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whosscruffylooking · 7 months ago

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Militiae Species Amor Est

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

Part II Is Up Now!

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

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

word count: 6.7k

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

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

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

Lucius.

The boy who had once been your entire world.

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

Lucius.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t look away.

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

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

He knew you.

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

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

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

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was him.

Lucius.

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

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

Another victory. Another step toward survival.

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

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

And he saw her.

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

It was her.

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

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

The girl he had loved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope.

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

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

She was here. She had found him.

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

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

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

But tonight, none of that mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Iris.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was far from over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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ainaslastnerve · 30 days ago

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CRUSHING!TELEMACHUS HEADCANONS

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

yipee, first post !! let's see how this one goes ~

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

- Stammers around you a lot. He’s usually well-spoken, but the moment you walk in, he forgets half his vocabulary.

“I— uh— hi. I mean hello! I mean—sunlight looks good on you today. WAIT.”

- Practices conversations with you in his head or with Athena (if she ever decides to help) before actually talking to you. Still messes them up.

- Starts using big poetic metaphors to describe you..

“like a lighthouse in a storm”

—and then internally cringes because he thinks he sounds dumb.

- Always pulls out a chair for you or offers to carry things EVEN if it's just a piece of paper—

“I can take that, no problem!”

- Gets super defensive if anyone tries to talk bad about you, especially when it's from the suitors. Even if he’s shy, he’ll stand up for you without hesitation.

- If you’re sad, he doesn’t always know what to say, but he’ll sit with you quietly until you’re ready to talk.

- Sneaks glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking—and gets caught every time. But sometimes, you pretend that you don't see it.

- Whenever he blushes, his ears turn red. Not even his whole face, just the tips of his ears.

- Starts showing off when you’re nearby. Lifting something heavy? Sword training? Suddenly he’s way more into it when you’re watching.

“Man, Athena, this is too easy!”

But inside, he felt like his arms were about to fall off.

- Brags about your skills and talents to others, and talks about you so so much to his mom—“Did you see what they did today? That was incredible!”

- If someone mentions you even casually, he perks up like a golden retriever hearing a treat bag rustle. He'd literally cross seas for you without thinking twice—just like his dad, but 100x softer.

- He has a secret stash of unsent letters or poems he’s written for you. Which range from thoughtful to “I like your hair today” and “you laughed at my joke. highlight of my year.”

- One day he accidentally leaves one somewhere you’ll find it… and you’ll definitely notice the tiny heart he doodled in the corner.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

telemachus is adorable. I LOVE HIMM RAHH !! telemachus art by gigi 💗

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

#epic the musical #telemachus #telemachus x reader #x reader #epic x reader #fluff #ainaslastnerve #telemachus headcanons #telemachus epic the musical

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slu7formen · 1 year ago

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disarmed by desire. | luke castellan x f.r

₊˚⊹♡ luke can’t seem to get out of his head a certain someone, things become even harder when that certain someone, is an aphrodite’s daughter.

warnings: seduction, sexual tension, luke is obsessed over reader, reader’s an aphrodite’s daughter, reader has long hair (not really a warning but whatever).

reminder: english’s not my first language so I apologize for any spelling mistakes

pt2 here

Luke Castellan was obsessed with you.

No, not obsessed. He worshipped you.

He didn’t even know when it started. It was not one thing or situation that started it all, but little small things he witnessed that eventually lead to his confusing and strong feelings he wanted to desperately hide.

Being an Aphrodite’s daughter was no joke, nor was it falling for one of them. All of your brothers and sisters shared an unbeatable beauty. Each one of you is so different, but yet so similar. But the more you grew since your arrival to the camp when you were fifteen, the more you stood out to Luke’s eyes. The Aphrodite cabin girls were known for their charm, but you seemed different, less concerned with vanity and more with genuine connection.

The first flicker appeared during Capture the Flag. Luke wasn't actively participating, a rare occurrence for the camp's best swordsman. Instead, he leaned against a tree, nursing a minor but piercing shoulder wound himself, when she appeared. She wasn’t running across the battlefield like a fiery warrior, but holding a kid’s hand as he was a whimpering mess walking behind her, he sat down on a rock and she instantly attended his bloody knee.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t worry” her voice had said, and the little kid almost immediately stopped sobbing. “Other kids can be mean sometimes. What’s your name?”

Luke watched, spellbound, as your nimble fingers, surprisingly calloused for a daughter of Aphrodite, expertly cleaned and bandaged the wound. Sunlight kissed your hair, turning the braids into strands of melted gold. Laughter danced in your voice, calming the kid down and blending with the clash of swords.

It wasn't just your beauty, though that was undeniable. It was the tenderness in your touch, the quiet confidence radiating from you, a stark contrast to the usual flirtatiousness Luke associated with your cabin. He quickly realized you were also one of the few Aphrodite’s daughter who had the ability of influencing others with your voice; charmspeaking.

Even when your voice didn’t resonate for him, but for the little kid you were attending, he felt undeniably attracted to your sweet melody, maybe that’s why he stared so long at you too.

Then, your eyes met his. A smile bloomed on your lips. "Need some patching up yourself, brave knight?"

His breath hitched as your eyes pierced his, a blush creeping up his neck. He stammered, "No, I'm good." But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He wasn't just injured physically; a new wound had opened in his chest, one caused by a flirty smile and a concern genuine enough to pierce through his thick built-up walls.

Luke's attraction to you wasn't solely physical, but he'd be lying if he didn't find himself momentarily stunned by the way you carried yourself.

He couldn't help but steal glances when you wore shorter skirts or crop tops that hinted at the toned physique earned through years of training, or when the older campers organized a secret night out at the lake in which you made sure to wear the best bikini you could find. He'd catch himself mesmerized by the way sunlight would dance on the curves of your body, sending a flicker of heat through him and his own veins. There was an undeniable beauty in your perfectly applied makeup, but it only served to highlight the mischief sparkling in your eyes and the warmth etched on your smile.

It wasn't just the jealousy your beauty ignited in other girls, or the admiration you garnered from younger campers. It was the way you moved, how confidence flowed through you like liquid gold, making even the simplest actions seem captivating. One afternoon, he saw you braiding wildflowers into your hair, your fingers moving with practiced ease, and he found himself staring with parted lips, hypnotized by the delicate beauty you created.

He started finding himself drawn to her laughter, its rich melody echoing through the camp. He'd catch glimpses of her practicing archery, her form uncannily elegant even as she sent arrow after arrow into the bullseye.

She was perfect.

His mind would try to rationalize, tell him it was the warrior in you that drew him in, the way you handled a sword with both grace and ferocity. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. It was the way your beauty existed in perfect harmony with your strength, a potent combination that left him both breathless and curious.

He wouldn't admit it out loud, not even to himself, but the truth was, Luke found himself daydreaming about brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, feeling the warmth of your skin against his fingertips as he leaned it for a kiss of your sugar lips. Something as simple as that had him zoning out of every conversation and forgetting about activities in the camp. He imagined the playful glint in your eyes when you caught him staring, the teasing lilt in your voice as you challenged him to a duel.

Until, well… a true duel emerged. Summer was just starting after all, and practice needed to be done.

Steel sang beneath the afternoon sun as their practice began. The sky was painted with orange and bright yellow colors, as your darkened figures danced around the field. Luke, known throughout camp as the prodigy at sword fighting, moved with a controlled ferocity, his blade a blur of deadly grace. But his opponent today wasn't your average camper. You wielded your sword with the effortless elegance of a former ballerina, impressive to be someone who’s main skill is not fighting, he had to admit. Each parry was a pirouette, each attack a leap defying gravity.

Sparks flew as your blades clashed, but where Luke relied on brute force, you danced around him, using your agility and unexpected angles to deflect his blows. He felt a frustrated flush creep up his neck and loudly beat inside his chest, every missed strike fueling the unspoken tension swirling between you.

Sweat already glistened on your sun-kissed skin, adding a raw allure to your perfectly applied makeup. It dripped down your collarbone and hid underneath your shirt.

Luke fought with intensity, fuelled not just by the thrill of the duel, but by the desire to impress the captivating enigma before him. You, in turn, met his ferocity with playful taunts and flirtatious dodges, your laughter tinkling in his ears.

Some campers have forgotten about their own practices, drawn to the captivating spectacle between you two. Whispers swirled about Luke's unmatched skill, your surprising prowess, and the undeniable spark crackling between you.

“Look at that” Grover shook Annabeth’s arm, eyes pierced in two shadows swiftly moving around the grass, clashing their blades with resonating grunts and heavy breaths.

“Who’s that?” Percy suddenly asked, eyes wide and parted lips hypnotized by the slender figure whose hair flew around like it had its own life.

“yn, an Aphrodite’s daughter” his friend explained. “Not bad at swords at all, though. But she’s got Luke on his nerves”

Percy nodded. “Yeah, I can tell”

But Annabeth laughed. “Not that kind of nerves. Let’s just say she’s enjoying the attention Luke gives her”

The fight went on, each passing moment stretching the boundaries of skill and endurance. Your movements were a whirlwind of elegance and precision, forcing Luke to constantly adapt, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“Tired, hero?" you purred, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you walked around him and twirled your sword, the sunlight reflecting off its polished surface. "Perhaps a touch of Aphrodite's charm is what you need?"

Luke gritted his teeth, channeling his growing attraction into focused strikes. But despite the heat of the battle, your image kept blurring his vision - your smile, the way your hair fell around your face, how your cheeks flushed red and your glossy lips parted as you blocked his movement against you one more time. He felt his defenses crumbling, his usual stoicism replaced by a raw need to prove himself, not just as a swordsman, but as a man worthy of your attention.

“Careful, princess. Playing with fire might just burn you” he countered as he parried a particularly fierce blow, the impact sending a tremor up his arm. His voice was low enough for only you to hear.

"Oh, Luke" you laughed. “Thanks for worrying so much about me but, I know how to handle a little heat" You lunged, your blade aimed for his shoulder. He barely deflected it, the tip grazing his bicep, sending a jolt of adrenaline through him.

In a swift, mesmerizing blur, your blade danced around his, finding an opening. The clang of steel resonated as your sword disarmed him, sending his clattering to the ground. Silence descended, broken only by the ragged rasp of his breath.

He lets his knees fall to the ground, thinking you would have enough mercy for him to give him a break. But he found himself with the tip of your blade resting gently under his chin. You tapped it twice.

“Up, Castellan” you demanded. He looked up at you.

Your eyes, sparkling with both victory and amusement, held him captive. Sweat and dust smudged your face, adding a primal beauty to your already breathtaking features.

A slow smile tugged at his lips, not of defeat, but of something deeper. He lifted up his hands. "Seems I underestimated the true power of Aphrodite's daughters" he rasped, his voice husky with exertion and something else – an undeniable desire.

“Hell yes you did!” one of your sisters replied, earning a few laughs from the rest of the campers.

The small crowd erupted in cheers once the battle was determined as won by you. Luke eventually got up, sword still under his chin. He was much taller than you, to which you had to lift your own head up to fully see his face.

The roar of the crowd faded into a distant hum as Luke only focused on the heavy pounding on his chest, sword dangerously still close. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, tracing a path past the flush blooming on his cheeks.

"And it seems that our little hero falls not just to skill, but also to some… irresistible charm" you purred, amusement tugging at your lips.

Luke grinned, a touch cocky, a touch breathless. "Perhaps," he conceded, voice husky with exertion. "But I wouldn't call it defeat” he cooed as you slowly put your sword down, placing it next to you. His gaze dropped, tracing a slow path down the curve of your sweat-kissed neck, lingering on the way your shirt clung to your form. Your exposed legs shined underneath the weak sun. The air crackled with unspoken desire, the playful banter now infused with something hotter, more primal.

"Besides," he murmured, voice low and dangerous, "victors deserve their spoils, don't they?"

His words hung heavy, loaded with hidden meaning, a meaning only the two of you seemed to understand now. You felt a blush creep up your neck, surprised by the sudden shift in his usual way of being towards you. You knew he knew you flirted, that you did it with ease. But this was different. This was Luke Castellan, the stoic, the untouchable, and suddenly, he was playing your game.

"And what kind of spoils are you thinking of, big boy?" you countered, your voice barely a whisper.

Luke looked around, campers long gone, already going back to their own activities as soon as your tense situation ended.

He stepped in closer, the space between you shrinking to a charged silence. "Maybe,-" he rasped head down and still heavy breathing, "a dance with the warrior who disarmed me not just with her blade, but with her breathtaking distraction."

His eyes flickered down to your lips, the unspoken desire sparking a flame within you.

“Or maybe something a little more private, as you wish” he continued.

The world seemed to shrink to the heat emanating from your body, the intoxicating scent of wildflower and victory mingled with sweat. Your pulse quickened, a blush blooming on your cheeks.

You laughed in disbelief, smoothly placing your long hair on one side of your head, bright mane elegantly falling like a cascade without you even trying. "Bold proposition, handsome" you replied, voice barely a breath, still trying to catch it. The nickname twisted Luke’s guts, in a good way, might as well have woken up something else. "But maybe you should focus on winning a proper duel before demanding rewards"

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through you. "Challenge accepted, my lady” he whispered, stepping back and raising an eyebrow. "But know this; our next battle won't be fought with steel, but with wit, charm, and a touch of something… different"

You tilted your head to the side as he took his sword from the grass. "And this time, I won't underestimate an Aphrodite's daughter, or the power of warrior who knows how to play just as dirty as she fights"

This wasn't the playful banter you were used to, but you sure liked it. This was Luke Castellan, awakened, and the thrill of it was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"We shall see, Luke" you countered, your voice husky with a newfound nervousness as you pronounced his name. "We shall see."

As you turned to address a new opponent on the field, the memory of his voice, hot and suggestive against your ear, lingered on your skin. This wasn’t what you started, this was a dance of unspoken desires fueled by sweat, steel, and the awakening of a forbidden hunger in the heart of Luke Castellan. And you, the daughter of Aphrodite, were ready to play.

He couldn't help but watch you go, his heart brimming with a newfound determination. He admired your skill, your wit, your beauty, and most of all, the way you made him feel – breathless, excited, and utterly captivated. Your golden figure disappeared into a new crowd of campers looking for someone else to fight.

This was about to be one of the best summers ever.

pt2 here <3

I’m so delulu over this man istg

Currently reading PJ 3rd book :) Had to retake my lecture after I watched the show

ALWAYS OPEN FOR REQUESTS! <3

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan smut #pjo series #pjo #luke castellan x you #aphrodite #luke x reader #luke castellan one shot #luke castellan fic #luke castellan imagine #pjo x reader #pjo x you #pjo smut #charlie bushnell #luke castellan x female reader #luke castellan x fem!reader #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan imagines

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luvly-writer · 2 months ago

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Basgaith: A scent of Trouble

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

Basgaith - Training Grounds

It started with the scent.

Xaden Riorson wasn’t the type to get distracted easily. He was Wingleader of the Fourth Wing in the Rider's Quadrant, feared and respected, sharp of mind and even sharper with shadows and swords. He had people to keep alive, secrets to protect, a rebellion to continue to orchestrate, and yet—

Every godsdamned time Y/n Gamlyn walked past him, his brain short-circuited like a first-year who’d just seen a dragon for the first time.

He didn’t understand it at first. The first time she passed him in the hallway outside the sparring ring, he paused mid-conversation with Garrick. He didn’t even notice the silence until Garrick arched an eyebrow.

“You good?” Garrick had asked, half-smirking.

“Fine,” Xaden had muttered, confused.

Because she smelled like exotic fruit and sunlight and something he couldn’t name—something dangerous. And her braid had a small black silk ribbon tucked into it, elegant and absurdly perfect. Her wrist adorned with a delicate charm bracelet and her nails a deep wine red, brushed Ridoc’s arm as she giggled at something dumb her brother said.

Xaden had chalked it up to lack of sleep. Or hunger. Or some new mind-game by leadership.

But then it kept happening.

Every time Y/n was near, something in him shifted. She’d lounge on the grass during squad downtime with Rhiannon and Violet, sipping mango juice from a flask she’d somehow snuck past Dain, and Xaden’s eyes would find her. Not because she was loud—no, she wasn’t like Ridoc, whose voice carried through stone walls—but because she glowed. She radiated soft mischief and sharp intellect, and she looked like she didn’t belong in battle gear, but fought like she was born with a blade in hand.

Garrick was the first to notice.

They were walking to the Academic Wing, Xaden and Garrick trailing behind the Iron Squad. Y/n passed by them, her curls catching the wind, a new black ribbon tied neatly behind her ear.

Xaden slowed to a halt, inhaling subtly—but Garrick caught it.

“Did you just sniff her?” he asked, incredulous.

Xaden blinked. “What?”

“You definitely just sniffed her. Don’t deny it.” His grin was pure mischief now. “Oh, this is too good.”

“Drop it, dumbass.”

“Not a chance.”

Within an hour, Imogen knew. Then Quinn. Then, somehow, Bodhi—who immediately said, as if scandalized, “So, Xaden’s into Ridoc’s sister now? That’s risky, even for you, cousin!” Which caused all of them to start laughing. Loud.

Y/n, seated beside Ridoc and Liam, blinked at the outburst and tilted her head. “Did I miss something?”

“Apparently, Riorson is ogling you,” Ridoc snorted, not even glancing up from his tray. “Can’t blame him, really. I did warn everyone she was the prettier sibling.”

Y/n flushed, half-horrified, half-amused, and quickly looked away—straight into Xaden’s eyes.

And gods help him, she smiled.

It wasn’t coy or calculated. It was warm. Curious.

Later that night, Garrick leaned against the doorframe of Xaden’s room, arms crossed.

“You’re in trouble, you know.”

Xaden glanced up. “Because I noticed a girl smells nice?”

“No. Because it’s Y/n. She’s a first year. She’s Ridoc’s sister. She’s—you know—sweet.”

Xaden paused, letting the truth settle. Y/n Gamlyn, the girl who tied black bows in her hair and laughed with her whole heart, who wore perfume that no one could identify, and who painted her nails and wore gold and pearl jewelry—was now the only thing he couldn’t stop thinking about.

The next day...

It started during a quiet afternoon on the flight field, just after drills. The girls, Violet, Rhiannon, and Y/n—were stretched out on a sun-warmed patch of grass, enjoying a rare break. Boots off, gloves discarded, braids a little undone.

Violet twirled a dagger lazily between her fingers. Rhiannon was half-laying across Y/n’s lap, sipping water and occasionally tossing berries into the air to catch with her mouth. Y/n, ever composed, still had her dark red nail polish immaculate, her black silk ribbon in place, and not a drop of sweat in sight.

She should’ve known the peace wouldn’t last.

"So," Rhiannon started, grinning far too wide to be innocent, “how long are you going to pretend Riorson doesn’t look at you like you’re made of magic and sin?”

Y/n blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, please,” Violet cut in, sitting up with a sparkle in her eye. “He turns into an actual statue when you walk into a room. I've seen him forget what he's saying just because your perfume hits him.”

Y/n’s face went warm immediately. “You two are being ridiculous.”

Rhiannon gasped in mock offense. “Don’t you dare lie to us. Even Sawyer noticed. Sawyer.”

Y/n’s fingers brushed over the bow tied neatly in her ponytail. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Violet drawled. “Because last week, when you wore your hair in that sleek braid with the little curls at the ends—he nearly tripped over his own boots. Xaden Riorson. Tripped. Over. His. Own. Boots.”

“I—” Y/n bit her lip and looked away, blush deepening.

Violet sat straight up. “Wait.”

Rhiannon perked up. “Oh no.”

Violet leaned in, eyes wide, and gasped with full dramatic flair. “Are YOU attracted to him?!”

Y/n’s face went crimson. “Violet—!”

“Oh my gods, she is!” Rhiannon practically sang, sitting up and pointing at her. “She totally is!”

“I am not—” Y/n started, but then groaned and hid her face behind her hands. “I mean... I have eyes, Violet. I think everyone in the Quadrant at least once has been attracted to Riorson.”

Violet laughed so hard she nearly tipped over. “That’s not a no, Y/n!”

“It’s not a yes either!” Y/n protested, flustered. But the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“You are so doomed,” Rhiannon said, throwing an arm over her shoulder. “That man is one smirk away from becoming your problem.”

“And honestly,” Violet added with a teasing grin, “I can't wait.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but there was a soft, fluttery warmth in her chest that even she couldn’t deny.

"You are both ridiculous."

A few days later...

Training was particularly insufferable that day seeing as the weather was already hot and brutal. The sun burning high above them and not a breeze in sight. The Second Squad was halfway through drills when Garrick and Xaden moved into the sparring circle for their usual round—one-on-one with no weapons, just hand-to-hand.

Y/n tried very hard to focus on her footwork beside Rhiannon. She really did.

But then Garrick muttered something too low to hear and Xaden smirked—that rare, dangerous smirk that said he was going to enjoy throwing someone across the dirt.

“Bet Garrick falls in the next thirty seconds,” Sawyer whispered beside Violet.

“I’ll take that bet,” Violet said, eyes sharp.

The sparring started fast, brutal, and beautiful. The kind of movement that drew eyes whether you wanted to look or not. Garrick was fast, almost reckless—but Xaden was precise, his control so sharp it made every movement feel like a threat.

Y/n only meant to glance.

But her eyes wandered—just for a second—tracking the way Xaden’s muscles flexed under his black shirt, the way his jaw clenched when he pivoted, the way his shadow magic sparked faintly across his fingertips like it wanted to join the fight.

And then, as if summoned by the gods of mischief themselves, he paused.

Without ceremony, Xaden reached behind his head, grabbed the back of his sweat-soaked shirt, and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. Muscles. Everywhere. Back, arms, abs that looked like they’d been carved out of stone. Sunlight kissed every inch of him like it knew what it was doing.

“Oh no,” Rhiannon muttered beside her, catching Y/n’s not-so-subtle stare.

Violet, biting back a grin, elbowed her lightly. “You’re drooling, Gamlyn.”

“I am not,” Y/n hissed, face heating. But her eyes didn’t leave the ring.

Even worse—Garrick caught her looking. And laughed.

“Stop flexing, you dramatic bastard,” he barked at Xaden, ducking under a punch.

Xaden didn’t reply—but his smirk widened. His posture shifted, just slightly, standing a bit taller. Shoulders rolling back. Chest—definitely more puffed than it needed to be.

“Oh my gods, he’s preening,” Violet said under her breath. “He's showing off for you.”

Y/n groaned into her hands. “No he is not.”

And then, of course, Ridoc chose that exact moment to wander back from fetching water.

He took one look at the scene—Y/n's flushed face, Xaden shirtless and smug, Garrick laughing his ass off—and smirked like he’d just caught her writing his name in hearts.

“Please tell me you’re not making heart eyes at Riorson, of all people,” Ridoc said loudly.

“Ridoc,” Y/n warned.

Rhiannon grinned. “Too late, she’s gone.”

