addition! A huge thank you to @sun-daddy-yoriichi and @thegreyjoyed for reading this beforehand and giving me their thoughts and pointing out the typos I missed! To @nightunite and everyone else, I hope you all enjoy!)

Original Post

Dukedom masterlist

The halls of the Palace were as oppressive as they were grand, a suffocating testament to a monarchy that, to you, had long since lost its soul. Towering columns of alabaster rose toward impossibly high ceilings, their surfaces carved with scenes of divine rulers ascending to eternal glory. The frescoes above- gold-leafed and luminous- depicted gods bestowing crowns upon mortal kings, and with those crowns, the right for greed.

It was a vision of power untouched by humility, a stark and painful mockery of the kingdom that groaned under its weight. Under its own monarchy’s weight.

You moved through the opulence with the practiced grace, your silks whispering softly against the cold marble floors. The jewels at your throat sparkled, but they felt like chains around your neck. No amount of finery could shield you from the oppressive weight of those walls- or the eyes of the man who ruled within them. You couldn’t wait until you could leave at last.

King Edgar, on the other hand, sat upon his throne of carved ebony and gold, draped in garments that spoke of wealth beyond even your imagination. But the man beneath them was a creature of cruelty. His gaze was sharp, predatory, as though he were dissecting those before him for weaknesses to exploit. Edgar wielded his authority like a weapon, each word carefully chosen to cut deep.

And you had made the mistake of challenging him. You and John both.

When Edgar imposed brutal taxes to fund yet another palace wing for a Queen never satisfied, for the concubines he keeps, John spoke out in the council chamber. When he refused aid to the starving eastern provinces, you arranged for secret shipments of grain. Neither defiances were ever bold enough to be declared treason, but it burned like an ember beneath his throne.

For this, you both earned Edgar’s ire.

But it wasn’t just ire. You wish it had just been ire.

Edgar’s disdain for you, specifically, had taken a far more personal turn. At court functions, he would find reasons to draw near on the now-rare chance you weren’t close enough to John, his presence impossible to ignore.

His hand would rest on your shoulder, his grip firm enough to press a message into your skin: I am in control. His words were always mix of thinly veiled insults and mocking observations, the look in his eyes something that made your stomach twist.

This last court gathering had been the worst yet. Edgar had been in rare form, seated at the head of a long banquet table while nobles competed for his favor. You had been seated nearby, as was customary for a duchess of your rank, but unfortunately, proximity to the king was a double-edged sword not even John could outright protect you from.

“You look radiant tonight, Duchess Pricee,” he had said, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the room. John’s hand landed on your thigh, squeezing lightly, comfortingly. “Tell me, do you think your husband appreciates your beauty, or is it wasted on him?”

The comment was met with nervous laughter from the assembled nobles, their eyes darting between you, John, and the king. You forced a tight smile, keeping your voice measured. “The Duke has always been a man of great appreciation, Your Majesty. For beauty, and for substance.” You turned to look at John then, finding safety in him.

Edgar’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. The conversation moved on, but the tension lingered like a storm cloud. Later, as the banquet ended and the guests began to disperse, Edgar found you near one of the towering windows while you waited for John to finish speaking with a Baron. The light of the full moon was beautiful, but there was nothing serene about the way he cornered you.

“You should know your place, Duchess,” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear as he leaned in far too close to be proper. The scent of his perfumes was so heavy it made your head swim unpleasantly. “Perhaps I’ll remind you of it one day. You’d make a good teacher, at the very least, for my other women.”

The implication behind his words froze you to the core. You felt his hand graze your arm- light, but too close-before he turned and strode away, leaving you trembling with suppressed fury and fear. Queen Vivian, the only witness to this encounter, merely cuts you a dark, nasty look before she leaves as well.

You hated him. You hated her. You hated both of them.

You tell your men as much later that night, after Kyle helped you shower and kisses every inch of your skin until you could no longer think about the way Edgar had touched you.

John’s face darkened as you spoke. He sat by the fire, his broad shoulders hunched, his hands gripping the arms of his chair like he was holding himself back. Across from him, Simon’s jaw ticked, eyes unreadable beneath the flickering shadows of the room. Johnny paced the room, his usual good humor replaced by a simmering rage, while Kyle stood in the corner, his expression calm but his hands tight while he held yours.

“He’s a bastard,” Johnny muttered, accent thick with anger. “I’d love ta wipe that smug grin awff his face.”

“He’s more than a bastard,” John said, low and dangerous. “He’s a threat. To her. To the kingdom.”

Simon leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “This isn’t just about his treatment of her. The people are starving, dying in the streets while he and the Queen feast on their labor. They are desperate, and will grow more desperate as winter fully comes…” he trailed off, but you had always been sharp enough to read between the lines.

And still, you hesitated. “…are you saying that-?”

John looked up, his eyes meeting yours. “We are saying it’s time for a change. If this continues, we are looking at a kingdom that will fall.“

He stood up, striding until he was pulling you into his arms and Kyle easily let you go. “But if we stop it now… we are looking at a kingdom that will prosper under new rule.”

And so, the plan was born in that room.

But still, plans and results take time. In that time, you still do your best to help your people:

The smell of smoke lingered in the air, heavy with the scent of charred wood and burnt houses. You stood at the edge of a village that had been reduced to rubble by one of the king’s careless decrees- his soldiers had come through a week ago, demanding supplies the villagers couldn’t afford to give. When they refused, their homes were set ablaze, leaving them with nothing but ash and grief.

And now, you were a witness to it. But you wouldn’t be a bystander.

John stood beside you, his face carved from stone. His shoulders and back were set straight, but his eyes softened when he turned to the group of villagers huddled nearby.

They looked up at him with a mix of awe and apprehension, as though they weren’t sure whether to trust the tall, battle-hardened man who had appeared out of nowhere with promises of help, and he couldn’t blame them. He likely reminded them of the same soldiers that ruined their lives, but he hoped your presence would soothe that animosity just a little.

Simon moved silently among the wreckage, not a Duke; masked and armoured, he had no identity in this moment. Yet, when a small child stumbled toward him, soot smudged across her cheeks and her eyes teary, he knelt without hesitation even when he could see her father and mother rushing towards them.

“Easy now.” he said, his voice low but gentle as he handed her a chunk of bread from his pack. The girl blinked up at him, her tiny fingers clutching the food as though it might vanish if she let go. Simon stepped back when her parents reach them, nodding his head towards them.

“Got the last of the grain sorted,” Johnny called, his arms loaded with sacks of provisions like the other servants. His coice carried a warmth that drew the attention of the villagers. “We’ll get it distributed fair and square- no one will be left hungry, aye?”

And Kyle was already speaking with the village elder, his calm, measured tone putting the man at ease. He had a natural way of connecting with people, one you were so fondly familiar with, and soon, the elder was nodding, gesturing to the scattered remains of what had once been homes. “We’ll help you rebuild,” Kyle said firmly. “But we need to know if any of the king’s soldiers are still nearby.”

They weren’t worried about repercussions or punishments; the King and Queen would just likely use this as an opportunity to boast about how they convinced John Price and his lovely little wife to help those in need.

As the men worked, you found yourself among the women and children, offering what comfort you could. You knelt beside an older woman who was cradling a young boy with a bandaged arm. “You’ve done well to keep it clean,” you said, inspecting the makeshift dressing. “But it needs proper tending. Let me help, please.”

She hesitated for a moment before nodding, tired eyes brimming with gratitude. As you worked, the boy looked up at you, his small voice breaking the silence. “Are you the Queen?”

The question startled you, and you glanced at John, who had overheard. He smiled faintly, his expression softening as he turned back to the villagers he was helping.

“No,” you replied, brushing the boy’s hair back gently. “I’m just someone who cares.”

Though you still heard the older woman sigh quietly. “… should’ve been you the Queen.”

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the village settled into an uneasy calm, the five of you gathered around a fire with the villagers, everyone now with coats and blankets to fight off the chilly night.

“They will likely not come back.” John told them, easing them more. “But even if they did- the Duchess and I will help. The Price and Riley duchies will never turn you away.”

You glanced at the men surrounding you, their determination. They were the hope these people desperately needed. Not a greedy King and an impassive Queen.

Your plans had to succeed.

Late at nights, you all sit together. Tonight, you were pressed to Johnny’s side, finding comfort in the soft smell of sugars and cinnamon and his arm warm and heavy around you.

John spoke, his voice a low rumble. “The army’s discontent is no secret. Edgar’s burned too many bridges, especially with this recent village raid, and Simon and I still have allies who’d follow us.” His blue eyes met yours, steady and unyielding. “But we’ll need more than soldiers to topple a king.”

Simon nodded. “That’s where Kyle comes in.” He said, squeezing Kyle’s hand. “His network runs deeper than the king realizes. Servants, merchants, guards and soldiers- they all talk. We’ll plant the seeds of truth, let Edgar’s reputation rot from the inside out.”

Kyle leaned against Simon, squeezing back. “I don’t need to do much. People are already whispering. About the taxes, the famine, the soldiers running unchecked. Give them a reason to believe the king can fall, and they’ll push the rest of the way.”

Johnny grinned, his usual lightheartedness sharpened into something fierce. “And that’s where I come in, eh? The common folk already hate him. They just need a spark. I’ll give it to them- allies, stories, newspapers, whatever it takes to light the fire.”

Then all eyes turned to you.

“You want me to be the face of this,” you said, more a statement than a question. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you… weren’t afraid. You trusted them fully and unabashedly.

“You’re more than the face,” John said firmly. “You’re the reason, beloved. The people already call you the People’s Duchess. They trust you. They have reason to trust you.”

Simon leaned forward, his gaze locking with yours. “They need someone they believe in. Someone who cares about them more than titles or power.”

“You don’t have to be ready,” Kyle added, gentler. “You just have to lead. We’ll do the rest.”

Johnny kissed your cheek, raising your hands to kiss your knuckles. “They see you as hope, lass. And hope’s a powerful thing.”

Such a big responsibility, and yet…

If they believed you could lead this, maybe you could.

Another night, weeks into the planning, spreading and investigating, John found you in your study. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting warm light over the worn leather of the armchairs. You sat by your desk, going over the latest reports from the villages who were slowly and steadily understanding, when you felt his presence behind you.

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone, my Duchess,” he said softly, leaning over you to brush a kiss across your bare nape, jewelry forgone for comfort.

You turned to face him, smiling. When he cupped your cheeks with such gentle hands, you leaned into his touch right away. “I’m not alone. I have all of you, no?”

John stepped closer, his fingers brushing your skin. “We’ll protect you. From him, and from anyone who dares to harm you.”

His words, the protectiveness that laced each letter, carried a weight that made your breath hitch. When he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a tentative kiss, you didn’t pull away. Instead, you reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair as the kiss deepened, his hand sliding to your waist to pull you up and closer.

When Simon walked in moments later, he froze. Then, with a low chuckle, he closed the door behind him and stepped into the room. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” John said, voice husky as he straightened, his hand still on your waist. You were trying to catch your breath, butterflies fluttering in your stomach and a slow, curling heat between your thighs.

Simon’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the air grew thicker and warmer. Your dress felt like too much on your skin- you wanted to take it off. “You’ve no idea how much you mean to us, do you, darling?”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and when he stepped closer, his hand cupped your cheek with surprising tenderness. He leaned in, his kiss slower, more deliberate than John’s, but no less consuming.

When the door opened again, it was Johnny and Kyle who entered, their expressions shifting from surprise to something far more intense as they took in the scene. What followed was a night of you being adored, their touches and whispers a vow, a promise to make you Queen, a devotion that words could never capture.

Eventually, in due time, it happened.

The coup began with the precision of a blade, honed by months of preparation and carried out by hands both steady and ruthless.

Under the cover of night, John and Simon led their soldiers into the Palace, moving like shadows through the grand halls. Years of military training were evident in every step, every silent order given and every hand waved. John’s voice cut through the tense air as he directed his men, his commands sharp and decisive.

Simon reminded everyone why he had earned the respect he was given.

Kyle’s network of informants worked in perfect synchronization with the military strike, just as they’d predicted. Loyal (to the people) servants within the palace dismantled its infrastructure from the inside- locks were jammed, gates sealed, and secret escape routes collapsed.

What had once been a fortress of power was turned into a cage, leaving Edgar and Vivian trapped within their own walls.

Beyond the palace, Johnny roamed the streets, igniting the people’s fury like sparks to dry timber. His words were a rallying cry, weaving tales of justice and liberation that resonated with a populace crushed under Edgar’s rule. Crowds gathered in the streets, their anger swelling into an uncontainable wave and further encouraged by Johnny.

By dawn, the city was awake, and its people were ready to reclaim what had been stolen from them.

Inside the estate, you paced the length of your study, the minutes dragging by like hours. The room felt stifling despite the cool night air, your thoughts a cacophony of fear and hope. You had wanted to be there, to stand beside them in the heart of the action, but your men had insisted you remain safe and sound. The helplessness clawed at you, but you trusted them.

You had to.

The doors burst open, and Johnny stepped inside. His clothes were disheveled, streaked with blood and soot, but his grin was feral and triumphant and you could feel a matching grin forming on your face. The fire in his eyes was unshakable. “It’s done. The palace is ours, lass. It’s time.”

The throne room was a battlefield, its previous grandeur marred by the evidence of the rebellion. The alabaster columns still stood tall, but the golden trim was tarnished by smoke and blood. Soldiers that did not join the rebellion lay bound and defeated across the marble floors, their weapons scattered.

And at the center of it all knelt Edgar, expensive robes torn and stained, his crown discarded and dented, all glory stripped from him. Vivian clung to him, her once-perfect facade crumbling into a mask of fury and fear.

“This is treason!” she shrieked, her voice piercing the heavy air. “You’ll hang for this, all of you! Guards! Guards!”

Edgar ignored her, and raised his head as you entered, enraged. “You dare to challenge me?” he spat, blood his voice trembling despite his bravado. “You think you can rule this kingdom? You’re nothing but a woman playing dress-up, a woman with too much freedom-“

You stepped forward, the sound of your heels- Simon had bent down himself, kissed your ankles and placed them on your feet by his own hands- echoing through the chamber. The weight of your fury steadied your voice as you replied. “And you’re nothing but a tyrant who will be forgotten. You will not be remembered for your glory, or achievements. Just… a simple speck of dust.”

At your signal, Simon hauled Edgar to his feet with ruthless efficiency, his gloved hand gripping the torn fabric of Edgar’s robes.

Edgar’s sneer faltered as his gaze flicked to John, then to Kyle, whose cold, measured gaze spoke of a resolve that could not be broken. Finally, his eyes landed on Johnny, who leaned casually against the throne, his dagger spinning idly between his fingers, his grin sharp as the weapon itself.

“You’ve surrounded yourself with traitors, John-” Edgar hissed, but his voice wavered, betraying the fear he couldn’t suppress. “This bitch-“

“Watch your words.” John shoved his sword right in front of Edgar’s face, a scoff falling out of his mouth, while Simon chose to grip Edgar by the roots of his graying hair, pulling tight. “The mud at the bottom of her heels is worth more than you’ll ever do, Edgar. Do not speak of treachery when you, your wife, and your family had betrayed this kingdom first.”

The weight of John’s words hung heavy in the air as Edgar’s sneer crumbled, and for the first time, you saw fear in his eyes.

It made you… happy.

It made you happier to know what their fates were, watching Simon and Johnny drag them away. You’d have to kiss them extra hard later… including some other things, of course.

When the throne room was finally cleared, John ordering the soldiers and Kyle speaking to the palace servants, you lingered near the grand windows overlooking the celebrating city. The adrenaline still coursed through your veins, leaving you trembling.

The men found you there, the tension of the night giving way to a quiet that was almost more overwhelming.

Johnny reached you first, his usual teasing grin tempered with a softness you rarely saw. “You were bloody brilliant in there, sweetheart,” he said, warm and fond. “Never seen a tyrant look so small.” His hand brushed your arm, and his voice dropped, the edge of his accent rougher now. “You’ve got more fire in you than half the men I’ve known.”

Before you could reply, John stepped forward, his presence grounding you. He cupped your chin with surprising tenderness, tilting your face. “You’ve had more done tonight than Edgar’s done in all his miserable life.” He’s quiet, filled with pride.

Simon appeared at your other side. His gloved hand settled on your waist, unyielding. “You’re ours now,” he murmured, low and rough. “Our Queen. And no one- not a king, not an army- will ever lay a hand on you again.”

Kyle joined you last. His fingers brushed yours, as gentle as a whisper. His eyes were on the celebrations and songs, then on you. “You’ve given them hope,” he said softly, admiration shining through. “You’ve given us all hope, love. Let us retire for the night, hm? Everything else can wait until the morning.”

“For now,” Simon cut in, shaking his head, and his eyes were alight and alive. He looked at you in such a way that made you shiver, cheeks warm. His hands settled on your waist, squeezing. “I’d like to see our Queen on her rightful throne.”

No disagreements rang out.

And in the morning, the sun rose on a kingdom reborn.

Standing on the palace balcony, a crown on your head, you looked out over the gathered crowd. Their cheers rang out, echoing through the city with a fervor that sent pride up your spine. The people had come not just to celebrate the fall of a tyrant but to welcome the dawn of a new era.

As the golden light bathed the kingdom, you felt the weight of your new crown. It was heavy, but you were not alone; you had John, your King. Simon, Kyle, and Johnny. All of them were with you, supporting you.

You’d never want for anything else.

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idkwhylou · 11 days ago

Text

𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

Summary : Since your marriage, the distance between you and Marcus has only grown wider. Doubt settles in, hand in hand with your growing loneliness. But during a conversation with Lucilla, you come to realize something far heavier—you are even more alone than you thought.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of suicidal thoughts (blink and you'll miss it, it's like just one sentence), cold behavior, age gap ? (not mentioned), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, toxic behaviour, manipulation, angst, no y/n

Words : 5,9K

A/N : this one was so hard to write, idk why. Sorry if it’s not perfect

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⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The domus was quieter than you imagined a place of such size could be. Its silence was not peaceful; it was the sound of old stone and restraint, guards who never laughed, courtyards where voices echoed too sharply. Rome, they said, was the center of the world. But for you, it felt more like a stage where everyone played a part, and you were still reading the wrong script. Your new home was beautiful, you could admit that. Even if it never quite felt like yours. The marble glowed ivory in the mornings, and the frescoes caught the changing light like painted memories, but there was something unyielding in the walls, something that did not bend to your presence. The mosaic of Gods watched you wherever you walked, their inlaid eyes judging, as though they knew you did not belong in this place.

And yet, you did what was expected of you. Gods, even more. You learned the names of every servant in the villa, learned where they came from, and tried to address them in their own dialects—poorly at first, but with effort, and with warmth. You oversaw the household ledgers, made notes in elegant Latin, organize the pantry to accommodate both Roman and your homeland’s cuisine—dried figs wrapped in parchment, pickled lemons floating in clay jars and cinnamon sticks tied with string, sent directly from your mother’s kitchen gardens across the sea.

You had meals prepared with quiet hope, always with some small detail meant for him. Lamb seasoned the way his men said he liked, olives pressed into the bread he often reached for first, honey-wine chilled precisely to the hour he returned. You even arranged a private dinner once, beneath the olive trees in the inner courtyard, where hanging lanterns cast golden halos through the leaves and the scent of citrus bloomed in the dusk.

He had thanked you with a nod.

Just a nod.

A simple and quiet nod. How stupid of you.

He never ignored you, and sometimes you wish he would. That would have been easier. Cruelty had shaped, form and texture. But civility ? Civility was airless. He was always courteous, always present in body but never in soul. His answers remained clipped, delivered with military efficiency. You dared to ask once, when you saw the pale edge of a scar disappearing beneath his tunic, if it sometimes still hurt.

“No.” He said. And that was the end of it.

You tried again, weeks later. He had just returned from the Senate, and you met him as he sat, pouring his wine before he even asked. “How was the council ?”

He shrugged, already reaching for a piece of bread. “As expected.”

“Do you often speak on behalf of the Emperor ?”

“When required.” He replied, cutting into the meat without ever looking at you.

“Do you-”

“I had a long day,” he interrupted firmly, glancing sideway to your form. “Please.”

As always, you nodded and lower your gaze, retreating just before his indifference could harden into something sharper. You had learned quickly the quiet line between civility and dismissal. This time, you did not even get the chance to tell him about the meal. How you had spent half the afternoon with the chefs, your sleeves rolled up and helping to cook the roast with spices your mother had insisted you bring from home. “He should taste where you come from.” she had said, tucking the jars into your palms before you could say anything.

But Marcus never asked, never seemed to notice, never paused, never looked at you the way husbands were supposed to look at their wives. His expressions always remained unchanged as he took his place at the table, not even looking at you. You would trace the lines of his profile over and over, trying to find the man everyone else seemed to see. He was never cruel though, never raised his voice or said anything unkind. Just detached. And somehow, that was worse.

His silence and distance stretched on for weeks. You had already gone over it all in your mind, countless times. Was it your fault ? You barely knew each other, why did he not at least try to act like a kind husband ? Maybe he did not see the efforts you made, did not feel the quiet weight of your loneliness. Perhaps it was simply normal here, in Rome—for a man to neglect his wife so thoroughly. After all, it was so easy to hide behind duty, to wear the excuse of responsibility like armor.

And yet, he had not even bothered to do that. He had not even tried to offer you those hollow words. Since your wedding night, he had not deigned to speak to you for more than a few clipped seconds at a time. Surely, he could not imagine what it felt like to live in this constant state of silent dismissal. And so, you tried. You held yourself together with frayed strings and stubborn hope, and each day, you persevered. Secretly, foolishly, you hoped that maybe he might change. But deep down you knew. You were not meant to except anything in return. Not from him or anyone.

A few days later, you could not take it anymore. It had been two days since you last saw him. Two long, empty days. You wandered through the corridors of his villa like a ghost—alone, disoriented, slowly unraveling. You could not flee, that would be reckless, foolish, and so humiliating for you or your father. But the mere idea of stepping outside made your stomach twist. You could not bear the stares anymore, the judgment etched into every look. Perhaps you were discreet, yes, but not naïve. Or at least, that is what you once believed.

The rare times Marcus allowed you to company him beyond the villa’s walls, you could feel it—the whispers, the mocking smiles, the stinging judgment. Walking beside Rome’s most revered General made you disappear in your own skin. You were not seen as a person anymore, only as a wife. Not even his.

That morning, something inside you broke. You had risen far too late, long past the moment you always cherished: sunrise. The one constant in your days, the only faithful presence left to greet you. And even that, now, had passed you by. That day, your mother arrived at the domus unannounced, as if she felt that broken feeling from where she was. It was late in the afternoon when a servant came to your room, wide-eyed and breathless. “Domina… Your mother… She is here.”

You did not believe it until you saw her. She stood in your chamber like a mirage; her cloak dusty from travel, her hair twisted in the same thick braid she wore the day you left, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin like a memory.

“I was not supposed to come.” She said as soon as you closed the doors behind her. You fell into her arms without a word, breathing her in like air after drowning. “I had to see you with my own eyes,” she whispered, cupping your face, her thumb brushing your cheek. “Letters do not hold truth. Not the kind I needed.”

Yes, the letters. It was clear you could not speak the truth in them, not fully. You could not lay bare the reality of your new life: its silence, its coldness, its invisible grief. You reminded yourself that in some strange way, you were still lucky. While you suffered in loneliness, others died in agony. That thought haunted you, shamed you even. And yet… there were moments when the weight of it became too much. Moments when you would have gladly traded places with those lives lost. When you would have offered yourself in exchange, just to be freed from this beautiful prison gilded in gold. But you could not write that—not to your mother.

You both sat near the brazier, heads close together like the nights of your girlhood, when you had listened to the ocean wind rattling through the shutters and believed the world would always be kind to you. You felt her eyes study your face. She could see it, surely, the fatigue carved into your skin, the fine line that had deepened between your brows, born from confusion and sleepless worry. You could not let her grow more concerned than she already was, and so you spoke.

“I just did not sleep well, mother. I am fine.” But even as the words left your lips, you could not convince yourself.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then softly, with the heaviness of someone who already knew the answer, she asked, “He sleeps elsewhere ?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

“I thought it might be… a slow beginning,” you said, though even the words felt thin now. “I thought if I gave him peace, he would give me trust.”

She looked at you with a gaze you had never seen in her before, something almost sacred. There was no use in lying anymore. Not when her eyes saw through every wall you had built. Not when they refused to let you hide anymore. “I tried, mother. Every day, I try. I make this house a home. I speak his tongue, follow his customs. But I think… I think I am only another one of his duties.”

Your mother exhaled through her nose, not sharply, but in sorrow. She reached for your hand, her fingers soft and warm against yours. “There are men,” she said gently, “who wear armor inside their skin. Even when there is no more war to fight.”

You looked at her completely lost, your voice a whisper. “But am I not enough reason to take it off ?”

She did not answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the rooftops of Rome caught the last rays of sun, burnished gold and cruelly beautiful.

“He may learn,” she said at last. “Or he may not. But you, my daughter, are not here to be small.”

You pressed your forehead to her shoulder and stayed there, unmoving, wrapped in her quiet warmth. For a moment, you let yourself forget the silence of the halls, the weight of your own unanswered questions. She said nothing because she did not need to. Her presence alone was enough, like a balm laid gently over skin that had long since learned to ache in silence. You breathed her in, that faint familiar scent of crushed herbs and something maternal you could never name, and clung—not to her exactly, but to the feeling she brought. The reminder that there was still softness in this world. That someone, somewhere, still saw you.

She left before nightfall, as if she feared to overstay in a home that was never truly yours to begin with. Or maybe she was too furious to risk running into Marcus. You walked her to the threshold, fingers reluctant to let go, your mouth forming the barest thank-you that did not even touch what you wanted to say. Her departure felt like waking from a dream you were already mourning, like the kind you chase back into your pillow, only to find it slipping further each time.

That evening, you sat at the long marble table once more. Alone. Again. The light from the candles trembled faintly along the gold detailing of the walls, too bright for the mood that clung to the air like fog. His chair remained untouched, the embroidery on its cushion undented, preserved in its quiet defiance. The food cooled slowly on the plates, but you could not bring yourself to lift the fork. You stared down at your wine—red, still, and full—as though it might hold some answer at the bottom of the cup. But it did not. It never did actually.

There was no anger in you. Not that night. Just a familiar hollowness, settling in again like an old companion. You sat there, in the vastness of a home that had never felt like yours, and wondered how long it would take for the sound of your own thoughts to drown you.

You would try again tomorrow, you promised yourself.

And the next day.

And the next.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

But there were patterns you could no longer ignore. The day Marcus finally decided to make his grand return, he gave no explanation for his strange and prolonged absence. Nothing. Not a word. And in the days that followed, nothing changed. The same distance. The same evasive glances. He slipped right back into his silence, as though he had never been gone.

As thought you had never waited

He left earlier in the mornings. Returned later. Sometimes did not come home at all until the moon hung low and pale, and even then, he would pass your chambers without a word, smelling faintly of perfume that was not yours. The scent so faint it might have been imagined. But it was not. And yet, it clung to him like smoke after flame, unsettlingly familiar. You tried to place it once, standing alone by the doorway long after he had gone—that note of crushed rose and some darker resin beneath—but your memory gave you nothing. Just unease.

You could not let the weight of it settle without resistance. You owed yourself the truth, or at the very least, the effort to seek it. So, you began to watch, to listen, to gather the pieces one by one as the days unfolded. And yet, something refused to align. As if a part of the puzzle had been carved to deceive, beautiful on the surface but wrong in its shape.

You began to see things with new eyes. The way certain hours of the day were always unaccounted for. The way Lucilla began to arrive unannounced. The way she never glanced at you directly, but smiled as if she knew a secret you did not. The way the servants went silent in her presence, and even more silent in yours after she left.

That evening, a dinner had been arranged. Not grand enough to warrant togas stiff with ceremony, nor quiet enough to be dismissed as informal. A gathering, modest in size but laced with the kind of expectation that only Rome could dress in such refined stillness. You had prepared for it without thought, your fingers guiding the clasp of your dress, smoothing the folds, pinning your hair—motions you had long since stopped attaching meaning to.

The seat at Marcus’s left awaited you, as it always did, and you sat there before the others arrived, your hands folded gently in your lap, your spine held by an invisible thread of composure. He was beside you already, not late for once, but silent, cloaked in the same guarded stillness he wore as naturally as his mantle of command.

He had not said much. Well, he rarely did. But for a moment, his eyes had lingered on you simply… observing. As if trying to remember something that refused to take shape. You could feel the weight of his presence more than you could feel the shape of it. And when you dared glance toward him, there was nothing in his expression that betrayed thought or feeling. Just distance.

Then she arrived.

Lucilla swept into the atrium with the poise of someone who had once belonged to the place and never truly left. Her dress was a muted gold that caught the light just enough to seem effortless, the shade almost the same as the skin at her throat. Her hair was gathered with a kind of calculated ease, too graceful to be accidental, too loose to be innocent. Her voice followed her, soft and warm, full of the kind of charm that made people lean in just slightly, as if wanting to catch a secret they knew she would not give.

You felt Marcus shifting beside you, so subtly it might have been nothing. But you knew his silences well by now. You knew the way his body tensed, not from danger, but recognition. His gaze moved—past the servants, past the senators already halfway rising in greeting—and settled on her. Not with shock. Not with longing. But with that heavy pause, the kind that stretched a single moment wide enough to fit years inside.

He looked at her as one looks at a place they have once been and both long for and regret.

It was not dramatic. No drawn breath, no visible stiffening. But it was enough. Enough for your own gaze to falter, your stomach to dip, your throat to tighten. And when at last he turned to you, his greeting quiet and courteous, it did not matter what he said. The pain lay not in the words, but in the ease with which he spoke them, as though you were no more than any other guest at his side.

Dinner passed like mist. The roasted duck, crisped with honey and thyme, the jeweled lentils, the pine nuts glistening with oil. You registered none of it. Their voices moved around you, threading together with the practiced smoothness of people who had spoken many times before in places you had not been invited. Lucilla never raised her voice, never pressed, well she did not need to. Her control was in the softness of it, in the practiced pauses, in the way her laughter folded at the edges of his words as if they had rehearsed the timing in another life. And Marcus… Marcus responded with a familiarity that asked for no explanation. One that told you enough.

You smiled when you had to. You answered when spoken to. But each movement felt like wading through something thick, something that clung to your skin. The wine was too warm. The candlelight too bright. The scent of pomegranate and spiced oils made your chest tighten. And when Lucilla laughed—that delicate, curved laugh—it was not jealousy that came. It was the confirmation of a quiet truth; one you had tried to ignore. That you were sitting beside him, but he was somewhere else entirely.

You excused yourself before the final course, fingers trembling slightly as you set your napkin down. No one stopped you. Marcus did not even turn, his shoulder already leaning, just slightly, toward hers. His hand rested near his cup, fingers curled in a way that invited the space between them to narrow. You stood slowly, brushing your fingers once more along the cool edge of the table before turning away to the gardens.

The night clung to your skin like silk, warm despite the breeze, the air heavy with something darker and unspoken. You did not look back as you crossed the peristyle, just moved, half-guided by the rhythm of your breath and the dull ache that now lived beneath your ribs, quieter than before but no less present.

Inside, the murmur of conversation spilled gently from the triclinium. You did not return to it. Instead, you lingered in the antechamber, half-shadowed beneath a tall candle, where the flickering light painted gold across the stone floor. Here, the house felt quieter. Removed. As though you had stepped just slightly outside the world everyone else still inhabited.

Then you saw her.

She rose from her seat with the same fluid elegance she wore like a second skin—unhurried, unannounced. There was no drama to it, no glance cast around the room. Only the subtle gathering of her shawl, the way her hand trailed for the briefest moment across the back of Marcus’s chair, and then—

She moved.

Out into the corridor, past the columns, toward the garden. You hesitated. There was no reason to follow her. No purpose, no justification. But your feet had already begun to move before your thoughts could intervene. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the simple, awful need to understand—her, him, or yourself. You did not knew anymore.

You told yourself that you only stepped into the garden because the air inside felt too thick, because your thoughts screamed too loudly within the echoing silence of your own restraint. So, then, you wandered past the stone columns, past the still water of the fountain, trying to find a breath that did not burn. At least, that is what you tried to convince yourself.

You caught her beneath the laurel arch—the same one you used to stand under at dawn, waiting for the first light—and it hit you all at once. The scent. Not the sweetness of garden herbs or fresh linen, but something richer. A fragrance you had noticed once on Marcus’s cloak, faint and persistent, clinging where your hands had never touched. At the time, you had told yourself it was a stranger’s, a passing trace from a crowded room.

But now, in the dark, under the stars, it wrapped around you again—and this time it had a name.

Suddenly, everything snapped back into place.

It was her perfume you scent on Marcus’ shadow.

The one she had worn the night you first met her, when she leaned in too close with a smile that was too sweet. You remembered it—the way it clung to her skin, expensive and deliberate, a scent that marked territory without needing words. She belonged in this house more than you did.

The garden exhaled cool air around her as she stepped into the night. Silver light softened the sharpness of her shoulders, catching in her hair like it had been placed there on purpose. You felt invisible, walking behind her. Like a ghost in someone else’s story. She reached the edge of the walkway and turned. Slowly. Not startled. Not surprised. As though she had already known you were there. Her eyes met yours, and she offered you a smile.

That smile—soft and polished, serene as temple marble. It held no suspicion, no tension. You had seen her offer that same expression to Marcus, across the atrium, when she thought no one was looking. Now, that same look was yours. Somehow that made it worse.

“You walk like someone carrying a secret,” she said gently, almost amused, but without cruelty. “Do you need something from me ?” Her voice was so gentle, and she looked at you with such tenderness. There was something kind, something genuinely good that seemed to radiate from her presence.

And yet, you did not know how to answer. Your mouth was dry. Your thoughts rushed forward too fast and tripped over themselves. Lucilla waited. She always waited—not with impatience, but with the calm of someone who had already played this scene before.

“I did not mean to follow you.” You murmured eventually.

“But you did.” There was no bite in it. Just a simple truth spoken without judgment.

You dropped your eyes to the stone floor and nodded, heat crawling up your throat. She turned slightly, looking toward the laurel trees that danced softly in the breeze. “It is quiet here at night,” she said, voice distant. “I like to walk when the house sleeps.”

“I do too.” You replied. “But tonight, I could not.”

Lucilla glanced sideway at you. “Why not ?”

You did not answer. You could not, at least not without unraveling. Instead, you asked the question you had not dared until now. “How long have you known him ?”

A pause. Just long enough to feel measured. “A long time,” she said eventually. “Before the wars. Before he learned how to wield silence like a weapon.” Lucilla kept her gaze fixed straight ahead when you finally reached her side. Her back was straight, her hands clasped neatly behind her, as if she was reciting something she had long since committed to memory.

The answer struck something in you. A note of truth so resonant it almost hurt. “He acts different with you,” you confessed. “Not soft, but… closer.”

Lucilla tilted her head without looking at you, as if she had not anticipated this. Suddenly, there was nothing soft left in her voice. Her brows drew together in a sharp frown, and even before she spoke, you could feel the irritation radiating from her, pulsing off her body like heat from sunbaked stone. “He knows I am not asking for more than he is ready to give.”

The honesty of it stung more than you excepted. “So you think he is cold with me because I expect something real ?” The words came out sharper than you intended. Not because you wanted to wound her, but because you no longer knew how to ask gently for something that kept slipping through your fingers.

She did not flinch, of course she did not. She titled, once again, her head slightly, like someone measuring a fragile object for cracks. Her voice, when it came, was smooth but laced with that certain knowing that made your spine straighten in defense.

“I think Marcus fears depth,” she said carefully, each word placed like a stone. “Not because he lacks it. But because he gave it once, and what he gave was lost. That kind of wound does not bleed anymore. It calcifies. It teaches you to guard what you love by never letting it be loved again.”

You stood very still.

She had been kind to you when you arrived—warm, even. The only one who had offered you a true smile, a soft touch of welcome when everything else had felt like ceremony and silence. You remembered how gently she spoke that first night, how it had made you feel seen for the first time since your arrival. But, that memory now flared like a sting against your skin, the contrast unbearable.

“So he lets you in,” you said, and it came out colder than you meant. “That is how you know.”

Her eyes narrowed, just a little. Not enough to seem angry, but just enough to make it clear she had heard what you were really saying. “I have known Marcus longer than anyone in this house,” she said, and though her tone was soft, it carried an unmistakable edge. “I have seen what he is like when no one is watching. What he hides from even himself. That sort of knowledge does not come from title or proximity. It comes from surviving with someone.”

