#born from the same ink | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Text

through the fire | sylus

synopsis : In a world where soulmate marks appear on your skin, yours arrives in red—the color of unrequited love. And the name written there is the last one you ever wanted to see: Zayne.

content : soulmate!au, unrequited love, angst

You stared at the name scrawled in red across your forearm.

Zayne.

So small. So cruel. So final.

Your breath caught in your throat, a trembling whisper slipping past your lips.

“Why is it his?”

The question barely made a sound, yet it rang loud in the silence of your apartment, echoing off the sterile white walls and the clinical smell of hospital-grade soap still lingering on your skin.

You pressed your palm over the name like you could smudge it away.

But red ink never fades. It brands.

It condemns.

A red soulmate mark.

You had seen the pamphlets before—those rare anomalies that happen once in a few hundred thousand people.

The ones born defective, the ones whose soulmates were already claimed by someone else.

Fated to ache. Fated to long. Fated to never be loved back.

You always thought it was tragic in a distant, abstract sort of way.

Until now.

Until it was his name.

Until it was Zayne.

Your Zayne.

Your friend. Your colleague.

The man who offered you coffee the day you transferred, when everyone else couldn’t be bothered to remember your name.

The one who knew when your hands shook after a 12-hour surgery and would silently leave your favorite chocolate mousse in the breakroom fridge.

The one who walked you home after night shifts, even though his apartment was one floor above yours.

The one you tried not to love.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Because his mark had already appeared months ago—in black. Like it was supposed to. Permanent. True. Undeniable.

You remembered how he told you.

How he looked almost dazed, fingers brushing over his skin like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to find her.

You had smiled. You had said you were happy for him. You had even helped him pick out a gift for their anniversary.

And maybe you were happy.

A small, pure part of you had been.

But the rest of you was bleeding.

But you didn’t expect this.

You didn’t expect the universe to be so cruel.

Because months later, your body chose him.

As if fate wanted to mock you.

As if it wanted you to watch him belong to someone else, forever just one floor above you, one breath out of reach.

Red meant doomed.

Red meant defect.

Red meant you would love someone who was never yours to begin with.

Your fingers trembled as you traced over the ink again.

You imagined what it would feel like to show him.

To watch his face crumble, or worse—pity you. To be told, gently and with unbearable softness, that he loved someone else.

That his heart already belonged to the woman whose name was etched into his skin in perfect, black permanence.

You would never be that name.

You would never be enough.

So you rolled down your sleeve and turned away from the mirror.

The name still burned beneath the fabric.

And in the quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to break—silently, like you always did.

Because even the stars knew.

You were never meant to be loved.

Only to love.

—•

Day by day, you saw him.

In break rooms and bustling hallways, beside you during rounds, across you during late-night debriefs.

He was always there—smiling softly, offering you coffee in the way only he knew you liked it.

Asking about your day with that quiet warmth that made your chest ache.

He never noticed the way your fingers twitched when you took the cup.

Never saw how you always kept your sleeves pulled just a little too low.

Never questioned the stiffness in your smile.

It had been months.

You had become an expert at hiding the truth—an actress in your own life, wearing ease like armor.

You laughed when he teased you.

Teased him back when he tried to guess your soulmate’s identity.

“He probably doesn’t live around here,” you’d say with a light shrug, the same one you’d perfected in the mirror.

And he’d nod, gentle and non-intrusive, never the type to pry.

And maybe that made it worse.

That he was kind.

That he was always kind.

His soulmate didn’t make things any easier either.

She was bright, and sweet, and unbearably thoughtful. The kind of person you couldn’t bring yourself to hate, even if it would make surviving this easier.

She brought you takeout after long shifts, remembered your favorite boba order, got you a little potted plant for your birthday and left a sticky note on your locker that read, “For when life gets too sterile.”

Just like now.

You sit quietly at your desk, the hospital gone still with night, overhead lights buzzing low.

The sky outside is a deep, velvet black, rain tapping gently against the window.

She hums softly as she unpacks the sushi she brought, setting it out like you were her little sister she needed to fuss over.

“You need to eat properly,” she scolds, her voice warm, mothering.

You smile up at her, gratitude in your eyes.

You mean it. You really do.

Even as your wrist pulses beneath your sleeve—raw, restless, unbearably red.

Even as your soul screams a name it can never say aloud.

You thank her.

You eat.

And you pretend not to feel the burn.

“Any luck yet?” she asks gently, nodding toward your wrist as she takes a sip of water.

You follow her gaze, pulse ticking beneath the fabric, and force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“No,” you say, voice light, practiced. “Maybe I’m just destined to be alone.”

A half-truth.

The kind that slips out easily when the full one is too cruel to name.

Because what could you say?

That the name on your wrist has been there for months?