“Tragic,” Ridoc sighed. “Guess I have to beat him up now. Family honor and all.”

“I will throw myself off the Parapet,” Y/n muttered as the squad burst into laughter around her.

In the ring, Xaden shot a glance over—just the briefest flick of his dark eyes to where Y/n stood. His smirk softened into something quieter, just for a heartbeat, before Garrick tackled him to the ground again.

And Y/n?

She definitely wasn’t looking anymore.

(Except she was.)

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia

To be added, leave a comment <3

#iron flame #violet sorrengail #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing xaden #onyx storm #the empyrean series #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #ridoc fourth wing #ridoc gamlyn

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toruforuu · 12 hours ago

Text

gojo satoru x reader || gladiator au [18+]

Gilded Gage part one

➷pairing: gladiator!gojo x princess!reader

➷summary: a princess betrothed to a roman emperor whom she despises for his cruelty, sets her sights upon an ethereal looking arrival into the arena and is struck with an overpowering curiosity. the gladiator’s skilfulness earns him the emperor’s favour, keeping him alive for now, while the princess sneaks through the silence of the night to meet with him in secret — blooming with something the emperor could never bring to life

➷genre/tags: gladiator au, forbidden romance, sneaking in the night, historical au, the roman empire, strangers to lovers, female princess reader, gladiator gojo, smut (in the second part), angst with a happy ending, bit of fluff, smitten gojo, lots of yearning

➷warnings: implied misogyny and sexual harassment, description of violence and injuries/death, mentions of blood and vital organs, weapons, reader called princess a lot (cause she’s one, like literally)

➷word count: 11.3k

a/n: hello lovelies, it’s been so long since i last posted! i am genuinely finding myself in the biggest writer slump i’ve ever experienced, hopefully that’s past me now. here’s the promised gladiator au. in the end I decided to separate it into two parts, otherwise it’d be way too long and i doubt that anyone would actually read it. be sure to let me know if you’d also like the second part as well. no more yapping, enjoy!

The Colosseum is filled to the brim with people, standing and cheering loudly as the fight unfolds in front of them right down in the arena. The sun rays down at the circle shaped creation with no mercy, its strength wearing you down. Eager and bloodthirsty roars echo through your ears as swords clash, the sound of metal blended with the overwhelming buzzing of people. You fight the disgust lacing into your features as you sit in the area reserved for royalty, seated inches behind the emperor himself as his bride to be. Your fingers grip onto the handles of your seat, causing the gold jewellery you’re draped in to shackle. You blink, and blood seems to gush out, spilling on the ground due to the merciless slash of a sword blownwed by the winner — piercing through the flesh of the loser. Screams pinch through the air, earning frantic chants from the audience.

The sight hurls your insides, causing a nauseous feeling to take over you as the intestines of the fighter flee out of his dismembered body, falling to the ground without any trace of life. Even more aversion swallows you as you catch the grin tugging at the ruler’s lips from your angle. He’s quick to stand up and clap, the whole arena dying down into pure silence in response.

“You have fought well my champion, though today’s fight is not yet to be finished,” his deep voice spills through the Colosseum, the audience remains quiet as you continue to be on the edge in your seat.

“Rise,” the Emperor tilts his head in your direction, commanding you. You don’t dare to defy him in any slightest as you know any of your slip up could resolve in one of his episodes. You delicately lift your body from the wooden throne, quick to close the distance between you, and to step under the weight of the burning sun which paints the sand floor in golden fury. You create a shield with your palm, blinking away the sunlight before locking your gaze with the man you’re promised to.

The man’s hand sneaks around your waist, bringing your side to his. Your hands fly out to rest at the railing made out of stone, feeling a piece of security. The emperor looks down at you with a twisted smile, deliberately crafted golden crown consisting of laurels resting at the top of his head.

“Bring out the prisoners,” his other hand gripping a golden cup is lifted into the air, a gesture of bidding. As soon as he speaks those words out, large gate opens up. The guards push dozen of men inside the arena — their hands buckled together in one iron chain, bringing their rate of survival against the champion to absolute zero. With spears pointed at their figures, they have no other option than to step on the battlefield under the eyes of hundreds.

Most importantly, the emperor himself.

“My lord, you are going to have them fight in chains?” your soft voice breaks out into the open, questioning the outlook of the situation. The men are offered a weapon against all odds, but being connected to one another is seemingly putting all of them into a disadvantage. From their filthy and bruised appearance it’s clear these men are mere prisoners or slaves. Trapped souls dragged into the arena, not as warriors but as bait for the amusement of the citizens.

“Yes, is it not exciting? It is all for you, my future bride,” from the tone of his voice it’s absolutely clear this man who is yet to be your husband is serious, assuming he’s pleasing you with this dehumanising act. It awakes a terrifying and electrifying wave of anxiety within you. The emperor is known for his cruel ruling and rational punishments, regardless of it, it never ceases to shock you just how merciless he can be.

You don’t protest, only smiling at him and moving your hand to rest at his chest in gratitude. All of it a scene, an act you feel you’re bound to preform in exchange for your safety. You have no power to do anything but watch, your eyes squinting upward at the sea of spectators before falling on the muscular figure standing across the arena in chains. The champion covered in bronzed armor that glimmers with polish, he stands with the casual grace of a justified killer. He’s armed with a simple curved blade which is still dipped in blood from its previous encounter, and a round shield, bearing the imperial crest. The champion is a living legend among the audience — undefeated and unscathed.

They chant the name of the gladiator as if it’s a sacred prayer to the gods.

It sickens you.

The dozen men murmur among themselves, panic rising in their expressions as they throw their sword from hand to hand. A nervous gesture signalling their rising worries as the undefeated gladiator makes his way towards them.

“We cannot fight him head-on. But if we use the chain together as our weapon, then we might have a chance,” a man placed at the end of the chain mumbles to the other men, but panic has already taken its hold. A few men scream and rush forward, dragging the rest behind them. The chain becomes chaos, jerking bodies in every direction and dragging some of them to the ground while The champion moves.

He’s swift, a blur of lightning speed as there’s no baggage holding him back.

The first man falls, his chest opened with a single slash of metal. Another tries to keep away, unfortunately he’s yanked back by the chain, straight into the champion’s killing stroke — keeping his streak of robbed lives. A third decapitates himself by bringing the weapon to his throat, ending his misery before he’s killed by the hands of others. Blood paints the sand, pooling on the floor. The survivors stumble back, heaving with eyes wide open as sweat drenches their bodies and are left bereft of oxygen. Four lie dead now, perhaps five. It’s hard to keep a track.

The crowd is screaming, drunk on the violence and the man who spoke before forces himself between the others, grabbing the chain and snarling something which goes unheard by the audience. Leaving you to guess whenever they listen or lead themselves towards death.

And indeed, they hear him. Out of fear, if nothing else.

A man with unusual ball of white hair directs them to move in a circle, to feint and pull in coordinated tugs. They spread out, using their own bindings as both weapon and trap. When the champion charges, confident. They act. One man dives in sacrifice, drawing the champion’s first swing. Another yanks the chain, unbalancing the warrior.

Like a tide, they shift, loop, and bind.

In moments, the champion is tangled into the chains with no room to move his body, imprisoned just like them.

Without a scratch, not hurt, but humiliated and bested.

The crowd holds its breath. The emperor whose face is painted with neutral expression as he stands beside you, raises a hand to give his final judgment.

His thumb points downward.

Death.

The champion’s eyes shift into utter panic, unable to move.

“Kill the man, drive a blade through his throat and you may live another day,” The emperor calls out to the six men who survived the bloodbath. Your head jerks towards him, brows lifted in surprise at the punishment to his favoured champion. The man captured by the chained prisoners breathes hard, unable to mask his fear.

“Your majesty, with all due respect, spare the man’s life,” you wrap your arms around his bare biceps, closing the distance between you before anyone else can interfere to kill.

“What was that, princess?” his cold gaze falls down at you and you tense up with a swirling cannibalistic terror that you might have overstepped your set limits.

“He is your champion, let him have at least a gracious death,” you modify your words, offering a kind hint of a smile in contrast to his calculation gaze.

The crowd awaits his answer in silence, your words not audible to any one else.

“You are quite right, dear,” his palm pats your shoulders, his proximity distancing and you loosen up in quiet relief. From both his words and his action of leaving your personal space.

“You,” the emperor’s finger points down at the man who strategically brought his champion to defeat “you will face the champion one on one. Battle for either life or death,”

Not exactly what you had in mind when you pleaded for the man’s life to be spared.

Your gaze follows the direction of his finger, landing on the clever prisoner who saved five other lives along with his own. The man’s hair is coloured pure white, the exact shade of your delicate tunic — unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. His features are quite a mess from the distance you’re facing him, the details tucked away. The blinding white of his locks and a reflection of his iridescent eyes are the only two things to be mapped out.

“I do not kill for amusement, your highness,” the prisoner is fast to decline, bowing down to his knee. The other men mimicking his motion, which only appears to anger the ruler further. You stand unmoving, frozen in fear of what’s coming.

“You are brave to defy my orders,”

“Do it, or else you and your men are doomed for the same fate,” the madman demands with a crazed smirk, turning his gaze to glance at you briefly. From below, the victorious prisoner looks up towards the royal box as the emperor announces his decision, breathing heavily with sweat and blood running down his face. His eyes dart to you standing next to him, noticing you for the first time. Seeing you look down at him, the man's exhausted gaze meets yours fleetingly, but his attention is quickly called back to your soon to be husband.

“As you wish, your highness,”

He has no other choice but to fight.

The sun blazes higher than moments ago as it reaches its highest peak, casting long shadows of the Colosseum. The crowd roars once more like a tidal wave of bloodlust and anticipation. At one side stands Valerian, the undefeated champion who’s been gifted a second chance, armour glinting like a god’s wrath in the sweltering weather, though there’s a certain hesitation in his movements now.

At the other side stands the white haired prisoner— no title, no name, no armor, just chains recently broken and scars scattered across his body. The crowd jeers, expecting slaughter. But there's something in his eyes — calm like the sea before a storm, it creates a pit in your stomach.

The horn rings and Valerian moves forward like a warhorse, his massive blade cutting through the air. The unknown white haired man dodges with impossible grace, grabbing a fallen shield from the sand, and ducking under the swing. The wind coming from the blow nearly taking his head.

He answers with a broken spear, driving it into Valerian’s knee.

Gasps echo through the arena, painting an amusing grin on the emperor’s lips as the giant falters.

From now on it’s a dance — brutal and desperate. Valerian attacks with the fury of a man defending his honour, but the unfamiliar prisoner slips through his reach again and again, turning every mistake into an advantage. He moves like a ghost with precise strike.

Another drops of blood stain the sand, leaving marks of the battle.

The prisoner’s shoulder is cut.

Valerian’s leg wobbles.

They circle around each other, crowd no longer cheering as the fight leaves them breathless.

Then, in a haze of a motion, the prisoner feints left, ducking from a wide swing. Only to drive a dagger which was stolen mid-fight into Valerian’s side. The champion instantly drops to his knees, meeting the gaze of his opponent one last time before collapsing to the ground like a house of cards, unmoving. The arena erupts while the bloodied prisoner stands and towers over the champion’s dead body, collecting himself from the overwhelming adrenaline of the fight.

“What do you think of him, my dearest?” it pulls you of the awing trance, sending you back to present. Not knowing whenever you should be disgusted or pleased with how the fight had turned out. Your hands soothe down your tunic, eyes fleeting between the victor and the man you’re betrothed to.

“He has proven himself worthy,” you shakily breathe out near the shell of his ear, orbs still unknowingly flickering down to sneak glances at the extraordinarily looking man with fur of white hair. Meanwhile you’re held by the one who’s been letting the empire to starve and suffer under his reign.

One thumb pointed up, mercy.

The marble halls of the palace glisten under torchlight. Silent and still as though the night itself holds its breath at your bravery. Somewhere beyond the columns and guarded doors, Rome sleeps — drunk on the violence performed in the arena earlier that day.

You move like a shadow. A princess, betrothed to an emperor you neither love nor trust, slipping through a hidden passage behind your chamber’s tapestry. Feet tapping against cold stone. A hood drawn over your head to conceal your face as a secret from passersby, draped in your silken robes.

Every creak of wood, every echo of footsteps sets your heart pounding incredibly fast in your ribcage. The guard’s numbers are smaller at this hour, their concentration dulled by routine and drinking too much wine throughout the day. You time your movements with the changing of the watch, slipping behind statues, darting through moonlit courtyards, where a loyal servant from your home waits at a forgotten gate meant for deliveries, holding a satchel and a stolen dagger.

Your eyes meet briefly, both of you know what’s at stake if your soon to be husband was to find out about your whereabouts.

He’d have your head.

You carefully step out into the open, beneath the night sky that belongs to no ruler. The city looms ahead. The streets dangerous, filthy and still alive. You inhale its scent which consists of smoke and liquor. Behind you, the palace glows like a gilded cage. A cage where you’ll harbour by the end of the night anyway.

You don’t look back again, despite the guilt and fright nibbling at you.

As you stroll through the alleys of the city that’s drifting off to sleep, you no longer feel like a locked up princess who’s been sent off into enemy territory to play out a pack of marriage to attempt for peace.

The Colosseum spreads out before you, vast and silent beneath the cloak of the night sky decorated with small lights of the stars — towering arches of the architectonic building looming like a massive beast, the roar of the crowd now just a ghost echo in the stone. You approach it with no hesitation, heading for a narrow side gate. One not meant for nobles like yourself, but for the lowest layers of the society.

A man scouts the entrance. Old, bend, one eye milky with age. He doesn’t speak and neither do you. He simply nods and lifts the iron latch with a screeching sound. A debt repaid, nothing more. One’s coins you never deemed to recollect til now.

Inside, the air shifts as you descend underneath the huge arena. It’s surprisingly cold and damp, your silky robe not providing enough of warmth. The flicker of torches guides you down the narrow stone stairs, the further you go, the more of death hangs in the air. You move quietly like a mouse through the corridors, hood drown low to keep your identity a secret, robes brushing the filthy floor. The cells appear, row opposite to another row, dark iron bars separating men from the world above and from each other. Some sleep. Others sit in silence, eyes distant. Barely acknowledging your wandering gaze. Your attention peaks all over the place, glancing in all directions to not miss the glimpse of white hair.

You have no idea what force urged you to hurry down here, risking your life for a stranger — as if the gods poisoned you, rushing you in here.

You freeze in motion.

He sits before you like a god carved from war itself. The torchlight dances across his skin which is faintly burned by the overwhelming force of the sun, tracing outlines of his defined muscles. His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady rhythm, broad and unyielding. You could see the trail of old battles on him, pale scars that curl across his shoulders, a jagged line down his side.

They should repell you.

They don’t.

There he sits in the shadows, head of white hair bowed, arms resting on his knees. No chains this time, but he’s caged nonetheless. You clear your throat, gentle enough to not scare him, and it works like a charm. He instantly snaps his gaze in your direction, straightening his posture — arms hang heavy at his sides now, thick with strength, veins popping like vines winding over stone. Even at rest, there was a quiet violence to him, mixed with ethereal features of those worthy of being a prince. You had seen marble statues with less perfection, but none with heat of a real man.

“Who is there?” he asks, his voice a low growl as he tries to make out your figure in the darkness which perfectly helps you mask your identity as well.

“It matters not,” you respond firmly in the dark, keeping a reasonable distance between you and the bars. Partially out of fear, who knows what else he’s capable of after what you saw in the arena. The newly crowned gladiator looks at you, his expression guarded with suspicion but also curiosity. A scoff escapes past his lips.

“You are hurt, are you not?” worry embodies your tone, not sure why as this is the first time you’re ever directly speaking to the gladiator.

“What is it to you?”he mumbles, sounding tough and unaffected by your mysterious presence. The man's hand moves to his upper body, carefully touching the slashed area of his shoulder, and wincing slightly at the lightest of touch.

“Nothing. Still, takes this,” you mumble with all the politeness you were raised to offer, regardless of the strange circumstances you’re finding yourself in and bend down to slide a numbing cream in between the bars. In a quick motion, not wanting to risk anything.

“It is a numbing cream, for your slash,” the gladiator gazes up at you with narrowed eyes after he scans the cream, a mix of confusion painting his face. He reaches out for the box you slid in, only then noticing the intensity of his penetrating orbs. The colour of them is darkened by the dim lighting, nevertheless, they still shine like they’re crashing waves of sea water splashing against the rocks at shore.

“How did you get your hands on this?” he questions gruffly, though there's a note of gratitude in his voice, while he looks between the cream in his hand and your cloaked presence.

“That is unimportant,” you breathe out softly, swinging your hand in the air to brush it off. You tug your hood lower as you feel it sliding upwards, revealing parts of you.

“If you are not here to mock me, what for then?”he utters neutrally, his voice less rough than the first time. His hand hesitates for a moment, dipping his fingers to gather the cream so he can apply it on his injured shoulder. He’s wincing lowly as soon as the cool substance touches his raw wound. A soft sigh follows, his nostrils flaring.

“To help you, I know it is something you are not used to. I simply thought you fought well,” you mumble back with a hint of nervousness, hands soothing down your silky robes — the hems layered with dirt from your outing. The white haired gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at the mention of his performance in the arena. His digits finish massaging the cream into his injury, treating it.

“I fought well, so what? Not that it matters. I will just have to fight again tomorrow, and the day after, and then the day after,” he rises to his feet, startling you a little with the swiftness of his movement. You retrieve a step, tilting your head up to somehow catch a glimpse of him — the hood blocking your view.

“You fought unlike anyone I have ever seen before. I am sure you will earn your place here. Temporarily, of course, before you are freed,” you whisper into the dead of the night while his hands reach for the bars, knuckles turning white from his tight grip. It makes you swallow a lump forming in your throat, this is probably the longest you’ve ever talked to a man alone. It doesn’t help he’s practically stripped of his garments, muscular chest to your display.

And most of all, he’s a vicious killer.

“Freed? You either must be delusional or naive if you think that will happen,” the gladiator can't help but snort at your words as he retorts, skepticism returning to paint his sharply defined features. Desperately trying to see past the hood covering your face.

“You simply have to be good, keep winning and charm the audience,” you advise him with all you’ve come to know over the months you spent here, even though he seems to find your behaviour naive. He falls silent at your statement, contemplating your advice.

“And how do you know that, huh?” he hums, still wary — letting out a long sigh and leaning against the chilly wall of the cell, gaze fixated on your masked figure.

“I have lived in city for a long time to see,” what you say is not hundred percent right, however, your time spent in the city is great enough to know how things work around here.

“Why not stop walking around the bush and tell me who you are?” he leans forward into the bars again while still fixating his somewhat cold orbs at you, demanding to drop the mysterious act.

“Trust me, it is safer for you if you remain unaware of my identity,” you chuckle quietly to yourself at his pressing demand, finding his presence shockingly welcoming. The gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at your chuckle. He lets out a low huff of annoyance, but curiosity pierces his system.

Just who exactly are you?

“You someone of importance? Someone with power?” he goes on, pushing you to give him answers.

“No one has power in city expect for the emperor,” you frown automatically at the harsh reality of being in the hands of someone so cruel. His expression mirrors yours, your truthful declaration resigning with him.

“You got a point there, mysterious stranger,” he mutters, his hand mindlessly touching his shoulder where the injury is. As if out of habit. There's a moment of silence between the two of you in which you step closer, hand reaching for the bar — your gold ring illuminated by the moonlight revealed to him, unbeknownst to you.

“I will bring you food the tomorrow, if you live, that is,” his eyes linger on the gleaming gold of your ring, processing your words, expression conflicted. Part of him wants to know more about you, to uncover the mystery that shrouds you, but he also understands your sense for secrecy.

“Alright," he finally responds, his voice gruff but with a hint of resignation.

“What is your name?” you keep standing by the cell, less afraid of what he’s to do. Curiosity gets the better out of you and since you’re half hidden in the safe embrace of your robes and hood, you ask. Otherwise you wouldn’t be as brave.

“Two can play the game,” he curves his lips into a lazy grin, huffing out and refusing to provide you with it.

“See you tomorrow, oh saviour,”

Days stretch out into weeks and each night, you slip past the velvet-draped guards and silent marble corridors due to the help of your loyal servant. Your heart pounds louder than anyone’s footsteps as you sneak through the palace each night, crippled with fear that you may be caught. One would expect a practiced ease due to how often you preform, however, it seems to make an opposite effect. You’re worried your luck of being unnoticed will run out. Though you can’t bring yourself to sleep peacefully without paying the white haired man a visit.

The gladiator. Your gladiator.

At first you told yourself you were doing him a favour, treating his slash. That you have no reason of coming back here.

And yet, here you are.

Time and time again.

He waits for you in the shadows of the cell below the training pits, always stiff at first, as if unsure if you’ll come. As if each time might be the last and you wonder if someday, it might truly be.

His body is bruised and bandaged from battles played out earlier in the daylight in front of hundreds, but you never him voice his complains out loud, regardless of how roughed up he ends up.

You silently admire that.

Meanwhile you’re betrothed to the emperor, unbeknownst to your gladiator, weak and forced to follow his orders. You’re the empire’s prize, it’s what they call you. A future empress, beautiful and admirable. Expected to bring prosperity and sense into the crazed mind of the ruler. Bring children to continue the lineage. But they don’t see how your hands tremble when you hear the crowd roar, how you flinch at each touch of your soon to be husband, how you perk your ears each night — hoping you’ll hear silence and not his footsteps.

What frightens you perhaps the most out of all is each time the gladiator steps into the arena. It feels like a piece of you goes out with him. You’re on the edge of your seat, nervously gripping at layers of your tunic as metal clashes in the arena. Each time he fights to live another day.

He might have earned the favours of people effortlessly and the emperor himself, nonetheless, how long can you steal moments in the dark with him before the light of the world finds out? Before the emperor learns that his bride’s heart doesn’t belong to him, that it never did nor never will. That instead, it belongs to a man with blood coating his sword at the end of each day?

Who knows what would happen then, in the best scenario — he’d have you both killed.

Despite all the risks, you don’t regret coming to him every night like a prayer and leaving each morning, feeling like a sinner. Though every day, you fear the gods are listening, judging and plotting against your odds.

“You are Greek, I can tell from your accent,” you finally let out what you’ve been meaning to for the past few days, from the moment you picked up on his light accent. It wasn’t noticeable at first and those not born on greek lands would overlook it entirely.

“I was born there, yes,“

“I was leading an army into a battle. Lost, got captured, travelled miles without knowing where we are headed. I stopped hoping after endless days of walking, and by a miracle landed here —into an arena in the capital of the empire,” he shares his story with you, glazing you with a form of vulnerability and the simple reality behind his path leading him to you. It leaves you feeling sorry for him, but you don’t wish to shower the gladiator in pity. You’re sure he’s had enough of time to do that himself.