You felt your stomach twist. “But you, are not his wife.” You replied, and your voice wavered between defiance and desperation.

Something flickered in her gaze then. Something proud, something ancient. But her smile did not falter. If anything, it grew fainter. Sadder. “No,” she said. “I am not. Which is why I can afford to be honest with him.”

You scoffed, unable to stop yourself, “Honesty… You two seem to treat it with a luxury, not a principle.”

The words settled like ice between you.

“Are you implying something ?” She asked quietly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. When Lucilla finally took a step back, it was not with the grace of a victor. It was slower, smaller, measured perfectly to make you feel as though you had struck first.

“I did not realize that you thought so little of me.” Her voice trembled just slightly, just enough.

You opened your mouth—whether to apologize or defend yourself, you did not even know yourself—but she was already turning away, her posture tense with something between pride and sorrow. Her eyes did not narrow, and neither she raised her voice.

“I have only ever been kind to you,” she said, and her voice was maddeningly calm. “Even when I did not have to be. Even when others would not.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came fast enough. She went on, her gaze never breaking from yours. “From the moment you arrived, I treated you with warmth. I welcomed you into a world that is colder than you realize. And still-” she shook her head lightly, not in anger, but something quieter. “Still, you speak to me like I am your rival. Worse—your enemy.”

There was no venom in her tone. That made it worse. Your pulse had risen seconds ago, chest tight with something sharp and defensive. But now that heat began to dull, giving way to something heavier. Shame crept in, slow and low, curling around the anger like a vine around stone.

“I did not mean to…” You started, your voice thin.

She stepped back half a pace—not retreating, just drawing a boundary.

“I have lived long enough to recognize fear when it wears the mask of cruelty,” she said, softer now. “You are not the first woman to feel lost in his silence. But you might be the first to take it out on someone who is only ever offered you understanding.”

It landed with the weight of truth. No accusations. Just… quiet disappointment. Your throat tightened. You had not expected kindness to be a weapon, and now it was turned inward, piercing something you did not know was vulnerable. All the words you had flung like stones—suspicion, jealousy, hurt—suddenly felt childish, small.

“I did not mean to-” You said, barely audible.

But Lucilla did not wait for you to finish. She turned, not in fury but in sorrow, and walked away with the silence of someone who no longer needed to defend herself. And as her figure slipped between the marble pillars and into the night, your anger left with her. Replaced by a quiet ache, dull and sinking. You stood there, hands clenched at your sides, and felt it bloom behind your ribs: you had wounded the only person who had offered you kindness in this house.

And somehow, that hurt more than any of the silence Marcus had ever given you.

And you hated yourself a little for it.

You breathed out slowly, the tension in your shoulders beginning to unravel, even as your chest remained tight. You had let suspicion get the better of you. Gods, you had followed her like a shadow, had spoken too sharply, had thrown barbed questions like someone preparing for betrayal. And she had not met you with cruelty. Now, in the silence of the empty courtyard, it was not anger you felt anymore. It was shame.

What had you done ?

Lucilla had smiled at you. That soft, slow smile she always wore like a veil, neither warm nor cold, simply practiced. And still you had doubted her. She was his friend. His oldest companion, maybe the only person who had known him before the walls went up. Of course they were close. And yet you had questioned it. Accused her, even if you had not meant to. Your voice had been edged with fear, your words too pointed, too raw.

She must think you are fragile, insecure, a jealous child playing dress-up in a home too grand for you. You sat down slowly on the fountain’s edge, fingertips brushing the cold marble. The night felt softer now. The air cooler, clearer. You told yourself it was relief. Still, something gnawed at you. Not doubt in Lucilla’s words… but in yourself. You had let that perfume, that glance, that silence turn into something else in your mind. You had let yourself spin shadows into stories. And now you were left with the sour taste of regret.

You stayed in the garden, head tilted to the stars you could not name, trying to gather yourself. You had wanted truth, but now that it was offered, it felt heavier than you expected.

You did not hear the steps at first.

The garden held too many sounds; the wind threading through the laurels, the soft ripple of the fountain in the dark, your own breath, shallow and uneven in your chest. But when the footsteps stopped behind you, not heavy, not urgent, just there. You felt it before you turned. A shift in the night air. A stillness pressing in.

Marcus.

Standing just beyond reach.

“Why are you still out here ?” His voice was quiet. Careful like a blade turned flat so as not to cut.

You did not turn to face him yet. Your fingers brushed the edge of the marble, grounding yourself. “I needed air,” you said softly. “To clear my head.”

A pause followed. Not long, but long enough to carry weight. You could almost hear him choosing his next words. “Lucilla seemed… upset.”

You winced. You hated how easily your body betrayed your guilt, how quickly the shame surfaced. “That is my fault.” You said before you could stop yourself.

He waited.

But you did not elaborate.

You could not. The words burned in your throat, too tangled to set free.

“I thought…” You shook your head, staring out at the dark curve of the garden. “It does not matter anymore.”

“I see.”

You turned to him then. Slowly. You did not know what you were looking for in his face, a crack in the calm, perhaps. A glimpse of something real. Or maybe just permission to say what needed to be said.

“She told me there is nothing between the two of you,” you said, your voice barely more than breath. “That she only knows the shape of your silences.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise. Not guilt. Just the faintest withdrawal, like a man pulling his hand from a fire he had not realized was lit. “She is been a part of my life a long time.” He replied, and his voice held nothing but truth. Clean, uncomplicated. The kind that did not defend, but did not deny.

“I know.” You whispered.

And now you did. You should have the moment you saw them together; the familiarity that ran deeper than words. The ease of shared pain. There was nothing seductive in it, only something private. That was what stung.

“I think I was unkind,” you admitted. The words tasted strange in your mouth, raw and half-formed. “I let fear turn me into something cruel. I made her feel unwelcome. And she is been… kind to me. From the beginning.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Not like someone observing, or assessing, or simply fulfilling the role of husband. But like a man seeing the ache that had no name. The hollow behind the eyes. The tired slope of your shoulders. You did not look away.

“You were not cruel,” he said, after a pause long enough for the wind to shift. “Just hurt.”

The word landed softly. Hurt. No embellishment. No dismissal. And somehow, it was worse than blame. Because it was true. Something inside you gave. Not entirely, not visibly, but enough to feel it: a slow loosening of the knot you had been carrying behind your ribs for weeks. Your throat tightened. For a moment, you thought you might cry. Not from sorrow, but from the unbearable relief of being seen.

But you did not.

Instead, you stood up. Your voice was steadier now when you said, “I am going to bed.”

He nodded once. You moved past him, your steps slow, your breath measured. But this time—this time—you felt it as you passed:

He turned.

Not to stop you. Not yet. But to watch. To follow not with his body, but with something else. With thought. With attention. And though nothing was spoken, you carried the echo of it with you into the darkness. Only when they stopped behind you did you sense him. Marcus, standing just beyond reach.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

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aureatchi · 1 year ago

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ᝰ𓂃⊹ ִֶָ SHE PAINTED THE HIGH RENAISSANCE ONTO HER BLANK CANVAS. . .ft. fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu

৻ꪆ RIASSUNTO. fata viam invenient...you attend a ball, fated to stumble upon two demons in disguise. you don't know whether it is for better or worse that you somehow already know them, all masqueraded as angels, regardless of how laughably far off that would be.

◞ OR ROME WAS TRULY THE PROMISED LAND, and you sought the art of chaos, rivalry, and seduction.

SERIES MASTERLIST. → ii. | PLAYLIST ♫. | wc. 9.6k+

৻ꪆ a/n. it’s FINALLY HERE !! get ready because there’s A LOT. i’ve poured sm heart into this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do :) THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who was patient + reached out telling me how excited they are for this. this series is also my entry for @kentopedia’s love through the ages historical!au collab. thank u sm for putting this together <3

৻ꪆ info. fem!reader. renaissance!au. drama & romance. cursing. some suggestive parts. love triangle. arranged engagement. slowburn. lowk touch-starved. a lot of story buildup/complex character. suicide attempt from dazai. historical inaccuracies. bad poetry. religious imagery/symbolism.

— THE MONA LISA WASN’T REAL. And Vincenzo Peruggia was not, in fact, the person who stole the piece, contributing to the boom of its fame to the general public, but was planned in a way to frame him so that the origins of the painting would be a secret gossip only a group of the most successful artists knew about.

The gendarmes were close. They were correct in assuming that another artist could’ve stolen the painting during the investigation. But they never suspected it could be the person the portrait was painted of herself—no, obviously not Francesco del Giocondo’s wife—but the original face who remained under the cover-up.

An artist’s face, who later went under the alias of “Raphael” to conceal her contentious image and entanglements from the public eye—you.

The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin amidst the summer air. The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders, and an unknown heart who vowed to drown you…

“My, miss, you’re already stirring up tons of drama, and you’ve only been here three days!”

The past couple of months had felt like a dream. It almost seemed like yesterday when you packed your things into suitcases and moved to one of the most famous centers of the art world, Florence.

Yet now, you entered through the gates of the ‘eternal city’ itself—Rome, a great privilege granted to you by the Pope himself. You almost cried when you received his invitation, commissioning you to paint the frescos in his private library. Of course, there were some strings pulled, like the person who recommended you…

“It’s all thanks to you, Ranpo,” you giggled mischievously. As the lead architect of the Vatican (but before that, your friend), he had told the Pope, “...she might as well become the best painter in all history. She may not be well known here in Rome, but say her name in Florence, and you’ll awaken the whole city. You’ll realize you’ve found a diamond among all the rubble. Trust me on this one; I’m never wrong.”

“It was nothing,” Ranpo replied with a smug smile. “His Holiness, Fukuzawa never doubts my word.” He tapped his head with his forefinger and winked. “Not only does he recognize my talent in the arts, he also acknowledges my outstanding intellect! I’d be a detective in another life.”

You chuckled before he continued. “The rest is all on you, princess. Again, you’re progressing quickly-” he pulled out a letter to summarize out loud.

“-His Holiness was so impressed that he’s giving you the rest of the rooms to paint,” Ranpo said while you stared at him with widened eyes. “He…fired everyone else who was working on them. On top of that, he invites you to a ball happening in a couple of days to make an announcement on new projects. Other than you, he’s invited only the most influential artisans to attend alongside the aristocrats.”

“No way!” You grabbed Ranpo’s hands in excitement.

“Yes, way.” He let you spin him around on the pavement in eagerness, your long dress following along. “Though, I feel like you’re going to have to explain to him how you painted the library’s frescos so quickly.”

Your turbulence of elation calmed. “Hm, you’re right.

“I hope the question slips his mind.”

You hadn’t actually told Ranpo, but it always seemed like he would figure out everything about you anyway. There was one reason why you had become so famous in Florence. You created masterpieces in what felt like seconds—it was almost like you were granted the touch of creation itself. No one had ever seen you paint, so the mystery of how you were able to produce your portraits in mere weeks—sometimes days remained a mystery to the entire world, no matter how fast science progressed.

You called it an ability. To be able to visualize—a mental image in your head you wanted to come to life in the form of a still painting on a canvas was what you did. You conjured the concept yourself, freezing daydream into textile.

You weren’t sure why you possessed something supernatural, or perhaps there were other artists you didn’t know who could also do the same thing, but firstly, you kept it a secret—it seemed almost inhuman to hold such a power. Yet secondly, it was even more the reason to follow in your father’s footsteps.

He, too, was a painter in the courts of Urbino and would’ve liked to become a famous artist as well. Now, that dream lived on through you—you had studied and trained under his teachers and other artists until you mastered their techniques from the foundations to geometry. Your father was no longer alive, but you were sure he’d be proud of you for getting this far.

“Oh, one more thing,” Ranpo said.

“The two angels of art are going to be there.” The brunette closed his eyes and rested his arms behind his head as if he already knew the shocked expression awaiting your face. “Your inspirations. Osamu Dazai of Milan and your fiancé, Fyodor Dostoevsky of Florence.”

“Pardon me, Fyodor?”

…

A long time ago, your uncle—your now legal guardian—arranged your marriage to Fyodor Dostoevsky. However, the same would’ve happened even if your father had been in charge due to his family’s good societal position.

It was just meant to be, you guessed.

Coincidentally, Fyodor had also taken an interest in art the few times you two saw each other when you were younger, and you eventually saw him go on to become the most talented sculptor in Florence.

However, your path of similarities ran cold after that. You hadn’t seen him in years, and you weren’t even close. You were obligated to write to each other once a month, but each message almost seemed like business transactions rather than love letters. Fyodor was too aloof a person despite being well-educated and polite—though he checked off every other box (and you were sure any other woman would want him), you realized you would never be able to connect with him. He was just not interested.

You couldn’t do anything to change the engagement, but as long as there was no set wedding date to look (dread) forward to, you were content with life for now.

You didn’t necessarily like Fyodor, nor did you go to Rome to finally pursue him, but you admired him from a different standpoint.

He and Osamu Dazai were truly angels of art; even gods, if the Church was not one’s forte. Everyone across the country knew their names—patrons and civilians alike worshipped them at the feet. Even the powerful Medici family, sought by every artist to be commissioned, held close ties with both.

Clientages saved their money to have the two paint for them, upcoming artists aspired and envied their success, ladies came with their names rolling off their tongues to the horror of their husbands’ faces—they were rumored to be devilishly handsome, too. Self-portraits of the prodigies were yet to be made, but you didn’t doubt it one bit. If Dazai was anything like Fyodor, he had to be fanciable too.

They had the world and heavens as masterpieces in their hands; one could say their names traveled as far as the badlands. You arrived in Florence right after they departed for Rome, and you studied the creations left behind to figure out how they made crowds swoon and create such huge impressions on people.

And you found their pieces were indeed the pinnacle of the renascene summer. You silently made them your mentors, incorporating what was successful for them into your own works.

…

“And you’ll be there, right, Ranpo?”

“Of course, so don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,” he tapped his head with a smile. “Though, I have some work to finish first, so I’ll leave thee to explore Rome.”

“Don’t take the wrong wagon this time,” you giggled. Ranpo was late to meet you on your first day because he kept taking the wrong passenger coach to get to you. For some reason, he was knowledgeable at everything but navigating transportation.

“I’m taking a horse this time,” Ranpo replied.

“Even worse! You better not fall off!”

There was a tailor you had been recommended to by your aunt before you departed. You decided to head to his shop first to find a dress to wear for the evening.

“Good day, my lady,” the couturier said with a kind smile. “I have multiple options of gowns for you tonight. Please do take your time selecting.”

“Gramercy,” you replied with a smile in turn. Your measurements had been sent to him a few weeks ago, so that you wouldn’t have to wait for your garments to be made.

He brought out at least four cioppas. You didn’t even care to figure out how many in total because among all the regal reds, greens, and royal blues stood out a silk, off-white dress with gold accents. Your eyes were immediately drawn in, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. It wasn’t the most showy in the bunch, but that didn’t matter to you. It was like a rare gem among common stones—though you would need a good eye to really appreciate its uniqueness.

You ran your fingertips across the fabric, closely observing its craftsmanship. You became fascinated with the opulent designs on the flowy skirt and the long sleeves. You guessed that if you didn’t take it, you’d instead dream of it for the rest of your days in regret and freeze it in one of your paintings for eternity.

“I think I’ll try this one first.”

Your first choice proved worthwhile when you tried on the gown in the separate dressing room. You exchanged the simple front-laced bodice and plain cotton attire for the new, elegant piece sewn just for you. The fabric hugged and complimented your curves in all the right places, creating the most flattering look as you turned in front of the mirror.

You imagined yourself with your hair styled and matching jewelry to accompany it—you felt like a princess. Perhaps this confidence was the only thing that would help you get through the ball this evening and perhaps your entire time here. You hadn’t been around so much aristocracy in years—though you grew up privileged, you preferred to live humbly and simply focus on your hobby (and you spared your change on those in need). You were lovely yourself, no doubt, and maybe that’s why you charmed many people of different social classes as you grew more popular.

You studied yourself through the mirror again, and it was like the polarity of your dresses reflected the fate of this new chapter of life set against the one you left behind.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and an unknown heart that vowed to drown you…you suddenly felt cold. You rushed to get out of the room.

“It’s perfect on you,” the tailor said, unable to disguise his awe when you asked him for his opinion and to ensure all the sizing was correct. You nodded in curiosity when he asked, “Now, would you like to know the inspiration behind the dress?” You always looked forward to seeing how your tailors incorporated your personality and family style into their design.

“It’s a play on a singular topic,” he said.

“Angels. A dual purpose signifying both the type of art you create and how you give off an entrancing allure—they will be curious about your enigmatic yet enchanting importance. That will be your statement tonight among the darker colors.”

The earlier thought of comparing your two inspirations to angels came to mind. You decided right then—you found no need to try on any of the others.

“I’ll have this one sent for me tonight,” you said. “Thank you again.”

Rome was alive and busy with action at every corner you turned. You strolled down the streets with no set destination, admiring the liveliness of the city. There were markets and shops everywhere and merchants with all sorts of foreign goods.

You discovered a ruella at the corner of one street, and the door was widely opened. You peered in to see a group of women inside, probably discussing various intellectual topics.

You decided to go inside and socialize, having nothing better to do. As you stepped into the salon, they all turned to greet you.

“Good day, miss,” a few of them said.

“Oh, aren’t you the Florentine artist?” one of them asked. She moved to the side so you’d have a spot to sit.

I got recognized, you thought, and you couldn’t hide your smile.

“My husband was there awhile back,” she continued as you sat beside her. “He couldn’t stop talking about how enamored he was with your style and was sure you’d make it here next. Looks like he was correct!”

“I’m very flattered,” you responded, a warm tint in your cheeks.

“Did you recently arrive?” she asked. “I hope your journey here went smoothly.”

“Yes, it went alright!” you said. “The weather wasn’t too bad, and I enjoyed the views on the way. I even passed by some lakes…”

You felt it again. A shiver ran down your spine. The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin that stood perpendicular to summer’s balmy weather. The intense feeling to stay alive—to save yourself and the soul you did not know…

Your journey had gone smoothly up until you passed by one of the lakes near Rome. It had been a peaceful day, and your coach driver suggested that you look outside. You lifted the curtain and were received with one of nature’s blessings—verdant grass and plants that thrived around clear blue waters.

You could’ve painted it if you remembered the sight. You truly could have if the memory of the scene wasn’t tainted by what you saw seconds after.

“Hey, is that a person?” you asked your driver, squinting your eyes—unblemished, untouched picture shattering in your head. The land on one side of the lake was vastly elevated, creating a cliff on that end, and a figure stood in the distance.

A moment passed.

“…Yes, my lady.”

Your eyes weren’t betraying you—there was a man dangerously close to the cliff’s ledge, and you weren’t born yesterday to not know what he was thinking of doing.

“Stop the wagon,” you said, a slip of panic in your tone. Your driver looked back at you hesitantly, but you ordered once again.

“Please stop the wagon. Don’t come after me. And don’t tell anyone about this.”

The horses carrying you came to a halt, and you rushed out of the chaise. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you at that moment—there was a random person you happened to catch making more than a terrible decision, why get involved—but you couldn’t stop now as it was like your legs were carrying you themselves. You immediately took off east towards the cliff. It would take you a few minutes until you got to the man.

What would you even tell him? Would you try to talk him out of it? Gaslight him into stepping away from the edge? Offer to paint him a custom piece for free?—“Oh, I’m actually a famous artist in the country, I can paint you whatever you wish. But I can’t really do that if you kill yourself.” You dashed past grass and rocks as you hurried up the hill.

You would definitely have to change once you got back—the bottom of your dress was already soiled, and you were sweating.

Splash!

Your face was struck in complete horror at the loud sound. You peered over the edge to see huge ripples cascading across the surface of the lake.

Oh shit!

You ran back down and then towards the shore. You thanked God that you weren’t using any heavy layers under your dress that day and prayed you weren’t going to end up killing yourself as well. You knew how to swim, but the man was far from the bank.

Am I really going to do this?

This might’ve been the most spontaneous thing I’ve done. And the worst.

You liked to think that if you saved him, you would be rewarded in some other way. A good Samaritan—you thought. It had to be worth it. You couldn’t die before your new life even began.

You submerged yourself into what felt like frozen water, your clothing suddenly feeling uncomfortable around you. Still, you wasted no time swimming toward the man who jumped in.

He was already sinking—of course, this lake has to be deep. You immediately grabbed onto his waist when you got to him, but not before you took a good look at his face. He was probably of the working class because he only wore a simple white shirt. You also noticed he was covered by an absurd amount of bandages. Soft waves of brunette hair framed the man’s profile, and he looked far more content and at peace than he should’ve been. In any other situation, you would’ve thought he was taking a pleasant nap by the way his eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted.

You’d never seen anyone so pretty underwater. If you hadn’t seen him as a human above land, you would’ve thought he was a mermaid or some other foreign creature.

Your thoughts and observations were interrupted when you realized you couldn’t hold your breath any longer. Trying not to panic anymore, you first tried to drag the two of you up above the water, but you weren’t strong enough to battle the weight of it against the two of you.

You would have to swim to shore and didn’t know if you had enough air to return.

Well, I need to make it work anyway, you thought. You wouldn’t let this mysterious guy you didn’t know cut off everything you wanted to pursue.

You took ahold of one of the man’s loose arms and, with determination, tried to propel yourself the way you came from, kicking your legs through the water. You were more than correct in assuming it would be complicated—the energy in your body drained quickly.

You were only halfway from where you started when you accidentally choked. But that caused you to completely seize up—water poured into your lungs like open floodgates, and you were unable to breathe. You tried to push yourself up to get air, but you were already too weak to carry even yourself.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and trying to save an unknown heart that had led to you drown—you wondered if he was still alive. He would have to be resuscitated at this point, and you realized, you too. If anyone came in time to save you, that was. You shouldn’t have had ordered your driver to not follow after you. Or rushed into the lake unprepared.

Or involve yourself with this man. It was his decision to jump off the cliff…and now you had tied his own weight onto your life. Maybe it was all too heavy to carr—

“I’m happy to hear,” the woman replied, oblivious to and interrupting the encounter you were replaying in your head. “I wish you the most success here.”

“Thank you,” you replied. “You are very kind.”

“I am a bit nervous,” you whispered. “I’ll be meeting His Holiness for the first time and other artists. Do I even compare to them?”

It was evening now. You had spent the last couple of hours preparing for the ball after exploring town—you had on the classy cream-colored dress you selected earlier from the tailor, accompanied by a couple of necklaces. Your hair was put up in a complex style and fastened by a few pieces of jewelry.

Your mind utterly conflicted with your appearance, though. Your thoughts were in chaotic peril—you tried to hide the fact that you had been pacing around your room in anxiousness right up until Ranpo picked you up.

“Thou art second to none, miss,” Ranpo replied with a wink and a tight squeeze of your hand. It had only half the same effect as his bear hugs the viridescent-eyed would give you when you weren’t in public, but it was enough. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You fascinated him long ago—you might’ve even been his favorite if I wasn’t here!”

“Maybe so.” You giggled at his lighthearted smugness. “Well then, let’s get going.”

Ranpo nodded and led you through the large doors of the ballroom. Immediately, you were greeted with the celestial light from the chandeliers contrasting the dark evening sky outside.

Your eyes drifted in awe among the artigiani and aristocratici of Rome. It was almost chimerical—you hardly remembered you were still holding Ranpo’s hand. The scene looked like it came straight out of a painting.

“Appealing so far?” Ranpo asked, guiding you down the stairwell. “Can it stand against the Florentine carnivals?”

You slowly nodded, still focused on the liveliness surrounding you. “It feels divine.” It was more prestigious than any event you’d been to so far—most likely because this was held in one of the Pope’s courts itself.

“You haven’t even experienced it yet,” Ranpo laughed before leading you into the waltzing crowd. “Shall we dance?”

You and Ranpo followed the movements of the other couples. When you were sure of the pattern of the steps, your eyes wandered again to admire the setting. Everyone was dressed to the nines—although, as your tailor said, they all wore darker colors. You pretended to not notice the looks you received from strangers—however, they were not insulting. They were out of captivation and marvel.

Multiple pieces of artwork were hung around the hall, too, and you wondered if the chosen artists who created them were here now. You considered if they knew of your name too, just as you recognized theirs.

However, your heart almost stopped when you were reminded of a completely different topic. Ranpo noticed a moment of shock flash through your eyes but did not proceed to question you. (Thankfully, he knew when you would prefer him not to be nosy.)

You saw the back of a man’s head dressed in pure white—his brunette hair in slightly messy, soft waves.

There is no way.

However, you could not confirm your suspicions because he approached a lady in a beautiful, deep red gown to ask for a dance. His face and figure became completely hidden as he waltzed with her at the opposite side of the room.

“See someone you know?” you heard Ranpo ask.

Of course he didn’t need to be nosy, because he figured out everything about you anyway.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you responded quietly, still trying to get a glimpse of him, but before you could say anything more, a guard standing next to the entrance silenced the entire crowd.

“Enter, His Holiness, Fukuzawa!”

You immediately turned around, and once more was someone dressed in white—the Pope, Yukichi Fukuzawa. You glanced at Ranpo, who gave you a nod of reassurance before politely applauding with everyone else.

“Thank you for attending this event today,” Fukuzawa started. “Our city has made much progress due to the collaboration and contribution of our artists, so I would like to take tonight to celebrate all of them. Ultimately, I want to reveal the next upcoming project.”

After a few more words, everyone applauded again, and the party resumed activity. You and Ranpo moved away from the dance, him deciding it was finally time to do the thing you were dreading.

“Look over there.” Ranpo urged his head towards two men in conversation standing a few feet away.

If the ballroom really represented the heavens, surely these two were the angels. Even without Ranpo telling you, you knew them to be Osamu Dazai and Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing side by side, white suits further proving their empyreal position.

But your eyes widened, and if you hadn’t been careful, your jaw would’ve dropped, too. Obviously, you recognized Fyodor—tall, jet-black hair—handsome and intimidating as ever, but you didn’t dwell on him for too long. Your eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a woman from earlier with dark curls, dressed in deep red, and when you found her, she was no longer dancing with the brunette dressed in white.

You looked back at the man beside Fyodor.

It’s him.

And as if hell—fate, whatever wanted to taunt you further, Osamu Dazai noticed you and Ranpo first, pausing his share of thoughts with the ravenette. You locked eyes with him, and you immediately became embarrassed.

What the hell? First, one of them is my fiancé, whom I don’t even say a word to, and then the second is…him?

Perhaps we shall meet again, were the brunette’s words to you by that lake. You truly didn’t believe him then, but it wasn’t the first time you choked on your assumptions.

In a split second, you pulled Ranpo out of sight. “Ranpo,” you pleaded. “I can’t meet them now!” Your fingers hastily ran through your hair, making sure everything was in place. “I’m not even sure what to say-”

“You’ll have to rip off the bandage sooner or later,” he said, tugging on you. “And I say the sooner, the better! I’ll introduce you to them!” You felt even more displaced at the fact that he offered to introduce you to your own fiancé. However, before you could even object (or say, “Ranpo, somehow I already fucking know both of them!”), he dragged you back—toward the two painters.

“Good evening, my lords,” Ranpo said as you approached them.

You didn’t miss how Dazai’s face lit up in a curt smile. Meanwhile, Fyodor had on a neutral expression—probably the only appearance you ever saw him wear.

“Good evening, Edogawa, the darling of His Holiness,” Fyodor said, the slightest spite in his tone. He did not glance at you at all.

“Still as cold-hearted as ever, Il Divino-Painter,” Ranpo replied with a chuckle, but it was apparent that he did not like the man.

“I am a sculptor,” Fyodor corrected, a bogus smile still plastered on his face.

“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, patting your friend’s shoulder. “He’s just jealous you’re in charge of planning out the entire Vatican palace. And also at the fact His Holiness had to force him into a suit!” When Fyodor gave him a look, Dazai turned to you.

He had eyes of the sunset, paving the way of something between hell and earth—though in a perfect world, it should’ve been the other way around because he looked as if he had just come down from heaven. You felt your cheeks warm and an uncertain feeling in your stomach.

“Good evening, my lady,” Dazai said, knocking you out of your reverie. You blushed again as he knelt to take your hand and kiss it, bowing before you—the single minute felt longer than nox itself.

Was this the same man you met at the lake a few days ago?

He was the artist you admired all along?

“Apologies for not greeting you first,” he continued as he stood up. “I did see you earlier. How could anyone not notice the angel of Florence who creates masterpieces in days, especially when she looks like one tonight?” You became even more flustered by his sweet words.

He was familiar with my name all along.

“Ah, so you already recognize her?” Ranpo asked.

“Of course I do!” You suddenly tensed—half expecting him to reveal your previous encounter with him that you did not want anyone else to know. (If Ranpo knew, you hoped he would keep his mouth shut for your sake.) It would cause too much trouble if someone decided to spread it, and even worse if your uncle found out. He was very strict on image.

But to your relief, he did not.

“I am very fond of your style, my lady,” Dazai said, resting his hand under his chin. “Madonna del Granduca,” one of your paintings. “You capture human sentiment and emotion so well, even in the most simplistic pieces.”

Finally, you were able to respond to one of his compliments without becoming a mess. “Thank you.”

“...And sfumato, your technique,” Fyodor added. “Perhaps you like her style so much because she takes it from you.”

It was only now Fyodor finally acknowledged you.

He may just be the son of Nyx. His intentions were tucked away behind amethyst eyes, slumbering in the peaceful twilight he allowed mercy to while all else was caught up in chaotic darkness. Maybe no one else noticed that—if anyone did, Fyodor would not be as beloved as he was now—but you did. You saw through the three strands of malice that laced his following words.

“Good evening,” he said softly. He kneeled in front of you with your hand, tormenting you with eye contact.

“It’s an honor to see you again, miss. Though I must ask, was Florence not enough?

“Is grasping originality so tough?

“Are you here to copy more artistic concepts to boost your own depictions of seraph?”

He delivered a deadly kiss to your hand before you could respond, and before he could see the puzzlement on your face.

“Excuse me?”

But you did not falter before him as he stood back up. He did not intimidate you.

“I’m flattered.”

For once, the slightest sign of curiosity seeped onto Fyodor’s face.

You gave him a poisonous smile of your own.

“Sfumato—the blending of colors to create smooth transitions between them,” you explained, giving a nod toward Dazai. “I’m honored that you immersed yourself so much with my painting that you could observe such a detail.”

Ranpo pretended to look around the hall as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, while Dazai couldn’t keep a snort from escaping his throat.

You kept your eyes fixed on your fiancé’s violet gaze, trying to figure out whether or not you’d be dead after the night was over. Actually—he seemed like the type that could seduce someone into death. Stygian black hair framed against his pallid complexion—ethereal, no doubt, yet you would not be surprised if he turned out to be the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man. (And you were supposed to marry him!)

“I’m here because His Holiness summoned me to paint the frescos in his house. I feel that if he sensed plagiarism in my work, he would’ve not trusted me with this project.

“What about you, my lord?”

There was a pause; he was thinking.

“I am simply searching for something important,” he replied. “An inspiration, if you want to call it. I need it to complete a piece I have been working on.”

“And you’re sure you can find it here?”

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

The foreign word rolled off of his tongue like honey. He dressed his voice to sound like a lullaby, and you remembered why you thought of him as an angel before he decided to insult you.

What a juxtaposition.

“What did you say?”

“Did you not hear me?”

He wasn’t going to tell you what he said, nor what he meant in entirety. “Nevermind. I did. Good luck trying to find it.”

…

“May I have this next dance, my lady?”

The charming brunette extended his left hand out to you. You had become irritated with Fyodor after his apparent distaste for you—So this is how you treat me after years of not seeing each other? You thought you could at least try becoming acquainted with him to make your inevitable fate a bit easier for both of you, but it seemed like that wasn’t happening anytime soon. You left the conversation at the nearest opportunity and moved to the other side of the room, unaware that your other dilemma was following you.

“Lord Dazai?”

You noticed something new about him as he stood in front of you. Those sunset orbs also harbored a concept as far as the sun. There was something distant in them that felt like half of his mind was immersed somewhere else. You wondered where.

“I don’t like Dostoevsky at all either,” Dazai chuckled. “Even though tonight’s given me another rival on my list, I like you way more.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” you scoffed. “You’re going to hate me when I take all your customers.”

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, bella.” You frowned at his attempt to flirt. “And besides, many of them are very loyal to me.”

You hesitantly took Dazai’s hand as he led you to the floor, joining the circle of couples who had already lined up to dance the almaine.

“I’m still annoyed with you,” you said quietly as the two of you lightly skipped across the floor on your toes, never breaking eye contact with his tawny eyes. That same look was there—it was like he was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. “I’m only agreeing to this so I could boost my status. You just caught me off guard back there. That’s why I acted nice.”

He dramatically pretended he was offended.

“Why, tesora?” Dazai took both of your hands. You circled around each other gracefully before reversing to step in the other direction. “I saved you! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be dancing here tonight and finally knowing the name of the poor soul who jumped into the lake!”

“If it weren’t for you, I also wouldn’t have nearly drowned, idiota,” you glared.

“Keyword: nearly!”

You continued sulking at him while the dance went on, ignoring the rest of his defensive sentences and the friendly endearments he added to the end of them.

“Ow!”

Dazai had stepped on your foot during another turn.

“What was that for?” you asked, silently observing how he made sure he did not catch your dress along too, so it would not ruin.

“Hm? What do you mean?” Dazai spun you again; this time, he stepped on your other foot.

“Lor- Dazai!” You disliked how much fun he was having with this. Now, he wore a mischievous gleam in his eyes that coupled an unmistakable, playful grin.

He spun you one last time, and this time, you purposely stepped on his foot.

“Hey—why did you do that!?” he pouted.

“Thou did it first,” you replied dryly. “You’re a bad dancer, my lord. You can’t even keep up with the slow ballroom almain.”

He smirked as the number concluded, and then he brought you to the center of the floor.

You looked around to see at least half of the couples moving off, either to watch or go elsewhere.

“Let’s see if you can keep up with this one,” he chuckled lowly.

“What dance is this?” you asked.

“A galliard. The La Volta.”

Your lips slightly parted to say something, but you didn’t know what.

It made sense now why so many chose not to participate in this one. The La Volta was a bit obscene—first, the women were lifted up in springs and jumps, even though that was usually improper. It was also very fast—it would require skill to do it comfortably, especially with the long, heavy gowns you wore.

Finally, it required close contact between the couples, which was…scandalous. Like a forbidden fruit.

You had never danced it before. Nor had you planned to. You were engaged, after all.

I bet noone in this room, but Fyodor himself and Ranpo even know we’re to marry, though, you thought to yourself, even though you shouldn’t even be considering excuses. …And he probably couldn’t even care less.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dazai said, a bit more seriously, leaving it up to your decision, but his eyes alleged something else. Like he was pleading to let you indulge.

The forbidden fruit and its serpent. Why was this man always tempting you to things that could sabotage your name? It was as if his heart vowed to drown you to doom…

“No, I’ll do it,” you decided.

…yet you had let him, again and again. The descendants of Eve never learned.

“They call you the Renaissance Man, my lord? I’ll steal your title when I show everyone I can do more than paint…and outdo you in dance.”

“Dance is a form of art, too, y’know,” Dazai smiled before he parted from you. “How about instead, you think of it like we’re creating our own special piece together.”

“Competition,” you disagreed in one word, curtsying before him as the drums cued.

“Collaboration,” he bowed.

You two rose, and a new tension was ignited in the room. Your eyes locked with his again, but this time more determined—more passionate, as you gracefully swept to the left while the brunette the opposite way. You continued that movement while also gravitating closer.

Closer, until he was finally able to lay hands on your waist.

“Look up, miss,” Dazai softly reminded you. “Too flustered that you’ve forgotten etiquette?”

You didn’t even realize your eyes chased down to where he was holding you—no man had touched anywhere near your corset before. You felt nervous; it was supposed to be so wrong, so why did his hold feel so right? As if his fingers were always supposed to be wrapped around you, the final touches to a masterpiece of intimacy.

You were falling for it—the serpent’s art of seduction. This wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration.

“What happened to your confidence?” Dazai teased, whispering in your ear; you felt his breath tickling your skin.

Your eyes drifted back to his in embarrassment, but you couldn’t give your rival the entertainment of winning against you in something you proposed. Fighting against your nerves, you wrapped one of your arms around Dazai’s broad shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He lifted you by the hips to aid as you lept and turned around him, his left thigh pushing you upward, and that same nervous excitement returned to your stomach. It was as if pools conjoining both everything and oblivion at once lay physically on you. His gaze resembled hands—he caressed your shoulders; he traced your face like he wanted to paint every angle of you.

