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untitlzd · 2 months ago

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silence doesn’t stop rich boys

top!sim jaeyun x btm!male reader smut

Jake Sim's party invite arrives—thick cardstock, old-money cursive. You go because that's what people like you do. The champagne flows, his gaze lingers, and no one notices when you disappear into the penthouse's private wing.

continued in “rich boys don’t get dirty.”

warnings: noncon/dubcon, power dynamics, possessiveness, semi-public sex, oral sex, rough sex, breeding kink (implied), aftercare as manipulation, lowkey inspired by gossip girl

Old money has a scent. A blend of expensive leather, French perfume, and promises sealed generations ago. In this closed circle, luxury isn't ostentation—it's routine. Watches worth more than cars, dinners in penthouses that don't appear on Google Maps, and last names that function as keys. And among them stands Y/n.

He was never exactly one of them, but he learned fast. The son of an influential attorney—the kind who turns crises into lucrative settlements—he grew up between silent meetings and champagne toasts before even understanding what was being celebrated. He didn't inherit a centuries-old fortune, but carried something nearly as valuable: influence. And in this game, knowing how to use it is what truly matters.

To others, Y/n belongs. He wears the right brands, speaks with the confidence of someone who knows the backstage dealings, and maintains that discreet smile of someone who never falters. But behind the shine lies a fragile structure. Exclusive parties hide unstable alliances, and anonymous messages circulate more frequently than truths.

Because in this world, what sustains you isn't having the most—it's knowing how to remain silent when everyone is watching.

Despite not carrying a surname forged by generations, Y/n was always there—at the most private parties, at invitation-only gatherings, at the center of the group where few truly belong. His mere presence was enough to calm any tension: when your father commands one of the country's most feared law firms, scandals tend to disappear before they even take shape. Having Y/n around wasn't just prestige—it was protection.

So it came as no surprise when Jake's name appeared linked to the next big party. Jake belonged to a nearly extinct type of social royalty: his family synonymous with political tradition, silent influence, and inherited power. Even among the most well-connected, Jake stood out. The typical good guy—or at least, he knew how to play one. Always smiling, always impeccable, always untouchable. No one dared confront him. And at the same time, no one seemed to care enough to try.

Y/n wasn't the type to decline a party, but the invitation from Jake caused some unease. Reserved, careful, molded by the image his parents insisted he maintain, Jake rarely exposed himself beyond what was necessary. Still, the news spread fast. A single anonymous post on the city's most venomous blog turned the night into an event:

"Party at the politicians' house? Seems the new generation decided to play at freedom. Closed list, open bottles..."

The warning had been issued, and as always, everyone would pretend not to care.

Y/n dressed in silence as he read the post. No surprise—just the sensation that everything was following its course. He and Jake weren't friends. Never had been. But there was a silent pact between them: a strategic coexistence, without excess, without intimacy. Both knew where they stood, and more importantly, where they wanted to remain.

At the top.

It was as if they respected, without ever saying it aloud, each other's places in that hierarchy. Neither wanted to take the other's space—it wasn't necessary. But somehow, there was a strange companionship between them. An implicit recognition that even amidst so many masks, you could trust someone who didn't try to be you.

Jake's penthouse occupied one of the oldest—and most discreetly luxurious—buildings on the Upper East Side. The pale stone facade, wrought-iron balconies, and silent corridors covered by time-worn red carpets all seemed part of a New York that refused to die. A place where power needed no ostentation—just permanence.

When the elevator opened directly into the main hall, Y/n was met with an expected scene: warm lighting, music perfectly chosen to seem spontaneous, uniformed waiters circulating with crystal trays, and a group of people who knew exactly the value of being seen—and even more, the value of pretending not to care.

Jake appeared immediately, with that classic, trained, millimeter-perfect smile.

"So glad you came," he said, extending a glass to Y/n. His voice was low, his gaze a bit too intense for the casual tone. He was impeccable, as always. Light linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, cologne expensive enough not to be obvious. And there was something more there—a touch on the shoulder that lasted a second too long, a look that took too long to look away.

Y/n smiled back, with that kind of calculated lightness he used when he didn't want to seem surprised. The environment enveloped him easily: flowing conversations, muffled laughter, soundtrack alternating between sophistication and faux nonchalance. The penthouse view framed the city lights, as if the world outside were just a backdrop for what really mattered—what was happening here inside.

The hours passed almost fluidly, dissolved in sips of expensive drinks and conversations that said little. Y/n drank slowly, as he always did. But at some point, he lost count. Maybe because he was too relaxed, maybe because the drinks were stronger than they seemed. Or maybe because Jake made sure his glass was never empty.

The music had shifted to something more sensual, and the spaces between bodies grew smaller. Y/n leaned against the frame of one of the wide windows, feeling the night air against his skin. The alcohol's effects were showing: the edges of the room softened, voices blurred, thoughts slightly tangled.

And then he noticed.

Jake was still nearby. Too nearby.

All night, he seemed to be watching Y/n. Never directly—but from time to time, a quick glance, a directed comment, a constant presence in the same spaces. It wasn't aggressive, nor was it clear. But there was something there. An excessive care, a proximity that bordered on intimacy, even if wrapped in the same facade as always.

The strange thing was that this intimacy had never existed. They'd never been close. Not like that. And yet, Jake acted as if there were something between them that only he remembered. As if he were just resuming a familiarity that had never truly been built.

Y/n looked away, as if trying to regain control of his own space. But even without meeting his gaze directly, he knew Jake was still there, firm, smiling as if everything were perfectly in order.

And maybe it was. Or maybe not.

But in that world, that was the rule: you could never be certain of anything.

The night wore on, and gradually the number of guests began to dwindle. Those who knew the right time to leave—before the shine turned to weariness—began saying goodbye with soft hugs and empty promises of "see you soon." Y/n took the opportunity to circulate a bit more, exchange some basic pleasantries here and there, maintain the social posture he knew by heart.

But as the room emptied, other presences took up the space—more intense, more distracted. Certain substances began appearing naturally, passing between familiar hands, hidden behind loose laughter and wandering gazes. And suddenly, it all felt like too much.

Y/n needed air.

He wasn't the type to make a scene, much less allow himself vulnerabilities in public. So without anyone noticing, he slipped down one of the hallways until he found a slightly ajar door. He entered silently. It was one of the bedrooms—well-decorated, immaculate, almost impersonal, like the rest of the penthouse. He closed the door behind him and sat on the bed. A few seconds later, he lay down.

He wasn't exactly unwell. But he wasn't fine either. Everything felt stifling, as if the air had grown thicker. Jake's insistent gaze all night, the never-empty glass, the conversations that always demanded a response, a reaction, a version of himself. It was too much.

His head throbbed silently. The ceiling seemed farther away than it should. For a few minutes, Y/n let his mind go blank, float, trying to organize what he felt—or perhaps just distance himself from what he didn't want to think about.

And then, the door opened.

At first, Y/n didn't even register it. He was somewhere outside himself, numb, as if the world beyond had slowed to a crawl. He only realized he wasn't alone anymore when he heard the voice—low and sweet, almost too careful.

"Hey, Y/n?"

Jake.

He was there, beside the bed, his gaze too gentle for someone who—as far as anyone knew—never got this close. His presence, unexpectedly near, cut through the silence like a whisper loaded with something Y/n couldn't yet name.

And even as his body sank deeper into the mattress, motionless, his mind was now alert.

Because in that world, nothing happened by accident. Not even sincere concern. If that's what this was.

"Are you okay?"

Y/n nodded almost reflexively, his voice stuck in his throat.

"Just... not feeling too well," he murmured, quiet, as if speaking louder would upset what little stability remained. It wasn't a lie. His body felt too heavy, his head spun at an odd rhythm, and everything around him seemed slightly out of focus.

Jake didn't answer right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on Y/n with an intensity that seemed kind but was something more. There was something hidden there—a concern that wasn't just concern.

"You drank too much," he said, almost accusatory. Then, softer: "Should've told me you weren't feeling well."

Y/n frowned slightly, trying to understand why, exactly, that would be Jake's responsibility. But he said nothing. Couldn't.

Jake continued:

"Enjoying the party?"

The question was simple, but loaded with expectation. Y/n blinked slowly, fighting to keep his eyes open. Before he could answer, Jake spoke again, his voice still low, sweet... but now a little tighter.

"Saw you talking a lot with that guy..." He tilted his head slightly. "You hook up with someone?"

Y/n took too long to process. The question felt misplaced, invasive. As if they were having a different conversation in a different context. He tried to sit up a little, but his body still weighed him down. And then he felt it.

That initial concern—so delicate—now sounded like something else. Control disguised as care. A subtle demand hidden in a sweet tone. As if every word had been chosen to seem harmless but carried something heavier underneath.

Jake kept his fingers there, lightly stroking Y/n's cheek. As if marking his presence. As if reminding Y/n—without saying it aloud—who was here, who had always been watching.

"Just wanna know if you had fun... with me around," he said, still wearing that contained smile.

It wasn't just curiosity. It was something between a warning and a reminder.

Y/n's stomach turned. His head was still foggy, his body still heavy, and now Jake was too close, too demanding. He was smiling, but it wasn't the same smile as before.

And in that moment, it became clear: this wasn't concern. It was surveillance.

And worst of all—Jake didn't seem at all inclined to leave.

Y/n shifted, restless. The discomfort wasn't just emotional anymore—it was physical. Jake's presence seemed to fill more space than the room allowed. What had been a quiet bedroom now felt claustrophobic. The air was thin. With a silent effort, Y/n tried to sit up, to push away the weight of the situation.

But the moment his elbows left the mattress, Jake acted.

One hand shoved him back down against the bed. Not a subtle gesture—direct, firm, making it clear this wasn't about care. It was control.

"Stay down."

The words were still polite, but the tone betrayed the tension beneath the facade. Jake's face remained aligned with the image of the perfect heir, the composed scion of old politics. But his eyes said something else: impatience, dominance. Something that wanted more than answers—it wanted certainty that Y/n knew his place.

Y/n stared up at him, surprised, his body still hesitant. His mind, muddled by alcohol and the night's atmosphere, struggled to process this clearly, but the alarm bells were ringing now. This was far from a normal conversation.

Jake leaned in, bracing one arm beside Y/n's head, closing even more of the space between them. His posture was carefully relaxed. But the proximity was invasive.

"You didn't answer my question." The words came sharp, with the coldness of someone who wouldn't tolerate being ignored. Not a request. A demand. "Did you hook up with anyone tonight?"

Y/n's silence was taken as provocation.

Jake didn't back off. If anything, he pressed closer.

"Because..." He murmured, that tense smile still on his lips, "honestly, I don't get what you're still looking for out there."

Then came the gesture that sealed it. Jake's hand went straight to Y/n's hair. His fingers moved slowly, almost as if fixing something out of place. But nothing was out of place—it was just an excuse to touch. An intimacy too familiar for the superficial relationship they had. Almost possessive. Almost a warning.

"You know there's no one here like me."

His voice stayed quiet, but weighted. There was a tension there, masked by the same veneer of good manners as always. Not an offhand comment. This was territorial.

Y/n swallowed hard.

The music, the laughter, the voices from the party seemed to have vanished. Everything now revolved around that presence—suffocating, constant. Jake was here. Too close. Too firm. And still smiling.

But there was nothing harmless in that smile anymore.

Suddenly, the hand that had been stroking Y/n's hair slid down to his face—fingers firm, pressing into the sides of his jaw, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

"Cat got your fucking tongue?"

The question cut through the air like a slap. No more polish, no more well-bred heir persona. Jake's mask had slipped, and what remained was pure, aggressive, direct control. The entire room seemed to shrink under the weight of those words.

Y/n looked away, his pulse racing, body rigid under a touch that was no longer ambiguous.

"Jake... you're drunk," he said, voice low, hesitant.

But it was obvious Jake was completely sober where it counted. His gaze was steady, his speech firm, his movements coldly calculated. No confusion or clumsiness in his actions—just intent.

Jake didn't respond.

Instead, his fingers trailed down, slow and deliberate, to the first button of Y/n's white shirt. He began undoing them, one by one, without hurry, as if exploring territory he already considered his.

The silence between them grew heavy, suffocating. The room remained isolated from the rest of the world, time seeming to slow. The tension was palpable—and above all, dangerous.

Because Jake knew exactly what he was doing. And he made sure Y/n knew that here, he set the pace.

The air in the bedroom grew thick, charged with the scent of expensive whiskey and Jake's woody cologne. His fingers—always so careful in public—now worked with brutal efficiency on Y/n's buttons, like a merchant unwrapping a package he already owned.

"Bet sluts like you love attention, don't you?" Jake murmured, his voice dripping like poisoned honey. His breath was hot against Y/n's face as he leaned closer. "Show up and suddenly everything has to be about you, huh?"

The second button came undone with an almost inaudible snap. Jake smiled, his dark amber eyes glinting with a light that didn't belong to the room.

"Think a little toy can go around denying what its owner decides?" The word "owner" came out like a whip, just as his fingers found the waistband of Y/n's pants.

Y/n tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond—whether from the alcohol, the shock, or something deeper he refused to name. Jake chuckled low, the sound vibrating against Y/n's neck.

"Look at you," he whispered, the zipper sliding down with an obscene noise in the quiet room. "Don't even need help. Already know your place."

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, finding heated skin. Jake exhaled, as if rediscovering something long lost.

"All this time pretending you didn't want it..." His grip tightened possessively, making Y/n arch. "But your body always knew the truth, didn't it?"

The touch was both intimate and cruel, as if Jake weren't exploring but verifying what he already owned. His eyes never left Y/n's face, watching every microexpression like a scientist observing an experiment.

"Should've seen your face when I invited you," he continued, fingers now toying with Y/n's waistband, pushing it down in slow, deliberate motions. "Everyone watching. Everyone knowing." A calculated pause. "You liked it, didn't you? Knowing I wanted you here."

Y/n tried to speak, but only a rough sound escaped. Jake smiled, satisfied.

"Don't answer." His free hand gripped Y/n's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "We've got all night for you to learn to say 'thank you.'"

Y/n froze, his body tense yet strangely pliant, as if some deep part of him already understood resistance was futile. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, his gaze locked on Jake's face—half desire, half dominion.

Jake didn't waste time.

With one rough motion, he yanked Y/n's pants down, exposing him to the cool air of the bedroom. He was already hard, precum glistening at the tip, and Jake didn't hesitate—he gripped the back of Y/n's neck and shoved his cock down that warm throat in one thrust.

"Open wider, whore," Jake snarled, fingers tangling in Y/n's hair as he pushed deeper, making him gag. Spit spilled from the corners of his mouth, tears springing to his eyes, but Jake gave no quarter.

"That's it, take it all, you fucking slut," Jake groaned, hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt, his coarse pubes grinding against Y/n's nose. "This what you wanted? All that attention?"

Y/n could barely breathe, his hands fisting the sheets, his body trembling between shock and submission. But for some reason, he didn't fight. Didn't try to shove Jake away. Just accepted it, as if some part of him had always known this was inevitable.

Jake grinned, triumphant, yanking Y/n's head back to stare into his eyes while fucking his mouth without mercy.

"Gonna swallow every drop, pretty boy. Every last one."

Y/n didn't realize when he started sucking in earnest. It was instinctive, like his body knew what to do even as his mind scrambled to process. His lips sealed around Jake's cock, tongue lapping at the salty precum as his head began to move, trying to please.

Jake let out a ragged moan, his grip tightening in Y/n's hair.

"Fuck, you learn fast," he growled, pulling Y/n's head back just to slam forward again, dragging his cock over that willing tongue. "Already sucking like a trained little cockslut."

Y/n could barely think, his body hot and pliant, but when Jake thrust deep again, forcing his throat to open, he choked, tears spilling over. Drool dripped down his chin, making an even bigger mess, but Jake didn't stop.

"Swallow it, bitch," he ordered, pounding into Y/n's mouth with brutal strokes. "Take it."

When Jake finally pulled out, leaving Y/n gasping and dripping, he grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Now that you've got the mouth down," Jake murmured, rubbing the head of his cock over Y/n's swollen lips, "time you learned how to take a cock in that tight little ass."

Y/n's eyes widened, but Jake was already hauling him up by the hips, flipping him onto his stomach like a doll.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he whispered, spitting into his palm and slicking himself up. "I'll make it fit."

And Y/n, somehow, already knew there was no choice left.

When Y/n blinked, he was on his stomach, fingers clawing at the obscenely expensive silk sheets of Jake's bed. His tailored slacks—the ones that cost more than a waiter's monthly salary—were bunched around his knees, trapping him like fabric handcuffs, leaving only his ass exposed to the dim bedroom light. His skin prickled with awareness as Jake positioned himself behind him, a predator moving in for the final strike.

Jake took his time. Spitting into his own hand with a crudeness that would've been vulgar anywhere else but here, in this locked penthouse bedroom, felt as natural as pouring an 18-year-old whiskey. His wet fingers rubbed over Y/n's tight hole, making him shiver.

"Gonna hurt less if you relax," Jake murmured, his voice equal parts threat and promise, as the thick head of his cock pressed against resistant muscle. "Still gonna hurt, though."

When he pushed in, it was like a banker closing a hostile deal—slow enough to be deliberate, hard enough to brook no negotiation. Y/n bit back a scream, his fingers destroying the expensive sheets, his teeth sinking into his own bottom lip until he tasted blood.

Jake gave him a cruelly short moment to adjust, his hands gripping Y/n's hips like handles. When he started moving, every thrust was a lesson, a territorial claim.

"Look at you," Jake rasped, watching Y/n's body give way beneath him, molding to his. "All prim and proper at the party, and now?" A sharp snap of his hips. "Just a ruined little slut on my cock."

Y/n tried to muffle his moans in the pillow, but Jake yanked his head back by the hair, forcing out a broken sound.

Jake wasn't gentle.

Every movement was a declaration, a brand made with his entire body—as if he needed to carve the truth into Y/n's skin: he was owned now.

And against all reason, Y/n stopped resisting.

The sounds spilling from his lips weren't protests anymore, but surrender, need. Broken, shameless, desperate—as if every noise was another piece of his defiance being ripped away.

This wasn't the Jake he knew. This was someone darker, more possessive, more real. And no matter how much Y/n tried not to think about it, his body responded like it had always belonged to him.

"Such a pretty little thing," Jake growled, crushing their mouths together in a wet, sloppy kiss. Spit smeared across Y/n's lips, mixing them together. "Finally admitting you're just a whore, huh?"

The pace turned punishing, each thrust deeper, harder, more claiming. Jake dug his fingers into Y/n's jaw, marking the bone beneath.

"Gonna come together, yeah?" His voice was rough, wrecked with lust. "Know you're close. Be a good toy for me."

Y/n could feel his own orgasm building, his body tightening in response to Jake’s relentless rhythm. He was so close—so close—and Jake knew it, his thrusts growing sharper, more erratic.

"Come on, baby," Jake panted against his ear, his voice breaking. "Come with me."

And then it hit them both at once—Y/n’s body arched, his release crashing over him like a wave, his moan muffled against the sheets. Jake followed instantly, burying himself deep as he came, his groan raw and unfiltered against Y/n’s skin.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the heat between them, the weight of Jake’s body pressing Y/n into the mattress.

Then, as if flipping a switch, Jake moved.

"Should go say goodbye to everyone," he said, his voice already smoothing back into the perfect host's cadence, like the last hour never happened. He stood, his cock still glistening where it brushed Y/n's thigh, and cleaned up with a casual swipe, like an artist wiping his hands after a painting. "Can't just disappear."

Y/n didn't answer. Couldn't. Just closed his eyes, his body heavy, his mind hazy.

Jake smiled, adjusting his shirt, his hair, everything back into place.

"Get some rest, okay?" Soft, almost tender. "I'll be back soon." A pause. "You were such a good boy. Did so well."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

From outside, Jake's voice carried, bright and animated, mixing with the remaining guests' laughter, the clink of champagne flutes, the soft music. As if nothing had changed. As if he were still just the perfect Jake everyone knew.

And Y/n, as sleep pulled him under, couldn't tell which version was real anymore.

Or if, in the end, they both were.

note: hey! that's my first time writing something like this, so please be nice :) english is not my first language, so im sorry if something sounds off or weird! bye

#enhypen x male reader #kpop x male reader #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #sim jaeyun x male reader #jake x male reader #kpop smut #jake x reader #jake sim #sim jaeyun #luke fics :)#enhypen smut #jake x yn

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pedgito · 7 months ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor.

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?”

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?”

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth.

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear.

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more.

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone.

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you.

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege.

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them.

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him.

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment.

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist.

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness.

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.”

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell.

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion.

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly.

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost.

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions.

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity.

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you.

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once.

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see��,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension.

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process.

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline.

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration.

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

#general acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #general acacius x reader #general acacius x you #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #my writing

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buckets-and-trees · 2 months ago

Text

No Way Out

Characters/Pairings: mean Alpha!Bucky x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 5.9k Summary: Your first time witnessing a council meeting under Bucky's new regime. He sends a clear message about how things will go. (not a stand-alone read)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse; reluctant attraction; power dynamics; manipulation; threats; semi-violent murder; explicit smut: exhibitionism, cock-warming, vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, unprotected vaginal intercourse and insemination, oral (female receiving), cum appreciation; beefy Bucky (is a warning)

Author Notes: Been a few months since the last part, but I couldn't let Alpha April pass without tossing you back into this verse and its cruel White Wolf now, could I?

Previous: Entanglement | Series List

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The massive doors to the council chamber swing open, and all eyes turn to you and Bucky as you enter. The room falls silent, the previous murmurs of conversation dying instantly. The council chamber is imposing with its high vaulted ceilings, ornate woodwork, and a large oval table dominating the center. Around it sit two dozen men and women.

You recognize most of the faces - regional leaders, mayors, the city council for the capital, military leaders, heads of major industries, and a few of your father's most trusted advisors. Some were loyal to your father, others were known opportunists, and a few are new faces - Bucky's people, no doubt. Their expressions range from surprise to curiosity to barely concealed hostility as they take in your presence.

Bucky's hand remains firmly at the small of your back as he guides you toward the head of the table. There are two chairs there - one slightly larger than the other. The symbolism isn't lost on you or anyone else in the room.

At Bucky’s side, you keep your head high and shoulders squared despite the scrutiny of those assembled. The tension in the room is palpable as Bucky pulls out your chair first. The gesture appears courteous, but you understand it for what it is - a display, establishing your position as his omega while simultaneously marking you as subordinate.

"As some of you may have heard," Bucky begins without preamble once you're both seated, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber, "my omega and I have completed our bonding ritual. She will be joining our council meetings as an observer for the foreseeable future."

Murmurs ripple through the assembled council members. You catch snippets of whispered conversations - "didn't waste any time," "strategic alliance," "what does this mean for us?" - before Bucky silences them with a sharp look.

"I expect her to be afforded every courtesy befitting her station," he continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She knows this territory and its people. Her insights will be valuable as we move forward with our integration plans."

You notice several council members exchange glances. You keep your face schooled in a stoic expression. You are navigating this dynamic and figuring out exactly what the extent of your position - or your station as he put it - really will be. You suspect you are both tool and asset, a prop and a resource.

Bucky begins the meeting with a territorial status report. Various council members deliver updates on security, resources, infrastructure, and economic matters. You listen intently, mentally clock which council members that are new representation seem competent and which ones appear to be merely parroting what they believe Bucky wants to hear. Among all - old and new - you note which ones seem genuinely concerned about their people's welfare and which ones are merely posturing. You're familiar with most of their districts, having visited them with your father during his governance tours.

Throughout it all, you're acutely aware of Bucky beside you. His presence is commanding, his attention laser-focused on each speaker. When he asks questions, they're precise and probing, revealing a depth of understanding about territorial governance that surprises you. You'd expected a warlord with brute force, not this strategic mind that seems to grasp the complexities of civil administration.

"The agricultural sector in the western region is still underperforming," reports a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses. "There’s been a notable decline the last two years, but there’s a marked different in production since you came to power - numbers are down fifteen percent from the same month last year."

"Causes?" Bucky asks sharply.

"We believe it's a combination of factors. We have reports of labor shortages, continued drought conditions, and equipment failures," the man replies. "Additionally, there is some resistance from local farmers to the deliver on the quotas," the man explains, shuffling through his papers nervously.

You notice how he carefully avoids mentioning that the "resistance" is likely passive protest against Bucky's regime. The western region had been particularly loyal to your father.

Bucky's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And what solutions are you proposing?"

"We've increased water rations for irrigation and implemented penalties for farms that don't meet their quotas. We’re sourcing new equipment in some cases. We're also bringing in workers from the northern territories to address the labor shortages."

You feel a flare of indignation. The western farmers are already struggling, and penalties will only worsen their situation. Before you can think better of it, you shift slightly in your seat. Bucky notices immediately, his eyes flicking to you before returning to the council member.

"And how are these northern workers being compensated?" Bucky asks. "Are they being given fair wages and adequate housing?"

The thin man shifts uncomfortably. "They're being provided with basic accommodations and standard compensation packages for migrant workers."

You recognize the euphemism for what it is - exploitation. Your father had worked hard to eliminate such practices.

Bucky leans forward slightly. "Adjust the compensation to match local rates and ensure proper housing. We need those workers content, not brewing resentment. And the equipment - I want a detailed inventory by the end of the week of what's needed."

The man nods quickly, clearly surprised by the directive.

"As for the quotas," Bucky continues, "I want them reassessed based on current conditions. Punishing farmers for factors beyond their control is counterproductive."

The meeting continues with reports from other regions. Throughout it all, you mentally catalog the information, noting discrepancies between what's being reported and what you know of these areas. You're particularly concerned about the reports from the eastern mining communities where production is supposedly up, but there's no mention of the respiratory ailments that historically plague those workers without proper safety protocols.

When the discussion turns to security matters, the atmosphere in the room shifts noticeably. Rumlow steps forward from his position near the wall where the STRIKE team members stand at attention.

"We've neutralized three resistance cells in the past week," he reports with cold efficiency. "Seventeen arrests, five casualties during apprehension. Intelligence suggests two more cells operating in the southern district."

Your stomach clenches at the casual way he mentions the deaths. You wonder who these "resistance fighters" were - ordinary citizens pushed to desperate measures, or truly violent insurgents. Under your father's rule, public protests had been permitted within reasonable boundaries. Now, any dissent is labeled as terrorism.

"Details on the casualties?" Bucky asks, his voice neutral.

"Three armed combatants, two collateral during a firefight in a market square," Rumlow responds without hesitation.

You feel a chill run through you. Civilians. Dead in a market square. You keep your face carefully blank, but inside, your mind races with images of the bustling southern market you've visited many times.

"Interrogations?" Bucky asks.

"Ongoing," Rumlow replies with a slight smirk that makes your skin crawl. "We've extracted some useful information already. Names, safe houses, potential targets."

"And the southern district cells?"

"We're tracking them. Should have locations within 48 hours."

"I want the weapons traced," Bucky orders. "And I want to know who's coordinating these cells. They're too organized to be operating independently."

"Yes, sir. We're pursuing several leads."

Bucky nods, seemingly satisfied. "Good. And remember our approach - surgical precision. Civilian casualties undermine our objectives."

You feel a flicker of surprise at his words. It's not the ruthless response you expected.

"Sir," Rumlow acknowledges, though you detect a hint of disappointment in his tone.

As the meeting progresses, you notice several council members glancing at you perhaps wondering where your sympathies lie. You keep your expression carefully neutral, though inside your thoughts race.

The Mayor of Oakridge reports on about infrastructure concerns in his district, Bucky shifts slightly in his seat beside you. His large hand slides onto your thigh under the table, the heat of his palm burning through your skirt.

Keeping your expression neutral despite the unexpected touch, you continue to focus on the presentation. But then Bucky leans in close, his breath hot against your ear.

"Come sit on my lap," he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. "I want you warming my cock while we finish this meeting."

Your body goes rigid, eyes widening at his words. You turn your head slightly, certain you must have misheard him. But his expression is deadly serious, his eyes dark with expectation. There's no hint of teasing or arrogance in his face—just the clear command of an alpha who expects to be obeyed without hesitation.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you glance around the table. At least eight more representatives still need to speak.

His fingers tighten on your thigh, not painfully but with unmistakable dominance. “Omega,” he growls quietly.

You feel heat flood your cheeks, there is no room for argument. The expectation in his eyes is clear—this is a test of your obedience, perhaps even a reminder of your place after he granted you the concession of attending this meeting.

With your heart in your throat, you slide from your chair as gracefully as possible. All conversation stops as you stand, and every eye in the room turns to you. The silence is deafening as you move to Bucky's chair. He pushes back slightly from the table, making room for you on his lap.

You perch sideways across his thighs, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the humiliating position. Your movements draws many curious glances, but enough of the men and women around the room remain focused on the mayor's report. Your legs feel like jelly as you stand, smoothing your skirt in a futile attempt to prepare for what's to come.

Bucky pushes his chair back slightly from the table, creating just enough space for you to take the place he wants. His attention remains focused on the report while also monitoring your actions.

You glance down at his lap uncertainly, and Bucky gives you a subtle nod of confirmation. His eyes flick down to his groin then back up to the speaker who continues explaining their infrastructure needs. With trembling fingers, you reach for his zipper, carefully sliding it down to avoid making noise. The sound seems deafening to your ears, but the council meeting continues around you as if nothing unusual is happening.

His cock springs free, already mostly hard. You wrap your hand around his impressive girth, giving it two slow strokes, feeling it stiffen further in your palm. Bucky's breath hitches almost imperceptibly, the only indication that he's affected by your touch.

Moving with as much grace as you can, you shift to stand between his legs and the table. Your hands reach for the hem of your skirt, and Bucky assists, pushing the fabric higher up your thighs. In one swift motion, he hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them down. You step out of them, and he pockets the delicate fabric.

With his cock fully erect between you, Bucky guides you as you carefully lower yourself onto his lap, feeling the blunt head of his erection press against your entrance. Despite the anxiety of your situation, the humiliation of it, your body responds to his touch, and you're still wet enough from when he played with you in the car that he slides in with minimal resistance. You bite your lip to suppress a gasp as he fills you completely, stretching you around his considerable girth.

Bucky's large hands grip your hips, adjusting your position. Then one large hand smoothes up your spine, and he guides you forward until you're leaning against the edge of the table, your forearms resting on its polished surface. The position forces you to bend at the waist, allowing him to see over you to the council members continuing their reports.

Which is when you register that the room finally has become silent, and all eyes are on the tw of you coupled together.

"Continue with your report, Mayor Harrison," Bucky says, his voice remarkably steady despite being buried deep inside you.

"The southeastern bridge requires immediate structural reinforcement," the mayor continues, his voice strained as he determinedly stares at his papers. "We estimate costs at approximately—"

The tension in the room is palpable as you sit impaled on Bucky's cock, trying desperately to maintain your composure. The council members' expressions range from shock to discomfort to poorly concealed fascination. Some avert their eyes, focusing intently on their notes or the table before them. Others stare openly, either unable to look away or deliberately watching to gauge your reaction.

Shame burns through you, but so does desire, both hot and consuming. This public display goes beyond anything you could have anticipated. It's a clear power move by Bucky - demonstrating his complete dominance over you while simultaneously establishing his authority over the council. The message is unmistakable: he can do whatever he wants, to whomever he wants, whenever he wants.

Your muscles clench involuntarily around Bucky's thick length as humiliation and unwanted arousal battle within you. Part of you wants to disappear, to melt into the floor, but there's nowhere to hide.

And there’s an undercurrent of something else there inside you, too.

As the next dignitary begins his report, you begin to grapple with the dark, primal thrill that’s also coursing through your veins—the same electricity you felt when Bucky first claimed you in the town square after seizing power. You remember the hot shame that had flooded you then, but also the unexpected thrill of being the focal point of his dominance, the object of his desire amidst his conquest.