“No wonder you are as skilled,” you point out instead, tone tender as ever. He snickers in response, watching your cloaked figure from the corner of his eye.

“Where from Greece are you?” you investigate, since there’s not much you know about the man and he’s the closest thing to home in months. He’s cautious, only offering what you’re offering. So you’re afraid he’ll brush you off like you usually do with him.

“I was born on Mykonos, however, my time there was short lived as I was quickly transported to Athens for training,” the mention of his home sparks a memory of your own island within you — shimmering in the late afternoon sun, its walls and painted columns casting long shadows. The sea breathing quietly in the distance, and the scent of salt and thyme carried on in the breeze. Bells echoing from the high towers, marking time. You’d walk alone, past frescoes of dancing bulls and gods with lion eyes, your sandals gliding over mosaic floors. A child of Crete, promised to an emperor across the great body of water. One you barely knew, but whose ships brought you to the heart of the empire. Your home might not be your home anymore, though your heart will remain anchored on the island forever.

How you dread being separated from it.

Knowing the foreign gladiator was brought from the southeast, thrown to the beasts just like you were, brings you a sense of comfort.

You’re about to answer, opening your mouth to spill something of your own, but the interruption of footsteps prevents you from it. You’re quick to stand to your feet, brushing dust off your silky robes. Panic seizes you, heart thundering in your chest as the sound circles closer and closer, until you’re met with the face of the gatekeeper.

Relief fast to embrace you.

“I am incredibly sorry to interrupt, but here is what you asked of me, princess,” the gatekeeper bows a little as he hands you the list of all the gladiators in the Colosseum, eager to depart from the both of you. Your efforts to keep your identity hidden are crushed in a fraction of seconds, by one word. You grip the papers tightly, pushing it into your pocket without giving it a look. Papers which were meant to reveal his name to you.

The blue eyed warrior stops dead at the sound of the man's words, his thoughts racing as he processes your title spoken into the hollow walls of the Colosseum.

"Princess?" he whispers, stunned at the unexpected revelation from the gatekeeper. The white haired gladiator stares at you in disbelief, his gaze no longer curious, but now utterly shocked from your secret flattening. He takes a step closer to the bars, his expression bathing in disbelief while trying to make sense of the situation. You offer him nothing but overpowering silence, head tilted to stare down at the floor.

“You are royalty?” he ponders — hushed, needing to hear the words coming from you so he can be sure his mind isn’t playing any tricks on him. He takes yet another step towards the bars, reaching his hand out to wrap it around the metal bar.

“No, you must have misinterpreted the situation,” you attempt to play the doomed situation down, voice shaken up due to the unexpected reveal. The man on the other side of the cell certainly doesn’t buy it as he continues to tower over you.

“Do not take me for a fool, I heard him call you a princess,”

You remain unmoving, debating innerly on what should your next step be. He knows, there’s no turning back. You could run, never show up here ever again. Only watch him from the box, married to the brute.

No.

Without a word, you lift your head from the ground, letting out a deep and long breath. Your hood slides backwards, revealing the lower part of your face. The gladiator is left breathless as he watches the scene he fantasised about for so long playing out before him. He’ll finally be able to capture the face of the one who’s become his reason to keep fighting. In the faint light, he can make out the delicate curve of your cheek, the gentle slope of your nose, and the fulness of your lips.

He leans in closer, nearly coming into contact with the iron material. The beat of his heart quickens, crazily drumming against his ribs, mind struggling to reconcile the fact that royalty’s standing right in front of him.

The intensity of his icy blue globes suffocates you with anxiety, hand reaching into the air to brush away the hood entirely. Revealing your face, the one he’ll surely be certain to put a label to. And indeed, the gladiator’s breath hitches in his throat as you push away your hood fully, showing him your face in its full glory and offering vulnerability. In the soft light, your features are even more graceful and delicate than he could have imagined.

As he studies your face with great detail, the realisation dawns on him. He recognises you. You’re the woman who sits by the emperor's side everyday, watching each fight play out with a horrifying expression painting her beautifully sculptured features.

You’re basically forced to dart away your gaze, his eyes urging you to feel like you’re standing completely bare in front of him. You survey the long corridor, brushing a strands of your coloured hair behind the shell of your ear. Though his attention never entirely leaves your frame, eyes tracing every feature, studying the way you brush away your hair. He can't help but be captivated by your beauty — similar to the one gods posses — a wave of conflicting emotions swirls through him yet again. He should be respectful to you as a princess, bow down to you. Though there’s a part of him that simply sees you as this mysterious woman who visits him night after night. Nothing more, nothing less.

A mysterious woman whom he thought to be a commoner, turning out to be a princess betrothed to the emperor himself.

“I suppose it must be tad of a shock for you,” you huff out, continuing to look somewhere to the side. Successfully avoiding the gladiator’s eyes, not fully ready to capture them once more.

“You could say that,” he replies, still studying your averted gaze, the sight bringing him to chuckle softly in amusement. He’s baffled by the overflowing emotions you’re portraying, the way you’re unable to fully lock your eyes with him — he’s taken aback by it, even more so since you’re the closest he’s been to a member of a royal family.

He should be the one to be nervous, not you.

You lightly shake your head, in disbelief of the situation, which causes your hair to come undone from the clip that had been holding it together at the back of your head. A few front strands fall into your vision, urging you to blow them away with your mouth. The gladiator watches with a devoted look, the hair framing the shape of your face like you’re in an ethereal painting. He then fully presses his body into the metal forming the bars, face sticking out in between the space with the intention of wanting to reach out and touch you.

He’s so close, regardless of the barrier separating you. One brief movement and he’d be able to touch you, but he’s careful to respect your boundaries. A certain warmth radiates off him, luring you to give in as his breathing fanes across your face. Still, his orbs remain utterly glued to the sight of you — admiring the shape of you and your soft looking hair enveloping the sides of your hair.

His mind is clouded with confusing desires.

The gladiator can't help but be taken aback by your alluring presence, his heart skipping a beat as you leap closer. He watches you intently, his gaze locked on your face while his mind races with thousands of thoughts per second. He reaches out, fingers gently grasping one of the bars — touch tender despite the rough calluses on his hands, but rather swift in response to his own pleas.

Your body flinches away out of fear at his fast movements, a habit you harvested throughout your months at the palace. The emperor is unpredictable, you never know if he’s about to soothe your hair, pinch your skin or something far worse. You curse yourself innerly for your doubts, because you trust this caged man more than you ever would your soon to be husband.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, princess,” his voice is smooth as he makes out your fear, even if it appears for a mere second. He is quick to retrieve his hand from the bar, remorse filling him up to the brim. He shouldn’t have let himself go, shouldn’t have forgotten that you’re royalty and you’re not used to being sought after so casually.

The gladiator whose name you’re still unaware of steps back, creating distance between you in an apologetic manner.

“No,” you let out quietly, closing the distance again to seek out his proximity by sticking your hand in between the metal barrier, waiting for him to take it and scoot over to you once more. Your gesture shows him that you’re not afraid of him, though you perhaps should be as you see what he does to other men inside the arena. However, you can see it pains him. That he’d rather be anywhere else, he kills simply out of the need for survival. If he didn’t strike first, then he’d be dismembered. That made you grow fond of him in the first place.

He’s taken aback by your unexpected gesture of trust, mixture of awe and hesitation overtaking his being. With a slow movement, he reaches out and gently wraps his much larger hand around yours, holding it soothingly. His hands are rough and scarred while yours look like they’re made of porcelain, polished and well taken care of. Your own heart stops for a moment at the difference in the sizes and at how surprisingly gentle he is with you.

“How did you end up at the mercy of the madman?” he holds your hand delicately as he asks you, as if afraid he might hurt you, knowing the strength he possesses.

“I was born on Crete. My father is the king of the island, one well connected. The second the emperor’s mother announced that her son is to be wedded, I was brought to a ship as a candidate,” his touch electrifies you, not in the same way when you were near other men in your life. Not that you have ever been left alone with one like this before — in the night with only dim light illuminating your vision, tucked away from the sights of everyone.

When you compare it to polite gestures with your suitors, it failed to do such as his touch. It failed to do half of what this man stirs in your insides.

Your father would be furious, yet the simple thought of it excites you. The forbidding atmosphere excites and scares you at the same time.

“Sadly he took a liking to me. And although I loathe to breathe the same air as he does, I have no other choice,” you finish speaking, hesitant to lock your gaze with his again. Your tone picks up on a hint of sadness, lacing your expression as you retell him the simple story of how you became the target of the emperor.

“I’m sorry, it is horrible, and you do not deserve it,” he gently squeezes your hand, and it feels refreshing to hear someone voicing out their sympathies. All you’d get from the noble society is how ungrateful you’re for not being over the moon, that countless of women would throw themselves off a cliff for a chance to meet the ruler. How gladly you’d let them have him instead.

“Do not apologise, you do not deserve to be treated like this either,” your free hand flies to the air, gesturing at the darkened place where a metallic smell of blood hangs heavily in the air.

“No need to worry about me,” he mumbles to interrupt you, shaking his head to strip you of your worries.

“But I do, each time you step into the arena,” the words are simple, yet holding an immense power.

He bends down to your level.

It happens in a quick moment, away from the eyes of courtiers and the weight of your duties. In a place where the air smells of iron and stone. A princess of Crete, a bride promised to the emperor, raised in silks and showered in gold jewels. You’re meant to be wise, untouched and perfect — served on a silver platter for the empire. But when you look at him, the gladiator chained in these dungeons, all of your problems seem to unravel and dissolve like sea foam. He isn’t beautiful in the way noblemen are. There is nothing polished or rehearsed about him. He stands in front of you, inches separating you, bruised from the acts of the fight. His eyes holding no brutality when they met yours. And at this moment, you’d trade all of your life and all those noble men for a simple taste of a gladiator.

You truly didn’t know why you kept coming back. But you did at the same time. You told yourself it was curiosity, pity, maybe even rebellion —though standing in front of him now with little space between you and the atmosphere heavy with something unsaid, you know it’s far more than that. You reach out absentmindedly, fingers slipping between the bars, brushing the line of his jaw. He doesn’t flinch nor forces you away, he welcomes it. His skin is warm beneath the pillows of your fingers, rough with scars, real in a way nothing in your world had ever been.

And then you slowly lean in, eyes fluttering shut in the process. Resulting in the fact you can’t make out anything besides the ramping organ in your ribcage.

Your lips meet, just barely at first. More a breath shared than a kiss. Something in you shifts into place as it happens though. It’s soft, then urgent, and another second you’re trembling with all the things you were never allowed to want, but dreamt of in secret. The white haired warrior kisses you back like he knows this might be the only time he’s offered the opportunity, like the moment is slipping through his fingers even as he holds you close.

It’s your first kiss, and it strangely feels just as natural as breathing.

You liked to imagine you’d share your first kiss somewhere in a garden, smelling petals of roses or at the foot of a golden throne with a prince. Instead you’re here, in the shadows, with a man whose name is a mystery waiting to be discovered. And still, none of your scenarios could compare to the real thing, to the heat shared between you as your lips move in sync with his.

“Satoru,” he whispers into your mouth in between your shared kisses, his hands slipping further past the bars to pull you closer by your perfect silky robes. Pressing you into the metal cell, in hopes of feeling your body against his.

“Satoru?” you repeat in confusion.

“Oh, Satoru,” you coo in realisation of his name, and whisper your own in addition.

“Say it again,” he demands, fingers brushing past your robes.

And you do.

Again and again and again and again.

It tastes sweetly on your tongue, just right.

And when you finally pull away due to the lack of oxygen, your lips are still tingling with the taste of him and suddenly, all is different. Your cheeks are flushed with a tint of pink, silently praying he won’t speak of it out loud. And he doesn’t, he actually seems to ride the same wave of adrenaline as you.

He clumsily sneaks and twists his hand in order to be able to caress the swell of your cheek. Pushing strands of your hair to rest behind your ear, causing you to chuckle fondly as the featherlight touch tickles you.

“Is there anything you would like for me to bring tomorrow, before your fight?” you suggest, hoping to make his time in the cell more accommodating.

“Just your company,” he smiles down at you, turning it into a smirk only a moment later. The one which grabs you by your throat, robbing you of any common sense.

Isn’t it crazy how one person can make you feel what other never could nor would in such a short period of time?

“I appreciate your flattery, but in all seriousness, do you not need anything?”

“No, your presence will be enough of a fuel,” he goes on, refusing anything before you even offer it.

“Do you think differently of me, knowing I am a princess?” you mumble worriedly, looking to the side for a while. Not wanting to appear pretentious, hoping his outlook on you won’t change despite him knowing who you really are.

“A stupid title will not alter the way I think of you,” his voice drops an octave, meant only for your ears. The gesture seemingly intimate, causing an entire havoc in your stomach.

You hold his face in your palms, memorizing the lines carved by his skills and the spots where the sun attacked brutally — surveying the kindness etched onto his features that hides beneath his nonchalant armour throughout the day. And you kiss him full of gratitude like you can press your soul into his, because by dawn, you both return to your cages.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s the arena or the palace.

The sun rises like gold urns pouring water over the city of Rome, spilling light through the stained arches of windows straight into your chamber. Soft beams brush against your bedsheets and the heading of your bed. You awake slowly as it reflects into your face as well, breath catching in your throat — not from your disturbed sleep, but from a creeping dread you could no longer push away.

Your wedding is in a week from today.

The scent of jasmine and rose water fills the room, meanwhile maidens move quietly as they notice your awake state to draw open the heavy curtains and to sett out gowns the colours of twilight and fire. All for you to try later in the evening. They smile as they walk past you, greeting you and whispering of the day’s important schedule. Their cheeriness brings you sorrows as they surely must picture you as their future empress already — you’re their fraction of hope for a better life. You force yourself to smile back, no sign of real joy as the rmperor’s image doesn’t stir your heart with same admiration as they imagine it does.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the silk sheets falling around you like waves. Outside, the palace garden blooms unnaturally early, flowers coaxed into blossom by alchemists to match the emperor’s vision of a perfect wedding day, not that he cares as much. Trumpets call faintly in the distance, and you recognise the sound instantly. The city below is already alive with celebration for your upcoming wedding. But all you feel is the weight of your duty, heavy as the golden jewellery you’re putting on.

A soft knock at the door echos through the walls of your room, handmaiden entering with a polite bow.

“The emperor sends word, princess. He awaits you in the throne room and then you will be allowed to have a breakfast,” is all she says before she places an ivory stola on the edge of your bed, disappearing with yet another bow. The long gown she brought fails to bubble up any form of excitement. You don’t move, gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the window, where smoke swirls through the air. Too mesmerised by yesterday’s occurrence, the ghost of Satoru’s touch shimmering you, regardless of his absence. The mere fantasy of his proximity sets you on fire.

Your nightly encounters are the only thing pushing you to get up, letting the maidens do their magic on you and slipping into the long gown your soon to be husband picked out specifically for you. You're standing tall, wrapped in the clothing which drapes over your shoulders like liquid moonlight. It’s beautiful, not what you’d choose but it works. The fabric is soft and cool against your skin, flowing down in elegant folds. Every movement feels you’re drowning in fluid, effortless. A delicate golden belt rests at your waist, shaping your figure not too tightly.

The palace buzzes with preparations for your upcoming wedding day as you stroll through the corridors of the palace to reach the throne room — golden silks hung, rose petals thrown across marble floors, laurels placed on the columns, songs rehearsed to honour an empire’s union by perfecting hymns dedicated to Venus and Juno. The goddesses of love and marriage. The sound nearly sickens you, the mere thought of standing in front of the altar with your palms rested in his and giving him your youth for free wrenches your gut. And for a moment, it truly feels like you might throw up. Especially when you reach the throne room, your heart thundering against your ribs like it might give out any second.

The emperor sits on his tremendous throne decorated with reflecting gems at the far end of the room, draped in crimson and gold robes. His presence nothing compared to the vastness of the room — he looks like a boy, a fool pretending to be a ruler and yet, you’re at his mercy. The throne is a masterpiece on its own, carved out of the finest marble. Unlike the ruler, it seems to pulse with the weight of power.

“Ah, there’s my bride,” he coos, eyes sharp and calculating as usual. Fixated on your every move, inviting you closer.

“Come,” his monotone voice lures you in.

Your heart pounds unevenly, caught between the sight unraveled before you and the impossible secret you carry in form of love that belongs to another, to one not too far from this gilded cage. The silence feels heavy, broken only by the distant hushes of courtiers and the soft shuffle of your footsteps on polished stone. As you approach, the emperor’s gaze never ceases.

“Your highness,” you let out softly, bending your body to show him respect in hopes of pleasing to achieve a piece of security for yourself.

“Come here, sit,” he pats his thigh, fingers gesturing for you to take a seat.

His words hang in the air as murmurs of servants ripple softly, awkwardness flushing you. Still, you have no choice, so you walk forward to climb the stairs — each one drawing you closer to the throne and to the man who plays to be the ruler. He extends a hand, guiding you gently onto his lap and cradling you not just with power, but possession. As if he owns you. And in a way he does. You feel overly stiff, unable to loosen and the fact it’s being witnessed by every bowed head in the room adds a sting.

At first, he speaks of your wedding day which is hurrying your way. The tone of his voice low, only meant for your ear. It causes goosebumps to grace your skin, not in a pleasant intimate way your lover would make you feel, but rather in fear and disgust. From time to time, mere sight of him boils your blood and spins your head, therefore sitting in such a close proximity makes you want to tear your hair out.

You loathe him dedicatedly, overflowing with hatred for the one you’re supposed to be wedded to, but you can’t be bothered to feel guilty while you’re seated in his lap. His heinous acts can’t make you.

“I must say I am growing rather bored of the new champion,” a mush of his words reaches your ear, they come unexpectedly and it feels like a punch to the stomach. You instantly recognise who he’s directing his words to and what it could mean, knowing his corrupted ways of thinking.

“How so, my lord?” you speak up for the first time since you sat down onto his lap, voice careful and precise.

“Winning over and over gets repetitive, does it not?” he cocks his head to the side lightly, peaking at you from the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging his lips up. A glint of mischief in his gaze, nearly making you choke on paranoia. There’s no possibility he could somehow find out about my nightly outings, you keep repeating in your head.

“I suppose, your highness,” you agree, not wanting to rile him up beyond recognition, even though it takes everything within you to not push him away.

“I will fight the gladiator,” he announces as if it’s some grant gesture, expecting to earn an encouragement, yet all it does is wake up a raging storm of emotions in your chest. Thousands of thoughts running through your mind, all sort of scenarios overtaking your sense. Each one ending in the favour of your soon to be husband and not the man you’ve grown so fond of, because wealth and power win in the end. Not strength and bravery.

“You have seen how skillful the man is,” your spoken statement is an opposite of what he thought you’d say, earning yourself a tight squeeze on your hip. His fingers digging into the fabric of the gown he picked out for you, into your tender flesh.

“Do you trust the slave more than your own emperor?” you can see it then, the change in his mechanisms. It’s like someone flipped a switch and there’s a whole another person, the action urging you to bolt. Nonetheless, you stay, loyal to the one you’re promised to — discarding your own needs.

“I would not dare, I simply worry too much,” you breathe out shakily, trying to appear genuine. It brings you to hesitantly reach out your hand, the motion slow enough that he could slap it away if he wished to. He doesn’t, he welcomes your touch instead, taking you by a surprise the second your palm comes into contact with the swell of his cheekbone.

“I appreciate it, though suggest you keep your mouth shut, sweets. Worry doesn’t look too good on you,” his lips curve into a malicious smile, hand flying out to grip your wrist tightly. You almost whine aloud, not from the pain, but from how unexpected the action was. You swallow the dry lump building up in your throat, barely visibly nodding your hand. And with that, he jerks your arm away from his face.

“In five days, I will face the champion,”

Your world crashes down, ambers of horror turning into flames. You don’t try to convince him to do otherwise due to his stubbornness, regardless of how unlikely he’s to win honourably in the fight. Your mind only wanders to the white haired gladiator, the worry you feel now incomparable to the one you feel each time he goes out to fight in the arena. It’s far more devouring that he’s ought to be robbed of his life in such a disgusting manner.

His arms untangle from your body, hand patting the side of your thigh to show you you’re no longer welcomed in his lap. He dismisses you, finally. The gruesome time spent in his presence seeming overly time consuming. And as soon as that, you’re on the path to your room, you feel both at ease and horrified. The thought of having breakfast making you sick as reality of what is to come for your heartfelt warrior crashes down on you just, coming your way in full speed. Your footsteps pick speed, flying through the corridors of your new home.

When you reach the inside of your chamber, your words are quick to send the maids away, not caring whether they’re finished with their task or not. The one sensation you can focus on is the burning in the walls of your throat and on the entirety of your chest. You manage to breathe slowly in and our in order to keep your emotions at bay until every single one of your ladies exits the room.

Then it hits you, like an arrow to your heart.

He’s going to die by the hands of your monstrous future spouse.

Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, running down the swell of your cheeks and continuing their way down your neck. Meanwhile, your back remains pressed against the entrance door to the room. You close your orbs shut, thinking that maybe — just maybe — it’d go away if you tried hard enough. However, you can’t stop the reality from dragging you down. And you feel pathetic for allowing your emotions to get the better out of you, because of a man who’s always been bound to be taken away from you. Although, it never occurred to you it could be done by the man you’re betrothed to. It makes you hyperventilate, each cell in your body bursting while trying not to let out a single sound. It’s agonising, all you wish to do is let it out, but with the ladies still lingering behind the closed door to your room, it’s unimaginable.

“In five days, therefore before our wedding,” you mumble out inaudible and in disbelief, piece of hope swallowing you whole as an idea bubbles up to surface.

Seven days to your wedding ceremony, five till the fight.

You’ve still got time to try, try to either talk the emperor into stepping away from the fight or help the gladiator escape before it comes down to it. Either way, you’d then proceed to marry the emperor, be miserable and preform your duty as a princess — bringing the empire a slice of hope for the future. And as great as it sounds, you know you’d regret it till the end of your days. And then there’s the last option, which includes packing up your necessities and losing yourself in the city, sailing away on a boat with Satoru’s hand in your. The fantasy robbing you of any logical way of thinking.

It’s all you wish for, from the marrow in your bones to your fingertips — your whole being years for a chance at a new life, away from the madness of the empire.

Small pieces of ideas begin to form a unit in your mind, and the last thing you need is the agreement of the one you’re so eager to run away with.

It causes you to pick yourself up, each shattered piece, and smile. You smile your way through the day, trying out dresses and answering all the prying questions coming from your court ladies to appear as much in love with the idea of marrying the emperor as they do. You lunch with him in the gardens, you endure each time he picks on you with grace and dodge everything which leads to suggesting being in any shape or form intimate with him. He hasn’t tried anything, but with the wedding date nearing its expiration, he’s certainly growing rather bold with his words and it’s simply a matter of time before he does try. You play out your role of the low maintenance loyal princess who appears to be amazed by what’s happening in her life. All of it just to wake up in the dead of the night, filled with anticipation and anxiety, ready to take on yet another nightly outing. This time being different, tainted by a horrible sense that you’ll soon run out of time for good.