He was gentle with his actual hold on you, too; Dazai carried you as delicately as the brush strokes he made on canvas. He carefully set you down with ease after every jump while still treating you like a porcelain doll, and there you made the mistake of wandering your eyes down to his lips, lightly parted—you realized this was the second closest time this man had come near enough to kiss you.

His body was so warm, he could pull you flush against him if he wanted to. His breath was minty, the coolness of his mouth addicting, and if Eden smelled heavenly too, he had truly just slithered down, carrying the sweet, earthly scent along with him. All your senses were overloaded by the man standing before you like alcohol; you wondered if you’d even end up home by the end of the night.

“You’re enjoying this way more than to simply boost thy status.”

In that moment, you snapped out of your haze of dopamine, and the music faded into a new routine. You also realized that an entire audience had been watching you. That was not ideal.

You scooted back right after Dazai released his hold on you, looking down in coyness. “Maybe I’m just a good actor.”

“You’re a terrible one,” he chuckled, following you out of the crowd. “You can’t even look at me to sell your lie!”

You glared at the brunette once more. “I don’t have to look at you to tell you the truth.”

“So cold-hearted,” he sighed. “Even after a dance to loosen you up. Guess I need to work harder to ask you out.”

“For what, a double suicide?” You once again recalled some other things he had said during your weird, fated meet at the lake.

“Exactly! You remember!”

“Well, sorry, that’s not happening,” you responded. “Go find some other lady to ask. I’m sure you do this all the time anyway.”

Because how did he touch you so perfectly? How did he dim out every other person in the room to make it seem like it was just you two?

He paused. “No, I don’t. You’re the first person I danced this galliard with. You realize we were even in skill, right?”

“Didn’t seem like it. And I don’t understand why you chose me.”

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence,” Dazai said. “You did save me in a way. Sure, we’re rivals. But one day, I’ll paint you myself.

“You’re too beautiful to not.”

…

“I hope you all have had a lovely night,” Fukuzawa spoke over the room. “To conclude the gathering, I would like to announce what the Vatican’s next project will be.”

Artists all around you waited in anticipation, for good reason. You and Dazai looked at each other too. You’d already experienced it for yourself—a commission from the Pope himself guaranteed immediate, enormous success (and money; your job from him was your biggest pay so far). Whatever he proposed required another artist, and it could be anyone in the room.

“The Sistine Chapel,” Fukuzawa said. “The large crack that has formed along the ceiling is to be repaired in the upcoming year.”

There were a few chatters after that. The chapel was insanely impressive—the interior of the large building was covered in stunning frescos by some of the great artists who had come before you. Even though the Pope hadn’t even said what the job was to be, anyone working on things concerning it would have to be just as good as its predecessors.

“Along with reparations, its panels shall be painted.”

There were a few gasps from the patrons. Was that even possible? How could someone even paint the ceiling without it being taken off of the roof? And it was so large, too, like a mega-sized canvas.

It was unheard of.

“I have already selected the person I would like to work on this,” Fukuzawa continued. There was silence again.

“It’s probably Dostoevsky,” Dazai said to you.

Fyodor? “Why do you think so?” you asked.

“He completely stole the spotlight with that statue of David he finished this year,” he dryly chuckled. “Well deserved, I’m afraid. You saw it too when you were in Florence, did you?”

“Yeah,” you replied. You had to acknowledge how impressive it was for yourself. It was like the man turned hard stone into pliable clay.

“But that’s sculpting, not painting.”

“Oh? Do you think you’d be a better candidate?”

He was smiling again. “No, I never said that,” you scoffed. “I was going to say maybe you’d have a chance-”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Fukuzawa said.

Oh.

You paused, scanning the room to see where he was.

He was on the other side, intently making his way to the Pope.

“I request you to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

Fyodor stood in front of him and then bowed.

“...I offer my sincerest gramercy for this opportunity, Your Holiness,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“…I would like to discuss the rest of what this entails in private.”

Your brows furrowed. That was almost a bit…rude. Sure, he hadn’t declined the offer, but for whatever reason, he also didn’t accept it.

“Very well,” Fukuzawa replied without a change in his tone. “I adjourn this party. Bonam noctem.”

There was a final applause for him and the city’s next project, and then everyone began filing out.

However, you and Dazai stayed in place until Ranpo suddenly tugged on your arm.

“There you are! Let’s go!”

“W-Where?” you asked as he started to drag you away.

“Goodnight!” you heard Dazai say before disappearing into the crowd. His small smile remained in your memory, and a part of you wished you could give him a proper goodbye.

“To eavesdrop, duh,” Ranpo replied as he sifted you through everyone moving the opposite way. “Don’t you also want to hear what Fyodor has to say?”

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just accept the proposal,” you said. “Anyone else would do it in a heartbeat!” You were sort of jealous; that job was given to someone so ungrateful! If you were the one who recieved it, you would’ve put your entire effort into transforming the ceilings right away.

“I don’t know how he’s so beloved,” Ranpo continued. “Not even His Holiness likes him that much; he just doesn’t show bias when choosing people to paint his architecture. Did you know Fyodor was supposed to produce his tomb?”

“What happened with that? I thought it was being worked on by a few other artists.”

“He kept clashing with His Holiness about it,” he said. “Until the plans got so messed up, Fyodor called it a ‘tragedy’ and left Rome for a while. Quite literally abandoned it.”

What an asshole! Especially in front of His Holiness!

“I don’t like him at all,” Ranpo squeezed your arm. It had become quite apparent to you that Ranpo admired Fukuzawa—not just because he was his so-called favorite or because he was the Pope, but something else. You had seen them together during the party earlier, and you were reminded of father and son. “He has a nasty ego, and I can’t figure out his intentions. I feel off every time I meet with him.”

“Intentions? For what?”

“Don’t be stupid, miss,” Ranpo said. “He told you himself, he’s here for something. It’s just so annoying! He hides it all behind those stupid, purple eyes…”

You approached the entrance to a hallway at the very back of the room, and you heard two familiar voices outside.

“...I carve marble, not paint.”

“You discredit your skill with a brush too much.”

“Your Holiness, we had very different views during the last commission you gave me,” you overheard Fyodor say. “I simply don’t want to cause another commotion with this.”

You only peeked through the large doorway to hear more clearly, but Ranpo continued walking right in as if they wouldn’t notice.

“R-Ranpo!” you whispered harshly.

Immediately, Fukuzawa and Fyodor looked at you both, and you scrambled behind Ranpo.

“I’m so sorry, Your Holiness,” you replied, accidentally locking eyes with Fyodor, who looked at you unfazed as if he had already noticed you two a mile away. You couldn’t even think of an excuse to explain what you were doing there, but then Fukuzawa resumed the conversation without a care.

“I see then,” he replied and then gave it some thought. “I felt you were the only one who was fit for the matter, but perhaps I could just hand it to-”

Fukuzawa looked at you, and Fyodor looked at him before looking at you.

“Ah, what I said was just a concern,” Fyodor interrupted to your dismay. “I’ll accept your commission on one condition.”

The three of you waited.

“On the contract, it shall be stated that noone shall view the inside of the Chapel until it is completed,” Fyodor stated. “Including yourself, Your Highness.”

He thought for another moment.

“Very well, Fyodor. It will be arranged.”

What a rat!

It had been a few weeks since that eventful ball. You had started work on painting the rooms in the Pope’s chambers—there were sketches of concepts scattered all over your desk. Coupled with your thoughts—thoughts reliving all the situations you were thrown into that night.

You hadn’t seen the two angels since then. Well…would you even call them that anymore?

Knock, knock, knock!

“Hey! Let me in!” You heard Ranpo’s voice from outside your house. You were still half-asleep, trying to make breakfast, but you immediately rushed to open the door.

“Ranpo!” You were startled. “What are you doing here so early?”

“Stop complaining. You’re going to love this.”

He stuck his hand into his pocket and then revealed a set of shiny keys.

“Sitting in my palm are the keys to the Sistine Chapel.”

“No way.” It was like the sight fully awakened you, like caffeine. “Ranpo…how?!”

“Hmph!” He shook his head. “You underestimate me so much when you quite literally depend on me!” When you laughed, he continued. “Lord Fyodor’s on a business trip until next week. Do with that info as you wish.”

“You’re a genius,” you replied with a mischievous grin as he threw you the keys.

“Of course I am! I despise him, but I’m too lazy to mess with him right now, so I’ll just leave it up to you. After all, he didn’t want to do it initially because he thought you set it up.”

“By me?” you asked, shocked. “He hates painting so much that he thought I had a hand in it? Imagine giving away the Sistine Chapel.”

He was really something else. Was dead set on declining the offer right until His Holiness debated giving it to me…

…

Ranpo sat at the dining table eating the remaining tarts left over while you finished washing the dishes in the kitchen after your meal. Your move had gone smoothly, and you were pleased with the home you created for yourself—the windows in front of the sink were opened, letting air and the sounds of nature in as you looked outside.

“His Holiness instructed me to paint over the previous works in the Palace when I first walked inside because he deemed what I could produce more important than what was already up there,” you told him with your own dash of pride. You couldn’t contain the bright smile that flashed on your face.

“Just as I suspected,” he replied, pleased.

“...But social-wise, I think I dug a hole for myself.”

“Definitely!” Ranpo said with no hesitation, popping another dessert into his mouth. He already knew what you were going to talk about. You gave him a look before sighing, realizing that he probably was right.

“A few days ago, I overheard people in the salons saying that…I have a special thing going on with Lord Dazai. It’s not true! I don’t know why he was being so friendly with me!”

You hadn’t even seen him after that night. Maybe you were a little disappointed, but you should’ve seen that coming anyway. He was known as a charmer, but he hadn’t committed to anyone. And regardless, you were to marry Fyodor one day.

Ugh, Fyodor.

“And you were friendly to him in return,” Ranpo replied. “You could’ve shrugged him off like normal rivals do. But it looked like you were completely enraptured with him.”

Enraptured?! He was completely enraptured with me! However, you couldn’t describe to Ranpo how exactly he was—how the brunette’s eyes pleaded with yours to follow him into the eventide, how he made you feel like the only person that existed in the large crowd of people…maybe Ranpo would have his point proven.

“Well, other than that, I’ve got thee settled in Rome well enough. I’ll be here for the rest of the unwise decisions you’re going to make, but from here on out is on you, princess.”

“Thanks, Ranpo,” you sarcastically replied. “Seriously? Unwise decisions? Rome is just different from everywhere I’ve been to before. I’m learning.”

“Exactly, there are arts of everything,” he said. “Thou better grasp them quick or fall behind.”

Dance.

Deceit.

Dreams.

Only a few you had discovered so far.

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence. You did save me in a way.”

You couldn’t even grasp,

Dazai.

You didn’t know how long you were out. All sense of time was lost when you gained consciousness again, and you realized you had been washed up on land.

Did God stay true to your pleas? Did an angel really come down to rescue you?

That was certainly what it seemed like in the first few seconds because you were blinded by light when you opened your eyes. You heard insects buzzing off in the distance and maybe even a bird chirping as you lay on lush grass. Perhaps you were in heaven instead, and this was your first taste of peaceful paradise.

But all was ruined when your eyes finally focused, and a face obstructed your view. (Why was he always ruining your flawless moments?) He hovered on top of you, and the first thing you became aware of was that his mouth was dangerously close to yours.

You immediately coughed—out of both shock and the need to. Lake water gushed out of your mouth, causing you to sit up without warning. The brunette was flung off of you, landing harshly on his bottom.

“Ow!”

You paid no mind to him as you coughed again. And again.

When all the water was finally out of your lungs, you looked at him in utter confusion.

“Why the puzzled look?” he asked as if he wasn’t the one who was drowning and you weren’t the one saving him (and less importantly, it hadn’t looked like he was about to kiss you).

Now he sat beside you, almost perfectly fine if it weren’t for his clothes that were soaked.

“But…you—we were drowning?” You turned to see if anyone else was in the distance because who was it that saved both of you?

“Yeah, I was drowning,” the man replied, and you now noticed the honey color of his eyes that had been shielded behind closed eyelids and pretty eyelashes earlier. “And this time, it almost worked! Until you decided to rescue me!”

“Um, what?” You asked sharply, even more bewildered at the way he tried to make your efforts sound negative.

“At first, I thought maybe thou were a lovely lady who wanted to commit double suicide with me! But I realized that wasn’t the case when you started fighting to get some air…”

“Are you crazy?” you asked, not caring whether you were speaking impolitely or not. “Double suicide? Why else would I dive into a cold lake to join a stranger? And you were aware of what was happening all along?”

“Maybe! Women have done a lot to try to get close to me.” You didn’t believe him. “And, well, yeah! Obviously, I couldn’t continue because of two things. The first was you because I couldn’t let an innocent involved be harmed along with me! I had to save you, of course.”

You became even more irritated. “You wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t pretend you were drowning! I had to use all my strength to rescue you, y’know! I could’ve died as well!”

“But you didn’t!” the brunette replied. “There was no way I was going to let someone so beautiful drown.”

You scowled at him before you stood up. “You’re ridiculous. What’s your second reason?”

“Drowning in a lake ended up becoming uncomfortable.” You wanted to punch him in the face—uncomfortable was an obvious understatement. “I didn’t like the feeling of suffocation that set in, so I just decided to give up.”

“It didn’t even look like you had any air left in you,” you muttered, facing your back towards him, remembering his placid expression earlier. “How were you conscious if you weren’t even holding your breath?”

“Party trick,” he responded, and when you dared to glance back, he wore a smug grin.

“Oh…are you leaving me then?” he asked as you started walking away, saying no more.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you scoffed, not stopping. “I’m completely soaked, and I don’t know about you, but I have important things to get to.”

You heard a chuckle from him. “Is that so?” he asked. His voice was getting farther, meaning he was no longer following you. “Where are you headed?”

“Rome.”

“I live there. Perhaps we shall meet again. And then, I could ask you—properly—if you would like to commit a double suicide with me.”

“I doubt it,” you replied, assured you were never going to see this man whose face looked kissed by Aphrodite herself again. Perhaps you would’ve found him handsome if he was in a less disheveled state.

As if you did not already.

“Why do you seem so sure? Anything can happen.” He chuckled once again.

Well, I am a painter, and you don’t look like someone who would even have an eye for art, is what you wanted to say. But you didn’t want to open more doors to curiosity and stay there even longer.

“Maybe you’re right,” you stopped. “Okay, then.

“If you think you’re going to see me again, can you promise to not kill yourself until then? Until I agree to you?”

You figured you would just give him some hope so that your efforts to save him would not be in vain. If he would actually keep your word, anyway.

When you turned around, the brunette was still standing on the shore, and he had a smile on his face.

He really did carry the setting sun in his gaze. It was still midday, but the man’s soul seemed to prefer the softer shades of light that appeared just before the cool shades of night.

And you felt his eyes tenderly cupping your face, even though you were feet away from each other. You weren’t sure if you were so lost that you were imagining things—but he looked at you as if he’d known you a hundred lifetimes, longing to touch your soul once again.

“I pinkie promise,” he said.

You thought that finally ended the conversation, but he asked one more thing.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Do you really need it?” It was unlikely, but you didn’t know if he would recognize your name. You didn’t want to risk anyone knowing about this encounter.

“I saved you,” he said. “I almost thought you were done for. You still weren’t breathing when I performed chest compressions, so I had to—”

“Okay, stop right there!” you interrupted, becoming flustered. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You imagined the stranger’s mouth on yours—trying to give you oxygen, of course, but his mouth on yours regardless.

You told him your name. “Don’t bother with yours. I’ll figure it out if we run into each other again.”

His grin was smug. “Fare thee well, mia belladonna.

“Until we meet again.”

…

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

ur man of choice (or both if u’d like) dances with u during the ball if u rb; reblogs are incredibly cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

WE DID ITT !! i hope this was decent, tbh i’m rly nervous HAHA ᡣ𐭩 dazai rly got most of the love here, but i promise there’s waay more to come.

+ check THIS FOR EXTRA INFO/LORE, it’s cool ;) comment on the masterlist to be added to the tagslist !! & ilu if you made it this far, thank you so so much for reading ᰔ

TERMS & DEFINITIONS:

CIOPPA - outermost layer of a dress

RUELLA - salons/social gatherings

ALMAINE - slow court dance; GALLIARD - fast court dance (in the renaissance)

TRANSLATIONS: (not all bcz they wanna be mysterious)

gramercy - “thank you”

artigiani; aristocratici - artisans; aristocrats (italian)

bonam noctem - “good night” (latin)

530 notes · View notes

slaytheusurper · 4 months ago

Text

⭑ Where Loyalties Lie ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Six)

Masterlist

A/N: Caracalla is so cute and fragile, I need him

Pairing: Emperor Geta & Caracalla x Noble!Reader

Warnings: Scary Geta, toxic vibes, broken Caracalla, mentions of Caracalla's mental health, Caralla's first outburst in fic, crybaby Caracalla.

Summary: Now imprisoned in the palace, the Emperors hold their grip on you. But what happens when Caracalla breaks and nobody can calm him?

Word count: 3.7k

Praetorians flanked you on either side, their armor shining even in the dim torchlight. Though your shackles had been removed, an invisible weight remained, pressing down on your wrists, your ankles- on your heart. You might as well still be bound. Each step echoed in the cold, hollow halls, a reminder that you were no longer walking these corridors as a noblewoman, but as something else entirely.

A prisoner.

The palace was eerily silent at this hour, shadows dancing across the marble floors, flickering in the light of the torches that lined the walls. The faint scent of burning oil mixed with the lingering perfume, wine and something faintly metallic. You walked on, the only sound beyond the occasional creak of armor being the quiet rhythm of your own breathing.

What would they demand of you? What price would you have to pay for their forgiveness?

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, though whether from fear or exhaustion, you weren’t certain. You ascended a set of stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, your limbs sluggish with weariness. More turns, more corridors- each heavily guarded, each an impossible obstacle if escape had ever crossed your mind. But it hadn’t. Not truly. Where would you go? Your fathers estate had been claimed by the Emperors.

You recognized the path the Praetorians set.

This was the secluded hall where Geta’s private chambers remained. You had been here before, in moments far different than this. But tonight, the air felt heavier and tense. But the Praetorians did not lead you to Geta’s door.

Instead, one of them stepped forward and turned the handle of a door you hadn’t noticed before- set discreetly into the wall at the end of the corridor, just to the right. The hinges groaned softly as the door swung open, revealing a chamber within. A luxurious one.

Lavish silks draped over a grand bed, warm candlelight flickering against golden accents. A bowl of fresh water sat on a low table, a carafe of wine beside it. Everything about this place spoke of comfort, yet it felt foreign, unfamiliar. Why was such a room hidden away here, so close to the Emperor’s own?

The thought barely took root before exhaustion overpowered curiosity. Whatever this meant, whatever plans they had for you- none of it mattered now. You were too tired to care. The door shut behind you with a decisive thud, the lock sliding into place.

Your body carried itself forward before your mind could process it, and soon, the soft embrace of the bed caught you, swallowing you whole. Yet even in the soft silks, in the supposed ‘safety’ of this room, fear gnawed at you. Sleep would not come easily tonight.

If Geta and Caracalla no longer trusted you, if they no longer loved you… your fate was sealed. The only thing you could do now was obey, earn their trust… or die trying.

Morning came far too soon, yet not soon enough.

Golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling onto the marble floor and casting patterns across the painted fresco that adorned the walls. The lavish chamber, though unfamiliar, no longer felt as stifling as the night before. And yet, the weight in your chest remained.

Your head throbbed- a dull, relentless ache and your body still felt impossibly heavy, as though the very air pressed down on you. The events of the night before replayed in fragmented flashes, your mind struggling to piece them together; the accusations, the pleading, the Emperors’ searing gazes burning into your soul.

With some struggle, you forced yourself upright, wincing as your bare feet touched the cold stone. The smooth marble was dusty and clearly old, but you ignored it, dragging yourself toward the table that had been set for you. Food and water, a small mercy.

A fresh cloth had been left in a shallow basin, the water still cool to the touch. You dipped the rag in, bringing it to your face, savoring the refreshing sensation as you wiped away the remnants of restless sleep. For a moment, you simply stood there, the damp cloth lingering against your skin, grounding you in the present.

When you finally turned your attention to the meal laid before you, your stomach twisted with both hunger and unease. The bread was soft, the fruit ripe, the cheeses fragrant, but swallowing even the smallest bite felt like a battle. Still, you forced yourself to eat, washing it down with a sip of wine, the rich taste lingering on your tongue.

And then, something caught your eye.

Red and gold fabric draped over the back of one of the chairs. Vivid, regal, impossibly fine. A new toga, its embroidery gleaming in the morning light. Beneath it, a pair of elegant sandals, their leather pristine and untouched.

Jewelry had been placed on a nearby table, bracelets, rings, a delicate necklace glinting with gemstones. A silent message, an unspoken command.

You set down your cup of wine and stepped closer, running your fingers over the smooth fabric. The Emperors had thought of everything, ensuring you would be adorned in splendor. But to what end? Was this a show of mercy? A mark of possession? Or something far more ominous?

The absence of servants made the answer feel all the more uncertain. No hands came to assist you, no soft voices whispered guidance as they had in the past. You were left alone to dress yourself, an unfamiliar task made more difficult by trembling hands and the weight of your own thoughts.

When at last you finished, you walked toward the window, your fingers brushing the fine gold chain now resting against your collarbone. Peering outside, you studied the city below, the distant hum of Rome stirring to life with the morning sun. The sky was still painted in soft hues of dawn, the sun not yet at its peak. What now?

Would one of the Emperors come for you or would you remain locked away in this gilded prison until your father’s fate was sealed in the sands of the Colosseum? All you could do now was wait. Wait- and hope that you were still worth keeping.

The heavy wooden doors groaned on their hinges as they swung open, the sound slicing through the quiet air of your chamber. No warning was given, no knock to announce his arrival- just the quiet yet undeniable presence of power stepping into the room.

Geta.

Your stomach tightened, your heart quickening as you turned to face him. The golden embroidery of his tunic gleamed in the dim morning light, his posture regal, his expression cold. A moment stretched between you, before you finally dropped into a deep curtsey, lowering yourself until your knees, nearly touching the cold marble.

“Caesar,” you murmured, voice soft yet nerved. His presence filled the room, suffocating yet strangely magnetic.

“Rise.”

The command rolled from his lips, firm yet lacking its usual sharpness. You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his.

For the briefest of moments, you swore you caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Subtle, fleeting, there and gone in an instant. His brown eyes lingered on you, sweeping over the toga draped around your body. His choice. His mark upon you.

“Have you slept at all? Eaten, maybe?” Geta’s voice was measured as he moved toward the table, fingers ghosting over the barely touched remnants of your meal.

“I have… a little, Your Majesty.” Your words were carefully chosen, your voice tempered with quiet restraint. A pause. You swallowed before pressing on. “And… I hope you can find it in your heart to have mercy on my father.”

The air in the chamber thickened, tension coiling between you.

Geta’s gaze snapped back to yours, and your breath hitched. His jaw tensed, his lips thinning as if restraining something.

“He is a traitor.” His voice was low, weighted with conviction. “And for all I know- so are you.”

The accusation cut deeper than you’d expected. You felt it like a stab to the ribs, a sharp, twisting pain in your chest.

“I understand, Your Majesty,” you whispered, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. “But I swear to you, I had no knowledge of this plot. I was kept in the dark. However…” you inhaled sharply, gathering what little courage remained within you, “I will do anything. Anything to prove to you and the Empire that my loyalty belongs only to Rome.”

A long silence settled between you.

Geta studied you, his unreadable expression betraying nothing- until, finally, something flickered in his gaze.

“I want to believe you so badly,” he murmured, his voice hushed, as though admitting it pained him. “But the insurrection is severe. I cannot simply take your word.”

You clenched your hands into fists at your sides, terrified that your voice might betray you if you spoke again. He took a step forward. Then another. Until he stood so close that the warmth of him seeped through the fabric of your toga.

A gentle touch, his fingers beneath your chin, lifting your face to meet his fully. His grasp was light, yet it restrained you completely.

“But,” Geta muttered, his voice softer now, nearly a whisper, “if you are loyal to Rome, and only to Rome… time will tell.” His thumb brushed absently along your jaw before his eyes darkened, his next words a quiet warning. “My brother and I, will tell.”

Geta released your chin, yet he remained close, his breath warm against your skin. His sharp eyes studied you, lingering for a moment longer than necessary..

“Speaking of my brother,” he began, his voice lower now, strained, “your ins- your father’s insurrection has wounded him deeply.” A shadow flickered across Geta’s face. “You know he is not well… but after last night, he has fallen into one of his outbursts. This one is worse than ever before. I cannot calm him.”

A rare vulnerability cracked through the hard edge of his tone.

He hesitated, exhaling sharply, almost as if it pained him to admit what came next. “So, I need you to come with me.” His hand twitched at his side. “I need to know if you are able to soothe him. It does not matter what you say or do- just do not mention last night.”

A glimmer of something wet shone in his eyes, though he quickly blinked it away.

“Anything, Caesar,” you answered without hesitation.

He nodded once, turned on his heel, and led you out of your new chambers, down the corridor.

The silence of the palace was calming, the usual murmur of servants and court life now absent. Only the rhythmic steps of the Praetorians surrounded you as you walked, their presence dominant. The deeper you ventured, the thicker the tension became.

Then, a sound pierced the stillness.

A scream.

Your breath hitched. The sharp crash of something shattering against stone followed, echoing through the halls. Geta clenched his fists at his sides. “It’s bad,” he muttered, his own shoulders tense. Even he looked uneasy- perhaps even afraid.

The Praetorians tightened their formation, their armor clinking softly as they moved. The scent of oil lamps and fading incense lingered, but it could not mask the metallic smell of blood.

As the doors to Caracalla’s chambers swung open, you were met with chaos.

Shards of porcelain and glass littered the floor, their jagged edges catching the dim light. The remnants of a shattered vase lay strewn across the marble, staining it with the juices of crushed figs and wine. And in the center of the destruction, Caracalla knelt, his body shaking, his fingers digging into the cold stone beneath him.

His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his white toga disheveled, his ginger curls tangled and damp with sweat. His lips were raw, bitten red, his eyes bloodshot and distant, lost in some storm of his own.

The moment the doors closed behind you, sealing the two of you inside with him, a hush fell over the chamber. Geta did not step in further. He watched, his presence looming near the entrance, unwilling, or perhaps unable to intervene.

You swallowed, steadying yourself.

“Caes-” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Caracalla?”

His head snapped up. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a second, he looked as if he didn’t believe you were truly there. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. The storm in his eyes calmed, confusion overtaking fury.

“Are you alright?” you asked softly, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

His breathing remained uneven, but he shook his head slowly. Then, as if only now aware of his body, his fingers twitched- and you saw it. The thin line of red, the cut on his palm where glass had sliced through flesh.

Carefully, you came closer, moving around him, then you knelt before him, your movements slow, deliberate. You extended your hand, palm up, offering. He stared at it.

Then, without a word, he placed his own into yours. His skin was hot, trembling, a contrast to the cool marble beneath you both.

“You’re hurt,” you murmured. “May I clean it for you?”

His lips pressed together. Then, a slight nod. Geta, understanding without words, stepped back and signaled for a servant. The door cracked open briefly as fresh water and healing balm were brought in. You caught Geta’s lingering stare, his guarded expression, one that held something deeper beneath it.

“Would you like to stay here on the floor,” you asked gently, “or would you prefer to move somewhere more comfortable?”

Caracalla didn’t respond at first. His eyes flickered, moving past you, landing on his brother. His face twisted- whether in anger, shame, or something else, you weren’t sure.

“Caracalla?” you asked again, reclaiming his attention. His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse, broken. “B-bed.” The single word carried the weight of exhaustion.

You helped him up, but the moment he was on his feet, he sagged into you, his body seeking comfort before his mind could resist it. His arms clung to you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, as if grounding himself in your presence. You let him stay there, letting him breathe.

Then, carefully, you guided him to the bed, lowering him onto the soft linens. As you turned to retrieve the water and balm, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist.

“Where are you going?” His voice cracked, and for the first time, you heard it, fear.

“I’m just getting the supplies,” you reassured him, covering his hand with your own. “I won’t leave you.” It was only after you whispered the words that he finally let go.

Geta handed you the tray, watching, always watching- as you dipped a clean cloth into the cool water and gently wiped away the blood from Caracalla’s palm. He winced only slightly, eyes never leaving you. When you applied the balm, he sighed, a slow, shaky exhale, as if the smallest relief had lifted a fraction of the weight pressing down on him.

“Don’t leave me,” Caracalla murmured suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. His grip tightened on your wrist. “Not again.” Your heart ached at the sheer vulnerability in his plea.

“I won’t,” you promised, setting the tray aside.

Caracalla shifted, lifting his head slightly, and with a subtle motion, he gestured toward the empty space beside him. His meaning was clear.

You hesitated, turning toward Geta. Anything. Geta mouthed, soundless. Your eyes fell back on Caracalla, who was still looking up at you expectantly. When you moved your hands and lifted a knee onto his bed, he moved a bit to the side to make room. As your body got swallowed by Caracalla’s bed, he wasted no time in pulling you towards him.

His head snuggled against your chest as his arms held you tightly. You felt a wave of protectiveness wash over you, a need to comfort and soothe him. A surge of love. Your own arms embraced him in a protective grip, one hand caressing his back. “I missed you.” Caracalla whispered.

“I missed you too.” You responded. You then looked back at Geta who still stood near the door. His face was contorted in jealousy and what seemed to be sorrow. You contemplated your next words, but before you could think too much about it, you spoke. “Would you- like to join us? Geta?” Your words echoed gently through the room.

Caracalla did not look up, pressing his face deep in your neck and chest. Geta did not respond, he hesitated however, before he moved over to the two of you anyway. The mattress sunk as he climbed on. Moving behind you, he then too, put his arms around you. His face nuzzling your hair and the top of your shoulder, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, warmth and security intertwining, limbs tangled together tightly in a strong embrace. But eventually, exhaustion claimed you all, you allowed yourself to close your eyes and feel.

Taglist: @boywivlove

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greensagephase · 1 year ago

Text

What If...? (Father's Day)

Pairings: Miguel O'Hara x Female!Reader Summary: It’s Father's Day and you celebrate Miguel, the father of your son. You surprise him with an unexpected gift! Word Count: 4.7k Warnings: pre-established relationship; reader is married to Miguel; parents of a three year old; breast fondling; oral sex, male receiving; unprotected sex (pls be safe); p in v; light spanking; soft Miguel Masterlist Link to part 1!

MINORS PLS DO NOT READ

In the kitchen, you put away some dishes you washed earlier from breakfast. You take care of other little tasks around your kitchen, making sure it’s organized and cleaned for dinner time.

In the living room, Miguel is hanging picture frames since you recently took new family photos. You’re both taking the time to do some quick chores since Gabrielito is taking a nap in his room.

Among your tasks, you put away some leftover homemade tortilla chips from this morning.

Today is Father’s Day and of course, you’re spoiling Miguel just like he spoiled you for Mother’s Day. You cooked his favorite breakfast - red chilaquiles, two fried eggs, and fried beans topped with queso fresco - a typical Mexican dish that can be served both for breakfast and dinner, hence the tortilla chips.

With a smile, you recall this morning when you surprised Miguel with his favorite breakfast in bed. You bought him flowers because you wholeheartedly believe men also deserve to receive some, at least your man does, and then cuddled with him and Gabriel for a while.

It’s now around one in the afternoon and you’ve had lunch already. Miguel subtly told you earlier in the week that he wanted to spend the whole day at home with his family and do little tasks around the house, like hanging new picture frames. That’s why you decided to order takeout for lunch from one of Miguel’s favorite places, at least.

However, just because you plan to stay home all day doesn’t mean you didn’t plan something fun and special for the evening. Your plan is to cook another one of his favorite dishes for dinner and then end the day with a movie night.

You’ve bought Miguel’s favorite snacks and drinks for the movie, and you have plans to make the living room even more cozy than it already is with blankets and pillows.

You snap out of your thoughts when you hear Miguel’s drill from the living room, a smile forming on your face.

Your handy husband, gotta love him.

You grab two cold drinks from the fridge, one for Miguel and one for you before heading to the living room. You find Miguel standing in front of one of the walls with a pencil behind his ear as he drills into the wall. He looks so… You have to stop yourself from letting your thoughts wander but wow, he’s so handsome.

“I got you a drink,” you say approaching him.

Miguel turns, smiling at you. “You’re always thinking about me, preciosa. Gracias [precious, thank you],” he says, accepting your offering with appreciation. He opens it and takes a few sips. “Almost done here. ¿Como se mira [how does it look?]?” he asks, pointing his chin towards the wall.

You step closer and take a better look at the pictures of the three of you, smiling.

“It looks fantastic, corazón [heart]. Look at us,” you say softly as your eyes settle on one picture in particular. Miguel is holding Gabrielito, his arm wrapped protectively around his son. The other one? Around your waist in an equally protective manner. The three of you are smiling at the camera, a happy family.

Miguel steps behind you, quickly resting his head on top of yours, his arms finding their rightful place around your waist. “My whole life,” Miguel whispers sweetly. “In one picture alone.”

Your heart swells with love and tenderness. With a sigh, you place your hands on his arms.

“Our little family,” you whisper.

“Si, nuestra familia [yes, our family],” Miguel whispers. He moves his head and pecks your cheek from the side. “El amor de mi vida y mi hijo [the love of my life and my son].” He pecks your cheek again. Again. And again, until he has you giggling like a schoolgirl, his arms tightening around you. “Ven aquí, preciosa [come here, precious],” he murmurs against your lips. “Te amo [I love you].”

“Mm, I love you more,” you murmur back, eyes closed as you bask in Miguel’s attention.

“Impossible,” Miguel murmurs, his lips moving to your neck to continue their mission. “You’re my whole universe - the very air I breathe.”

With a low moan, you move your head aside to grant him more access.

“Good girl,” Miguel says, his mouth on your neck. He peppers your neck with more kisses before he gently bites the soft flesh, eliciting another sweet moan from you. “Dios, te amo mi reyna [God, I love you my queen].”

“I love you,” you reply. “Te amo, mi corazón [I love you, my heart].”

Miguel smiles and plants a few more kisses on your neck, creating an ache between his and your thighs. He pauses his kissing for a moment to look at the photograph, looking at the three of you. His arms tighten around you, even more somehow, protectively.

He can’t help but think about something. It’s been a few weeks since Mother’s Day, since that night when you both decided to start trying for a second baby. Ever since that night, the two of you have been going at it, which is not unusual, really. Your passion for each other has always been ignited, no matter the ups and downs of a normal, healthy marriage. Even when you both thought you’d find it difficult to make time as a couple with the arrival of your firstborn, it turned out that your baby boy only strengthened that passion - that love.

So, Miguel supposes your recent love making moments are not shocking, however he can’t deny that there’s an extra special layer because you’re trying for a second baby. Either way, he knows the two of you have been going at it and he can’t help but wonder if it’s happened yet, if his seed has taken and you’re now carrying another baby in the beautiful, gorgeous, goddess-like, and breathtaking body you have. The thought makes him giddy.

He really wants to be a dad of two, wants your little family to grow.

“Soon, mi amor [my love], there will be four of us there,” he whispers with hope and longing.

You smile at the thought. “Very soon. I have no doubt,” you whisper.

That makes Miguel grin. He kisses your neck again, his tongue darting out to taste your sweet skin. Your breath hitches when you feel his tongue running down your neck, moving to your shoulder. You lean back on him, pressing your ass to his groin area and immediately feeling his semi-hard cock.

“Miggy,” you whisper.

“Mhm?” Miguel runs his tongue upwards now.

“You’re growing hard.”

“I know, preciosa. Can’t help it,” he whispers. “I’ll stop if you want.” He begins to pull back, understanding you may not be in the mood and being respectful as always of your boundaries.

“No, come here,” you say holding him by his arms, attempting to stop him from moving away from you. Once you feel him pressed against you again, you lean back as much as possible, pressing your ass more firmly on his cock.

“Mmm, you want to, hermosa [beautiful]?” he asks pushing forward.

“Yes, I want to. I want - need you,” you reply realizing you’ve grown so wet just with his neck kisses and bites.

“Say that again,” Miguel whispers.

“I need you,” you whisper, making your husband groan softly.

“I need you, too, preciosa,” he whispers back, his mouth attaching to your neck again. His hands slide up from your waist to your breasts, cupping both of them with his large hands. He brings them closer together, squeezing gently and fondling them.

You whimper softly, laying your hands over his. “They’re a bit sensitive,” you whisper.