Then again at your bonding ceremony, when he'd claimed you before the assembled dignitaries, his mouth hot on yours, his hands possessive and demanding as he marked you publicly as his. You'd felt it then too - that forbidden pleasure in being displayed as his prize, his most valuable possession.

And now, as you sit impaled on his cock, the power dynamics are undeniable: you, the conquered omega, servicing your alpha while he conducts business as though you're simply an extension of his throne.

The meeting continues, your body responding to every subtle shift of Bucky's beneath you. You manage to maintain an outward appearance of composure, though inside you're a storm of conflicting emotions. Occasionally, Bucky's hand move to your hip, adjusting your position slightly when you begin to tremble.

Finally, as the last council member concludes their report, Bucky speaks up, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber.

"That will be all for today's general council," he announces, his tone brooking no argument. His hand squeezes your hip firmly. "Except for..." His finger points to several faces around the table. "Martinez, Davis, Williams, Campbell, Richards, Cho, Price, Jackson, and Franklin. The rest of you are dismissed."

There's a moment of confusion as those not named gather their materials and leave, casting curious glances at those who remain. The door closes with a heavy thud, leaving you, Bucky, and the nine named council members alone in the suddenly silent chamber.

The tension thickens as the remaining council members exchange nervous glances. You recognize each face - Martinez from Trade, Davis who managed Military Resources, Williams from the Eastern District, Campbell who oversees Transportation, Richards from the Treasury, Dr. Cho from Health Services, Price from the Southern District, Jackson from Energy, and Franklin from Communications. A perfect cross-section of your father's government.

Bucky's hand slides up your back, firm and possessive, until it reaches your neck. His fingers wrap around the nape, not squeezing but holding you in place as he addresses the room.

"I imagine you're wondering why you're still here," Bucky says, his tone conversational despite the tension thrumming through the room. His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip as he speaks.

"You nine share something in common," Bucky continues, his voice eerily calm. "Each of you provided information, access, or assistance that made my takeover of this territory possible."

A wave of horrified realization washes over the faces of those assembled. Some pale visibly, while others shift uncomfortably in their seats. You feel a cold shock run through your body as you process his words. These nine people—trusted advisors and officials—had betrayed your father, betrayed their territory... betrayed you.

"Some of you acted independently," Bucky explains, his fingers still tracing patterns on your skin. "Others coordinated. But all of you decided that your personal gain outweighed your loyalty."

Your body is rigidly tense as the implications sink in. These were people your father trusted enough with pieces of his territory, with governing his people, stewards you had worked alongside. People who had smiled to your face while secretly undermining everything your family had built. These nine people—respected officials you've known for years—had helped Bucky overthrow your father's government. Had delivered you into his hands.

"Sit up straight, Omega," Bucky commands, his voice in the quiet chamber.

You comply immediately, straightening your spine while remaining impaled on his cock. The movement causes him to shift inside you, and you bite your lip to suppress a moan.

"I want to thank each of you," Bucky says, his voice deceptively pleasant. "Your assistance made my conquest considerably easier."

The council members shift uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. Some look relieved at what sounds like gratitude, others more wary. None of them will look at you.

"That said," Bucky continues, his tone hardening, "your actions demonstrated something troubling about your character."

Martinez starts to speak. "Sir, I assure you our loyalty—"

"Is for sale," Bucky interrupts. "You betrayed the man who trusted you with power and position. You betrayed his daughter," his hand squeezes your hip for emphasis, "to me. While I benefited from your treachery, I'm not foolish enough to trust traitors."

A cold silence falls over the room. You can see the realization dawning on their faces as they begin to understand this isn't a meeting of appreciation.

"So I've arranged this little demonstration," Bucky says, his hand sliding up to grip one of your breasts over your clothing, and your breath hitches.

"I'm going to fuck my omega now," Bucky announces, his voice echoing in the chamber. "Right here, in front of all of you who thought it clever to betray her father and deliver her to me."

A collective intake of breath fills the room. Several council members shift uncomfortably in their seats, still unable to meet your gaze.

Bucky’s metal hand slides up from your breast to cup your jaw, turning your face toward his. His eyes lock with yours, something unreadable in their depths before he turns back to address the council.

"I want you all to see exactly what you've done – who you've betrayed and to whom."

Bucky simultaneously stands while manhandling you easily with his preternatural strength, pressing your torso flat against the table in front of him. He withdraws his cock, then thrusts slowly back in. Once, twice, groaning on the third thrust that he draws out even more slowly.

Your body betrays you, growing wetter around his cock as the reality of being displayed like this — being used as an omega in the most traditional, primal sense — awakens something you've tried to deny. The sheer audacity of it, the public nature, the way every person in this room now understands exactly who owns you — it's horrifying and intoxicating all at once.

You did like it before - both times - and you like it now.

"I want no misunderstandings about who holds power here," Bucky says, establishing a steady rhythm as he moves you on his length. "No confusion about my control."

Your cheeks burn with humiliation as fucks you, but your body ripples with pleasure. The fabric of your skirt bunches around your waist as Bucky's hands grip your hips firmly.

Bucky's thrusts grow more forceful, the table unforgiving beneath your splayed body. Your fingernails clutch at the polished wood as you try to anchor yourself. The shame burns through you, but so does the pleasure, both sensations intensifying each other until you can barely distinguish between them.

You can feel the attention in the room on you as Bucky's pace increases. The council members' expressions range from horrified fascination to shamefaced avoidance. Some stare at the table, others at the ceiling, but they can't fully escape the sounds of skin against skin, the wet noises of Bucky's cock moving inside you.

Bucky grips your shoulder and pulls you back against his chest, one arm wraps possessively around your waist while the other goes to your throat. His lips brush against your ear as he speaks. "Look at them," Bucky commands, his voice a low growl at your ear before his hot tongue licks at the sensitive spot just behind your earlobe. "Look at the people who sold you out."

You force your eyes back open, meeting the gaze of each council member in turn. Some look away immediately, unable to bear your scrutiny. Others meet your eyes briefly before dropping their gaze in shame. Only Price from the Southern District holds your gaze, a defiant tilt to his chin despite the obvious discomfort in his expression.

"You all thought yourselves so clever," he remarks, his pace unrelenting as his cock fills you over and over. "Trading information for promises of power, for guarantees of safety. Did any of you stop to consider her fate? The woman who would have been your leader one day?"

Martinez shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "We were assured no harm would—"

"Silence,” he has no need to shout. His power in this room is absolute.

"Did you think I wouldn't remember?" Bucky continues, pumping in and out of your cunt. "That I would be foolish enough to forget exactly who played what role in betraying their territory?" His voice drops lower, more menacing. "In betraying my omega?"

His words send a shock through your system. My omega. Not just the territory's former heir apparent or the governor's daughter, but his omega—as though your betrayal personally offended him, as though you had belonged to him even before he conquered your lands.

"What you fail to understand is the gravity of your betrayal." His voice drops lower, more menacing. "This isn't just any omega you handed over to me. This is my omega."

The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver through you. There's something different in the way he's speaking now, something that wasn't there before.

"You thought you were simply delivering a territory, offering up a political pawn," Bucky remarks. "But once I set my sites on her, she was going to be mine.”

His hand tightens your throat, not squeezing but holding you firmly against him as he speaks. Your own hands move up instinctively to cling to his bicep, encouraging his ownership. "I would have conquered this territory regardless. Your assistance merely hastened the inevitable.”

His voice drops to a dangerous whisper that somehow carries throughout the silent chamber.

"Let me be absolutely clear," he says, his rhythm never faltering as he continues to fuck you. "Your lives mean nothing to me compared to hers."

The declaration hangs in the air, shocking even you. The council members' faces drain of color as the implication sinks in.

"I may allow you to maintain your positions while you remain useful," Bucky continues, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "But make no mistake—your continued existence is not guaranteed."

His words send a ripple of fear through the assembled council members. You can see it in their faces—the irrefutable comprehension that their calculated betrayal has placed them in a far more precarious position than they anticipated.

His pace increases, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he nears his climax. You're helpless to stop the pleasure building within you, your body responding instinctively to your alpha's dominant display.

"Can you smell how wet she is," Bucky growls in your ear, loud enough for everyone to hear. "How her body knows exactly who she belongs to? Claimed and bonded not once, but twice."

You whimper at his words, the humiliation of having your display warring with the undeniable pleasure coursing through your body, the forbidden thrill in being watched, and the satisfaction in their own fear. Your inner walls clench around him involuntarily, drawing a satisfied groan from his lips.

With a final, powerful thrust, Bucky buries himself deep inside you, his body tensing as he finds his release. You feel the hot pulse of his seed filling you, marking you from the inside in this most primal display of ownership. Your body trembles on the edge of your own climax.

Bucky's hand slides from your throat to grip your jaw, turning your face to the side so he can claim your mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, dominant and possessive, as his hips pump more slowly, emptying every last drop of his seed into you.

When he breaks the kiss, he addresses the council once more. "Consider this your final warning. Your only value to me is your continued competence in service to this territory. Fail in that, or show even a hint of further disloyalty, and you will find an untimely end of service.”

Bucky withdraws his cock from your cunt, and you whimper, distraught at being denied your own release.

"You're all dismissed," he says coolly. "Except for you, Price. You stay."

The council members scramble to gather their materials, eager to escape the tension-filled chamber. They all avoid looking at you as they file out.

Price remains seated, his face a mask of defiance despite a flicker of fear evident in his eyes. He was always one of your father's more outspoken critics, often challenging policies in council meetings.

"You seem to have something to say," Bucky remarks, his pace slowing but not stopping as he addresses the man. "I saw it throughout the entirety of our meeting.”

Bucky takes a seat again and pulls you back into his lap. He pushes your thighs wide, encouraging your legs to fall on either side of his knees, leaving you open to him.

Bucky's fingers slide between your folds, still slick with his release, and begin to circle your swollen clit with deliberate, measured strokes. His ministrations send jolts of pleasure through your oversensitized body, causing your hips to buck involuntarily against his touch.

“Get on with it, Price."

Price's jaw tightens, his eyes darting between Bucky's face and his hand working between your thighs. He straightens his shoulders and meets Bucky's gaze with a cool stare of his own.

"I've been loyal to this territory for twenty years," Price says, his voice steady despite the charged atmosphere. "I supported your takeover because the former Governor’s policies were weakening our defenses and economy. The southern district suffered most under his leadership."

Bucky's fingers continue their relentless attention between your thighs as he listens, making it difficult for you to focus on Price's words, but you work to concentrate. Your breathing becomes more ragged as pleasure builds within you.

"Is that so?" Bucky asks, his tone deceptively casual - you feel the display through your bond. "And your solution was betrayal rather than advocating for change through proper channels?"

Price's eyes flicker to your cunt momentarily before returning to Bucky. "The proper channels were closed to us. The southern district's petitions were repeatedly ignored."

You want to protest, to defend your father's administration, but a particularly skilled movement of Bucky's fingers sends a particularly strong wave of increased pleasure through your core.

"And yet," Bucky responds, his voice hardening, "my intelligence indicates you never filed a single formal petition with the governor's office. Not one in the past five years."

Price's face pales slightly, but he maintains his composure. "That's not true. I personally delivered multiple petitions—"

"Save it," Bucky cuts him off, his fingers still working between your thighs. "I have copies of every petition filed in the last decade. Your name isn't on any of them."

Your breath catches, not just from the pleasure building between your legs, but from the realization of how thoroughly Bucky had studied your territory before he ever set foot in it. He'd known the inner workings, the political alliances, the weaknesses to exploit. He'd been gathering intelligence for years, not months.

Price's expression shifts, a flicker of panic crossing his features before he regains his composure and defiance. "There were unofficial channels—"

"Rumlowe," Bucky calls out calmly, not taking his eyes off Price. The STRIKE team leader steps forward from his position near the wall, his expression impassive. "Show Price what happens to those who lie to my face."

Price's eyes widen in alarm as Rumlowe approaches, drawing a wicked-looking combat knife from his tactical vest. "Wait—you can't—"

In one swift, practiced motion, Rumlowe is behind Price's chair, the blade pressed against the man's throat. Price's hands grip the armrests, his knuckles white with terror.

"Tell me the truth, Price," Bucky says, his voice dangerously quiet. "One last chance."

Price's eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for mercy he won't find. "I... there were no petitions," he admits, voice shaking. "The southern district was actually thriving, but I wanted more power, more—"

Bucky gives a nearly imperceptible nod.

The blade slices cleanly across his throat, blood immediately spurting forward in a crimson arc. A choked gurgle escapes his lips as his hands fly up instinctively to the gaping wound, but it's already too late.

You gasp in horror, your body involuntarily tensing, but Bucky's fingers only increase their pressure against your clit, circling faster as his other arm locks around your waist to hold you firmly in place.

"Eyes on me, Omega," Bucky growls in your ear, his voice low and commanding. "Focus on what I'm giving you."

Your gaze snaps to his, unable to disobey.

Your eyes locked with his, you only hear as Rumlow and another STRIKE member drag Price's limp body across the polished floor of the chamber. Bucky's fingers never stop their relentless attention on your clit, the horror of what you've just witnessed somehow intensifying the sensations coursing through your body. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak.

"That's it," he growls, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Let go for me."

The orgasm hits you with devastating force, tearing a cry from your throat as waves of pleasure crash through you. Your body convulses in Bucky's firm grip, inner walls clenching desperately around nothing as your body shudders with aftershocks, your mind caught in a haze between pleasure and horror.

As your breathing begins to steady, Bucky lifts you from his lap with ease, handling your body as if you weigh nothing. He turns you to face him, then guides you to sit on the edge of the polished council table. His hands remain on your hips as he positions himself between your spread thighs, the evidence of your coupling still glistening on your inner thighs.

With deliberate slowness, he places one hand on your sternum and pushes you backward until you're lying flat on the cool surface. The position leaves you vulnerable, exposed, as you stare up at the ornate ceiling of the chamber where your father once governed.

Bucky looms over you, his powerful frame blocking out the light, casting his face in shadow. His eyes, however, remain piercingly bright .

"I hope you understand your position now," Bucky says, his voice low and resonant as he traces a finger along your inner thigh, collecting the mixture of your fluids. "And the true nature of this new regime."

His words hang in the air between you, weighted with significance. This isn't just about your body or your pleasure—it's about power, control, and the new order he's establishing. It’s cruel, yet measured as you saw him handle the formal meeting with the full council with unquestionable competence.

He moves back, settling into his chair once more, but instead of pulling you onto his lap again, he lowers himself until his face is level with your exposed cunt. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of your combined spend glistening on your folds and thighs.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh, making you shiver despite yourself.

Without warning, he leans forward and puts his mouth to your cunt, his tongue laving a broad stripe through your folds, gathering your combined release. The sensation is so unexpected and intense that your back arches off the table, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he devours you, his tongue alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks against your oversensitive clit.

"Mine," he growls against your flesh, the vibration sending shivers through your core. "Every part of you belongs to me now."

Your hands clutch at the edge of the table, desperate for purchase as he methodically takes you apart with his mouth. The room that just witnessed a cold-blooded execution now bears witness to an intimate moment. The dichotomy is jarring – death and pleasure, power and submission, all converging in this chamber that once represented order and governance.

Bucky's tongue works relentlessly between your thighs, his hands spreading you wider as he feasts on you. Your second climax builds faster than the first, your body still sensitive from his earlier attention. When it crashes over you, it's more intense, more consuming. You cry out, unable to hold back as your thighs tremble around Bucky's head. He doesn't relent, working you through the waves of pleasure until you're gasping and squirming from overstimulation.

Only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rises to his full height. His eyes, dark with satisfaction and something deeper, more possessive, roam over your disheveled form sprawled across the council table.

"That's what loyalty to me earns," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Pleasure. Protection. Power. You will do well not to forget it, Omega.”

“Yes, Alpha,” you breathe.

He helps you sit up, his hands surprisingly gentle as he adjusts your clothing, smoothing down your skirt and tucking stray hairs behind your ear. The tenderness is jarring after the brutality you've just witnessed, the public claiming, the execution. You're still trembling, your mind reeling as you try to reconcile the different facets of the man before you.

"Come," he says, offering his hand to help you off the table. "We have other matters to attend to."

You place your hand in his, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Your legs feel unsteady, and he seems to sense this, wrapping an arm around your waist to support you. The room still smells of copper and sex, a potent reminder of power asserted and lives ended.

As you walk toward the door, you notice the blood has already been cleaned from the floor, no trace of Price remaining. The efficiency is chilling - as if he never existed at all.

You can’t help but wonder what else will be wiped away, wiped out, just as that dissenter and liar was today.

next part: UNDER SIEGE

There's more story for you and Alpha!Bucky, but I'm desperately excited because this is the final piece that I wanted to share for this verse before introducing you to other alphas in the world of Fine Line. You're not ready. 😏

Introduction to General Ari Levinson: Rank and Promotion [7.5k]

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #marvel omegaverse #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #aspen wrote something #alpha bucky barnes #fine line collection #alpha april #female reader #tw: murder #tw: blood

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ponderingmoonlight · 2 months ago

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Basen hating kissing the hell out of you

Pairing: Basen x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,7k

Synopsis: That General who is so full of himself, who never misses a chance to put you into your place. And you? A hot-headed nurse with outstanding tactical abilities and a big mouth. What can possibly go wrong?

Warnings: enemies to lovers y'all, why is it always the side characters on this blog 😭 language, injuries, heated kisses hehehe

You never thought you’d end up here - stuck in the middle of the Imperial Palace’s tangled web, tasked with not only saving lives but also becoming a strategic advisor in matters of war. Did you even dare to dream of taking in this role at the palace?

Not once.

Despite being the head nurse of the Imperial Army’s medical corps, your knowledge stretches far beyond medical healing. You’ve studied the anatomy of war, how to break down the enemy’s tactics, and how to keep the army fighting even when the odds seem overwhelming.

After all, your father was a general himself before he found his own end on the battlefield, leaving you behind with nothing but the knowledge you’ve gained from his mission reports and books.

To be honest, the anatomy of the body and war never differed that much to you anyway. It took you no effort to catch attention by the medical corps of the Imperial Palace by a very young age, to outshine even some of the doctors and Generals with your expertise.

But Gao Basen, the General of the imperial forces, refuses to acknowledge any of this.It’s not that he’s rude. No, Basen is far too well-mannered for that. He simply doesn’t take you seriously.

To him, you’re just a nurse, someone to bandage wounds, prepare medicines, and keep the soldiers on his trenches alive. The fact that you have a better understanding of battlefield strategy than most generals seems lost on him.

Every time you try to offer a suggestion, he dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

“Stay out of this, nurse,” he barked at you during one of the many operations you’ve been forced to collaborate on.

His tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried that arrogance that made you want to punch him in his oh so perfectly-shaped face.

“Leave the tactics to us.”

That was before the rebellion reached its peak, though. Now, the battlefield is everywhere - the palace, the streets, even the walls of the very city you swore to protect. The emperor’s will is being challenged, and General Gao Basen is leading the charge.

Well, at least he thinks he does.

The first real test of your worth comes when the emperor orders a new assault on a rebel refuge. The battle is expected to be brutal, and the medical corps is rushing to prepare under your command.

But even in the chaos, you’re needed beyond your station. You, who can read a battlefield like a map, who understands how to turn the tides of war by just knowing where to place your forces and where to strike, are called in to offer strategy.

Oh, you know a certain someone who will be absolutely fuming about this.

“You’ve all seen the plan,” Jinshi states, voice cool and collected, his eyes flicking between the generals and advisors gathered around the table.

“But we have little time. I’d like to hear your thoughts, head nurse.”

You take your place at the table, your gaze meeting Basen’s across the room while you’re barely able to hold yourself together. He looks at you, his face unreadable, but his posture stiffens ever so slightly. It’s as if he’s already decided you don’t belong here, as if the sheer fact that you breathe the same air as him almost drives him over the edge.

What a sight.

Ignoring him with that feeling of satisfaction filling you to the brim, you pull a map towards you, running your finger along the terrain.

“We need to utilize the terrain to our advantage,” you begin, your voice steady and confident.

“The rebels have set up in the valley, but there are high ground positions on the left and right. We could use those as staging points for a two-branched attack while simultaneously sending a smaller unit to flank from behind.”

One of the generals gives a soft grunt of approval. Except for Basen, everyone silently acknowledged you a long time ago.

“But what about the cavalry?”

“That’s where we’ll hit them hardest,” you respond quickly, already sketching the next steps on the map.

“The cavalry has been spread too thin. A concentrated effort here”, you point to a key point on the map, “will take them out before they can reinforce.”

For a moment, there is silence. You’re aware of Basen’s gaze on you, the sharpness of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens. You know he doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like you in the war room at all. You, a feisty woman, nothing but a nurse in his eyes. But the others are nodding, murmuring their agreement. Even Gao Shun, the general who raised Basen, looks at the map thoughtfully, his hands resting on the table.

“This could work,” he remarks gruffly.

“But what if the enemy has hidden reserves?”

You smile a little, the answer already forming in your mind. As if you didn’t already think about that beforehand.

“We keep a unit in reserve, hidden by the eastern ridge. If we’re caught in a trap, they can flank and assist us from behind.”

Finally, Basen speaks, his voice cold and cutting.

“You’ve had a lot to say for a nurse. I’ll admit, you know your battlefield tactics, but I’m still in charge of the military strategy.”

You don’t flinch, even though his words sting. After all these years of assisting him while watching him take on the role of a General, this is everything he has to say about you?

“I’m simply offering suggestions, General Gao Basen,” you remark, your tone calm and composed.

“I don’t need your approval.”

Thick anger rises up your veins before you can stop it.Who does he think he is? That son of a high-ranked General who never had to work as hard as you. What does he know about you, your status, your abilities?

A long silence follows before Jinshi speaks up, his voice laced with amusement.

“It seems we’re in agreement. Let’s put it into action.”

The battle rages on in your pounding ears. The rebel forces are relentless, and the wounded are going to the roof. As the battle shifts in your favor, the injured flood in, and you’re forced to treat one soldier after another, your hands moving quickly, efficiently, but your mind on edge. You can feel the heat of the conflict seeping into the very walls of the palace - this is more than just a rebellion now. It’s a war for survival.

In the midst of the chaos, Basen is everywhere. His presence is a force of nature on the battlefield, his commanding voice cutting through the fog of war and the walls of your tent. You can’t help but peak through the curtains, to watch him from afar.

That smug bastard. He moves with precision, taking down rebels and barking orders, his form a living testament to his father’s iron rule.

But even someone like Basen can be overwhelmed.

You’re in the middle of stitching a soldier’s gash when you hear it - a scream, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. Your heart skips a beat, and your eyes snap to the scene unfolding before you.

There he is.

Basen, bloodied, injured, and holding his side where a deep wound has opened. He’s trying to walk, but the blood pouring from him makes it clear he can’t keep going much longer. His men rush to help him, but he punches them away, his teeth gritted in pain.

You barely register the distance between you before you're already on the move, pushing through the chaos to reach him out of instinct.

“Basen!” you shout, voice cutting through the noise.

He looks at you with cold, narrowed eyes.

“I don’t need your help. And it’s General Gao Basen to you,” he grunts, his voice a low snarl as he stumbles slightly, trying to steady himself.

You ignore the words, rushing to him and pulling him toward the nearest medical station.

“You’re bleeding out, Basen! Let me treat you, idiot!”

Your hands are already at his side, but he jerks back, glaring at you with all the stubbornness and pride you’ve come to expect from him.

“I told you,” he snaps, voice sharp as a whip, “I don’t need a nurse to patch me up. I’m not some weakling who needs tending to. And if you call your General an idiot one more time, I’ll make sure you’ll get punished.”

His refusal and harsh words sting like they usually do, but you don’t let it show. Not now, not when he might bleed out in front of your very own eyes if you continue standing there.

“You’ll die if I don’t treat you, Basen!” you reply, frustration boiling over, your hands gripping his arm to keep him in place.

He recoils violently, his face flushed with anger.

“I don’t need you to save me,” he growls, his breath ragged.

“You think I care about your medicines and bandages? You think I’m some soldier who needs to be babysat?”

“Stop acting like a damn fool!”

The words fly out before you can stop them, the tension that’s been building between you both finally snapping.

“You’re not unshakable, Basen. You can’t fight everything on your own.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to walk away again. But instead, he takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. His eyes flicker with something dark, something intense, before he takes a step closer to you.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

“To always be expected to be perfect. To always have people looking to you for answers. To be the one everyone depends on and never let down. I can’t… I won’t be weak.”

The raw emotion in his voice hits you harder than you expect. You take a step forward, your hand reaching out almost instinctively to touch his arm, to comfort him in the way you know how - by offering your help, by showing him that you care, that you’re not judging him.

But before your fingers can make contact, Basen moves. His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly, and with a sudden, jerking motion, he pulls you closer.

The shock of his touch makes your breath catch in your throat. You look up at him, his eyes wild, burning with frustration, with something else.

“I don’t need your pity,” he hisses, but his voice wavers for just a second.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Basen pulls you the rest of the way toward him, his lips crashing into yours with a force that leaves you breathless.

It’s hot. It’s furious. His mouth is demanding, his kiss claiming, as if he’s trying to drown the fury and frustration he feels inside, trying to lock it all away in this moment.

You’re too stunned to move at first, the shock of it all coursing through your veins.

But then, instinct kicks in.

You kiss him back. You’re not sure what drives you. Anger, desire, or the way his entire body is shaking with unexpended emotion? But it doesn’t matter. There’s no turning back now.

His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, his heartbeat loud in your chest as his grip on your wrist shifts to your waist.For a moment, all the anger, all the long lived hostility between you, melts away.

It’s just him, just you, the heat of the battle fading into the background as his kiss deepens, becoming more desperate, more primal. You pull away just enough to breathe, your chest heaving, your heart pounding in your ears. His face is inches from yours, and his breath is just as ragged as yours.

You…hate him, don’t you? You always hated Basen with all of your heart. Hated the way he looks down at you, hated his cold gaze, hated how he always urged to be in charge, to be the one in control. Gao Basen is the epitome of all the things you have, and yet…

“Don’t ever… do that again,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

You can’t tell if you’re angry, confused, or something else entirely, but your chest feels tight, as if your breath is trapped beneath his hands.

Basen doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his voice a low rasp.

“I don’t know what this is. But I can’t stand seeing you with anyone else, not even with Master Jinshi. Can’t stand you not being by my side, can’t stand you putting yourself on display for danger almost every single day… can’t stand it…”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know how to respond to the confession that feels raw and completely out of place in this moment. Instead, you step back, shaking your head slowly, even as your heart races faster than you can understand.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur, but there’s no real heat in your words anymore.

You’re too confused, too overwhelmed to be angry. Was all of this just a dream? Those words, the desperation in his gaze?

No.

You shake your head ever so slightly, eyes shifting to the gaping wound on his side.

“And I’m still treating that wound.”

Basen’s eyes narrow, his pride not letting him fully back down. But there’s a shift in his look, a flicker of something deeper, something softer that you can’t quite place.

“You’re stubborn,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“And you’re insufferable…kissing me in the middle of the battlefield like that…”

“But you kissed me back-“

“I DID NOT!”

#the apothecary diaries #apothecary diaries fanfic #apothecary diaries #kusuriya no hitorigoto #gaoshun #Basen x reader #Gao Basen #Apothecary diaries Basen #Apothecary diaries fanfic #Apothecary diaries fluff #The apothecary diaries fic #Basen fic

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xoxoangelllcake · 7 months ago

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“Let go”

warnings: soft smut,dom Caitlyn Kiramman, dom Vi, dom Maddie Nolan, sub Y/N, use of strap on, Cait, Vi and Maddie giving,f receiving, vaginal penetration, foursome, and lesbian sex.

The night was electric with the hum of the city as the neon lights flickered in the streets below. The crisp air of Piltover was laced with excitement—and more intimate desires. Y/N had always been drawn to the rush of being an enforcer. Working alongside Vi and Caitlyn, she found herself tangled in a world filled with adrenaline, danger, and a hint of promise lingering just beneath the surface.

Tonight, however, the trio was off-duty and the weight of their roles melted away as they gathered in Caitlyn's elegantly decorated apartment hidden high above the bustling streets. Soft music floated through the room, setting an alluring atmosphere. Y/N throbbed with anticipation as she looked at the two women who had quickly filled both her professional and personal life with fervor.

Vi stood with her arms crossed, a mischievous grin lighting up her tattooed face. "Ready for some fun, ladies?" she quipped, her playful smirk igniting a spark in Y/N's core.

Caitlyn, with her poised demeanor and captivating beauty, stepped closer, but not before casting a knowing glance at Y/N. "I think we’re going to indulge in something a little more… intense tonight," she purred, arching an eyebrow as she approached, her fingers trailing lightly along Y/N's arm.

Y/N flushed, her heart racing as her pulse quickened. She loved the way Vi and Caitlyn paired their bold personalities with moments of soft tenderness, especially when it came to her. Maddie had joined the two, her commanding presence adding to the heat in the room. As a fellow enforcer, she understood passion but brought an edge that left Y/N in awe.

"Y/N," Maddie drawled, her voice low and sultry, drawing Y/N's attention. "You’ve always followed our lead, but tonight, let's flip the script." Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she produced a strap-on from behind her back, its sleek design shimmering under the ambient lights.

Y/N’s breath hitched as she felt both exhilarated and submissive—a mix that made her pulse race faster. "Are you sure?" she stammered, her cheeks rosy under their scrutiny.

Caitlyn knelt before her, tender but firm. "You’re always so strong, Y/N. Give yourself permission to let go. Let us take care of you." The gentle tug at Y/N’s heartstrings was enough to push her forward.

In a flurry of movement, the three women surrounded her, each brushing hands along her arms, tracing the curves of her body, giving her the warmth she craved. Vi pressed forward, capturing Y/N’s lips with hers, the kiss igniting fireworks in her gut. The kiss was fiery and deep, filled with tongues tangling—the taste of Vi pushing Y/N over the edge.

Caitlyn and Maddie joined their energies, kissing along Y/N’s shoulders, leaving trails of warmth that made her shiver. "Such pretty skin," Caitlyn whispered, her fingertips tracing Y/N’s collarbone, sending shivers down her spine.

Maddie, with her strategic precision, helped Y/N out of her clothing, revealing her soft curves and delicate features. "Absolutely stunning," Maddie said with an appreciative grin, her voice low and commanding.

Vi grinned, eyes glinting with lust as she wrapped an arm around Y/N, pulling her close once more. "We can’t wait, can we? Let’s give her what she deserves."

As Maddie slid the strap-on into place, Y/N's body tingled with anticipation. She looked at the three women who surrounded her—each powerful in their own right, yet united in this moment of intimate exploration.

The teasing began slowly, with gentle touches and soft encouragement. Y/N surrendered to their desires, lost in the beauty of each kiss and caress, allowing herself to drift. Vi was the first to take her time, her movements deliberate as she teased Y/N just to the edge of pleasure before pulling away, letting the anticipation build further.

Caitlyn soon joined, her hands gliding along Y/N’s shapely curves, her voice a soothing balm, whispering sweet nothings amidst moans and encouragement. "You’re doing so well, Y/N," she breathed, eyes sparkling with mischief as she watched Y/N squirm under their attention.

Maddie finally stood behind Y/N, securing her arms, bringing her close. "Are you ready for us?" she murmured, voice heavy with promise. Y/N nodded, breath hitching in excitement and lust.

“One, two…” Maddie counted down before plunging in deep, eliciting a cry from Y/N as her body instinctively arched in response. "Let go, babe," Maddie coaxed, thrusting with precision as their rhythm synchronized, each movement intensifying the bliss coursing through Y/N.

Vi and Caitlyn took turns kissing her deeply, each touch igniting hotter embers of desire. The room thrummed with shared breaths, the world outside forgotten beneath a haze of pleasure.