In the stillness of the night, the city transforms and gleams in a strange way under the light of the moon. Each step a defiance to your obligations, betraying your lineage and the ruler himself by plotting against his judgment. The air feels exceptionally thick as you reach the entrance leading to the gladiator’s cells. Your heart heaves with news that threaten to shatter your clandestine fantasy. The emperor, perhaps having caught whispers of your affections, had announced his participation in the upcoming games — not for sport, but for execution. And you’re soon going to be the one to deliver these news.

“I need the keys this time,” you demand, the old man guarding the entrance nearly choking on his own saliva.

“But princess—“

“I said I need the keys,” your voice cuts him off before he can finish, repeating your wish once more and empathising it while reaching into the pocket of your silky robe to pull out a leather sachet, packed with gold and denariuses.

The nameless man scans your hooded figure, arm hesitantly handing you the keys in exchange for your treasure, and then he lets you in without any other words — aware this might not end up well for him. But it doesn’t stop you either like it normally would, you can’t bring yourself to care as you descend down the stairs.

“You are late tonight,” his voice calls out from the darkness of his cell, collected and oh so soothing. Your shoulders loosen up and the speed of your racing heart comes to a halt. You pull your hood down, revealing yourself to him as you inch closer towards the metal bars.

“I am sorry, I had to wait a little longer tonight,” you whisper into the silence, keeping the keys hidden in your pocket as there’s a small uncertainty blooming in you about using them, about stepping inside and that he might run.

“You came, that is what matters,” he exhales with a low hum, stepping out of the darkness to close the overbearing distance between you. Your heart ceases to function at the sight of his beautiful face, each time you see him it grabs you by your throat like it’s the first time and it doesn’t cease to amuse you. The sharp cut of his jawline and cheeks-bones, the delicate curve of his nose and the light sunburn grazing his skin from working in the open sun, but most importantly, the gleam in his eyes — the softness that defies the rest of his muscular frame.

“I am afraid I am not a barer of good news,” you break the silence with a heavy heart, the reality coming together once again as the amusement goes on to pass. Satoru furrows his brows at that, arms sneaking through the metal to touch you.

“The emperor, he is out of his mind, and he wants to fight you before he is to be wedded to me, Satoru,” pure shock paints his face the moment your words make the situation real, his hand gently squeezes your side before his fingers play with the slippery fabric of your gown.

“Let him, then. I will crush him with ease,” he states with confidence and if it were anyone else facing him, you wouldn’t dare to question his skills.

“You are not reading me correctly,” you shake your head slightly, tone cracking, and part of you knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince him of what is building up outside of the walls of the Colosseum.

“He is not to let you win,” you speak slowly and deliberately, allowing him to digest the meaning behind it in hopes that he’ll listen to you.

“He does not need to, I will defeat him,” he copies your way of speaking, trying to convince you to put your faith in him. His palm slides up your body to rest upon your cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Do you truly think he is a man of honour? He will cheat his way out,” the words escape your lips in a quiet and desperate way, while you pool your eyes into his. Their shade almost dark blue in the darkness. Like the ocean that threatens to drown sailors on a stormy night.

It makes you realise that there are no torches lit this night which is suspicious.

“I will send him to his own grave, I promise you princess. That you will be free,” your face falls into frustration even though his thumb works in small sensual circles on your skin, it’s still not enough to soothe down the raging ache.

“You cannot possibly think they will let you kill the emperor in an arena full of guards. In front of hundreds, it will be a charade,” you continue, growing more desperate. So much that you might start pleading, it’s what your eyes are doing anyway and it seems to shake him up a little, because you take notice of the way his features soften up.

“They will take your life too, even if you by some miracle will succeed in killing him,” you add, leaning into the security of his touch.

“At least you will be free, I am to take the risk,”

And that is what utterly undoes you, so much you have to pull and step away.

“Please, I beg you to stop,” you plea, clasping your hands together.

“There is no other way,” his voice is calm in comparison to yours, as if he’s already reconciled with his fate and it only deepens the hurt burning through you.

“Satoru, listen,” you start off shakily, but you manage to form it into coherent sentences, “we could board a ship in four days, sail to Greece together at dawn and leave this behind.”

Your hands tremble as you reach for the gladiator before you, but he’s the one to step away now. Your eyes are wide with desperation, searching his face for traces of hope. He remains still, his muscular frame silhouetting against the stone walls of his cell — your lips quiver, breath hitching as you silently plead for escape.

“I cannot strip you off your titles, your birthright,” he speaks up, crushing your build up hope in a fraction of second, making you reel.

“None of it compares to you,”

“I have nothing to offer you,” the gladiator's expression is a tapestry of conflict. His brows knit together, eyes reflecting a storm of love, sorrows and resignation. He gently takes your hands in his, the touch both tender and firm as he slowly shakes his head.

“It matters not, you are worth more than all the jewels they bathe me in and it would be silly to marry someone I would never be able to love, would it not?” you chuckle lightly, expressing the doubts you haven’t spoken out loud before. You squeeze his hands, urging him to give into this.

“I would simply not be able to forgive myself for robbing you of your comfort,” his iridescent globes pierce yours and it’s admirable, the way he so easily gives up what he wants in order for you to be secured. Even as you’re begging him to do the complete opposite, even knowing the marriage would never fulfil you, but he would rather die than to rob you of everything, give you nothing and make you more miserable. It’s better to be miserable in a palace than somewhere God knows where, it’s what he tells himself as he fights to not do what you’re asking him.

“You are not listening to me,” your tone becomes more firm, demanding. And it irks you how much this affects you, nonetheless, you can’t phantom a reality where you stay with the emperor and leave him to die.

“You are not either,” he doesn’t pretend to be calm anymore, the expression on his face a mixture of remorse and frustration.

“I cannot watch you leave your life behind, and for what? A gladiator?” the echo of his sarcastic chuckle rings through the long dungeon, striking your heart right where it hurts the moment. And you realise just how crazy this is, what you’re asking him to do — to steal a princess under the nose of the emperor — but it doesn’t stop you.

For once in your life, you want to be selfish.

“And I cannot lose you, do you not understand? I have fallen in love with you,” you say exactly what you’re thinking, cheeks flushing in the process due to the simple fact you have never felt the need to say those word nor had anyone ever to say them to.

The gladiator looks just as surprised by your confession as you do which unsettles you.

“What?” he mumbles, barely audible as he implores you to repeat what has left your lips.

credits for dividers: [ @zaldritzosrose @cafekitsune @enchanthings ]

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grenadehearts · 19 days ago

Text

sun drunk and honey eyed.

synopsis: childhood memories, sun kissed skin syrupy mouths, lingering pinky promises and first kisses.

cw: wc 1.5k, izuku x fem!chubby!reader, fluff and mutual pining (heavy on izuku though)

authors note: this was a commission :) pls remember my commissions are always open and help immensely during a very tough time im currently going through. emergency comms linked here. masterlist link here.

You remind Izuku of summer— Of saltwater and laughter carried on the wind, the kind that clings to skin and never quite leaves. Of berry-stained lips and sticky fingers from popsicles melting too fast under the sun. He thinks of how you used to chase each other barefoot down cracked sidewalks, your giggles echoing louder than the cicadas, arms outstretched like you were flying, like nothing could ever touch you.

You remind him of those All Might movie marathons, the ones that stretched deep into the night under blanket forts made of couch cushions and dreams. The screen would flicker against your faces as you quoted lines by heart, stuffing your mouths with popcorn and daring each other to stay awake through the entire trilogy. You always won. He never minded losing to you.

He still wears that dumb plastic ring you gave him when you were seven—part of a "marriage proposal" you made with all the seriousness two sugar-high kids could muster. You handed it to him after making him pinky promise to always stay by your side, forever and always, and he’d grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. It was blue raspberry flavored, so you both took turns licking it until it was nothing but a sticky memory, the plastic heart now kept safe in the little box of treasures under his bed.

You remind Izuku of scraped knees and band-aids with cartoon heroes on them, of nights spent whispering secrets through tin-can telephones strung between your windows. Of the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid and ended up staining the bathroom sink and getting grounded together.

When he looks at you now, he still sees all of that. Still hears the soft crashing of waves behind your laughter, still feels the warmth of your hand grabbing his as you drag him toward whatever adventure you've set your mind on next. The world could be burning and you'd still look at him like you believed in something better. Like you believed in him.

You remind him of everything good he ever knew before the world got hard and sharp. Before the weight of being a hero began carving into his shoulders. When the world was small and bright and all it took to feel brave was you beside him, holding a flashlight like it was a sword.

He thinks he might always look at you like that—

Like you're sunlight in human form.

Like you're the reason he keeps going when everything else feels heavy.

Like maybe, just maybe, if he keeps holding your hand, it’ll always feel like summer again.

Izuku knows.

He’s known for a long time, really—how you hold a soft spot for him. It’s written in every shy smile that tries to stay small but always grows into a beaming grin, round cheeks flushed with pink like watercolor spilled across your skin. He sees it in the little doodles you scratch into the corners of his notebooks with your colored pens—hearts, stars, clumsy sketches of his face mid-ramble or his hero costume with too many freckles. He knows in the way your knees bump his under the table, not moving away when he gets carried away talking about All Might. Or when he suddenly swerves from that and starts gushing about your quirk and how cool you are and how brave and how kind and—

He knows because even when you’re quiet, you stay.

Sometimes you rest your head on his shoulder when he talks too long, your eyelids fluttering like you’re not bored—just calm, lulled by his voice. And he’ll go still, afraid to move too much and disturb the peace. And in those moments, he can smell your shampoo—floral and soft and faintly sweet, like the petals of a garden only he gets to stand in.

Right now, it’s different—but it still feels like that. Like the calm between all the noise of the world is right here.

It’s a golden afternoon, sun bright and heavy in the sky, casting dappled shadows across the lawn. The blades of grass tickle at your bare feet, soft and green and warm beneath you. You’re stretched out beside him, your legs lazily tangled with his, your bikini bottoms peeking out from under loose unbuttoned denim shorts. Your T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, skin kissed pink by the sun, collarbones glowing where the sunlight touches. There’s syrupy popsicle juice dripping down your fingers and chin, staining your lips and tongue a deep berry red.

And Izuku is shirtless, freckles scattered from his cheeks down to his chest like constellations. His green curls are a little damp at the edges, clinging to his forehead, and his chest rises and falls in slow, lazy breaths as he lays back on the blanket, glowing under the sky.

You're both laughing—soft and breathless—over something stupid he said, some corny dad joke that wouldn’t have landed with anyone else but made you wheeze with laughter. You lean your head against his shoulder again, your cheeks sticky and warm and your heart full, and Izuku thinks he could stay like this forever.

Your laughter quiets into something gentler, something almost wistful, and your fingers reach up to tug at the edge of his hair. You’re staring at him, sun-drunk and honey-eyed, and then you glance away again—off to the sky, or maybe back in time.

“Remember that summer,” you start softly, “when we thought we could build a treehouse in your mom’s backyard with just rope and cardboard?”

Izuku chokes on a laugh, rolling onto his side to look at you better. “You mean the one that collapsed on me and you cried for like an hour because you thought I broke my leg?”

“I thought you did!” you say, half laughing, half scolding, nudging your foot against his. “You wouldn't stop screaming!”

“I was screaming because you were screaming!” he counters, grinning. “You stepped on my limited edition all might figurine trying to get help!”

“I was panicking!”

Izuku is laughing now—really laughing. His shoulders shake with it, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest, and he rolls closer to you until his forehead almost bumps yours. His arm falls around your waist in the motion, loose and easy and too close, and you don’t move.

You never do.

And your heart stumbles a bit when he looks at you like that—cheeks pink from the sun, lips wet with melted popsicle, eyes that could catch stars in them if they tried hard enough.

The sound fades from his chest, slowly, but the grin remains. Just a bit softer. A bit shakier.

Izuku stares at you for a long second, and his heart starts doing that thing again—that terrified, aching thump like it’s not sure whether to leap forward or fall back. You’re close. Too close. The kind of close that would ruin everything if he made the wrong move. The kind that makes it impossible not to look at your lips and wonder.

He swallows, and his voice goes quieter than he meant.

“Y/n…”

Your name sounds like something sacred in his mouth. Like something he’s never allowed himself to say like that before.

You blink, gently, brows tugging just a little. “Hey, Zu… You okay?”

You brush a curl from his forehead, fingers light against his skin, and that’s it.

He breaks.

Because he isn’t okay. He hasn’t been okay since he realized you’re not just his best friend anymore. Haven’t been okay since he noticed the way your hand feels different when it’s wrapped around his wrist instead of just touching his arm. Haven’t been okay since he dreamed once about kissing you and woke up with tears on his cheeks because it felt so far away.

So Izuku doesn’t think—he prays, silently, to All Might or to fate or to whatever power is watching—and he leans in.

The kiss is soft and sun-warmed and tastes like salt and berry-flavored popsicles and summertime. His lips move slow against yours like he’s scared you’ll vanish the moment he presses in too hard, like you’re made of smoke and the slightest pressure will send you scattering.

You kiss him back with your whole heart.

When you finally pull apart, the world feels quieter. Softer.

He’s still leaning over you, green eyes wide and almost scared, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. His cheeks are blazing, his fingers trembling where they’ve curled around your side.

“I—” he starts, breath catching. “I love you. I… I really do.”

You smile. So softly it almost hurts.

You thumb over his cheekbone, gentle, tracing the freckles kisses by the sun, like you’re memorizing them for later.

“Zu,” you whisper, voice barely a breath, “I love you.”

You always beat him to it.

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since childhood. His forehead drops against yours, and for a while, you just stay like that—knees tangled, lips pink and sticky, hearts finally, finally on the same page.

The popsicles melt into the grass. The sun dips a little lower.

And the summer stretches on, sweet and golden and full of promises finally kept.

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months ago

Text

Nico doesn't notice it, at first.

Most of the day his eyes are just blue.

Pretty blue, of course. Most of Will is; pretty that is. He sounds it, especially, rolling r's and loud lovely laughs and a lower voice that's right on the edge of raspy. He matches it, too, his voice, he has the wild golden curls and veritable spattering of freckles that match the paint-spatter splash of his very being. He is pretty the way dandelions are pretty, bright and explosive and covering hills as far as the eyes can see.

Nico doesn't talk as much as he does. Most people don't, honestly, if there's one thing about Will it's that he's got something to say. Nico likes it when he talks, he likes to walk along and listen or track the waving of his arms as he rants during breakfast. When he watches he can see his big big eyes widen and narrow with every raised and falling pitch of his voice, he can see them sparkle with something secret every time a tripwire gets pulled and someone blames the Hermes cabin. When he watches he can see the shimmery, sky-blue catch in the sunlight, glowing with the pride of his father.

It takes a morning on the silent Apollo cabin veranda for Nico to catch the difference.

It is a Sunday, and he's awake by force of habit. He's been out of his time-distant past longer than he's ever been in it, but ten years of waking up at the crack of dawn, or before in the winter months, to slide on a starchy shirt and squeeze into pinchy shoes he hated, dutifully if grumpily holding onto Mama's left hand and making faces at Bianca around the curve of the pews, has made its mark. He's yet to spend a single Sunday morning anything but groggy but conscious, glaring out the lone Cabin Thirteen window.

One morning, he catches movement across the common.

The way the cabins are set up puts Nico on a small hill. It's interesting, really, and Nico doubts it was on purpose -- what with the disastrous design of the cabin before Nico renovated it -- but nothing venerating Hades is ever looking down on anyone else. His father is quite pleased with it, he knows, and for it the cabin is always pleasantly warm, and smells slightly like turned dirt. Garden dirt, thankfully, not grave; Nico cannot be sure and will never ask but sometimes he suspects his stepmother might have something to do with it. Either way Nico has a clear view of the entire camp from end to end, including the line of cabins gently curving from his down to Zeus's. Three doors down, and smack at the crux of the curve, is Apollo's: in the warming, rising sun, the gilded walls glow, making the red cedar beams holding up the roof look warm and lively, like there's life still growing inside. On the rickety, camper-built porch sits Will, up earlier even than any of his siblings, curled up in the corner of a porch swing. He rocks it ever slightly with one bare foot.

Unthinkingly, Nico walks over to join him.

It's harpy time still, technically. They have reign until the sun is high and clear in the sky, even in the lazier winter months. They glare at him, now, some more restlessly than others, but they know better than to come at him. Nico's sword is dark and obvious from its spot at his side, hands twitching towards it. Besides that his death aura clears him for a solid radial mile.

Will smiles, when he sees him coming.

"Mornin', sunshine," he says, voice soft in the barely-daylight. He taps the cushion next to him. "Come sit?"

It's pleading, almost, Nico notices. Not will you come sit, or wanna come sit. But come sit, as in here is your spot. Come sit as in I want you to.

Nico flushes and joins him.

"Yer up early."

His accent is thicker this early in the morning. Nico almost wants to shiver when he hears it, words short and vowels long. He looks like it, too, eyes closed and face mirroring the sun, tipped up to meet it. Long limbs curled up but bent, like the awkward ends of a sweet-tea straw. He bleeds warmth, from the foot of space between them.

"Sunday," Nico admits, just as quiet. He watches as Will drags a hand through his messy hair, smile tugging at the dimpled corners of his mouth. "Habit, I suppose."

"Yeah? Were ya up with them church-goers, once 'pon a time?"

Nico nods, suddenly restless. He sits on his hands to keep them from reaching out, to keep them from brushing along the bob of Will's Adam's apple.

"My abuela -- my mama's gramma, that is -- was Catholic, too. Crack'a dawn every week."

"Oh."

Nico forgets Will has a mortal life, sometimes. He seems so cornerstone to camp, mentioned in passing in every other story, a part of the schedule from breakfast's daily mental health check-ins to sing-along at ten. Even the infirmary bears his name -- never you should probably head over to the infirmary, but go on and get Will. Nico tries to imagine him without the backdrop of the strawberries, or in the empty desert, and comes up blank.

"Y'seem surprised."

"I am, I guess."

"How come?" He cracks an eye open, grinning. "'M too much of a sinner for it?"

Nico snorts, thinking of the thundering of the Ares cabin last night, coming home after campfire -- where Will has been suspiciously and conspicuously absent for all but his little number at the end -- to each and every bunk and possession attached to the ceiling. As far as Nico is aware, they spent the night on the cement floor.

"Something like that, you menace."

Will smiles, a self-satisfied little thing, and settles back onto the cushions. He exhales as it rocks and all tension melts from his broad shoulders; his extended hand rests limp and tempting in the cushion between them and every cell in Nico's blood itches.

The run rises, slowly. It takes its time by the measured sound of Will's breathing, warming the cracking calluses of his bare heels to the wind-rustled hem of his shorts. With every inch of sunlight he gets brighter, and Nico gets warmer, and warmer, and warmer.

When more than half of it has pushed its way over the crest of the horizon, he shifts, stretching, turning to face Nico fully. He opens his mouth to say something or make a comment and Nico does not hear it, in fact his ears go long and ringing, because his --

His eyes.

For the first time that morning, he faces Nico head on, elbow off the curve of his forehead, blond eyelashes catching in the warm rays. For the first time that morning, eyes fully open, Nico can see -- not the languid spread of him, or the endless, summer-dark freckles, but the width of his irises, the shine of his pebble-sized pupil: in the bright, early-dawn morning, Will's eyes are endless.

Blue is no longer the right color for them. Desperately, Nico searches around the porch roof, above the chimney of the Big House, and there they are, reflected in infinity: Will's eye are every jealous painter's deepest desire, they are the exact makeup of the morning sky from the pale blue at the rounded top to the golden clouds reflecting the flares of the gentle yellow sun. There are even lines, cutting straight through, of pure, gentle gold; like the angular rays of Heaven looking kindly on the spinning Earth, so stretch the lines in Will's infinitely expanding irises. Layered in between the blue and the gold is the color Nico has never been able to name, the color like pillow softness, the color like soft hands on a fevered forehead, the color like coming in from the biting cold. The color like welcome on in and I got you, darlin'. The color like a long, easy inhale that sits soft and easy in your tired lungs.

"You're starin'," says Will, quietly.

Nico swallows. He doesn't even know what to think in response.

"Everythin' alright?"

Nico's hands twitch, again, and this time he doesn't have half to strength to stop them; unbidden they move slowly up the curve of Will's cheek, pinky lingering on the prominent tendons of his scarred neck. He rests his palms on the softness of his jaw and his thumbs on the dips under his eye, hands cupped like before the holy Eucharist. He waits, mouth dry, tongue poised in anticipation of the I believe.

"Your eyes," he breathes, finally. Its mirrored in the hitch of Will's chest. "My God above."

"Ain't nothin' special," Will argues, or tries to. Heat begins to bloom under the curl of Nico's palm, and Will's voice as gone reedy and thin. "I'm -- they're just blue, darlin', what have you --"

"They're not." Nico stops himself from becoming vehement, barely, but can't slow the firm shake of his head, the whip of his rapidly warming hair. "They're -- they're sky blue Will, gods." He tilts Will's head, slightly, and he goes, swallowing heavy. "This is the kind of thing artists dream about."

That makes Will blush, heavy and hard from the tips of his forehead to below the collar of his shirt. Nico smiles, fond, something heated along the bridge of his own nose, but he cannot help but notice that Will's eyes are still shifting, even as he narrows them, even as he cringes away from Nico's words; the golden along the bottoms spreads, now, past half his irises, like sunlight on shoreline.

"You're -- full'a somethin, di Angelo," he accuses, only his pretty voice cracks. "I dunno what's got you smoother than a polished river stone, but cut that right out, y'hear me?"

Or what, Nico wants to challenge. He is emboldened, now, by Will's embarrassment; as much as he squirms he does not move away. But as the sun crests higher and higher the gold begins to fade, irises smoothing bright and blue and reflective of the sky, still. Robin-egg pale at this exact moment. But familiar enough that Nico exhales, obedient, and drops his hands, scoots way.

"You got possessed," Will mumbles, still curled in on himself. But he smiles slightly to himself and Nico mirrors it, drinking in his shy, shocked pleasure. When he looks over and huffed there is a brazenness in his teeth, a sudden realization of what Nico has been seeing this whole time: he is pretty, and quite obviously so. Even in the neon of his Head Medic shirt. "Oddball."

Nico says nothing, knocking him gently across the shoulders. He settles back in the cushion right next to him, and together they rock, on the creaky old swing, watching lights flick on, shadows move across curtained windows.

Nico looks up into the brightening sky and finds it familiar.