Miguel loosens up his grip. “’m sorry, princesa [princess]. Did I hurt you?” he asks, concerned. He begins to massage them even more gently, tenderly.

“No, you didn’t. Don’t worry. I’m just letting you know,” you reassure him. “They’ve been sensitive for a few days.”

“I’m sorry, baby, why didn’t you tell me?” Miguel asks, resting his chin on your shoulder, massaging your sensitive breasts. “I could’ve massaged them for you,” he says genuinely as he knows you find his large and warm hands helpful for these kinds of things - and other things, of course - but especially when you need a little massage, his hands are perfect for it.

“It hasn’t been bad, I promise,” you reply.

“Okay, but I still want to help you,” your sweet husband says, still massaging your tender breasts. “We can stop - we can focus on this, preciosa. I don’t want you hurting or feeling discomfort. Plus, you’ve been feeling fatigued, too. Maybe you ought to rest a bit, mi reyna [my queen].”

“N-no,” you say, shaking your head. “Please? I want to.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“M’kay, but I’ll be extra gentle with your breasts.” Miguel gives a gentle squeeze, feeling your hardened nipples through your top and bralette. He lowers his hands and pulls your top up by the hem. You aid him by lifting your arms, knowing it’s only the beginning.

In a matter of seconds, you’re both naked in the living room, pressed against each other kissing. Miguel’s hands fondle your ass while your hands glide up and down his back, your nails digging slightly into his skin, leaving goosebumps behind. You chuckle while kissing him, getting an idea. Miguel pulls back, wondering what you’re chuckling about. He soon finds out the reason when you deliver a gentle but firm spank to his ass.

His eyebrows raise, a smirk on his lips. “Oye, oye,” he says in a feigned offended tone. “Spanking your husband’s ass?”

“What about it?” you ask nonchalantly, grinning up at him.

Miguel hums, smirking. He pulls you closer, leaving no space between you. “I love when you use that tone,” he whispers leaning down and taking your bottom lip between his teeth before he kisses you.

You return the kiss, your hands gliding to his hips. You give them a squeeze before you slide one of your hands between your bodies with a clear intention. Not even a second later, Miguel lets out a soft growl as he feels your fingers wrap around his thick cock.

Smiling, you pump his cock gently, swiping your thumb over the engorged tip. You let out a soft hum of approval when you feel pre-cum. “So hard, baby,” you whisper as your hand wraps around it more firmly.

“Mierda, preciosa [shit, precious],” Miguel groans, leaning down and pressing his forehead against yours, his breath fanning over your lips as he feels your fingers’ ministrations.

“I want to please you,” you whisper.

You push Miguel’s arms off you and get down on your knees, still holding his cock in your hand.

“Fuck, preciosa,” he says, looking down at you, the sight of you on your knees with his cock in your hand doing nothing to help his now throbbing member. “You look so pretty for me.”

His words encourage you - fuel you. You lean forward and lick the tip, wiping clean the new droplet of precum, staining your tongue.

“Ah - fuck,” Miguel lets out. “Your teasing licks. You’re gonna end me, mi reyna.”

You chuckle before licking again. “You like that, baby?” You don’t need to ask that, you know Miguel does but you still love to hear him say it.

“Yes - I do - You know I do.”

“I like to hear that, corazón,” you say before you take his cock into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around it, coating it with your saliva.

“Mi-erdaa- fuck- fuck - preciosa,” Miguel grunts.

You take more of him, struggling to take his size even years later because he’s so big. You slide back, only leaving the tip in to look at the rest of his cock for a second. It’s so damn big sometimes you’re still surprised at the fact that you can take him both in your mouth and pussy.

You lean forward, taking more of Miguel. Your mouth gets stuffed with your husband's cock, stretching your mouth. You hollow your cheeks out, causing Miguel to groan, before you begin to bop your head, settling into a rhythm that you know he loves.

“Fu- ayy - amor [love] - Esa boquita [that little mouth]- you're killing me”

You look up at him, making Miguel moan. “You look so pretty, preciosa. Look at those pretty eyes.” He cups your face with one hand, caressing your cheek tenderly. You notice the way his stomach and legs flex, fighting back the urge to move his hips. Tapping his thigh, you let him know he may do it.

He bites his bottom lip, understanding, before he holds your head still. He always does that, not to keep you still for his own need but to ensure he doesn't hurt you, it's the last thing he ever wants to do.

He groans as he pushes forward, his tip hitting the back of your throat. He stays like that for a few seconds, eyes closed and appreciating the way your mouth feels around him before he slides out, only leaving the tip in for a second before he pushes back in. He repeats his actions for a few moments, grunting as he feels your sweet, small mouth struggle to take him in but still trying nonetheless.

“That’s enough, preciosa, or I'm gonna cum in your mouth,” he says pulling out gently. You both look at his cock, shining with your saliva and his precum.

You lick your lips and lean forward again before taking the tip in your mouth again, sucking it gently.

“Ahhh- ahh- fuckkkk!!”

You moan, hearing Miguel's voice.

“Mmm,” you murmur, closing your eyes as you suck on his tip. You swirl your tongue greedily, trying to get more reactions from him because his grunts and whimpers always turn you on. Unfortunately, Miguel cups your face with both his hands, holding your head still. You whine, opening your mouth and reluctantly releasing him. “Miggyyy.”

“Shh,” he replies. “I’m gonna cum in your mouth if you keep going with that little mouth of yours.” He helps you up to your feet, always the gentleman.

“I want to please you,” you start, pouting. “It’s Father’s Day.”

That makes Miguel’s gaze soften. He pulls you into his arms, embracing you. “You want to give me a blow job for Father’s Day?” he whispers against your cheek before kissing it.

“Mhmmm.”

“How sweet, preciosa.” He kisses your cheek again, moving to your lips to kiss them. “So sweet - so sweet, my little pretty wife. You’re the sweetest.” He kisses your other cheek, your forehead, your nose, and chin. Your entire face is getting peppered with kisses.

“Migs, I’m the one that’s supposed to spoil you today,” you murmur, making him laugh.

“Who says you’re not spoiling me? Getting to kiss you is one of the best gifts I could receive,” he says continuing to kiss you. “But if you’re thinking in terms of this,” he pauses and motions to the state you’re both in - naked, aroused, and with the need to make love. “You know what I would love more than a blow job?” He leans close to your ear.

You nod, whimpering as he squeezes your ass cheeks with both hands. “Yea- yeah - mhmm.”

“Why don’t I show you instead?” he murmurs, tugging on your earlobe gently with his teeth.

“That sounds - good to me,” you whisper, your pussy soaked and needy for your husband’s cock.

So he does.

Miguel grabs a blanket from one of the couches and spreads it on the living room floor. He wastes no time to bring you to your knees, positioning himself behind you and pushing your torso down, leaving your ass high in the air.

He smacks your ass cheek firmly, eliciting a whimper from you and leaving a sting on your skin.

“Gonna take this pussy from the back, mi amor [my love],” Miguel mumbles, his cock hard and needy, ready to be buried deep, deep inside you. He pushes your legs apart with his knee, pressing behind you and rubbing his cock against your heat. He groans loudly, feeling how wet you are. “Mierda [shit] - you’re drenched, princesita [little princess]. You’re so eager for my cock?” he asks, moving his hips to rub his length up and down your slit, making you whine with need. “So eager to get fucked from behind - to get this pretty pussy filled with my cum?

“Yes - yes - I want it, Miggy,” you reply eagerly, moving your body to get more friction. You rub yourself against his body, pressing your ass to his hips. The movement earns you another spank.

“So needy, princesita - rubbing yourself on me like that,” Miguel murmurs, squeezing your ass cheek with his large hand. He lands another spank on your ass as he rubs against you, coating his cock with your sleek. “Good girl,” he praises, loving how soaked and needy you are. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy, baby, gonna make you feel good, okay?”

You hum in response, biting your bottom lip and feeling more than ready to take your husband’s big cock as he continues to rub the tip along your slit. He makes you gasp in pleasure when he suddenly slips in, pushing the tip with no trouble thanks to how wet you are. Your legs tremble as he slips in, burying himself into your heat while groaning and praising you.

“Good girl - so fucking wet for me - so ready - you’re so ready for me,” he says, his words coming in pauses to groan as he feels your walls stretch around his cock, accommodating to his size. “Mierda, princesa - so fucking tight, squeezing my cock so good.” He spanks you again, watching the way your ass recoils from it. “Look at this pretty ass - all mine, yeah, baby?”

“Fuck - yes -ahh!” you start but moan when you feel him push all the way in, his tip reaching that sweet spot of yours. “Miguel-”

“I know princesa, I’m all the way in - buried deep inside you. You feel so good, so good for me,” he says groaning, your walls clenching around him. “Gonna fill you with my cum, princesa - we’re gonna have another baby, yes?”

“Mhmm, another baby, yes,” you coo.

“Good girl, you’re gonna look so pretty pregnant with my baby again,” he says pulling back and leaving only the tip in. “So pretty carrying my baby, princesa, so fucking beautiful.” He’s barely done talking when he slams right in, pushing his heavy cock deep inside you. He relishes on the way your legs tense, the way you moan beneath him as he begins to thrust into you, quickly finding his rhythm.

“Fu-ckkk - Mig- ye-ah - don’t stop,” you beg, whining as he thrusts into you, over and over again, stretching your walls deliciously with his fat cock.

“Don't stop, baby?” Miguel asks as he grabs your ass with both hands to support himself, thrusting into you without faltering.

“Don't - pleas-e -ahh- ahh - please- fuc- me-!” you manage to get out, moaning and whimpering, feeling your husband's fingers dig into your soft flesh just the right way. He keeps hitting that sweet spot, making you a moaning mess beneath him. You curse in pleasure as his thrusts grow heavier and stronger, his heavy balls slapping against your clit, adding stimulation.

And God, Miguel's grunts as he slides in and out of your pussy is making you hazy - he sounds so pretty, so needy for you.

“Fuck,” Miguel groans as he leans on you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he keeps thrusting. He pulls your upper body up so your back is pressed to his chest before he presses kisses and little bites to your shoulder. He then slowly moves his hand down, reaching between your thighs to play with your clit, making you arch against him. He flicks your clit and rubs his thumb over it, making it his mission to make you orgasm before he does.

Thrust after thrust, your sweet moans and whimpers reach Miguel's ears, motivating him. He knows you're close when your walls start squeezing his cock, trying to milk him dry before he's even climaxed.

“Cum for me, preciosa,” he grunts out as his hips snap into your ass over and over again until he has you shaking beneath him and screaming his name.

Panting and whimpering from your climax, Miguel pulls out of you and quickly, but gently, turns you on your back. You whine as soon as he slips out, feeling empty, but Miguel takes care of it. He spreads your legs and immediately settles between them, slipping back into you, needing you.

You both moan as soon as he bottoms out and you waste no time in wrapping your legs around his waist, knowing, even in your hazy state, why he switched positions.

“Fuc- ‘m gonna - gonna - mierda - gonna cum inside you, preciosa,” he says in between groans as he thrusts into you fast and hard, chasing his own climax to fill you with hot seed.

His thrusts become sloppier and sloppier until he eventually goes still, moaning. A second later, you feel his cock twitch a few times before he fills you with his hot, thick cum, painting your walls white. You moan, your legs tightening around him as you get filled deliciously.

Watching your blissful face, Miguel lowers himself on top of you, wrapping his arms around protectively. You both pant, riding out your highs together. You kiss his head gently, whimpering as he thrusts a few more times, letting your hungry pussy milk him until he’s spent and you’re full of him. He stays buried inside you as you both recover from your highs, both of you wanting to let his seed take since you’re trying for a second baby.

A few minutes later, your sweet husband takes care of you during after care. When you feel like you can walk again, you both shower quickly to get properly cleaned up before Gabriel wakes up from his nap.

Once he does, the three of you chill until it’s time to make dinner. You keep Miguel out of the kitchen even though he keeps popping up with your son, offering to help but you stand your ground and keep him out in order to really surprise him.

You succeed, despite his attempts to help, and your sweet husband, not surprisingly, thanks you with lots of kisses and words of love, which you one hundred percent reciprocate.

Before you know it, it’s movie time. You give Miguel’s last surprise of the day by revealing your plans for the evening, including the basket full of Miguel’s favorite snacks and drinks. You also give him a proper gift, something you saw him eyeing a few weeks ago at the store but didn’t buy because he said he had an old one - a set of tools. You’re happy with your purchase when you see the way Miguel’s eyes lit up with excitement while he opens it. You have no doubt he’s already thinking about all the ways he’s going to use it before he’s even done opening it.

Once that’s done, you get Miguel on the couch and pamper him by throwing a blanket over him and Gabriel, who insists on cuddling with his “daddy.” You place the basket with snacks near him and finally start the movie.

The three of you are having a great time, or at least you think so, Gabrielito doesn’t seem too interested in the movie but more on playing with his dad’s hands before he asks to play with his toys on the ground.

Halfway through the movie, you begin to feel sick all of a sudden. You try to push past it, thinking maybe you’ve eaten too many snacks since Miguel has been sharing everything with you. It grows worse by the minute, nausea hitting you suddenly. That’s when you decide it’s better to head to the bathroom, just in case.

“I'll be right back,” you tell Miguel standing up and hurrying, looking off.

“Preciosa, what's wrong? Do you feel sick?” Miguel asks, quickly checking in on Gabrielito and making sure he's safe before following after you.

He reaches the bathroom in seconds where he finds you already vomiting, his concern going through the roof. He immediately reaches you, helping you as much as he can. He rubs your back gently, sticking by you all the way until you wash your mouth and face, trying to catch your breath.

You sigh softly as he helps dry your face, gentle as always.

“I’m so sorry, baby. Do you feel better? Is the nausea gone?” he asks, brows knitted with concern.

You nod, swallowing saliva and wincing a bit. “Yeah, much better now. I just started feeling sick out of nowhere.”

Miguel’s head tilts to the side, your words sinking in.

You stare at each other for a few seconds before you connect the dots. Miguel comes to the same conclusion because he suddenly smiles warmly and happily at you before he places a hand on your tummy.

“Mi reyna [my queen],” he coos.

You smile at him, knowing.

“No wonder,” you say as Miguel pulls you into an embrace. “Sore breasts, nausea, and I’ve been feeling a bit tired the last few days.”

Miguel kisses your forehead. “We’re expecting, mi preciosa [my precious],” he whispers. “We’re having a second baby.”

Hearing his words makes it suddenly feel real and you can’t help but let out a happy noise of content, throwing your arms around him. “I’m pregnant!” you say hugging your husband, who hugs you tight to him.

“You’re pregnant, mi amor [my love]. You're pregnant - I can't believe it. I mean, I do, we've been working on it,” Miguel says with a playful smile, making you laugh. “But it happened so fast. I'm so happy right now!” Miguel picks you up, hugging you. “I want to go outside and yell it to the whole world that we're having a second baby. Dios [God],” Miguel says, kissing your face. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeats in between kisses. “Te amo [I love you].”

“I love you,” you whisper, caressing the curls at the back of his head. “I love you so much.”

“Yo a ti más, mi preciosa [I love you more, my precious],” Miguel whispers pulling back to kiss your lips, lovingly and tenderly. He breaks the kiss a few seconds later and holds you in his arms, the two of you standing in the bathroom. “Gracias, hermosa, gracias [thank you, beautiful, thank you]. You've given me the best gift for Father's Day.”

You chuckle softly, hugging him. “It was an unexpected gift.”

“Perfect way to end the day, hermosa.” Miguel smiles and kisses your forehead again. “God, I'm already thinking of all the things I'm gonna hang up in the new nursery using my new tool set.”

You laugh and pull back. “One step at a time, corazón. It's still early, but if all goes well, in a few months you'll be doing all of that.”

“Happily,” he replies. “You know I'll be there every step. I'll rub your feet and carry you to the bed. I'll do your nails, I'll do anything and everything,” Miguel promises, peppering your face with kisses, caressing your back.

You smile, knowing they're not empty promises.

You spend a few more moments in the bathroom before you return to the living room where you cuddle with your son, happy and excited that in a few months, your family will gain one new member.

A/N: Meant to post this earlier and then life happened, but it's still Father's Day for me so, happy Father's Day to my husband Miguel!! Thank you for reading!!

-Alondra ❤️

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lokisgoodgirl · 1 year ago

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Daylight Orgy: The Rite (IV)

Masterlist for The Rite is HERE My regular Masterlist is HERE Summary: (4) You confront Loki about Fandral - and the rules of the Rite are bent to breaking point. (w/c 4.1k) Warnings: 18+ only. Minors DNI. Asgard Loki! x FReader. Smuttish (+ 3rd party smut). Jealousy. Loki being a naughty prince.

Had you been expecting Loki to follow you?

That he’d thunder down those spiral steps and throw the bronze door open? Tear across the market square half-naked and yank you by the shoulders to say, ‘Stop – that scoundrel is a lying vagabond…’ ?

Yes, obviously.

But he didn’t.

You couldn’t settle back in your chambers. Picking things up, putting them down, moving to the window - always on edge for a knock that didn’t come.

‘The pleasure of the subject is only one part of the ritual. You cannot possibly fulfil the second.’

The fuck was that supposed to mean? Loki never mentioned a second part. As far as you knew, all you had to do was lie there and let him eat you out, not contain any enthusiasm, and try not to die from overstimulation. Sure…there might be other weird shit, it was the Asgardian Royals after all – but this seemed important.

If Fandral’s telling the truth, that is.

You frown, staring at a wiry bird shifting over the rooftops. Clearly, Fandral's a shit-stirrer. Clearly, he’s jealous, Loki had said as much. You’d be pretty jealous too if you were the only person in the inner-circle Loki hadn’t fucked over the past five centuries. An unexpected wrench of envy twists your stomach.

But the prince you’d seen in the Weaving Rooms was entirely different to the one that stared down from frescos and observed his worshippers with cool disdain. A smile that lit up his eyes, the inflection of a breathless chuckle as you caught him by surprise, a faint blush that could be mistaken as humble, the hesitant lust which thrummed beneath his skin as you’d pressed to him –

‘I need to see you,’ he’d said. ‘Every day from now until then.’ Like you meant something to him, and it felt…real.

Was it really a game? Would he pull the rug at the last minute before the ceremony? It was very on brand, you’d admit. The thought sends a violent shudder up your spine.

The next morning, there’s no knock at the door from Loki’s apprentice. No letters, no nothing. Anxiety creeps to anger, and with every inch the sun moves up the sky, your feet get itchier. Does he think I’m just going to sit around and wait for him? Fucking gods. Maybe I should just tell him no – then he’ll have do the Rite with Fandral, see how that works out. Serve him right.

But then… the thought of Loki crawling on top of that smarmy, coiffured arsehole invades your brain. Shit. You shift down the corridors of the court towards the interior palace. No one looks at you today. The golden doors of the main entrance to the royal quarters loom, and you swallow, heart loud in your ears. A guard side-steps in front of you with a cock of an eyebrow as effective as a raise of his hand. “I’m here to see Prince Loki,” you say. The eyebrow cocks higher. “You know how many people try that every day?” He looks down to your feet, and back to your face with a sneer. “Most of them dress better for the occasion. Or at least bring a bribe.”

You stare at him with heat creeping up your neck. “He knows who I am.” He laughs. “I bet he does.” “He does!” “Look…” The guard cups your elbow and ushers you to the side, glancing towards his peers at the other end of the door. “I don’t want to embarrass you, love. Just do yourself a favour, and leave.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m here to see Prince Loki,” you say again, harsher this time. “Can someone just go and tell him I’m here? He’ll be pissed if he finds out you turned me away.” The guard flinches fractionally, studying your face. Eventually he leaves, and five minutes later, he’s back. “Come on,” he says gruffly. No apology, very nice. The gold door slams and the bustle of the outer court disappears. The air is cooler in here, a strange stillness hanging like perfume. More marble carves in large arches along the corridor, open to garden running up the middle of a courtyard. Somewhere, water trickles - but you can't see it. “He’s drunk,” the guard says without looking back. “Excuse me?” “The Prince. He’s drunk, and he has company.” You frown. It isn’t even midday. Suddenly your throat feels very tight, and you feel very small. If Loki had wanted to see me, he’d have asked. He’d have sent for me. So much for being aloof and interesting. Your irritation towards Fandral blooms with new fervour: not only has he ruined your excitement; he’s ruined your hot-girl-mystery.

The guard stops abruptly and you collide into his shoulder-guards. He clears his throat, stamping a staff twice.

You roll your eyes, shuffling around him. Through an open set of doors is a room like something from the whispered tales of olden Asgard. Chiffon flutters at the windows, long plush cushions lining the floor draped with blankets that shimmer in sunlight. In the corner, some blindfolded guy is plucking at a lute. Platters of nuts, grapes, sweet cakes lie half-demolished across the floor, and twice the amount of goblets as people. And then...your jaw goes slack.

Bodies shift in the room, two dozen, at least - all moving to their own rhythm like waves rippling to shore. A woman sits perched on the windowsill; you can’t see her face, only her legs wrapped around a man’s arse as he slowly thrusts into her. Her hair shimmers like spun gold; lips stained with rich juices while she pants to the ceiling. On the cushions, a man and woman lie side-by-side, kissing languidly as two other men busy themselves between their respective thighs. People are fucking…everywhere: sets of two, three, four. Norns. You’re trying to find somewhere to set your eyes that doesn’t involve breasts, or glistening body parts, or faces twisted in pleasure that you definitely shouldn’t be witness to. And then, they land on Loki. He's looking directly at you with a lazy, dark delight. The Prince lounges across a gilded chair in the corner; one thigh hiked over the armrest and the other stretched to its full length. His boots look more obscene on him than usual, today – sprawling like that.

The laces of his shirt are undone, dark tangles of hair spread over his shoulders and pearls of sweat glistening on his collarbone. With a mildly horrifying lurch of your stomach, you notice the ties at his groin are loose, too. But he’s not got someone squirming around his cock, and that’s something, at least. His lips move, but no sound comes out. You frown as he waves a hand, beckoning you through the doors. Dangling on the precipice of a flee, you feel one foot move in front of the other – and then your face feels like its slathered in jelly: cool, wet slime sliding over your skin. You lurch out the other side of the doorway with a gasp...and then the sound hits. Moans of pleasure ring to the high ceilings: grunts, mewls, groans of names you’ve never heard as they wring pitched ecstasy from each other. Loki’s smile grows. “Just a small silencing enchantment.” He shrugs and clicks his fingers. The door slams behind you. A few pairs of eyes flicker in your direction before re-focusing on their work. You can’t blame them – you’re entirely overdressed. Picking your way across the floor, you come to a stop beside him.

This…isn’t what you’d expected. He rests his head back, half-lidded eyes clouded by whatever’s swirling in his goblet. “You realise it’s not even midday?”

An impish smile lifts Loki’s lips, a flash of tongue nipping over the bottom one. “I am a second son of the crown, famed for hedonism and the sensual pleasures…how else should I fill my days?” Your eyes rise to the couple fucking on the windowsill. “Could we talk somewhere?”

A frown ghosts his forehead, and Loki reaches for your hand. His eyes have sharpened, and he looks almost sober. “We’re all friends here, it’s just…a release. A club, if you will. We can talk here, unless you’re uncomfortable.” Your tongue pokes against your cheek. You have no right to ask this, and yet, “Have you ‘released’ today, then?” One of Loki’s brows rise, lips rippling in a closed smile. “Yes.”

That jealousy you’d been fighting settles like a stone. Loki’s eyes slide between yours, slivers of sapphire sparking beyond deep pools of black. “Although not with any interference from another,’ he adds huskily. “I’m…saving myself, it seems.” “Oh?” “Mmm. Delayed gratification is a powerful lure.”

As the hum leaves his lips, Loki shuffles on the chair: back straightening and the leg hoisted on the armrest shifting. You try not to let your gaze drop to his crotch, but it’s a moth-flame situation. He’s hard, of course. Behind you, someone orgasms.

Heat pools in your lower belly, arousal blossoming like liquid shadow, and you know for a fact if you move – there will be a slip between your thighs. You’ve never been somewhere like this – sex has always been private, quiet. Loki’s looking at you with something close to innocence. Perhaps it’s the way you know there absolutely no way you can fuck him – no way for him to touch that hot mess gathering between your folds, and no way for you to suckle the head of his cock as he tangles those long fingers in your—

“Did you hear what I said?” You clear your throat, swallowing. “Sorry, I was…somewhere else.” “Mmm,” Loki hums again, brushing a finger by his lips to stifle a smile. He lowers his thigh from the armrest and pats it: once, twice. Like a magnet, you slide onto his lap. Across the room, a woman being fucked against a pillar frowns at you over her partner’s shoulder. An arrogant thrill soaks up your spine while Loki’s nose brushes down your cheek; lips lingering on the curve of your neck, his breath gloriously cool against the heat of your skin.

“What did you want to discuss, little owl? Here, in my den of debauchery.” His fingers dance up the folds of fabric at your midsection, cupping a breast and beginning to toy at the nipple. It feels so fucking good: too good. He pinches it gently, rolling against his thumb, knowing exactly what he’s doing; you exhale against his cheek, and it makes it almost impossible to whisper, “Fandral.”

The fingers still, and you can feel Loki frowning without even having to look. “What?” he growls. It’s all you can do not to grind against his thigh. He’s wearing a tight pair of leather trousers, so at least none of the mess between your legs, probably soaking through your dress, will get on his skin. But he might touch me. He pinches your nipple, eyes narrowing. A hiss erupts from your throat, tapering to a moan. “Fandral,” you say on the exhale. “If it’s not too much trouble, desist from moaning that rube's name in my presence, darling.” You frown. “He said you’re messing with me; said you don’t have any intention of us doing the Rite together, and that he’ll be the—”

Suddenly you’re airborne, Loki’s strong hands scooping you like a bag of feathers and manoeuvring you to one of the long pillows on the floor. He looms over you on his hands and knees; one set on either side of your left leg, a wild veil of black hair hanging around his jaw. His lips part, and the impossible muscles of his shoulders shift beneath the drape of that slutty shirt. “He will not,” Loki says. “Did that cunning little mouse say he was visiting Lagertha for any other reason than to have his doublet mended?” His breath is tinged with the sweetness of primrose wine. “You are my chosen partner; he has no sway in it – and certainly no say in it.”

The gravel of his voice is bass to the continuum of groaning that sings between pillars. Desire scorches your skin, tightening your thighs and twisting your stomach so taut it might snap. Your gaze shifts fractionally to the side, catching sight of a beautiful man with bronze hair glittering like a copper coin as his cock sinks inside against another man’s ass: again, again - a hand fastening to the back of his lover’s neck. The second man moans: guttural, primal. “Do you like that?” Loki’s breath licks the shell of your ear, his hands shifting the skirts of your loose dress up your parted legs like water. The digits slide down your arms, guiding them above your head. You can’t look away: the men are poetry together. The one taking everything the other has to give grips the back of a chair, his knuckles white, his jaw trembling and cock hard at his stomach as the fingers cradling his neck tighten.

If Loki can’t ravish you, if he can’t touch your cunt which aches for his tongue – then you’ll settle for his voice. And the heat radiating from the collar of his shirt. And anyway, you’re pretty sure his voice alone will make you climax in 3…2…1— “I want to know everything,” Loki says: dark, filthy, and…honest? Your pussy clenches so hard you almost whimper. “You’ve told me about your life, but now I wish to know your desires…your deepest fantasies. I crave that knowledge like an orgasm I cannot sate.”

His husk lingers heavy over any other sound, filling your mind with strange, inadvisable, thoughts of forever. “What you like,” he hums, “what you want…how I can pleasure you beyond anything you’ve shared with another, and how I can haunt every moment your mind wanders from now until eternity.”

The god’s lips graze your pulse point, and you can feel the thump of blood beating against his skin. “So, I ask again,” he says as the figures fucking in front of you blur, “do you like that?”

A stab of air rips down your throat as you gasp, “Yes.” Norns, right now you’d let him flip you over and sink into your ass in a second.

Without warning, one of Loki’s leather clad thighs presses against your clit. Sparks explode from your centre, tendrils of utter desire rippling across your body like the drag of a lit match. Fear widens your eyes, and amusement dances in his. “Your arousal cannot touch me through these,” he says coolly, taking his time over every syllable. “My hands remain here…” Loki’s eyes dart up to his fingers encircling your wrists, and squeezes. “My sword remains sheathed, and my leathers are merely...” He presses the flat of his lower thigh against your clit again, “A tool.”

“That’s cheating,” you say breathlessly. Loki’s lip twitches in a knowing smirk, a half shrug conveying, ‘What did you expect?’ “Don’t you want to play with me?” His eyes narrow, and another lance of need spears through your core. Your lips roll together, stifling a moan as your brows draw tight. “You’re drunk,” you say. But you don’t believe it. Loki’s pupils are still wide and deep enough to drown in, but it’s not the primrose wine. Unbelievably, it’s you. For now, you decide to let yourself imagine he doesn’t just need you for the Rite; that it could be more – that he could be yours.

The weight of his attention lies heavier in the air than the aroma of sex, and his thigh grinds against your pussy; catching the spot above your clit with each, gentle tug.

“Fuck…Loki,” you whisper, back arching off the cushion. His chin rises, smouldering beneath half-lidded eyes. “Talk to me,” he breathes. You want to dig the heel of your palm against his solid cock bound beneath the crotch of his leathers. You want to feel his animal god-lust pulsing under your hand - more fuel for the violently dirty fantasies you’ll create in your head later as you writhe beneath the sheets alone.

Loki tuts, squeezing your wrists again. You offer a weak, breathy struggle. “No, little owl. Not today, not yet. I want to be destructively engorged with the sight of you…denied what I want while I hear you come undone.” “Loki,” you whine again, face hot and a hum growing in your ears. This is crazy. And yet…

Loki’s thigh moves in wicked waves against your clit; his eyes burning into yours, those thin lips parted and flushed, and ragged exhales scraping from his throat like he’s sinking inside your cunt. “Talk to me,” he says again, but this time, it’s a beg. A silky voice sounds from behind his broad shoulders, accompanied by an immaculately shaped set of nails sweeping across his collarbone. The woman who was glaring earlier. She lowers to his ear. “Can I offer you relief, my prince? Since this one cannot?”

It’s hushed, but you were meant to hear it.

Loki doesn’t even look at her; his fingers stay curled around your wrists. “No,” he says through gritted teeth. She slinks away and the flames licking up your belly burn brighter. The meat of his thigh muscle stills, and the ache of its absence makes you frott against his knee.

“Talk to me,” he commands with an air of finality, chin lowering. “Tell me what you like, what you want.” Even if he let go of your arms, that stare would pin you in place. Every inch the prince; every inch the god – even in the middle of a daylight orgy.

“I want your mouth on me,” you whisper; squirming beneath his mischievous smirk. “I want it…slow, then heavier…then slower.” “Slow?” Loki hums, titling his head. That tongue darts over his lips. “And firm, but…soft. Wet. And loud…I want to hear you taste me.” Gods’ bones, has anyone ever been this ineloquent? But Loki doesn’t seem to mind. His face tells you he knows exactly what you mean; exactly how you like it. He’s imagining it, just as you are.

Your eyes dart to his crotch and the thick outline of his manhood strains against heavy creases. His hips shift, a small hiss filling the air between you. “What else?” he asks in a breathless voice that’s so unlike him. You bite your lip as his stare falls down your chest - flimsy drapes of silk threatening to expose your breasts. You wonder if he’ll let go of your wrists. And if he can control himself if he does. “And I want your cock, too…obviously.” “Obviously…” he goads with the spectre of a smile. The god leans forward, nudging the silk aside with his nose and capturing a nipple with a firm suck. Loki’s thigh begins to shift against your pussy again, and a strangled moan rattles in your throat. The groans of the men fucking a few meters away reach crescendo and they tumble over the edge in a sweaty, groaning slip of sex.

“I want you everywhere,” you gasp, losing any shred of remaining modesty with the smear of your heat against his leathers. “My cunt, my mouth, my ass—” “—Like them?” he stammers, thick brows drawn together. “—Like them. I want you so deep inside me I forget my own name, want your skin smacking my shoulders, want you pulling me onto your cock as you fuck me like I’m in heat and you can’t control it—” “—More,” Loki gasps, and your eyes fly open. His face is twisted with furious need, lines deep in his forehead, strands of onyx hair buffeting at his lips. His thigh slips against your slit – it’s absolutely soaked, and his hands tremble where he’s holding you in place. The words that shape your lips are calculated in their depravity: aimed to kill. “I want your cum dripping between my thighs; dripping between my breasts…” At that, Loki groans. “I’ll lick it off myself…before I suck you clean, and swallow everything you have left…my prince.” Loki’s jaw slackens like the orgasm shattering him is an unseen foe with a knife to his neck. The jolt in his hips sends the thick thigh driving against your clit and you crumble right alongside him with a garbled cry of his name. He falls on top of you in a mess of ferocious need; lips working, breath gasping from your lungs and the beat of his heart strong against your ribs. But still, his hands don’t leave your wrists.

“You are a wonder,” he breathes, galaxies swimming in his pleasure-drunk stare. And for a moment, you forget that you’re a means to an end; that after the Rite you’ll go back to being a nobody - and you believe him.

Loki barely has his wits back when someone clears their throat at the door. “Your brother - Prince Loki.” “My what?” “Your brother, the crown prince. He’s outside.” “Nine hels. What does he want?” Loki didn’t wait for the man to respond – he’d save the wretch that particular misery, and Loki’s misery at having to listen to the bluster of his explanation. He dips to your cheek, drawing his nose down the line of your cheekbone, inhaling against your sweat-damp skin. “I’ll return shortly,” he whispers. And below him, you shiver. A thrill spreads in sharp veins under his flesh. Loki strides past the guard looking at the ceiling while his cheeks flush an alarming shade of scarlet – and the door shuts quickly behind them. Thor stands with his arms folded, one ill-groomed eyebrow rising as he says, “Are the reports true? That your Rite partner is in there?” Loki can’t contain the eye-roll. “If you think I’m so foolish as to compromise myself at the eleventh hour before my ascension to the royal line; then truly there is no hope for you, brother. And she has a name, you know.” Thor’s gaze drops sceptically to his thigh. “What’s that?” He gestures to the glistening slick down one of the leather-clad quad muscles. Norns. “It’s not breaking the rules, I checked.”

With a flick of his fingers, the slick evaporates. And even though he’s sure (almost, sure), Loki rubs his fingertips together. Nothing. He breathes a secret sigh of relief. It would just be like Thor to ruin everything without actually intending to. “Of course you did, Loki. How studious of you.” “Can you spell that?” He snorts. “Besides, your partner was Lady Sif – you had centuries to cultivate the bond. And father and mother were partners…it’s a completely different situation. I must do what I must within the confines of the ceremonial rules.” “And whose fault is that, Loki? You could’ve had your pick of partners had you not rutted through them in a jamboree of wine and carnal gluttony.” Loki’s lip twitches, and he sucks the bottom one between his teeth. “I couldn’t have selected better if I’d had the centuries to spare, actually. Not all of us need hundreds of years to woo someone.”

The bemused crunch of Thor’s brow makes a flutter of satisfaction blossom in his chest. “I assure you, brother – all aspects of the Rite of Successional Pleasure will be fulfilled, I’m sure of it.” Thor's eyes narrow. “She’s been told of the second requirement?” “No, but I believe doing so will make it unnecessarily…challenging. She doesn’t need to know, she only needs to feel.” “You realise her feelings for you must come willingly. Un-influenced by magic?”

Loki glares, spine stiffening. “I shan't need to use my powers to wring pleasure from her body, why should I require it of her heart? Is that so hard to believe?” “In such a short amount of time? Yes, brother. I’ve known you over a millennia, and most days I still don’t care for you.” Loki’s fist flexes at his side as Thor, regrettably, continues. “The Rite is an expression of our benevolence to bestow pleasure on another freely, but it is also a test of our means to win their affections; their loyalty.” “And I will not fail,” he snaps. He and Thor stare at each other, unblinking, until his brother breaks first with a long, whittling sigh. “I hope you’re right, brother,” he says. “And be more careful, it would be unfortunate if you were to be undone by your own…passions, as usual.”