With every thrust, every caress, Y/N surrendered completely, losing herself in the passion that poured over her. Each woman shared conspiratorial glances filled with heat, knowing that this moment was not just theirs but a shared experience crafted among four souls entwined in passion.

Together, they built a crescendo—each pulling Y/N to heights she had only dreamed of as they whispered sweet encouragements, stitching deeper connections into their bond.

As Y/N teetered on that precipice of release, she could feel the overwhelming desire in the air, threading through their shared bodies, pushing her further. Sparks ignited with each motion until finally, the wheels of ecstasy clicked into place.

“Let go with us, Y/N,” Vi urged, fingers entwined in Y/N’s hair, giving her a grounding tether as the world swirled in delight.

With a shattering moan, Y/N surrendered to the waves crashing over her, and in that moment, they were all lost together as stars exploded in their shared darkness.

As the energy settled, Y/N lay amidst her lovers, limbs tangled, each breath mingling in the afterglow. They had crossed the threshold, stepping beyond the bounds of duty into a world of intimate freedom, knowing this was merely the beginning of countless adventures they would share together.

In the heart of Piltover, four souls intertwined in a dance of power, beauty, and the magical embrace of one another.

Vi stood with her arms crossed, a mischievous grin lighting up her tattooed face. "Ready for some fun, ladies?" she quipped, her playful smirk igniting a spark in Y/N's core.

Y/N’s breath hitched as she felt both exhilarated and submissive—a mix that made her pulse race faster. "Are you sure?" she stammered, her cheeks rosy under their scrutiny.

Vi grinned, eyes glinting with lust as she wrapped an arm around Y/N, pulling her close once more. "We can’t wait, can we? Let’s give her what she deserves."

Maddie finally stood behind Y/N, securing her arms, bringing her close. "Are you ready for us?" she murmured, voice heavy with promise. Y/N nodded, breath hitching in excitement and lust.

Maddie breathed in before plunging in deep, eliciting a cry from Y/N as her body instinctively arched in response. "Let go, babe," Maddie coaxed, thrusting with precision as their rhythm synchronized, each movement intensifying the bliss coursing through Y/N.

Vi and Caitlyn took turns kissing her deeply, each touch igniting hotter embers of desire. The room thrummed with shared breaths, the world outside forgotten beneath a haze of pleasure.

Together, they built a crescendo—each pulling Y/N to heights she had only dreamed of as they whispered sweet encouragements, stitching deeper connections into their bond.

“Let go with us, Y/N,” Vi urged, fingers entwined in Y/N’s hair, giving her a grounding tether as the world swirled in delight.

With a shattering moan, Y/N surrendered to the waves crashing over her, and in that moment, they were all lost together as stars exploded in their shared darkness.

In the heart of Piltover, four souls intertwined in a dance of power, beauty, and the magical embrace of one another.

#vi x reader #caitvi x reader #vi smut #caitlyn kiramman #maddie nolan #arcane

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riddlesrizzler · 3 months ago

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Fate in a Coffee Cup

pt.2, pt.3

summary: Fate intervenes when a ruthless CEO's coffee cup spills, leaving him captivated by a stranger and her unforgettable name. characters: ceo! mattheo. reader. warnings: none, just some background of ceo! matty word count: 1.2k

The smell of freshly brewed espresso and warm pastries drifted through the air as the glass door swung open, alerting the barista at the counter with a chime that sounded along the lines of a sleigh bell. The crisp morning breeze rushes in for a moment every time a customer walks in or out, causing the patrons who chose to sit by the door to shiver from the October air.

The coffee shop hums with the soft mummers of various conversations, punctuated by the occasional clatter of ceramic cups and the hiss of milk being steamed. Sunlight filters though the large glass windows, casting golden rays onto the old wooden floors. The barista moving with an elegance, a simple art form, as she arranges every drink.

Mattheo Riddle, stood off to the side where the counter ended. The station where his usual large black coffee was delivered, but with the influx of people, he was stuck waiting between a man who was listening to his EDM music too loud and a woman who wouldn't stop complaining about her mother in law to the other person on the end of her phone. Mattheo was growing impatient.

As CEO of Riddle and Co, Mattheo was not used to waiting. If he demanded something, he was sure to get said wish. He didn't care who he had to step on in order to make every desire, every want, he had fall into the rough palms of his hands.

He was cold and calculating. A man who dominated the business world with an iron fist. Carved from the shadows and steel, someone who's presence commands both the nauseating feeling of fear and the slow-burning spark of admiration. His sharp, calculating eyes-dark as the void, miss nothing, always scanning for weakness, and opportunity to get ahead.

He's ruthlessly ambitious, he moved through the corporate world like a storm, disarming obstacles with precision and leaving nothing to chance. His heart, though most claim that it was nonexistent, beats for one thing, power. Compassion is a liability, and trust is a currency that he keeps safe in a vault. In his dark world, success is not inherhited, it is taken.

He felt like he had been waiting for hours, but according to the sleek watch that he wore, it had only been ten minutes. He fidgets with the titanium cufflinks on his pressed suit when his coffee order had been called out. An agitated huff leaves his lips before he takes two steps towards the counter as he retrieved the hot beverage. He had turned towards the exit, already strategizing about his next meeting, his next move.

And then - impact.

A soft gasp, and then the warmth of the liquid that had been once contained in his white paper cup, was now all over his leather shoes. His jaw was tensed in rage as his gaze turned cold as it lowered to the idiot who had gotten in his way. Ready to yell at the person for not looking where they were going, but when his eyes finally reached the person's form, which was also covered in his beverage, he felt his mouth go dry.

A young woman stood before him, her eyes wide with alarm and guilt, her once colorful sweater had been damped by the brown coffee that now stained her clothes. she was flustered, her cheeks red with embarrassment as she scrambled to grab the paper thin napkins on the counter. Her lips start to part in order to let her apologies spill.

"I-I'm so sorry", she blurted out, her hands reaching towards him with the napkins clutched so tightly in her fist. She looked like she had committed the biggest crime in the world.

Mattheo didn't move at first. There was no sigh in annoyance or huff in irritation. He simply titled his head to the side, taking in every little detail of the beautiful creature in front of him. Finally, he had managed to find the voice that usually wields such power, but now it was nothing but a mutter.

"It's... it's fine", he manages to say as he hesitantly takes the napkins from her shaking hands and brushes it over the specks on coffee that had gotten onto his suit.

"Please let me buy you another one", the girl bit her bottom lip as her face seemed to hold such an immense amount of guilt, one that Mattheo was unfamiliar with.

"It's fine. Really", Mattheo said as he looked over her drenches figure once more. She had seemed to take the brunt of the spill as half of her was now wet and brown. He clears his throat before taking the unused napkins and holding them out towards her.

"You look like you need it more."

The girl smiled softly, something that conveyed that she was still embarrassed over the interaction but she was appreciative of his gesture. Taking the napkins back into her hand, their fingers brushing over one another during the transfer. Mattheo swears he feels something in his chest that borders the warmth of the coffee that now pooled in his socks.

"Thank you", she says, her voice warm and soft, was it silly that it reminded him of sunlight? He shook his head as he brings his attention back to the girl.

"I'm sorry about your sweater" he says gruffly. Mattheo Riddle never apologized, not even when he left half of his marketing team go right before the Christmas holidays. Mattheo showed no signs of remorse, and yet there was something about this simple coffee spill that seemed to make feel... sorry?

"It's okay", the girl laughed. Her hands pausing her movements on cleaning the sweater that was probably ruined.

"These things happen", she said with a shrug before moving towards the trash can next to them to throw away the sopping napkins. He nods his head at her response. These things did happen, so why did he feel so strange?

Mattheo looked back to the watch that sat on his wrist, he needed to go. He had a business to run after all. A sigh escapes his lips before he looks back up at the girl who still seems slightly flustered.

"I have to go, work", it was barely a sentence, but it was all that Mattheo could muster up at the moment. He wasn't sure what was going on with his brain but he was pretty sure that he had slipped into an alternate dimension.

The girl nods her head, saying something again about how sorry she was. Her lips pressing into a thin line as rambled about expressing her apologetic state, which Mattheo nodded along to before he had started towards the exit, making his way to the glass door with the tiny chime of a bell.

Only he seemed to pause, his hand lingered over the handle as he heard out the barista call out a name. A name that belonged to the girl who was wearing his beverage. A name that seemed to suck the breath from his lungs as his mind replayed the name over and over again.

"y/n"

#mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #my works #mattheo x oc #mattheo oc #mattheo imagine #mattheo x you #mattheo fluff #ceo!mattheo #ceo!mattheo riddle #ceo!au #slytherin boys #slytherin #slytherin aesthetic #harry potter #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry

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xomakara · 13 days ago

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CARAT KINGDOM : A Seventeen Series

Carat Kingdom is a vibrant and tumultuous realm teeming with royal intrigue, magic, noble politics, and thrilling adventures. Divided among royal and noble bloodlines, magical hierarchies, and wandering adventurers, the kingdom houses light and dark forces locked in a constant dance of power, love, and betrayal. The story is told through thirteen interconnected individuals, each navigating their destiny in this richly woven fantasy world.

Main genres: fluff, angst, drama, smut, fantasy au

General Warnings: include fantasy themes, dark themes, swordfights/magic fights, violence, recreational drinking, profanity, smut, etc. Each story will have more tags and will be 18+ ONLY, so MDNI.

The stories will not be posted in this exact order & will be posted as I finish them ☺️

all banners and dividers done by yours truly

👑 The Royal Trinity

Three childhood friends caught between politics, loyalty, and love.

The Knight of Serenity

Knight-Commander Choi Seungcheol x Princess!Reader As the Knight-Commander of the Serenity Knights, Seungcheol serves the crown loyally. But when he's assigned to protect you, the foreign princess sent to marry the crown prince, the growing feelings between the both of you threaten the alliance between the two kingdoms. coming soon

The King's Dilemma

King Jeonghan x Councilwoman!Reader As the King of Carat, Jeonghan faces unrelenting tension from his council, especially from you, a stubborn noblewoman who holds a council seat, and challenges him at every turn. Your verbal duels hide deeper emotions neither of you dare to confront. coming soon

Prince of Light

Crown Prince Seokmin x Villainess!Reader Radiant and adored, Crown Prince Seokmin feels used by those around him. When he's paired with someone labeled a "villainess," he begins to see your true, kind heart—and realizes he’s not alone in feeling trapped. coming soon

🔮 The Magic Circle

Where magic, darkness, and destiny collide.

Destiny

High Bishop Joshua x Saintess!Reader High Bishop Joshua has fallen to darkness, secretly plotting with a dark mage while maintaining a holy front. But his obsession with you, the Saintess blessed to purify the land, could unravel everything or bind your fate to his. coming soon

Spellbound

Grand Mage Junhui x Princess!Reader Junhui, the gentle yet powerful Grand Mage, remains close to the royal princess he grew up with. You yearn to show him your magical progress despite being forbidden from joining the Magic Tower. coming soon

The Forbidden Path

Dark Mage Jihoon x Mage!Reader Dark mage Jihoon will stop at nothing for magical power—even kidnapping a gifted tower mage. While you hold knowledge second only to Junhui, your fate now rests in Jihoon’s dangerous ambition. coming soon

🏰 The Noble Society

A web of secrets, scandals, and strategic marriages.

Spies & Knights

Spymaster Wonwoo x Noblewoman!Reader Wonwoo appears to be a quiet scholar but is in fact the kingdom’s secretive spymaster. As the fierce Viscountess who leads the Rose Quartz Knights, you suspect him but can’t quite prove who he really is. coming soon

Temptations of the North

Grand Duke Minghao x Spy!Reader Disenchanted grand duke Minghao, frustrated at defending the northern borders alone, unwittingly marries a spy sent to monitor him, only to find your loyalty shifting as you become captain of the southern wall and, eventually, his devoted wife. coming soon

Noble Pursuits

Marquis Seungkwan x Noblewoman!Reader Marquis Seungkwan, noble and sharp-tongued, comforts a high-born lady trapped in a loveless marriage. Your bond with him deepens, and you begin to dream of escaping tradition for a chance at real happiness. coming soon

⚔️ Adventure Calls!

Freedom, monsters, and unexpected companionship.

Wandering Hearts

Mercenary Soonyoung x Cook!Reader Soonyoung, co-leader of the Diamond Mercenaries, works for coin and justice in equal measure. After saving you from a bandit attack, you join his crew as the cook, and slowly becomes the heart of the ragtag band of mercs. coming soon

Before the Dawn

Hero Mingyu x Mercenary!Reader Once a knight under Seungcheol’s command, Mingyu now leads the Diamond Mercenaries to help the innocent. You're only in it for the pay... or so you say. coming soon

Beyond Magic

Commoner Vernon x Adventurer!Reader Vernon, a laid-back commoner without magical ability, is swept into chaotic quests by a self-declared heroine in the Diamond Mercenaries; though powerless himself, his unwavering support proves more indispensable than any spell. coming soon

Beyond the Horizon

Adventurer Chan x Adventurer!Reader Young adventurer Chan sets out to prove himself and claim fame through daring exploits—until he crosses paths with a seasoned female adventurer whose experience helps him grow. Together you and Chan join the Diamond Mercenaries in search of glory. coming soon

#kvanity #ksmutsociety #keopihausnet #cosyhomenet #Winery's Collection Net #dovenet #svt #svt scenarios #svt stories #svt fanfics #svt imagines #svt smut #seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen stories #seventeen fanfics #seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #series: carat kingdom

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aemondwhoresworld · 10 months ago

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STRANGER TO LOVERS

pairing: mafia!cregan stark x reader

summary: after eight months of being in an arrange marriage, mafia boss of the city of winterfell finally confessed his true feelings for his wife, y/n

word count: 1,5k

warning: english is not my first language. modern au, arrange marriage (?), angst to fluff, use of y/n.

masterlist | ADD YOURSELFT TO MY TAGLIST

The city of Winterfell was a frigid, unforgiving place, but it was also the heartbeat of Cregan Stark’s empire. A dynasty of power and shadow, the Stark family had ruled the city’s underworld for generations. Cregan was no exception, standing at the helm of the family’s criminal syndicate. Despite the harshness of his world, Cregan ruled with a code—one that valued loyalty above all. He was feared, respected, and rarely challenged.

But within the icy walls of Stark Manor, a different battle raged. It wasn’t over territory or power but something far more complicated—his feelings for you, his wife of eight months.

Their marriage had been an arrangement, forged not from love but from necessity. Cregan needed an alliance to secure his hold on Winterfell, and your family had deep ties in the South. The union had been strategic, coldly calculated like everything else in his life. Or at least, that’s what Cregan had convinced himself.

You are beautiful, intelligent, and fiercely independent. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on you, Cregan had felt something shift inside him—something he’d never felt before. But he was a Stark, and Starks didn’t show weakness, especially not to their wives. He’d kept his distance, playing the role of the detached husband, leaving you to the sprawling mansion while he handled business.

But over time, that cold detachment had begun to melt. He found himself seeking you out more often, stealing glances when you wasn’t looking, lingering in conversations that had nothing to do with the business. Yet, he remained silent, trapped by his pride and the fear that you could never feel the same.

It was a cold winter evening when everything changed.

The night was quiet, too quiet for Winterfell. The snowfall outside had turned the city into a white, silent expanse. Inside Stark Manor, a fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting long shadows across the walls. You curled up on one of the leather armchairs in the living room, a book resting in your lap. You’d found solace in reading since moving to Winterfell, a way to escape the loneliness that often crept in when Cregan was away.

Tonight, however, you couldn’t focus on the words. Your mind was elsewhere—on your husband.

Cregan Stark was a mystery to you, a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Their marriage had been more of a business transaction than anything else, a way to strengthen ties between their families. But despite his cold exterior, you had seen glimpses of something more—something tender hidden beneath the surface. You just didn’t know how to reach it.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, pulling you from your thoughts. You looked up as Cregan entered the room, his presence commanding as always. He was dressed in a dark suit, the fabric tailored to perfection, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His icy blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Y/n,” he greeted you, his voice deep and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Cregan,” you replied, closing your book and placing it on the table beside you. “I didn’t expect you to be home so early.”

He walked over to the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the flames. “There’s nothing more to be done tonight,” he said, almost as if he were talking to himself. “And I wanted to see you.”

The admission caught you off guard. He rarely said anything so direct, so… vulnerable. You studied him, trying to read the expression on his face, but as usual, it was a blank slate. You stood up and walked over to him, your heart pounding in your chest. The heat from the fire warmed you as you stood beside him, close enough to feel the tension radiating from his body.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his eyes for answers.

He turned to look at you, his gaze intense. “Do you regret it?”

You frowned, confused. “Regret what?”

“This,” he gestured between them. “Our marriage. Do you regret marrying me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded with emotion. You blinked, taken aback by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. You had never expected him to ask something so personal, so raw.

“No,” you said after a moment, your voice steady. “I don’t regret it.”

Cregan’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but there was still a storm brewing behind his eyes. “Why not?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. “Because I’ve come to care for you, Cregan. Despite everything—despite how we started—I care for you more than I ever thought I could.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of deception, but he found none. You were telling the truth, and it shook him to his core. He had always assumed you was with him out of duty, out of obligation. But to hear that you actually cared for him? That was something he hadn’t been prepared for.

He looked away, his jaw clenched. “You deserve more than what I’ve given you,” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “I’ve kept you at a distance, thinking it was what was best. But the truth is… I don’t know how to be a husband. I don’t know how to love.”

You reached out, placing your hand on his arm. “You do love, Cregan,” you said gently.

“You show it in the way you protect your family, in the way you’ve built this empire to keep us safe. You may not say it, but your actions speak louder than words.”

He looked down at your hand, feeling the warmth of your touch seep through his suit jacket. For so long, he had convinced himself that he was incapable of love, that his heart had frozen over in the bitter cold of Winterfell. But you had been slowly thawing it, chipping away at the ice until he could feel again.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ve been a fool to keep you at arm’s length.”

You stepped closer, your heart aching for the man before you. “It’s not too late, Cregan,” you said softly. “We can still make this work. But you have to let me in.”

He looked into your eyes, seeing the sincerity and love reflected back at him. For the first time in a long time, Cregan felt hope. He placed his hand over your, pulling you closer.

“I love you, Y/n,” he confessed, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, but I was too afraid to admit it. Too afraid to lose control.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, your heart swelling with emotion. “I love you too, Cregan,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. “I promise I’ll do better,” he vowed, his voice steady. “I’ll be the husband you deserve.”

You smiled through your tears, leaning into his touch. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Cregan leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss, one that spoke of all the love and longing he had kept buried for so long. You melted into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck as you kissed him back, pouring all of your love into that one moment.

When they finally pulled away, Cregan rested his forehead against your, his breathing ragged. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

You smiled, your heart filled with love and hope for the future. “We’ll figure this out together,” you promised, your voice steady and sure.

They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the warmth of the fire and their newfound love surrounding them. The city outside may have been cold and ruthless, but inside Stark Manor, there was nothing but warmth and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of emotions and newfound closeness. Cregan made good on his promise to be a better husband, spending more time with you and opening up to you in ways he never had before. He shared the burdens of his empire with you, letting you into his world and showing you the man behind the mask.

You, in turn, supported him every step of the way. You became his confidante, his partner, and his anchor in the storm. The more they shared, the stronger their bond grew, until the walls that had once separated them were nothing more than a distant memory.

But life in Winterfell was never simple. The Stark empire was powerful, but it was also constantly under threat. Rivals from the South, old enemies of the Stark family, were always looking for a weakness, a way to bring them down. And now that Cregan had let you into his heart, you had become his greatest vulnerability.

It was a crisp winter morning when that vulnerability was put to the test.

Cregan had been in meetings all day, discussing the latest threats to their territory. You had spent the morning in the study, catching up on some reading and preparing for a charity event they were hosting that evening. You were just finishing up when the phone rang, the shrill sound breaking

like, reblog if you enjoy this fic, thank you!!

TAGLIST: @r-3dlips

#house of the dragon #cregan stark #cregan stark x targaryen!reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark smut #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark fic #cregan stark fanfiction #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark imagine #cregan x reader #cregan stark imagines #modern cregan stark #modern cregan stark imagine #modern cregan stark imagines #cregan stark x female reader #cregan stark x y/n

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thatnightlamp · 1 month ago

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You tell us to feed you our brain rot? Well then (: would you consider writing more of your Dorn one shot? Cause I need him to be a manace more in my life.

DORN AND HIS HAND HEHEHE

The war room was dim, lit only by the flickering holographs of tactical maps long since rendered irrelevant. The campaign was over, the world secured. For once, silence reigned over strategy.

You shouldn’t have been here, this was a space meant for high command, not downtime. But Rogal Dorn had not dismissed you. He had merely looked up from his reports when you entered, eyes sharpening slightly, as if assessing a new terrain. Then, with a single wordless nod, he had allowed you to stay.

Now, you sat in one of the reinforced chairs lining the edge of the chamber, your body loose with exhaustion. Victory always brought this bone-deep tiredness. And yet... it was not rest that your body anticipated. Not with Dorn so near. Not with the way he was watching you.

He hadn’t spoken in minutes, but you could feel him still, standing, unmoving, tall and broad in his golden armor. The air around him always carried weight. It pressed into your skin, into your lungs. And tonight, there was something different in it. Not command. Not the cold discipline he wielded so effortlessly.

Tonight, it was intent.

He stepped closer without warning, silent as a shadow despite the weight of his war-plate. You lifted your head, pulse already rising. He was looking down at you, expression unreadable. Not angry. Not soft, either. Just… measured. Like he was still considering something. Calculating.

Your voice broke the tension. "You're staring again."

"I am." His reply was clipped, deliberate.

A moment passed. Then another. You leaned back slightly in your chair, attempting something casual, something not completely undone by the heat prickling under your skin. "Are you going to tell me why?"

His gaze swept over you slowly, then returned to your face. "I am trying to understand something," he said, voice deep and utterly calm. "About you. About this."

You blinked. "This?"

His gauntlet hissed softly as he disengaged it. One by one, the locking mechanisms released until his bare hand emerged, callused, large, dusted with faint scars. That hand came to rest on the arm of your chair, close, so very close. His other hand remained behind his back, as if he were standing at ease. But there was nothing at ease about him now.

"You are resilient," he continued. "You endure discomfort. Pain. Harsh conditions. You have served without complaint."

You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”

“It is an observation.” His tone didn’t change. But then… his fingers moved. Just barely. The back of them brushed your arm, a featherlight graze. Controlled. Intentional.

Your breath hitched.

“Yet,” he went on, as if lecturing on fortifications and not your nerve endings, “you react to small stimuli in… disproportionate ways.”

His hand shifted again. This time, his fingers traced the inside of your wrist. Just a touch. Not even firm pressure. But it was enough. A line of heat zipped up your arm, making your whole body tense.

You gave a sharp breath through your nose. "Dorn—"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes unblinking. “Interesting.”

“Interesting,” you echoed flatly, but your voice was already thickening. Damn him.

"Most weaknesses," he murmured, his fingers brushing up to your elbow now, "are structural. Predictable. Obvious."

His hand slid further, knuckles ghosting along your upper arm. “But not this.”

You could feel it now, what he was doing. He wasn’t touching you so much as studying you. Testing points of vulnerability. Measuring your reactions like he was preparing to redraw a battle plan. It was maddening.

And he was enjoying it.

"You really can't turn it off, can you?" you bit out. "Even now, you're still strategizing."

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he reached your shoulder, and stopped. His thumb pressed, slowly, into the muscle there. The tension, the pressure, it was sudden and deliberate. Painful, but good, twisting low in your stomach.

You hissed softly, gripping the arms of the chair.

"You tense here often," Dorn said, like a physician diagnosing a wound. "Likely stress. Poor posture during field work."

Then his thumb rolled deeper, kneading with a precision that felt too exact to be innocent. It wasn’t a massage. It was manipulation. Your body, his blueprint. Every response cataloged.

“Stop doing that,” you muttered. “Like I’m one of your damn siege maps.”

"Why?" he asked simply. "You’re responding."

His hand moved again, sliding up along the curve of your neck. His fingers splayed gently at your nape, firm but not forceful. The heat of him soaked into your skin. You were still clothed, still technically untouched in any indecent way, and yet your heart was thundering.

“Rogal—”

“Silence,” he said, almost softly. His fingers tightened just slightly. “Let me finish.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

He took his time now. Every motion of his hand was slow, excruciatingly so. Down your throat, just the edge of his knuckles brushing your collarbone. His other hand came forward at last, sliding behind your back to anchor you. You realized, too late, that you couldn’t move. He wasn’t holding you hard, but the placement was exact, inescapable.

“Fascinating,” he said, voice nearly a purr now. Not sensual, strategic. “Your heartbeat has increased. Pupils dilated. Breathing shallow.”

“You’re—” You tried to speak, but your mouth was dry. “You’re using me like a training exercise.”

That earned a faint sound. A hum. His thumb slid along the base of your throat, the pressure just enough to remind you how large his hand was, how easily he could grip, how easily he could...

Your knees pressed together instinctively.

He saw it. Of course he did.

“Touch,” he said slowly, “is not a weapon I have employed often. It is… inefficient in most contexts.”

You swallowed.

“But in this one?” His head dipped lower. You felt his breath against your jaw. “Highly effective.”

You were trembling now, not from fear, never from fear, but from anticipation. From the slow, building tension that coiled tighter and tighter inside you like a drawn bowstring. And Dorn, your cold, stoic, beautiful bastard of a Primarch, wasn’t relenting. If anything, he was only just beginning.

His hand left your throat, and you almost whined at the loss, but then it returned, lower, splaying across your abdomen. Just through fabric. No skin-to-skin. And yet, it was worse, more intimate. His palm was heavy with the promise of pressure. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t grope.

He just held.

And it wrecked you.

Your head fell back against the chair, a breath shuddering from your lips. He watched you, like always, unflinching. Composed. Tactical.

And then, finally, he spoke again.

“You are soft,” he murmured, his thumb dragging in slow circles over your covered stomach. “Unarmored. Exposed.”

You gasped, both from the words and the gentle roll of his touch.

"And yet you let me do this."

A pause. His hand slid down just a few inches. Not indecent. Not yet. But it could be. So easily.

You were aching now. Throbbing.

“And why,” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, “would you allow such exposure… unless you wanted it exploited?”

You turned your head sharply toward him, breathless and wild. “You’re such a bastard.”

A glint sparked in his eye. “Yes.”

Then, without warning, both hands moved.

One braced the back of your neck again, possessive. The other slipped around your waist, tugging you forward in the chair just enough that your legs parted slightly, just enough to make you realize how defenseless you truly were beneath his gaze, his grasp.

Your pulse roared in your ears.

“I have found your weakness,” Dorn said, calm as ever. “It is not in your skin. It is not in your armor. It is in your submission.”

You opened your mouth, to argue, to deny, to challenge him, but then he leaned closer. His lips just barely brushed the shell of your ear, and the words he breathed into you nearly undid you entirely:

“And now that I know it… I will use it.”

Your vision blurred.

Before you could even respond, he pulled away, stepping back as if the entire moment had been nothing. Just another exercise. Another test of materials under pressure.

You were left panting, ruined in your chair, your body burning and empty without his hands.

Dorn merely turned away, reaching for his gauntlet. “We will revisit this,” he said, voice crisp.

“Revisit?” you echoed, voice cracking.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “There is more to learn.”

Then he sealed the gauntlet shut with a hiss.

And just before he turned back to his command console, you saw it—the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile.

A smirk.

#primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #rogal dorn x reader

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moonlitstoriess · 5 months ago

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Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem! reader (mini-series) Part 2

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

Previous part

Next Part

See masterlist

Warnings: none for now either, I think

The morning sunlight trickled into the room through cracked shutters, casting golden lines across Y/N’s worn wooden floor. She sat stiffly at the edge of her chair, her gaze fixed on the tepid tea in her hands. The cup was shaking slightly, her fingers unable to stop trembling no matter how tightly she gripped it.

It wasn’t the tea. It wasn’t even the too-bright sunlight piercing her bleary eyes.

“Marry me.”

The words from yesterday echoed in her mind, louder than the birds chirping outside, louder than the clock ticking relentlessly on her wall. It had been more of a command than a proposal, Eris’s tone leaving no room for discussion. Her jaw clenched at the memory of his smirk, so infuriatingly sure of himself, as though the entire world bent to his whims.

She had wanted to scream, to tell him he could shove his proposal somewhere unpleasant. But no, she’d stood there, stunned and silent, while he outlined his outrageous plan. A fake marriage. Pretending to be a princess. Attending the royal court.

Her stomach twisted violently, and she abandoned her tea on the table.

She had barely slept, tossing and turning as her mind warred between outrage and disbelief. How could he expect her to agree to such madness? She didn’t even like him. The idea of being tied to him—even pretend—made her want to claw at her skin.

She had spent the entire day trying to distract herself. Fixing the squeaky hinge on her front door, scrubbing floors that didn’t need cleaning, reorganizing her tiny kitchen shelves. But no matter how hard she tried, his words wouldn’t leave her.

Even now, as the morning sun warmed her modest home, her thoughts refused to settle. Eris’s smirk. His sharp, calculating eyes. His promise that this would be the only way to save the lands, to protect innocent lives.

Her teeth ground together. Why me?

A sharp knock at the door startled her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Her head snapped up, her pulse quickening. She froze, staring at the door as if it might bite her.

No. Not him again. Please, not him.

The knock came again, firmer this time.

Y/N groaned, running a hand through her hair. “If that’s you, Vanserra, I swear to the gods—”

She marched to the door, yanking it open without a second thought.

What she expected: Eris, standing there with his smug smile and some new ridiculous demand. What she got: two women draped in flowing, shimmering robes and headscarves that caught the sunlight like liquid gold.

Her words caught in her throat as she blinked at them.

The shorter of the two, a woman with warm bronze-toned skin and large, intelligent eyes, inclined her head politely. “Good morning,” she said softly, her voice smooth as honey.

Y/N blinked again. “Uh…” She glanced between the two women, her grip on the door tightening. “Can I… help you?”

The taller woman, her sharp cheekbones framed by the loose fabric of her scarf, stepped forward. “We were sent by Princess Leone.”

Y/N’s brain stalled completely. “…What?”

The shorter woman—who introduced herself as Noura—smiled gently. “The princess cannot risk her plans being overheard. She sent us to escort you safely to the palace.”

Y/N’s jaw fell open, her grip on the door slackening. “I’m sorry—what?”

The taller one, Samira, tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes glinting. “You are to leave immediately. The princess’s orders were clear.”

“Wait, wait, hold on.” Y/N threw up her hands, stepping back as if to put more space between her and these absurdly calm women. “I haven’t even said yes yet!”

The two women exchanged a look, as if they were sharing some private joke. Noura folded her hands neatly in front of her. “You haven’t?”

“No!” Y/N snapped, her voice rising. “This whole thing is insane! I’m not some princess, and I’m not—” She waved her hands wildly, her voice breaking into a frustrated laugh. “I don’t know what I’m doing!”

Samira stepped forward, her movements graceful and deliberate. “Your doubts are understandable,” she said evenly. “But the princess chose you for a reason.”

“That reason being Eris Vanserra,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

“We cannot stay here long,” Noura interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “The princess does not take risks lightly, and neither should you.”

Y/N glared at them, her hands planted on her hips. “So what, you just expect me to pack up my life and leave?”

Another shared look passed between them, this one tinged with amusement.

Noura stepped inside, uninvited, her soft slippers making no noise on the wooden floor. “You won’t need to pack much. Everything you require has been arranged.”

Before Y/N could argue, Samira placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the small chair by the table.

“Wait—what are you—”

“Sit,” Samira said briskly.

Y/N sat. Mostly out of shock.