That it burns with a devotion that will never be returned?

That it’s his name—her soulmate’s name—written in red?

That while she buys you dinner and worries over your health, your heart quietly bleeds for the man who kisses her forehead and saves his smiles for her?

So instead, you say nothing.

You stir the soy sauce into your rice and let the lie settle between you—gentle, unspoken, and unbearable.

She offers you a sympathetic smile, her voice soft with well-meaning hope.

“You’ll meet him someday.”

And there it is.

The ache.

Low and sharp, blooming beneath your ribs like something cruel and familiar.

You nod, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

Because she’s looking at you with such kindness, such sincerity—never realizing that her comfort is the wound.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t.

That you’ve already met him.

That he’s just down the hall, finishing up his reports, waiting to walk her home.

That the universe gave you a name and then watched you unravel.

So you smile again.

The kind that feels more like a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

—•

“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

She smiles, radiant and unaware, her arm wrapped easily around his as the two of you stand face to face.

Your mark flares beneath your sleeve, a slow, burning throb that pulls your eyes to where her hand rests—light, familiar, right—against his.

And Zayne—

He looks down at her like she hung the stars.

With that quiet kind of fondness that once lived in his gaze for you, before the universe chose to remind you of your place.

Before the mark.

Before everything changed.

He told you once, in passing, how they met.

At a park. A lost puppy.

He’d helped her look for it, stayed with her until it was found. Said it felt ordinary. Nothing sparked then.

Not until a week later, when her name bloomed black on his wrist.

You remember the way his voice softened when he said it.

“Shaiya.”

Like it meant something holy.

Like it made sense.

You had smiled back then too.

And you do it again now, a practiced expression, polished by months of pretending.

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady. “See you.”

She waves, content.

Zayne glances at you, just for a second—just long enough for your heart to betray you.

Then they turn.

And you’re left behind.

As always.

Your mark burns again as you watch them walk away—slow, steady, inseparable.

It always flares like this when you start to ache for him.

When you let yourself want him, even for a moment.

As if fate itself is reprimanding you.

As if the pain is a reminder: You were never meant to be his.

Just a defect. A flaw in the system.

But you ignore it.

You’ve learned how to live with fire under your skin.

Instead, you cling to the memories—the ones that feel softer in hindsight, even if they hurt now.

“I hope your name appears on my wrist someday,” he’d said once, offhandedly, turning his head to glance at you with a quiet smile.

You had laughed, heart skipping despite yourself.

“If I was your soulmate, you’d probably end up with a headache from dealing with me.”

It was meant as a joke. Lighthearted.

But now—

Now, it tastes like irony.

Because it did appear.

Your name did show up.

Just not where it was supposed to.

Not on him.

—•

You didn’t quite know how you ended up here.

Maybe it was the silence of your apartment. Maybe it was the way your wrist still throbbed beneath your sleeve like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Or maybe—just maybe—you were tired of pretending you were okay.

So you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind where no one asked questions and the music was low enough to disappear into.

You sat near the bar, shoulders hunched in a way you hadn’t noticed until your reflection caught you in the mirror.

One hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the other idly pushing ice cubes in lazy circles.

“Here’s to unrequited love,” you mutter to no one, raising your glass like a toast to the cruel stars above.

You take a slow sip. Let the burn settle in your throat. Let yourself feel it—just for tonight.

Then—

A scent. Sharp. Clean.

Masculine and strangely grounding, like rain on stone.

It hits you all at once.

And before you can turn, an arm slides across the bar beside you—unhurried, confident.

He settles into the stool next to yours like it was always meant to be his.

You catch a glimpse.

White—no, silver—hair catches the low light. Almost too perfect. Almost otherworldly.

“Gin. On the rocks,” he says, voice low and smooth, like smoke rolling over velvet.

You glance at him, just for a moment.

And somehow, you felt drawn.

You let your gaze drift to the stranger beside you, curiosity outweighing caution.

He was striking in a way that demanded attention—dangerous, almost.

Red eyes, sharp and unflinching, stared ahead with the kind of focus that made the world seem like background noise to him.

His hair was a mess of white-silver strands, tousled and unruly, falling just above his brows like they had been kissed by moonlight.

And his mouth—curved in an easy, knowing smirk—looked as though it had never forgotten how to charm.

As if he was always just about to say something wicked.

There was an ease in the way he occupied the space, like he wasn’t merely sitting at the bar—but claiming it.

You stared a beat too long.

And then—

A sharp sting.

Your mark flared beneath your sleeve, searing hot.

You flinched, barely, teeth gritting as the pain sliced through the moment like glass.

Of course.

Even now—even with someone like him sitting beside you—the universe couldn’t let you forget.

You were still branded.

Still trapped.

Still hopelessly tethered to someone who would never be yours.