Heat prickles beneath Loki’s skin. “What would you know of my passions? Thor’s cape flutters as he turns, before glancing over his shoulder: ignoring him. “As much as it pains me, choosing Fandral as your partner for the Rite may be the wiser choice…it’s not too late. You know he already harbours those feelings for you – the deep ones the ritual requires. If there is any doubt, brother—”

“—There is no doubt,” Loki lies, fingernails digging in to the soft flesh of his palm. “I still have two moons until the ceremony– wars have been won in less.” He keeps his expression flat as Thor’s eyes soften. “If only love was as simple as war, brother,” he says in one of those rare displays of wisdom that make Loki want to punch him in the face. “She’s not one of us. I would say try not to break her heart, but it’s inevitable, is it not.” It isn’t a question. Loki swallows as his brother’s footsteps fade, glancing back to the golden door. He waves his hand, releasing the enchantment muffling the guard’s ears.

“Get her out of there,” he murmurs. “Escort her, offer my apologies; instruct her to change, and meet me in the gardens at sunrise.” "My prince, she will ask—" "—Sunrise," he snaps. A pain throbs behind his eyes.

The guard nods, and Loki tries to ignore the pulse of his heartbeat in his throat, and the unfamiliar itch of guilt spreading with every echoing thud of his boots around Asgard’s gilded halls.

Next Chapter: Illusion & Truth The Masterlist for The Rite is HERE Comments in tags ❤️ Plz be silly with me 🍰🥳

#the rite🕯️#loki x reader #loki smut #loki x female reader #loki x you #loki x reader smut #loki x you smut #loki x female reader smut #loki imagine #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki #loki marvel #loki x yn

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604to647 · 7 months ago

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Tiny Tim

A The Rockford Portfolio Christmas Special

5.2K/ Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: Tim takes you to the precinct Christmas party.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls). Established relationship, soft!Tim, nicknames as usual (Shutterbug, baby, gorgeous). Semi public sex, fingering, unprotected PiV, thrill of being caught, alcohol consumption (reader is tipsy, but this is a devoted relationship with deep trust, not dubcon). Reader wears a dress. Bad 'A Christmas Carol' jokes.

A/N: This is a holiday love letter to all you lovelies who read The Rockford Portfolio 🥹🥹 Thank you thank you for all the love you’ve shown these two - they are one of my favourites to write, I'm always so encouraged by the sweet response I receive on their stories 🥹 This instalment is probably the only one I’ve written that makes more sense if you’ve read some of the others - there are a few callbacks, little winks for those of you who enjoy their stories 🤭 Thank you thank you again and happy holidays! 🎄

Now available: Fic companion Christmas carol 🎵 Detective, It’s Cold Outside 🎵

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist

Tim watches the scene from across the bar.

It’s like a Renaissance fresco come to life, a modern-day depiction of royal court with you as the monarch at its centre - sitting up high, you’re perched on a barstool looking radiant and gorgeous in a pretty holiday dress that drapes off your curves and cascades over your legs; your feet dangle off the ground, swinging to and fro without a care. You’re surrounded by a crowd of cops who have arranged themselves in a semi-circle with you at their epicentre - those on your left and right stand or sit on their own stools, while the officers in front of you fan across a stretch of tables. Every person is angled towards you like a moth trying to fly closer to their flame, all eyes are trained, adoring and fawning, on your pretty face as you laugh and finish up what you were saying. They hang on your every word, and when you make eye contact or touch your hand to an arm in order to emphasize a point in your story, Tim swears the lucky recipient literally lights up a little.

Tim wonders if he should have told you that you’re kind of a celebrity at the precinct. No, not because he’s yours. Yes, it tickled his colleagues to no end that the gruff grizzly bear detective that was Timothy Rockford had been tamed by your gentle hand; they had seen evidence of his previously thought nonexistent softness and docility whenever you would visit. But he could never claim credit for the esteem in which you were beheld – your renown was all your own.

Even before tonight’s party, there had been a tittering among the various law enforcement departments that you would be in attendance. Those who had only seen you in passing or heard tales of how Detective Rockford’s lady love had provided much direct or indirect assistance to their cases, were eager to meet you. No sooner had the two of you entered the bar where tonight’s party was being held than you were swept out of Tim’s arms to make the acquaintance of what seemed like a never-ending queue of his colleagues. It’s been a while now since Tim lost track of you, sulking solitarily until his partner, Detective Arnold Calloway, came over with a conciliatory beer and pointed to where you’re currently holding court.

The team from Cipher, who had used your Graffiti Alley photos to decrypt the Pie Distribution playbook, are at your feet - ignoring the now lukewarm drinks on their tabletops in favour of trading quippy witticisms with you in between their rounds of raucous laughter at your jokes.

O’Brien and his team who had made up Surveillance Teams Alpha and Bravo the night you obtained information from Buchanan’s girlfriend in the restaurant bathroom that would lead to the apprehension of The Accountant, flank your left. Whenever you tilt your radiant face towards them, they take full advantage - commanding your attention so they can regale you with more detailed stories about the busts and raids that resulted from your intel.

Tech guys that used the meta data from your aquarium photos to track the movements of Grandma Ursula’s henchman, resulting in the retrieval of the missing briefcase that broke open the case, gather to your right – keeping a watchful eye on the cocktail glass you hold in your hand, prepared to replace it with a ready refill at a moment’s notice should you desire.

The head of Financial Crimes and a few of her analysts who run what has affectionately been named “Operation Spring Roll” (per your request), an intricate and far-reaching money laundering investigation kicked off by your keen observations at The Midnight Palace, slip in to occupy the empty seats next to their colleagues in Cipher, bringing appetizers and bowls of bar snacks as offerings.

Every single one of your admirers appears entranced by your charm and the warmth of your bright aura; convinced that you’re the wittiest, most intriguing person in this bar, they loathe to be torn away from your sweet face and the way it’s alight with genuine joy and holiday mirth. Tim is all too familiar with how they feel. He starts to make his way across the bar – individually or collectively, his coworkers have bogarted your attention all night and he’s had enough. He misses you.

Tim barely makes his presence known, arriving and stopping at the periphery of your audience where your eyes find him immediately, as if drawn to him.

Almost impossibly, your entire face lights up even more and you hold your arm out in his direction; with a hypnotic dance of your hand that’s part flirty wave, part sprinkling of fairy dust over your devotees, you beckon him, “Timmy!!!”

He sees a few cops mouth, smirking, “Timmy?!” and Chen from Cipher actually puts her hands together in prayer and says Thank You to a deity above for this gift with which Tim is sure he will be mercilessly teased later. But Tim doesn’t care. No matter how you call, he will always come.

Threading through the maze of chairs and bodies, he reaches you just as you step off the bottom rung of your stool – catching you easily right before you throw your arms around his neck.

“Hi Detective,” you coo, melodic voice a whisper against his lips.

“Hi Shutterbug,” Tim radiates a happiness that you feel as much as you can see - you’re finally back in his arms.

“Timmy. They all want to talk to me about police stuff, and I’m running out of things I know,” your silly tipsy face conveys some unwarranted trepidation, as if there was any chance in hell you could ever disappoint this group of smitten cops.

“You want to know how to make a bunch of cops scatter?” the twinkle of mischief in Tim’s eyes is mirrored back to him in yours as you nod, nuzzling your nose against his in conspiratorial agreement.

He kisses you.

And not in a tempered and chaste way one might expect at a work event, where superiors are in attendance and professionalism might be monitored even while off the clock.

But a full out, no holds barred, deep and passionate kiss that leaves Tim’s colleagues slack-jawed in shock, some even avert their gaze, embarrassed – as if they know they will have to staunchly deny having witnessed this side of their co-worker should they ever be interrogated about its existence. Tim’s mouth opens and wordlessly demands entry – you happily obey your detective’s directive. It’s truly beyond your understanding how anyone (you, these cops, anyone breathing) could ever deny Tim anything - his very being so commanding and reassuring that it only feels natural for you to surrender to him every time. Smoothing your tongue over Tim’s, you let him chase you to the furthest corners of your mouth; sighing when he catches you and licks behind your teeth in victory.

Though most of the onlookers have now left the two of you to your reunion, a few of Tim’s cheekier squad members remain. “Woooooooooooo!” the cheers from the surronding crowd are playful and jovial; there are a couple of whoop, whoops and arm pumps from some of the older detectives who were clearly Arsenio Hall fans.

“Alright, break it up, break it up,” Tim gruffs as you bury yourself into his chest, giggling. The remaining cops swiftly do as Tim says, going off in different directions – to order more drinks, out for a smoke, all eager to spread the lore about Detective Rockford’s kryptonite to their fellow jolly drunks, leaving you and Tim to stare dreamily into each other’s eyes in the middle of the bar.

Now that the two of you have a moment to yourselves, you can once again hear the bar’s music system that’s been blasting Christmas carols all night. Bing Crosby’s White Christmas comes over the speakers and you and Tim, still lost in one another, begin to slow dance – Tim presses his forehead to yours as he holds you close, finally letting himself relax now that his broad frame can once again melt and mold to the softness of your body.

Sighing in contentment, you lift your hands to run your gentle fingers through Tim’s rough facial scruff – a gesture that’s as soothing for him as it for you; it’s been great getting to know Tim’s colleagues and super entertaining listening to their stories and jokes, but this is where you’ll choose to be every time, “This has been so fun, Detective. I don’t know why you don’t like the precinct holiday parties.”

Tim closes his eyes and gives a little snort, “You try being named Tim at Christmas time around a bunch of drunk cops. The ‘Tiny Tim’ references usually start after the third round.”

You giggle, face now impish and eyes dancing with merriment, “Well, they just don’t know what Tiny Tim is capable of.”

Tim growls, grasp tightening around your waist, “…not that tiny.” Squealing, you crash your lips to Tim’s, delighting in your detective’s playful touch that’s now amorously roaming your backside. The two of you, lips never parting, sway over to a darker, less populated area of the bar – leaving Tim’s colleagues to their reveries.

“Ah, well, Detective Rockford, here’s the thing: I know for a fact that there is absolutely nothing tiny about Tiny Tim,” your hand trails down your boyfriend’s hard chest, smoothing over the front of his fancy dress pants to cup his bulge.

Tim jerks sharply to the sensation of your delicate fingers massaging his balls through the fabric; his voice lowers to a rumbled warning, “Shutterbug…”

“Mhhmmm?” you hum cheekily against Detective Rockford’s plush mouth.

“If you keep this up, I’m going to have to arrest myself for public indecency.”

Still drinking in the harmonious ring of your resulting laugh, Tim doesn’t see you subtly look around to see if there are any prying eyes trained on the two of you. When you find none, you hurriedly tug Tim down the hallway that leads to the restrooms; the bar has individual bathrooms instead of gendered ones, and you quickly find one that’s vacant, dragging Tim inside.

Tim looks surprised to find himself in the relatively well-lit bathroom, “Baby, what are…?”

His adorably naïve question is cut off when you push him up against the wall with surprising force from your soft hands. The party has been fun, but you were away from Tim for entirely too much of it.

Though you’re sure it wasn’t by design, nearly every captivating story you heard tonight has heralded your Tim as brave, clever, tough – never backing down in the face of particularly dangerous or puzzling elements of his cases; intimidating scumbag perps that deserved to get a little decency scared into them; displaying incredible feats of intelligence that left his colleagues amazed. Most of these stories you’ve actually heard before, but you learned tonight that Tim’s version often downplayed his own contributions and prowess – seeing your detective through the lens of his fellow law enforcement officers, hearing their accolades and seeing just how clearly they admire and respect your brilliant boyfriend has made you beam with pride.

And warm with arousal. Tim’s competency and humbleness are a one-two punch combination that never fails to turn you on, and by this point of the evening, you’ve heard a lot of stories evidencing both. You can’t wait any longer to have him.

“There, Detective. We’re not in public anymore,” you purr, scraping your kitten claws over the black cashmere of the sweater you gifted him, your hands meet in the middle of Tim’s expansive chest to give his smart, silk tie a sharp and quick tug; your cheeky move has absolutely no effect on the mountainous stance of man before you, and instead tips you into his space. Detective Rockford catches you with little effort, and when you see the smirk he throws your way, you drunkenly chuckle and allow to Tim descend on your lips once more. Sighing, completely enamoured with the handsome man before you, you throw your arms around his thick neck and give yourself over to Tim’s hungry kisses, matching his tongue stroke for stroke - whimpering as he nibbles and tugs on your plush bottom lip.

“Feeling needy, gorgeous?” Tim murmurs against your pout, hands gripping your ass in his heavy palms through the luxurious fabric of the dress that he’s been admiring on you all evening. You lean back and nod, giving him a coquettish, doe-eyed look, “Needed you all night, Timmy. Felt like I haven’t seen you at all, but I love how everyone’s been telling me stories about how brilliant and vital you are. All I’ve wanted to do is show you that I feel the same way.”

“Oh, baby, I’ve missed you too,” groans Tim as you claw your nails down his sweater, pressing hard through to the crisp dress shirt underneath – the way both garments stretched taut across his broad frame has you licking your lips; you start lowering to your knees, eyes already trailing to where Tim’s impressive cock is straining valiantly against his dress pants.

To your surprise, Tim’s hands slip under your arms and lift you back up – you whine at being denied his cock in your mouth, but the sweetness of his expression makes it impossible to be mad, “Don’t want you to get that pretty dress dirty on the floor, gorgeous.” Tim’s thoughtfulness combined with the firm way he maneuvers your body towards the bathroom sink has you positively gushing, any disappointment disappearing.

Standing behind you so that you’re both watching Tim’s bear paw hands snake up your chest, your detective gropes your breasts over the front of your dress and listens as you sigh and whinny; you slump back against your tank of a man, perfectly content to let him have his way with your body.

Still palming full fistfuls of your boobs, Tim’s long fingers reach up to pull down the neckline of your dress so that your tits come spilling out, eager to greet his hands. His mouth finds the sweet spot of your neck that he claimed as his long ago, and you watch him continue to paw and knead your breasts, finding your already peaked nipples with ease. Rolling, pinching, teasing your hardened buds between the rough pads of his fingers, Tim murmurs against your skin, “We gotta be quick and quiet - can you do that for me, Shutterbug?”

You meet the dark gaze of your boyfriend in the mirror and nod feebly; the reminder that you’re at a party full of cops, cops that work day in and day out with the fromidable man behind you who looks like he wants nothing more than to devour you, has you clenching pathetically around nothing.

Nothing escapes the eagle eyes of your detective – he responds to your desperation with a final squeeze of your tits before raking his monster hands, hard and gripping, down your willing body; frantically rucking up the skirt of your dress and bunching the festive fabric above your ass.

The sound of Tim’s belt buckle clicking open has you arching your back, ass wiggling and eyes closing in giddy anticipation.

Smack.

You yelp in delight at the bright sting blooming on your ass cheek from Tim’s open palm. He chuckles as he pulls your lace panties to the side, “Keep your eyes on the mirror, baby.”

The goofily grinning and sassy-eyed you in the mirror chirps, “Yes, Detective!” about to give him a cheeky salute when you’re rendered witless, dissolving into a puddle of lust at the feel of Tim’s thick fingers gliding through your folds.

He doesn’t tease you for long - finding you already wet and willing, Tim easily slides two of his fingers into your sopping hole; he bites down at the base of your neck and you keen as your boyfriend’s long reaching touch grazes your softest, most intimate parts.

Your reflection unravels and whimpers, “Pl-, please, Tim!”

Detective Rockford’s obsidian gaze meets yours in the glass and he acquiesces to the request you can’t quite vocalize with a quickening of his thrusts; the slap, slap, slap of his palm meeting your desire drenched pussy echoes off the walls of the small bar bathroom like the beat of a naughty Christmas carol.

Spurred on by the buzz of tonight’s alcohol and the titillating knowledge that Tim’s colleagues are only a short hallway away on the other side of the bathroom door, and that any or all of them could hear you or even come knocking the next moment, you start to crest shamefully quick. His knowledge of your body’s pleasure so familiar and intimate, Tim recognizes the fluttering of your walls and swiftly adds a third finger. You cry out, one hand flying up to muffle the sound as you press back against your detective’s hard chest; the other Tim cradles in his free paw and slips up your skirt and down the front of your panties, big hand over yours - using your lithe fingers like a quill to scrawl his command to your clit.

“Come for me.” Tim’s baritone growl is the last thing you hear before the air in the room rushes past your ears and you shudder at the silence that seemingly rings; biting down on your own hand, tears spring to your eyes at the sting of pain and the force of the orgasm that hits you.

You barely register as Tim’s fingers slow through your come down, withdrawing and finding their way to his mouth. The you in the mirror hazily watches as he sucks his fingers clean with a wicked grin, winking at you before nibbling playfully at your earlobe, “Taste so sweet, Shutterbug.”

Giggling, you pull your detective’s face down to yours for a tender but desperate kiss, your cunt already feeling empty and needy. Tim returns your affections ten-fold, hands frantically pushing down his pants and boxers, releasing his hard and thrumming cock with a slap against the smooth dip of your lower back. You whine pitifully, shimmying in Tim’s tight hold and pushing back to try and angle his dick down to where you need him; he chuckles darkly in your ear and grumbles, “Brace yourself, baby.” You place both hands firmly on the ledge of the sink counter and exhale shakily when you feel Tim wick the head of his cock through your slick, gripping hard as he firmly pushes in.

Tim’s eyes never leave your lust blown ones in the mirror. He sets a purposeful and delicious rhythm - pulling out nearly all the way so that you pout, letting you yearn for the loss of his stretch for a moment too long before slamming back in with a heavy drive of his hips and bottoming out each time with an aggressive snarl. He does this over and over and over, his punishing pace never wavering; your eyes start to roll and your bottom lip starts to smart from how hard you’re biting down to keep from screaming.

“Maybe we should let them hear, baby.”

“Let everyone in this bar know who you belong to.”

“They kept you all to themselves tonight – need to remind them that you’re mine.”

Tim punctuates each of his possessive words with a particularly harsh thrust, jolting you hard against the counter.

“Tim!” Your arms fly up to wrap behind his neck, and the reflected vision of you being bounced on Detective Tim Rockford’s hard cock with your supple tits tumbling whorishly out of your party dress, sends the both of you rocketing towards a dual high.

“You’re fucking perfect, Shutterbug.”

“No wonder they all want a piece of you.”

“But they can’t have you.”

“You’re mine, baby.”

“Mine.”

“Yours, yours, yours,” your breathy declaration sung to the chorus of your orgasm, Tim comes shortly after to the tight squeeze of your warm walls claiming him as yours.

“I love you, Detective.”

“I love you more, Shutterbug.”

The two of you stay at the party for just one more round of drinks; Tim’s arm never leaves your waist, tucking your body securely against his. As far as he’s concerned, his colleagues have monopolized enough of your time this evening, you’re all his now; you can’t help but enjoy Tim’s harmless display of possessiveness when his fellow officers swarm and try to engage you as they did before.

Perhaps in retaliation, the Tiny Tim jokes start coming in rapid succession:

“Tim, are you feeling tired? Is it hard to stand? Do we to find you a wittle crutch?”

“Isn’t it past Tiny Tim’s bedtime? He’s just a little guy.”

“Leaving already? Bah humbug!”

“Should we be calling Bob Cratchit? Does Tiny Tim need a lift?”

“No, don’t go, Rockford! Who’s going have god bless us, every one??!”

You can’t help but laugh at that last one as you and Tim sweep out of the bar; Tim raising his hand and flipping the bird to his friends without ever looking back.

The December air outside feels crisp and pleasant against your skin, still warm from tonight’s drinks and the crowded party. By some coincidence, the bar is in the same neighbourhood as the restaurant where Tim took you on your third first date, and much like that night, you and Tim opt to take the twenty-or-so minute walk home. Though the fresh air sobers you, you remain cheerful and giddy from tonight’s festivities and a general sense of seasonal merriment – his hand never leaving yours, an amused Tim lets you happily swing your arms as you walk, occasionally giving you a twirl on the sidewalk and smiling widely as you duck under his beefy arm and spin so that the skirt of your dress fans out with a dancer like grace. Chirping cheerfully, you fill Tim in on all the courageous and funny stories his colleagues shared with you tonight and delight in the way his face reddens in embarrassment.

“I’m so lucky, Tim! I get to call the biggest, baddest, smartest detective on the squad as my own. And I also know him to be so sweet, and kind, and funny. I’m truly the luckiest girl in the world,” your words and eyes are genuine, all adoring.

Tim can’t help but grin dopily back. He takes off his tan trench coat to drape over your shoulders and accepts your quick, sweet peck of gratitude before countering, “I’m the lucky one, Shutterbug. It was clear to every single person in the bar tonight that you’re a star, everyone’s dream – and you choose me. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

Your chest swells with affection for your tender-hearted boyfriend – Tim never fails to make you feel cherished, supported and loved, and of course, always so very safe and protected. You’re sure that if the people of the city knew even half of what you know about how deeply Tim cares and takes seriously his charge of their protection, they would all be as in love with him as you are. It’s no wonder that you had felt that initial spark with him when he was just diligently doing his duty all those many moons ago at the aquarium – he had been so earnest and dedicated to the job, you’re convinced you fell in love with him on the spot, “We’re both so lucky that you’re who I ended up interviewing with at the aquarium during the Grandma Ursula case.”

“It wasn’t all luck, Shutterbug,” Tim flashes a shit eating grin.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that day at the aquarium, MacMillan and I were both interviewing potential witnesses. And when we got down to the final few interviews, I bribed him to let me question you.”

You’re absolutely shocked and delighted by this revelation, “Detective Rockford!! You’re diabolical! What did the favour of my company cost you?”

“I had to transcribe all of MacMillan’s interview notes from that day… and for the following month. Plus, he made me drive all the way to a deli across town to pick up his favourite sandwich.”

“Omigod,” you giggle, “And?”

“Hmmm?”

“Was it worth it?”

“The sandwich? I did get myself one - it was pretty delicious.”

You swat playfully at Tim’s chest, “No, silly. Not the sandwich – what you transcribed all those notes for.”

“Absolutely. Changed my life for the better. You're priceless, baby.”

“Oh Tim,” you sigh at your detective’s romantic words. The truth is you’re absolutely gobsmacked that Tim went through all that effort for you when he didn’t even know you; knowing what you do now about Tim’s instinct and how often the success of his cases rest on its sharp edge, it makes your heart sing that he had had a feeling, saw something in you worth pursuing. You tell him as much.

“I’ve been grateful for you since the moment I saw you, Shutterbug,” says Tim sincerely, “When you were in that waiting area, patiently letting the families and field trips go ahead of you, I knew I was in the presence of genuine grace and kindness. I- I don’t run across that very often in my line of work – you’re so special, baby. I was having such a shit day and you were an unexpected beacon of light. I think, selfishly, I couldn’t let you go without basking a little longer in your warmth.”

Tears spring to your eyes so quickly that you have to turn away from Tim to hide how emotional his confession has made you. You had felt such a strong connection to him that day as well – Tim had been so sweet and patient, encouraging in his words for your photography when he had no reason to be; your gratitude had only been compounded when you bore witness to the enthusiasm and commitment Tim held for his policework. And since the day of the Grandma Ursula case verdict, your feelings of admiration and awe for this strong, honourable man have only grown.

You tug Tim along the twinkle lights illuminated path, still unable to look at him while admitting these sentiments, “When we didn’t talk at all during those seven months of the Grandma Ursula case, I thought maybe I had made you up – it didn’t seem possible to have properly gauged the measure of a man so smart, kind, and honourable from just the few times we interacted. But Tim, you exceed even my wildest fantasies with how steadfast, loving, respectful, caring you are to me everyday. You’re the man of my dreams.”

If you were hoping to avoid getting overwhelmed by your feelings, thinking about how much you love your detective and all the reasons you can’t live without him has certainly not been the way to do it. Swimming in your own happiness, you brush away your tears with the sleeve of Tim’s jacket and quicken your pace, your footsteps timed to the thundering beat of your very full heart.

You walk so quickly that your hand slips from Tim’s and in your surprise at the loss of his warm, comforting grip, you turn around – the sight that greets you leaves you stunned. Both hands flying up to cover your mouth, now dropped opened in a placid ‘o’ shape, you’re unable to contain the loud gasp that escapes.

Tim is still where he was when you inadvertently let go of his hand, but now down on one knee – in his upturned palm he holds an open ring box, his rich brown eyes swirling with a storm of deep emotion, love.

You walk the few steps back to Tim in silence, teary eyes crinkling from a smile that you can’t quite hide behind your hands. Your barely concealed joy makes Tim’s heart soar and calms his nerves somewhat.

When you finally stand before him, Timothy Rockford, first line attack dog of the LAPD Detective Squad, scourge of the city’s hardened criminals, and certified grump who hates all holidays and holiday parties, melts in front of the woman he loves. He looks up into the eyes of his personal goddess, the one who makes it safe for him to reveal his soft underbelly, nourishes him and has his back in every way that matters on this mortal plane he had long resigned to walking alone before meeting her, and asks the most important question he’s ever had to pose, inside or outside of an interrogation room.

“Shutterbug, when we met, I couldn’t have fathomed how much better my life was going to get with you in it. You’re the embodiment of all the goodness that for a very long time I was convinced existed in too short supply in this world. But not with you, baby – you’re generous and open, and the sweetness and compassion you extend to me and everyone around you feels never-ending. You give me so much, but the most important is something I didn’t even know I was missing: a home. You’re my home, Shutterbug. A home full of love and softness. I- I never knew that could be in the cards for me, or that anyone like you existed, never mind that you would choose me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but if you allow me, I want to spend the rest of our lives coming home and loving you.”

You’re nodding now, happy tears overflowing.

Tears now rolling down his own face, Tim chokes out, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, yes, Tim! I’ll marry you!!” You cry, launching yourself into Detective Rockford’s arms, practically knocking him and the ring box to the ground.

Wrapping his arms tight around his little slice of heaven, Tim helps you both stand; pulling back only so he can slip the diamond ring that he had so long ago bought and hid in the back of his sock drawer, waiting for the right time (a time that wouldn’t be too soon), on your ring finger. You admire the beauty of this bright flawless thing, an actual physical embodiment of Tim’s love – still in shock that something, someone, could be so exquisite and yours. Thankful and humbled before its, his, grace, you place your hands on both sides of your fiancé’s handsome face as he brings his careful paws up to yours and you meet for a long, perfect kiss.

Still feeling like you’re in a dream, you start heading home - alternating between walking while holding out your left hand and admiring it in a daze, and looking back at Tim’s blinding smile, stopping to kiss him again when you see the look of devotion and awe that he radiates back at you. This continues for several blocks until, giddy and blissful, you suddenly notice the slow licking flames of want that have been keeping you warm on this chilly December walk – immediately, you start pulling Tim towards your shared destination with renewed urgency.

“What’s the hurry, Shutterbug?” laughs Tim.

“Want to get home, Detective,” you giggle, “so I can ride my new fiancé until we both come so loud the neighbours complain."

At this, Tim quickens his pace, long legs taking strong purposeful strides - one for every two of yours; his eagerness and boyish grin making you laugh, “Then tomorrow, after we celebrate some more on every surface of the apartment, I want you to take me to that deli across town and I’m going to buy MacMillan a ‘thank you’ sandwich myself.”

You squeal in laughter as Detective Tim Rockford breaks into a full out jog, practically carrying you, his Shutterbug, love of his life, raison d’etre – fiancé, wife-to-be, the future Mrs. Rockford (Oh, he likes the sound of that!), all the way home.

A/N 2: We time hop a lot in this series, a lot of the stories not necessarily happening in the order they're written/posted and I don't think it matters much - but for those that are wondering, a little note on timing. This story can be considered the most recent in the timeline of Timmy and Shutterbug's relationship; I consider it to take place a good while after Sniffles (when they move in together). Sniffles I imagine to take place 3-4 months after Husband Material, and before the Sleepy Trilogy. I'm not terribly committed to when the others slot in, but I always think of Dance for Me as also taking place when they're already living together.

Thank you again for reading and happy holidays - god (nondenominational) bless you, every one 🥹🥹😘

#tim rockford #tim rockford fic #tim rockford fanfiction #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford x you #tim rockford x f!reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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flowersforthemachines · 3 months ago

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Useless Veilguard fact of the day: Day 74 [Bellara Week edition]

Bellara Week is over now, but more companion-themed events are coming! Visit our blog @datvcompanionweeks for more details💙

If Bellara is in the party while Rook faces the undead in the Crossroads's Converged City (where you fight the Betrayal of Felassan revenant), she will recognise the insignia on their armour.

Bellara: I've seen their armor on old frescoes. They fought for General Rathera. One of Solas's allies. Bellara: And the gods have raised them to stop us.

In addition, if Rook is an elf, they will also recognise the insignia (though only if Bellara is in the party, otherwise they'll only make a general comment).

Rook: The armor on those undead looked familiar… Bellara: The insignia. Those were General Rathera's soldiers. Rook: Right! I remember now. An old ally of the Dread Wolf. And now the gods are raising them to slow us down.

My DAVG Extracted Audio Masterlist

Check out the tag for more useless facts: #useless davg fact of the day!

#dragon age #useless davg fact of the day #dragon age the veilguard #flowers blogs #flowers.txt #bellara lutare #well if it isn't the conses of my queuences #datv audio

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the-lazyyy-artist · 1 month ago

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to be human kunigami rensuke x fem!reader

Summary: Angels could care. They could guard. But to love? To desire more than what they can get? That was the line they were not supposed to cross.

Word count: 5.7k

Tags and themes: angel x human, forbidden love, yearning, angst, marriage and family, character death, loosely based on the movie City of Angels (1998) and the song Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls, Chigiri Hyoma mentioned

Author's note: This is my love letter to all my Kunigami girlies. They may seem quiet, but I know they love Kunigami Rensuke with all their hearts. I've planned, worked, and proofread this for three months, and I am so happy to share with you this beautiful piece I've written and cried over. I know this prompt and idea have been tossed around in all of the pairings and yumeships in Blue Lock, and I'd love to add this to the ever-growing collection of stories. May you fall in love with your guardian angel, Rensuke, as I have while I wrote this, and may you cry like I did days ago as I wrapped this up and proofread it. As always, comments, reblogs, and likes are much appreciated.

photo clipped from "The Creation of Adam," a fresco by Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel

Want more stories? Check out the Blue Lock Masterlist!

@ohagiyoo ✨

They say angels existed before the first breath of creation. They are beings of light woven from obedience and will, tasked with watching, guiding, and never faltering. Each human is born with an assigned guardian, and when the human dies, the angel moves on.

Life after life.

Breath after breath.

No attachment. No deviation.

Kunigami Rensuke had never questioned it.

He stood at the edge of battlefields and the doors of nursery rooms, watching kings die and beggars live, all with the same steady resolve. Life is a cycle and fleeting to him. Besides, mortals blinked in and out of existence like fireflies.

Then there came you.

The moment you breathed in the cold hospital air, he was there, hovering quietly above the fluorescent lights. He watched as your tiny hands flailed around and you cried against your mother’s chest.

Another breath.

Another soul.

Another task.

But something stuck.

It happened when you were three.

You had just learned how to run, full speed, and with no control. Kunigami was familiar with this stage of human life. Toddlers always run carelessly into danger. But this time, he was just out of reach when you tumbled forward on the stairs, your little feet slipping off the edge.

It felt like time stopped.

He quickly dove to catch you, the wind bending around him like a ripple in the air. You hit the bottom of the stairs with a thud… but a cry never came. Kunigami rested your head on the last step, sighing in relief that he was able to save you from what could’ve caused you your last breath.

The next thing he knew, your mother was already rushing towards you, her voice was as frantic as her hands as she felt for bumps and scratches on your body. “Oh, sweet girl,” she cried softly, kissing the top of your head, “you must have a very protective angel.”

She had no idea how right she was.

You grew quiet, observant, and always a little apart. You weren’t lonely. Just… untouched, like a snow-covered branch no one dared to disturb.

Children, though, can be unkind when they don’t understand softness. They called you names, hid your things, and laughed when you flinched. Kunigami expected you to tell someone. You never did. When you cried alone behind the locked bathroom stall, he couldn’t do anything. This isn’t any physical pain that he can help you avoid. This one… He couldn’t stop it for you.

He asked the other older and wiser angels if there was anything more he could do.

“There isn’t,” they told him. “You are only the guide, Rensuke. Not the author.”

He hated that he couldn’t do more.

Then, what seemed impossible happened for the first time in his eternity.

You began noticing him.

At first, you thought it was the glint of light in the corner of your eye, subtly and oddly consistent. You tried to blink it away, thinking it was just the sun.

But it always shows up only when you cry or feel down.

When your voice cracked during a talent show at school, and most of them laughed, it flickered by your side. When you sat alone during lunch or after school, it flickered just above your shoulder, steady and pulsing like a heartbeat. And then one day, you turned your head in its direction at the corner of your room where he stood.

“… Are you real?” you asked. Kunigami replied, but all you saw was the light flickering.

Starting that night, you began a small ritual of saying thank you to your guiding light before you sleep.

Kunigami stood in the shadows of your room, his hands shoved in the pockets of his trench coat. This was the first time he had ever witnessed this. You weren’t the most remarkable human he’d guarded. You weren’t a prodigy or a martyr or a miracle.

But you were kindhearted, strong, and trying.

And out of everyone he had guarded in his lifetime, it was enough to make you the most memorable above all.

You grew older, and the world grew heavier.

Kunigami noticed how your smiles became rarer and your silences even longer. Life didn’t get easier just because you grew into an adult. It demanded more from you. Rent, bills, taxes, deadlines, expectations. You were exhausted beyond explanation, and your quietness was no longer peaceful.

And yet, you still have your guiding light to talk to.

“Rough day,” you grunted as you kicked off your shoes and dropped your bag on the floor. You knew the light was there, you didn’t need to glance up. Kunigami didn’t have to guess if you were talking to him either. “I might quit this job. It’s draining me and I hate it so much!”

Kunigami moved from his corner in your apartment, crossing his arms as he spoke. “Then quit. There’s an opening a few blocks down, and I know you’d like the people there.”

You sighed as you stirred your instant ramen and paused. “I guess I’m just tired,” you said, leaning on the counter. “I don’t want to start over again.” You saw the light flicker softly as if it were its way of comforting you. Kunigami knew it was all he could give you.

Across the room, your black cat, green-eyed and curious, sat on the windowsill with its tail flicking. It stared at the angel with dilated eyes, as if waiting to see what he’d do or say next. Kunigami turned to meet the cat’s wide gaze, and he chuckled. Bending down, he smiled at it. “You can see me, huh? Well, lucky you.”

The cat meowed back at him, loud and sweet. That caught your attention, making you walk towards your feline friend with your instant ramen in hand. You reached out to pet its fur, and it purred softly. “What’s up with you, girly?” you asked it.

Kunigami sighed, seeing how he was so close yet you couldn’t see him. He watched this scene play out every day; how you’d hold yourself together every night, the little reassurances you whisper to yourself before leaving your apartment, surviving each day with cheap coffee and instant ramen. But what never changed is how you’re still thankful to your guiding light, wishing it goodnight before you drift to sleep.

And maybe that’s what’s been changing him lately. Because every day, he'd find himself answering.

“You did well today,” he’d say once again as he watched you get into bed. “I’m proud of you.”

As he watched the tiny furrow on your brow relax and your breathing grew slower, he found himself feeling… something…

Angels weren’t supposed to get attached.

He wasn’t supposed to long for you to hear him.

On some days, you would talk more like you used to, and he’d listen intently, accompanying you in your kitchen as you chopped ingredients for your dinner. You’d talk about what happened at the office, like how your supervisor took credit for something you’ve worked for months, or how you spent your lunch crying in your car again. Kunigami would see how you’d smile through every bad day, but ever so slightly, he’d notice how your lips would shake remembering these events.

When you vented, he’d pace the apartment, racking his mind how to comfort you.

When you cried, he’d stand by your bed, tempted to run his fingers through your hair just to let you know that your guiding light was there.

You cried how lonely it feels to come home to silence every day, even when the quiet was a choice.

“I don’t know if you’re real,” you sobbed, “but talking to you helps a lot. It feels like somehow, someone’s listening to me.”

“I’m real, Y/N,” the angel said, “I’m always listening.”

But then, you couldn’t hear him.

Having you realize he’s there and at the same time questioning whether he’s real was both a joy and a torture to him. He hated it. He hated that all he could do was hover and watch.

There was one good day, though, he realized. It was when you finally decided to apply for a different job and luckily scored a job interview. He has never seen you this happy, jumping and dancing with your cat in your arms.

“I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but it feels so good! I can finally ditch my old job if I get this,” you cheered. Kunigami smiled and moved towards you. “You’re gonna get it. I know you will.” The cat in your arms meowed in agreement, and you laughed. “You think so too, little girl?” you cooed. “Thank you!”

Oh, how Kunigami wanted it to be him you’d thank instead.

He was never supposed to feel something deeper for you.

That was the unspoken truth in every angel’s vow. They could care. They could guard. But to love? To desire more than what they can get?