Samira immediately began undoing the messy braid Y/N had thrown her hair into that morning, her deft fingers working with surprising speed. Noura, meanwhile, produced a bundle of fabric from a satchel she carried, unfolding it to reveal a gown so stunning it made Y/N’s throat tighten.

“Wait, wait,” Y/N said, lifting her hands as if to ward them off. “What is this?”

“This,” Noura said with a small smile, “is your disguise.”

“I don’t need a disguise!”

Samira arched a brow as she twisted Y/N’s hair into an intricate knot. “You’re pretending to be a princess, darling. You do need a disguise.”

Y/N groaned, slumping in her seat. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“You’ll survive,” Samira said dryly, securing a final pin.

The two women worked efficiently, leaving Y/N little room to protest. By the time they finished, she was draped in layers of shimmering twilight-blue fabric, her hair braided and pinned with delicate silver ornaments.

Y/N stared at her reflection in the small mirror Samira held up. “Gods,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I look like I’m about to be sacrificed to some ancient deity.”

Noura chuckled softly, but her tone turned serious as she said, “We need to leave. The others are waiting.”

“The others?” Y/N echoed, her stomach sinking.

Her question was answered the moment she stepped outside.

Her mouth fell open as she took in the small caravan parked just beyond her gate. Horses, sentries in gleaming armor, women dressed in elegant gowns that rivaled her own. A small, ornately carved carriage waited at the center of it all, its wheels gleaming in the sunlight.

Y/N turned to Noura, her voice shrill. “What is this?”

“The princess’s most trusted court,” Noura explained, motioning toward the group. “She chose them carefully. They know the price of betrayal.”

Y/N’s stomach churned. “And what is the price?”

Samira’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Oh, honey,” she said, her voice filled with wicked amusement. “You don’t know our princess at all.”

One of the sentries stepped forward, bowing low. Samira took Y/N’s hand and guided her toward the waiting carriage.

Y/N shot one last, desperate look back at her little house, her stomach sinking further. “Thank the gods my house is far from civilization,” she muttered as she climbed into the carriage. “At least my neighbors won’t see this circus.”

Samira smirked as she settled in beside her. “You’d better get used to it,” she said lightly. “This circus is just getting started.”

The carriage began to roll forward with a slight lurch, and Y/N clutched the edge of her seat, her knuckles white. The horses’ hooves clattered against the cobblestones, the sound accompanied by the rhythmic creak of the wheels. She stared at the plush velvet interior of the carriage, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

This was fine. Everything was fine. She’d agreed to this madness, and now she just had to—

“We’ll start with the basics,” Noura announced, her tone brisk and no-nonsense, snapping Y/N out of her spiraling thoughts.

“Wait, what—”

“You’ll be going by the name Amira Yasmin Idrissi,” Noura continued, as if Y/N hadn’t spoken. “Your family is one of the oldest and most noble bloodlines in the Southern Courts. You’re a distant cousin of the royal family through your mother’s side, which explains why you haven’t been seen at court often.”

Y/N blinked at her. “Amira what?”

“Yasmin Idrissi,” Noura repeated patiently.

Samira leaned back, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. “Keep up, darling. It gets better.”

“It gets worse,” Y/N muttered under her breath, but Noura was already plowing ahead.

“You’ve been living in isolation for the past few years, mourning the tragic death of your parents,” Noura continued, her tone shifting into something softer, more sympathetic. “They were assassinated during an ambush on their estate—”

“Assassinated?” Y/N interrupted, her voice shooting up an octave.

“Yes, assassinated,” Noura confirmed, frowning slightly as if it were obvious. “The Southern Courts have always had their share of political tensions, after all.”

Samira snorted. “You’re not a true noble if no one’s tried to murder you at least once.”

Y/N stared at her, wide-eyed. “What—”

“Anyway,” Noura interjected smoothly, “you’ve been in mourning. That’s why no one has seen you until now. You’ve spent your time traveling through secluded estates and keeping out of the public eye.”

“Secluded estates,” Y/N repeated flatly. “That sounds... convenient.”

Samira raised a brow. “What did you think? That we’d send you to the palace with no story at all? This isn’t amateur hour, sweetheart.”

Y/N groaned, slumping back against the cushioned seat. “Gods, what did I even sign up for?”

“You’re also an only child,” Noura added, ignoring her. “Which makes you the sole heir to your family’s lands and titles.”

“Perfect,” Y/N muttered. “I’m a grieving orphan with a target on my back. Sounds like a dream come true.”

Samira grinned. “Don’t forget, you’re also breathtakingly beautiful, adored by all who meet you, and an absolute darling of the court.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s pushing it.”

“Oh, no,” Noura said, dead serious. “You are adored. That’s part of the story.”

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re killing me.”

The carriage hit a small bump in the road, and Y/N jolted forward slightly. She shot a nervous glance at the window, her curiosity finally getting the better of her. She pushed back the curtain just enough to peek outside—and her stomach dropped.

The streets were lined with people.

Men, women, and children stood in clusters, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the carriage as it passed. Some whispered to each other, their eyes wide with curiosity. Others simply stared, their gazes fixed on the ornate design of the carriage, the fine horses pulling it, the glittering armor of the sentries surrounding it.

Y/N let the curtain fall back into place, turning to Noura with a horrified expression. “Are they... watching us?”

Noura smiled faintly. “Of course they are. You’re a princess, remember?”

“I’m not a princess,” Y/N hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is all pretend!”

Samira smirked. “Tell that to them,” she said, jerking her head toward the window.

Y/N groaned, sinking lower into her seat. “I hate this.”

“Don’t slouch,” Noura said sharply. “A princess never slouches.”

Y/N shot her a glare but straightened her posture reluctantly.

“You’ll also need to work on your manners,” Noura added, as if Y/N wasn’t already overwhelmed. “Proper greetings, courtly etiquette, how to carry yourself in the presence of the king—”

“The king?” Y/N cut in, her voice rising. “I have to meet the king?”

“Obviously,” Samira said dryly. “You’re his niece. Well, technically, his distant niece. Twice removed.”

Y/N’s head spun. “How am I supposed to keep track of all this?”

“You’ll manage,” Noura said briskly. “The princess wouldn’t have chosen you if she didn’t think you could handle it.”

Y/N groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Samira patted her shoulder, her grin infuriatingly smug. “Cheer up, Amira Yasmin Idrissi. You’re about to live every little girl’s dream.”

“Every little girl’s nightmare,” Y/N muttered.

The carriage rattled on, and Noura launched into more details about her supposed backstory—details that only made Y/N’s head hurt more. Her family’s estate was located in a fertile valley near the southern border. Her favorite pastime was horseback riding. She was a skilled harpist.

“I don’t even play the harp,” Y/N interrupted, exasperated.

“You do now,” Noura said firmly.

Y/N sighed, massaging her temples. “You’re all insane.”

Samira laughed. “Welcome to the court, darling.”

As the carriage began to slow, Y/N’s anxiety doubled. She peeked out the curtain again, catching a glimpse of the palace gates towering ahead. Her breath caught.

The gates were enormous, gilded in gold and flanked by towering marble columns. Beyond them, the palace rose like a shimmering mirage, its spires gleaming in the sunlight, its windows reflecting the bright blue sky.

“We’re here,” Noura said softly.

Y/N swallowed hard, her hands gripping the edge of her seat. This was it. There was no turning back now.

Samira leaned in, her voice low and teasing. “Ready to meet your adoring public?”

Y/N shot her a withering glare. “Not even a little bit.”

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Noura straightened, smoothing her gown. “Remember, you’re a princess. Keep your head high, smile politely, and don’t let them see you falter.”

Y/N took a shaky breath, forcing herself to sit up straighter. “Right. Princess. No faltering.”

Samira opened the door, and sunlight flooded the carriage. Y/N squinted against the brightness, her heart pounding as she stepped out onto the polished stone pathway.

The palace loomed before her, grand and imposing, its walls alive with the whispers of history.

And just like that, her quiet, ordinary life was gone.

The moment Y/N stepped out of the carriage, it was as though the entire world shifted its focus onto her. Dozens of faces turned in her direction—guards in gleaming armor, palace servants bustling about, courtiers idling in the grand hallways. All of them stared, their eyes narrowing with curiosity, suspicion, or outright disbelief. The weight of their gazes felt like a hundred-pound boulder pressing down on her chest.

She hesitated, her feet glued to the smooth marble pathway that led to the palace entrance. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure everyone within a five-mile radius could hear it.

“This was a terrible idea,” she muttered under her breath.

“Keep moving,” Noura said softly, her voice laced with a calm authority that left no room for argument.

Before Y/N could argue, Samira nudged her forward—not unkindly, but firmly enough to get her feet moving. “Head high, shoulders back,” Samira instructed. “You’re royalty now. Walk like it.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she forced her spine to straighten, her chin to lift. As she ascended the palace steps, the grand doors loomed larger and larger, their intricate carvings and gold inlays glinting in the sunlight.

When they finally entered the palace, it felt like stepping into another world. The air was cooler, scented faintly with jasmine and polished wood. Sunlight poured through towering stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the pristine floors. Everything gleamed—marble, gold, crystal. It was opulent, almost offensively so.

And everyone was still staring.

Her palms grew clammy, and her mind raced. Did they know? Did anyone recognize her?

Y/N faltered for a moment, her steps slowing as her gaze flicked nervously to the courtiers who whispered behind their hands, their sharp eyes trained on her every move.

“I can’t do this,” she hissed under her breath, her voice barely audible.

“Yes, you can,” Noura replied smoothly, taking her arm and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Keep walking. Smile faintly. Don’t let them see your nerves.”

“Smile faintly?” Y/N repeated, incredulous. “I’m about to keel over, and you want me to—”

Samira jabbed her lightly in the ribs, making her jolt forward. “Less talking, more walking, princess."

Y/N shot her a glare but did as she was told, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

As they passed a group of finely dressed courtiers, one of them—a haughty-looking male with sharp cheekbones and a jeweled cane—raised a brow at her, his lips curling in a faint smirk. Y/N resisted the urge to throw something at him.

She could already hear the whispers trailing in her wake: “Who is she?” “Is she truly from the Southern Courts?” “She doesn’t look familiar. I’ve never heard of an Amira Yasmin Idrissi before…”

Her stomach churned, but she pushed forward, letting Noura and Samira guide her through the labyrinthine halls of the palace.

As they walked, her thoughts began to spiral. I was a servant here. Just two nights ago, I was scrubbing these floors, serving wine to these glorified highborn bastards. And now? Now I’m supposed to convince them I’m one of them?

Her lips twitched in dark amusement, but the humor was short-lived. Gods, what if the servants recognize me?

Her steps faltered again, and she shot a panicked glance at Noura. “Wait—what about the servants? They’ll know who I am. They’ve seen me.”

“Relax,” Noura said without missing a beat. “The princess has taken care of it.”

Y/N frowned. “Taken care of it? How?”

Samira smirked. “You really don’t want to know.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Y/N muttered.

“Stop overthinking,” Noura said, her tone firmer now. “The princess wouldn’t have sent for you if she wasn’t certain everything was in place. Trust the plan.”

Trust the plan. Easy for her to say. Noura wasn’t the one being paraded through the palace as a fake princess, pretending she hadn’t spent years cleaning these very halls.

They turned a corner, and Y/N caught sight of a set of massive double doors ahead. Her breath hitched. The doors were intricately carved, depicting a scene of blooming roses and curling vines, their edges gilded with gold. Two guards stood on either side, their expressions impassive, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Her feet slowed, her nerves spiking again.

“This is it,” Noura said quietly.

"You are doing great, just try to act less like you are heading to your execution and more like you are about to meet her royal highness herself." Samira whispered with a small amused smile.

Before Y/N could respond, the guards stepped forward, their movements perfectly synchronized. They each grasped one of the doors and pushed them open with a low groan of ancient hinges.

The room beyond was bathed in golden light, the air thick with the scent of fresh flowers and incense. The ceilings soared high above, adorned with intricate murals of battles and celebrations. At the far end of the room stood a figure clad in flowing, jewel-toned robes—the stunning Princess Leone herself, her dark eyes sharp and calculating, her regal beauty utterly intimidating.

But it wasn’t the princess who stole Y/N’s attention.

Standing just to the side of Leone, dressed impeccably in tailored black with his auburn hair catching the light, was the bane of her existence.

Eris Vanserra.

And he was smirking.

Gods help me, Y/N thought, her stomach sinking. What have I gotten myself into?

Y/N stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes still fixed on Eris, the bane of her existence. Every inch of her body felt like it was vibrating with rage, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She was barely aware of the princess’s greeting, her words floating in one ear and out the other as her gaze remained locked on Eris’s infuriating smirk.

"My distant cousin," Princess Leone's voice rang out, smooth and melodic, with an air of graciousness Y/N could never hope to match. "How happy am I to meet you at last."

The princess stepped forward, her arms wide as if she were welcoming a long-lost relative, and for a brief, surreal moment, Y/N almost wondered if this was all just some ridiculous dream. But no—no, this was real. This was her life now.

The two ladies, Noura and Samira, both nodded with pride as Leone turned to them, offering a pleased smile. "You’ve done a marvelous job," she said, her voice laced with a compliment that seemed as natural as breathing. "Well done."

Y/N barely heard this, her thoughts still tangled around the sight of Eris, who was now lounging in one of the luxurious chairs near the princess. His arms crossed in that irritatingly confident way, his eyes never leaving hers as though he found this all just one big joke.

Noura and Samira moved to sit beside Leone, and Y/N was ushered forward, her feet heavy as lead. She took the seat opposite the princess, the silken fabric of her new royal gown sliding around her uncomfortably. She wanted to stand. She wanted to walk right out of the room. But all eyes were on her.

It’s fine. It’s fine, she repeated to herself, but her mind didn’t seem to believe it.

Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it on her lap, and she cursed inwardly at how her body was betraying her.

"Ah," the princess said with a soft laugh, her dark eyes glinting with amusement, as if she could see exactly what was happening in Y/N’s head. "I am aware of how absurd this all must seem to you."

Y/N’s lips twitched, and before she could stop herself, she shot back, "You could say that again. One minute I’m scrubbing the floors and serving wine, the next I’m supposed to act like I’ve been born into royalty. It’s a bit much, don’t you think?"

Leone smiled gently, and for the briefest moment, Y/N saw something in her eyes—a sharpness that told her the princess was far more calculating than she let on. "I know, it is not a position one would choose lightly. But it is necessary."

Eris, meanwhile, was far less tactful. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing Y/N with that all-too-familiar smirk. "You’re handling it well so far. Not every servant gets the chance to play royalty, you know."

Y/N’s teeth clenched, but before she could respond, her voice dripping with sarcasm, Leone raised a hand, her serene composure never faltering. "Eris," she said, almost as if scolding a petulant child. "Let her breathe."

Eris only chuckled, unperturbed. "I’m just saying, she looks the part."

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, and she shot back, "Oh, well, I certainly hope that ‘looking the part’ doesn’t involve being surrounded by irritating people like you."

The princess and her two companions exchanged amused glances, and it was clear that they were both entertained and a little impressed by Y/N’s sharp tongue.

But just as the tension in the room began to simmer into something more volatile, Samira cleared her throat politely.

"Yes, yes, I think we should focus," she said, her voice soft but carrying an undeniable authority. "We have much to discuss."

Leone nodded, turning her full attention back to Y/N. Her smile never wavered. "Indeed. Now, Y/N, let’s get to the matter at hand. You’re bound to have many questions, but rest assured, we’ve thought of everything."

Y/N was already running through the list in her head, her thoughts moving in a chaotic blur. She opened her mouth, but Leone cut her off smoothly before she could speak. "The maids. Yes, they have been given very specific instructions. They will not know you. They will not acknowledge you, not as Y/N. In fact, they’ll act as though they’ve never seen you before in their lives. You’ll have no need to worry about them. Their only job is to ensure you are comfortable while keeping the act intact."

Y/N blinked, trying to process the information. "And what about—"

"No," Leone interjected, cutting her off once again with a calm wave of her hand. "No, you needn’t concern yourself with the details. Everything will be taken care of. The servants, the palace, the way you’re seen by others. All of it has been accounted for."

Y/N’s mind was still racing, but she managed to suppress the urge to argue. "Fine," she said, though she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something she was missing. "What about... the king? My family? What about the Autumn Court? Eris brought... other courtiers with him, right?"

The moment she said his name, Eris’s smirk deepened, and Y/N had to resist the urge to throw something at him.

Princess Leone raised an eyebrow, her voice smooth as honey. "Ah, yes, the king. He knows nothing of you—at least, not yet. Your family, as far as anyone knows, was part of a branch of the Southern Court that dissolved years ago, and your 'lineage' has been carefully constructed by us. The king has no reason to suspect anything unusual. Not yet, anyway."

Eris leaned forward, eyes gleaming with that dangerous charm. "As for the Autumn Court and my dear, dear father, well, he hasn’t a clue either. I’m sure they’ll be just as shocked as you when they see your 'family,' which is, of course, a bit... fabricated."

Y/N shot him a look of disgust, barely able to keep her temper in check. "Fabulous," she muttered. "A fake family for a fake princess. What could possibly go wrong?"

Leone chuckled, unfazed by the sarcasm. "What Eris means," she continued smoothly, "is that the whole court has been kept in the dark about you. We’ve carefully ensured that no one will know who you are or that your family doesn’t truly exist."

Leone’s voice broke through her thoughts once again, soft and reassuring. "The courtiers will behave as though you’ve always been one of us. They’ve been given very clear instructions, and they will be there to protect you if anything goes awry."

Y/N looked from one to the other, her head spinning with all the information they were throwing at her. "So, let me get this straight," she said slowly, trying to make sense of it all. "I’m supposed to pretend to be royalty, be part of a family that doesn’t exist, and fool a court that doesn’t even know I’m—"

"Exactly," Eris interrupted, leaning back in his chair with a smug look on his face.

Y/N didn’t even look at him this time. She turned to the princess, who was still watching her with those calm, measured eyes. "And when the king finds out—what then?"

Leone’s gaze flicked briefly to Eris before returning to Y/N. "We deal with that when the time comes. In the meantime, you’ll have the full support of me, my trusted courtiers, and the two ladies you’ve met, Noura and Samira. They will be your most trusted allies, assisting you through every moment of this performance. If you falter or hesitate, they will step in for you."

Y/N couldn’t help but exhale a sharp breath, the weight of it all pressing down on her. This was madness. And yet, it was the only way forward.

"And Eris?" Y/N asked, glancing up at him again, only to find him watching her with a look that could only be described as smug.

"Yes?" Eris asked innocently.

She gritted her teeth, trying not to snap. "Just... stay out of my way, alright?"

"Unfortunately for you," he replied with mock sweetness. "I can't do that, since...you know, we are soon to be married and all."

Leone’s soft laugh interrupted their banter, and she leaned forward. "Enough with the games, you two. We have much to prepare for, and very little time."

Y/N sighed, but this time, it wasn’t frustration—well, not entirely. There was a sense of inevitability creeping in. The plans had been set in motion, and she had no choice but to follow.

The room was unlike anything Y/N had ever imagined for herself. She stood at the entrance, her gaze sweeping over every inch of the space as the two ladies, with practiced grace, moved about, making sure her belongings were neatly arranged. The high walls, bathed in soft golden light, were adorned with intricate tapestries that shimmered in the sunlight, woven with scenes of distant lands and battles, gods and legends. Low, ornate lamps cast a warm, honeyed glow across the rich fabrics—plush cushions and rugs in deep crimson, amber, and sapphire hues sprawled across the floor. The wooden beams in the ceiling were carved with delicate patterns of swirling vines, their beauty lost on her as she stood still, completely frozen.

Her eyes lingered on the grand mirror hanging above the vanity, its frame designed in geometric patterns and inlaid with pieces of ivory and gold. She wasn’t sure why it felt so foreign, so alien to her. This was supposed to be her new life, a reward for her obedience, her silence, her sacrifice. Yet as she gazed at her reflection, she only felt a stranger. She didn’t belong here.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the vanity, gripping it to steady herself. This life—this palace of riches—felt so distant from the life she had lived just weeks ago. Back then, the days had been long and cold, spent working herself into exhaustion so she could afford the next batch of herbs and treatments for her mother. Her mother, who had been fighting a sickness that drained her strength a little more with each passing day. Every time Y/N had returned home, it had been like a new stab to her heart, seeing her mother weaker, paler.

But now? Now she stood in this stunning room, surrounded by riches she could never have imagined. None of it mattered. None of it could fill the empty space where her heart used to be.

Her mother was not here. No, her mother was in the healer’s place, just like she had been for the past few months. The Healing House, a place that Y/N had fought tooth and nail to get her into. She had saved every coin she earned, worked double shifts, and scrimped and saved for months, just to get her mother the care she needed. The healer’s place had been the only option after everything else had failed. It was one of the only places Y/N could afford where they wouldn’t just treat her mother’s illness, but actually try to cure it.

And yet, every time she visited, her heart had shattered all over again. Her mother, once so vibrant and full of life, was now reduced to a shell of herself—her frail body clinging to life, her once-strong voice now barely a whisper. Y/N had tried everything to help, but it was never enough. Every visit, every look into her mother’s weary eyes, was a reminder that she was failing.

She should be there. She should be with her, holding her hand, staying by her side. That was where she belonged. Not here, in a room like this, a room meant for royalty and power. This life, this palace, this engagement—it was all a distraction. A temporary moment that took her away from the only thing that truly mattered.

The thought of her mother, sick and alone in that healer’s house, brought tears to Y/N’s eyes. The guilt was overwhelming, crushing. Her mother had sacrificed everything for her. How could Y/N leave her now?

Why was she even here? Why did she deserve to be the one chosen? Because of her mother? Or had Eris seen something else in her? Was there something about her that made her worthy of standing next to him, of playing the part of this engaged princess?

A laugh escaped her lips, bitter and hollow.

She cursed her father’s name again, the same bitter, resentful curse she’d been repeating since she was a child. How could he have left them both to fend for themselves? He had disappeared without a trace, without a word.

She felt a bitter pang in her chest when she thought of Azriel. How lucky he was to have had a father, someone who cared for him, someone who fought for him. Azriel—someone who had a name for himself, who had a future, a destiny that was his to shape.

Meanwhile, here Y/N was, caught in a web of lies and promises, trying to fit into a life that wasn’t hers. She was nothing but a pawn in this game. She couldn’t make a name for herself like Azriel, couldn't rise to greatness. She was just a female who had been forced into a role she didn’t understand but needed.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let her emotions control her. She had to focus. She had to do this for her mother. For her mother. She couldn’t afford to think about herself right now.

This engagement to Eris, this life she was now thrust into—none of it mattered as long as she could get her mother the treatment she needed. That was the only thing that kept her from falling apart completely. Eris had promised her mother would be cared for. And even though she didn’t trust him, the way he had spoken about her mother had made her believehim, just for that one thing.

The door creaked open, snapping Y/N from her spiraling thoughts. One of the ladies entered, her voice light, but laced with an undertone of amusement.

“Will you stop staring so hard into the mirror? It might break, you know?”

Y/N blinked, startled. “Wha—when did you come back?”

The lady, Samira, gave her an almost affectionate smile. “Long enough to see you lost in thought, staring at your reflection like you’ve never seen yourself before. But no matter. We need to get you ready. You and Prince Eris are meeting the king soon.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the king. “The king?” Her voice cracked slightly, but she quickly regained her composure.

“Yes,” Samira replied with a touch of amusement, stepping closer to help adjust her gown. “The king is... unwell. Don’t worry about him. He can barely remember his daughter's name, let alone yours.”

Y/N couldn’t help but feel a surge of anxiety at the thought of meeting the king, but Samira’s calmness was contagious. “You’ll be fine,” she continued, her hands deftly smoothing down the fabric of Y/N’s gown. “Just remember your story and don’t say anything to upset the king. He’s not likely to remember anyway. But don’t worry—all eyes will be on you.”

“Eyes?” Y/N’s stomach churned. “What’s this about ‘eyes’?”

Samira grinned knowingly as she took a step back, her gaze flickering over Y/N’s dress. “You’ll be stepping out as the engaged couple. The garden party in your honor, remember? We need to make sure everyone sees you and Prince Eris as the perfect match.”

Y/N’s lips twisted into a wry smile as she caught her reflection once more. Perfect match. The thought felt strange on her tongue. “What a joke,” she muttered to herself.

Samira gave her a look, as if sensing her discomfort. “It’s not a joke, not here. The court will be speaking about you both, and you’ll have their attention. Make them remember you. They’ll be whispering your name.”

Y/N’s chest tightened with a complicated mix of emotions, but Samira’s steady presence made her feel as though she could handle it. She could play this part, couldn’t she? For her mother.

Still, as the gown settled around her and the final touches were made, doubts and fears began to rise in her mind. Was she really doing the right thing? Was it worth all of this—this life, these lies—to ensure her mother’s safety? Could she really wear this mask, this façade, for as long as it took?

Her reflection stared back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and defiance.

And for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t sure what came next. But she had to keep moving forward. For her mother.

As Samira left the room and signaled for Y/N to follow her, Y/N found herself staring at the door, her heart filled with questions she didn’t know how to answer.

The grand staircase stretched down before her like a scene from a dream, its marble steps gleaming beneath the soft glow of golden chandeliers. Y/N hesitated at the top, her heart racing in her chest. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing on her, the unknowns that awaited her just beyond the doors below. There was a sense of finality in the air, an unspoken expectation, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was truly ready for this.

Behind her, Samira stepped forward with a quiet grace, her hands brushing against the rich tapestries hanging along the walls. “Your grace,” Samira said, her voice low and steady, “I will escort you to the bottom.”

Y/N nodded, offering a faint smile, grateful for the quiet strength Samira exuded. There was something calming about her presence, though the fear in Y/N’s heart remained thick, unyielding.

They began their descent. The sound of Y/N’s soft footsteps echoed through the hall as they moved slowly down the grand staircase. The air grew heavier with each step, the pressure mounting. At the bottom of the stairs, Eris stood waiting for her, his tall figure framed by the archway leading into the next hall. His posture was regal, almost commanding, but there was something more in the way his eyes met hers—an understanding, perhaps, or something less defined.

His palm was raised, an unspoken invitation. “Shall we?” he said, his voice smooth, carrying the weight of both formality and something more, something that made her pause for a moment.

Y/N took a steadying breath, gathering the courage to place her hand in his. His fingers closed gently around hers, the warmth of his touch grounding her in that moment, even as the tremor of uncertainty ran through her. Samira gave a polite nod before she turned, her steps retreating as she left them alone.

The atmosphere shifted, becoming more intimate in a way that made Y/N’s stomach flip. The vastness of the room around them seemed to shrink, the silence between them stretching like a thin veil. She tried to steady her breathing as they began to walk side by side, Eris leading her down the long corridor toward the King’s Guest Chambers.

“So,” Eris started, his tone light but with a touch of something she couldn’t quite place. “I must admit, you look rather... eye-catching this evening.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a wry smile. “We’re alone, Eris,” she said, her voice dripping with an amused challenge. “You don’t have to pretend to be in love with me just yet.”

Eris’ eyes flickered to her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he quickly recovered. His steps faltered just slightly, but only for a second. He cleared his throat, looking more uncomfortable than she expected. “Oh, I—well, you know, the guards are still around, and there are servants,” he stammered, his voice betraying him for the first time since they’d met.

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle under her breath, shaking her head slightly. “Right. Of course.” She shot him a teasing glance, but before she could say anything else, Eris shifted the conversation, his voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone.

“Y/N…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, and it caught her attention immediately. “Your mother… she’s in good hands. I’ve made sure of it. Leone secured the best healers for her care, and I’ve ensured that additional funds were paid for the medicines required for her treatment.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her mind momentarily breaking from the tension of the moment. “You did?” Her voice was soft, and she felt a rush of relief at the thought. “I didn’t have enough... I could never afford...”

Eris nodded, his gaze steady as he looked down at her, as if trying to reassure her. “I know. The treatments she needs are... expensive, and the herbs and potions are coming from abroad, so it may take a little time before they arrive in full, but rest assured, she is being closely monitored. That wasn’t something you could afford before, but I’ve made sure she’s under constant care.”

The words lingered in the air, and Y/N felt something shift in her chest. For the first time in what felt like ages, a weight lifted off her heart. Her mother... was truly being taken care of. In the best possible way.

Y/N let out a quiet sigh, her shoulders relaxing as she allowed herself to breathe a little easier. She hadn’t realized how much of her energy had been consumed by worry for her mother’s health. And yet, here was Eris, someone she barely knew, going out of his way to make sure that her mother had what she needed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, barely able to find the words for the overwhelming relief flooding through her. “I don’t know how to...”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eris cut in quickly, as if he could sense her hesitance. He gave her hand a slight squeeze, his voice low but firm. “I’m doing what’s right. You shouldn’t have had to fight for this.”

She nodded, her throat tight, grateful beyond words. The kindness in his voice—however it came about—was enough to soften her wary edges just slightly.

Before she could respond, Eris’s voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper as they walked. “Now, don’t get too comfortable. We’re nearly there.”

Y/N blinked, startled. “Wait, we—what?”

He smiled, though it was brief, his lips curving upward as he leaned in just a little closer. “We’re here.”

The words hit her before she had a chance to protest. The large, imposing doors of the King’s Guest Chambers stood ahead of them, the faint murmur of voices coming from within.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she glanced up at Eris, her stomach churning again. “Oh gods. Here we go.” Her hand trembled slightly in his, but she forced herself to stand tall. She wasn’t going to let herself falter now.

Eris seemed to sense her growing anxiety, his grip on her hand steadying. “Relax,” he whispered, the calmness in his tone almost surprising given the situation. “You’ll be fine.”

With a final glance at her, Eris gave a small nod to the guards standing at the door, and it opened with a low creak.

Y/N could feel the tension mounting within her as she stepped over the threshold, and there—standing in front of them, looking far better than she expected—was the King. His appearance was old, frail, but there was a life in his eyes that made him seem... less sick than she had imagined. He had clearly been through years of decline, but there was still a sharpness to him, something unyielding beneath the surface.

As Y/N took in the sight of him, her mind raced. She was about to meet the king—an audience that could very well change everything. And she had to make a good impression. She couldn’t mess this up.

The door behind them clicked shut, the sound echoing in the silence.

Eris gave her hand a final squeeze. “Relax,” he murmured again, before stepping forward, leading them both into the room.

The King’s chambers were dimly lit, filled with ancient tapestries and relics of a long-past era, but despite the ornate surroundings, it was clear that time had been cruel to him. His regal posture, once proud, was now bent and frail as he stood with a slight tremble in his hands. His gaze flicked between Eris and Y/N with a kind of slow curiosity, as if he were trying to piece them together.

After a moment of silence, the King’s lips quirked into a smile, albeit a crooked one. "Ah, prince Eris," he began, his voice raspy but oddly warm. "Quite the surprise, I must say. You’ve gone and gotten yourself engaged. Quite sad, though, that you didn’t pick my daughter, but—" he paused, his eyes glinting mischievously, "at least you’ve chosen someone from my lineage… apparently."

Eris’ lips curled into a smooth, controlled smile as he stood taller, his posture unchanged. "Indeed, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice steady and polished. "I believe this union will be most beneficial for all involved. As for your daughter… well, she is already well cared for in her own way."

The King nodded thoughtfully, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the armrest of his chair. "Hmm, yes, of course. Quite the match you’ve made then. How did you two even meet?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he studied them both.

Y/N froze, the question unexpected and a little too pointed for her liking. She hadn’t exactly been prepared for this—this kind of scrutiny, so early on. A part of her wanted to hide behind her words, to retreat into herself, but she knew she couldn’t. This was a test, one she needed to pass.

Eris smoothly stepped in, answering the question with the same practiced ease he always seemed to have. "We met in an unexpected way," he began, keeping his tone light and engaging. "Though perhaps not quite as romantic as some would hope. There were matters of necessity involved." His smile deepened, turning charming but still impersonal. "But it was fortuitous, Your Majesty. Everything fell into place."