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deliciousangelfestival · 11 months ago

Text

Another Ending - 1 | Bucky Barnes

Character: ex!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It was supposed to be a short week watching over your niece, who loves romance books. She thought you were just a normal aunt, but it turns out you have secrets.

Tags: Spies, action, threat, offense, fight scene, violence, romance.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , End .

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

The weight of the assassin's body presses down on you, pinning you to the ground as his sword hovers dangerously close to your throat. Every muscle in your arms strains as you hold your gun up, barely keeping the blade away from your neck.

The cold metal of the sword gleams under the dim light, a stark reminder of how close you are to death. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, are unreadable, but you can feel the murderous intent radiating from him.

Sweat drips down your forehead, mixing with the dirt and blood on your face as you grit your teeth. With every ounce of strength, you manage to growl, "You're dead to me."

For a split second, you see it—hesitation. The assassin’s grip falters, his focus wavering. That’s all you need. With a desperate shove, you push him off, the sword sliding away from your neck as you scramble to your feet. Your heart pounds in your chest as adrenaline takes over, and you start running, not daring to look back.

The echoes of your past, the regrets, and the pain are left behind as you sprint away. You know that you’ve bought yourself only a few precious seconds, but at this moment, it’s enough. You leave the assassin behind, along with everything that once bound you.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

The lodge is warm and inviting, nestled comfortably by the edge of a tranquil lake. Large windows allow sunlight to pour in, casting a golden glow across the rustic wooden floors. The living room is cozy, with a soft, earth-toned sofa positioned near a stone fireplace. You push the sofa slightly, adjusting its angle to better face the window, where the view of the lake creates a peaceful backdrop.

As you finish, the sound of the doorbell rings through the house. You straighten up, smoothing a hand over your clothes before heading to the door. When you open it, a smile crosses your face.

Standing there is Lori Grant, your niece. She’s dressed in a green shirt and black pants, her short hair with bangs framing her face beneath thick glasses. A pink backpack is slung over one shoulder, and she’s dragging a suitcase that looks far too big for her small frame.

“Hello, Aunty,” Lori greets you, her voice bright with excitement.

“Where’s your mom?” you ask, glancing past her.

“She just left,” Lori replies, stepping inside and immediately struggling with the weight of her suitcase. She lets out a frustrated “Ugh” as it catches on the doorstep.

You can’t help but chuckle softly. “Let me help you with that.” Gripping the handle, you lift the suitcase easily, though you wonder why a 13-year-old needs so much luggage.

As you bring the suitcase inside, you ask, “Are you hungry? I bought some tofu for you.” Your older sister’s voice echoes in your mind, reminding you of the strict health-conscious diet she keeps Lori on. She’s made a name for herself online with her healthy recipes, and now she’s on a book tour promoting her new cookbook.

Lori looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of relief and hope. “Aunty, I’m so excited to be here. I can finally get away from the food my mom makes.”

You laugh, a warm, understanding sound. “Oh, thank goodness. How about fried chicken or lasagna?”

Lori’s face lights up, her hands clasping together as if in prayer. “Why not both?” Her eyes shimmer with anticipation, almost teary at the thought of indulging in something she’s missed.

“Yes!” you reply with a grin, already planning the feast.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The two of you cook together, filling the kitchen with the mouthwatering aroma of fried chicken and lasagna. The sizzle of the food and the warmth of the stove creates a cozy atmosphere, and before long, you’re both sitting at the table, enjoying the meal.

Lori, barely looking up from her book, eats with a hearty appetite, tearing into the fried chicken and savoring the lasagna.

You glance at her, amused by how engrossed she is in her book. It’s refreshing to see someone her age so absorbed in reading rather than staring at a screen. She’s been glued to that book ever since she arrived.

“Is it a good book?” you ask, taking a sip of your water.

“Yes. The best,” she replies without lifting her eyes from the pages.

You smile and ask, “What’s the book about?”

At that, Lori snaps the novel shut and looks at you with excitement blazing in her eyes, as if she’s been waiting for this moment. “Oh, Aunty, this is the best book! It’s full of adrenaline, mystery, and romance.”

You raise your eyebrows and nod slowly, recognizing the same spark in her that your older sister often has. “Let me guess, a royal romance?”

Lori shakes her head enthusiastically. “No. It’s set in modern day. It’s an enemies-to-lovers story where both are spies from different sides. They have to decide between love and their duty.”

You nod again, your expression thoughtful. “That’s impossible in the real world.”

Lori huffs, rolling her eyes playfully. “That’s why it’s fantasy, Aunty. Geez, you sound just like my mom.” She returns to her book, burying herself in the story again.

You chuckle softly, setting your glass down as you gather your plate and stand up. “Well, usually betrayal happens in those stories.”

Lori looks up, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. “That’s right! There’s a part where the male character betrays the female character.”

Your hand slips, the plate clattering into the sink, but thankfully it doesn’t break.

“Aunty, are you okay?” Lori asks, concern in her voice.

“I’m fine. My hand just slipped,” you say, brushing it off with a smile.

Lori gets up, carrying her plate to the sink. “I’m already done. I’ll help you with the dishes.”

“Thank you,” you reply, appreciating her help.

As you both wash the dishes, you ask her about life at school. Lori tells you all about her friends, her classes, and the things that make her happy.

“Do you have a crush at school?” you ask, a teasing note in your voice.

Lori hesitates, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “Well… there is one boy. His hair and smile remind me of the male character from the spy book.”

You nearly drop the spatula but manage to catch it just in time. What’s gotten into you today?

“What about you, Aunty?” Lori asks, her tone curious.

“Me?” you respond, a bit caught off guard.

“While living in this lodge, have you ever met a farmer with a six-pack, a cute café owner, or a cool police officer?” Lori asks, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

You gasp, her question catching you by surprise. “Your mom mentioned you’ve become quite the chatterbox.”

“Aunty, your life is a dream. You have it all—except a boyfriend,” Lori says matter-of-factly. She doesn’t fully understand what you do for a living, but she knows from her mom and grandparents that you’ve traveled the world and are now enjoying the fruits of your hard work.

You place your hands on your hips, eyeing her with a mock sternness. “How long have you been staying with Grandma?”

“Three weeks,” Lori answers, wiping a plate dry with a clean cloth.

“That explains it,” you say with a chuckle, ruffling her hair playfully. Your mother has a habit of prying into your love life, and you’ve overheard her sighing over the phone, saying, ‘I’m afraid she’ll die single.’

“But seriously, Aunty, why are you still single?” Lori asks, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

You look at her, a sigh escaping your lips. “When you’re older, you’ll understand that life is complicated. There’s no guarantee of a happy ending.”

“Seems like you don’t believe in romance anymore,” she says, her voice soft but probing.

“Lori…” you begin, but her words strike a chord in you. Kids have a way of getting straight to your feelings. You head to the living room, trying to shake off the conversation and turn on the TV. With a sigh, you throw yourself onto the couch.

Lori follows you, still determined to rekindle your belief in romance. But then, something catches her eye. “Aunty, what’s on the second floor?”

“Just a storage room. Full of dust and spiders,” you reply, waving a hand dismissively.

“Can I go up there?” she asks, her enthusiasm barely contained.

“Go ahead,” you say, smiling at her eagerness.

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you hear her running feet thudding up the stairs. You shake your head, chuckling to yourself. What happened to the little girl who was afraid of spiders? Maybe the influence of that action-packed novel, the fantasy world, pulled her in.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Lori’s eyes lit up with excitement as she explored the second floor, her steps quickening with each new discovery. It felt like a treasure hunt to her, the dusty corners and forgotten items fueling her curiosity.

She opened old boxes, sifted through forgotten knick-knacks, and rummaged through piles of clutter. Her heart raced with the thrill of the search, every creak of the floorboards adding to the sense of adventure.

Then, tucked away near the Christmas decorations, she spotted a plain, unassuming box. It didn’t look like much, but something about it caught her attention. With a soft gasp of anticipation, she opened it and found an old, bulky laptop inside. The device was covered in dust, its once sleek surface now dull and scratched.

“Wow,” Lori whispered, her eyes widening in awe. She lifted the laptop carefully and opened it, running her fingers over the keys. “Clicky, clicky. Love this keyboard,” she said, delighting in the tactile response of the keys beneath her fingers.

Unable to contain her excitement, Lori ran downstairs to find you, clutching the laptop in her arms like a prized possession. “Aunty, look what I found! This is so old, and I love the sound it makes!”

You glanced up and your eyes widened in surprise. “Where did you get that?” you asked, a mix of surprise and concern in your voice.

“Near the Christmas decorations. Can I turn it on?” she asked, her eyes shining with eagerness.

You shook your head, a hint of hesitation creeping into your tone. “It’s been a long time since I turned it on,” you admitted, memories flickering at the edge of your mind. You had pretended the laptop didn’t exist for so long that it had slipped from your thoughts entirely.

“I’ll throw it away,” you said, reaching out to take the laptop from her.

But Lori quickly pulled it back, guarding the laptop protectively. “Even if it’s broken, I could use this for throwback videos,” she argued, her determination evident.

You sighed, seeing the pleading look in her eyes. “Fine. You can have it,” you relented.

“Thank you!” Lori beamed, her smile so bright that any irritation you felt melted away. She hugged the laptop close and dashed off to the guest room, eager to play with her new toy.

Inside her room, Lori’s excitement was palpable. She carefully plugged the charger into the old laptop and pressed the power button, holding her breath in anticipation. But the screen remained dark, the laptop unresponsive.

Her enthusiasm waned slightly, but she didn’t give up. Determined, she searched online for ways to fix old laptops, flipping the device upside down to look for a serial number or brand name. But the markings were too faded to read.

Her hope began to crumble as she realized the laptop might never work again. With a sigh, she set it aside and opened her suitcase, revealing stacks of novels inside. This was the real reason she had wanted to stay with you—to immerse herself in her books without anyone bothering her.

As the night wore on, the clock crept closer to 10 p.m. You yawned, feeling the weight of the day settle in, and turned off the TV. Before heading to bed, you decided to check on Lori. When you peeked into her room, you found her already fast asleep, curled up with a new book clutched in her hands.

You smiled softly, understanding now what was in her suitcase. With a gentle chuckle, you carefully adjusted her sleeping posture and tucked her in, whispering, “Good night.”

As you left, you saw the old black laptop still plugged in, silently charging in the corner. It had been nearly seven years since you last thought about it. You shook your head, a mix of relief and resignation washing over you. It was better if that thing stayed dead, buried in the past where it belonged.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The next morning, Lori woke up feeling cozy under the blankets. She glanced around, realizing she must have fallen asleep while reading her book again. The comforting silence in the room was a welcome change from the usual yelling of her mother.

This is why staying with you was such a great idea. She turned her attention to the old laptop, remembering she had left it charging all night.

With renewed hope, she quickly jumped out of bed and moved to the laptop. She pressed the power button, but the screen remained stubbornly black. Disappointment settled over her like a heavy fog.

Then, she heard it—the faint hum of the laptop’s fan. Her eyes widened, and a gasp escaped her lips. She clapped her hands together in excitement. “Yes!”

Just then, you called from the kitchen, your voice carrying cheerfully through the house. “Lori! You’ve woken up? I’ve made breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry yet,” Lori replied, her focus still on the laptop, waiting for the screen to light up.

“It’s bacon and eggs,” you added, a hint of a smile in your voice.

The mention of bacon and eggs immediately captured Lori’s attention. It had been ages since she’d had a breakfast like that. “I’m coming!” she called out, her voice filled with enthusiasm.

Without another thought, Lori dashed out of her room, leaving the old laptop to continue its quiet struggle to turn on. Her excitement for breakfast had completely overshadowed her frustration with the laptop, and she hurried to the kitchen, eager for the delicious meal you had prepared.

After breakfast, Lori returned to her room, and her excitement about the old laptop reignited. As she entered, she was stunned to see that the laptop had finally powered up completely.

Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the outdated app icons, which looked dull and unappealing. Despite their lack of charm, something else caught her eye: the email application.

Curiosity piqued, Lori navigated to the email app and discovered a list of old emails. She wondered if the laptop could connect to Wi-Fi. To her delight, it could. She connected it and noticed a new notification. Her heart raced as she clicked on it, only to find a single new email dated five years ago.

“This is like something out of a novel,” Lori whispered to herself, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened the email.

Her gasp was audible when she realized it wasn’t spam or a work email—it was a love letter. She read the email with growing excitement:

Subject: An Apology and a Request

Hi,

I hope this message finds you well. I’ve been carrying a heavy heart and wanted to reach out, even though it’s been a while. I left the organization and have started a new life, but I’ve realized that it won’t feel complete without you.

I’m deeply sorry for everything that happened and for the pain I caused you. I know that I have no right to ask for anything, but if there’s any chance for us to meet and talk, I’d really like that. I’m not expecting anything, but I hope we can find some closure.

Yours,

B.B

Lori’s eyes sparkled with excitement. This was even better than the romance novels she had read. She couldn’t believe her aunt had an ex who had been missing her all this time and had finally reached out after five years.

Feeling a burst of inspiration, Lori unplugged the laptop and raced downstairs to find you. “Aunt! Look! Look! Someone sent you an apology letter!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement.

You were busy preparing to head out to your bee farm, dressed in your suit. The sight of the old laptop suddenly turning on and Lori’s enthusiasm about the email caught you off guard. You knew exactly who had sent it, and it brought a wave of mixed emotions.

With a sigh, you closed the laptop, noticing Lori’s disappointed look. You knelt to her level, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Lori, sometimes it’s best to leave the past where it is.”

“But…” she started, her voice trailing off.

You stood up, adjusting your head protection for the farm. “Just enjoy your time here,” you said gently, then headed out of the house.

Lori sighed, her heart heavy with the sadness in your voice. She could sense the pain behind your words and felt that maybe this person was someone special to you. A sudden idea struck her, and she rushed back to her room, placed the old laptop on the table, and began typing a reply.

With her knowledge of romance novels, she crafted a short but heartfelt response:

Subject: Re: An Apology and a Request

Hi B.B,

Thank you for your message. It was a surprise to read your letter after all these years. I appreciate your honesty and the courage it took to reach out. I’m still processing everything, but I’m grateful for your apology.

Maybe one day we can talk, but for now, I hope you find the closure you’re seeking.

Take care,

Y/N

Satisfied with her words, Lori clicked “Send,” feeling accomplished. She hoped her reply would bring peace to her aunt and the sender.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

A few days passed, and Lori grew increasingly nervous. She kept checking the email, but no new notifications appeared, only that eerie computer-generated voice. You noticed her restlessness; she fidgeted with her fingers and paced around the room.

“What’s wrong? Feeling bored?” you asked, trying to lighten the mood. “We could go out for a while, get some fresh air.”

“Eww… no,” Lori replied, wrinkling her nose at the thought of the hot sun and heavy gear. She enjoyed the freedom of staying with you, but she wasn’t enthusiastic about adventures.

“I’d rather stay here, curled up with my book—” Lori was cut off by the familiar, unsettling notification sound.

You flinched at the sound too, a chill creeping down your spine. Lori quickly ran to the laptop, her heart racing with excitement as she saw the red dot notification. She opened the email and skimmed the reply: "I received your message. We need to meet. I’ll find you soon."

“Aunty, look! This person wants to see you. Isn’t it romantic?” Lori said, her excitement palpable.

Romantic my ass, you thought, feeling a cold shiver as you read the email. You abruptly shut the laptop and started packing Lori’s things. Your sudden, frantic movements startled her.

“Change your clothes. Wear something practical and put on running shoes,” you instructed, your voice taut with urgency.

Lori’s eyes widened with concern. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Forget the books. We have fifteen minutes, Lori. Now!” You dashed to your room, grabbing essentials with swift, practiced motions.

Lori, bewildered but obedient, quickly followed your orders. Fifteen minutes later, both of you were ready and in the car. You sped away, your face set in grim determination.

In the passenger seat, Lori clutched the seatbelt tightly, her voice trembling. “Aunt…”

“Lori, did you not hear me? Some things are better left in the past,” you said, your tone cold and firm.

She nodded slowly, her anxiety mounting. “But why?”

Before she could ask more, a deafening explosion rocked the car. “BOOM!” The blast made Lori flinch as she turned to see your house engulfed in flames. Her face pressed against the car window, eyes wide with shock.

“Oh my God. Is that your house?” Lori’s voice was barely a whisper.

You kept your gaze fixed on the road, your face pale and determined. “This is the reality of espionage. The hardest part is when someone tries to kill you.”

Lori gasped, realization dawning on her. “You’re a real spy!”

You didn’t answer, but the silence was deafening—a resounding confirmation.

“And the person who sent the email is another spy!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah. But unlike the novels, we’re not looking to fall in love. We’re trying to kill each other.” Your words sent a shiver down her spine, the gravity of the situation settling in with chilling clarity.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

At the gas station, you and Lori were picking up essential supplies. Your disguise—a dark hat, sunglasses, and a coat pulled tight—wasn't exactly subtle. But Lori's eyes sparkled with excitement.

“This is so cool!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with admiration.

“It’s not,” you muttered, your voice strained as you tried to mask your growing unease. The thrill of the moment had been replaced by a harsh reality. “I’m taking you to your mom.”

Lori’s enthusiasm faltered as she noticed the tension in your body. “But Aunt… why are you running away if this person wants to see you?”

You sighed heavily. “Because—”

Your words trailed off as a shiver ran down your spine. You felt eyes on you and slowly turned to face the source of your unease. There he was, striding towards you with a purpose.

The man stood tall and lean, his dark hair tousled and his leather jacket catching the dim light of the gas station. His face was striking—handsome in a rugged, intense way. His presence radiated strength and determination.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Bucky didn’t break stride or acknowledge you. His pace quickened, and your instincts kicked in. You reached for your gun, but before you could draw it, a loud BANG! shattered the tense silence.

“Kyaaa!!!” The sound of the gunshot set off a wave of screams from everyone inside the store, including Lori. The chaos erupted around you, but you and Bucky remained focused.

You threw yourself in front of Lori, protecting her with your body. Bucky did the same, his gaze locked on the threats.

“You—” you started, trying to catch your breath.

“We don’t have much time,” Bucky cut you off, his voice a low growl. He grabbed your arm, pulling you up, and snatched his own gun. Without another word, he started firing, taking out the shooters one by one.

You joined him in the fray, your movements sharp and efficient. Bullets flew and bodies hit the floor. Bucky’s sharp eyes and quick reflexes contrasted with your precise, practiced shots.

“Your aim’s getting rusty,” Bucky grunted as he took down another opponent.

“Shut up,” you retorted, focusing on the task at hand.

In no time, the immediate threat was neutralized. You both made a break for your car, adrenaline surging. Bucky took the driver’s seat, his expression grim and focused.

“Wait…” you began, but Bucky cut you off.

“Just put on your seatbelt first,” he said tersely, glancing at you with an intensity that brooked no argument.

You complied, snapping the seatbelt into place as Bucky threw the car into gear. The ride was tense, an awkward silence hanging between you and Bucky. Lori, however, was brimming with curiosity.

She tugged at Bucky’s leather jacket, causing him to glance at her. The way she looked at him, her eyes wide with awe, reminded you of how she had always romanticized the world.

“Are you the one who sent that email to my aunt?” Lori asked, her voice tinged with a mix of excitement and expectation.

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t respond, turning his attention back to the road.

Lori turned to you, her eyes glowing with revelation. “I get it. Both of you were spies! But you couldn’t be together because of your jobs! A forbidden love! This is so romantic!”

"!!!!!"

Your jaw dropped, and Bucky’s expression shifted to one of utter disbelief. The two of you exchanged a stunned look, unsure whether to laugh or feel embarrassed by Lori’s innocent but surprisingly accurate guess.

The air in the car seemed to crackle with the weight of her words, as the reality of your intertwined past and present hung in the balance.

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ccupcakqs · 8 days ago

Text

— his hoodie, your perfume ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: cozy moments, subtle charm magic, implied romance pairing: percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite a/n: sorry haven't been active recently, i've been bombarded wth tons of exams :(

it was just a hoodie.

a simple, oversized, faded navy blue hoodie that smelled like salty sea air and pine trees—like percy.

you’d found it draped over a bench outside the aphrodite cabin, left behind after training. it was the kind of thing he probably forgot in the rush of camp life, the way he always forgot where he put his sword or left sand in his shoes.

you couldn’t resist.

you slipped it on, sinking into the warmth like it was a cocoon. the sleeves swallowed your hands, and the hood fell low over your hair, making you feel small and safe, like the world was softened around the edges.

but what really made it impossible to give back was the smell.

percy’s scent clung to the fabric—faint but unmistakable. the clean saltiness of the ocean, mixed with the faint sharpness of pine and something else you couldn’t quite place. the way he smelled after running through the forest, after swimming under a stormy sky, after laughing so hard his hair went wild.

you breathed it in deeply, eyes closing.

you didn’t want to give it back.

you twirled the hem of the hoodie between your fingers, careful not to pull too hard and ruin the soft fabric. on your other hand, the subtle shimmer of your nails caught the sunlight—nothing over the top, just a faint, almost imperceptible glow, a gift from aphrodite herself.

small charms like that came naturally to you—light flickers of glamour on your skin, the way your laughter seemed to float like a song through the camp, and the quiet ease with which you could catch someone’s attention without trying. it was part of who you were.

today, you decided to use a little charm magic, just for fun. as you wandered through camp, the breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers and fresh pine, you let the soft shimmer on your skin spread, subtle as a whisper.

a few campers glanced your way, their expressions softening just a bit when they saw you. it was harmless, of course—just enough to brighten their day without them realizing why.

you smiled to yourself, loving the small power that came from being a daughter of aphrodite. but as much as you loved the glamour, today your heart was wrapped in something simpler, something real: percy’s hoodie, heavy and comforting on your shoulders.

it was a few days later when percy found you.

you were sitting on the cabin steps, the oversized hoodie draped over your shoulders like a cape, cheeks flushed from the spring air and a little too much sun. your hair spilled out from under the hood in loose waves, wild and messy—though you’d added a faint rose-scented charm to it, a secret aphrodite trick to make it smell like a garden in bloom.

he stopped a few feet away, watching quietly. there was something about you like this—soft and content, the corners of your mouth lifted just so.

“hey,” he said, voice low but warm.

you looked up, startled, fingers tightening around the sleeve that kept slipping down your hand.

“hey,” you answered, a little breathless.

he shifted on his feet, running a hand through his damp hair. “that’s my hoodie.”

you blinked, then smiled, sheepishly. “yeah, i know.”

“you’re wearing it like it’s a badge or something.”

you shrugged, cheeks coloring deeper. “it’s… cozy.”

percy’s gaze softened. “it smells like me, doesn’t it?”

you laughed quietly. “yeah.”

“figured.”

there was a pause, the kind that hangs heavy with things unsaid.

finally, he stepped closer. “you can keep it.”

you looked up sharply, eyes wide.