That was the line they were not supposed to cross.

Yet there he stood, at the corner of your apartment as always, watching you dancing. Badly, he thought, but you looked so happy. Hair tied up, an oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder as you spun in circles with your cat chasing after your feet.

Kunigami had never seen anything as beautiful as this view.

It would be so easy to step into your world. Maybe just for a little while.

The stars didn’t answer, but Heaven… Heaven knew.

Chigiri Hyoma came to him the next morning as Kunigami followed you to your new job. As his silvery wings folded behind him, Chigiri fell into the rhythm of Kunigami’s steps, both unseen by the human eye.

“You’re unraveling, Rensuke,” Chigiri spoke softly as he buried his hands into his pockets. “You speak like a human, and you feel like one.” Kunigami fell silent, his eyes fixed on your figure as you rushed through the crowd. “The Father knows,” Chigiri continued, “and still, you haven’t been recalled. Do you have an idea why?”

Kunigami sighed and then glanced over Chigiri. “Because He wants to see what I’ll choose.”

It happened two days later.

Unfortunately, that day was starting to be an accumulation of all the bad things that could happen: you were running late, you spilled coffee on your shirt before you left, forgot to check the weather, and had no umbrella, either, and you didn’t have enough sleep. But with all of these happening, you felt… numb… no, empty, that it almost scared you.

And then there he was.

No shining light around him, not dressed in his usual trench coat. He was standing there, meeting your eyes with his kind, orange eyes, and… damp from the rain. He held out his umbrella to you, like it was something he was used to doing.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice warm, “I think you need this more than I do.”

You blinked up at him, a little shocked. “Are you sure?”

“A hundred percent,” he smiled. Wow. He looks beautiful.

You stared at him a second longer, then reached for the umbrella. For a moment, your fingers brushed, and something sparked. Just enough to leave you wondering.

“Thank you,” you murmured, a smile now adorning your lips. He smiled back, and it felt familiar. “Name’s Rensuke,” he said.

“Rensuke,” you repeated. It rolled effortlessly on your tongue, like it was a name you knew for years and years. You chuckled, soft and shy, and said, “I’m Y/N. I’m glad I met you.”

You met him again a week later. You see him inside the bookstore you frequent, two blocks from your apartment. It was a messy little place where the books were always unorganized, but it always had something for everybody who walked in.

Rensuke was in the philosophy section, flipping through a dog-eared copy of something Camus wrote. You walked towards him, your heart beating hard.

“Rensuke,” you called as your mind screamed to turn and leave. Yet, when he looked up and smiled, the same calm and grounding smile he gave you that day, you thought you did a great job approaching him.

“Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said casually, like this happened all the time.

You ended up talking a bit, sharing favorite authors, and which stories they like rereading for nostalgia’s sake. You realized Rensuke likes books that make him feel, and he learned you liked books that make you think. Leaving the bookstore with a book he recommended made your cheeks warm, and you felt happier than the days before.

The third time was no longer a coincidence, you thought.

It was raining that day. You found Rensuke on the corner street, taking shelter under a fruit store’s awning. He held his hand out into the rain, as if he were feeling the tiny drops of water falling from the sky. His eyes were warm despite the cold weather.

“Seems like you’re the one who needs saving now,” you called out as you walked towards him. He looked up, surprised, and smiled at you. “You always show up on time,” Rensuke said, and you felt your stomach flip momentarily.

You stared into his orange eyes. They remind you of the sunsets you’d witness from your apartment window, the same hue spilling through the thin curtains as the day ends, warm and loving.

You bit your bottom lip and averted your gaze away from his, and he began to worry for a bit. Then you inhaled and spoke. “Do you… Do you wanna get coffee together? Tea? Anything you’d prefer. I mean, it’s raining and I obviously don’t want-“

“I’d like that.”

You looked up at him again, and his eyes were full of something you couldn't name. Not yet. You broke into a smile and nodded. “Well, get under my umbrella.” Rensuke did, and since he was taller, he took the umbrella and held it up for both of you. When he felt your hand on his arm, his breath hitched. You didn’t catch it, but the sky did.

You picked the small café tucked in the corner of a quiet block. It was mostly empty aside from the barista and the man sitting in the corner with his nose in his novel. You two sat at the quiet and cozy tables at the back of the café.

He took his coffee black, while you put a packet of cream and sugar into yours. You stirred your drink, unsure how to start a conversation.

“So, Rensuke,” you spoke, shyly, “what do you do?”

He smiled, and you noticed the worried glint in his eyes as if he wasn’t sure how to answer your question. “I… work for someone,” Rensuke vaguely replied. “It’s kind of a long-term role.” You raised a brow at his response. “That sounds mysterious.”

He chuckled as he lifted his cup to his lips. You tried hard not to focus on how his lips curled around the cup’s lip as he took a sip. “Yeah,” he spoke, “it’s hard to explain my job without sounding insane, Y/N.”

Your heart fluttered at how your name sounds in his lips, how his voice dipped at the last syllable. “Try me,” you said, composing yourself.

“Well,” he sighed as he sat up in his seat. “Let’s say it’s a job that involves… watching over people. Guiding them, sometimes. Keeping them safe when I can.”

“Sounds noble,” you replied, sipping your drink. “Is your boss nice?”

You saw the flash of hesitation in his eyes and wondered if you hit a nerve. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Rensuke.” He shook his head as he gave a faint smile. “It’s okay. And it really depends on the day,” he said. “He doesn’t do small talk. When He speaks, He’s straightforward about it. Frank. But He’s good.”

“Alright, that’s good enough,” you laughed. “Next question: how old are you?”

He stared at you for a moment, then glanced out the windows, as if counting all the years he’s been existing.

“I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“That sounds like a very elderly answer.”

Rensuke grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”

There was something strange about him. Something quiet and old and wise, but he wasn’t off-putting in any way. If anything, he seems like someone who has seen so much in his life and still chose to smile kindly at strangers.

You didn’t understand it, but you wanted to.

“Enough about me, Y/N,” he spoke, interrupting your thoughts. “I wanna know about you.”

It was late when you invited him in. You really didn’t plan it, but when Rensuke walked you home and lingered in the hallway, making sure you’d get into your unit safely, your voice found the words on its own.

“Do you wanna come inside?”

He stilled and hesitated for a second. Then he nodded.

The apartment looked the same as it always did because he had memorized it. Every book stacked on your coffee table, your favorite yellow mug that your mom gave you when you moved away, sitting beside the sink, and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in every corner of your apartment. This was your sanctuary. And for years, he’d only been here within the shadows, witnessing everything.

Now, you were offering him a seat on the couch, and some tea she quickly made for both of you. He was seeing a rare glimpse of you, quiet and unguarded.

Your cat jumped onto the couch and curled up beside him, which surprised you. “Huh,” you spoke, mildly confused. “She really likes you.” Rensuke chuckled, brushing his fingers over its soft fur. “She’s got good instincts.”

You sat across from him as you pulled your knees over your chest. “I don’t do this often. Let people in, I mean. Not like this.”

He didn’t reply. He just looked at you with eyes that can calm the chaos. Of course, he knew that.

“I guess I just feel like you… You truly listen. You don’t just hear me, you really listen.”

Rensuke nodded wordlessly, his heart stuttering.

You began to share tidbits of your memories from childhood. Of course, he knew those, too. He remembered when you fell off your bike after riding it so fast, and you had to cry silently so no one would hear. The first time your dad wasn’t present on your birthday. The nights you’d curl up under blankets during thunderstorms as you sang a lullaby to calm yourself.

You opened up more about your struggle fitting in as a child, how you didn’t have that many friends as they would all come and go, and the loneliness you felt when you moved out for college, until now.

“I have this friend,” you spoke, laughing a little at how silly the confession would sound. “I know this sounds crazy, but… I’d talk to this light that I see everywhere. I think I noticed it when I was a child, and until now, it’s still around. I thought it was my guiding light or something. But I guess it was one of my ways to cope in life.”

“You weren’t crazy,” he said softly. You looked at him, brows furrowing a bit. “How would you know that?” You asked. Rensuke smiled at you, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just a hunch.”

“What about you? What were you like when you were younger?”

Rensuke looked away. Hesitant.

“That’s hard to answer,” he murmured. “I… don’t remember being young. I think I’ve always been this way ever since.” There was a silence between the two of you, and then you spoke. “That’s a strange thing to say.”

“It is.”

The night grew deeper. The tea got cold. And yet, neither of you moved to end the night.

You didn’t know when it happened or who moved first, but you found yourself sitting beside him now. Your voice grew quieter, slower, like it was a heartbeat rather than a conversation. You didn’t know when the silence began feeling so loud. And when you looked up at him, he was already looking at you.

He stared at you with the softest eyes you have ever seen, like he had known you for so long. But behind those eyes, you can see something in his expression, like a man holding on to the last seconds of something so holy.

And then he kissed you.

Slowly, earnestly, trembling. It felt like you breathed for the first time.

Rensuke rested his hand on your cheek, his thumb gently brushing over your skin like he was trying to memorize how your skin feels on his palm.

You didn’t notice.

But he did.

The shift in the moment of contact.

When you finally said good night, see you again tomorrow…

When you closed the door, smiling through the crack as it gets smaller and smaller…

Chigiri was there. Watching at the end of the hall.

He stood there with his arms folded in front of him, his face still and cold. “So, this is what you’ve chosen, Rensuke.”

Kunigami sighed long and quietly. “Don’t start.”

“You know you crossed the line,” Chigiri said. “He knows.”

“That was not my intention-“

“Yet you did.”

The silence stretched between the angels as the fluorescent light buzzed above them. Suddenly, the atmosphere grew colder.

“She doesn’t know who you are. She only knows you as Rensuke, the human. And yet, you let her fall… Let yourself fall.”

“Hyoma, I’ve seen her suffer alone for years,” Kunigami reasoned, “how she would break and stitch herself back together every day with nothing but hope and grit. And I couldn’t touch her. I couldn’t speak to her or help her. I just… I just watched.”

“And you knew that was your role, Rensuke,” Chigiri replied. “Until you decided it wasn’t enough for you.”

Again, silence.

Then, Chigiri spoke once more.

“The Father doesn’t punish out of cruelty, Rensuke. You know that full well. But He doesn’t turn a blind eye to angels who forget their place.”

Kunigami lowered his gaze as his jaw clenched. He knew what Chigiri meant. He knew what would happen the moment he kissed your lips.

“You have one last chance. A choice.”

For Kunigami, there wasn’t any. But by morning, he returned to what he truly was: your guarding light.

He watched you wake up so giddy, dancing to love songs with your cat, and his heart ached at the thought that at the end of the day, he wouldn’t be there to visit you again. He wouldn’t be on the couch with you and talk to you in a hushed voice. He wouldn’t be able to feel your skin and kiss your lips.

And to see your joy disappear by the hour made him sick.

You sat on the couch, petting your cat absentmindedly. Your eyes were glued to the door, waiting for a knock. Waiting for something, a sign. Anything to make her believe Rensuke was real.

“Was I wrong to let him in?” you asked. Kunigami was sure you were asking him. But…

No flicker. No light.

And the tears that fell from your eyes broke him.

For the first time in all of eternity, it hurt to be so far away.

You realized that the light disappeared, too. You thought it was just on that night, but… The light was gone.

No flicker over your shoulder.

You shrugged it off for a while, but you kept talking around your apartment, hoping it'd flicker in response like it did before.

But days turned to weeks.

And the silence remained.

You stopped talking to the light.

You stopped looking at the corners of your apartment for any sign.

You stopped hoping.

You moved on… or you tried to. But unbeknownst to you, Kunigami remained.

The first man you let into your life after Rensuke was kind, gentle, and a little awkward with his words, but thoughtful in how he always opened your door and drove you to and from your workplace.

Kunigami watched as you looked at him like you were trying to convince yourself that this could be different.

And it was. Because it was human.

And Kunigami, in all his stillness, broke a little more when he watched you fall for this man and smile at him the way you would smile at Rensuke.

You and your partner moved into a much bigger apartment, with big windows that let in a lot of sunlight during the day and crooked walls with peeling paint. You laughed as you two painted the apartment together, the sound echoing inside the room as you made fun of him for wearing quirky overalls.

You placed little plants by the windowsill: basil, rosemary, and a little cactus. All planted in old, chipped mugs.

He kissed you after he dropped you off at work.

You both bought a couch much softer than the one you had before, where you both would fall asleep mid-conversation.

Kunigami watched you and how your smile had finally remained on your face after years of loneliness. He watched you dance in the kitchen with your partner in your pajamas, singing songs off-key, and your cat chasing your feet.

And when you broke the news with joyful tears in your eyes, that you were expecting, Kunigami stood by the door, breathless in a way that angels shouldn’t be. He was seeing you bloom into this wonder, and he was happy.

Your daughter came into the world on a rainy spring morning.

She had his eyes and your lips.

You named her after a royalty in a distant history, hoping she would grow as strong and determined as she was in her time.

But later that night, while you reached over her bassinet to touch her cheek, you whispered something.

Kunigami almost fell to his knees because it had been a long time since you spoken to the light.

“Wherever you are, my guiding light… If you’re still nearby… Thank you. Thank you for keeping me safe and alive long enough to have this.”

Kunigami stayed by your bedside for hours, watching you and your daughter sleep. He relished this moment of peace, as you slept with your lips slightly parted and without a care in the world.

There were homemade birthday cakes.

Tears over scraped knees and sick days.

Storybooks read in ridiculous voices that made your daughter giggle so hard she’d sometimes start coughing.

Then a second child was born. This time, a boy. Jumpy, loud, and always so curious.

Kunigami witnessed as your apartment stretched to make space for more laughter, more exhaustion, and more love.

He stood in the hallway when your partner got on his knee and held a ring in his hand while in the middle of baking. You tearfully said yes as your daughter threw flour around you, and your son clapped from the highchair.

You held a small wedding, intimate and special. You wore a flowy white dress and carried daisies as you walked down the aisle. Kunigami sat at the back of the chapel as he watched you say your vows and seal your union with a kiss.

He stood by the porch as you got busy filling your new house with furniture, smiling softly at how much joy you were feeling. He was nearby when you made meals for your family, stood by you as you taught your kids how to ride their bikes, and had small and quiet dance sessions with your husband every night, under the dim light of your living room once the kids were asleep.

You aged,

He never did.

But he noticed the slowness in your steps, how you’d stretch your back every now and then with a groan. You started wearing reading glasses, and you laughed a little louder now, lighter, like you finally let the weight of life go.

You talked to the light less.

You hummed more.

And your husband, who loved you deeply and devotedly, took his last breath.

Kunigami stood behind you at the funeral home as you looked over your husband’s casket for the last time. You looked smaller, quieter.

When it was time to put him on the ground, Kunigami watched you as you whispered goodbye, and tossed a single white rose before the casket was covered by dirt.

And for the first time in a long time, Kunigami wanted to reach for you, to hold you, just once.

But he didn’t.

Your children grew and had families, and they still visit often.

You watched your grandchildren grow.

You told them stories of your childhood and lessons you learned over the years as you had tea and knitted scarves for Christmas.

You still had the little cactus mug. You’re surprised it was still alive after all those years.

On the night of your birthday, your 84th, after the big celebration your children threw for you, you were left alone again. You sat on your bed as you read the letters your grandchildren wrote for you.

Kunigami read them with you as he sat beside you, watching your smile. You looked so much older.

And then you saw it flicker by your shoulder.

“Are you greeting me a happy birthday, old friend?” You asked.

Kunigami smiled and nodded. “Yes, I am. Happy birthday, Y/N.”

You didn’t hear him, but the pulsing light tells you that it did.

“Thank you for staying by my side, guiding light.”

The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor and the soft hum of chatter down the hallway.

Your children just left. They came to visit every day now, never leaving you alone for long. Sometimes it would just be your daughter and her family, sometimes your son and his family. But it was livelier when everyone was there, talking over each other to keep you company.

Your grandchildren would bring you drawings from school or some of their highly graded homework to cheer you up. You had all their drawings on the wall beside you, the sight of their works comforting you in the hours you were alone.

You smiled for them.

You stayed strong for them.

But in the moments between, when the sun sets and your hands tremble too much to hold a spoon, the silence presses in.

There was a sadness in your chest that even your old age couldn’t explain. Something unfinished. Something… missing.

That night, Heaven moved.

They granted him an opportunity, some grace… just for a moment.

For his faithfulness.

For his steadfastness.

For his obedience.

That night, he came.

As Rensuke.

You felt his presence before the door opened. And then, like a dream, he stepped in. Taller than you remembered, older than he should’ve been. But with eyes just the same.

Your brows arched, amused despite the thinness of your breath.

“You never aged. That’s unfair of you.”

Rensuke smiled and shrugged. “I didn’t have the heart to.”

You laughed weakly, and he moved closer, pulling a chair beside your bed like he belonged there. “How have you been?” You asked, your voice warm and weak. “I’ve been watching. Always had.”

Your eyes lingered on his face as you remembered the first time you met him under the pouring rain. You sighed deeply and realized something. “Do you remember the light I told you about? The one that flickered when I was sad and pulsed when I talked to it? It always felt like it wasn’t just a light, like someone was there.”

Rensuke tilted his head as he kept your gaze. “You always had a sharp intuition, Y/N.”

You scoffed softly as you smiled. “So, it was you.”

He nodded and said, “Yes. I was your guiding light.”

Rensuke moved closer to your bed as he brushed the gray hairs away from your face. “I witnessed your life from the moment you opened your eyes to the moment you close them tonight,” he spoke with reverence and longing. “Every milestone. Every fall. Every joy and heartbreak. You never saw me, but I was there. Well, maybe your cat was the only one who saw me.”

You laughed as you blinked rapidly to stop the tears from falling, but failed.

“I am so proud of you,” Rensuke continued. “You lived your life with kindness and courage, and it was an honor to be the one assigned to you.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for his hand, and he gently took it, bringing it closer to his lips and kissing your knuckles. “But why?” you asked, your voice cracking as tears streamed down your cheeks. “Why did you become human back then?”

Rensuke’s expression softened into something pure and loving.

“Because I wanted to step into your world, just for once. To see you, not just at the corner of your apartment or from the doorways of your home. But to truly see you. To hear you laugh up close. To touch the life I’ve been guarding. And… and to let you know that you weren’t alone, even in just a short moment.”

You shook as you cried, happy that at least this was the closure you needed from Rensuke. To finally know who he really was and to know how he has saved you so many times. To feel reassured, that in the brief moment…

“You loved me, Rensuke,” you whispered through your tears.

“I always did,” he replied. “And I always will.”

You closed your eyes after a few minutes of seeing him, his hand still in yours. He felt your grip loosen in peace, and he felt the air changing.

The machine beeped one tone, alerting the nurses that you had passed. Kunigami stood at the corner of the room as they rushed into your room, attempting to revive you. There was a hush over the room as the nurses realized there was nothing they could do, and Kunigami watched your soul rise from your body, his heart swelling and breaking at once.

And in that moment, he felt it.

He was absolved of his duty. He has finished the job of guiding another beautiful soul through life until death.

Then Heaven moved again.

The delivery room was filled with cries from another new soul, as the nurses and the doctor busied themselves cleaning up the baby.

Unbeknownst to everyone, there stood Kunigami, his eyes soft and shoulders squared, already taking the role of this baby’s guardian. To protect. To witness. To guide.

Just as he had done before.

And so, with your memory etched like the constellations in the fabric of his soul, Kunigami Rensuke began again.

72 notes · View notes

smileysuh · 2 months ago

Text

nct - restaurant au masterlist

Real Talk - Mark Lee

🔮 preview. “You’re Jeno’s roommate, Jeno’s my friend- I know we’ve just met, but I know things about you.” Hyuck explains. “When you were with your last girl, Jeno used to come to the bar and bitch about you never coming out- he’s been wanting you to meet the rest of the boys for a while, but never wanted to invite us over cuz your last girlfriend had some supernatural cootchie-grip hold on you or something- point is, I know you’re a serial monogamist. Two long-term girlfriends. You like the domestic shit, and I get that- but if you want domestic, it’s not our little Miss Sunshine expo girl. She can’t even sleep next to guys she’s fucked- wakes up at five am, and dips out without a word. Trust me on this, dude, you wanna stay far away from that man-eater.”

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, multiple sex scenes, reader has a hard time cumming, oral (f/m receiving), Mark is a MUNCH, deep throating, fingering, masturbation, use of toys/vibrator, dirty talk, praise, Mark is a simp, sex realism, overthinking during sex, mentions of sexual favours in return for affection, a string of bad ex-lovers, breast worship, creampies, aftercare, finger sucking, drunkenness, etc… I pet names: (hers) sunshine. (his) puppy boy.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 19.4k

Comfort Cuisine - Johnny Suh

🔮 preview. You’ve never felt a feral need like this before, but it’s not necessarily the primal type of drive. Instead, it’s a feeling of wanting to be close to this man- who you’ve been next to for so many years, but unable to touch. Except, he’s touching you now, and you want more.

tw/cw. unprotected sex, breast worship/massaging, big dick Johnny, fingering, pussy stretching prep, 'it's finger licking good,' praise, dirty talk, masturbation, multiple reader orgasms, cumming together, creampie, soft sex, longing, fluff, etc… I pet names: (hers) honey.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 10.8k

Fresco - Lee Donghyuck - link coming tomorrow :)

🔮 preview. When you first met Hyuck in the elevator, you’d thought he was nothing more than some fuckboy line chef. But now, you see a deeper side of him. He’s thoughtful and caring, a little chaotic in the best way, but willing to calm down and match your pace. And to top it all off, he’s hot as fuck.

tw/cw. protected sex (for probably the first time ever), gentle/slow build-up sex, oral/pussy eating, slight praise, slight dirty talk, reader hasn’t been fucked in a while, low-key wholesome sex with a reformed fuckboy because you’re now cat co-parents, etc… I pet names: (hers) gorgeous.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.8k

78 notes · View notes

thetravelingtyper · 6 months ago

Text

Beasts of the Deep...Pt 1 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Researcher! Reader ? Au)

In ruins beside the sea, you discover something from another time...

WC: 4.8k

Part 2, Masterlist

Warnings: None

From the Destruction of Leviathan by Gustave Doré (1865)

Sapphire waves crashed listlessly along the jagged cliff. As their consistent roar turned to a sweet hum in your mind you devoted yourself further to your work. Before you laid a dazzling sight. Flecks of mother of pearl, abalone and silver sprinkled the ground of the royal chamber you were in, the flickering of lamplight sending dazzling shimmers all around. The site was remarkably preserved, surprisingly kept even. In dry walls, despite the proximity to the sea, silver cording inlaid flourishing designs. Seals, whales and other sea life swam in the brick, their forms colored in with fresco and mosaic.

You look up from the rubble before you to trace the shine of pottery. Different fish shaped vessels line the room, undisturbed by the many earthquakes that ravaged other sites in the area. You didn't need to open them to tell what was inside. Dried wine, honey, ichors of the gods that once ruled this distant land. You remember your supervisor rumbling about the rich lives of the elites that lived on this island, how cruel they were and the enormous wealth you knew he was hoping to find (that you kept to yourself though, better not to risk his ire).

But while all the others sought the grand prizes of burial mounds and lavish riches, you sought the ecological knowledge of the far past.You pulled your journal out and with a miniature camera took photos of the mosaics, jotting down notes for later. Just as you heard voices approaching from the stairs to the outside you stood up, pulling yourself into a stretch as Matthew entered the chamber.

You turned to meet him as the cover of the tarp opened as sunlight finally streamed into the chamber. You pull a smile to your face as the man finally makes it down the stairs, a smirk on his face that has your mood souring.

“You and the others already took everything of value.” You spit out, riling up at the look in his eyes when he sees the silver in the walls again in the new light.

“Find anything of value left in this stupid hovel?”

“You and Saph are too protective of this site, too bad we can’t strip the walls,” He kicks a boot in the dirt kicking up a fine cloud of debris and dust, “would make up for the losses.”

You cough, your eyes wanting to water, but you wipe them with your bandanna.

“Maybe if you and your goons stopped breaking things we wouldn't be set back so much. Besides it's illegal to deface anything, that includes the walls.”

He just hums, looking you up and down with a strange look in his eyes before turning to head back up the stairs.

“Whatever you say Mole.”

You ruffle up at the nickname, but before you can reply Matthew is marching out, closing the tarp and leaving you in the dim lamplight.

You stand a moment before sighing. Reaching down to the crate at your side you adjust the oil feed and the light bristles with life, a warmth radiation from it that seeps into your downturned spirit. Matthew, while rough, did have a point. The dig needed something to be able to keep going. The small island you were working for was looking for a prize to boost the floundering tourist industry so time was running out.

You stand for a moment in thought, eyes tracing the menagerie of creatures swimming though time around you. You always found yourself drawn to the room, some deep set curiosity swirling in your mind. While your eyes wander there is a different sort of gleam, off set from the pearly white and abalone. Your head tilts as your eyes find rest on an ancient beast.

Stepping closer to examine it you are met with what could only be defined as a monster, swirling around itself in rage, its coils lined not with silver but gold, set apart from the rest of the art in the room. Spellbound you reach a hand to it and upon touching the old brick a jolt of electricity runs through you and you shoot back in surprise.

“What?” Your voice seems muffled but the wide room, the dust itself concealing anything from the outside, to your shock then there is another gleam, one you hadn’t noticed before at the heart of the beast, guarded by raised claws and fins. Your hand reaches for it and the shape comes loose from its crevice.

As your fingers curl around the shape there is a noise like thunder in your mind and warmth in your heart. You feel then like you are being watched, and all at once the world seems to seep out and an old magic flood in. The creatures in the walls become drenched in color as the feeling of water rises until you are floating in a wide sea.

Around you the cries of gulls echo into the wide world and the stars about this dark sea drip their sterling light. Your mind's eye widens as there is then a leviathan, a great dragon emerging from the waves, golden eyes staring into yours. It speaks in an ancient rumble than a mighty clawed hand reaches around you.

Voices again from the outside of the tent and all at once you are human again. You blink, the mist in your mind washing away with lucid waves. You find your palms curled together in front of you, as if reaching to offer something before a great deity. You break from the position, opening your palms and gasping. In your palm is a pendant you have never seen before, insent in a golden scallop shell, with a crackled glaze is a sapphire the size of a half dollar. It is wired in with sturdy gold wire with four, two on each side, pearl beads. The pendant rests heavily in your hand and without thinking you find yourself reaching up and pulling it on in a daze.

Once the pendant is hanging at your sternum you wake in a stupor. You blink luridly, unaware for a moment before your hand darts to the pendant in shock.

“What?’

You question yourself before quickly reaching to take the jewel off but find that once you reach for the clasp they seem to alway slip out of reach. Anytime you try to lift the pendant off a shock jolts your mind painlessly and you drop it back to your chest. You begin to worry but the sound of a voice at the top of the stairs and daylight once again flooding the room has you moving the pendant under your shirt to hide it as Saph comes down the stairs. You kneel down to the wall after one final glance towards the beast only to find it gone.

“Thought I might find you down here, did Matthew bother you too much?”

You look up to the woman and smile, hoping your apprehension doesn’t come through.

“He’s just being himself, a right old dick.”

She snorts at that and approaches you.

“Come on, we're heading back into town for the day, there’s a storm coming in and the museum wants us back early.”

You look up to her at that, working to gather your journal and camera and stuff them into the satchel at your side.

“But it was clear outside only a while ago.”

She nods at that but gestures to the stairs,

“You might want to take a look now.”

You pull yourself up and move to follow her, pulling a tarp over the debris at your feet and putting on your satchel. You give one final look around you and the animals in the wall seem to shine a little brighter as you nod to Saph to head up. She starts up the stairs and you follow, but as you leave the room you swear you feel a set of eyes on you.

In some dark forgotten place, an old force breathes. The sound of chains breaking and a low rumble fills the room. Statues crumble in the movement as a large tail slides into the shadow, but what emerges is not a beast but a man. An exposed chest heaves as he steps from the labyrinth of shadow, a beast of the dark coils around his body and he grunts in pain when the pattern of it inks itself onto him. The gold braces that bound his hands and ankles dissolve then, running down, droplets of gold then dissolving into the cobbled floor.

You make it out of the ruin and find the cleared sky now gathered in stormy clouds. Saph helps you past a tumbled over table and you both watch as Matthew gives orders to a few college students who in turn fumble with equipment, flustered. You shake your head in exasperation before going to help.

They greet you with relieved smiles and you, upon taking a hammer, help to pin the tarps to cover the exposed works. You feel Matthew approach and stiffen before a firm arm is reaching out to grab a board before it knocks into you. He steps around you and lifts the wood before setting it aside. You mutter out a thanks as you finish your task. He just winks at you before turning to the others.

As you and the students stand there is a flash of lightning and a loud crash of thunder that makes one of the students yelp in surprise.

“That’s enough for today go ahead and head home guys!” Your voice rings out over the picking up wind and the students scamper off towards the jeeps in the distance. Matthew looks to you, some shine of concern in his eyes but you mention to Saph.

“I'll ride back with Saph you go ahead we’ll lock down.”

His voice is cut off by a rumble of angry thunder and the clouds threatening to drench you three. He nods curtly and heads off to the jeeps. You see the college students pull out soon followed by him. Saph heads off towards the jeeps but something pulls you to the edge of the cliff, past toppled walls and torsoless statues. A row of them line a path to the cliff face. You step the ancient treaded stone, the click of your own work boots muffled by the winds swelling around you. The world seems to shift then.

As you take the final steps up to the dias, the stones smooth out as if kissed by the rough sea. You feel the sudden urge to take your shoes off to feel the coolness of the stone but ignore it to instead look over the vast ocean. You almost feel like at the summit of history here, the ruins around you lending to the fact this ocean was once owned. But like most beasts, very few could tame the sea.

You rear an arm out to the horizon then, the massive clouds in the distance swirling in the wind, dark and foreboding. There is a rumble then, and a flash of lightning strikes the sea between the scope your parted fingers. The water churns and you swear you see movement under the waves before Saph is calling for you. As your head turns away a form slips beneath the waves.

The ride back into town is calm despite the torrential downpour that falls upon you two just as you close the door. The wipers work overtime as you stare out the window in thought, the sea slowly sinking away to the forest that separates the dig site from the town. She leaves you to your thoughts for a while, at least before the ringing of her phone makes her groan.

“He won’t let up will he.” You smirk at her, a fond smile lighting up on your face as Saph ignores the phone.

“He should know I am busy!”

“He is just a love sick puppy for you. For an engineer he’s quite soft.”

Despite her mock frustration her smile is sweet when you discuss her fiance. The two were together for a long time but he only recently proposed and when she got stationed off of the mainland on the island he had been insistent in calling every day when she got off.

“He probably just saw the weather-” she fishes out her phone and passes it to you, “can you let him know we’re heading back into town before it hits?”

You slide her phone open, past the image of her cat Shadow and type in a quick message, signing off with a smiley face. He pings back only a second later with a hello to you and a best wishes.

You set the phone into the cup holder and his calling ceases as you both laugh.

The rest of the trip into town is quiet, the forest breaking up to the edge of softened civilization. Cattle graze in fields and you catch the occasional deer and seagull mingling in the temperate climate. It was thankfully the ending of summer so the weather was usually even, but sudden storms would still kick up and apparently a large front had decided now it was time to strike.

The leaves in the trees were starting to turn as you both pulled into the research center of the local university, your main base away from the ruins scattered around the island. Saph pulls into the free spot and stops the engine as the rain pours outside.

“Ugh I wish this rain would let up, we're gonna get drenched! It was supposed to be clear this afternoon.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt and prepare for the water but as you crack open your door the rain lets up, slowing to a drizzle, then a sprinkle then nothing at all. Saph raises a brow, and you chuckle.

“Maybe it likes me.”

Saph rolls her eyes as you get under cover of the awning and she follows, the rain then deciding you had passed safely comes down again, at this Saph smiles.

“Maybe.”

The doors slide open and you pass through the students leaving for the day, their waves and smiles warming your heart at the dedication. The weekend had finally arrived and you all could now get a long break before the fall classes began and you lost a few of the students to their courses.

As you make it to the archeology department there is a group of other work study students standing at the entrance to your office. Saph looks to you and you catch Matthew's blond hair over the crowd. He seems to be arguing as there are semi raised voices and you and Saph make it to the outer ring of the crowd. There is another voice that washes over you, and their blue eyes find you over the crowd and yours widen when the pendant feels heavier under your shirt.

Matthew's eyes trace the other man’s eyes towards you and you can see the frown set on his face as he shifts blocking the other man from view with his height. Saph looks to you as the students realize you’ve returned and part to let you both through.

“What's going on Matthew, why are you here?”

The blond turns to look down at, running a hand through his hair, eyes looking too you and Saph.

“I was going to ask you to dinner to discuss team development-” A hand on his shoulder makes him startle as an older man joins the two men, you nod your head in greeting towards the dig supervisor, a man you didn’t quite like.

“There will be no need for that Matthew.” Mr. Wright winks at you and you feel Saph step closer to you.

“Mr. Wright it’s a pleasure!” Matthew is quick to correct himself, an easy smile lighting his face as he shakes his hand. You roll your eyes in your mind and let your eyes wander to the third man as the two make pleasantries. In a smart brown suit is a tall man, hair nicely swept back and a well groomed beard, flecks of grey in the brown. As you meet his face you find his eyes on you, when your eyes meet his eyes he smiles and you swoon. He steps past Matthew, disregarding their conversation to address you.

“Dr. Jonathan Price, professor of history and archeology.”

You nod and smile at his manners and as your hand meets his his other takes it and he squeezes your hand.

You reply with your name and your position. You were the student coordinator for the department, on loan from the mainland after the recent discoveries.

“It’s good to meet you Dr. Price,” His lips quirk up and there is a shine in his eyes. You hear Matthew clear his throat, seemingly irritated. Dr. Price just chuckles, releasing your hand with a final squeeze in his,

“John is fine Love.”

You just nod, taken aback before Mr. Wright draws his hands together with a hum.

“I’m glad you two are already so chummy, from now on you will be working with Dr. Price in the cliff sights around the island. Matthew you will be transferred to the salvage department.”

Matthew turns to him in shock,

“But I thought you needed a new lead for the cliff sites?”

Mr. Wright nods, hand coming to his beard in though, he then claps you on the back,

“Congratulations dear you've been promoted. Dr. Price, I leave her to your care. And now Matthew we need to discuss the findings for this sudden squall that's appeared.”

With that Mr. Wright turns and Matthew gapes after him before realizing himself and after glancing at you he follows the older man. The students chatter with congratulations before there is a ding of the intercom for the school.

As a warning of the oncoming storm we recommend all students, staff, and faculty leave soon before the worst of the weather hits.

“Alright you guys you've heard the intercom, now shoo and have a good break!” You smile at the cheers from the students as most disperse, while a few linger chatting with Dr. Price he discusses details of an essay for his class calmly as you work to unlock your office and opening the door you hear Saph’s phone ring.

“Saph you need to get home, go on and talk to Chris I’ll text you when I get home!” You call out to her over your shoulder as you set your stuff on your desk. She leans into your office, minding the sun catchers that hang from your door frame. Your office is filled with plants and trinkets you’d found that the school let you have.

“Are you sure? You didn't bring your car today, how will you get home?” She moves to step into your office but her phone rings again, no doubt a worried Chris. She silences it another time but you wave her off. You hear the students part ways as thunder rumbles outside, and she frowns.

Dr. Price’s voice resounds from the now empty hall and he steps into view of the doorway. You both turn to him and he approaches and with a nod form you enters your office. Saph looks at him a little caught off guard and unsure but you wave her concern off.

“I can see her home.”

“If you don’t mind of course, I was hoping to discuss some things with you anyway before the weekend hits with work next week.”

“That's fine with me, I stay close to campus anyway. Head home Saph.” Outside the window lightning flashes and the lights flicker a moment.

Saph still seems apprehensive so you smile and round your desk to pat her arm.

“Go on ahead and call Chris.”

She finally gives up at Price’s nod and you sigh in relief as she hugs you and moves to head out.

“Text me when you get home.”

And with that she finally leaves, leaving you and Price in the warm lights of your office. Warm eyes regard you as he watches you gather your things. In his presence the amulet warms and you reach for it subconsciously. You look up to him and meet his eyes and there is electricity in your blood then.

You feel a sense of sincerity from him in a strange way, comfort in some shared secret. You know then he is aware of you. He rounds your desk, approaching you. Your eyes widen at this, uncertainty nibbling at your mind but all he does is open his arms in question.

“You found something today didn’t you dear, something that is more than it seems.”