Y/N stood beside him, her hands clenched at her sides, unsure of how to react. She swallowed hard, her mind swirling with the absurdity of it all. It was a strange mix of relief and tension. Her heart raced as she watched the King’s expression. His gaze was fixed on them, calculating. He was still not fully convinced, and his suspicion lingered in the air like an invisible fog.

The King’s brow furrowed, and he raised his hand, gesturing idly as if lost in thought. "I see. My daughter, Leone, did speak of the family’s… history. How, supposedly, this branch of our lineage had been lost to time." He squinted at Eris, then Y/N, as though trying to unravel some hidden truth from their faces. "Tell me, how did you convince my daughter of your... authenticity? Prince Eris how are you so surely tying your family history with our seemingly unknown branch?"

Y/N’s stomach flipped, the question more unnerving than she anticipated. Her mind whirred, trying to find the right answer. What had Leone told him? What had been said to paint this story of their family’s legitimacy? She wasn’t even sure herself, having only recently learned of it. She could feel the weight of the King's gaze drilling into her, and her mind became a whirlwind of thoughts, swirling and turning.

But before she could think too much, a voice interrupted her thoughts. Eris spoke again, his voice cutting through the tension with calm precision. “Your Majesty, my family’s history is not one to be easily explained in a few words,” he said, his tone both respectful and deflective. "But, rest assured, our intentions are pure, and this union will serve both our houses well."

Y/N’s head spun as the conversation continued, the King’s voice growing quieter and more thoughtful, yet his eyes never left them. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was probing them, digging for something he was not willing to show. The deeper they went into their explanation, the more she felt like they were walking on a fine line—one misstep, and everything would come crashing down.

Then, suddenly, the King stopped mid-sentence, his eyes glazing over with an unsettling shift. His frail hand trembled as he clasped it against his chest. A quiet muttering escaped his lips, incoherent at first, like he was lost in some strange dream.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She exchanged a brief, confused look with Eris, who had stiffened at the odd change. The King’s head jerked up, his eyes wide and unfocused, his body trembling as he began to speak louder, more erratically.

“No… no, not her… she’s... she’s—” the King stuttered, his voice rising in pitch. “She must—mustn’t get away! She must not! Mustn’t... No, not again! Not again!” His words were nonsensical, a jumble of madness, and Y/N couldn’t make sense of them.

Eris’ grip on her hand tightened instantly, a sharp jolt of awareness coursing through her. He had gone completely still, his eyes never leaving the King, who was now slapping his own face with increasing force.

“No!” the King shouted suddenly, his voice shrill. He began to hit his head with his fists, his body jerking violently as if battling invisible forces. “You’re all cursed! Cursed! All of you—all of you!” His words came faster, more frenzied, his mind unraveling before their eyes.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, panic rising like a wave in her chest. She wanted to step forward, to do something—but her feet were frozen in place. The sight of the King, so out of control, was more unnerving than she could have imagined. She felt like they were on the edge of something much darker, something far worse than just a simple meeting.

Eris didn’t hesitate. He jerked her hand hard, pulling her sharply to the side as his voice rang out, commanding and urgent. “Get back!” he barked at the guards, his tone cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Now!”

The guards, who had been standing by the door, immediately rushed into the room, drawn by the King’s erratic behavior. But Eris was already pulling Y/N away, guiding her quickly out of the room with forceful steps, his grip unrelenting as he pushed her ahead of him.

Y/N’s mind was reeling, her heart hammering in her chest as the world seemed to spin around her. They didn’t stop until they were far enough down the hall, far away from the madness that had erupted in the King’s chambers.

Eris’ breathing was heavy, his usual composure slipping for the first time since Y/N had met him. He didn’t let go of her hand, even as they came to a halt, his face pale, his jaw clenched.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now but still tense.

Y/N could barely catch her breath, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. She nodded slowly, unable to form any words. Her mind was still trying to catch up with the rapid sequence of events. The King… what had just happened? The madness, the erratic behavior—it was unlike anything she had ever seen.

Eris stood in front of her, his gaze searching hers, as though looking for signs of weakness, or something deeper in her reaction. "You’re safe now," he said, though his voice lacked its usual smoothness. It was strained, as if he, too, was coming to terms with the terrifying shift that had just taken place.

The silence between them stretched thick, the tension still crackling in the air.

A few minutes had passed before Y/N was able to collect herself. Her breaths had slowed, and her hands no longer trembled, but the memory of the King’s sudden outburst lingered in her mind like a dark shadow. Eris remained at her side, his usually composed demeanor returning as he led her down the hall toward the sprawling garden where the party awaited them. The weight of what had just occurred hung heavily in the air between them, neither of them speaking at first.

Finally, as they rounded a corner, Y/N broke the silence, her voice quieter than she intended. “What the hell was that back there?”

Eris glanced at her, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as though considering his words carefully. “The King is sick,” he said simply, but the weight of his words was enough to send a chill down her spine.

“What do you mean?” Y/N asked, her brow furrowing. “He looked completely… unhinged. I thought I was going to—”

“No, not like that,” Eris interjected, cutting her off with a slight shake of his head. “At first glance, you wouldn’t even know. He’s sick in ways you can’t see, not unless you’ve known him for a long time, like I have.” He sighed, his voice laced with a coldness Y/N had never heard from him before. “It’s not obvious, but it’s there. He's losing his grip on reality little by little. He’s been this way for years now. And Leone... she’s been handling more of the kingdom's affairs than most people realize. It’s why we didn’t worry too much when planning this whole thing and Leone having to cover for you. He is too ill to even remember."

Y/N absorbed his words, the reality of the King's state slowly sinking in. But there was something else lingering in the air, something Y/N couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Eris continued, his voice taking on a more neutral tone. “Leone is already in charge of many of the kingdom’s matters. She’s practically running everything. Soon enough, she’ll take her father’s place as queen. It’s only a matter of time now.”

Y/N gave him a sideways glance, her mind still reeling from the oddity of the King’s behavior. She didn’t know if she could ever get used to the sharp realities of this world—the political games, the whispered power plays, and the looming threats of madness hidden beneath the surface.

As they approached the gardens, the sound of laughter and the hum of conversation reached them, signaling the start of the party. The scene before them was nothing short of breathtaking.

The Montesere gardens sprawled out before them like something out of a dream. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and citrus blossoms, their vibrant colors spilling over from decorative stone planters. Lush greenery formed pathways that led through ornate arches adorned with ivy and fragrant vines, while stone fountains gurgled softly in the background. The party was set on large, elegant terracotta terraces, draped with silk curtains that swayed lazily in the warm evening breeze. The atmosphere was rich with the charm of history, yet alive with modern elegance.

Y/N felt a sudden wave of nerves as the eyes of the guests turned toward them. Her breath caught in her throat as their gazes swept over her, appraising, judging, as if trying to find her place in this strange, new world. The weight of their attention felt suffocating, as though she were caught in the middle of a stage play where everyone knew their part, but she had forgotten hers.

Eris, ever the master of composure, smiled—though Y/N could tell it was a practiced one, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer to her, his hand sliding possessively around her waist, pulling her closer to him. His touch was firm, almost protective.

"Just follow my lead, Princess," he whispered into her ear, his voice smooth, low, and deceptively calm. "I’ve got this."

Y/N nodded, swallowing her uncertainty, and let him guide her further into the garden, feeling the eyes of the nobles and foreign dignitaries watching every movement she made. As they reached the center of the party, the music quieted, and a hush fell over the crowd.

Leone stood at the podium, a vision of poise and elegance, her posture straight and regal, her gaze scanning the gathered guests. As she began her speech, Y/N felt the weight of her words settle into her bones.

"I’m pleased to welcome you all to this celebration,” Leone began, her voice clear and commanding. “As some of you may know, it is with great joy that we announce the engagement of my dear distant cousin, Amira Yasmin Idrissi, to prince Eris Vanserra of the Autumn Court. A union between two families, bound by blood and destiny, that will surely bring prosperity to us all.”

Y/N felt her stomach twist at the mention of her fake name, Amira Yasmin Idrissi—the name she’d had to adopt for this game of royal politics. A name that didn’t belong to her, but which she had to wear like a mask, like a second skin. She could feel every eye in the crowd on her, and yet, she forced herself to stand taller, to lift her chin, to wear the mask of a princess even if it felt suffocating.

Leone continued, her speech a mixture of formal pleasantries and diplomatic niceties. As she spoke of Y/N, her words were laced with calculated compliments, but Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Leone was using this moment to secure her own position, to strengthen her image as the future queen.

As Leone spoke of her new relative’s “bright future,” Y/N found herself caught in a battle with her own mind, the voice inside her head questioning everything. She was supposed to be this poised, composed female who could command the room with grace. And yet, the tension in her shoulders and the knot in her stomach made her feel more like an imposter than ever.

But Eris was by her side, as always. His presence was a silent anchor, his hand at her waist steady and unyielding. His grip tightened briefly, and beneath the table, his fingers brushed hers. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough.

A sense of calm—unexpected, almost unnatural—washed over her in that moment. He was there. He was with her. And though their situation was built on lies, there was something strangely comforting about the idea of having him at her side.

The speech went on, and Y/N kept her face carefully neutral, responding with polite nods when necessary, offering nothing more than smiles. But every now and then, she felt his hand beneath the table, his fingers warm against hers, offering her reassurance in the only way he could.

As the evening progressed, the conversations grew louder, and the guests more animated, and Y/N soon found herself surrounded by a small cluster of nobles—officials from the Autumn Court, with their sharp tongues and inflated egos. The conversations were laced with subtle insults, veiled under layers of politeness.

One of the males—Lord Varin, if she recalled correctly—smiled condescendingly at her. “It must be such a relief to finally find someone of your caliber to marry,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sweetness. “One might say your beauty might be a tad... beneath expectations for such a prestigious family, but I suppose it’s all about making the right connections.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, her hand itching to lash out, but before she could speak, Eris intervened, his voice smooth but sharp.

“Lord Varin, I’m sure your expectations are as distorted as your sense of charm,” Eris said, his words laced with venom. “But, my dear fiancé, has qualities that are far more important than mere appearances. Though, I understand your sudden outburst, considering how such beauty hasn't been found in the Autumn Court in what?...ever. I’d suggest you focus on your own rather than judge hers.”

The sharp retort left Y/N momentarily stunned. Eris had defended her—no hesitation, no flinch. And it wasn’t just an act, she could feel it in his voice, in the protective way he spoke about her.

The evening continued, but as the night wore on, the distance between Y/N and Eris grew. She was soon pulled away by one guest after another, her composure tested with every conversation. She had to smile, nod, and maintain her position, even as the weight of the lies and the unfamiliarity of the situation wore on her.

Finally, just before the evening’s end, Eris stepped forward again, addressing the crowd with that same polished smile, the one that made him seem untouchable.

“My beautiful Amira,” he began, his voice heavy with affection, “we met by chance, but it was fate that made her mine. From the moment I saw her, I knew I had to make her my wife. Tomorrow, we shall be married, and I will call her my beautiful wife from that day forward.”

Y/N froze. Her heart slammed into her chest, her breath catching in her throat. Tomorrow? She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This wasn’t part of the plan. Tomorrow? Her entire life had been spent in Montesere, surrounded by familiar faces, but now... now she was being torn away, being pushed into a future she hadn’t anticipated.

As the applause echoed around her, Y/N felt the reality of her situation hit her like a cold wave.

And then, as Eris finished his speech, Y/N slipped away into the garden, her thoughts racing. Samira and Nouria were by her side in an instant, following her as she made her way out of the crowd.

“What the hell is going on?” Y/N muttered, her voice a mixture of disbelief and panic. “Tomorrow? He can’t mean it.”

Nouria, always the calm one, glanced at Samira before speaking, her voice quiet but resolute. “You do have to return to the Autumn Court, Amira. The marriage was always part of the plan. It was just a matter of time.”

Y/N stopped in her tracks, the realization hitting her like a bolt of lightning. “I... I have to go back. To the Autumn Court.”

Her voice trembled, a flood of emotions rising in her chest. Her life had been here in Montesere. She had spent years in this land, and now... now she was being pulled away. She hadn’t signed up for this—hadn’t signed up for him. But as she stood there, surrounded by her two closest allies, she knew one thing for certain.

This was just the beginning.

The room smelled of roses, lavender, and something sweet—perhaps a hint of cinnamon—and yet, it was overwhelming. The scent lingered in her senses, filling every breath she took as Nouria and Samira worked around her. They moved with an elegant efficiency, their hands delicate yet firm, as if they had done this a thousand times before.

Y/N sat in front of the grand mirror, staring at her reflection, yet unable to fully focus on it. She barely recognized the face staring back at her—the woman who had to wear a mask today, for a life she never truly chose. Her gown was white, an intricate weave of silks and delicate lace that shimmered under the soft light of the room. It was magnificent—regal, even—but it wasn’t her. It was a costume, a dress to make her fit into a role she wasn’t sure she could ever fully inhabit.

Nouria expertly arranged the cascading waves of Y/N’s hair, twisting them into an elegant updo, while Samira applied makeup with deft precision. They had worked in perfect synchrony, their touches gentle but firm.

Y/N could feel the weight of the occasion pressing against her chest. Her heart was a tangled mess of emotions—fear, anger, confusion. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to calm herself. But now, with the gown hugging her body, with her hair done and her makeup perfect, she realized that all of her preparations were nothing more than a way to shield herself from what was truly happening.

"I won’t go through with this," she whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible.

"You will," Samira said, her tone unwavering.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the edge of the chair. She wanted to argue, to scream, to throw it all away and run. She wanted to be free—to live a life not defined by the cruel fate handed to her. She thought of the Night Court, of Azriel. He’s so close. He’s within reach now, she thought bitterly. What if he somehow finds out?

Her chest tightened at the thought, but she shut it down immediately. No. I can’t. I won’t let him know.

He must never know.

She could never let Azriel discover that they were siblings. The bond they shared—the one that whispered between them even across vast distances—terrified her. She was about to walk into the Autumn Court, to be bound to a life that kept her near him but also kept her away. She was closer to him than she had ever been before, and that knowledge gnawed at her every waking moment.

Her heart ached for what could have been—for a life she could never have. She had to keep the truth buried, buried deep inside her.

As Nouria tied the final strand of her hair into place, Y/N swallowed hard, staring at her reflection. She didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her. This isn’t me, she thought. I am not Amira Yasmin Idrissi. I’m not some foreign princess. I am no one, and I will remain that way.

Her gaze drifted to the door. It was time. The day had arrived. She was going to the Autumn Court. Could he ever feel me? Could he ever sense me?

No. I will make sure of it. I will keep my distance, no matter how close I am. Azriel can never know.

A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. It was followed by the soft, reassuring voice of Nouria, “Amira, it’s time.”

Y/N looked at her reflection one last time. The woman who stared back at her had eyes full of quiet defiance, but also a deep, hollow sadness that she couldn’t erase. With a deep, shaky breath, she nodded. This is for my mother. For security. For the future. She repeated the words in her mind like a mantra.

And then, she stood. The gown fluttered around her feet, its heavy fabric trailing as she took her first step toward the door. No more hesitation. No more fear. She was not Y/N. She was Amira Yasmin Idrissi, the female who had sacrificed everything for the sake of her mother’s memory. And that was enough.

Eris stood before the mirror, dressed in his formal wedding attire, the rich fabric of his tunic dark against his skin. His reflection was flawless—sharp features, tousled hair, and the same intense golden eyes that seemed to always reflect his turbulent emotions. But today, something was missing. Something he couldn’t quite place.

He watched as his servants finished fastening the final pieces of his ceremonial armor, each movement executed with precision.

As he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, the air around him shimmered, and without warning, four envelopes appeared before him, each one glowing faintly with magic. His eyes narrowed. Letters. At this hour?

The envelopes spun in the air for a moment, suspended before him. They were each stamped with the insignia of different courts.

The first was Summer, its wax seal an intricate sunburst that gleamed brightly even in the dim light of his chambers. The second was Winter, its icy blue seal contrasting sharply with the warmth of the room. The third was his father’s seal—Autumn—bold and unmistakable, and the last... Night Court.

He sighed, irritated, and plucked the letter from the Autumn Court first, knowing full well it would be from his father. The harsh scent of pine and smoke seemed to rise from the paper as his eyes scanned the contents.

Eris,

I trust you’ve kept to your word and made the right choice. The news of your engagement has already been sent to all of the High Lords. They are eager to see the new alliance solidified. As for your bride—this “unknown relative” of princess Leone's—while Montesere is a fine match for our interests, I’ll reserve judgment until I meet her myself. I expect you to return home soon so we can discuss this further.

I’ve already sent the messengers. Everyone knows.

His fingers clenched around the parchment. His father’s words were as cold as ever, filled with subtle judgment and that ever-present air of control. Of course, Beron had already told everyone. He always had to be the one to make the announcement. Always had to ensure his name was on everyone’s lips. Eris scowled, tossing the letter aside.

His hands reached for the next letter—the one from Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court.

Eris,

I’ve heard the news of your engagement to a foreign princess from Montesere. Didn’t quite see you as the type to fall for a female from there, but my congratulations. When you return, I’d like to meet the new bride at some point. A few questions I’d like to ask. Be careful though, I've seen that marriages in politics don’t always go as planned. But, of course, I’m sure you know that.

Eris slammed the letter against the desk in frustration. Rhysand. That smug bastard. He couldn’t even wait until the damn wedding was over to make his move. The letter dripped with condescension, as though Rhysand somehow thought he had control over the situation. His congratulations. As if this were a casual affair.

Eris’ jaw tightened. He hated Rhysand with every fiber of his being, and now this?

The last thing he needed today was to deal with that arrogant bastard.

Finally, Eris turned his attention to the remaining letters—the ones from Summer and Winter. But his mind was elsewhere, caught in a storm of thoughts about the marriage, about the bride he was about to meet at the altar, and about everything he had to do to secure his future. He didn’t care about the High Lords or their games. All of this... all of it... was a necessary step in his plan.

With a grim expression, he stood and moved toward the door. He had his role to play, his duty to fulfill. He would do what needed to be done.

The heavy oak doors swung open.

Eris barely noticed the murmurs from the gathered guests, the low hum of anticipation that filled the grand hall. His eyes were fixed entirely on her. On her.

The moment she stepped into view, everything else in the world seemed to fade away. Y/N, in her wedding gown, moved with the fluidity of a dream, her long, dark veil trailing like a shadow behind her. The gown itself shimmered as it caught the light, delicate lace and crystals woven into a masterpiece that made the very air seem to hold its breath.

Her footsteps were slow, measured—each one deliberate, graceful, as if she were moving through time itself. She wasn’t walking toward him, not yet. She was walking toward something much bigger, something far beyond their fleeting connection. But, in this moment, Eris could feel the pull, as if the universe itself had shifted, and there was no longer a choice but to follow.

Her beauty was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was the kind of beauty that left one gasping for air, unable to look away, as though to do so would be to break the delicate spell she cast with every step. The curve of her waist, the soft fall of her hair—her features perfectly sculpted, but not in a way that seemed artificial. No. She was untouchable. She was ethereal.

Her eyes were downcast at first, lips pressed together in a serene but unreadable expression. But as she drew closer, as the tension in the room thickened with every step she took toward him, something shifted in her gaze. She glanced up, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment. And then, she looked away, as if even her gaze upon him was something too fragile to withstand.

Eris' heart stuttered. This was it.

Her gown fluttered against the cool stone floors as she took another step. The distance between them felt impossibly vast, even as she was mere feet away. His pulse quickened. She can’t marry me. He could hardly comprehend what was happening. She couldn’t possibly belong to him. She couldn’t belong to anyone. She had too much fire, too much life within her to be chained to something as empty as this marriage. But then again, what choice did they have?

The moment stretched on, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable to unfold.

Every step felt like it was being measured by the gods themselves. The air in the hall was heavy, suffocating even, and Y/N could feel her pulse thundering in her chest, the rhythm of it too loud in her ears. Her gown, so beautiful and pristine, seemed to drag behind her, the soft lace brushing the floor with every delicate movement.

This is it. This is the moment.

Her veil—fragile, soft, like a barrier between her and the reality she was stepping into—gently swayed with each step. The weight of it settled on her shoulders, pulling her down, reminding her that this was the life she had chosen. Or rather, the life that had been chosen for her.

She had never imagined a wedding like this. She had never imagined him. She had never imagined herself here, standing in front of a sea of unfamiliar faces, moving toward a stranger she barely knew.

Her heart ached with a dull, unspoken grief. Her family, her home, her past… everything was slipping through her fingers, and now, it was just her—the princess.

Her eyes, for a moment, flickered toward the man standing at the altar.

Eris.

Her breath caught in her throat as she saw him for the first time since the ceremony began. His face was expressionless, his posture perfect. But his eyes… Gods, those eyes.

He was watching her with an intensity that nearly made her falter. The way he looked at her made her feel both seen and desired at the same time.

Focus, Y/N. You are here for the safety. For your mother. For the future. She repeated the words to herself like a mantra. You cannot falter now.

She could feel the pull of his gaze—unwavering, unwavering—and it was enough to bring everything else to a standstill. And yet, the closer she got, the more the heaviness in her chest seemed to grow. Every step toward him felt like a step away from herself.

The world seemed to grow quieter, more distant, until all she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat. This is it. The last step. The last time.

Her hand was cool when it settled into his, a perfect contrast to the warmth of his own. He could feel the slight tremble in her fingers, the subtle way she pulled her hand back, almost as if she were already stepping away. It didn’t go unnoticed, and something deep within him twisted at the thought.

The priest—someone Y/N had likely known her entire life, someone she trusted—stepped forward, his voice reverberating across the hall. “We are gathered here today in the sight of the gods, to unite Princess Amira Yasmin Idrissi of Montesere and Lord Eris Vanserra of Autumn. Let us now speak your vows.”

Y/N’s voice was soft but steady as she began, her eyes never leaving the floor. “I, Amira Yasmin Idrissi, promise to be your partner in all things. To share in the joys and the sorrows. To remain steadfast, even when the winds of fate blow hardest against us. I vow to protect what we have, even when the world itself conspires against us.”

Her words hung in the air, suspended between them, heavy with meaning. Eris couldn’t help but notice the way she didn’t speak from the heart. It wasn’t a vow born of love or even genuine affection—it was a vow of duty, of obligation. She had made her choice.

Her voice faltered, and in that instant, something inside of him broke. He squeezed her hand, a small gesture, but one that said more than a thousand words ever could.

Y/N’s eyes snapped to his, and he could see the hesitation there—the uncertainty.

She had no more fight left in her.

The words left her lips before she could even truly understand them. They felt hollow, like echoes from a distant world. She was giving herself away. Her final remnants of freedom, of hope. The last fragments of the female she had once been.

But the moment Eris squeezed her hand, something changed. A warmth, unexpected, bloomed in her chest. A connection she hadn’t known was there.

His gaze, so fierce, so unwavering, held hers. And for the first time since she had stepped into this hall, she no longer felt alone.

She felt his thumb brush lightly across her hand, a quiet acknowledgment. And for the briefest moment, she didn’t feel the weight of the gown, the veil, the responsibilities pressing down on her.

In that moment, the world around them faded away. All that existed was her and him.

But suddenly, the priest’s voice echoed in the room once more, “Now, you may kiss the bride.”

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

Taglist: @batboyslutt @k-godling @littowl @jaybbygrl @kissesfromnovalie @talesofadragon @tele86

#acotar #eris #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris x you #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #eris imagine #eris acotar #azriel acotar

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certaimromance · 5 months ago

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ꫂ ၴႅၴ Chasing Ghosts.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Everything in your life is finally under control and almost perfect, but somehow chasing the ghost of Aaron Hotchner is still an obsession.

Words: 1,9k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. angst WITHOUT a happy ending. hotch being an absent father figure. so much angst (yes, again). temporarily located after he leaves the FBI. same reader as in "tall child" but several years after that. so inspired by “like him” by tyler, the creator and all the edits with the song that I see. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This idea came to me out of the blue because I, too, feel abandoned when I start watching the episodes after Hotch leaves<///3.

The quiet hum of the BAU filled the air, the same familiar rhythm of paperwork being shuffled, pens scratching against files, and the faint sound of voices from down the hall. The office you were in—Emily’s office now—still carried faint echoes of what it used to be. The desk was different, the decor had shifted, but the weight of the space hadn’t changed. It was still steeped in years of hard decisions, late-night strategizing, and memories that lingered even when the man who made them had gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

You sighed as you sifted through a stack of reports, scanning them for inconsistencies. It wasn’t even your responsibility—you were just helping out, filling a gap as the team caught up on their endless backlog. You’d been in this office countless times since Aaron had left, but it still felt strange. Like you didn’t quite belong. Like you were stepping on sacred ground that no longer had a place for you.

Being here without him was like being in a different place.

You’d been trying not to think about it, about how long it had been since he left. A year now, maybe more. You weren’t counting. Or so you told yourself for mental health. But in moments like this, standing in what used to be his space, surrounded by the echoes of his presence, it was impossible not to feel the sting of his absence.

You didn’t blame him for leaving—not entirely. Jack deserved his father, a life of peace away from the chaos of the FBI. You’d even admired his courage for walking away from something he’d dedicated his life to…You knew you would never do something like that; he was brave. But nothing of that softened the sharp edge of hurt that had been lodged in your chest ever since the day he said goodbye by a stupid piece of paper.

The truth was, he hadn’t just left the Bureau and all the atrocities that this entailed. He’d left you.

Your eyes flicked toward the desk, now Prentiss’s, and for a moment, your fingers brushed its edge. It was ridiculous how something as simple as the grain of the wood could bring back a flood of memories—of late nights, terse discussions, and the way his voice would take on that steady, commanding tone that somehow made you feel both safe and seen. The way he scolded you when you did things against protocol, the way he almost smiled when he thought you didn't notice, and most of all, the way he left overnight.

A soft knock at the door snapped you back to the present. You looked up, startled, to see Rossi leaning casually against the doorframe. His sharp eyes seemed to take in everything—the reports, your posture, the way your hand still rested on the edge of the desk, as though anchoring you to something unseen.

“Working hard, or hardly working?” he quipped, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You mustered a weak smile. “Just helping Emily with the backlog. Thought I’d clear some of this off her plate.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting around the room. It lingered on the desk, the walls, and the chair before settling back on you. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something knowing—that made your stomach twist.

“You’re in here a lot,” David observed, his tone casual but laced with something deeper.

More than a lot for someone who was supposed to stop doing it on the advice of her therapist.

Because you don’t need to keep hiding you in work. Your life was good now, or so you kept telling yourself. You had settled into your role on the team, earned the respect of your colleagues, and built a rhythm that felt steady, even fulfilling. You went home to a warm apartment that didn’t feel so empty anymore, filled with little things that made you smile: books on the coffee table, cozy blankets, a half-dead plant you kept forgetting to water. You even start to have casual dates sometimes to open your heart to the world.

“Just helping,” you repeated, more curtly than you really intended.

“Hmm.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the desk. “You know, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“What?” you asked, your tone, again, sharper than you intended. The defenses around you were activating automatically.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk on his lips betrayed him. “Nothing. Just…noticing things.”

Your jaw tightened. Working with profilers meant every word, every movement, was analyzed. You hated it so much in these moments.

“What?” You demanded, unable to keep the irritation from your voice.

He tilted his head, studying you with that maddening patience of his. “You make the same expressions he used to.”

No. No. No.

Do not mention him. Don't make even the slightest reference to him. Don't think about him. Don’t.

The air seemed to leave the room. Your heart clenched, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. “What are you talking about?” you asked, though you knew. Of course, you knew.

“The furrowed brow when you’re deep in thought,” he said, his voice softer now. “The way you purse your lips when you’re frustrated but trying to hide it. And now, in this desk…you’ve always been like him. Always will be.”

You’re just like him? You look like him?

A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Great. I’ve picked up his bad habits too.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Rossi said gently, his voice softer now. “It just means he left a mark.”

You turned away, pretending to focus on the files in front of you, but the words hit harder than you wanted to admit. Of course, Hotch had left a mark. How could he not? He’d been your anchor, your mentor, your constant—even when you were at odds. And then he’d left. He’d walked away from the BAU and from you as if you were disposable.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “He’s gone.”

Rossi didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “Still angry at him?”

The question hit you like a gut punch, and for a moment, you couldn’t respond. Your hands tightened into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as if the physical discomfort could drown out the storm in your chest. “I’m not angry,” you said, the words escaping your lips faster than your brain could catch them.

It was much more complex than that. Your feeling was more akin to disappointment than anger or rage because you knew you could never hate him.

David didn’t press further, instead leaning more comfortably against the desk, as if he had all the time in the world. “You know he wanted a life for Jack,” he countered, his voice measured. “You can’t blame him for that.”

“I’m not blaming him,” you said, though it felt like a lie even as you spoke it. “But I don’t get why he had to leave everything.” you snapped, the sharpness of your voice startling even yourself. You turned away, staring hard at the stack of files, though the words on the pages blurred into meaningless lines. “He could’ve stayed in touch. But he didn’t.”

Zero calls, zero messages, zero signs that at least you mattered to him.

Rossi sighed, his expression softening with something like sympathy. “Aaron’s always been good at one thing: convincing himself that distance is the best way to protect the people he cares about.”

You looked away, the weight of his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. It didn’t make it hurt your heart any less. Nothing could ever dispel the pain, nothing but the embrace of the same person who provoked it.

There was a long pause before he spoke again, his tone lighter, almost teasing. “You know, there’s a way to settle this.”

You frowned, glancing up at him. “What are you talking about?”

Without a word, Rossi reached into his pocket. The sound of his hand brushing against the fabric of his jacket broke the tension like a crack of thunder in the stillness. He pulled out a small card and held it between two fingers, his expression unreadable as he extended it toward you.

“What’s this?” you asked, the words coming out more hesitant than you wanted.

“His number,” he said simply. “It changed.”

Your eyes dropped to the card, to the string of numbers printed neatly on its surface. For a moment, all you could do was stare. It felt like the weight of the entire room had shifted onto that tiny slip of paper. Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to grab it, yet rooted to the spot.

“I’m not calling him,” you said, though your grip on the card betrayed your uncertainty.

David smiled knowingly, as if he’d already won. “I didn’t say you had to. But if you ever want to talk to him, you’ve got the number.”

You shook your head. “No. If he wanted to talk to me, he would’ve called. He hasn’t.”

“Maybe he thinks you don’t want to hear from him,” Rossi countered. “Maybe he’s giving you space.”

“Space?” you repeated, the word bitter on your tongue. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Abandoning people?”

“He didn’t abandon you,” Rossi countered firmly, though there was no edge in his tone, only understanding. “He left because he had to. For Jack. For himself. And maybe—just maybe—he thought you were strong enough to handle it.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and you turned away, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. You hated how much they affected you, how much he still affected you. “Well, he was wrong,” you muttered, the words barely audible.

Rossi didn’t argue, didn’t press. “You don’t have to use it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “But if you do, maybe you’ll figure out that he didn’t leave you. He just…left.”

With that, he stepped back and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing softly down the hallway until they disappeared altogether, leaving you alone in the thick, suffocating silence.

Your eyes fell back to the card on the desk. It seemed out of place there, too bright and clean against the chaos of papers and reports. You stared at it as if it might leap off the desk and demand an answer. But it just sat there, motionless, yet somehow unbearably loud.

Your grip tightened, the edges of the card biting into your palm. And then, with a sharp, decisive motion, you tore it in half. The sound was quick, final, like the snap of a cord that had been fraying for far too long. You tore it again, and again, the pieces falling to the desk in a jagged, fragmented pile. Each rip felt like releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, like reclaiming some small measure of control over the chaos he’d left behind.