“i don’t need it,” he said, voice steady. “you look better in it anyway.”

your heart thudded, slow and warm.

“really?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded, stepping a little closer so you could see the faintest curve of a smile tug at his lips. “really.”

you didn’t say anything, just leaned into the comfort of the hoodie and the quiet space between you.

later that night, you curled up on your bed, the hoodie still smelling like him.

you pressed your face into the soft cotton and imagined percy standing right there beside you, the steady beat of his heart like an anchor in a restless sea.

you thought about how his laugh felt like sunlight and how his hands moved like they belonged wherever they touched.

you thought about the way he looked at you sometimes—like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

and maybe you weren’t wrong.

the next morning, percy was waiting outside the dining pavilion when you arrived for breakfast.

he had that lazy, just-woke-up look in his eyes, hair tousled and damp from the creek. but when he saw you, wrapped in his hoodie like a shield, something shifted in his expression—a warmth that had nothing to do with the spring sun.

“good morning,” he said.

“morning,” you replied, adjusting the sleeve over your wrist.

he grinned, sliding his hands into his own hoodie pockets. “you’re still wearing it.”

“it’s comfortable,” you said, shrugging. “and it smells like you.”

percy’s grin softened into something quieter, more genuine. “you know, i was thinking…”

you looked up, curious.

“maybe you should have your own hoodie,” he said, “one that smells like you.”

you laughed, heart fluttering. “i don’t know if the camp store has anything like that.”

“ah, but aphrodite’s kids have a few tricks up their sleeves,” he said, eyes twinkling. “maybe next time you come to the beach, i’ll teach you.”

you felt a warm flush spread through your chest.

“deal.”

days turned into weeks, and the hoodie became your unofficial uniform.

it was there when you helped set up campfires, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows as you gathered kindling, a subtle sparkle dusting your fingertips as you worked—your own little aphrodite magic to make the flames burn just a little brighter, the sparks prettier to watch in the twilight.

it was there when you and percy snuck away to the beach, toes digging into sand and water splashing at your feet, your hair smelling faintly of wild roses and sea salt. sometimes you’d flick a tiny charm that made the water shimmer with rainbow light, a secret show just for him.

it was there on quiet nights, when the stars spilled across the sky and you both lay tangled in blankets, talking about everything and nothing until sleep claimed you.

sometimes, percy’s hand would brush yours under the blanket, fingers tracing lazy patterns you both pretended were accidental.

and sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, he’d inhale deeply, catching the faint trace of your perfume—a scent you carefully crafted, light and sweet, like freshly cut roses with a hint of vanilla—mingled with the salty hoodie smell he loved.

one evening, just as the sun was dipping behind the trees, you caught percy staring at you again—hoodie and all—like you were the only thing worth looking at.

“what?” you asked, teasing.

he smiled, shifting closer. “nothing. just… you look happy.”

“i am.”

“good.”

then, in the way only percy could, he reached out and tugged the hoodie’s hood gently over your hair, hiding your face.

“there,” he said with a grin, “now you smell like me and you’re impossible to resist.”

you laughed, elbowing him lightly.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and you love it.”

you shook your head, but you were smiling, your heart full in the way only a stolen hoodie and a boy who smelled like the ocean could make it.

later, when the campfire was crackling low and the other campers had drifted to their cabins, you and percy sat side by side on the dock, feet dangling over the water.

you leaned your head on his shoulder, his warmth spreading through you like sunlight. the hoodie was still wrapped around your shoulders, and you could feel the faint rise and fall of his breathing beneath you.

“you know,” you murmured, “aphrodite taught me a few things about making a scent last. i mixed some rose oil into my perfume today.”

percy chuckled softly. “that explains the garden smell.”

you nudged him playfully. “you like it?”

“i love it,” he said, voice low. “but the hoodie? that’s my favorite.”

you smiled, leaning in just a little closer. “it’s yours now.”

he caught your hand in his, fingers curling around yours like a promise.

“then maybe you should borrow something of mine,” he said, “to keep you safe when i’m not around.”

you nodded, your heart swelling. “i think i’d like that.”

and as the stars reflected in the water, and the night wrapped around you like a blanket, you realized that maybe the best kind of magic wasn’t the glamour or the charms, but the quiet moments of feeling safe and loved—wrapped in percy’s hoodie, carrying his scent, and knowing you belonged.

#ccupcakqs #fleur's fics ⋆˚࿔#percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo series #pjo fandom #pjo #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x you #riordanverse x reader #riordanverse #riordan universe #percy jackson x aphrodite reader

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inkedinshadows · 29 days ago

Note

cassian x 29? 👀

Distraction

Pairing: Cassian x reader

Word count: 452

Warnings: none

A/N: I fear y/n is really all of us in this one...

29 - sweat (writing game)

Everyone believed you hated going to training because it was exhausting and intense, or because you simply had no interest in it—which explained why you'd normally lose every sparring match. But the real reason was something else entirely.

You hated training because you couldn't focus.

And how could you, when Cassian looked like that?

Summer had arrived in earnest, and the sun blazed hot over the training ring at the House of Wind. Cassian had, of course, taken the opportunity to remove his shirt and was now demonstrating a new sword technique.

But your eyes weren't on his movements. You didn't pay attention to his stance, or how he moved his arms to slice the blade through the air.

No, you were staring at his chest.

At the rippling muscles shifting with every movement. At the tattoos glinting in the sunlight, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his golden skin. At the droplets trailing down those absurdly toned abs that you just wanted to touch and kiss and—

“Y/N?”

You snapped out of it at the sound of your name and looked up to find Cassian staring at you.

“Hm?”

His lips quirked. “Were you listening to me?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then repeat what I just said.”

You froze, desperately searching your mind for a scrap of information. But you came up empty.

The only thing on your mind was that godly body of his.

“You didn't hear a single word, did you?” Cassian teased. He dropped his stance, letting his arms fall to his sides as he relaxed. “You always get distracted.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled. “I was… thinking about something.”

He lifted his brows, but you shook your head. “It's nothing,” you assured him.

Cassian stepped closer, now standing in front of you. You resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.

“Nothing, huh?” he repeated with a smirk. “Then why are you always staring at my abs when you're thinking about ‘nothing'?”

Your eyes widened, and he laughed.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said. Then he grinned. “Why do you think I always take my shirt off?”

Despite your red cheeks, you narrowed your eyes at him. “I'm going to throttle you.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Cassian looked you up and down, as if sizing up an opponent. “You never pay attention. You won't land a single blow.”

“I could murder you in your sleep,” you offered.

“I guess you could,” he murmured, tapping his chin as though seriously considering the possibility. Then he looked at you again and grinned from ear to ear.

“But then you wouldn't be able to stare at my abs.”

Oh, you were going to kill him.

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scarsnfevers · 2 months ago

Text

Nothing Happend. (18+)

"I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one." – "You must be thirsty." – "You're saying I'm wrong?"

synopsis: salt clung to your skin like a memory, the ocean's breath whispering secrets against your neck as the sun bled gold over the endless horizon. You wandered through the unpredictable tides of pirates and promises, each wave pulling you deeper into something you couldn’t quite name. And then there was him—sharp-eyed, carrying storms in his bones and ghosts in his gaze. You never meant to fall into his orbit. But here, aboard a ship caught between dreams and danger, you learned that some hearts don’t beat—they burn.

pairing: zoro!chan x crewmember!reader (mentions of jeongin as luffy, changbin as usopp and jisung as sanji)

genre: smut, nostalgia, semi strangers to lovers

warnings: mature/strong language, alcohol use, heavy smut, fingering, unprotected sex, dom. Chan, various positions, he just can't get enough of you

word count: 6,9k

!minors do not interact!

The sun was a molten coin suspended in a sky of polished brass, its light rippling over the crests of the waves in glittering shatters. The Going Merry groaned softly beneath your boots, the ship’s timbers shifting like a slumbering creature stirred by the sea’s slow breath. You leaned against the starboard railing, fingertips brushing worn wood, eyes narrowed against the blinding glint of sunlight on water.

You’d stopped trying to count the days at sea. The horizon had long since lost its shape—just an endless smear of blue on blue. But today… today felt different. The wind had changed. Subtly. Not in strength, but in mood. As though it whispered secrets just out of reach.

Behind you, the canvas sails fluttered like wings. Above, gulls circled—though you hadn’t seen land in days. That in itself was strange. Too strange to ignore. You tasted the salt in the air, sharper than usual. Brighter. Almost… seasoned.

A low thud echoed across the deck.

Boots.

You didn’t need to look. You knew that gait by now. Steady, measured, unhurried—as if time itself slowed to keep pace with him.

“Still staring at nothing?” Chan’s voice was dry, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. It was the kind of tone that made people listen closer, not louder. You glanced over your shoulder. He stood a few paces behind you, arms crossed, one hip tilted lazily against a barrel. The wind tousled strands of green hair across his forehead, casting shadows over his eyes. “Maybe it’s not nothing,” you said. He tilted his head, gaze shifting out over the water. “Doesn’t look like much.” “Exactly.”

A beat. Then he pushed off the barrel, slow and fluid, moving beside you. Together, you stared into the horizon—where, now that you looked more carefully, something was beginning to take shape.

It was faint. Faint enough that if you blinked, it might vanish. But it was there. A blur of color too vivid for open ocean. Not an island. Not a ship. Something in between.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Do you see that?”

Chan didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled absently around the hilt of one of his swords, the leather wrapping dark against his hand. You saw his eyes sharpen, his shoulders still. Watching. Calculating. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I see it.” “What do you think it is?” “No idea. But it shouldn’t be there.” He wasn’t wrong. There was no reason for a structure that bright, that… designed to exist out here. This part of the sea was supposed to be empty—open waters, unbroken tides, scattered wind currents and little else. But now the silhouette was growing. Slowly. Rising like a hallucination from the foam.

Somewhere behind you, a door slammed open.

“GUYS! GUYS!”

You turned just in time to see Jeongin—burst onto the deck, straw hat barely hanging on as the wind whipped through his hair. His eyes were wide with something halfway between excitement and curiosity. “Do you see that?!” he cried, spinning on his heel mid-run and pointing dramatically out toward the strange formation.

“We’re looking right at it,” you called back.

“It’s a floating—thing! It looks like a—like a—like a giant fish!” Jeongin grinned so wide it almost looked painful. “Are we going there?! Are we stopping?! Please tell me we’re stopping!” “You don’t even know what it is,” Changbin muttered from somewhere up near the bow. He had one foot propped on the rail and his slingshot looped around his wrist, though his posture was more cautious than usual.

“But what if it’s got food?” Jeongin argued.

That made everyone pause.

Food.

Your stomach twisted a little at the thought. Rations had been thin lately. Even your own cooking experiments had devolved into heated debates about whether boiled seaweed counted as “creative cuisine.” “...It does smell like something,” you murmured.

Now that you were closer, it was undeniable. The scent drifted through the air like a siren’s call: sizzling oil, roasted garlic, sweet smoke, grilled meat. And something else—lemon? Orange zest? Citrus notes dancing on the wind. “Is that... rosemary?” you added, blinking at how absurdly good it smelled.

Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Is that a yes?! Are we going?!” Chan grunted. “Doesn’t mean it’s safe.” “Come on, Chan.” Jeongin stepped up beside him, tipping his head back so his hat fell to his shoulders. “We can’t not check it out. What if it’s some kind of rare sea chef palace?” “Or a floating death trap,” Chan replied flatly.

“You always say that.”

“And one day I’ll be right.”

You held up a hand before they could start another verbal sparring match. “Look, we need food. We need a break. Whatever that place is, it’s the first sign of anything we’ve seen in days. We at least sail closer.”

No one argued.

The Going Merry creaked beneath the shift of wind, as if it, too, was ready to rest. The sails billowed, adjusting course. Water churned beneath the keel as the ship angled toward the strange floating structure now looming larger with each heartbeat.

As you approached, the full absurdity of the building came into view. It was shaped like a fish. A massive one—its mouth agape, its scales glinting in iridescent hues of blue, red, and gold. Architectural flourishes spiraled along its back like stylized fins. Windows blinked like curious eyes, and painted signs in languages you didn’t recognize swirled across the hull. Music—live, chaotic, jazzy—poured from the upper decks, mixed with bursts of laughter and shouting. The whole thing floated on a platform held aloft by massive pontoons, bobbing gently on the waves like it belonged there. Like it owned the sea.

A waiter in a pink uniform leaned over the railing above and waved nonchalantly with a white cloth. You stared up at him, speechless. “This is real,” you said under your breath. “Yup,” Jeongin chirped. “And it smells like steak. I’m going.” The gangplank extended with a satisfying clunk, attaching itself automatically to a small boarding dock that had unfolded from the lower deck. Someone on the fish-building had clearly been expecting guests.

Or just didn’t care who showed up.

Jeongin was first off the ship, practically skipping. Changbin followed reluctantly, muttering something about “bad vibes” and “trap music.” You turned toward Chan. He hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, brow furrowed. You recognized the look—the one that meant he was watching everything. Calculating escape routes, analyzing risks, memorizing exits.

You stepped closer. “We’ll keep an eye out. Together.”

His eyes flicked to you. For just a second, something softened in them. Then he nodded once.nTogether, you stepped off the Going Merry.

The dock felt strange under your feet—solid, but too smooth. Too clean. The music was louder here. Clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the sizzling of something being seared. The scent hit you like a wave—so rich your mouth watered involuntarily.

You climbed the curved entry steps, hands brushing a banister shaped like a fish spine. The doors before you swung open not with magic or machinery, but with the welcoming chaos of a place alive. And then, framed in gold script above the arch, you saw it. The name. Baratie. It shimmered in the fading sunlight like an invitation.

Or a warning.

The moment you stepped through the archway into the Baratie, the noise hit you like a wall. Laughter, loud and unfiltered. Glasses clinking. A woman’s voice shrieking with delight. Silverware against porcelain. Someone was arguing about a stolen lobster. Somewhere in the back, a piano tripped over a jazz melody that felt half-drunk but dangerously alive.

The space stretched wide and theatrical, ringed in color and opulence that shouldn’t have belonged on the sea. Deep cherrywood beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling. Lanterns swayed on chains, their golden light bathing the room in warmth and the illusion of grounded comfort. Crimson velvet curtains framed windows you hadn’t noticed from outside. Every table was mismatched and deliberate—like the owners had collected them from shipwrecks and royal chambers alike.

It smelled like heaven. Like garlic butter and roast duck and citrus and sea salt and secrets you weren’t supposed to taste.bThe hostess barely spared you a glance. "Sit where you want. No brawling, no yelling, and if you break a chair, you bought it." Jeongin was already halfway across the floor, heading for a circular booth tucked against a curved wall, arms spread like he was claiming territory. Changbin rolled his eyes but followed. You and Chan moved slower.

His eyes scanned everything. Not just the people—though there were plenty. Pirates, rich merchants, fishmen, drifters, dreamers. But also the exits, the corners, the way shadows fell in places too carefully. It was second nature by now. He didn't trust easy.

You didn't either.

Still, the booth was semi-secluded. Good lines of sight. And the table was already set with gleaming cutlery and folded napkins shaped like roses. You slid in beside Changbin. Chan took the end, back to the wall. Always.

"Okay," Jeongin breathed, practically bouncing. "Tell me we get to eat everything." "That depends," you said. "On how much money you actually have." He blinked. "I thought you had the money." "I thought you did."

A beat of silence. Chan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

You were just about to start debating whether stealing utensils could be considered compensation when a voice cut across the space. Not loud. Not demanding. But effortless. Smooth as aged whiskey over ice. "Evening, gentlemen. Lady." You turned—and saw him.

Tall. Slim. Blond hair curled behind his ears in soft waves, his black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows with the casual elegance of someone who knew he looked good. A pristine white apron tied around his waist. One hand rested on his hip; the other held a small notepad he didn’t seem to need. Eyes like honey and heat.

"Welcome to the Baratie. My name is Jisung and I'm your waiter for the evening." Jeongin leaned forward instantly. "Do you have meat?!" The waiter arched an eyebrow. "We do. Though it comes in many forms. Be specific or you’ll end up with sweetbreads." "Steak! Big steak. With butter. And garlic. And..." He squinted, sniffing. "Is that rosemary I smell?" Jisung smirked. "Good nose. Yes, rosemary." "Then I want that!" Jisung scribbled something lazily into the notepad. Then his gaze flicked to Changbin.

"For you, sir?" Changbin crossed his arms. "Do you have anything... normal?" "Define normal."

"Like... a sandwich."

"We have duck confit with citrus marmalade on toasted rye."

"...Sure."

Another scribble.

Jisung leaned over the table with a charming—if slightly smug—smile, pen poised above his notepad. “And for you?” he asked, glancing at Chan. “Something strong, I bet.” Chan didn’t even blink. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Then he turned to you. He met your gaze, his eyes softening slightly. "And for the lady?" You tilted your head slightly, the candlelight catching in your eyes as you matched his gaze. Steady. Unbothered.

"Chef's recommendation," you said. His smile curled slowly, like warm caramel drawing across cool porcelain. Not cocky—just a little too confident. "Ah," he said, voice smooth. "Adventurous. I like that."

He took a slow step closer, his notepad lowering to his side. His eyes flicked from your face to your lips and back again—not subtle, but calculated. He rested one hand lightly on the table’s edge, leaning in just enough to drop his voice into something that felt private, velvet-wrapped.

"If you ever get tired of spice," he said, “I make a dessert that’s not on the menu. Sweet, rich… unforgettable.”

It hung there. The invitation wrapped in sugar and charm. He knew exactly what he was doing. You arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" you said lightly, voice dry as salt. "Do you serve it with flattery and disappointment on the side?" The line landed like a well-aimed dagger—swift, elegant, and without venom. His smirk faltered—just a flicker—and then he laughed, soft and surprised. "Touché," he said, scribbling your order without missing a beat. "I’ll stick to the specials, then." "Good idea," you murmured. He turned smoothly, striding away with a grace that said he’d recover quickly—but you'd definitely unsettled him more than he'd expected.

There was a beat of silence at the table.

Then—

"Pfft—wow," Changbin snorted, pressing his fist to his mouth. "Absolutely brutal."

"Did you see his face?" Jeongin leaned in, eyes wide. "He looked like you kicked his puppy." Chan exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes. He tilted his head toward you with something between admiration and mischief. "Didn't even flinch. Impressive." You could feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck, rising beneath your collar. You reached for your water glass and took a slow sip, if only to stall the blooming flush in your cheeks.

"I didn’t mean to embarrass him," you said finally, lips twitching despite yourself. "It just… came out." "Please," Changbin said. "You didn’t embarrass him. You educated him." "Yeah," Jeongin added, grinning. "Lesson one: Don’t flirt with someone who can outwit you before the appetizers arrive." You sighed “Can we all just agree I handled it with dignity?” "You roasted him with dignity," Chan said, voice dry. "With style," Changbin added.

You groaned softly, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. It bubbled out of you before you could stop it, half-laughter, half-resignation.

"Gods," you muttered. "I hate you all."

"No you don’t," Chan said without looking at you.

And maybe you didn’t. Maybe, right here in this ridiculous floating restaurant filled with chaos and charm, you felt something you hadn’t in a while. Something that tasted dangerously close to home.

The last of the plates were cleared, leaving behind only wine-splashed linens and the distant murmur of satisfied guests. The scent of garlic, seared meat, and something faintly citrusy still clung to the air, stubborn as saltwater. Around you, the Baratie was beginning to hum again with the rhythm of the sea—a place never quite quiet, never fully still.

Jeongin had started entertaining himself by trying to stack the bread rolls on top of one another, with Changbin offering loud, mostly unhelpful commentary. You watched them for a moment, the simple joy of it pulling a smile to your lips.

"Think we’ve earned a drink?" Chan’s voice was soft beside you, quieter than the clatter around the dining floor. You turned slightly in your seat. He was watching you, elbow resting on the edge of the table, his fingers absently toying with a toothpick. His eyes were calm, but the way his brow tilted just a little upward gave him that look—thoughtful, focused, like he saw more than he said. You nodded. "Definitely."

He stood without fanfare, waiting just long enough for you to rise before the two of you slipped away from the others. Neither Jeongin nor Changbin paid you much mind, too engrossed in an increasingly unstable bread tower. The air grew cooler as you stepped outside. A light breeze drifted across the deck, carrying the scent of open water and something faintly floral from the lanterns hanging overhead. The sky above was ink-dark, streaked with the faint shimmer of stars, and the soft creak of the ship beneath your boots reminded you just how far you were from land.

Chan didn’t speak right away. He led you up the winding stair to the upper deck, where the night was quieter, the noise of the dining floor muffled beneath your feet. There was a narrow balcony railing along the edge, the perfect place to lean, watch, breathe. He gestured to a small table tucked beneath a faded lantern. Two wooden chairs stood opposite each other. He waited until you sat, then took the seat directly across from you.

He disappeared briefly into a corner bar station still manned by a yawning server. A few exchanged words, a small grin, then he returned with two short glasses, liquid glinting amber in the low light. He handed you one. "Careful. It's stronger than it looks." You clinked your glass gently to his. "Cheers." The first sip burned pleasantly, warmth threading down your throat and spreading outward, slow and sure. You exhaled and let your gaze drift over the ocean.

"So," you said after a moment. "Be honest. Did you think we'd make it this far?" Chan chuckled softly, his voice low and even. "I thought we’d make it somewhere. I just didn’t expect it to feel like... this." "Like what?" He paused, rolling the drink gently between his palms. "Like something I don’t want to lose." That made you glance over. He wasn’t looking at you, not quite, but there was something in his expression—an openness, rare and unguarded. The kind that made you sit a little stiller, listen a little closer.

"You don’t say things like that lightly," you said. "No," he agreed. "I don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like space being made—for thought, for meaning. The wind tugged gently at a strand of your hair. You took another sip. "You’re different up here," you murmured. "Quieter." He smiled faintly. "You're just noticing that now?" You shrugged. "I think... it's easy to forget you're watching. You blend in until you don’t. And then it’s like you see everything."

Chan tilted his head. "That’s a nice way of saying I make people nervous." You laughed, shaking your head. "No. It’s a nice way of saying you’re not easy to fool." That made his lips twitch. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice had softened, losing that edge of tension it so often carried.

"You held your own tonight. With the waiter." You gave a small groan. "Don’t remind me." "Why not? It was kind of impressive." "It was mortifying." "You didn’t look mortified." You sighed. "That’s because I’ve mastered the art of internal screaming." Chan chuckled, the sound like gravel shifting underfoot—warm, grounded. He glanced at you finally, eyes catching the lantern light. "You don’t let people push you around," he said. "I like that." You looked down at your drink, unsure what to say to that. So he added, more quietly: "It means I don’t have to worry about you the same way."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass. "But you still worry," you said. He nodded. No denial.