The utterance of the amulet takes a weight off your shoulder. You reach under your shirt and pull the gem out, it shines with a bright luster. He looks at you inquisitively and you step forward into his reach as he hums. Admiring the amulet. However when he goes to reach for it there is a sudden crash of thunder and lightning that sends the room into darkness. You jump in surprise but Price only chuckles, mumbling something that sounds like “typical” under his breath. His arms return to his sides and the power flutters back to life.

You blink at his expression and finally question him.

“How did you know I found it?”

He answers your question with one of his own,

“How exactly did you find it?”

You look at him apprehensively,

“I don’t exactly know how, one moment there was a great beast lined in gold in the murals on the wall and next it was gone.”

Price nods and then looks at you with new eyes. They soften considerably and you find yourself wanting to turn away from the look but you are captured by the ocean in them. He looks ready to speak but the power flickers again and he sighs.

“That is enough for today, it is already ticking into the evening so I should get you home. Do you mind riding with me?”

He seems older at that moment, and you feel for him. In return you smile and gather your backpack from your chair and nod.

“I would like that thank you.”

“Of course dear.”

He allows you to grab your things, and follows you out of your office, holding then closing your door for you. You pass down the hall in relative silence, the sounds of the rain on the ceiling a soothing rhythm. But when you make it to the front doors of the building the rain ceases for a minute and you look up at the sky in wonder. For your curiosity a single drop falls and hits you square in the nose but nothing else falls. As you blink and then wipe your nose, Price just watches you with a look.

Passing the work jeeps you make it to a sleek car, and while shuffling your things Price steps around and opens the back door for you to set your things in. Doing so he then opens the passenger door and helps you to slide into the car before closing the door and heading to the driver's side. And in a final moment, as the rain begins once again, Price backs out of the spot and pulls away from the college.

As you make it through town you finally reach your apartments, a charming little brick building converted from an old factory into newer apartments. The rain lets up as Price slows then pulls alongside the curb.

“Do you need help with your things?”

“I think I am fine, I appreciate it John.”

“Anytime Dear, here.” He motions for you to stop before he digs in the glove box pulling out a little notebook and pen. He writes something down and tears out the paper before passing it to you. On the paper you find his number scrawled in fine writing.

“Contact me sometime over the weekend and I would like to get coffee to discuss some things about the site, if that is fine with you?”

You flush a little but nod, a smile tugging onto your lips.

With that he watches to make sure you make it into your apartments, only pulling away when you get inside.The cold front sets in as you walk up the stairs to your floor, the sound of rain battering the windows and thunder rumbling over the building as the storm moves overhead. You make it to the third floor with ease. When you get to the top of the stairs you hear some movement up ahead and see quite the sight.

“I will thank you John.”

In the apartment next to you, one that had been empty since you’d moved in, there were two men lifting a sofa in the hall, blocking your passage. The door to the apartment was closing and the taller man cursed, a thick Scottish accent and you, without much thinking, hurry forward to get the door for them. When he realizes what you are doing he smiles and nods to the other man who steps backwards into the apartment.

“You’re a blessing, Love.” The other man finally sees you and his face lights up with a charming smile, English accent thickening his annunciation. You shift aside and they bring the sofa into the apartment.

Looking around there are boxes scattered and some assorted pieces of furniture already in place. There is a blur of black that darts from the kitchen and struts into the living room to investigate the arrival of someone new.

Your heart warms as the men set the sofa down and the Scot drops himself onto it with a huff. You naturally slide your satchel down and kneel down to greet the fluffy black cat that greets you with a loud purr. You scratch under her head and she wiggles. You fall back onto your behind when the cat jumps into your arms.

“Nyx! That’s rude sweetheart.” The other man shakes his head and approaches you to help you up. An arm drops and while cradling Nyx, who stretches her front legs over your shoulder, you take his offered hand and he pulls you up while the Scots head turns, tilting in interest.

The man who helped you up lingers a little close, he offers to take the cat from you and you both try but she just meows in protest. She doesn’t dig her claws in so the man is able to lift her like a sack of potatoes.

“Kyle, we need to introduce ourselves now.”

“Go ahead Johnny, I need to take care of the child. Sorry Love it's her dinnertime, I am Kyle by the way.

The other man, who introduces himself as Johnny, pulls himself up and approaches you with an easy smile on his handsome face. His eyes are electric while he meets Kyle's honey eyes in a shared look. Their eyes turn to the pendant and the same warmth fills your chest. Johnny approaches and you hear the thunder rumble louder in warning but Johnny just smirks.

He takes your hand and brings it to his lips pressing a light kiss that angers the storm.

“Johnny”

Kyle reappears from the kitchen followed by Nyx who ignores her food to come between you and Johnny, nudging her head against your pants as the power flickers.

“What, I gotta greet the lass don’t I?”

“You know how he is.” Kyle mutters it quietly, while Johnny just gives a cheeky grin. Johnny then gestures to the amulet.

“It's pretty on you lass.”

He releases your hand but lingers close to you, enough so you can feel his watch from the shirt he wears. He looks down at you warmly and you feel a tug at your heart when Kyle moves to join you. Nyx looks at him and meows to which he chuckles and looks down to you as well. You warm a little in the cheeks under their scrutiny but your phone ringing breaks the silence.

“That would be my coworker. I need to let her know I am home.”

“Aye lass don’t be a stranger now thanks for the help, we’ll see you home.”

He collects your satchel and you head out the open door followed by them and Nyx who lingers at your feet for attention. When you reach your apartment Johnny laughs.

“We’re lucky then to have you so close.”

You give him a small smile and unlocking your door you bid them both a good night. They wait for you to close your door before Johnny scoops up Nyx turns to kyle,

“So it begins.”

“Indeed.”

End Part One

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bg3daydream · 10 months ago

Text

Frescos and Flowers

Solas x Inquisitor Lavellan Fanfiction.

Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan hadn't expected Solas, the mage who made her heart flutter, to know how to paint frescos, much less the reason why he was doing it. Neither was she expecting that she'd try to sneak flowers into Solas' quarters, hoping to make Skyhold feel more like home...and maybe make him smile.

Notes and tags: Fluff, Solas being frustrating with his push and pull about his feelings for Lavellan, Fade-kisses. I just wanted to write something sweet.

Masterlist of my fics / AO3

Inquisitor Lavellan walked into the rotunda that Solas had claimed as his space, looking for the mage.

The room was empty, but Lavellan's eyes were instantly drawn to a fresco starting to take shape on one of the walls.

The painted wall was a stark contrast to the other, worn-out and bare walls of the room, which was empty except for the desk full of books and papers that Solas had placed in the middle of the rotunda, some old, broken furniture covered with sheets, and a big couch in which the Inquisitor was sure Solas slept in, instead of claiming a bedroom.

The fresco wasn’t there before, the walls had been as bare and run-down as the rest of Skyhold…was Solas painting it? It looked like so, the paint seemed still fresh and there were brushes and bottles of pigment on a small table placed against the wall. It took Lavellan by surprise, she hadn’t seen many frescos, much less met anyone who knew how to paint those, and she hadn’t imagined it was one of Solas’ skills and interests.

She was still observing the new painting when the door opened and Solas walked in, holding another bottle of pigment, which Lavellan imagined was what he’d gone out looking for.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted, surprised to see her standing there, yet polite as always.

Lavellan almost jumped back from the fresco. She didn’t know why she felt like she’d been caught red-handed, it wasn’t like Solas could demand people not to walk in and see his painting, otherwise he should have chosen a spot that wasn’t right under the library were mages worked and under Leliana and her spies’ quarters. There were bound to be people coming and going from time to time…though, probably they knocked, while she’d just walked right in… hopefully Solas didn’t mind?

“I, uh… I was looking for you,” she explained.

“Something in the matter?”

“Nothing bad, Josephine asked me to let you know she wants us to meet to talk about a noble house she thinks we could talk into helping the Inquisition.”

Solas nodded with a hum, heading towards the fresco and placing the bottle of pigment next to the others.

“I didn’t know you painted,” Lavellan said, to which Solas just nodded again, picking up a small piece of wood that he seemed to be using as a palette to mix the color pigments. “I imagined you were all the time here reading, doing research, studying…brooding…” she teased and Solas gave her an amused look over his shoulder. “Yet here I find you, devoting your time to a hobby.”

“We all have our vices, Inquisitor.” The corner of his eyes crinkled in the way they sometimes did when she managed to amuse him, a gesture that Lavellan found adorable and wished to see more often.

“You’re good at it, I like it.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor, your words are appreciated.”

“I have a name, you know…” Lavellan sighed…She didn’t know why it bothered her that he’d call her just ‘Inquisitor’ all the time but it did.

“I know.” There it was again, that twinkle of amusement in Solas’ eyes. “And it's Inquisitor, judging by how people speak about you around here.”

He was joking, she knew it, and yet…yet he was painfully right. Sometimes it seemed as if she herself were disappearing, drowning, swallowed by her new role…everyone called her “Inquisitor” now, or still “Herald of Andraste” despite her protests, not even at Haven had anyone called her by her name…

The amusement was gone from Solas’ eyes, replaced with concern as he noticed the look on her face, that she couldn’t mask. “I'm sorry, lethallan, I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I know.” Lavellan nodded. “Besides you’re right. Inquisitor, that’s my name now…better than Herald of Andraste anyway,” she couldn’t help the bitterness in her last words. “I like it when you call me lethallan, though.”

She smiled at Solas, and when he returned it, she felt dancing twirls in her belly.

“I will do it more often, then.”

His words made the twirls in her stomach dance even more, and Lavellan turned to focus her attention on Solas’ fresco instead of his face, trying to keep the damned butterflies under control.

“So…what will this be?” She asked as she gestured at the fresco.

Solas briefly looked at her and then back at the fresco, his demeanor changing. Despite being an elf and not only a mage but an apostate, dangerous things to be at that time, Solas always seemed confident and self-assured, but it looked now like her question had made him uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Lavellan said tentatively…maybe his art was something personal and private for him. Then, Solas hadn’t chosen the best place to paint, though, people would be seeing it for sure.

“It’s…” Solas began and stopped, looking at the fresco. “It’ll be the Inquisition story, your story.”

“Oh…” Lavellan didn’t know what to say, she had not expected that…was Solas painting what she was doing, for real?

Solas turned to face her then, looking at her with an intensity that took her by surprise.

“People have a tendency to remember things as they want, not as they were…or to forget them, or twist them, turning them into something else, something that suits them, far from the truth. I don’t want that to happen to you, so I wanted to paint your story, your actions.”

Lavellan still didn’t know what to say, it wasn’t what she had expected, at all.

“I…I uh…thank you, Solas…that’s…” She fumbled to find words and gave up. “It’s not only my story, though, it’s all ours.” She gestured around. “I’m not doing this alone, you all are helping me…I know I couldn’t do this on my own.”

“Mmh…I think you don't give yourself the credit you deserve, Inqui-...lethallan.”

His words combined with the way he looked at her, the fresco he was painting and why he was doing it…the dancing twirls in Lavellan’s belly were getting worse and her heart did something funny.

“Sweet talker…” She murmured.

It was the same she’d called him that night at the Fade, when they had talked as they walked what had looked like Haven, before she kissed him and he kissed her back.

The memory of Solas’s lips on hers, his hands and arms firmly holding her close to him while he kissed her with an intensity she hadn't expected, as if he were starved of her… It did nothing to stop the twirls and the beating of her heart, if anything it made the warmth growing in her belly worse.

She wasn’t sure if Solas’ mind went to the same place, but something flashed through his eyes for a second, before he cleared his throat and turned away from her and back to the fresco. Lavellan hoped she hadn’t made him uncomfortable with her unfortunate choice of words.

“I’ll leave you to it, while we still have free time for a change.”

Solas nodded. “Dareth Shiral, lethallan.”

That night, Lavellan was sitting on her new bed, her back against the wall and her knees hugged to her chest, looking around the room. She was still not used to it. It was massive, the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen, seeming excessive for a single person.

She knew she should be grateful that she’d been given such a room, the best at Skyhold, but she couldn’t help her discomfort… It was so big and so empty, it felt cold and foreign.

The whole of Skyhold felt empty, worn-out, and cold, though improvements were being made. Josephine had gotten workers to fix walls, floors, and roofs and they were working swiftly. Some of her people had also managed to make their spots feel lived in, despite having moved in not so long ago.

Josephine had her big and pretty desk near a fireplace, surrounded by bookcases that, just like the ones Cullen had in his space, were somehow already full to the brim of books. Sera had claimed a room at the tavern, filling it with trinkets, cushions, and what-not, and the Iron Bull and his Chargers were making themselves comfortable at the tavern too. Dorian seemed to take great pleasure in complaining about his quarters but he did seem to enjoy decorating it with what he assured were important stuff but looked just like trinkets to the Inquisitor, and with even more books.

Lavellan hadn’t done much to improve her room, though, she didn’t have anything of her own to fill it. Some people had sent gifts, but she’d felt weird about it, and she’d told Josephine to just place the stuff around Skyhold as she pleased.

Josephine had arranged some things in Lavellan's room too, though, trying to make it more homey, she knew it, and she appreciated it even if she still felt odd alone in that room.

Now there was a tapestry hanging on the wall in front of her bed, a fluffy rug, a trunk with clothes, a small desk empty except for quill and paper she hadn’t used yet, and a bookshelf with some books chosen by Josephine. Most books were about history, etiquette, but it amused Lavellan to find a copy of High in Hightown by Varric. It’d be the first book she read as soon as she had time.

Still…she missed her clan’s tents, her own tent, her things, her trinkets…she had thought herself independent, yet there she was, missing she wasn’t even sure what… She missed the wilds, too.

The only thing she’d placed for decoration herself was a vase with some wildflowers she picked in the early morning, during the few moments she could still be alone with herself.

It was a small detail, in such a huge, empty room, but it made it feel different somehow, more like home, even.

Looking around the room again, Lavellan thought on Solas’ rotunda. It was so empty too, so cold, although probably the fresco would make it better. She felt flustered once again at what Solas had said, that he was painting her story, her actions…

Her feelings for him just grew each day, the more time she spent around him.

Solas had told her that their kiss had been a mistake, that it couldn’t be, that it was a bad idea…then he did something like that, talked to her the way he did, and sometimes he looked at her in a way…how was she supposed to stop feeling the way she did? She didn’t understand him, though, sometimes he seemed to flirt, encourage her advances, then push her away, just for the same cycle to start again…

It was maddening and yet she still felt the way she did.

Lavellan wondered what Solas was doing now, alone at his rotunda. Was he asleep and dreaming, wandering the Fade? Was he studying? Painting the fresco? Did he feel out of place in that empty, cold room too? Lavellan doubted it, probably he didn’t, but who knew…

Looking at the flowers again, the only thing that felt homey and like herself in the room, Lavellan got an idea.

Lavellan had waited until Solas left his rotunda, trying to look like she was not spying or up to something, and once he’d left, she’d picked up the vase of flowers that she’d arranged earlier that morning. She hoped that not many people had seen the Inquisitor picking wildflowers outside the walls before the sun was even up.

Vase in hands, she took the longer route to the rotunda, up the walls and through corridors that usually were empty, unlike the main hall and other areas of the fortress, hoping that Solas wasn't back by the time she reached the room.

She carefully checked that the rotunda was empty before walking in and rushing to place the vase with flowers on the desk that Solas had placed against the wall, the one empty of books and papers, unlike his table in the middle of the room.

Once it was done, Lavellan tried not to get distracted by the additions to Solas’ fresco and rushed out the same way she had come in before anyone, or worse, Solas himself, could walk in and catch her.

Not much later, she had a meeting with her advisors and companions, as per usual. What wasn’t usual was Solas arriving a few minutes late. He was frowning and seemed in thought, more than usual, his eyes scanning every one of them as if he suspected one of them was the culprit of the mysterious flowers that had appeared in his quarters, and Lavellan fought the impulse to smile.

His eyes lingered on her a bit too long and Lavellan tried to keep her face neutral and not give herself away. She really should be paying attention to what Cullen was saying, though, not sneaking glances at Solas or thinking of trying to get some more flowers on his rotunda the next morning…

On the next day, Lavellan repeated the same process, sneaking into Solas’ rotunda with a new vase of flowers after making sure he wasn’t in. This time, she placed them on the table at the center of the room.

It seemed Solas had worked on his fresco that night, it was bigger now and with more detail than when Lavellan had gone to see him the evening before. They had talked about it, about Corypheus, about the Fade, all while Lavellan tried not to look at the vase of flowers that still stood untouched on the desk by the wall.

As she was leaving, doubt crept into her mind. Why was she doing this? Solas hadn't complained about the emptiness of the room, he probably didn’t feel like her, he didn’t need flowers…did he even like flowers? He couldn’t hate them if he hadn’t thrown out the ones she’d placed there the day before, right?

Cursing at her suddenly overthinking mind, this time Lavellan didn’t leave, and instead he took some steps up the staircase that led to the library on the next floor. She leaned over to see into the rotunda but tried to stay hidden, waiting for Solas to come back.

She didn’t have to wait long, she’d barely hidden when the door opened and Solas walked in. His eyes went instantly to the new vase of flowers on his table and… he smiled. He actually smiled. Lavellan couldn’t help her own smile at it and her heart began beating funny.

Solas looked up from the flowers and straight to where she was hidden and so Lavellan pulled back, trying to rush up the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible. She tried to ignore the looks of the mages as she walked into the library, she knew she had a silly smile on her face, but she couldn’t help it.

He’d liked the flowers.

It shouldn’t feel so exciting and thrilling, to get a new vase of flowers in Solas’ quarters, but it did. Lavellan’d picked up some more for herself early that morning too.

She looked around the rotunda, pondering where to place the new vase. She knew she should be quick, Solas could come back at any moment…she felt silly at hiding like that, but giddy at the same, and the idea of giving the flowers directly to him made her flustered.

Focus. Judging by the book he’d left still open on his table, next to the vase of flowers, it didn’t seem like he was going to take long. Lavellan noticed that he was using one of the flowers that she’d first gotten him and that was already drying, as a bookmark…her heart did something funny at it.

She saw that he’d also placed one of the fresh flowers on the small table next to the fresco, where he kept his pigments and brushes…the twirls dancing in her belly were unavoidable now. She decided then that she’d place the new vase of flowers there on that small table.

“I knew it was you.”

Lavellan had barely placed the vase when she heard Solas’s voice, and she looked up to find him walking in from the corridor that led up to the library. He’d been waiting there for her just like she’d been waiting for him the day before.

He was smiling, smug yet sweet too, but Lavellan couldn’t stop how flustered she felt. “I…uh…I’m sorry,” she found herself bursting out those words, she didn’t even know why. She was not sorry.

“What…why?” Solas’ smile faltered for a second, replaced with concern, but then he was smiling softly at her again. “Don’t be. Thank you for the flowers, lethallan.”

“Did you like them?” She asked and Solas nodded.

“Of course I did.” His smile was reassuring, making Lavellan smile again. “But why all the secrecy and hiding?

“I don’t know.” Lavellan shrugged. Because it was too flustering to give him the flowers directly, perhaps. She was not going to say that. “But it was fun.” It was, indeed, she’d felt almost giddy sneaking flowers for Solas.

Solas chuckled, looking at her in a way that made her feel dancing twirls in her belly.

“Dorian’s been having fun too, every time he walks down the library he asks me who’s the admirer delivering flowers.” Solas rolled his eyes but he was smiling. “Should I tell him who’s behind the flowers?”

“No!” Lavellan wouldn’t hear the end of it if he did. “Let’s keep up the mystery.” Solas chucked again, his eyes light with amusement.

Admirer, Dorian’d said…as if someone who was besotted with Solas was leaving him the flowers. It was painfully true and yet…did she want Solas to think that? It was embarrassing, especially if he didn’t feel the same, even if sometimes it felt like he did…

“I’ve been picking flowers for my chamber too,” Lavellan said, as if that could make bringing flowers to Solas feel less intimate. “Trying to make this place more homey.”

“Skyhold is your fortress now. It should feel like your home.”

Solas was nodding to her words, but Lavellan wondered if she should have worded it differently. It was Solas who had gotten them there, who told them about that fortress which could be useful in their current predicament.

“It’s a great fortress, we’re lucky to have it,” she rushed to say. “And I’m sure it’ll feel like home in no time. It already does, with Josephine working on it…and well, with all of you here too. It feels more like home having you all around…having you…”

Lavellan trailed over, stopping her river of words and playing with one of the flowers. Was she saying too much? Being too honest? Too intense?

Without a word, Solas picked the flower she’d been playing with and placed it behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her hair for a moment. Lavellan looked at him. How he was looking at her made her breath hitch.

Solas was looking at her as if she were precious, beautiful, something to treasure. As if he, too, felt like her. He was looking at her like he did that night in the Fade, when she’d kissed him and he’d kissed her back in a way that stole her breath away, holding her so close to him she could just cling to him while they kissed, nothing but him on her mind.

She wanted him to kiss her like that again. Needed it, she’d dare to say

He was so close, he barely needed to lean in and they’d be kissing again. Lavellan placed her hands on Solas’ shoulders, gently, and for a second, it seemed like he’d kiss her, but then he pulled away, like he’d done in the Fade.

“Solas, wait, please,” she called after him. She reached for his hand out of instinct, and was surprised when Solas not only let her hold his hand but intertwined their fingers, as if it were instinctual for him too. He was still turned half away from her. “Please, don’t leave…I thought…if I’m imposing…I’m sorry.”

“No…it’s not that.” Solas shook his head.

“What is it, then?”

Solas kept confusing her, she couldn’t understand what was going on, why he kept pulling back, when it felt like he too wanted to be close to her.

“I…I fear I’ll forget myself again.” Solas breathed out.

If that meant to deter her, it had the opposite effect, even if she still didn’t understand this situation between them, his constant pull and push.

“Would that be so bad?”

“Yes…” Solas nodded but he sounded and looked almost sad. “Yes, it would.”

“Solas…if there’s something wrong, you can tell me,” Lavellan told him softly.

“I…I can't…forgive me, Inquisitor.” Solas let go of her hand and turned away from her. “Thank you again for the flowers, I appreciate them.” With that, he walked out of the rotunda through the door that led up to the walls.

Lavellan watched him go, confused and frustrated, but she didn’t call for him or try to follow him, she didn’t want to press it. Part of her didn’t want to overwhelm Solas, while the other part was afraid of how Solas might react if she insisted.

He kept dodging and refusing her advances. Maybe she’d misinterpreted him and he wasn’t interested, but he was too polite to say so. But then, what was the way he looked at her sometimes…or the way he’d kissed her in the Fade, as if he couldn’t get enough of her…Lavellan felt warmer every time she remembered his kisses.

Then why did he keep refusing her…even in the Fade… Why did he keep saying that it couldn’t be, that it was a mistake. Something was going on and it drove her crazy that she couldn’t know what, that he wouldn’t tell her.

She hoped it wasn’t something silly like not wanting to risk staining the Inquisitor's reputation or having people talking about it, because she really didn’t care.

Maybe he wasn’t interested in her that way and he really meant it when he said their kiss in the fade had been a mishap.

The thought was enough to sour Lavellan’s mood for the rest of the day.

Lavellan wasn’t sure what had woken her. She looked around her dark room and found a vase with flowers on her nightstand table. She hadn’t put them there and she didn’t recognize the flowers nor the vase. What was going on?

“Lethallan.”

Solas' voice came from her balcony and she made his silhouette in the darkness. Had he brought her flowers? The idea was sweet but she was too confused to appreciate it. Why in the middle of the night. And how had she not woken up when he walked in, placed the flowers next to her, opened the balcony…did she really sleep so deeply?

“Solas…what’s going on, it’s the middle of the night…” Not that she’d have anything against Solas being in her room at night, in fact, it was not an unwelcoming thought, but still, the situation was…odd.

“Come.”

Lavellan got up from the bed, brows knitted together, and approached the balcony, taking the hand that Solas offered.

Looking out, Skyhold looked different, unspoiled by time.

“We’re in the Fade…” She murmured and Solas nodded. “When is this?”

“I don’t know exactly, but a long time ago…come.” Solas tugged at her hand.

He guided her through an oddly empty Skyhold. Lavellan was sure it should take them longer than it did to walk out of the fortress walls but she tried not to question it, she wasn’t sure how things worked in the Fade.

Soon she found herself in a field of flowers like the ones on the vase at her nightstand table, illuminated by the moon and the stars.

“This is so beautiful,” she said as she looked around, taking everything in. When she looked at Solas, he wasn’t looking at the field but at her. “Thank you for bringing me here.” She smiled at him.

“I knew you’d like it.” A smile tugged at Solas' lips “You were the one barging into my dreams the last time, I thought I might come knocking on yours.”

“I still don’t know how this works but…thanks.”

They walked together through the field of flowers, with Solas still holding her hand, and the butterflies in Lavellan’s belly danced faster, faster… He’d come to her dreams to bring her flowers and to take her to a field full of them, under the moon and stars…

Lavellan stopped walking, turning to face Solas and taking his other hand. He was looking at her in that way again, like she was precious… She wanted to hold him to her, kiss him, but she didn’t want him pulling away again.

This time, it was her who let go of his hands and took a step back. Solas frowned, looking at her like a puppy who’s been denied more cuddles, and Lavellan wondered if she was evil for enjoying it a bit.

She didn’t move far, though, just enough to sit down on the ground among the flowers. “Come.” She reached towards Solas again and he took her hand, sitting down next to her.

Lavellan looked at all the flowers surrounding them, and then up at the stars shining in the dark sky. Her eyes trailed back to Solas, who was looking at her in that way that was going to be her end…

“Do you know how to make flower crowns?” She asked.

“I…” Solas blinked at her as if taken by surprise at her sudden question and Lavellan couldn’t help her smile at it. “I can’t say I do.”

“Then, let’s learn together.”

It took a bit, but eventually, Lavellan was happy enough with the flower crown on her hands.

“There.” Before Solas could react, she reached to place the flower crown on his head. “Pretty.” Solas rolled his eyes but…were his cheeks and ears turning pink? “My, is the wise mage Solas blushing?”

Solas scoffed, clearly flustered, but when Lavellan grinned, Solas smiled too. He took the flower crown and put it on Lavellan’s head. “Now, that is beautiful.”

“Sweet talker, always.” She wanted to kiss him so bad…

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.

“Solas…you said the kiss was an impulsive mistake, that we shouldn’t…that there can’t be anything between you and me,” she began quietly. “But you’ve never told me why...I'm not asking you to tell me right now, but maybe someday, you’ll explain it…just…I just hope you know you can trust me.”

“Inquisitor…” Solas sighed.

Lavellan looked at him, expecting frustration that she was asking again, but he just looked sad in a way that made her want to hold him tight.

"I think…I think you too want to kiss me again,” Lavellan told him and Solas nodded but didn’t move any closer. Lavellan reached to cup his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb when he rested it on her palm, leaning into her touch. “So do it. Do it here, in the Fade, and we can pretend it’s only a dream.”

“No.” Solas moved away from her touch. “No, you know it’s not only a dream. I won’t have you here and pretend it’s nothing when you are awake. It’s unfair to you.”

“You can have me too when we’re awake, you know,” Lavellan told him, arching an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. And I’ll decide what is unfair to me.” Lavellan knew that something was going on, and she wanted Solas to explain to her what, but not right then. She was tired of cryptic excuses and tangents, of this push and pull between them. “So…stop it and just kiss me.”

She knew he wouldn’t do it if she didn’t take the first step, so she reached to cup his cheek again and leaned to kiss his lips.

For all his talk, Solas kissed her back immediately, reaching to hold her and pull her closer to his body as he’d done the first time, and she clung to him as the kiss deepened.

“This is wrong,” Solas said, pulling away, but he didn’t go far, he was still holding her tight to him and he buried his face on her shoulder.

“So you keep saying…” Lavellan murmured, placing a hand on the back of Solas’ head.

Only he could say something like that after kissing her in a way that stole her breath away, and after pulling her so close she was practically sitting on his lap. Lavellan gasped when he kissed the juncture between her shoulder and neck.

“Because it is,” Solas said as his mouth trailed kisses over her neck. Lavellan didn’t care. She didn’t care for his words nor for his contradictions, not right then, not with his mouth on her skin and her body pressed warmth against hers.

“Hush.” If he stopped now, Lavellan felt she might just die right there in the Fade. She moved to sit more securely on his lap and she felt Solas taking a sharp breath against the skin of his neck at it. “It’s a dream.”

“You know it’s not,” Solas said and Lavellan reached to cup his face with both her hands, making him look at her and stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

“Let’s pretend,” she whispered as she leaned to kiss his lips again.

Solas didn’t say anything else, didn’t fight it anymore, giving completely into her, kissing her deeply as he held her tight to him.

Lavellan woke up regretfully when the sun began to come up. No. She didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to stay in that flower field in Solas’ arms forever. But it was gone…

Now that she was awake, she couldn’t help but wonder… had it been real? Had she really been in the fade with Solas? Or had it been just a regular dream? It hadn’t felt like only a dream, but how could she know for sure? How could she be certain?

There was no vase with flowers on her nightstand table and the door of the balcony was closed, but she’d expected it, she knew that had happened in the Fade…or in the dream, if it had been just that. But it hadn’t been just a dream, had it? She really hoped not.

Lavellan spotted something on top of the trunk where she kept her clothes, and a smile spread on her face when she realized what it was.

A flower crown.

She rushed out of the bed to pick it up. It was real, and it was made not with the flowers she’d seen on the Fade but with flowers that could be found outside Skyhold walls, like the ones she’d picked for her room and for Solas. He must have sneaked in to place it there without waking her. Who else would have left her a flower crown and made it with those flowers?

Butterflies danced on her belly as she looked at the crown, carefully twirling it on her hands, a big smile on her face. She intended to wear it the whole day, everywhere.

Lavellan couldn’t wait to see Solas' face.

NA:

If I knew how to draw, I'd draw Solas in a flower crown.

Thanks for taking the time to read this. If you liked it, please let me know in a comment, and as always, reblogs are more than welcome.

Solavellan has taken over my life and mind. I love Solas character, his story, his depth, and I'm in love with his relationship with Lavellan. It's all so beautiful and tragic. I can only wish they'll get a happy ending in DATV.

I'm also incredibly grateful to Solas and Solavellan for giving me the will and imagination to write after so long.

I hope to write more Solavellan, if anyone would be interested in reading it, although writing Solas is incredibly intimidating.

Excuse my English, it’s not my first language.

#solas #solas fanfiction #solavellan #solavellan fanfiction #solas x lavellan #solas x inquisitor #solas x inquisitor lavellan #solas x lavellan fanfiction #solas x inquisitor fanfiction #solas romance

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cybergracie · 2 months ago

Text

the white lotus ⋆ ˚｡⋆ chapter three

✧ the lovers ✧

wc: 9k

pairing: personal assistant!oc x family reunion attendee!hyunjin

synopsis: Gemma Parker has spent years keeping things under control -- her career, her emotions, her impossible boss. But when a work trip takes her to a luxury resort in Italy, she finds herself slipping into a world of salty air, stolen moments, and lingering glances with a boy who sees right through her carefully built walls. Hyunjin is charming, frustrating, and absolutely not a part of her plan -- but as the trip stretches on and their paths keep crossing, Gemma starts to wonder if she's been chasing the wrong dream all along. Because sometimes, the best stories aren't the ones you plan -- they're the ones you never see coming.

warnings: marijuana use, alcohol consumption

a/n: enjoy this next part... things are heating up! ♡

masterlist | dividers by @strangergraphics

I woke up with a smile on my face.

Which was… rare. Unsettling, even.

For half a second, I let myself stay in that softness, eyes still closed, limbs tangled in the sheets, warmth pooling in my chest with the morning sunlight.

And then I remembered why.

Hyunjin.

I groaned into my pillow, immediately mortified at the involuntary moan I had let out the night before, shattering the moment we had found ourselves in waist-deep in the ocean. “Okay,” I muttered to myself, rolling onto my back and slinging an arm across my eyes. “Definitely need to work on my self-control.”

But the images wouldn’t leave. Hyunjin’s grin in the moonlight, his breath against my ear. The smug way he looked at me like he had known all along I’d give in.

I kicked off the sheets and sat up, cheeks already burning.

The bathroom mirror did me no favors. I blinked blearily at my reflection and groaned when I saw the flush still high on my cheeks, pink and undeniably guilty.

Great. Perfect. Love that for me.

I splashed cold water on my face, muttering curses under my breath like that would help erase the memory seared into my skin. “Focus,” I whispered to myself. “You have a job. You are here for Celeste. You are not here to make out with beautiful boys in the ocean.”

…Even if it had been the best kiss of my life.

Nope. Not thinking about that. Never admitting that outloud.

I forced myself to go through the motions – moisturizer, mascara, a quick swipe of lip balm, hair pulled into a low bun because I didn’t have the energy to fight it. Simple. Clean. Professional.

A girl who had her life together. A girl who absolutely hadn’t stripped down and kissed someone until her knees went weak in the middle of the night in salt water.

Totally normal.

I slipped into a linen midi dress – safe, structured, very not flirty – and slung my leather tote over my shoulder, double-checking that I had my laptop, a fresh notebook, pens, and the Q&A notes I’d printed at the front desk the first day. Because today was important. Celeste would be speaking at a historic Italian library, tucked into the heart of the city – arched ceilings, marble floors, frescoes older than the country I was born in – and she’d be answering questions from a curated group of international readers and critics.

Which meant I needed to be alert. On. Prepared for everything from microphone malfunctions to emotional breakdowns to passive-aggressive jabs masked as compliments.

I took one last look in the mirror, my cheeks still flushed, still warm. Still thinking about him.

I pressed my fingers to my temples, exhaling slowly. Focus, Parker. Just make it through the morning.

I hadn’t planned on stopping.

Truly.

But the smell of strong espresso and warm pastries curled out into the morning air of the lobby like an invitation. So I slipped out onto the breakfast terrace, grabbed myself a flaky pistachio croissant and a cappuccino, found a table and set down my tote bag like I actually had nowhere else to be.

I broke off a piece of croissant and reached into my bag, pulling out my personal notebook, the one I always brought but rarely used. The pages were still mostly blank. I’d filled them with snippets and scene fragments, half-hearted musings about flight delays and Celeste quotes and things I probably wouldn’t revisit.

But today… my fingers itched. To write. To capture. To make sense of the way I felt.

I rolled my eyes as I clicked my pen open, muttering under my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Hyunjin’s smug voice played in my head like a taunt. “Just think of it as inspiration.”

I scoffed. But then, I wrote. Nothing polished, nothing I’d ever show anyone, but it was all there.

A girl in the water. A boy with moonlight in his eyes. Fingers brushing skin. The ache of almosts. The danger of wanting something you can’t have.

Too romantic. Too soft. Too much like how I felt.

A blush bloomed across my cheeks before I could stop it. I leaned back, dragging a hand down my face, muttering, “This is not my genre.”

“You looked pretty into it for someone who claims that.”

I froze. The voice was familiar, low and warm and way too pleased with itself.

I looked up, and there he was. Hyunjin. Hair slightly messy, button-up shirt rolled to the elbows, sunglasses perched atop his head, a grin dancing on his lips and an iced americano in his hand.

He slid into the seat across from me without waiting for an invitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

My notebook slapped shut so fast I surprised myself.

He noticed, eyes flicking down before his smirk widened. “Did I catch a live inspiration session?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes.”

“You’re insufferable.”

He took a long sip of his coffee, gaze locked on me. And then he spoke, softer now, less teasing.

“Thanks for showing up last night.”

I blinked. Something in his tone shifted – not just playful now, but real. Quiet. Maybe even shy. I nodded once. “Thanks for waiting.”

His thumb traced the rim of his cup slowly, and then he looked up at me through his lashes. “So, uh. Any chance I can get your number? You know… so I don’t have to spend another two hours spiraling on a beach, thinking I got stood up and that maybe I peaked at twenty-four?”

I choked on my coffee. “That was subtle,” I coughed.

“I panicked,” he admitted, grinning again. “Help me recover?”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. Because even if this wasn’t in my plan, and even if it complicated everything… I wanted more.

So I handed him my phone.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was making a mistake, or giving something away. I felt like I was finally just beginning.

He slid my phone back across the table with a little smirk that made my stomach flutter – completely unfair, by the way – and I glanced down to see what damage he’d done.

The new contact name read:

🌊 Trouble (aka Your Muse)

I let out a soft, involuntary chuckle. And then immediately caught myself, clearing my throat and rolling my eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re welcome.”

He sipped his coffee like he hadn’t just branded himself as the most dangerous kind of inspiration. I slid my phone into my tote and tried very hard not to smile like an idiot.