When the pieces were no more than scraps, you gathered them up and marched to the trash can. You dropped them in, the fragments fluttering down like ashes from a fire long extinguished. You stared at them for a moment, your chest heaving, your emotions still raw but now dulled by the act of destruction.

Turning back to the desk, you sank into the chair, forcing your focus onto the reports in front of you. The room still felt heavy, the ghost of his presence lingering in the corners, but you pushed it aside. There was work to do. There was always work to do.

And after all, you were just like him.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch angst #thomas gibson #father figure!hotch x bau!reader

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choism · 2 years ago

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Jester's Game | b.tc

Captain Buggy x Pirate!afab!Reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff (If you squint)

Summary: Trying to overtake Captain Buggy's ship leaves you asking questions, and surprisingly, getting answers

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: top!buggy, afab!reader, unprotected sex (pls dont), cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, squirting, rough sex, gentle sex (yeah wild), inappropriate use of detached limbs, spit as lube (also a no no), overstimulation, pet names (sweetheart, princess)

A/N: WOOHOO ITS MY FIRST NON KPOP FIC!! I knew I would write for other stuff eventually but I definitely did not expect it to be a recent hyperfixation. Buggy just has me bricked up okay! Anyway I hope y'all enjoy, don't forget to let me know what you thought of the fic in the tags !

It’s a rather unfortunate series of events, really. Sure, you could’ve told your navigator to sail away from the ship with the giant clown crossbones flag. Yeah, it might’ve helped if you had told your crew that they were about to fight some of the toughest pirates in the East Blue. But where’s the fun in that? As their captain, it’s your job to seek the adventure, and well, this was an adventure all right.

It started with you telling your men to approach, cannons firing, your crew hopping their ship, the infamous ship commandeered by none other Buggy The Clown. Yes, the ship your measly crew has decided to board. Listen, it was strategic! Buggy had somehow gotten the map to the grand line back, and your ship just so happened to be within the vicinity of his, so why not seek the opportunity to take it? Well that was your first mistake.

Now, you find yourself here, hands bound behind your back and kneeling with your crew in front of Buggy’s stupid, dumb throne in his stupid, dumb circus tent cabin.

“You all truly are fools for thinking you could take on my band of freaks,” Buggy lazily sprawls over his throne, seemingly unimpressed by your, in his words, ‘lackluster crew’.

“It’s funny actually, how pathetic it was, I mean even Mohji got in a few punches! Ha! Truly a fine show.” The man you assume being the Mohji that Buggy had just poked fun at, slumps his shoulders sadly at his jab. “Now, time to get to the good stuff…” Buggy trails off, standing up and taking a few strides in your direction, his dirty boots stopping directly in front of you. He detaches his hand and uses it to lift your head, pointing your chin up to look him in the eye.

Looking up, you spit and it lands on his cheek, he simply swipes it off with his attached, gloved hand. “So what if you defeated us, it doesn’t make you any better of a pirate, and doesn’t get you any closer to the One Piece.” You tilt your head and smirk. He may have overcome your crew, but he will never overcome your overwhelming ego and pride. It matches his just as equally.

“Ah, that's where you’re wrong, princess,” His grin is just as wide as yours, and briefly you’re confused, what could he mean? “Given your set of thieving skills, probably some of the best in the East Blue, I’ve heard, you’re gonna join my band of freaks, and I’m not giving you a choice sweetheart,” Buggy removes his hand from your chin, and it floats to his arm, re-attaching itself.

“Boys, throw their crew overboard, we have no use for them.” He rolls his eyes and sits back on his throne, “Oh! And go show them to their new quarters, make them feel at home.” Buggy laughs a deep boisterous laugh, one that genuinely sends shivers down your spine.

The pirates lead you into, what is actually, quite a nice room in the lower deck of the cabin, lit by a few candles, and a cot in the corner. Surprisingly, they cut you out of your ropes, and shut the door without locking it. What’s their deal? Don’t they know you can escape at any time if you wanted? Sneak out and steal one of their emergency boats, and sail to the nearest Island? Granted, you aren’t sure where the nearest Island is, you’re a thief, not a navigator.

Instead of worrying about escaping, you roam the small room, admiring your surroundings. The whole ship is clown themed, front he flags to the cabin to everything, but this room is different. Not a single sign of jester-like decorations anywhere. In fact, it’s as if this cabin was decorated specifically for you. Before you can think more of it, the door opens suddenly.

Buggy enters, and closes the door behind him. When he enters you’re sitting on the cot, legs crossed and unamused.

“Not thinking about escaping? Not that you could anyway, we are miles away from the nearest island, and realistically it would take you days to get there on one of our measly boats.” He rolls his eyes, as if annoyed by how small and fragile the boats are, before sitting backwards on the chair at the short desk next to the cot.

“So what do you even need a thief for? Why am I here?” You blurt, already growing impatient from the lack of information being given to you.

“I need you for many reasons, being a thief is only one of them, sweetheart.” Buggy grins and removes his hat, setting it on the desk. “You already have connections at the grand line, and while I know you need my map to get there, I know that you know the people I need to talk to, to gain safe entry without slaughtering half the fucking pirates there.” He leans back and relaxes a bit, observing your facial features.

“And why do you think any of the people I know would want to help you? You’re just some lowly pirate.” You spit at him, angered by his casualness. In what world would you even willingly help him? Who does he think he is?

“Ha…Me? A lowly pirate? This coming from the literal captain of a crew is hilarious! Tell me another joke, please.” He grins knowingly, he knows how to get a rise out of you for sure. You look over his facial expression, smugness overtakes his face and it makes your stomach twist, not with disgust though for some odd reason, with another feeling you don’t quite recognize.

This whole situation has you feeling all kinds of anxious. How did you just happen to raid the ship of a pirate who just happened to need you for this specific thing, and why is his presence making you feel so…weird? Something isn’t right here, and it can’t be because of your connections to the grand line. No, he’s hiding something.

“What are you hiding, clown? There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

His face drops, and he gets suddenly very serious, “Listen here, princess,” Buggy gets up from the chair and gets close to you, leaning down, your noses almost touching. “You’re gonna get me to the grand line, I don’t care if I have to torture it out of you, got it? No more questions tonight.” He gets up and suddenly grins very brightly, as if nothing ever happened. “Night night!” Buggy walks out and slams the door, then you hear a locking sound.

Fuck, he locked you in your room. You should’ve expected this, honestly. The way he reacted to your question was so strange. You knew there was something fishy, but you didn’t think whatever it was could’ve prompted that kind of reaction out of him.

***

The next day you wake up to yelling outside of your cramped room. Yawning, you get up and put your ear to the door,

“I’m sorry Captain Buggy! I didn’t know that was their ship I swear I promise!”

You hear what sounds like a kick to the jaw and a yelp,

“Didn’t know? Didn’t know?! You couldn’t tell by the giant crossbones flag that very obviously bares their symbol? I’m tired of you, someone go throw him off the deck.”

You hear screams and pleads of “No please!” and “I didn’t know I’m sorry captain!” before hearing water splash, then silence, then- oh shit footsteps coming towards your room. You scramble back to your cot and lay down, pretending to sleep. You hear a couple of knocks before hearing a feint “What the fuck am I doing, I go where I want!” Before Buggy barges into the room after unlocking it.

“Get up, I know you heard everything.” He spits gruffly, sitting back in the chair again the same way as yesterday. You sit up abruptly. Last night you couldn’t shake this feeling, of what you felt when Buggy had gotten so serious, and it’s just gotten worse being in his presence. Your abdomen feels hot, your ears feel hot, everything feels hot. It’s like butterflies in your stomach if the butterflies were armed with knives.

“Yes, I did hear, what do you mean by my symbol? I thought bumping into you was a coincidence?” Buggy smiles faintly, and chuckles.

“Yes, it was, I wasn’t informed of what ship we attacked, just that my men captured you all, oh but when I saw you…I knew.” Buggy stands up and motions for you to do the same, getting so close to you, your chests almost touch. He brings his hand to your arm, caressing down the length before gripping your wrist harshly, causing you to wince. “Do you….” he trails off, “Do you really not remember me?” He brings his eyes from your arm to your face, making direct eye contact.

You struggle to find words, what does he mean, remember? Yeah, he gives you a strange feeling everytime you're near him, but you’ve never met this man in your entire life. You think. Honestly you can’t remember anything before the age of seventeen.

“I– no, no I don’t…”

His smile fades, and he lets go of you, “I thought you would remember once you saw me, we were on Gold Roger’s crew together years ago, but you went missing after a particularly tough battle.” He pauses, thinking carefully about what to say next, “You– We– We were close, and I was devastated, I thought you were dead.” He’s being surprisingly vulnerable right now, and it’s kind of scaring you.

“I don’t really remember anything before I turned seventeen, All I know is one day I woke up on an island, a group of pirates took me in, I left, and I’ve been on my own since. The only reason I am where I am today is because I wanted to find who I was, and I figured I could find that out at the grand line.” You feel overwhelmingly sad. Why are you sad? You don’t even know him.

There’s a long silence between the two of you, it’s uncomfortable, tight, and makes you want to leave, until he says, “Let me show you.” He says abruptly, and you think you see a blush across his face.

“Sorry, I mean, please,” Buggy steps into your space again, this time his eyes flit between your lips and your eyes, back to your lips. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find you, I’m sorry you had to go through that, I missed you so much y/n” That was the first time he’s said your name this entire time, but it’s not one you recognize.

“Is that my name?” Your lip quivers, he’s so close now, your lips are inches apart.

“Yes it is, y/n, sweetheart, princess, I’ll call you whatever you want, just let me show you.” The thick air has disappeared and is now replaced with tension. Something deeper, heavier, fills the room. But it’s not a bad thing.

“Let me show you who you were to me.”

You let his face drop to yours, and your lips finally connect.

The kiss is slow, languid. It’s like his lips were meant to connect with yours. Buggy wraps his arms around your waist. Pulling you in closer, and kissing you deeper. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you let him kiss you as deep as he wants. The pace quickens and he slots his leg in between yours, rubbing against your pants and providing much needed friction.

You moan into his touch and he walks the both of you backwards until the back of your knees reach the bed. He lowers you onto it and hovers above you, kissing you again before departing. “Is this okay?” Buggy asks, brushes his hands underneath the bottom of your shirt, slowly lifting it.

“Only if you return the favor.” He chuckles and lowers his head to your neck, sucking and biting gently while riding up your shirt until your chest is exposed. You sit up briefly to take off your shirt and as promised, he does the same. He isn’t overly ripped like most pirates are, but he’s still well toned. His muscles flex as he shifts lower, kissing down your chest, down your stomach and stopping just above the navel.

“When I saw you were the one my men captured, it took my breath away,” He lifts your hips so he can remove your pants and undergarments, “I was scared, anxious, I didn’t know what to do, so I pretended I knew you for your skills, not for your past.” After removing everything, he pushes back, kissing your thighs before sitting up, taking his gloves off with his teeth and throwing them to the side. Man that was hot.

Buggy detaches one of his hands and lets it roam up your torso, reaches your neck and gives it a gentle squeeze. Before leading his fingers over your mouth, asking for entry. You grant it and his index and middle finger slip into your mouth, swirling your saliva around and coating them generously. “When you suspected I knew more, I didn’t know what to do. When you boarded I just knew you by name, not face, there was no way I could’ve expected this.”

He removes his hand from your mouth and moves it down to your center, rubbing through your folds gently and inserting two fingers, scissoring you open and prepping you for what's to come. Buggy uses his still detached hand to remove his own trousers, his cock springing free from its confines. He strokes it slowly, clearly getting off to his detached hand fingering you open.

“Buggy…” You moan, you can’t even reply or form a sentence, the pleasure too good.

“Shhh just relax sweetheart, I’ll take care of you.” He brings his hand away from your now dripping cunt, reattaching it and leaning down. You feel his breathe over your core, he kisses your clit before taking it in his mouth, lapping up your taste and fucking you onto his tongue. You can feel your orgasm approaching quickly as he flits between sucking on your clit and tonguing inside of you, but he pulls away.

“Fuck! Why’d you–”

You’re interrupted by his cock entering you and your legs being lifted by his hands so he can enter as deep as possible. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full before. His cock fits so nice and feels so good and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Fuck you’re so tight and wet for me, so fucking good huh? Letting me fuck you like this.” His pupils are so blown out, he watches his own cock pull out and start to thrust into you, it just fuels your arousal further. Buggy starts out slow, just getting you used to his size before he picks up the pace, fucking into you even deeper and faster.

“Shit, gonna cum Buggy please.” He moves your legs to prop onto his shoulders and he grabs onto your waist, pushing down and holding you in place as he fucks into you roughly.

“Gonna cum for me? Go ahead sweetheart. Cum all over my cock.” He moves his hand over your abdomen and presses down, the pressure making you feel dizzy. You feel white hot, the band finally snapping as you come. “Fuck, gonna cum soon too, gonna fill you up so good.”

Buggy relentlessly fucks into your cunt, overstimulating you and causing a pressure to build that’s unfamiliar. “Wait Buggy I, fuck I feel weird it feels good.” Soon, with a loud cry you feel a wetness rush between your legs, causing you to let out a loud string of moans and curses.

“Squirting for me already? God you’re full of surprises. Shit, I’m coming.” A few more snaps of his hips and you feel his hot cum fill you up, as promised. It feels so good. He slows down and pulls out, his load leaking out of you and onto the sheets below. “So good for me.” He whispers, leaning down and kissing you gently. He cleans the both of you up quickly and gets dressed, ready to go back to his quarters for the night.

“Wait Buggy, before you go…” You trail off and he turns around, listening intently. “If you don’t mind, can you tell me more about my- about our, past? I need to know where I came from, what happened.” Buggy smiles gently, walking up and kissing you on the forehead.

“Of course princess, later”

#buggy smut #buggy x reader #buggy the clown smut #buggy the clown x reader #opla smut #opla x reader #op smut #op x reader #one piece smut #one piece x reader #buggy one piece #buggy #buggy the clown

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scarluna · 6 months ago

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Y/N, a gifted but self-conscious graphic designer, lands a job at Jeon Enterprises, a powerhouse ruled by the sharp and controlling Jeon Jungkook, whose ruthless perfectionism hides behind an enigmatic façade. Though admired and feared, Jungkook targets Y/N’s insecurities, using them as weapons against her.

Beside him stands his best friend, Min Yoongi, a sly and unpredictable force whose hot-and-cold behavior leaves Y/N questioning his motives.

Tangled in a web of cold authority, teasing games, and unspoken desire, Y/N must navigate a dangerous love triangle where ambition and emotion collide, threatening to unravel everything.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, enemies to lovers, ceo!jungkook, graphic designer!reader, mafia!yoongi

Link to the other chapters: ACT I / ACT II / ACT IV / ACT V / ACT VI / ACT VII / ACT VIII

Chapters: 3 / ?

Chapter Warnings: mature language, bullying, slow burn, enemies to lovers

A/N: Let me know what you think of this chapter ;) Wink wonk.

ACT III.

The office buzzed with energy as the team gathered for an impromptu meeting. At this point, I had gotten used to the sudden meetings with absolutely no head start. Jungkook was not only controlling but impulsive as hell. No one knew what he was thinking, and for some, it was damn scary.

He stood at the head of the long conference table as me, Hoseok and Rya walked in. His expression sharp and focused over the scattered papers on the table. He wore a plain white button up shirt, dark grey jeans and his sleeves as usual were rolled up his sleeves showing off his tattoos. On one of his wrist there was an expensive Graff watch. Damn. Him and his expensiveness.

Next to him was Tina, practically glowing as she leaned just a little too close to him. Ever since I told her my piece of mind, she had been way too careful not to make it obvious because obviously people were whispering and spreading rumors. I guess she hasn't given up and had some hopes that she'd be noticed. As much as I despised her for how she treated me, I was feeling sorry for her at the same time. Her choice of clothing screamed attention too. Well, who was I to judge? I had no right to do that. Maybe someday the luck would be on her side, who knew?

“Listen up,” Jungkook began once everyone had taken their seats, his voice commanding the room. “MNT Media, one of our main competitors, is hosting a masquerade ball next Saturday. It’s more than just a social event—they’re using it as a chance to attract high-profile clients. Our goal is to ensure they don’t take our edge in the market.”

Tina raised her hand with a smug smile. “And how exactly are we supposed to ‘outshine’ them? Is there, like, a plan for that?”

Jungkook barely glanced her way. “Do your job, Tina. That’s the plan.”

The smirk I tried to suppress threatened to break through. Tina’s face faltered, but she quickly covered it with another fake smile, twirling a strand of her blonde hair around her slim pointer finger. Gosh, she was such a cheerleader.

The room hummed with murmurs of curiosity.

“What does this mean for us?” Rya asked from her seat, her brows knit together. I took a glance at her. Unlike Tina, Rya was not showing her "admiration" too obviously and besides, she was way too mature and work-oriented to choose a good session of sex with her boss. I admired her for that.

Jungkook gestured to a slide on the projector, outlining a strategic approach. “It means we’ll attend the ball. Every single one of you is expected to be there.We’re not going to outright sabotage, but we will make sure our clients and prospects see us as the better option. Keep it subtle—this isn’t a smear campaign. It’s about relationships and presence.”And yes,” Jungkook added, his gaze cutting through the room like a knife, “graphic designers too.” His voice held a sharp edge of authority, daring anyone to challenge him.

I blinked, caught off guard by the specificity of his statement. “Graphic designers too? I thought only management should be present there,” I murmured, trying to keep my tone casual. I had never been to a ball. A masquerade ball for that matter.

He turned his head sharply to me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You think your job is just fonts and colors, don’t you?”

I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks as his eyes pinned me down, but I refused to back down. “Not exactly, but—”

“But nothing,” he interrupted smoothly, leaning against the table, his tattoos flexing as his forearms rested on the edge. “Visuals sell. A well-designed presentation, a strategically placed logo, or even the subtleties in our event materials can make or break a client’s first impression. We need all hands on deck for this. Even,” he paused, locking eyes with me, “the ones who think they’re just here to doodle.”

The room shifted uncomfortably, a few stifled chuckles breaking the tension. I narrowed my eyes, but there was no mistaking the magnetic pull in the air between us. I hated how his cockiness somehow made my pulse race.

Hoseok, sensing the awkwardness, cleared his throat. “So... we’re all just attending or actively involved?”

“Actively,” Jungkook replied without missing a beat, his attention still on me. “You’ll each have tasks to ensure our brand presence is felt. It’s an opportunity to network, observe, and make sure MNT Media knows we’re not going anywhere.”

Just as I thought he might say something else to push me over the edge, he sighed dramatically, breaking the spell.

“Where the hell is Yoongi?” He raked a hand through his dark hair, his tone shifting to one of pure annoyance. “That idiot is late again.”

The room immediately relaxed but remained silent as everyone looked at each other. It was odd, since we were all caught up in that ball that we didn't notice Yoongi missing. Jungkook might have been a force to be reckoned with, but his annoyance with Yoongi being careless and late was an ongoing office joke.

“Probably got distracted by his latest overpriced gadget,” Hoseok quipped, earning a round of muffled laughs.

Jungkook let out a low groan, shaking his head like he was carrying the weight of the world—and Yoongi’s constant stumbles at work—on his shoulders. “If he weren’t my best friend, I’d have fired him five times by now.”

The mention of Yoongi and the Boss brought a flicker of thought to my mind, one that I quickly buried. But it lingered, uninvited. The rumors about Yoongi being more than just another employee—they never truly left me. Supposedly, he was the son of a conglomerate empire, someone who didn’t have to work here but chose to for reasons no one could quite figure out.

Me? I wasn’t deluded enough to think it was because of me, even though the timing was uncanny. Yoongi had started here just a few days after I did, but the whispers always suggested something else. His arrival was tied to some long-forgotten scandal, one no one had the full details on, and I had long given up trying to separate fact from fiction.

Still, the idea that Yoongi might be playing a role that went far deeper than just my “supervisor” always made me a little uneasy. Not that he ever actually supervised me. His attitude made sure of that.

“Yoongi always shows up just in time to avoid the worst of your wrath.” Tina spoke out in a sweet voice. I almost gagged.

“Lucky for him,” Jungkook muttered, leaning against the table with a long, deep sigh.

His broad shoulders slumped slightly, a rare crack in his polished, sharp-edged demeanor. For a moment, he looked... defeated. Vulnerable. It was enough to stir something deep in my chest, something I wasn’t ready to admit aloud.

But the moment passed quickly. Jungkook straightened, his sharp gaze slicing through the room once again, as if daring Yoongi to make him wait a second longer.

As the meeting finally wrapped up, my mind drifted to a new problem. A masquerade ball meant dressing up. And dressing up meant facing my wardrobe—or lack of one. How was I supposed to show up when all I owned were dark jeans, oversized t-shirts, some cardigans and that was it. Most of my clothes were black too.

After everyone returned to their desks, I cornered Rya and Hoseok by the water cooler.

“So,” I began hesitantly, “about this masquerade ball…”

Rya instantly perked up, her excitement palpable. “Isn’t it exciting? An actual masquerade ball! It’s like something out of a movie!”

“Yeah, except I have nothing to wear,” I admitted, biting my lip. “I don’t even know where to start. The last time I dressed up for anything was... well, never.”

Hoseok grinned, his easy charm shining through. “Relax, Y/N. It’s not about having the most expensive dress. It’s about confidence.”

Rya nodded enthusiastically. “I can help you find something to wear. There are plenty of places to rent gowns, and I bet you’ll look amazing once we get you sorted.”

Their support made my chest feel lighter, though a small part of me still hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to embarrass myself. Or you.”

“Y/N,” Hoseok said firmly, placing a hand on my shoulder. He was taller than Rya and me, and if we didn't know him, we'd be intimidated as hell. He definitely had this cool aura and a resting bitch face people felt threatened by. He was smiling tho, like a sun that shined brightly. “You’re not embarrassing anyone. Especially not us. You’re going to show up, have fun, and remind people why you’re a badass.”

I managed a small smile. “Thanks, guys. I mean it.”

As we headed back to our desks, Tina’s shrill laughter cut through the air. She was perched on the edge of Jungkook’s desk, her hand resting just a little too close to his arm.

“Are you sure you don’t need a date for the ball?” she asked, batting her lashes at him.

I couldn’t resist the temptation to make a snarky comment. “Careful, Tina. You’re about one giggle away from falling off his desk.”

Her head snapped toward me, her eyes narrowing. “Stay out of it, Y/N. Didn't know fat people had opinions?”

“On the contrary,” I said, folding my arms as I leaned against my chair. “Watching you attempt to flirt is everyone’s business. But it's kinda amusing how pathetic you look. Keep it up, I will be rooting for you.” I gave her a bitter smile as she stared at me with a deep scowl on her face.

I noticed Jungkook’s lips twitch, but he quickly schooled his expression. “Enough, both of you. You are at a corporate setting.” he said, though his tone lacked any real bite.

“Oh, come on, Boss” I teased, unable to resist. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this little performance.”

His eyes met mine, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “You should focus on your own preparations, Y/N,” he said smoothly. “Wouldn’t want you to show up unprepared.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” I shot back, ignoring the slight tremor in my voice. “I’ll be ready. The real question is whether you’ll survive Tina’s advances without filing a harassment complaint.”

I heard Rya and Hoseok chuckle by my side.

Jungkook shot a glare at both of my co-workers and they immediately got silent. I narrowed my eyes, arms crossed against my chest. "Y/N, if I hear one more word coming out of your mouth, I will expect your resignation letter on my desk." he spoke coldly at me. By his expression I could see that he was done with my feistiness. Oh, but I wasn't done. "If you think silencing me will solve the problem, you're underestimating me." I mumbled lowly as I stared at his eyes. He did the same and somehow I felt a tension raise in the air. Before I could continue, Rya tugged my arm toward the office, making our conversation to come to an end. Tina was staring at me in full blown surprise that I was talking to Jungkook like that. "Why don't you fire her?" I heard her ask. And then no answer from my Boss.

As I turned back to my desk, I couldn’t shake the way Jungkook’s eyes lingered on me, or the strange twist in my stomach that followed. This masquerade ball was shaping up to be more complicated than I’d anticipated.

"Girl," Rya whispered, "you are getting bolder and bolder. I fucking love that." she managed to whisper in my ear and that comment alone made me and Hoseok giggle.

The cafeteria was bustling with its usual noise—people chatting over their lunches, trays clattering as they moved through the line. The smell of fresh coffee mixed with the faint scent of freshly baked goods hit my nostrils, yet the familiar knot in my stomach twisting made all the apetite I had disappear. This time, it wasn’t because of my body or my insecurities. It was the looming threat of the masquerade ball.

I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, but the thought of being surrounded by coworkers in an extravagant setting, feeling out of place in a sea of confident, stylish people... well, it didn’t sit well with me.

I sat with Hoseok, Rya, and a few others, trying to keep the conversation light. It was hard to focus on anything when I could already feel the weight of the ball hanging over me. I was always an anxious person and it took me months to get used to the pace of my work, despite the bullying.

“So, Hoseok,” Regina, one of the other graphic designers, piped up from across the table. She flipped her perfectly styled red hair over her shoulder, a flirty grin spreading across her face. “I was thinking… maybe you could be my date for the masquerade? You know, just the two of us. We’d make a great pair, don’t you think?”

My eyes flicked to Hoseok, and I saw him shift uncomfortably in his seat. He hesitated for a split second before speaking.

“I... I actually promised Rya I’d go with her,” he said quickly, a little too quickly, I noticed.

Regina’s smile faltered, but she quickly recovered, pretending to be completely unfazed. “Oh, really? Well, I guess that’s fine. Rya’s a great choice too.” She gave Rya a bright, fake smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Rya smiled back, but her expression was a bit surprised. “Oh, um, sure, yeah. Thanks for thinking of me, Hoseok.” She looked at him, and for a moment, there was a flicker of confusion in her eyes, but she said nothing more.

Regina’s attention had already moved on, her focus turning elsewhere, but I couldn’t help but notice how Hoseok’s gaze lingered on Rya for a second longer than usual. I wondered if there was something more there—something unspoken.

But before I could process the thought, my mind wandered again. It had only been a few days since I’d overheard that conversation between Jungkook and Yoongi, and I couldn’t shake the way Jungkook’s words had echoed in my mind. The teasing. The lingering tension.

I pulled my thoughts back to the conversation at hand, though I could barely focus.

Regina, in her usual confident manner, turned to the group with a loud dramatic sigh as she took a sip from her pepsi cola.

“You know,” she began, her voice dripping with fake innocence, “it’s just so tragic when some people can’t even hope for a date. Like, what do you even do in that situation? Just... stay home and stuff yourself with food?”

Her gaze landed on me, lingering just long enough to make her target obvious. My chest tightened, but I kept my expression neutral. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

“Not everyone’s obsessed with finding a date,” I shot back, forcing a calm tone I didn’t entirely feel. I mean, I lied, I was obsessed to find a date and also obsessed in looking good enough so people would take me seriously and not embarrass the company I worked for. Wasn't I pathetic too? Regina didn't have to know that.

Regina’s eyes widened in mock surprise, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Oh, of course! Why would you worry about that, right? It’s not like anyone’s lining up to take you out. I mean,” she added, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “you’d probably have better luck on one of those makeover shows first. You know, before they film the big reveal.”

Her words hit like a slap, sharp and humiliating, but I refused to let her see it.

“You done?” I asked, standing abruptly. My chair scraped against the floor with an echoing screech, silencing the room for a moment.

Regina blinked at me, her smile faltering for a split second before returning even sharper. “Oh, sure, sure. Don’t let me keep you from... whatever it is you do.”

I walked away before she could twist the knife any further, my head held high despite the storm raging inside me.

My stomach churned at the underlying judgment. Of course, Regina thought I wasn’t worthy of a "real" date. She probably thought someone like me didn’t belong in that kind of environment to begin with.

Everyone seemed to have someone to go with. Hoseok had Rya. Regina had probably already found someone else from the other teams. And me? I’d be the one standing alone, a face in the crowd with no one to share the night with.

I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to go to the ball at all. What would I even wear? How could I stand in a sea of perfectly put-together people when I didn’t even feel like I belonged in the same room as them?

My phone buzzed in my pocket, interrupting my thoughts. It was a text from Rya:

“Hey, don’t worry about anything. We’re going together. I’ll help you with the outfit too!”

Her message brought a small smile to my face, but the unease still lingered. I typed a quick response as I was walking down the empty long hallway of the offices.

“Thanks, Rya. I just… don’t know if I should go. I feel like I’ll be the odd one out.”

Her reply came almost immediately:

“Don’t even think that way! You’re going to have a blast, I promise. And we’re all going to be together, so who cares what anyone else thinks?”

I stared at the message, the reassurance in her words offering some comfort, but I still wasn’t convinced.

Still, I couldn’t let my fears stop me. I had to at least try. I wouldn’t let them see how insecure I was.

Lost in thought as I walked down the hallway, I didn’t notice someone coming around the corner until we collided. A sharp thud was followed by a cascade of papers and folders scattering to the ground. I stumbled back, startled, as the other person muttered a low curse.

“Watch where you’re going,” came a smooth, slightly annoyed voice.

Looking up, I realized it was Min Yoongi, arms now empty as he surveyed the mess with a raised eyebrow. He crouched down to gather the papers, his expression unreadable but somehow laced with that signature playful smugness he was known for. I noticed his brown locks of hair were a mess, it was almost as if he had just gotten up and rushed here. Well, probably after a call by Jungkook he had to rush here. He was late after all.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, immediately dropping to my knees to help collect the documents.

“You seem like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” he remarked casually, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as he snatched up a folder near my hand. “Big plans? Or is brooding your thing now?”

I pressed my lips together, biting back a retort. His tone was teasing, but I couldn’t shake the lingering sting from Regina’s earlier comments.

“Just distracted,” I replied shortly, stacking the papers I’d gathered into a neat pile.

Yoongi’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Right. Distracted. Let me guess—you’re working on your master plan to snag a date for the ball? I am guessing you don't have one.” He leaned back on his heels, still crouched, and fixed me with a playful, knowing look.

I froze, his words cutting deeper than I expected, though his tone remained light.

When I didn’t respond, he tilted his head. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re not going. Everyone’s talking about it. Even Tina’s got her claws in Jungkook.” His gaze flicked over me, his smirk sharpening. “Or is it that no one’s brave enough to take you?”

The heat rushed to my face, but I forced myself to look him in the eye. “Not everyone’s obsessed with finding a date, Yoongi,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“True,” he replied with a shrug, standing up and brushing off his hands. “But it’s a shame, you know? All dressed up, standing by yourself in the corner. It’s a picture-perfect Cinderella moment, minus the Prince Charming.”

I glared up at him, my hands gripping the stack of papers a little too tightly. “Thanks for the advice,” I said flatly, shoving the papers into his chest as I stood up and headed down the hall without waiting for him to say anything else.

The hum of the office felt louder than usual as I sat at my desk, trying to get through the endless list of tasks I had to finish before the end of the day. The masquerade ball loomed over me, but today, something about the atmosphere felt different. Maybe it was because I couldn’t stop replaying the conversation with Rya and Hoseok in my head. Maybe it was because deep down, I still wasn’t sure I belonged in that world? But in that moment, the phone in my hand buzzed, pulling me out of my spiral.

I glanced at the screen: Tae <3

I smiled to myself, swiping on the screen and gluing the phone to my ear. "Hey, Tae," I greeted, my voice a little lighter than it had been all day. Hearing his voice always made all the tiredness, worry and anxiety disappear.

"Hey, Y/N! I was just thinking about you," Taehyung’s warm, melodic voice greeted me through the phone. It was a comfort, like a hug I couldn’t see. "How are you doing?"

"Surviving, as always. Work’s a nightmare right now, and now there’s this whole masquerade ball thing. Honestly, I’m kind of dreading it."