You let the truth of that sit between you a while. The sea stretched endlessly beyond the railing, soft waves lapping against the hull. Somewhere below, laughter echoed faintly. A violin began to play from the main floor, its notes drifting upward, fragile and wandering.

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on the table. "Do you ever miss it?" "What?" "Stillness." He was quiet a moment longer than you expected. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But I think I’d miss this more." You nodded slowly, understanding curling in your chest like smoke.

When he shifted in his seat, his boot nudged lightly against yours under the table—subtle, but deliberate. You didn’t move away. The stars above blinked down, distant and watchful. You sat there, eye to eye, the sea in front of you and something quieter—gentler—settling in the space between your breaths.

The sea had softened with the setting sun, waves turning to gentle laps against the hull of the floating restaurant. From where you sat across from Chan, the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining area below drifted up to the upper deck. Lanterns swung lazily overhead, their warm golden glow throwing flickers of light across Chan’s face, dancing over the faint scar on his cheekbone and the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The table between you strewn with the remnants of your drinks—half-finished glasses of something spiced and warm, perfect for easing into the calm of night. Chan leaned back with the air of someone who rarely let himself relax, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, eyes gleaming beneath the fringe of his green-streaked hair.

“You ever play a drinking game?” he asked casually, but there was a glint of mischief behind the question.

You tilted your head, amused. “Is that your idea of a date?” His smirk widened. “Only if I win.” You raised an eyebrow. “And what do you get if you do?” Chan chuckled, low and quiet. “Maybe I’ll figure that out later. For now, it’s just about knowing you better.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the gentle way he looked at you—like he wasn’t really seeing the busy deck or the crew laughing below, but just you. The thought sent a small flutter through your chest. He leaned forward slightly, voice softening. “What are you carrying around that’s so heavy?”

You glanced down, the question brushing a little too close to places you hadn’t shown anyone. Your fingers curled around your drink. “You have no idea.” Chan’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “I bet I do. I bet I know more about you than you do about me.”

A small laugh escaped you, the tension breaking just slightly. “Yeah, right. You’re an open book.” “Care to prove it?” he said, straightening in his seat. “I guess something about you, you drink. You guess something about me, I drink.” You smirked. “Go ahead. Tell me all about myself.”

Chan took a moment, his gaze wandering as if he were replaying moments in his head. Then, “I bet you grew up in a big city, running schemes, hanging out in swanky bars like this one.” You let the smile curl slowly on your lips, shaking your head as you lifted your glass. “You must be thirsty.” He blinked. “You’re saying I’m wrong?”

“I grew up in a small village. Barely a village. Just a handful of houses in the center of a tangerine grove. Drink.” Chan lifting his glass in mock defeat. “Alright, alright.” He took a sip, letting the flavor linger before setting it down. “Your turn.”

The wind brushed past, carrying the scent of salt and citrus from somewhere below. You studied him for a beat, narrowing your eyes like you were peeling back layers he didn’t realize he had. “Okay,” you said. “But I had you read all the way back in Orange Town.” You leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table. “I’ll bet you didn’t have any friends as a kid.”

Something in Chan’s expression faltered—not entirely, just a flicker of something behind the eyes. He hesitated. “I had friends,” he said quietly. “Swords don’t count,” you said with a wry grin. He huffed a laugh, then looked away for a second, letting his fingers trace the rim of his glass. “I had one friend.”

That surprised you. Not because you didn’t believe him—but because of how he said it. The weight behind those words wasn’t light. There was a history there, buried like the bones of a shipwreck. You reached for your own glass. “Hell, one more than I had.” The two of you drank, a soft silence settling in afterward.

You let your gaze wander for a moment, over the edge of the ship, where the ocean glistened like melted starlight. The breeze carried the occasional burst of music from inside the restaurant, soft piano chords and the muted thrum of voices. But none of it quite reached you—not really. Not with Chan across the table, watching you like he was reading lines in a book only he could understand.

“Your friend,” you said eventually. “Still around?” Chan’s jaw tightened just slightly. “No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t push. The look in his eyes said the story was too old and too painful to spill just yet. Maybe not ever. Still, the quiet hung between you like a thread, fragile but real. He cleared his throat, trying to soften the mood. “Alright. My turn again.” You gestured grandly. “Take your best shot.” Chan’s lips twitched. “You were the type of kid who stole books from libraries. Probably had a whole stash hidden under your bed.” You laughed, the sound startling even yourself. “Okay, yeah. That’s not fair. That’s cheating.” He held up both hands. “Does that mean I’m right?” You sighed, then took a slow drink. “Maybe.” Chan grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It went on like that for a while—quiet guesses and quieter truths. Sometimes you were right, sometimes he was. The drinks weren’t strong, but the warmth built slowly, buzzing beneath your skin. It wasn’t just the alcohol, though.

It was him.

The way he leaned forward when you spoke, elbows braced, chin resting on his hand like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way he laughed when you teased him, soft and a little self-deprecating. The way his eyes softened whenever you let a truth slip through the cracks.

The sky darkened gradually, the stars beginning to pepper the heavens. From your seat, you could see the moon rising over the horizon, casting a shimmer over the water. The kind of view that would’ve felt too big, too distant to touch—if not for the boy sitting across from you.

“I think,” you murmured, letting your fingers trail lazily around the rim of your empty glass, “that I should head back to the Merry.” Chan looked at you, his hand wrapped around the final shot—amber liquid catching a flicker of golden light. “You want company?” he asked, voice casual, but there was a thread of softness beneath it. Not insistence. Just the unspoken echo of I'd like to.

You met his eyes. Steady. Warm. “Sure,” you replied with a nod, the corner of your mouth curving. “You’re buying the last round, anyway.”

He smiled at that, tipping the shot back with a practiced motion. The glass clicked against the table with finality. The night air outside was cooler than you expected, salty and fresh from the sea, curling through your hair and coaxing a slight shiver from you as the two of you stepped away from the Baratie’s glow. The path to the dock was quiet—just the gentle lap of water and the distant echo of laughter from somewhere inside the floating restaurant. Your footsteps on the wood were slow, unhurried. Neither of you spoke at first. It wasn’t awkward silence. Just… comfortable.

You glanced at him, the way his arms swung slightly at his sides, the breeze ruffling through his green hair. He looked almost peaceful. “I think you cheated,” you said suddenly, turning your head just enough for him to catch your grin. “No way you guessed the book thing.” Chan’s brows lifted in mock offense. “Cheated? I’ll have you know I’m an excellent reader of people.” “Oh, sure,” you said, snorting. “Master of observation." “You said I was an open book,” he shot back. “Clearly, I’m just better at keeping things to myself.” You rolled your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his. “Next time, maybe I’ll bring books and test you properly.” He chuckled, a low sound in his chest, and for a moment, you just walked.

The Merry was quiet when you reached her, the familiar silhouette of the ship nestled at the dock like a waiting friend. Jeongin and Changbin were nowhere to be seen—still at the Baratie, most likely, or off exploring some corner of the floating restaurant. Chan didn’t seem surprised by the absence, and neither did you. You climbed aboard easily, the gangplank creaking gently under your steps. The ship rocked just enough to remind you she was alive. As you made your way across the deck, you felt your balance sway a little more than it should have—alcohol and sea motion conspiring to trip you up. You caught yourself quickly, laughing under your breath.

“Remind me not to drink with you again,” you said, half over your shoulder. “Oh, come on,” Chan teased, following closely. “We had fun.” “Dangerous kind of fun,” you replied, your voice light. “The kind that ends with someone falling overboard.” “Good thing I’m an excellent swimmer.” “Are you?” He grinned. “Guess you’ll have to push me in sometime and find out.” You snorted, shaking your head. “Tempting.”

“You ever think about it?” Chan asked eventually, voice low. “How weird it is… that we all ended up here. You, me, Jeongin… even Changbin.” Jeongin’s laugh rang out somewhere from the corners of the Baratie, bright and boyish. Changbin’s voice followed, loud and familiar. “All the time,” you admitted. Chan nodded slowly, then looked back at you. “You don’t seem like you’re running anymore.” The words landed somewhere deep.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out at the sea, felt the breeze brush your cheek, tasted the bittersweet flavor on your tongue. “Maybe,” you said. “Maybe I’m finally just… heading somewhere instead.” He smiled at that, soft and proud.

Your feet brought you to the hallway where the crew’s cabins were tucked away, the lanterns flickering gently against the wooden walls. The soft creak of the ship filled the silence, accompanied by your slowed footsteps as you came to a stop in front of your door. You turned, leaning slightly against the frame. Chan stood just a pace away, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in the soft glow of the lantern. But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “For walking me back.” Chan tilted his head a little. “Of course.” The air between you shifted. Not tense. Just—charged. Like a breath held too long. Like the world around you had gone a little quieter, waiting.

“I didn’t expect this,” you admitted, almost more to the shadows than to him. “This?” he echoed. “This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Us. Talking. Laughing. Drinking stupid games on a floating restaurant.” He smiled slowly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

And then, just barely, he took a step forward. Only half of one, really, but you noticed it. The flicker in his eyes wasn’t just reflection. “Should probably say good night,” you murmured. “You should,” he agreed.

But neither of you moved.

The creak of the wood. The soft hum of waves. The warmth of that final drink lingering in your veins. You couldn’t quite breathe. Not properly. And still, his eyes stayed on yours.

Like maybe he couldn’t either.

Another quiet moment passed. Then he said, almost too casually, “You know, I’m glad you’re here.” You met his eyes. There wasn’t any teasing in them now—just something honest. Something real.

“Me too,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

You closed the distance, your hand finding his collar before he could answer. Your lips brushed his — once, then again, firmer, as if daring him to pull back. He didn’t. Chan stood frozen for half a second, breath caught in his throat. But then his hand came up, gently curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. And when he kissed you back, it wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

A sound escaped the back of his throat — something like a sigh and something like a growl — and he moved forward, pressing you back until your spine met the wooden wall. His body aligned with yours in a way that felt too easy, too right. Chans other hand landed on your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might vanish.

The wall was cool against your back, but his mouth was warm. Chan's kiss deepened with every passing breath, with the kind of quiet desperation you hadn’t seen in him before. You felt it in the way his fingertips brushed over your cheek, down your arm, anchoring himself in your presence.

When you parted for air, both of you stood there for a moment — dazed, breathing hard, the space between you charged and trembling. Chan leaned his forehead against yours. “You sure about this?” he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. You didn’t hesitate. “Are you?” His answer came not in words, but in the way his hand found the door behind you, pushing it open. The cabin swallowed you both, lanternlight casting flickers of amber across the modest room. It smelled faintly of salt and citrus, your coat slung across a chair in the corner, and the mattress soft against the far wall beckoning like something out of a half-remembered dream. But you didn’t reach for it yet.

Instead, you kissed him again — slower this time, more deliberate. His hands traced the curve of your back, steady and sure, and your own found the hem of his shirt. The cloth slid upward, your knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath. You felt him shiver under your touch, and it sent a matching wave through your spine. Piece by piece, clothing fell away — a glove, a belt, the fabric of the day shed like the weight of old armor. Each movement was unhurried, reverent, like unwrapping something sacred.

Your eyes searched his, and in the flickering glow of the lantern, you saw the storm of emotions raging there: want and wariness, hope and hunger. Chan's mouth was hot and demanding, but his touch remained tender, almost reverent.

His fingers brushed your bare shoulder with a feather-light touch, and even that sent sparks flaring under your skin. His eyes drank you in, as though he was trying to memorize every curve, every shade of want on your face. Chan hovered, his lips just above yours, breath mingling, warm and trembling with restraint. You closed the distance, pressing your mouth to his — a silent command, a desperate plea. The kiss deepened instantly, all softness turning to heat, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside, tasting, exploring.

Hands roamed. Eager now, hungry. His palms spanned the curve of your waist, your hips, your thighs — he held you like a man who had been starving, who now sat before a feast and didn’t know where to begin. He laid you back with slow insistence, your skin sliding against cool sheets, his body hovering above you like a storm about to break. Your legs parted willingly, thighs cradling Chan's hips as his hand slipped between your bodies. Fingers explored you — warm, calloused, precise — sliding down your belly, brushing over the sensitive bundle of nerves with practiced ease. You gasped, your hips arching instinctively into his touch. He groaned against your throat, voice thick with need. “You’re already so wet.”

You answered with a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as he circled your clit, slow and rhythmic, coaxing pleasure out of you with devastating patience. His fingers slid lower, found you open, ready. He pressed one inside, then another, curling them just right — watching your face as you writhed beneath him, as your thighs shook and your breath quickened. “You like that,” Chan murmured, voice rough, reverent. “Gods, look at you…”

Your body sang under his touch, pleasure blooming fast and hot. He kept working you, steady and sure, until the heat coiled tight and unbearable. You moaned his name as your climax crested and broke — sudden and overwhelming. Your body trembled beneath him, thighs clamping around his wrist as your back arched and a strangled cry tore from your lips.

He didn’t stop right away — his fingers slowed but stayed inside you, drawing out every aftershock with gentle, teasing strokes. Your breath stuttered. You whimpered, already sensitive, already aching in a different way now. When Chan finally pulled his hand back, his fingers glistened with you. He brought them to his mouth and sucked one clean, watching you the whole time. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He kissed his way down your body, lips warm and slow — your breast, your stomach, the inside of your thigh — until he was kneeling between your legs, hard and ready. He didn’t wait long. The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, and you reached down, guided him to where you wanted him.

“Please,” you whispered. “I need you.”

With a low growl, he pushed into you in one slow, controlled stroke. Your breath caught. Chan was thick, stretching you inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His eyes fluttered shut, a groan rumbling from his chest. “You feel so good,” he muttered against your skin.

He began to move, slow at first — a steady, deliberate rhythm that pushed the air from your lungs. Your body welcomed him, still tender and sensitive from your climax, each thrust sending soft ripples of pleasure across already-spent nerves. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your nails grazing his back as his pace built gradually — deeper, harder, more insistent.

The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin against skin, his labored breath, your soft moans filled the space like music.

Then he pulled out without warning.

You gasped, blinking up at him — but Chan flipped you easily onto your stomach and coaxed you up onto your knees. One strong hand gripped your hip, the other steadied himself as he slid back into you from behind, filling you again in one deep, powerful stroke. You cried out, fingers curling into the sheets as he set a harder rhythm now, his thrusts fast and unforgiving, each one hitting deep. Your body rocked beneath him. Chan's hand slid up your spine, then tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat.

“You feel incredible,” he growled, biting softly at your neck. “I could lose myself in you.” His pace became relentless — his need taking over, raw and feral. You moaned for him, pleasure still humming low in your belly, a steady throb of sensitivity without the pressure of another peak. Your limbs trembled from the intensity, from the ache Chan left in his wake. He grunted your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he was coming — with a deep, broken moan and one last thrust that pushed you both to the edge.

He collapsed over your back, panting, chest heaving against your spine. For a moment, all was still. The only sound was the rush of your breathing, the beat of your hearts in sync.

Then, carefully, he withdrew. The absence of him left you hollow and sore in the best way.

Chan didn’t go far — just shifted to his back, dragging you with him until you were sprawled across his chest. His cock, still slick and flushed, twitched against your thigh, already beginning to harden again. “You’re insatiable,” you murmured against his throat. “So are you,” he said with a wicked smile, flipping you over in one smooth motion. Now you were straddling him. You grinned, reached down between your bodies, and slid him back inside you — slow and deliberate, savoring the stretch and fullness, the way his hands gripped your hips and his head tipped back.

You began to move — not chasing another climax, but simply because it felt too good to stop. Your hips rolled lazily, taking him deep, grinding down in slow, teasing circles. Chan groaned, his hands sliding up to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath hitched. “Fuck… you feel like heaven.”

You rode him like worship, like ceremony. Hips rolling, rhythm steady, letting the sensation build with every pass. His fingers slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped at the touch, hips stuttering. His eyes darkened with heat. “Don’t stop. You’re perfect like this.” You didn’t. You moved harder now, skin slapping against his, your breath rising in ragged pants. You weren’t chasing a climax, not yet—it was all about the movement, the slick heat, the way you were joined so deeply.

Then he sat up without warning, his arm around your waist pulling you against his chest. Chan's mouth found your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder—kissing, nipping, tasting. You wrapped your arms around him as he thrust up into you, your legs tightening around his hips. Each movement was deeper like this, more intimate. You felt every inch of him. When your pace began to falter, your thighs trembling from the effort, Chan gently reversed your positions. You expected him to take you from behind again—but instead, he guided you onto your side, facing him.

Spooning had its tenderness, but this—this was different. You lifted your top leg slightly as he slid into you from the side. The angle was unexpected, exquisite. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders. "Better?" he asked, voice dark velvet against your mouth. "Yes," you whispered. It was slow, languid, but deeper than anything before. He held your gaze as he moved, one arm curled beneath your neck, the other hand gripping your thigh, guiding your leg higher over his hip. He was fully inside you, filling you perfectly, every thrust pressing against your most sensitive place.

You were surrounded by him—his breath on your skin, his body wrapped around yours, his length buried deep. The rhythm was slower now, almost torturously so. But it built with maddening precision. Chan kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, your cheekbone, never looking away. Your moans were swallowed in his mouth, and you felt yourself unraveling—every thrust driving you closer to that edge again. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your lips. “So tight and warm."

But just when the crescendo seemed imminent, Chan pulled back slightly, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Turn with me," he murmured. He guided your leg further upward and gently rolled, until you were partially on your back, his body angled above you. With one swift movement, he hooked your leg over his shoulder, bending you open for him. Then he moved. Faster. Rougher.

The shift was jarring and breathtaking. Every thrust now hit with precision, deep and unrelenting, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your cries turned guttural, your hands gripping the sheets—or him—anything to keep you grounded. He groaned as he watched you unravel. "You take me so well... every time." You could only gasp, head tossing back as the rhythm pushed you beyond the edge of control. Chan leaned down slightly, the new angle making it even more intense, his chest grazing your breast, his mouth finding your jaw, your throat, whispering filthy praise against your skin.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful like this,” he rasped. “Falling apart on my cock.” You felt the coiling heat in your belly begin to burn white-hot. Your muscles tensed, thighs shaking, the orgasm rising like a storm on the horizon. “Let go,” he whispered against your ear. “Come for me, love.” And you did.

The climax rolled through you in waves—deeper than before, slower, drawn out like silk unraveling. Your whole body tensed, then shuddered with release, and you sobbed his name into his mouth.

Chan kissed you through it, slowing just enough to let you feel every pulse, every aftershock. And only when you relaxed, body heavy and trembling in his arms, did he allow himself to chase his own end. A few more thrusts—urgent now, almost desperate—and he groaned, his release catching him hard. Chan held you tightly, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed to yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you. Nothing else mattered.

He didn’t pull away right away—just stayed there, buried inside you, wrapped around you, the rhythm of his breath matching yours.

Finally, when the trembling slowed and your hearts found their pace again, he brushed a kiss to your brow. “Stay here tonight,” you whispered. Chan looked at you, body still humming. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.” He smiled, the look in his eyes was something different now—softer, almost reverent.

And then he kissed you again—unhurried, like the sea brushing the shore, as if time itself had decided to wait a little longer.

Not an end. Just the hush before the next wave.

200 notes · View notes

pensthoughts · 2 months ago

Note

Why do I actually need Knight!Van x Princess!Reader? Like r ran away and Van likes her a lot and r gets kidnapped by a group of bandits so Van goes crazy bout it. A few months later r gets away and finds Van, who drinks a lot because their dealing with the kidnapping. all upset and they kiss in front to their party.

a knight's vow | v.p

a/n: love love this idea! i incorporated some other ships into this just for fun so keep an eye out. i wanted to keep this under 3k words but i kinda went crazy because i was having so much fun lol. pairing: knight!van palmer x princess!reader summary: you, the beloved princess of your kingdom, have always been protected by your loyal knight. but when your life is suddenly in danger, the bond between you both is tested in ways neither of you expected. word count: 5.6k

van's only job as a knight was to protect the princess.

it was the first thing she'd ever been trusted with. the kind of honor that most squires dream of, and most knights age decades hoping to earn. and van—sharp-tongued, smirking van palmer, with a scar across her jaw and something feral always burning behind her grin—was chosen for it young. too young, maybe. the king had said it was because she was brave. lottie said it was because of fate. van didn't care what the reason was. all she knew was that she had a duty. a vow. protect the princess at all costs.

she was trained for war, for blood, for honor. she was not trained for you.

not trained for the princess with fire in her chest and starlight in her eyes. the girl who read books in secret corners and whispered to the castle cats. the girl who leaned against windowsills and sighed like the sky was calling her name. van kept her distance at first. watched from a step behind, silent, watchful. she did her job. she kept her sword sharp. she learned her habits. she patrolled the grounds. she didn't look too long.

but everything went wrong when she started to fall for you.

it didn't happen all at once. that would've been easier. no, it crept in slow—like sunlight through thick curtains. little things. the way you would sneak bread to the birds and then pretend you hadn't. the way you always always said her name softly, like it was a secret. the way your laughter could disarm an entire room, including van herself.

and then it wasn't just about guarding your body—it was about protecting your dreams, your sadness, your freedom. van started to ask questions. what made you happy? what did you want? not what was expected of you, but what did you want?

the answer, every time, was the same: i want to see the world.

you spoke of it constantly, like a fairytale. of forests that stretched forever and rivers that whispered. of cities you'd only read about. of songs you wanted to hear sung by the people who made them. of horses and stars and taverns and dusk. but your father—the king—would not allow it. could not. he had already lost one daughter to freedom. he would not lose another.

jackie.

the name was only whispered in these halls now, like something haunted. she had been the older princess, the perfect one. graceful, sharp, beloved. and then one day she was gone. the king said she was kidnapped. some in the village said she ran away. either way, her body had been found the following winter, deep in the woods, cold.

the king never recovered. he locked the castle down. the youngest daughter was not allowed to leave the gates. the guards doubles. the walls grew higher. no more freedom, no more loss.

but van had seen what it was doing to you. the slow fading of your smike. the way your fingers clenched when you looked at the map in the war room. the way you stood too long on balconies, like you could walk off the edge and become something else entirely.

so van made a choice.

it was a night like any other—the moon was high, the halls quiet. you had been quiet all day. barely touched your food. hadn't said more than a few words. van had walked back to your room, like always, and stood outside the door. and then, as the clock struck two, the door creaked open. you stood in a cloak, lantern your hand, eyes wide.