“Seriously though,” he said, nudging his cup aside. “What’s the plan today? Celeste has that Q&A thing, right?”

I groaned, biting my lip to hide the grin at him remembering. “Yep. Q&A in a historic library with a hundred strangers and a thousand potential crises. Should be a dream.”

He laughed. “Sounds like you’re living the fantasy.”

“Oh, totally. Nothing makes me feel more alive than prepping literary prompts while someone yells at me for bringing the wrong kind of mineral water.”

He winced, sympathy in his expression. “Oof. You’re gonna be late, aren’t you?”

I blinked before checking the time. Then swore under my breath. “Damn it. Yes. I am.”

I started scrambling to gather my things – notebook, coffee, the croissant I hadn’t even finished because he’d shown up and ruined my ability to eat or think or exist like a normal person.

Hyunjin just sat there, watching me with an amused, lopsided smile, like he was enjoying every second of my mini panic. And worse, it wasn’t smug this time. It was… fond. And somehow, that made it ten times harder to function.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and gave him one last look, trying to hold on to whatever version of my sanity was left. And then – on impulse, without thinking – I reached out and squeezed his hand that sat on the table. Quick. Firm. A flash of skin and spark.

His fingers tightened just slightly in return, his brows lifting in surprise, but that little smile was still there, soft and crooked and real.

“I’ll see you later,” I said.

He tilted his head. “You will?”

I met his eyes and, despite the blush creeping up my neck again, nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “I will.”

And then I turned and booked it towards the lobby, my sandals slapping against the floor as I rushed towards the front desk, dodging slow walkers and rogue luggage and every intrusive thought telling me to quit my job and spend the day with him instead.

I reached the front desk just as Celeste breezed in, wearing oversized sunglasses and the energy of someone who either hadn’t slept or had slept far too well.

“There you are, Parker,” she called. “If I’m going to suffer through being asked banal questions by people who pretend they’ve read my work, the least you can do is show up on time.”

“Right,” I muttered, forcing a smile. “Can’t let you suffer alone.”

But even as I fell into step behind her, adjusting the strap of my bag, my thoughts were still back at the table. Still back with Hyunjin. Still playing that look on his face – surprised, soft, a little stunned – over and over again in my mind.

The library, Biblioteca centrale della Regione Siciliana, was almost too perfect. Vaulted ceilings. Gold-leaf moldings. Light filtering through tall arched windows, casting soft patterns across the marble floor like something out of a Renaissance painting. It was the kind of place that made people want to sit up straighter, made everything feel more important.

Which is exactly why Celeste was thriving. She stood near the center of the ornate room, the host already mid-introduction, and every pair of eyes in the crowd was locked on her, reverent and curious.

I, meanwhile, was tucked into the back corner, where I could observe quietly and take notes without being in her direct line of vision.

Also where I could check my phone discreetly. Not that I was going to respond… I just had to change his contact name before I was caught blushing at my screen every time it buzzed.

But Hyunjin, of course, had decided that now – mid-literary event – was the perfect time to be a menace.

Hyunjin: Try not to think about me too much while Celeste is talking about her deeply important inspiration sources 😌

Hyunjin: (But if you do… that’s okay too)

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

Gemma: I am at work.

Gemma: I will not be engaging with your nonsense.

Gemma: Go bother the sea turtles.

Hyunjin: They said you were cuter.

I let out a tiny breath through my nose, thumb hovering over a reply – then rolled my eyes and muted my phone entirely, slipping my phone back into my bag before I completely lost focus. I didn’t have time to be flustered.

The host finished their glowing introduction, and Celeste took the microphone like she'd been born under a spotlight. “Thank you,” she purred, her voice velvet-smooth, “and thank you to this incredible venue. Honestly, if all libraries had architecture like this, maybe we’d see better book sales in the States.”

Laughter. Of course.

Celeste beamed, and I watched her slip effortlessly into performance mode. She answered the first few questions with practiced elegance – quoting herself, referencing obscure literature she hadn’t touched in years, throwing out names of artists and philosophers like she had dinner with them weekly. The audience was eating it up, and she was practically glowing. The kind of radiant that only came when people were admiring her out loud.

I scribbled a few lines in my notes, mostly timestamped reminders for myself. Nothing was going wrong, which meant I could breathe.

And then, a man stood from the middle row. He looked vaguely familiar – late forties, sharp features softened by a warm tan, tailored blazer over a linen shirt. He smiled politely as he took the mic from the usher, his eyes resting on Celeste a beat longer than most.

“Ms. Laurent,” he began, “your prose is undeniably lyrical. But I’m curious – how much credit do you feel your publisher and editorial team deserve in shaping your latest novel?”

Celeste tilted her head slightly, a calculated smile on her lips, but I caught the shift in her expression.

That wasn’t a standard question. It wasn’t hostile, exactly, but it was pointed.

I sat up a little straighter in my seat. My eyes flicked back to the man. There was something about him – the voice? The eyes? I couldn’t place it. Had I seen him on a panel before? A publishing contact? Someone Celeste had once fired over text? (That list was long.)

He thanked her after she answered – gracefully, if a little too quickly – and then sat back down, but I kept my eyes on him for a moment longer, trying to pull a name, a place from the fog in my brain.

Nothing. But my instincts buzzed.

Something about that moment had shifted the tone just slightly. Not enough for the room to notice, but enough for me to know that something under the surface had just been prodded.

Celeste didn’t let it rattle her. She jumped right into a reading from her newest book, sliding back into her performance voice, all slow syllables and seductive rhythm. And I went back to my notes.

But in the back of my mind, two thoughts lingered like background noise. Who was that man? And what exactly did he want to stir up?

The walk back from the library was quiet in a pleasant, sun-warmed and satisfied kind of way. Celeste was practically floating, her oversized sunglasses pushed up into her curls, a hand fluttering animatedly as she gushed about how well the event had gone.

“Did you hear that woman from the Paris Review?” she said, her heels clicking against the cobblestones as we neared the turn for the resort. “She called my language hypnotic. Hypnotic, Parker. That’s practically a blessing from the literary gods.”

“You were very… poetic today,” I said, smirking just a little.

Celeste nudged me with her elbow, which nearly knocked me off balance. She was a little buzzed, not messy, but her voice, her posture was looser, her compliments more frequent. “Don’t play modest. I saw you scribbling back there like your life depended on it. I know you’re proud.”

“Proud is a strong word,” I teased.

She laughed, the sound unusually light, like we were friends or something. And for a moment, one fleeting moment, I let myself enjoy it.

These moments, rare as they were, always threw me off. These times where she wasn’t cold or cutting, where she made me feel like more than an accessory. Where we walked side by side, not boss and assistant, but two women sharing space under the same warm sky.

“Hey,” I said casually as we neared the resort’s gate. “That guy who asked about your publisher – did you know him?”

Celeste barely blinked. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“He seemed… familiar.”

She shrugged. “Sounded like a standard industry question to me. People love to pretend I’m difficult to work with.”

I didn’t say anything to that. Instead, I chuckled, because shockingly, the tension between us from last night was completely gone. No passive-aggressive digs, no demands, no veiled insults. Just… normalcy. And I was grateful for that.

For a second.

Until we turned the corner and I saw them, the same group of men from the first night we arrived, posted up near the patio bar, laughing too loudly, all polo shirts and expensive cologne.

Celeste’s eyes lit up like a crystal chandelier. “Oh, yes,” she whispered, delighted, reaching for her lipstick as she slowed her pace.

And then, without any warning, she shoved her bag at me. “Take this up to my room, will you?” she said breezily, already halfway unbuttoning her blazer as she adjusted her posture.

I blinked, furrowing my brow. “Seriously?”

She waved a hand over her shoulder, not even looking at me. “Relax. I’m giving you the night off, Parker. No need to be bitter about it.”

I stood there, Celeste’s designer tote digging into my shoulder, watching as she glided toward them, already laughing at something one of them said, already turning on that liquid charm that people swore was effortless but I knew better.

And just like that, the warmth from our walk back evaporated.

I exhaled sharply, dragging my feet toward the elevator. I didn’t say a word, didn’t stomp, didn’t roll my eyes, but god, did I stew.

Because just when she gave me the smallest glimpse of softness, she went and reminded me exactly who she was. And exactly where I stood.

Her suite was quiet, still and perfectly curated, like a showroom version of a person – silk scarves draped artfully over chairs, half-empty wine glasses that somehow looked intentional. I let myself in with her keycard and shut the door behind me with more force than necessary.

It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Drop the bag and leave. Maybe text Hyunjin a snarky postmortem about Celeste’s performance.

But when I went to put the bag in her closet – because god forbid her things weren’t ‘properly placed’ – I spotted a small, matte black travel pouch, half-zipped and tucked behind a row of wedges she hadn’t worn once on this trip.

I wasn’t trying to snoop, truly. But when I bumped it accidentally and it spilled slightly open, curiosity got the better of me. Inside, there was a neat row of pre-rolled joints, each in their own little glass tubes. A stash that would make even the most committed stoner cry.

I blinked. And then blinked again.

Celeste didn’t smoke. At least not this. She was a red wine and judgement kind of woman, not an ‘unwind with an edible and watch documentaries about planetary rotation’ type. Which meant these were probably for someone else. Or for show. Or –

My fingers brushed over the soft velvet lining of the pouch. Two wouldn’t be missed. Three tops.

Don’t do it, Parker. This is a bad idea.

But another voice, far more persuasive, whispered:

Hyunjin. Hot tub. Wine. And weed.

When are you ever going to be here again?

Before I could think too much about it, I grabbed three pre-rolls and slipped them into the zippered interior pocket of my own tote. They nestled in next to my notebook like they were mine all along.

I zipped up the stash, closed the closet, and exited the suite with an ease I absolutely did not feel.

The door clicked softly behind me, and I stood in the hall for a beat, my heart thudding just a little faster than necessary.

Then I pulled out my phone.

Gemma: Meet me at the hot tub tonight. Bring something to drink.

I hit send before I could chicken out.

And then I turned on my heel, walking fast and light back to my room – half-giddy, half-panicked, and fully aware that I had just made a decision that was going to turn the night into something unforgettable.

Or unforgivable.

Maybe both.

Back in my room, time passed in a soft blur of words and daydreams. I was curled on the little balcony loveseat, hair still up from the Q&A, oversized tee slipping off one shoulder, laptop balanced across my thighs. My notebook sat open beside me, scribbled full of fresh fragments I hadn’t been able to ignore since last night.

I wasn’t writing anything in particular – just following the thread. A girl who was learning how to let go. A boy who kissed like the sea, steady and crashing all at once. A night too sweet to be real.

It didn’t sound like me, not exactly. But it felt like me. Like I’d been holding my breath for too long, and now all the air was coming out in sentences.

I was mid-paragraph, chewing the edge of my thumb and typing with one hand, when my phone buzzed sharply on the railing beside me with an alarm. I blinked at it, confused for half a second, then sat up so fast I nearly dropped the laptop.

Hot tub. Hyunjin. Tonight.

I’d set the alarm hours ago so I wouldn’t be late again, and now here it was – mocking me in real time.

The butterflies hit instantly. I closed my laptop, shoved it to the side, and padded inside barefoot, pulling open the wardrobe where I had stashed the bikini I brought and had no intention of actually wearing on this trip.

Until now.

It was simple, black, high-waisted, a dainty scalloped trim with a twist in the top, and it still somehow felt scandalous. I pulled it on piece by piece, feeling the nerves gather in my throat like carbonation.

As I fastened the top and stepped in front of the mirror, I caught my own reflection – bare, flushed, blinking at herself like she wasn’t entirely sure who she was looking at. Not the assistant, or the girl on the sidelines, but someone who was about to go meet a man who made her knees weak just by saying her name with a bag full of stolen weed and a craving for inspiration.

I laughed out loud, biting my lip as I thought about last night again. “We really got into the ocean in our underwear,” I muttered to no one, cheeks warming again. This time, I didn’t hide it, didn’t roll my eyes. I just let myself blush.

I reached for a loose cover-up and slipped it over my shoulders, grabbing my tote, double-checking the three joints were still in the inner pocket, and then paused with my hand on the doorknob.

But then something tugged at me. A need to ground myself before whatever this night became.

I turned back into the room and sifted my phone out of my bag, thumb hovering over my favorites until I landed on the one I always called first.

“Gemmy! I was just lighting some incense. You must have felt me.”

I smiled, curling one leg beneath me as I sat on the edge of the bed. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, baby. You sound… flustered.”

Sharp as ever. It was both comforting and mildly annoying how quickly she could read me through a single hello.

“I’m fine,” I lied, already wincing.

“Liar,” she said, sing-song, and I could hear the faint flick of her lighter in the background. “Talk. What’s going on? Celeste didn’t have a breakdown, did she?”

“No breakdowns,” I said. “The Q&A today actually went well. She was… tolerable, even. For about twenty minutes.”

“Impressive. But that’s not what this is about.”

I hesitated, then exhaled. “It’s Hyunjin. The guy I told you about.”

There was a pause – just long enough to make me wonder if the call had dropped – before she let out a pleased hum.

“Ah. That explains the energy I felt earlier. You’ve got that swirl around you, Gemma.”

“What swirl?”

“That tangled-up, heart-racing, fate-stepping-in kind of energy. It’s delicious.”

I groaned into my palm, even as my stomach fluttered. “Please don’t make this a thing.”

“Too late, I already love him.”

“Mom.”

“Tell me everything.”

So I did. Not all the details – god, no – but enough. The beach, the red flashlight. The tour. The kiss, the tension. How he made me laugh, how I’ve never let myself feel this open with someone so quickly. How I wasn’t sure what I was doing, only that I couldn’t seem to stop.

She listened in silence, a soft background hum of wind chimes and her lighter flicking dancing on the line. I could almost smell her incense.

“Do you like him?” she asked, gently.

“Too much.”

“And does he like you?”

I hesitated before saying, “It feels like he does. I mean, I think he does. But I also don’t want to get in my head about it.”

There was a rustle on the other end. “Hang on,” she said. “Let me pull a card.”

I could hear her shuffle her tarot deck, the cards whispering against each other like silk.

A beat of silence. And then…

“The Lovers.”

My breath caught. “Mom.”

“I swear. Straight jumper. Flew out of the deck like it had something to say.”

I stared at the wall for a second, every hair on my arms rising. “That doesn’t mean it’s, like… him him, right?”

“Not necessarily,” she said, her voice soft now. “But it does mean you’re at a crossroads. And that this connection is real. Whatever it turns into, you’re supposed to run with it. You’re supposed to feel it.”

My throat tightened it. “So I’m not crazy?”

“No,” she said warmly. “You’re enchanted.”

I laughed, half-choking. “That sounds worse somehow.”

“It’s wonderful, baby. It means you’re alive.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Go let yourself have a moment, Gemma. A beautiful one. And remember – if you’re feeling that pull, he is too.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Unless the Lovers turns into the Tower. Then I expect a full update.”

I hung up with a smile, heart full, fear softened into something quieter. Something closer to confidence.

I stood up, adjusted my cover-up, and grabbed my tote. It was time. Time to indulge, to follow the pull. Time to meet this boy under the stars and see where this moment wanted to take me.

I got there first.

A miracle, really. Nor just being on time, but early.

The path to the spa deck wound around the back of the resort, and I made my way past the well-lit jacuzzis, past the chatty couples and half-drunk honeymooners, until I found the one tucked furthest away from the others, half-shadowed by tall hedges and lit only by a low garden lantern and the stars beginning to pierce the darkening sky.

Private. Quiet. Perfect.

My heart was thrumming in my chest, and my fingers trembled just slightly as I laid out my towel on one of the nearby lounders and set my tote down beside it. Then, with a soft sigh and a silent prayer to every star in the sky, I slipped off my cover-up and stepped into the water.

The heat hit instantly. My muscles relaxed, nerves slowly unraveled, and the tension in my shoulders eased like butter on warm bread. I sank lower, arms resting on the edge, eyes tilted skyward. The sky was deep navy, stars emerging in twos and threes, another full moon already climbing.

I took a long breath in. Held it. Then exhaled. And I let go.

Of Celeste, of logistics, of fear.

And then –

“Look who beat me here.”

His voice. Low. Pleased. Infuriatingly smug.

I looked over and there he was. Hyunjin, wearing a tight black tank top and linen pants low on his hips, hair tousled like he’d just run his hand through it. He had a small canvas bag slung over one shoulder, and he was carrying… two bottles of champagne. And two glasses.

Oh, god.

“You brought champagne?” I asked, biting my cheek, the corners of my mouth threatening to betray me.

“Correction,” he said, stepping up onto the stone edge beside me. “I brought expensive champagne. Because you’re worth it, and also because I panicked in front of the minibar guy and now I’m slightly over budget for the month.”

I laughed, shaking my head, heat blooming beneath my cheeks again, this time from something deeper than steam.

Hyunjin set the glasses down and started opening one of the bottles with theatrical care, but I beat him to the punch.

Still smiling, still pink-faced, I lifted myself out of the water and sat on the ledge, then reached into my tote. “I brought something too.” I pulled out the three joints, held in their sleek little glass vials, the golden tips catching the low light.

His eyes widened. “Gemma Parker,” he said slowly, grinning like I’d just revealed a hidden tattoo, “what have you done?”

I raised a brow, sitting up straighter, one leg still dangling in the bubbling water, the other curled beneath me. “Let’s call it borrowed inspiration.”

He whistled low, clearly impressed. “You’re so much cooler than I thought.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I murmured, taking one of the vials and handing it to him as he passed me a freshly poured glass of champagne.

Our fingers brushed, and the air thickened, just slightly.

I swirled the champagne in my glass, letting the rim tap lightly against my lip as I watched him sit on the edge of one of the lounge chairs with a smirk. “So,” I said, eyeing his still-clothed frame, “did you bring actual swim trunks to this very ocean-adjacent resort, or is going for a dip in your underwear just your signature move?”

Hyunjin laughed, a warm, chest-deep sound that felt like it rippled through the steam curling between us. “I wasn’t sure what kind of night this would be,” he said, his eyes glinting, “but for the record, I do have swim trunks on. Under my pants. Just in case someone decided to show up with stolen joints and high expectations.”

I snorted into my glass. “Cute.”

He waggled his eyebrows at the pun, and I rolled my eyes – but couldn’t stop smiling.

“Well?” I nodded toward the water, where the steam billowed like breath. “Get in already. It’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Last night, you convinced me to get in. Now I get to peer-pressure you.” I leaned in conspiratorially, dropping my voice. “You’re not scared, are you?”

He squinted playfully. “You’re very dangerous when you’re smug.”

“Only mildly.”

Hyunjin stood with a little sigh, dramatically slow, as if changing into swim mode required a personal sacrifice. Without breaking eye contact, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pushed them down.

I took a sip of champagne. A very long sip. Because, yeah, the man was wearing swim trunks. But they were black and low-slung, clinging just enough to remind me exactly how close we’d been the night before.

And then, he pulled his shirt off. Just lifted it over his head and dropped it behind him like it was an inconvenience.

I blinked twice, followed by a slow, involuntary gulp. I wasn’t proud. But I was only human.

His skin was golden from the sun, his frame lean and strong, just the kind of not fair that made me consider rewriting my entire list of personal weaknesses and replacing it with the mole winking at me from just beside his navel.

He stepped into the hot tub with a hiss and a grin, settling across from me like he hadn’t just casually short-circuited my central nervous system.

“Tables have turned, huh?” he said, sliding into the water until it lapped at his chest.

“Mm,” I managed, trying not to stare. “How’s it feel being the one seduced by hot water and peer pressure?”

“Honestly? Incredible.” He reached for the glass tube, sliding the joint out and handing it to me. “Ladies first.”

The sky above us had deepened into full indigo, the stars sharper now, the moon glowing like it knew everything was about to change.

I nodded and pulled a lighter from my tote, holding the joint to my lips and sparking the tip. Hyunjin leaned back against the tiled edge, arms sprawled lazily, head tilted to the side like he was already drunk on the moment alone. The scent of marijuana and sparkling wine curled into the steam, mixing the air into something much more intoxicating than the vices between us.

I took a slow inhale, leaned my head back, and exhaled toward the stars. I let go of everything, relaxing my shoulders as I slipped deeper into the water. Because this little corner of the night, the hot water and sweet smoke and the boy across from me with a smug smirk and starlight in his hair –

It all felt like the kind of thing I’d remember for the rest of my life.

We passed the joint between us, fingers brushing every time with a little crackle of tension. Hyunjin’s smile was lazy now, lips glistening from sweat and champagne, eyes glazed with that particular softness that only came from being just the right amount of high.

“Okay,” he said, pointing at me with the joint before taking another hit. “Craziest Celeste story. Go.”

I groaned. “You have to be more specific. She’s built her entire brand on drama.”

“Exactly. So give me the worst. The most unhinged. The most ‘Gemma, take care of this before the media finds out.’”

I laughed into my glass. “Alright. One time, she staged a breakup in a Paris cafe… with a man she wasn’t actually dating.”

He choked on smoke. “What?”

“He was a critic who’d given her a lukewarm review three years earlier. She recognized him, invited him for espresso under the guise of forgiveness, then performed an elaborate, fake emotional breakdown. In French.”

Hyunjin looked absolutely delighted. “Did she cry?”

“Tears, smeared mascara, a glass of red wine that she poured over her own shoe. The whole thing. I had to tip the waiter a hundred euros just to apologize for existing.”

He cackled, head tipping back against the tiled edge. “That’s actually art. I respect it.”

“You would.”

“Now you have to hear about my cousin Chan getting banned from a karaoke bar in Seoul.”

And so it went.

Stories flowed just like the champagne, warm, fizzy, a little messy. Everything was tinged in giggles and laughter and the glow of shared chaos.

He told me about his grandmother who could out-dance the teenagers at family gatherings, the cousin who swore he saw a UFO, the time they all got locked out of their rental home and had to climb a second-story balcony in swimwear.

Somewhere between the second joint and the third glass, my cheeks hurt from smiling. The kind of smiling you only do when your defenses are gone and you’ve forgotten how much you usually hold back.

And then – without thinking, just floating – I started talking about my mom.

“She’s big into spiritual stuff,” I said, tracing a ripple in the water with my fingertips. “Tarot, astrology, lunar phases. She used to run this little aura reading booth at the farmers market. Had twinkle lights strung up and everything.”

Hyunjin’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Wait, really? That’s so cool.”

“It’s… a lot,” I admitted, laughing softly. “But it’s also kind of magic. Like, I called her today and she immediately knew something was going on. She pulled a tarot card mid-call and said it was The Lovers.”

His brows lifted. “Okay, that’s spooky.”

“Right?”

“What does that mean? Lovers – like actual lovers?”

“Not always,” I said, warming to the explanation. “Sometimes it’s about choices. Alignments. Feeling pulled in a direction you didn’t expect but can’t ignore. But yeah. It’s also about romance. Connection.”

He was watching me closely now, something unreadable flickering across his face. “And she pulled that for you?”

I nodded, suddenly aware of how close we were sitting. Our knees had been brushing off and on all night, but now the space between us felt almost nonexistent.

“She told me… if I’m feeling that kind of pull, there’s a reason.”

The steam curled around us. The stars shimmered just a little brighter.

Hyunjin leaned in, elbows resting on his knees, voice quieter now. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Feeling it.”

My breath caught. I didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, his skin glowing from the heat, his eyes half-lidded but sharp, waiting, like he already knew the answer.

So I told the truth.

“Yeah.”

The air thickened for a moment, and then Hyunjin let out a soft laugh – low and breathy, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “I’m feeling it too.”

The way he said it, so quiet, so sure, and just a little amazed, sent a ripple down my spine that had nothing to do with the weed, the champagne, or the heat of the water.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. Not smiling, not teasing, just… seeing.

“I can’t stop thinking about last night,” he admitted, rubbing his thumb slowly along his glass. “It’s… messing with my head a little.”

My heart was pounding again, no longer nervous, only full.

“Same,” I said, almost whispering. “I keep replaying it. Over and over. The ocean. You. The way it all felt so…” I trailed off, searching for the right word.

Unreal. Intimate. Dangerous. Perfect.

He filled in the blank for me, voice soft. “Easy.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Like it was supposed to happen, even if it didn’t make any sense.”

He tilted his head, his expression open and honest and a little wrecked. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“Not even a little.”

We both laughed gently – not because it was funny, but because we both knew we were too far in to pretend otherwise.

The warmth of the water pulsed around us, and without really meaning to, we both began to inch closer. Small movements. Little shifts. Knees bumping again and this time staying there.

His thigh brushed mine under the water, and neither of us pulled away. My fingers curled slightly on the edge of the tub. His hand was just there, so close…

And then, he took the joint again, burning low, and brought it to his lips.

I watched mesmerized by the way his mouth moved, by the way he held the smoke for just a second too long –

And then he leaned toward me. Closer, closer, until our faces were only inches apart and his eyes flicked between mine and my lips, asking, Are you sure?

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I just parted my lips, and he exhaled slowly, a stream of warm smoke flowing from his mouth into mine.

I inhaled gently, my eyes never leaving his, the heat from the smoke and the water nothing compared to the heat simmering between us.

I exhaled, slow and shaky, and whispered, “That was unfair.”

Hyunjin smiled. “You like unfair.”

And god help me, I really, really did.

“You’re so proud of yourself,” I muttered, trying not to smile too hard as I reached for the joint again.

“Obviously.” He leaned back, stretching his arms along the edge of the hot tub like he owned the moment. “That was, like, top-tier movie-level smoothness. Don’t act like you weren’t impressed.”

“I’ve seen better.”

He scoffed. “Lies.”

I giggled into my hand, a little too giggly, a little too floaty, and he caught it immediately. “You’re so high,” he said, a touch smug.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Prove it.”

He raised a brow. “You’re currently sitting in a steamy hot tub under the stars in a foreign country with a guy you met three days ago, high off stolen weed, blushing every time our knees touch.”

I blinked. “Okay, yeah. You got me there.”

“Also, you’re grinning like you’re on a game show where the prize is me.”

I splashed him for that one.

He yelped, dramatic as ever, wiping water from his face. “Yah! That was uncalled for.”

“You deserved it.”

We dissolved into laughter, the kind that made my ribs ache and my face hurt. And god, it felt good. It felt easy.

And then, somehow, without warning, everything slowed down again. The giggled faded into soft exhales. The space between us thinned.

The way he was looking at me shifted from playful to something heavier. And just like gravity, that same magnetic pull from last night came back, humming between us like a live wire.

And again, just like last night, I couldn’t tell who moved first. Him, me, or if it was the night itself, tugging us together.

But our lips met in a tentative kiss – soft, hesitant, like we were asking the question all over again.

Is this still magic?

Are you still thinking about it too?

The answer came fast and overwhelming. In seconds, the kiss deepened, growing hungrier, more sure. Like we’d both just realized we were starving.

His hands slid around my waist, guiding me closer, and before I could process what was happening, I was in his lap, straddling him in a hot tub, water lapping at my thighs, heart pounding so hard it nearly drowned out the sound of the bubbles.

He made a low sound in the back of his throat, something rough and wrecked and entirely not okay, and it went straight to my core. His hands gripped my waist like he couldn’t believe I was real. Like he couldn’t stand how far away I’d been until now.

I kissed him like I already knew this wouldn’t last. Like I had to memorize it.

Like if I was going to break the rules, I was going to shatter them.

My hips began to move before I even realized it – a slow, instinctive grind, a rhythm we both fell into like we’d always known the steps.

Hyunjin’s breath hitched, a groan caught low in his throat as his fingers dug into my hips, not guiding me, just holding on, like he needed something to anchor him.

I broke the kiss just long enough to catch my breath, then dragged my lips along his jaw, down the side of his neck, tasting the salt on his skin.

His head tilted back slightly, chest rising beneath me, and when I sucked gently just below his ear, he whispered my name like a warning and a prayer all at once.

“Gemma…” His hands flexed at my sides. “If you don’t stop…”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I pressed a kiss to his collarbone, a soft gasp escaping my lips as his hips bucked slightly beneath mine, and everything in me went hazy and bright and hungry.

“Tell me to stop then,” I murmured back, brushing my mouth against his again, half-drunk on him, high and tipsy and completely ruined for anything that wasn’t this.

And when his hands slid up my back and our lips met again – harder this time, desperate – I let everything else go. No consequences, no overthinking. Just heat. Just him.

My mind clouded as our tongues wrestled for dominance, my fingers curling into his hair as he smoothed his hands over my spine, hips pressing against each other with slow rocks and messy thrusts.

I broke the kiss with a breathless gasp, leaning back in his lap, my hands now braced against his shoulders, my chest rising and falling like I’d just run a marathon underwater.

Hyunjin’s hands were now firmly on my waist, but they loosened slightly, not letting go, just holding me. His head tilted back against the rim of the hot tub, lips parted and swollen, damp hair curling against his forehead, his eyes a little dazed.

He looked completely wrecked.

I stared. My heart thundered and all I could think was, God, he’s beautiful like this.

His breath was shallow, his jaw clenched like he was trying very hard not to pull me right back in. And the look on his face – somewhere between restraint and ruin – sent a flutter straight through me.

I let out a soft, totally involuntary giggle, biting my lip as I tried to get my brain to start working again.

His eyes flicked open and narrowed at me, flushed and still a little wild. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” I lied, voice full of too much heat to be convincing. “Maybe. A little.”

“Rude.”

“You look…” I gestured vaguely toward his completely undone state, “kind of like you lost a bet to your self-control.”

He groaned and let his head fall forward, hiding his grin against my collarbone. “You’re evil.”

“You started it.”

“You’re gonna finish it.”

We both laughed then, low and warm and breathless, our bodies still tangled, water swirling gently around us like a cocoon.

Then he pulled back just enough to kiss me again – softer this time, slower, like he needed to remind himself what I tasted like before we let go of this moment.

But he stopped before it could slip into anything more.

His forehead rested against mine, his voice a little steadier now. “I don’t want to do this here.”

I stilled, searching his eyes. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Not like this. Not when I’m this high and you’re this… distracting.”

I smiled, brushing my nose against his. “I get it.”

“You deserve better than my very exposed public hot tub lap.”

“That’s incredibly specific and chivalrous of you.”

He smirked. “I told you, I contain multitudes.”

I leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth once more, then slowly slid off his lap, the sudden absence of contact making my skin hum with longing.

We both sank a little deeper into the water, still sitting side by side, the bubbles filling the quiet while we tried to catch our breath. He reached out under the surface, and I met him there, our fingers intertwining, hidden from the rest of the world, as if the connection would be less dangerous that way.

We didn’t talk for a few minutes. Just breathed, just held on to each other. I let myself drift a little closer, thigh pressing against his beneath the water. Then, quietly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, I leaned my head onto his shoulder.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t make a joke. He just let me rest there. His skin was warm and damp against my cheek, his breath slow and steady beside me.

We sat there like that, suspended between steam and stars, and then he broke the silence, his voice quieter now, a little rough around the edges.

“I like this side of you.”

I turned slightly, lifting my head just enough to glance up at him. “What side?”

He looked down at me, his lips tilting in a soft grin. “The rulebreaker. The girl who steals weed from her tyrant boss and seduces boys in public hot tubs.”

I laughed, nudging him with my shoulder. “I did not seduce you.”

“You literally climbed into my lap.”

“That was gravity.”

“Sure it was.”

I rolled my eyes, but my smile lingered, something lighter and more delicate than before. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m not the total stick-in-the-mud you thought I was.”

“I never thought that.” He looked at me again, and there was no teasing in his eyes now. Only warmth. “I think you’ve been surviving. For a long time. And maybe… tonight you just let yourself live a little.”

My heart pulled tight at that. Because he wasn’t wrong. And somehow, he’s seen that without me ever saying it.

I blinked up at him, feeling the words catch in my throat, but I didn’t need to respond. Not when he was looking at me like he already understood.

We both turned our gaze upward. The sky was completely dark now, an endless canvas of stars glittering above us. They looked bright from here, like they had something to say.

Neither of us spoke for a while. We just watched the stars, listened to the soft bubbling of the tub, felt our hands still joined beneath the water, hidden from everything but the truth of how we felt.

Finally, I exhaled and whispered, “We should probably head in.”

Hyunjin didn’t move right away. But then he nodded once. “Yeah.”

And still, we stayed just a little longer. Because even though the night was ending, neither of us was quite ready to let go of the version of ourselves we’d found here – brave, bare, and no longer pretending.

The air was cooler outside the spa deck, kissed with salt and the faint perfume of night-blooming jasmine spilling over from hanging pots. The stone path was dimly lit, the kind of hush over the resort that only came when most of the world had finally gone to sleep.

Hyunjin walked beside me in comfortable silence, our towels slung over our shoulders, the warmth from the hot tub still clinging to our skin. Our hands kept brushing, fingertips tapping like they were testing a question neither of us had spoken aloud.

Until, finally, he just… took it. No words, just his hand finding mine, fingers sliding between each other like they belonged there, like we’d done this a hundred times already.

I looked over at him, surprised by how casual he looked about it – except for the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Of course he was smug about it. But now, I didn’t mind one bit.

The silence was sweet, the kind you never get with strangers. But Hyunjin didn’t feel like a stranger anymore.

The hallway was quiet, shadows stretching across the tile, the flicker of a wall sconce catching the curve of his cheekbone. I turned to him, still holding his hand as we reached my room.

“Do you want to come in?” My voice came out soft, careful – not desperate, not casual either. Just real.

His eyes flicked to the door, then back to me. “I want to,” He said, and god, the way he said it – low and wrecked like he was already imagining it – made heat rush to my cheeks.

But then he shook his head. “But I’m not going to.”

I raised a brow. “Oh? Mr. Red Flashlight is suddenly a gentleman?”

He chuckled, stepping closer, his free hand coming up to brush a piece of damp hair behind my ear. “I want this to be something, Gemma. Not just a thing that happened because we were high and half-naked in a hot tub.”

I scoffed, even as my chest fluttered. “How dare you romanticize this like a functioning adult.”

“I know, I hate it,” he said, grinning as he leaned in, “but I’d really like to kiss you again now.”

“Then shut up and do it.”

And he did.

He kissed me like it was goodbye – slow and deep and lingering – except we both knew it wasn’t. It was more like a promise.

He pulled me closer, his hands framing my face, thumbs brushing the tops of my cheeks like he didn’t want to miss a single inch.

I curled my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, kissed him back until I was breathless and dizzy and still wanting more.

When we finally parted, he didn’t step back right away. He just touched his forehead to mine and whispered, “Goodnight, Parker.”

My voice barely came out. “Night, Hyunjin.”

He let go slowly, fingers lingering for one last squeeze before he turned and walked back down the hall, towel slung over his shoulder, head tilted up like he was still watching the stars.

And I just stood there in the doorway, grinning like an idiot, heart racing. Because I didn’t know where this was going. But it felt damn good.

The door shut softly behind me as I stepped into my room finally, the quiet hum of the air conditioning greeting me instantly. I stood there for a second in the stillness, the warm glow from the bedside lamp casting a gentle light across the room, as if the night hadn’t already unraveled me in the most unexpected, exhilarating way.

My heart was still racing, and I still couldn’t stop smiling.

Even as I peeled off my damp bikini and stepped into the shower, the steam rising around me, I was replaying everything: His laugh. His hands. The way his fingers flexed against my skin like he didn’t want to let me go.

I pressed my hands to the cool tile, letting the water beat down over my shoulders, trying to wash away the ache of how much I already wanted to see him again. It didn’t work.

Once I was clean and dry, dressed in a soft oversized t-shirt, I padded over to the bed and flipped open my laptop, the screen casting a glow across my legs as I sat cross-legged, heart still buzzing, fingertips tapping without purpose.

I opened my calendar and pulled up Celeste’s itinerary, eyes scanning tomorrow’s events.

Boat tour along the coast.

Luxury, obviously. Charter, probably. There’d be wine, photos, “casual” poses that I’d need to carefully document for her social channels.

I sighed and made a mental note to charge the good camera.

Then I clicked away from the itinerary and opened my musings from earlier in the day, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

For a moment, I just stared. Still warm from the water. Still high from his hands. And then, I started to type. Not notes or outlines, just feeling, just writing, messy, emotional, and free.

About a girl who’d been surviving for so long she forgot what it felt like to burn. About a boy who looked at her like she was made of constellations and chaos. About a moment by the sea that didn’t need to make sense to feel like fate.

The words came fast, as if they’d been waiting for a crack in me to finally escape through. I wrote until my eyes stung, until my fingers were sore, until the stars outside faded into the softest blue.

And when I finally closed my laptop and flopped back onto the pillows, the world outside was still and quiet. But inside me – everything had changed.

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