He chuckled softly on the other end. "Yeah, I heard. It’s all anyone’s talking about. Are you going?"

I hesitated, fiddling with a pen on my desk. "Yeah. But I’m not exactly excited about it. Everyone’s got their dates… I don’t know, it feels like I’ll just end up standing awkwardly in the corner all night."

"Y/N," Taehyung said, his voice warm and reassuring, "you could show up wearing a potato sack, and you’d still outshine everyone. Don’t let those kinds of thoughts ruin it for you."

I smiled, the genuine kindness in his words making me feel lighter. "Thanks, Tae. You’re always so good at making me feel better."

There was a pause, and then his tone shifted, becoming more serious. "Actually, that’s kind of why I called. I was wondering if… well, if you’d want to go with me to the ball. As my date."

His words made my heart skip a beat, and I blinked, trying to process what he’d just said. "You’re serious?"

"Of course I am," he said, laughing softly. "I think it could be fun. We’d stick together, and I’ll make sure you have a great time. No pressure, though."

Before I could respond, a shadow fell over my desk, and I looked up to see Jungkook standing there. His arms were crossed, and his expression was calm—too calm.

"Work call?" he asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

"No," I replied, keeping my tone even, though I could feel the tension radiating off him. "It’s personal."

"You’re busy, then," he said, his voice almost teasing but carrying a hint of something sharper. "Too bad—I was going to tell you there’s something urgent you need to handle. Guess it can wait."

I narrowed my eyes at him, my grip on the phone tightening. "If it’s so urgent, why don’t you handle it?"

Jungkook’s jaw tensed, but before he could respond, Taehyung’s voice came through the phone, loud enough for Jungkook to hear. "Y/N? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it’s fine," I said quickly, brushing off Jungkook’s attempt to derail the conversation. "Sorry about that. So, you were saying…?"

"I was asking if you’d go to the ball with me," Taehyung said again, his voice warm but clearer now.

Jungkook’s expression shifted, his jaw tightening as he took in Taehyung’s words. His gaze darted to my phone, then back to me, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"That sounds great, Tae," I said, my voice bright despite the tension. "I’d love to go with you."

Jungkook’s reaction was immediate—his shoulders stiffened, and his eyes darkened, though he forced a sharp, insincere smile. "Perfect," he said, his tone icy. "I’m sure you and your friend will have a great time."

Before I could respond, he turned on his heel and stormed off, his steps echoing down the hallway.

"Y/N?" Taehyung’s voice broke through the silence, pulling my attention back to the phone. "Are you sure everything’s okay?"

"Yeah," I said, though my heart was racing. "It’s nothing. I'll talk to you later."

As I ended the call, I couldn’t shake the feeling of Jungkook’s reaction lingering in the air, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. I was weirded out from the way he acted. Why was he so stingy for?

It was Friday afternoon, a two days after our meeting about that ball was held and the tension in the office seemed to be building, as if everyone was bracing themselves for the masquerade ball that was looming just days away. It was all anyone could talk about. Some of my coworkers were still obsessing over their outfits, while others were already talking about their plans.

I was organizing some documents at my desk, trying to stay focused despite the whirlwind of thoughts running through my mind about the masquerade ball. The idea of going felt daunting, especially when it seemed like everyone already had their perfect plans sorted out.

"Y/N," a low, familiar voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked up to see Yoongi leaning casually against the edge of my desk, his signature smirk playing on his lips. I frowned. He did not approach me unless it was work related. I wondered what was it this time.

"Hey," I said, surprised yet skeptical of his approach. "What’s up?"

He shrugged, glancing down at the papers I was shuffling. "Not much. Just… figured I’d check in."

I arched an eyebrow. "Check in? What for?"

Yoongi’s smirk grew, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation? Nerves? It was so subtle I almost missed it. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his tone suddenly more casual. "You know, about the ball—"

"Y/N!" Rya’s voice rang out, cutting through Yoongi’s words like a sharp knife. I turned to see her bounding toward us, her excitement practically radiating off her.

Yoongi straightened, his smirk fading slightly as he stepped back, giving Rya room to invade the space.

"Hey, Rya," I said, trying not to sound annoyed at the interruption.

"I’ve been looking everywhere for you," Rya said, ignoring Yoongi entirely. "So, I had this amazing idea! We should totally go dress shopping together for the ball tomorrow. I know this great place, and we can make a whole day of it and then me, Hoseok and you can go out clubbing after? I am in a mood for some drinks!" Clubbing? Oh god. It has been what- years since I went there? Too much people, loud music and bodies bodies pressing against each other.

I glanced at Yoongi, who was watching the interaction with a blank expression, though his eyes betrayed his irritation.

"That sounds fun," I said, offering Rya a small smile. "I will think about the clubbing part tho."

Rya grinned, nodding her head, yet she finally noticed Yoongi standing there. "Oh, hey. Didn’t see you. What are you doing here?"

"Just talking to Y/N," he said, his tone clipped. "But I’ll let you two get back to your plans."

With that, he turned and walked away, his usual calm demeanor masking whatever frustration he might have felt.

I watched him leave, a strange pang of guilt tugging at me. Had he been about to ask something important?

"Isn’t it great?" Rya said, pulling me back into the moment. "We’ll find the perfect dress for you. You’re going to look amazing."

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile, though my mind was still on Yoongi and the words he hadn’t gotten a chance to say.

The soft hum of the mall's ambient music barely registered as Rya and I made our way through the racks of dresses. The neon lights overhead cast a warm glow over everything, but my mind was far from the sparkly fabrics hanging in front of me. We’d been at it for what felt like hours, and I was still having trouble settling on anything that felt like me. The ball was a week away and I was a ball of anxiety.

"How about this one?" Rya asked, holding up a shimmering emerald green dress, the fabric catching the light. She seemed determined to find something that would make me stand out—something that would make me feel like I belonged.

I shook my head, glancing over the dress with a hesitant frown. "It’s pretty, but I don't know... I think it’s a bit too much." I sighed, tugging at my sleeve. "I'm just not sure I want to be noticed that much, you know?"

Rya raised an eyebrow, her fingers still gripping the hanger. "You're seriously telling me you're going to let some people in the office make you feel like you don't deserve to be seen?" She shook her head, pushing the dress aside. "No way. You deserve to wear something that makes you feel confident, strong and sexy."

I smiled weakly, appreciating her effort to boost me, but inside, I felt like I was just pretending. None of it mattered when the people at work—especially Jungkook and Yoongi—were still constantly tearing me down.

As I stared at the dresses in the store, Rya’s voice cut through the silence, a casual comment that made my head snap up.

“You know, I have noticed that the Boss and Yoongi act weird lately,” she said, her voice light but with a hint of something else—curiosity?

I turned to face her, my brow furrowing in confusion. "Weird? What do you mean?"

Rya set down a dress she had been holding, turning toward me with a knowing look. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen the way they’ve been acting around you. They’ve both tried to approach you, Y/N, and it seemed like they were going to invite you to the ball.”

I blinked, completely taken aback. "What? Yoongi and Jungkook? Invite me?" I laughed, the sound more disbelieving than amused. "That’s ridiculous. Why would they even do that?"

Rya’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a glimmer of understanding in her eyes. “I don’t know, but it’s not like them. They’ve never been this... friendly with you before. And it’s not just me—other people have noticed it too. It’s like they’re genuinely interested in you.”

My stomach twisted uncomfortably. The thought of Yoongi and Jungkook—two people who had made a habit of mocking me—suddenly being “interested” in me was too much to process.

“No, Rya. I don’t buy it,” I said, shaking my head. "They’ve always treated me like crap. They’ve made fun of me for months, and now suddenly they want to take me to the ball? No way."

Rya didn’t seem convinced. “But why would they bother trying to invite you if they didn’t care at all? It doesn’t make sense. Maybe they’re actually—"

I cut her off, frustration creeping into my voice. "Rya, this isn’t about attraction. It’s probably some stupid game to them, a way to mess with me. They’re probably seeing who can get the ‘fat girl’ first and have a good laugh at my expense."

Rya looked at me seriously, like she wanted to argue, but she seemed to understand that I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. "I get it. I just wanted to point out that something feels different this time."

I let out a small, bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, if it is different, I don’t want to be part of it. They’ve always been cruel. That’s not going to change just because they want a date for the ball."

Rya sighed, clearly frustrated but still patient. “I understand, Y/N. I just want you to know that you’re worth more than their games, okay?” She gave me a reassuring smile. “I’m here for you. And this dress? It’s perfect for you.”

I took the dress she offered me, holding it against my body as I studied myself in the mirror.The royal blue dress shimmered softly under the light, its rich color catching my eye right away. The off-shoulder neckline framed my shoulders perfectly, while the fabric crossed gently over the bodice, and I knew that it was going to hug the shape of my body in just the right way. The sleeves were long and smooth, giving it an elegant feel, and the skirt flowed down from the waist, simple but beautiful as it brushed the floor. The material was soft and comfortable in my hands, with just enough weight to feel secure but not heavy. As I turned, the dress moved with me, flowing naturally and making me feel like I could wear it anywhere and still feel amazing. It wasn’t just a dress—it felt like it belonged to me.

Rya leaned against the doorframe, watching as I studied myself in the mirror. Her knowing smile made me feel both self-conscious and reassured. “You'd look incredible wearing it,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the haze of doubt clouding my mind. “You’d turn every head at the ball in that.”

I placed the dress down gently, avoiding her gaze. “I am not used to all the attention...”

She straightened, folding her arms as her tone shifted into something more persuasive. “Y/N, when are you going to stop letting their crap define what you do? You’ve always been better than that, and now? You’ve got the chance to show it.”

I sighed, running my hand over the fabric of the dress again. “It’s not that easy, Rya.”

“What is?” she shot back. “Look, if the ball feels too messy, fine. But tonight? Come out with me and Hoseok. No pressure, no expectations. Just a night to breathe, dance, and remind yourself that you’re allowed to take up space without caring what anyone else thinks.”

I hesitated, biting my lip as I looked at her. “I don’t know if I’m really in the mood for clubbing.”

She tilted her head, her smile turning sly. “Oh, please. We both know you need this. Hoseok’s got the energy of ten people, and he already said he’d buy the first round. Plus,” she added, leaning in conspiratorially, “you know you’ve been dying to see what he’s like on the dance floor.” Hoseok had mentioned that before he became a Social Media Specialist, he was owning a dance studio downtown and he was the best of them all. However, he had to shut the studio down due to lack of money. Which was unfortunate. Everyone deserved to follow their dreams.

I laughed despite myself. “Fine, maybe that’s true. But I don’t even know what I’d wear.”

Rya’s eyes lit up, sensing victory. “I’ll help you pick something out. Something killer. And trust me, when you’re out there, laughing with us, and feeling like the badass you are, you’ll be glad you said yes.”

I let out a long breath, shaking my head. “Okay, okay. I’ll come. But if Hoseok tries to drag me into one of his ridiculous dance battles, I’m blaming you.”

Her grin widened as she clapped her hands together. “Deal. Now after we chose a dress for you, let’s get you ready to turn some heads for tonight.”

The evening had settled in, and it was finally Saturday night—an evening I had been both anticipating and dreading. A few hours ago, Rya and I had spent what felt like an eternity picking out dresses. After much back-and-forth, I had found the perfect one: the royal blue dress that fit me like a glove. It shimmered softly under the light and made me feel like I was someone else—someone confident and powerful. It was a far cry from the usual clothes I’d wear, but something about it felt right and elegant.

I’d also grabbed a few other things for tonight—something a bit more casual for the club, but still fitting the vibe. Rya had promised me a good time, and I figured I might as well go with it. I hadn’t really done anything fun for myself in a long time, and the club seemed like the perfect way to break out of the monotony.

Sitting in my apartment now, I relaxed into the couch with Hades curled up beside me. I had a few hours before Rya and Hoseok would pick me up—around eleven—but the anticipation of what the night might bring was already starting to settle in my stomach. The drinks were free, the entrance was covered until midnight, and they were headed to one of the most famous clubs called "Devil's Dreads", known for its great music and even better drinks. Hoseok had practically been vibrating with excitement as soon as he heard that I was coming clubbing with him and Rya tonight, and it was hard not to get caught up in his energy.

I was just about to reach for my phone when it buzzed on the coffee table. The caller ID showed “Mom & Dad” and I smiled despite myself. I hadn’t spoken to them in a few days, and I figured it was the right time to check in.

“Hey, Mom! Hey, Dad!” I answered, sitting up and adjusting my position on the couch. Hades stirred but didn’t get up, just snuggling closer to my side.

“Y/N, my love! How are you?” my mom’s familiar voice came through the phone, warm and comforting. “You’ve been so busy lately. Have you been eating enough?”

I laughed softly, rolling my eyes. “I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry. Just work, you know? It’s been a little hectic.”

“You always say that,” my dad’s voice chimed in, his deep tone carrying an affectionate teasing. “Tell us something fun. What’s been going on with you?”

I smiled, glancing around my small apartment. “Well, actually, there’s a company masquerade a week from now. It’s for work. We’ve been working on a big project, and uh Taehyung called me and invited me to be his date since he is going as well.”

There was a noticeable pause on the other end, followed by the sound of my mom speaking quietly with my dad in their native language.

My dad’s voice came as an answer a few moments later, a little more serious now. “Y/N, we’ve known Taehyung since you were little. He’s a good man. And we’ve seen how much he cares for you.”

The weight of his words hit me unexpectedly. “I—Dad, I don’t think…” I trailed off, not knowing how to respond. I had never thought about Taehyung in that way. He was just my friend, someone who had been there for me when no one else was.

My mom’s voice softened, a tone I knew well from years of gentle guidance. “Sweetheart, sometimes the person who cares for you most is the one who’s been there for you all along. Not the ones who just chase after you when you look good in a dress.”

I let out a soft sigh, sinking deeper into the couch, unsure how to take their words. “Mom, I don’t know. I’m not ready for that kind of thing, especially not with Taehyung. We’ve been friends for so long. I don’t want to mess that up.”

There was a moment of silence, and I could almost picture my mom’s thoughtful expression. “We’re not trying to push you, darling. We just want you to be happy. But don’t close yourself off to the possibility just because you’re scared of what might happen.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a lump in my throat. “I’ll think about it,” I said quietly. “But for now, I’m just focused on work.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” my dad said, his voice reassuring as always. “Just remember to enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

“I’ll talk to you both soon, okay?”

“Take care of yourself, Y/N,” my mom said. “And have fun at the ball. We’ll be waiting to hear all about it!”

“I love you guys, bye.” I said, hanging up the phone, feeling a mix of warmth and confusion. The conversation had been more than I expected, and now I couldn’t stop thinking about what they had said.

As I sat there in the quiet of my apartment, Hades curled up beside me once again, I found myself lost in thought. Taehyung? Could he really have feelings for me? I’d always seen him as a friend, but my parents seemed so sure. It felt like the idea came out of nowhere, and yet... maybe there was something to it.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I didn’t know if I was ready to confront that possibility, but for tonight, I had a night out with Rya and Hoseok to look forward to. Maybe I just needed to focus on that for now—enjoy myself, let loose, and stop overthinking everything.

Rya and Hoseok were picking me up in just a few hours. The drinks were free, the club was waiting, and I wasn’t going to let any of my doubts ruin the night. For once, I was going to let go and enjoy the ride.

It had been ages since I’d stepped foot into a club. The pulsating bass, the kaleidoscope of lights, the hum of people enjoying the night—it all felt foreign yet oddly thrilling. Devil’s Dreads was a sight to behold, unlike any club I’d ever been to. The VIP section on the second floor, where we were seated, offered the perfect balance of exclusivity and immersion. From here, we had a clear view of the stage bathed in fiery orange and violet hues, with sleek, futuristic lighting patterns that pulsed in time with the music. The plush, deep purple couches I sank into were ridiculously comfortable, making it feel less like a club and more like some hidden lounge in a sci-fi movie.

Looking down at the main floor, I could see the crowd moving like waves to the hypnotic beats. But up here, it was quiet enough to hold a conversation without shouting, which was a luxury I didn’t know I needed until now.

Rya was the first to order. She went all out with something bold—a sparkling martini topped with edible glitter. It matched her red short dress perfectly, shimmering under the soft light like it was made just for her. I laughed when she held it up for a dramatic toast, the red matching sequins of her dress making her look like she belonged on the stage herself. Her dirty blonde hair was curled just perfectly, lifted in a messy bun style — Pamela Anderson. And her make up did not disappoint, dark, smoky and sexy, fitting her dark blue eyes perfectly.

Hoseok, being Hoseok, opted for a vodka on ice and an old-fashioned style of outfit. It was simple, strong, and sophisticated, just like him. His black button-down shirt with those subtle gold accents caught the light in just the right way, making him look like he belonged in a magazine ad for luxury watches or cologne. He wore black ripped jeans and his hair was messily styled. He looked like an model.

And then there was me. I scanned the menu nervously, feeling the weight of their expectations. It had been so long since I’d ordered a drink at a club, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. My eyes landed on something fruity and innocent-sounding—a cocktail called Strawberry Dream. The description promised a blend of strawberries, peach, and a “whisper” of vodka. Perfect. I didn’t want to get hammered on the first drink.

But, boy, was it deceiving. Rya had managed to pick the perfect dress for me. Firstly, I never wore something so short, and secondly, I almost never was opting for dresses. Jeans were more comfortable for me, but in this case, I loved how this dress fitted me.

I felt bold and my dress definitely matched the vibe. The black mini-dress I chose hugged my curves perfectly, the structured bodice giving it a corset-like edge that made me feel powerful. The neckline was the real star, though—crisscross straps framing my shoulders and collarbones in a way that was sultry but still sophisticated. The long sleeves balanced the look, keeping it sleek and elegant, while the fabric clung just right, making me feel like the main character.

I paired it with gold hoop earrings for a touch of glam, a natural make up made by myself and my hair was curled in beautiful long curls that framed my features, which gave me this effortless, confident vibe. As I glanced at myself in the reflection of my drink, I couldn’t help but smile—I looked like I belonged in a place like this.

We didn’t waste much time lounging. Once our drinks arrived, the music pulled us in. Rya was already dragging me up to dance, and Hoseok followed close behind. It felt freeing to let go for a while, to sway to the music and laugh until my sides hurt. I sipped my cocktail in between songs, the sweetness of the drink making it go down far too easily. Before I knew it, I was on my third glass, and the room was beginning to tilt—not in a bad way, but in that warm, buzzy, I’m-gonna-regret-this-tomorrow way. -

The music was pounding through my body, the bass so heavy it felt like it was syncing with my heartbeat. Hoseok and Rya were right there with me, the three of us lost in the rhythm, moving to the beat like we didn’t have a care in the world. The alcohol buzzing through me made everything feel lighter, almost dreamlike. The edges of the room seemed to blur as I twirled under the neon lights, laughing at something Hoseok said, though I couldn’t hear a word over the music.

That’s when I felt it—a hand on my waist, warm and unfamiliar.

I turned, a little dazed, to find a man I didn’t recognize standing close. Too close. His smile was charming enough, but the way his hand lingered made my stomach twist uncomfortably. Still, the cocktails had softened my edges, and my better judgment was slow to catch up. He leaned in, his lips moving as he said something I couldn’t hear over the music. Before I knew it, I was swaying with him, letting him guide my movements.

It was harmless, right? Just a little dancing. At least, that’s what my tipsy brain told me as I let myself follow his lead. But then his hand moved lower, settling on my hip, and a quiet alarm bell rang in the back of my mind. I froze for a second, unsure what to do, but before I could even process the situation, Rya and Hoseok were already on it.

“Hey!” Rya’s voice was sharp, cutting through the music like a knife. She stepped forward, placing herself squarely between me and the guy. Her sequin-covered arm reached out, pushing his hand away from me with more force than I expected.

Hoseok wasn’t far behind, his easygoing smile replaced with something steely and firm. “She’s with us,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge that made it clear he wasn’t asking. “Back off.”

The man raised his hands in mock surrender, a lazy smirk on his face. “Alright, alright,” he said, backing up, but his eyes lingered on me for a second too long before he disappeared into the crowd.

I blinked, feeling the haze of alcohol and adrenaline mix into a confusing swirl. “What just happened?” I muttered, my words slurring slightly.

Rya looped an arm around my shoulders, her expression softening as she guided me back toward our booth. “You were letting some random creep get a little too close,” she said gently but firmly.

“Yeah,” Hoseok added, his tone lighter now that the guy was gone. “You’re lucky you have us to keep an eye on you.”

I let out a weak laugh, grateful but also embarrassed. “I didn’t even realize…”

“It’s the cocktails,” Rya said knowingly, giving me a reassuring smile. “That’s why we’re here, though. To make sure you’re good.”

As we made our way back to the VIP booth, I could still feel the ghost of the guy’s hand on my waist, but it was fading now, replaced by a warm sense of gratitude. Rya and Hoseok weren’t just my friends—they were my safety net. And right now, I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

I leaned back against the balcony railing, catching my breath, when the familiar face in the crowd below stopped me cold. At first, I thought it was just my tipsy brain playing tricks on me. But no. It was him.

Yoongi.

My stomach did a weird flip as I watched him stride through the main entrance like he owned the place. His tailored black blazer and crisp shirt beneath screamed confidence, and his sharp gaze scanned the crowd with ease.

His eyes landed on me—on us—and widened slightly. I couldn’t tell if it was surprise or amusement that crossed his face first, but by the time he started walking toward our booth, his signature smirk had taken over.

“What brings you all here?” he asked casually as he reached us, his voice low enough to compete with the music but still clear. He looked between the three of us, his expression unreadable.

Hoseok, ever the social butterfly, clapped him on the shoulder. “What, are we not allowed to hang out at the best place in town?”

Yoongi raised a brow, clearly entertained. “You have good taste. But from the looks of it…” He motioned toward the now-empty cocktail glasses on our table. “...you’re drinking like tourists.”

I flushed under his gaze. “Excuse me,” I said, my words slightly slurred, “but I’ll have you know this drink was amazing.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched, and he leaned in just enough to make my breath hitch. “Amazing, huh? You might want to pace yourself. Those are just the appetizers.”

It was then that it hit me. The way he carried himself, the way the staff seemed to acknowledge him without a word, the way he spoke like he owned the place…

“Wait,” I blurted out, blinking through the haze of tipsiness. “Do you… own this place?”

The smirk deepened, and he straightened up, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Figured it out, did you?” He looked entirely too smug. “Welcome to Devil’s Dreads. My little slice of chaos.”

271 notes · View notes

salemrph · 3 months ago

Text

"Let the World Burn"

Chapter 5: Gravity - Part 1

A night of celebration ends in chaos—you vanish without a trace. The ransom demand arrives, but Sylus knows this isn’t just about money.

Chapter Summary: Classified research, human experimentation, and a serum designed for Evolvers like you.

"Pipsqueak."

You may not see him the same way anymore. But that doesn’t change a damn thing. You are his to protect.

Characters: Sylus x MC/reader/you, Luke and Kieran, Zayne, Caleb

Genre/Warning: descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, injuries, romantic, drama, action, slight sexual content, angst, graphic description of corpses, childhood trauma

Words: 8.1k | Reading Time: 32 min

Tag list: @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @syluscrows @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @syluskisser @fortunekookie07 @crimsonlittlecrow @mochibunnies3 @gazelover666 @fancyhawk45 @sorryimakira @paninisstuff @deathrye @tinyweebsstuff @sxderia @yunhogrippers @sylusqt @darkesky @an-ever-angry-bi @atinymekanie @bruisedchickensoup @thatonegenderfluidwhore @certainduckanchor @the-girl-who-used-to @reika-desu @f41k47 @beezabuzz @mentaltrouble2201 @bl00dsuccker @blorbohunter @gianchan-de @fortunekookie07 @sylusloml @pandoras-rabbit @the-spine-of-the-world @noradest @owodi @greatmistakes @theshadowsdragon @pillarofsnow @lawssocuteee @gibborger

Skyhaven – Three Weeks Before

The Farspace Fleet Base was never truly silent. Even in the late hours, the halls resonated with disciplined activity—soldiers moving with practiced efficiency, their boots striking the metallic floors in a steady, rhythmic cadence.

Throughout the sprawling command sector, figures in crisp military uniforms navigated their stations, issuing hushed orders, scrutinizing data streams, and coordinating missions that spanned the entire Deep Space Tunnel. The immense holo-screens lining the walls pulsed with constantly updated reports—strategic deployments, classified directives, shifting alliances.

Deep within the complex, beyond secured checkpoints and locked corridors, lay the nerve center—the high-command offices, accessible only to those of rank and authority. And one office remained illuminated.

Inside, behind a polished, reinforced desk, sat a man whose attention should have been fixed on the classified reports illuminating the space before him. But his thoughts were a storm, a tempest raging beneath a veneer of calm. He sat rigidly in his chair, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the armrest, a subtle telltale of the frustration boiling within.

A holographic display shimmered before him, a torrent of intelligence cascading in real time—fleet deployments, border skirmishes, the names of officers assigned to Linkon. But the data was a blur, a meaningless stream of light. His gaze skimmed the screen, seeing without comprehending, registering without processing, his focus consumed by a singular, urgent concern. He let out a sharp sigh, his fingers instinctively finding the cool weight of the silver apple pendant nestled against his skin. A cherished keepsake, a tangible link to you.

Pip-squeak.

Caleb had called you that since you can remember. A stupid, teasing nickname that had stuck long. It was supposed to be endearing, meant to ruffle your feathers, to keep that sharp fire in your eyes burning whenever you glared at him.

And yet, despite your frustration, he loved it—loved the way you’d always respond, the way your face would bloom with that vibrant, defiant smile. He had always taken care of you, in every way he knew. Gently scolding you when you begged for just one more snack, only to give in minutes later. Preparing your comfort food, anticipating your unspoken desires. Hovering over your shoulder, sighing dramatically as you tried to wiggle out of your homework.

But lately, things felt different. You had been retreating, little by little, leaving him to navigate the quiet ache of your absence. His brows furrowed, the weight in his chest settling deeper, heavier, a leaden ache that mirrored the growing distance between you two. Things had escalated quickly that night, a whirlwind of unspoken emotions that nearly forced a confession from his lips. He didn't want you to see him as an older brother anymore. He had never seen you in that way.

"I don’t need you— Caleb… You just can’t… You are very important to me, and no one can ever replace you…"

The way you had looked at him—like he was a stranger, an unknown entity, like you weren’t sure if you could trust the very ground he stood on. It was a wound, deeper than he wanted to acknowledge, a silent, festering ache. He had spent this whole time surviving, clinging to the fragile hope of seeing you again, a beacon in the darkness that kept him from succumbing to the madness of his ordeal. Chasing after the impossible, enduring the aftermath of the explosion, only to finally meet you again and then lose you in a completely more painful way.

Possessive? Absolutely. Obsessive? He wouldn’t deny it. But you were his. His to protect. And whether you liked it or not, he wasn’t letting go. The sacrifices he had made, the sins that clung to him like a shroud, the weight of being the Colonel of the Fleet. These were burdens he didn't know if he could ever confess. His jaw clenched, his grip on the pendant tightening until the silver bit into his skin. Some things were better left buried, locked away in the deepest recesses of his soul. He touches his bionic arm. Another secret. Another truth you hadn't discovered yet. If you did? Would you look at him the way you used to? Would you feel bad about it?

His fingers hovered over the holo-screen, scrolling past personnel reports—until a sharp, insistent knock on his office door shattered the silence, snapping him back to the present. Caleb shook his head and he forced his emotions back beneath the surface, burying them under the steel resolve that had made him both respected and feared. He tucked the pendant back under his uniform.

He straightened, his expression unreadable. The Colonel, once more.

"Enter."

The door slid open, revealing a uniformed officer standing at rigid attention, his face pale and his posture strained. Caleb knew immediately, from the officer's forced composure and the clipped cadence of his approach, that something was gravely wrong.

"Colonel. We have a situation."

Caleb paused, his mind already racing, but his voice remained calm.

"Speak." The officer swallowed, taking a measured step forward, the rigidity of his stance betraying the urgency of his report.

"One of our men is missing, sir," the officer stated, his voice flat. "Calloway. He failed to return from leave."

Caleb’s brow furrowed slightly. Another one.

"Three now," he murmured, his fingers tapping a sharp, insistent pattern against the desk.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Low-ranking members of the Farspace Fleet had been disappearing—quietly, without a trace. No distress signals. No records of their whereabouts. It was as if they had simply been wiped off the grid.

At first, it had been dismissed as desertion. Soldiers vanishing on their own terms. It happened. Some succumbed to the crushing pressure, some sought a life beyond the Fleet's rigid structure. But three in rapid succession? That was no mere coincidence.

Caleb leaned forward, his sharp eyes locking onto the officer, his gaze piercing. "What was his last known location?"

"Off-base, sir. He was granted a two-week leave and never returned. His family reported that he never reached his destination." The officer's tone was grave, confirming Caleb's suspicions. This wasn’t just a soldier going AWOL. Caleb's gaze flicked back to his monitor, the earlier reports now utterly irrelevant.

"Get me everything we have on Calloway. His communication logs, his last movements, every shred of information. Do the same with the others." His voice was cold, measured, but a low, simmering intensity underscored each word.

The officer nodded. "Understood, sir."

As the door hissed shut behind him, Caleb leaned back, his fingers unconsciously tracing the cool outline of the pendant. Another goddamn problem.

He was tired. Not just of this. Not just of missing soldiers, buried reports, or the endless cycle of war and bureaucracy. No—he was tired in a way that settled into his bones, in a way that no amount of sleep could fix.

Knowing the information gathering would take time, Caleb decided to return to go home. The thought was almost laughable. It wasn’t home, not really. Just a space, cold, silent, filled with things that no longer held meaning. No warmth. No presence. No you.

–

The apartment was deathly quiet when he entered, the air still, undisturbed, a chilling testament to his solitude. The emptiness of the space enveloped him a suffocating shroud. His steps echoed softly against the polished floor as he moved deeper into the apartment, his gaze drifting over the familiar surroundings.

His fingers brushed over the edge of the counter as he passed, as if expecting to feel your presence there. But the surface was glacial. Caleb made his way to the shelf where the only photo he has of you stands out. Her violet eyes reflected the deep regret and sorrow she carried with him, day after day. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he turned away. Shrugging off his uniform, he tossed it onto the sofa without a second thought.

Without even the thought of food, he simply fell onto the bed. As the mattress sinks beneath him, the exhaustion of the day presses into his bones. He stares at the ceiling for a moment. Lost in the silence. With a slow, drawn-out breath, he rolled onto his side, his eyes drawn to the pillow lying beside him. His fingers traced the soft fabric, a hesitant touch, before he pulled it to his chest, clutching it as if it could somehow fill the gaping hole you had left behind. Your scent is still there. He hasn't changed the pillowcase since you left—it’s pathetic, really—but he doesn’t care. It’s the last trace of you he has. And it’s been too long.

His grip tightens, eyes slipping shut, jaw clenched against the ache in his chest.

Pip-squeak…

The name barely forms in his mind before the memories surface—your face, the way you used to look at him, the warmth in your eyes before everything became so damn complicated. He can picture it too clearly. Your lips parted, the soft hitch of your breath, the way you whispered his name, unaware of the effect you had on him.

Caleb hates this feeling. The love he has for you it’s too much. It tears him apart from the inside, as much pain as it brings relief. His body betrays him before his mind can stop it. Heat coils low in his stomach, tension tightening, pressing down. Fuck. Caleb swallows hard, but it doesn’t help. He wants you. Has always wanted you. And worst of all—he knows that no matter how much time passes, no matter how much distance you put between you, that won’t change. He will still love you.

He buried his nose into the pillow, while his fingers trail down, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, exhaling sharply as relief and frustration war inside him. It’s not enough. It never is. The memories keep flooding in. He regretted it. Every damn day.