“i don’t want to be here anymore.”, you whispered. "i want to see the woods. just for the night. please, van. just once."

van hesitated. just once. just one night. that's what she told herself, anyway. but the truth was, she'd never been able to say no to you.

so she nodded. told you, “go. just for tonight. i’ll meet you by the river bend. before dawn.” she watched you go, heart in her throat, adrenaline pounding in her chest like a war drum. she shouldn't have. but she did.

by the time she reached the river... you were gone.

no sign of a struggle. no sound. just the open door, the scattered hay, and the heavy silence that followed. van called your name once. then again. then louder. she ran through the nearby woods until dawn, calling it into the dark.

you never came back.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

the air was cold when you stepped into it—freedom biting your skin with its first breath. the stars looked brighter away from the torches. you kept one hand tight around the map van had drawn for you, the other on the pouch at your side, packed with little things: a slice of bread, a copper knife, a silver ring you weren’t supposed to have taken. you told yourself you were coming back. just a night. just one.

but deep down, you weren’t sure.

the woods had always called to you, like a story half-read. you’d dreamt of them your whole life, drawing trees in the margins of every dull history lesson, pressing your face to the glass of your tower and imagining yourself lost beneath the leaves. so when your boots finally met the mossy earth beyond the palace gates, you wanted to cry. you almost did.

you weren’t brave. not like jackie had been. you’d always tried to be—but people coddled you, swaddled you in silk and rules, like you might crack if they looked at you too long. all your life, people had spoken to you in hushed tones. except van.

van, who told you when your hair looked stupid and made you laugh until you snorted. van, who walked a step behind but never acted like you were breakable. van, who smuggled sweet rolls into your room on festival nights and called you dumbass in the same breath she covered you with a blanket. van, who never looked scared when you did. who you trusted more than anyone. who you liked more than anyone.

maybe it had started the night you’d snuck wine from the kitchens and passed her a cup through the secret library door. she’d stayed with you past midnight, telling you stories from her training days, her voice hushed but her eyes so bright. maybe it was before that. maybe it was the first time she made you laugh so hard you dropped a glass and she helped you clean it up like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter that you were royal and she was not.

you liked her. you knew you did. you just didn’t know what to do about it. so you kept it hidden. smiled too long. lingered too close. remembered every word she ever said to you and replayed them alone, again and again and again.

she said she’d meet you at the river bend. she said she’d follow.

but she didn’t come.

you waited longer than you should’ve. and when the cold crept in, you kept moving. you thought she might catch up. you thought maybe she was giving you space. you thought she trusted you to handle it.

and for a little while, you did.

until the snap of a twig made you freeze mid-step. until something rough closed around your mouth and yanked you backward off your feet. until the map flew from your hand.

until everything went dark.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

one job. she had one job.

she’d whispered it to herself so many times it had become something like a prayer. a chant in the back of her throat, behind her teeth. on long rides, across foreign towns, when sword-tips scraped her ribs and villagers slammed doors in her face—she would mumble it like a vow, like it could undo what happened.

she was supposed to protect you.

and she failed.

it had been 6 months. twenty six weeks of searching.

and you were still gone.

no ransom note. no signs. no body.

which meant maybe you were alive.

which meant maybe you were suffering.

she rubbed at the back of her neck, her calloused palm scraping a sunburn that had never properly healed. her armor hung loose around her frame. she hadn’t eaten more than dried fruit and barley in days, hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time, and when she did—it was the same dream every night. your face. that expression you’d had when she told you yes. when she promised you a way out. the way your smile cracked like sunlight through leaves.

god. she should’ve gone with you.

she should’ve known.

when she’d helped you sneak out that night, she thought she was being romantic. thought she was being brave.

you’d clutched your traveling cloak with trembling hands, looked up at her like you were about to cry and said, “i don’t want to be here anymore.”

and she—idiot that she was—had said, “go. just for tonight. i’ll meet you by the river bend. before dawn.”

she hadn’t kissed you. hadn’t let herself. you were still the princess and she was still a knight and this was still the kind of love they’d cut heads off for. but god, she’d wanted to. she’d wanted to since the first time you laughed at one of her dumb jokes, since you threw a pillow at her head in the drawing room and said, “you make me feel like i’m not a prisoner.”

she’d never felt more dangerous.

more herself.

but she’d gotten to the river bend too late. the grass had been trampled. your footprints stopped in the dirt.

and then nothing.

“van.” she heard a voice say, snapping her out of her thoughts.

she looked up sharply. natalie stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hair wild from the rain.

“you’re gonna drown in that bottle if you keep this up.”

van blinked at her tankard. she hadn’t realized she was still holding it. she set it down, ignoring the way her hand trembled.

“you don’t have to stay,” she muttered.

“good,” nat said, stepping inside anyway. “because i’m not here for you.”

lottie followed, robes trailing behind her, looking like she’d just walked out of a stormcloud. her eyes landed on van, solemn.

“she’s still out there,” lottie said.

van swallowed. “don’t.”

“you think i’d lie to you?”

“i think you say what people want to hear.”

lottie tilted her head. “and you want to hear she’s gone?”

the words landed like a blade.

natalie shoved a stool toward her with her foot and collapsed into it. “she had another vision. thought you’d want to know.”

lottie moved toward the fire. “it wasn’t clear. but it was… hopeful. a return. a flame that didn’t die out. a voice saying her name.”

van closed her eyes.

she didn’t believe in magic. not really. but she believed in you.

and she believed in the way her chest still ached like your absence had carved a hollow in her ribs.

“she would’ve come back by now,” van said quietly.

“she can’t,” lottie said. “not yet. but she’s alive. and she wants to.”

two days later, the king summoned her.

van stood in the throne room, every joint aching, armor still caked with dust, and listened as he spoke the words she’d dreaded since the moment you vanished.

“it’s time we end the search.”

“your highness,” van started, “please—”

he held up a hand.

“i have given you time, van palmer. more than any other knight. i’ve seen your devotion. but the nobles are restless. the people grow anxious. we must prepare for a new heir, and you…”

he paused. his gaze was tired. pained.

“you are dismissed from duty.”

the floor didn’t fall out from beneath her. she wished it had.

van bowed her head. she didn’t cry. not in front of him.

but when she stepped outside the gates, stripped of her sword and her sigil and the last purpose she had left—

she didn’t go home.

she went to the tavern.

she hadn’t seen natalie so often since training years ago. but nat had a knack for finding the places no one looked. she showed up in shadowed doorways, bruised and unbothered, always smelling like smoke and booze, always leaning too far into her cups.

they made a good pair. a terrible one, too.

“you ever think about leaving?” van asked one night, staring into the fire.

natalie arched a brow. “and go where?”

“anywhere.”

“without her?”

van didn’t answer.

nat clicked her tongue. “you’re too loyal, van. it’s going to kill you.”

van looked down at her hands. “it already has.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you don't know how long it's been now. at first, they kept you tied. hands bound, mouth gagged, eyes blindfolded. they moved camp constantly—never more than a day in one place. you tried to run once, and they let you get a few paces before knocking you to the ground. after that, you didn't try again.

you learned their names slowly. you weren't supposed to, but bandits aren't as careful as they pretend to be. mari—short tempered, sharp eyes. misty—too eager to please. akilah—quiet, but dangerous when angry. you learned their footsteps, their rhythms, who would leave you water and who would curse when they looked at you.

the worst part was how quickly the cold became familiar.

it sank into your bones, rough and clinging, until the memory of warm baths and thick blankets felt like a story someone else had lived.

and they didn't even treat you like a person. not at first. they treated you like currency. a prize. a bargaining chip, maybe. or a ghost.

and they hated how you watched them—like you were trying to understand. like you weren't supposed to be smart. they hated it more when you started talking.

"why am i here?" you asked on the second morning, voice hoarse from sleep and fear. "what do you want from me?"

no one answered at first. then misty, all too cheerful with her ruddy cheeks and too-bright smile, said, "you should be honored. do you know who you're replacing?"

akilah gave her a look. "shut up, misty," she said, sounding slightly sympathetic.

but it was too late.

you latched onto the word like it was a lifeline. replacing?

"replacing who?"

they didn't answer.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you didn't meet shauna right away.

it took four days before they brought you to her. four days of sleeping on damp ground, waking to boots kicking your ribs, water splashed in your face, and barked commands. you kept thinking van would find you. that this was temporary. you pictured her riding through the trees, red hair flashing like a flag. you imagined the way she'd yell when she saw you, how her voice would shake with fury and something else. something closer to relief. she'd grip your shoulders. she'd call you dumb. she'd kiss you.

she'd bring you home.

but van never came. and on the fifth day, they brought you to the cabin,

shauna sat by the fire with her back to you. she didn't stand. didn't speak.

"she's here," mari said.

still no reaction.

"do you want us to leave her tied?" misty chirped.

that finally got her attention.

shauna turned slowly, eyes landing on you with something colder than anger. she studied you like you were a cracked mirror—too broken to be useful, to familiar to throw away.

her voice, when she finally spoke, was low.

"she's too soft," she said. "she won't last."

you wanted to speak. to say i'm not soft. but your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

shauna looked away. "get her cleaned up."

they didn't. not really. but they loosened the ropes, left you a cup of water, and dumped you in a corner on a blanket that smelled like mildew and ash.

you didn't speak to shauna again for a week.

it was mari who gave you answers first. she came to throw you a heel of bread one night and lingered in the doorway, arms crossed.

"you really don't know, do you?" she said.

you stared at her. "know what?"

she smirked. "about jackie."

the name hit hard.

you sat up straighter. "what about her?"

mari tilted her head. "your sister. everyone thinks she died running from some animal in the woods, right?"

you nodded slowly. "yeah, that's what townspeople say."

"cute. and fake. she didn't run from anything. she ran to someone."

your heart skipped. "shauna."

mari grinned. "ding ding ding.""

she walked closer. crouched in front of you, eyes glittering.

"jackie left everything—her crown, her kingdom, her future—because she wanted to be free. wanted to be with someone who saw her. she found that with shauna. for a while, anyway."

you swallowed. "what happened?"

mari's grin faded.

"she died."

"how, though?"

she straightened up. "that's not mine to tell."

you didn't sleep that night.

later, when shauna finally broke her silence, it wasn’t out of kindness.

it was because you asked her the wrong question.

you were tired. you hadn’t eaten properly in days. and she’d sat near you by the fire, knife in hand, carving something into wood. you couldn’t help yourself.

“did you love her?”

the blade slipped.

she didn’t look at you for a long time.

then: “she was my whole fucking world.”

silence stretched.

you wrapped your arms around your knees. “i miss her.”

shauna’s eyes finally met yours.

“don’t say that,” she said quietly. “you didn’t know her. not like i did.”

“but she was my sister.”

shauna’s face crumpled in the flicker of firelight—just for a moment. then the walls came back up.

“she was brave,” she said. “not like you.”

you flinched. “you think i’m weak?”

“i think you’re soft. same thing.”

“i think i’m alive,” you said, biting back the shake in your voice.

shauna laughed once. a hollow sound.

“only because they brought you to me instead of killing you.”

you started watching her after that.

and she watched you too.

not with tenderness. not with cruelty either. something else. something like recognition.

some nights, she’d speak to you like you were her ghost. jackie’s echo. a shadow on the wall. she’d pace the cabin, muttering memories into the smoke. “she hated tea. always said it tasted like boiled grass. made me drink her share when we visited the old healer in farhold. i said she was spoiled. she said i was a sucker.”

you never interrupted. you just listened. every word, every story, you swallowed them like air.

maybe you weren’t jackie. but you were something.

and she let you live.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the fire’s dead again.

van hasn’t bothered to stoke it. she’s just sitting in front of the cold hearth, slouched low in the armchair she dragged from the castle storage before she was stripped of her title. it’s too big for the little cottage she was given after the king's funeral—some sorry compensation from the council, a reminder that service didn’t mean much when you failed at the one thing that mattered.

protect the princess.

she rubs at her face with one hand, the other still curled around a half-empty bottle of plum wine. it’s too sweet, the kind she never used to touch, but it’s what natalie brings over and she doesn’t care enough to argue anymore. her boots are still caked in mud from the morning’s rain. she hasn’t moved since dusk.

she can still hear your laugh in the back of her mind, muffled and soft, like it’s been soaked in water and buried under time. your voice saying her name. the last time she saw you—gown fluttering behind you, barefoot in the grass, cheeks red from excitement as you whispered about stars and oceans and freedom.

then you were gone.

and van has been bleeding ever since.

the door crashes open, wind howling through the entryway as natalie stumbles in with zero grace and even less concern.

“you look like shit,” she says, kicking the door shut behind her.

van doesn’t even flinch. “thanks.”

natalie tosses her dripping cloak over a chair and grabs a glass from the table without asking. she pours herself a generous serving of van’s wine and drains half of it in one go.

“still raining?” van mumbles.

“no, i’m just committed to the wet dog look,” natalie deadpans. “also, you really need to get out more.”

“i don’t want to get out.”

“yeah, no shit. that’s why i’m here.” natalie plops down across from her and props her boots on the table. “you hear about the party?"

“don't care about the party," van replies.

"it's for ben. you like ben."

van snorts into her cup. “ben’s the reason i’ve got a roof over my head. doesn’t mean i want to drink stale cider in his honor.”

natalie gives her a long, level look. “you might want to reconsider.”

van blinks. “why?”

natalie shifts, setting down her glass with unusual care. she doesn’t meet van’s eyes right away. her voice, when she speaks again, is quieter than van’s used to hearing it.

“lottie had a vision.”

van’s body stiffens, the room suddenly feeling too quiet, like the wind outside took all the sound with it.

“what kind of vision?”

natalie draws in a slow breath. “she came to my place this morning. said she hadn’t slept all night. said she was shaking for hours. like… she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. just kept whispering the same thing over and over.”

van leans forward, her voice cracking. “what thing?”

natalie looks her in the eye. “she’s coming home.”

the words hit like a punch to the chest. van’s breath leaves her in a shudder. her hands tremble, barely noticeable, but she hides them anyway.

“you don’t know that’s what she meant,” she says, but it’s weak. she already knows it’s a lie.

natalie presses on. “lottie saw a crown. a girl with gold in her blood and dirt on her feet. she said she saw a forest and fire and a wolf crying in the dark.”

van swallows hard. “that could mean anything.”

“it could,” natalie agrees. “but it doesn’t. not this time.”

she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “she saw you, van. not the knight. not the armor. you. she said it felt like… like a wound healing too late. like the moon pulling the tide back in.”

van can’t speak. her throat’s gone tight, a strange pressure building behind her eyes. she bites it back. she’s so tired of crying.

“it’s been almost a year,” she whispers.

natalie nods. “i know.”

“she’s probably—” van stops herself. she’s said those words before. they always come out wrong. they always taste like ash.

but natalie just says gently, “she’s not. you don’t feel it?”

van blinks down at her boots. her voice is barely audible. “i feel everything.”

they sit in silence for a while. rain tapping against the windowpanes like fingers. the wind a low moan across the hills.

natalie nudges the wine bottle toward her. “if lottie’s right… if she’s really coming back, don’t you want to be there?”

van stares at the fireless hearth. at the ghost of your smile in the back of her mind.

she thinks of the way you used to look at her when you thought she wasn’t paying attention. the way you always asked her questions no one else cared to answer—about the sky, about how far the sea was from the castle, about whether she thought it was possible to love someone you weren’t allowed to have.

she stands.

“i need to get cleaned up.”

natalie smirks. “so you are going to ben’s.”

van tosses her a look. “don’t make me change my mind.”

she pulls on her cloak, still damp from last week’s storm. her hands are steadier now, moving on instinct. her chest is tight, but it’s not the same kind of ache. it’s something brighter. fiercer. like the moment before a blade meets skin—sharp, burning, inevitable.

she doesn’t say your name.

but it’s all she’s thinking.

you’re coming back.

please be real.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you can’t remember the last time the stars felt close. not like they did at home, on the castle balcony, where van used to point out constellations with one hand while the other hovered nervously at your back, not quite brave enough to touch you.

here, in the middle of the bandit camp, they’re cold and far away. there’s smoke in the air, laughter from someone’s flask echoing off the trees. you’ve stopped asking when you’ll be let go. you’ve stopped believing it’ll ever happen.

and shauna… shauna watches you with that same unreadable look every night. like she’s waiting for something. like she’s weighing a scale that keeps tipping the wrong way.

she sits beside you now, closer than usual. the firelight flickers across her face, makes the years and bitterness look heavier. her hands are calloused. a scar slices through one of her knuckles. she smells like pine and steel.

“you remind me of her,” she says.

you don’t have to ask who she means.

you’ve heard the stories in pieces. from the others—misty, who has no tact; mari, who rolls her eyes but clearly still mourns; even akilah, who once drunkenly whispered, “you smile like jackie. it’s freaky.”

you found the locket in shauna’s tent, pried it open when no one was looking, and saw the miniature portrait.

jackie taylor.

your sister.

the locked confirmed the truth. she ran. for love. for shauna.

“she wasn’t delicate,” shauna says, pulling you out of your thoughts. “everyone thought she was. but she was fire. no one ever saw it but me.”

you glance at her. her eyes are glassy but sharp.

“i’m not trying to replace her,” you say quietly.

“i know.” shauna’s voice is dry. “but they were.”

you follow her gaze across the camp, to where misty is arguing with crystal over firewood. to where mari sharpens a blade like it’s therapy. they look at you too much. like you’re something broken they can fix. like maybe if they keep you long enough, jackie will come back in your skin.

“i didn’t ask for this,” you murmur.

shauna nods slowly. “neither did she.”

for a long time, the only sound is the crackling fire and the low murmur of the woods. shauna leans forward, picks up a stick, pokes at the flames like they personally offended her.

“she died in my arms,” she says suddenly. “we were trying to leave that winter. didn’t make it far before the storm hit. i begged her to turn back, but she said—”

her voice catches.

“she said she’d rather die free.”

you stare at her. “and you think i’m her.”

“no,” shauna says, and for once she looks directly at you. “i think you’re braver.”

it stuns you, the way your heart jumps. the way it hurts to hear that.

“i shouldn’t have kept you,” she adds, voice barely above a whisper. “i knew it the second i saw your eyes. you looked at me like i was your jailor.”

“aren’t you?”

shauna snorts. “not anymore.”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“i mean,” she says, pushing herself to her feet with a quiet groan, “you’re going home.”

your breath stutters. you stand too fast, dizziness tilting the trees sideways.

“why now?”

shauna doesn’t answer right away. she stares into the fire for a long time, like she’s trying to see something in it. maybe a memory. maybe jackie.

then she finally says, “because you deserve to be more than someone else’s ghost.”

and with that, she walks away.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the castle hasn’t held a celebration in months. not like this.

banners fly from the towers, wine flows like water, and the ballroom is filled with laughter that doesn’t quite reach the edges. people are trying—they raise glasses, smile a little too hard, tell stories with too much volume. but it’s all stretched thin, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

van’s been holding hers since she put on her best clothes, the ones lottie insisted she wear. a crisp tunic, polished boots, a dark cloak that still smells faintly of smoke. her armor is long gone—stripped from her along with her title—but she stands like she’s still wearing it, stiff and alert, a hand near her belt even though there’s no sword there anymore.

she shouldn’t be here.

but lottie had the vision. and when lottie has a vision, van listens.

now she stands in the corner of the ballroom, pretending not to scan every face that walks through the door. her jaw’s clenched. her fingers drum restlessly on the side of her wine glass.

she hasn’t stopped thinking about you.

eleven months. eleven months without your laugh, your teasing questions, your dumb cloak that always trailed in puddles. eleven months of wondering if she failed you, if you hated her for letting you leave, if you died blaming her.

ben gives a speech from the dais. something about renewal and hope and the future of the kingdom. he doesn’t mention your name.

he doesn’t have to.

every person in the room is thinking about you anyway.

van steps out onto the balcony when the clapping starts, the air too heavy inside. she needs space. she needs—

“van?”

she turns.

and you’re standing at the top of the stone steps, framed by torchlight and stars, with your hood down and your hair tangled and your mouth parted like you weren’t sure she’d be real, either.

“hey,” you say, so quietly.

the glass slips from her hand and shatters on the floor.

it’s loud enough to draw attention.

gasps erupt behind her. one by one, the partygoers fall into stunned silence, their heads turning, their eyes widening.

it spreads like fire through dry grass—noblewomen pressing hands to their mouths, guards half-reaching for weapons before freezing in recognition, servants stumbling in place, stunned.

“it’s her,” someone whispers.

“the princess.”

“no, it can’t be—”

“oh gods, it’s really her—”

and before anyone can speak again, you’re running.

van meets you halfway.

you crash into her chest and she catches you like it’s instinct. her arms lock tight around your back, your cloak flares out behind you. she lifts you off your feet for a second. you’re shaking. so is she.

“i found you,” you breathe.

“you came back,” van says. “you came back to me.”

her voice cracks.

you hear a few more gasps from inside the ballroom. someone actually drops a tray. then—

applause.

it starts hesitant, awkward.

then it grows.

thunderous clapping shakes the ballroom floors. cheers rise like a tide. someone shouts your name, and another shouts van’s. there’s crying, even from people who’ve never spoken to you. you were gone for almost a year. your face was etched in stained glass and prayers.

you were a ghost.

now you’re here.

van presses her forehead to yours, whispering over the roar, “you okay with this?”

you nod against her, just once. “as long as you’re with me.”

she takes your hand. pulls you through the doors.

the crowd parts like waves before you.

people bow. they fall to their knees. a court lady starts sobbing.

and through it all, van stays right beside you. her grip never loosens. not once.

lottie steps forward from the front of the room, her eyes glassy, her smile warm. natalie stands behind her, stunned for once in her life, a half-drunk goblet forgotten in her hand.

lottie says, “the vision was true.”

you offer her the smallest nod of gratitude. she dips her head in return.

ben looks like he’s seen a ghost. you don’t stop to speak to him.

instead, van leans into your ear. “come with me.”

you let her pull you past the crowd, through a side door, down a hallway that’s quieter, darker. the celebration fades behind you, muffled by stone.

she pushes open a smaller door—a forgotten sitting room near the old library—and guides you inside.

you both stand there, finally still.

“i didn’t know if you were dead,” van says, not looking at you yet. “or worse. i didn’t know if you hated me.”

you shake your head, stepping closer. “i thought about you every night.”

“i looked for you every day.”

she sits on the arm of an old velvet chair, gripping the edge like it might anchor her.

“i got stripped of my title,” she says. “when your father gave up the search. he said he was sorry, but that i’d failed.”

your eyes blur. you go to her, falling to your knees in front of where she sits.

“you didn’t fail me.”

“i let you go.”

“you let me dream.”

she meets your gaze for the first time since the ballroom.

“you were the only one who ever treated me like i was more than a precious thing in a glass case,” you say. “you let me want things.”

“i loved you for it,” van murmurs. “gods, i still do.”

you reach for her hand. slide your fingers between hers.

“i think i always loved you,” you whisper. “i just didn’t understand it yet.”

the quiet stretches between you.

then van leans forward, forehead pressed to yours.

“i don’t want to miss any more time with you.”

“you won’t.”

she kisses you again, softer this time. reverent. like a vow.

and for the first time in what feels like forever, you both feel like you’re home.

💌 taglist: @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie

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