He should have told you at the graduation. Just said it. But he stood there, pretending it didn’t matter, pretending being your "friend" was enough. It never was. It never would be.

Caleb strokes himself with slow, rough precision, chasing something that won’t come—not fully. His breath is ragged, his body tense, aching for something real, something that isn’t just the fading memory of you.

He should have asked you out during school. Pulled you aside, away from the others, away from those clueless boys who thought they had a shot. Who looked at you like you were something they could own. They weren’t good enough. Not for you. He hated the way Zayne looked at you. Hated the way any of them did.

You had no idea how many times he’d chased them off. No idea how often he’d threatened guys who got too close, who thought they could touch you, kiss you. It was miserable, really. How far he’d fallen. How he had once cornered that quiet little thing you liked, the one who dared to think he could stand beside you. Who dared to think he had a chance. Caleb had stood in front of him, voice calm, deadly, his stance relaxed but full of warning. Every guy wanted you. Every guy was a predator circling prey. Pathetic. That’s what he was. Because despite it all, despite the jealousy, the anger, the obsessive fucking need—he had still failed.

A growl of frustration escapes him, his free hand fisting the sheets. The scent of you clings to them, but it’s fading. Just like everything else. His strokes falter, frustration curling in his gut. It hurts. Wanting you like this—needing you like this. It’s not just the physical ache; it’s the raw, consuming hunger, the part of him that’s starved for you. For your warmth. For your touch. For the fucking impossible dream that, maybe, you could have been his.

That stormy, suffocating night, years ago, when the two of you were trapped in the attic of your home, waiting out the torrential downpour. The rain had battered the roof like a relentless siege, the wind howling through the gaps in the aged wood. It had been so dark, so still, broken only by the soft rhythm of your breathing beside him, the flickering lamplight casting dancing shadows across your features. You had been so close. But again, you were arguing about whether he should stop protecting you.

"Right, I forgot. You’re not a little kid who needs to be protected anymore."

He had stared at your lips, at the way they parted when you sighed, at the way you frowned in anger, and even though it tore him apart that you rejected his protection, his touch… he should have done it. Should have leaned in. Should have kissed you. Should have finally shattered the pretense. All he had to do was reach out. Tilt your chin up just slightly. Close the agonizing space between you. But he hadn’t. Because Caleb—brilliant, calculating, fearless Caleb—had faltered. He clenched his jaw, dug his nails into his palms, and let the moment bleed away. Maybe with that kiss, you would have seen the tempest of emotions he kept locked inside.

Caleb’s breath shudders, frustration curling in his gut. His grip tightens around his cock, stroking harder, faster, his teeth gritted as his mind spirals deeper into the past. His wrist aches from the pace, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

How long had he been holding back? How many years? How many goddamn nights had he laid awake, aching for you? How many chances had he squandered, playing the part of the protective “big brother” when every inch of him wanted to be something else?

And then, just when he was finally fucking ready—

He died. Or at least, that’s what you thought. Faking his death wasn’t something he planned or expected. The only thing he could do at that moment was save you from the explosion.

Months after that, you were right there, in front of him, alive, breathing, more beautiful than he remembered. But instead of the relief he expected…You looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was someone you had to keep at arm’s length. Like the years you’d shared were nothing but dust. And that? That cut deeper than any blade. He knew you resented the Colonel, the mask he wore, but beneath it all, he was still the same. If only you'd see him, truly see him, and give him a chance.

His stomach tenses as his release finally hits, his breath punching out in a sharp, guttural sound as he spills over his hand. He lets himself ride it out, panting, his body trembling with something far more than just pleasure. But even as his muscles go slack, even as he wipes himself off with a sharp exhale, there’s no real satisfaction—just emptiness, frustration, and the cold, cruel truth: You’re not here.

After cleaning up and finally getting a bit more comfortable. He reached out for his phone. He goes over the last messages you exchanged, just a week ago. He never replayed. Your voice crackles to life, softer than he remembers, but unmistakably you.

"Hey… I know you’re busy, but—" A short pause, a short exhale. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you're not brooding too hard over classified reports or whatever it is you do up there." He closes his eyes. "Anyway. Just… message me back, alright?"

Caleb stares at the screen. He should have answered. He should have said something. Instead, he had let it sit. Left it unread for hours, then days. Let the silence stretch too long. His grip tightens around the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What would he even say? Would he lie? Pretend he wasn’t tangled in his own damn head every time it came to you? Would he apologize? Admit he didn’t know how to bridge the space between you anymore? Or would he say what he really felt? That he was angry. That he hated the way you pushed him away and he hated himself for letting you.

His thumb taps against the screen, hesitating before he types.

Pip-squeak, you worry too much.

He stares at it. Deletes it.

Don’t tell me you miss me. You’ll ruin your whole "I don’t need Caleb" act.

No. That would be mean.

I should have answered sooner.

Still wrong. The words hang on the screen, staring back at him. He knows it won’t send. He deleted it. Then, with a frustrated breath, he locks the screen, tossing the phone onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face as if he could scrub away the frustration twisting in his chest.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The abyss of loneliness isn’t just consuming him, it’s devouring him. Swallowing him whole in a darkness that only you can keep at bay. You weren’t just his light. You were his gravity. The unwavering force that kept him anchored, the only constant in the relentless chaos. His entire universe revolves around you. It always had.

But what if that center faltered? What if you drifted beyond his reach? Would he be left adrift—a derelict planet, lost and forsaken in the vast, indifferent cosmos? Or worse… would he implode, a supernova of self-destruction, unable to exist without your gravitational pull?

His dreams are plagued by memories twisted into nightmares, fragments of a life he barely remembers or chooses not to. The accident during his last test as a DDA pilot was repeated in his dreams. The way reality had warped and fractured around him inside the Deepspace Tunnel, time stretching, collapsing, and twisting into impossible, nightmarish geometries.

He remembers the desperation. The creeping horror of knowing something was wrong. He had been alone. Drifting in the endless void, praying to return home. He doesn't remember how he survived. Or maybe he refuses to. Because when they found him a week later, barely alive. The official reports called it a miracle.

Caleb never told you. He smiled and kept it for himself. He didn’t want to worry you. Didn’t want you to see him as broken. But he wasn’t the same after that.

Some nights, when sleep is kind, he drifts into a different kind of memory—one untouched by war, loss, and the weight of the present. Laughter echoes through the golden haze of afternoon sunlight. The warm, earthy scent of sun-baked grass fills the air, and the world shrinks to a comforting simplicity. You’re both just children again. No ranks, no titles, no battlefield of unspoken words and buried desires separating you.

Caleb watches as you dart ahead, your feet barely touching the earth, your arms outstretched as if you could take flight at any moment. Your laughter rings in his ears, bright and carefree. You’re running behind him, panting, pouting.

"That's not fair!" you shout, your small feet pounding the sun-warmed dirt path. "You're older, and your legs are longer!"

Caleb doesn’t slow down, tossing a playful, smug grin over his shoulder. "You’d run faster if you weren’t so short, Pip-squeak!"

The nickname makes your face scrunch in mock frustration, your eyes sparkling with playful defiance, and with a burst of stubborn energy, you push yourself harder, determined to close the distance. Caleb laughs, effortlessly maintaining the gap between you. But you never give up. He knows that about you. And, perhaps just to indulge you, or to feel the weight of you against him, he lets you catch him. You tackle him with a joyful cry, both of you tumbling into the soft, sun-kissed grass in a tangle of limbs and breathless giggles.

"Ha!" you exclaim triumphantly, sprawled on top of him, your chest heaving with laughter. "Got you!"

Caleb groans dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes, feigning defeat. "You cheated, you little sneak."

You punch his arm. "Did not."

His eyes glinted with amusement. "Yes, you did."

You huff, rolling off him onto your back, staring up at the drifting clouds, your cheeks flushed from exertion and the lingering summer sun. For a while, the two of you just lie there, side by side, soaking in the moment, the golden warmth, the comfortable silence.

His protective instinct, a fierce, primal urge, had awakened much earlier than he’d ever admitted, almost a few years before. The day he first laid eyes on you.

A small girl in a white uniform, just like the other kids, standing apart from the others, clutching a worn-out stuffed animal with a grip that spoke of silent desperation. Your eyes were hollow, devoid of the spark of childhood. Too empty for someone so young. You had death written all over you. The medical facility—no, the research center—was a place that devoured children whole, leaving behind only husks. Some called it a sanctuary for the orphaned, a haven for the lost, but Caleb knew the truth. It was a gilded cage, a holding cell where survival was a daily, brutal test. He had been one of those children, a survivor of its silent horrors. And now, so were you.

The experiments weren’t unbearable—not for him. He had endured worse before. At least here, he had a roof over his head and food in his stomach. And really, what did it matter if he succumbed here, within these sterile walls, or out there, in the unforgiving wasteland? Inside here, for now, he wasn’t starving.

But you… you were different. Different from the others. You never spoke a word. Never played with the other kids. You just sat alone, staring up at the sky whenever they let you out into the garden. Like you were waiting for something. Or someone to pull you from the abyss.

Caleb hadn’t planned on making friends. Didn’t see the point. But something about the way you kept slipping out of your room just to stand under the open sky annoyed him. The third time he saw you outside at night, standing barefoot on the frost-kissed concrete, your gaze fixed on the distant constellations, he finally broke the silence.

"What are you looking for up there?"

And just like that, his life became tangled with yours. You didn’t answer him right away. Did you even hear him? The night air was cold, biting against his skin, but you stood there as if you didn’t feel it. Your small frame, swallowed by the shapeless, oversized shirt they forced you to wear, seemed impossibly fragile. You didn’t shiver. You didn’t flinch. You simply… stared, your eyes lost in the vast expanse above.

Caleb had witnessed countless children succumb to the crushing weight of this place. Some cracked under the weight of what was happening to them. Others got angry. Fought back. Broke apart. But you? You were a still, silent enigma.

"Hey." He nudged your shoulder, his touch less gentle than he intended. "I asked you a question."

You blinked slowly, finally turning your gaze away from the sky to look at him. For a moment, Caleb swore you weren’t actually seeing him. Then, finally, you spoke, your voice a soft, ethereal, just a whisper in the rustling night wind.

"The stars… are different here."

He frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

You tilted your head, your grip tightening on the worn, comforting stuffed animal in your arms. "They’re in the wrong place."

Caleb stared at you, confused. What the hell did that mean? Of all the things you could’ve said, that wasn’t what he expected. You looked back up at the sky, eyes searching. Waiting. And for the first time in a while, Caleb felt something new. Curiosity. So, he sat down beside you, drawn into your orbit, into your strange, silent world.

"Then tell me where they’re supposed to be." He said, voice quieter now. Less demanding. And that night you truly spoke. At first, you spoke only in quiet, uncertain murmurs, short answers, observations about the sky, questions that never quite made sense. But with each passing night, with each shared glance at the stars, something shifted, something bloomed. You offered a shy smile, and with time a genuine laugh. Caleb, never cared for people, never let himself get attached but that night he felt something crack inside him.

You were stubborn, always trying to sneak past curfew, always looking for a way to see the stars. He started to call you pip-squeak, half-teasing. Whenever you lost a race because you couldn’t keep up with him. You’d pout, demanding a rematch, but you never won. And he liked that. Liked seeing you frustrated. Liked the way your nose scrunched up when you got mad. Liked the way your laughter made this miserable place feel less suffocating.

"Caleb, Caleb!" You ran to him, breathless with excitement, your small hands carefully cupped around something. "Look what I found!"

You opened your little palm, revealing a delicate pink petal resting in your hand. Your wide, gleaming eyes met his, and for some reason, something strange stirred in his chest. A warmth that made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain.

"It's the first time I've seen one of these," you said in awe, your fingers carefully clutching the tiny fragment of color in a world that rarely had any.

Caleb eyed it for a fleeting second, shoving his hands into his pockets, his posture stiffening. "Don't come so close."

You tilted your head, a flicker of confusion clouding your radiant eyes. "Why?"

"Just- don't."

Your lips wobbled, and before he could do anything about it, your eyes filled with unshed tears. "Do you hate me?"

"Tsk- what? No, idiot." He sighed, glancing away, a wave of guilt washing over him, instantly regretting his clumsy words. "It's… from an apple tree. I saw it in a book once. Asiatic apple."

"Do you like apples?" you lean even closer.

"I- I do…" he said, avoiding your gaze.

"Caleb…" You narrowed your eyes at him, studying him with that same intense look that always made him feel like you could see right through him. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. His face flushed, a wave of heat creeping up his neck.

"W- what?" he stammered.

"You’re smart. Thanks." You said, your grin widening, a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, before suddenly leaning in and pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek. Caleb froze. His mind went blank. His body stiffened like he'd just been struck by lightning. The warmth from where your lips had touched his skin burned in a way that he definitely didn’t understand.

You giggled, a bright, melodic sound, and skipped away, twirling with your delicate pink petal. Meanwhile, Caleb stood there, blinking rapidly, blushing like an idiot. He was just… glad. Overwhelmingly, achingly glad. Glad that you were alive, that you were here. And that fleeting moment of joy made him forget, for a precious and beautiful few seconds, the grim reality of the place where they were both trapped.

But with the abruptness of a slammed door, reality crashed back into him, a brutal, unforgiving wave. All the hope he'd had of escaping that place together vanished overnight. One morning, it was all gone. Your vibrant smile, the melodic chime of your laughter, the spark in your eyes: extinguished.

You sat in the garden, staring into the empty distance, your stuffed animal limp in your arms. When he spoke, you didn’t answer. When he nudged your shoulder, you barely blinked. And when he said your name, you just looked at him—through him. Like you didn’t even recognize him. Like those shared days, those precious moments, those fragments of a life you had built together, had never existed at all. Erased from the fabric of your memory.

"Talk to me. Did I do something wrong? I'll let you win next time…." Just the chilling silence, a void that swallowed his words whole. "Fine! Then don’t talk to me!"

The first time it happened, Caleb was angry. And not the kind of anger that burned fast and faded away—this was worse. This was a slow, simmering rage that curled deep in his gut, coiling tighter with every second you ignored him. You sat there, a blank canvas of indifference, barely reacting to the world around you. For days, he deliberately avoided you. Didn’t try to get you to talk, didn’t try to make you laugh again. Maybe it was stupid act of pride, but he reasoned that if you didn’t care enough to acknowledge him, then why should he expend any effort on you?

One night, he found himself wandering the halls. Drawn by the need to flee this madness. And there you were. Right where he found you the first time. Sitting on the edge of a bench in the garden, your legs swinging slightly, your eyes locked onto the sky. The stars were out, distant and cold, blinking against the vast darkness.

He just stood there in the shadows for a long time. Watching. Wondering if he should or should not continue his way back to the rooms. Caleb was many things back then: a fractured, discarded, forgotten child. But with you, he’d found an anchor, a constant in the swirling chaos. Something that drew him with an irresistible force, his personal center of gravity. So, he sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. Before he could second-guess himself.

"The stars are different here, right?" The words hung between you, fragile and uncertain. A beat of silence. Then, you blinked. Slowly, like pulling yourself from a dream.

Days full of laughing with him returned, but just as they appeared, they vanished just as quickly. The second time it happened, he started to worry. Not fully understanding what was happening to you. The third time? He knew something was wrong. It was always the same. One day, you were yourself, you'd smile, challenge him to a race you'd never win, stealing food off his plate when you thought he wasn’t looking. You’d laugh, roll your eyes at his teasing, shove him when he got too smug. Alive. Present. And then, gone.

Like someone had flipped a switch. Like the warmth had been drained from your body, leaving only a hollow shell behind. Your eyes would go dull again, your posture stiff, your mind somewhere else, somewhere he couldn’t reach. You wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t react. And each time, he was forced to start anew, to rebuild the fragile bridge of connection.

At first, Caleb thought it was just one of those things. Kids in this place had their ways of coping, of withdrawing. Maybe you were just shutting down. Maybe you'd been punished for sneaking out at night, and this was how you dealt with it. But by the fifth time, he realized the pattern. It always happened after your medical routines.

Three to five days. That was how long you disappeared each time. They took you to another wing of the facility, away from the rest of the kids, locked behind doors he had never seen beyond. Then, just like clockwork, they’d return you, placing you back in the main pavilion as if nothing had happened.

The day they brought you back, dazed, empty, hollow. Caleb didn’t try to talk to you. Didn’t try to pull you out of whatever haze they had left you in. Instead, he unleashed his fury, his evol flaring with unrestrained power, attacking the caretakers with a ferocity that startled even himself. He shoved back when they tried to move him away, snarling demands that went unanswered.

"Where did you take her? What the fuck are you doing to her?"

The faceless figures in white coats. The ones who came in the night, who took you without explanation and returned you less and less yourself every time. He swore a silent vow, a solemn oath etched in the depths of his soul. Never again. He was going to shield you, to safeguard you from their insidious manipulations. Even if you didn’t retain a single memory of him. Even if he was condemned to rebuild their fractured bond, to start anew, every single time.

That fierce determination to protect you, has endured, unyielding, until the present day.

—

Days crawled by. Caleb immersed himself in a flurry of work, burying himself in endless reports, tedious routines, anything to drown out the gnawing unease that clawed at the edges of his sanity. And finally, the full, damning report finally landed on his desk.

The missing soldier wasn’t an isolated incident. The disappearances weren’t confined to the Farspace Fleet or Skyhaven. They bled into the civilian sector, citizens of Linkon City vanishing without a trace, all within the same chilling timeframe. And a single, terrifying common denominator bound them all together: Evolvers.

Caleb’s fingers tightened around the datapad as he read through the details, his eyes narrowing. This doesn’t look good. Evolvers being targeted. But for what? Research? Trafficking? Cold-blooded eliminations? He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as he skimmed through the intelligence briefs. No direct ties to the Hunter Association, yet. A sliver of relief, a fragile hope. That meant you weren’t involved.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Colonel," Liam said, his voice grave, his presence radiating an unspoken urgency. If he was delivering this news personally, it meant something truly dire. Caleb exhaled slowly, a sigh of weary resignation, shoving the damning report aside. He was in no state of mind for more grim tidings.

"What is it?" Caleb asked, voice edged with irritation.

Liam stepped inside, datapad in hand. "We found Calloway’s body."

Caleb stilled. A heavy silence settled between them.

"Where?" A heavy, suffocating silence settled between them, a prelude to the inevitable.

"Near the municipal depot," Liam said, his voice smooth but his eyes holding an unsettling glint. "The body is… fragmented."

That single word, "fragmented," snapped Caleb’s attention into sharp focus.

Liam continued, his voice as clinical as ever. "Signs of black glass were found on the remains. We believe he started converting into a Wanderer before death." He paused. "Which is highly anomalous, considering Calloway was not diagnosed with the Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s fingers curled against the desk. That shouldn’t be possible. Wanderer transformation wasn’t random—it happened to Evolvers and people who had suffered severe long exposure to Protocore. But Calloway was stable, documented. He should have never been at risk.

"The autopsy is in progress now," Liam added, his gaze assessing. "We should have a clearer picture soon."

Caleb sighed, rubbing his temple. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together. First, the vanishing Evolvers. Now, an impossible Wanderer transformation. Something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.

"Any progress on the other missing individuals?" Caleb asked.

Liam shook his head, his expression grim. "Still unaccounted for, sir."

Caleb pushed back his chair, the metallic screech echoing in the sudden silence, and stood, a palpable tension radiating from his rigid frame. He grabbed his hat, adjusting it on his head. Caleb wasn’t the type to passively await reports. He needed to see the grim evidence with his own eyes.

The corridors of the Farspace Fleet’s medical facility were eerily silent, a sterile, tomb-like quiet broken only by the soft thrum of life support systems. White walls, bathed in the blueish harsh, clinical glow of overhead lighting, stretched into the distance. The faint, persistent hum of machinery, a constant, unsettling drone, filled the air.

Liam walked beside him, his expression unreadable as always. He didn’t question the Colonel’s decision to personally inspect the gruesome remains, nor did he offer any unnecessary, platitudinous commentary. He simply followed.

When they stepped inside, the smell of disinfectant and something rotten greeted them. The morgue was always too damn cold. Calloway’s fragmented body lay exposed beneath the harsh glare of the surgical lights, his chest cavity gaping open, organs meticulously dissected and examined. His right arm was severed entirely, the stump jagged and darkened with the first signs of necrosis, while the left arm remained, but only partially, half-flayed, muscles and tendons peeled back as if someone had been mapping them.

Caleb’s eyes trailed to the shattered remains of Calloway’s face nor what was left of it. His jaw was unhinged, the flesh around his mouth torn as if he had screamed himself raw. One eye was gone entirely, an empty, hollow socket staring back at them. The other? Glossed over in an eerie black film, a telltale sign of corruption.

The coroner, a seasoned professional with graying temples and a piercing, analytical gaze, stepped away from the grisly tableau.

"You’re early," the coroner remarked, peeling off his blood-stained gloves and surgical mask with practiced efficiency.

"I don’t have time to wait," Caleb replied curtly. He glanced at the mutilated remains on the steel slab, then back at the coroner, his eyes demanding answers. "What have you found?"

The coroner exhaled, gesturing toward the shrouded body on the metal slab. He activated a holo-display, projecting detailed scans and preliminary analytical data. "Calloway’s Evol classification was B-Class. Standard military issue—enhanced perception, minor strength augmentation, a common profile among the ranks. The initial autopsy revealed traces of an unknown substance within his system. His cellular structure exhibited signs of forced mutation, a rapid, catastrophic degradation of his heart and lungs. It was an unnatural, violent process."

Caleb leaned in, his gaze fixed on the intricate data streams, his brow furrowed in grim concentration. "You're suggesting this was deliberated?"

The coroner nodded. "It's a bit early to say, but it's plausible. I discovered traces of black glass embedded in his internal tissue, a clear indication of Wanderer conversion. But the crystallization pattern is… peculiar. It deviates significantly from natural Wanderer transformations. The formation is irregular, almost chaotic, as if it was—"

"Induced." Liam crossed his arms. "Sounds like a black market serum."

The coroner scoffed, a dismissive snort escaping his lips. "If it were a black market hack job, it’d be sloppy, haphazard. This? This was meticulously crafted, surgically precise." He gestured towards Calloway's mangled remains, a silent testament to the horrific procedure. "But I must confess, Colonel, this level of… intervention… is far from commonplace."

Caleb’s stomach turned. A familiar unease settled into his bones. He had seen engineered horrors before. He knew exactly what kind of people had the resources to pull off something like this. A hunch clawed at the edges of his mind. He didn’t have concrete evidence, tangible proof, but his instincts screamed that this wasn’t an isolated incident.

His fingers tightened into a fist. "Classify this case as top secret. No one—and I mean no one—breathes a word about this until I give the order." His voice was a low, chilling rasp, absolute and unwavering. "I don’t want a single leak to the press. If anyone inquires, Calloway’s death was a tragic accident."

The coroner nodded slowly, his expression grave, but Liam’s gaze remained unconvinced, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He stepped closer, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "You think this is part of something bigger, don’t you?"

Caleb rolling his tense shoulders. "I don’t believe in coincidences." Liam stepped back, his expression grim, nodding in silent agreement.

If someone was experimenting on Evolvers…

Caleb turned to the coroner, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I expect a full report on what happened to him. Every detail. Every anomaly. I want it on my desk before the day is over."

The coroner gave a slow nod, unfazed by the sharpness in Caleb’s tone. "Understood, Colonel. But I’ll need time to run a full biochemical analysis. Whatever they used on him, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before."

Caleb exhaled, his patience running thin. "Then don’t waste time."

The coroner nodded, his expression grave. "Understood, Colonel."

A sense of foreboding settled over Caleb as he left the morgue. The weight of the missing Evolvers, the strange circumstances surrounding Calloway’s death, it all felt like pieces of a larger, more sinister puzzle. He needed to find the missing link, the piece that would unlock the mystery.

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the rhythmic hum of the computer and the restless shuffle of datapads. Caleb’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, scanned line after line of missing Evolver data, and the list of missing people from Linkon. Some had reappeared, their disappearances chalked up to miscommunication or temporary lapses in contact. Those cases were dismissed, deemed irrelevant to the investigation. But Caleb would make sure not a single clue went unchecked, no detail overlooked. He cross-referenced names, locations, and Evolver classifications, searching for a pattern, a connection, anything to illuminate the encroaching darkness.

A report flickered across his datapad, a notification from the Linkon City Police Department. An illegal shipment had been intercepted near the N109 Zone. The cargo was unknown, and the perpetrators had scattered, leaving behind only a few low-level operatives. The interrogations hadn't yielded much, just fragmented accounts and a single name: "Rudy."

Could this be related to the missing Evolvers? To Calloway's bizarre transformation? Caleb couldn't dismiss it. He added the name and the N109 Zone as location to his growing list of potential leads. He had to consider every possibility, no matter how remote. Every thread, no matter how thin, could lead him to the truth.

Then, the comm unit crackled to life, the sterile voice of the coroner cutting through the oppressive silence. "Colonel, the full report on Calloway’s autopsy is ready." He wastes no time, striding through the halls of the medical wing. Liam follows behind, silent as always, but Caleb can feel the tension radiating off him too.

As Caleb and Liam entered, the coroner tapped the display, bringing up a complex web of biochemical readings. The intricate chains of data, a language of cellular decay and forced mutation, were indecipherable to the untrained eye. But the stark conclusion, highlighted at the bottom of the report, was brutally clear: Calloway hadn't simply died.

"At first glance," the coroner began, his voice low and measured, "I suspected an atypical case of protocore exposure. But then, I detected an anomaly—his system was exhibiting a rejection of its own biological functions, a phenomenon reminiscent of Protocore Syndrome."

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. "Similar?"

The coroner nodded, his expression tightening. "Yes. Almost as if someone was trying to mimic Protocore Syndrome—but it doesn’t match exactly. The genetic deterioration doesn’t follow the usual pattern." The coroner continued, his voice laced with a clinical detachment that couldn't quite mask the underlying unease. "It shares similarities with Protocore Syndrome, yes, but it's not the root cause. From the limited blood samples we recovered, I was able to isolate residual compounds."

With a few deft taps on the console, an incomplete chemical formula materialized on the large display screen, a complex arrangement of symbols and bonds that pulsed with an unsettling, digital light. "This," the coroner stated, gesturing to the formula, "is what's left." He paused, his gaze shifting to Caleb. "An experimental serum. Code-name Chimera 1X9."

The name sent a slow, ice-cold dread creeping up Caleb’s spine. Chimera 1X9.

"Where did you find this information?" His voice was dangerously low, a barely restrained growl, but the coroner didn't flinch.

"The system flagged the compound, when I tried to pull more data, my clearance level wasn’t high enough."

This wasn’t just some underground black market experiment, some nameless operation buried in secrecy. And there was only one individual who possessed the access and the knowledge to wield such a weapon: The Professor.

Caleb turned on his heel, his decision made. He needed answers, and he needed them now. And if the Professor dared to believe he could dismiss him with vague half-truths and obfuscation, he was sorely mistaken.

"Thank you," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. "Your work here is complete. Prepare the body for transport. Ensure the family is given the respect he deserves."

"Colonel?" Liam asked, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze questioning. "Caleb?"

Caleb didn't bother with further discussion. "We're done here," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of patience. He strode towards the exit, his mind a whirlwind of cold fury and grim determination. Caleb doesn’t waste time.

That same rain-soaked night, he found the quickest way to Professor’s secluded residence. He carried with him every classified file, every damning report he could access regarding the serum, a tangible weight of rage and impending confrontation. He bypassed the security measures with practiced ease, not even thinking about knocking on the door, letting himself into the house with the cold efficiency of a man driven by a singular purpose. He marched into the Professor’s study, sooked by the rain. Leaving a trail of rain drops on the floor. Caleb slammed the stack of files onto the polished mahogany desk, the sharp thud echoing through the room.

"What is all this?" The Professor barely spared the scattered papers a glance, his fingers meticulously adjusting his spectacles as he exhaled, a sigh laced with thinly veiled annoyance. "At least let me know when you do this shit."

"Honestly, Caleb, have the decency to inform me before you stage these… dramatic entrances." The professor meets his gaze, calm, detache. Too comfortable in his secrecy.

Caleb’s expression remained an unreadable mask, his features carved from ice, but his voice was sharp, as he pressed his attack. "What exactly are you up to?"

"We’re simply conducting… tests," he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the mundane details of a scientific experiment. "You really don’t have to concern yourself with any of this."

Caleb didn’t buy the Professor’s nonchalant facade for a second. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, the knuckles white against his skin.

"What, precisely, are you trying to accomplish?" he demanded.

The Professor let out a small chuckle, slow and knowing, a sound that grated on Caleb’s nerves. It was as if he had anticipated Caleb’s arrival, expecting this confrontation. As if it were merely another calculated move in a game he was already playing several steps ahead. And then, with a casualness that bordered on arrogance, he revealed a sliver of his true intentions.

"Patience, son," he said, his tone far too paternal, far too condescending. "We're simply attempting to enhance Evolver abilities."

Caleb’s expression remained unchanged, a mask of cold control. He didn’t flinch but inside, something sharp and brittle snapped, the last vestiges of trust shattering into fragments. The trust he had placed in his plan, in his ability to stand between you and the people who sought to exploit your power. He'd believed he could manage the situation, keep you safe while navigating their dangerous game. Now, he saw the cracks in his carefully constructed plan. He'd thought he understood the Professor's intentions, that he could anticipate their moves. But he'd been wrong.

"People have died." Caleb stated, his voice a low, icy pronouncement.

The Professor merely shrugged, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes. "That's science," he said, the words devoid of empathy, a chillingly pragmatic justification that made Caleb’s blood boil. He stared at him. This wasn’t mere experimentation; it was weaponization. This is not very different from the hell you went through as a child. Caleb’s fingers dig into the desk, his jaw tight, his patience wearing razor-thin.

"Why?" he asked, his voice a low, menacing whisper, a dangerous edge lacing every syllable. "Is this because of her?"

The Professor finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with an unreadable light, a cold, calculated intelligence. Caleb didn’t miss the subtle twitch of his lips, a fleeting expression that suggested he was holding back a cruel amusement.

"You told me the time hadn’t come yet," Caleb pressed, his fists clenching tighter. "So why rush it now?"

The Professor exhaled, tapping a finger lazily against the stack of files Caleb had slammed onto the desk. His gaze flickered over the documents, unimpressed, dismissive.

"Because," he said simply, his voice laced with an unsettling finality, "sometimes fate doesn’t wait."

Caleb’s stomach knotted, a cold, hard fist of dread clenching around his insides.

"That’s bullshit," he retorted, his voice thick with suppressed rage.

The Professor smiled, a knowing, infuriating smile that sent a shiver down Caleb’s spine. "Maybe," he mused, his tone ambiguous, deliberately provocative, designed to ignite Caleb's anger.

The Professor never spoke without a hidden agenda, without a calculated purpose. And if he was implying that you were somehow entangled in this deadly game, that you were the catalyst for this accelerated experiment, then everything had just spiraled into a far more dangerous territory. He had played their game for far too long, adhering to their rules, their timelines. But if they dared to lay a hand on her, if they decided to inflict their twisted experiments upon you… Caleb wouldn’t hesitate to tear their entire world apart, piece by agonizing piece.

A/N: I know, I know! A lot of Caleb happens here. Don’t bail on me yet! I wanted to keep it short, but I got a bit carried away. There’s still a second part with him, full of mysteries, but we’ll be back to the action soon. I wanted this to be one chapter, but it would've been way too long—like 13-16k words. Sadly I don't have the time to write and review a so long chapter. By now, you should have a pretty good idea of where this is heading. If not—don’t worry. The real peak of the story is just around the corner. I promise the wait will be worth it—once we’re back with MC/You and Sylus.

Released date: ~2 weeks. Chapter 6: Gravity (Parte 2) - Caleb will find a way to the N109 Zone.

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