And the burn beneath your skin felt like fate laughing.

You cursed under your breath, the word slipping out low and bitter as the sting pulsed through your wrist like a cruel reminder.

You took another sip, letting the whiskey scorch its way down, hoping it would dull something—anything.

It didn’t.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shift.

The stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for those crimson eyes to find you.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—sharp, deliberate.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… intrigued.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice low and laced with dry amusement.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just stared into your glass, watching the ice crack quietly beneath the amber.

“Something like that,” you muttered, not looking at him.

But he didn’t look away.

And somehow, you felt seen.

Not pitied. Not judged. Just… noticed.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t looking through you.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that wraps around the edges of your exhaustion like velvet trimmed in iron.

“Same here,” he murmurs, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking a slow sip of his gin.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“I’m Sylus,” he says, turning slightly to face you now.

There’s something in the way he says it—easy, but deliberate. Like his name is a secret he only offers to a select few. Like he’s giving you a choice. To take it or don’t.

You glance at him again.

That silver hair, those red eyes. The quiet confidence that radiates off him in waves.

He doesn’t ask for your name.

He just waits.

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, you give it.

“Y/N,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the clink of glass and the murmur of conversations behind you.

Sylus nods, as if the name fits. As if he already knew.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, and somehow, it doesn’t feel empty.

Somehow, it feels like the night has started over.

You blink slowly, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in your glass.

“All my nights are rough,” you murmur, your lips curving into a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Not just this one.”

You take another sip, let the warmth settle into your bones like armor.

Beside you, Sylus raises a brow—curious, maybe, but respectful. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

And somehow, that’s more comforting than if he had.

So you both sit there, shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that feels oddly natural.

Not forced. Not heavy.

Just… there.

The sting on your wrist begins to fade, slowly—like a held breath finally exhaled.

Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Maybe it’s his presence.

Maybe it’s just that for once, you don’t feel so unbearably alone.

A sudden courage bubbles up—liquid and reckless.

You keep your eyes forward, voice casual.

“What do you think of people with red marks?”

You feel him glance your way.

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But in it, something passes—something unsaid.

He seems a little surprised by the question, but his expression remains unchanged. Calm. Measured.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says after a sip of his gin. “Mine’s never shown.”

He shrugs like it means nothing. Like fate hasn’t touched him at all.

And somehow, you envy that.

“Good for you,” you say, a little too flat, a little too bitter around the edges.

A beat of silence follows.

Then—a chuckle, low and quiet, rumbles from his chest.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… amused.

Knowing.

“Interesting,” is all he says.

The word lingers between you, heavier than it should be.

Like he’s already pieced something together. Like he sees more than you intended to show.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence beside you—steady, unbothered.

As if your pain isn’t a burden here.

As if your broken pieces don’t make you harder to hold, only more worth noticing.

And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and a pen—moves smooth, unhurried.

You watch as he scribbles something down, his handwriting sharp and elegant, like everything about him.

Then he slides it across the bar toward you, the paper curling slightly at the corners as it stops in front of your glass.

He doesn’t look at you right away—just takes another sip of his gin, eyes still trained on the bottles lined across the shelves.

“I am fully aware of stranger danger,” he drawls, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, “but do call if you need… company.”

His voice lingers on the last word, smoky and deliberate.

Not suggestive.

Not empty.

Just a quiet offering from one broken night to another.

You glance down at the number.

It looks oddly out of place between your fingers—this small, absurd lifeline.

But it’s there.

And so is he.

You give a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes but feels a little more genuine than the others tonight.

“Maybe I will,” you say, tucking the slip of paper between your fingers like a secret.

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a glint in his crimson eyes as he raises his glass, as if to toast to unspoken things.

To bruised hearts.

To broken fates.

To strangers who feel a little less like strangers.

You both drink in silence after that, letting the night bleed slow and quiet around you.

No questions. No confessions.

Just the comfort of existing beside someone who doesn’t ask you to pretend.

When you finally step back into your apartment, the stillness greets you like an old friend.

Familiar. Too familiar.

You loosen your coat, kick off your shoes, and sit at the edge of your bed, the quiet pressing in.

The mark on your wrist is calm now—dormant, for once.

You pull the slip of paper from your pocket, smoothing the crease with your thumb.

Sylus.

You murmur the name to yourself, letting it linger in the dark.

As if, maybe this time, fate might finally listen.

—•

You sigh, long and weary, as you sink into your desk chair.

Every part of you aches—your back, your hands, your mind.

Eight hours in the operating room, eight hours of focus and tension and the weight of someone else’s life resting in your palms.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around you.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

Before you can even answer, it opens just enough to let him in.

Zayne.

His dark hair falls slightly into his hazel-green eyes, coat still dusted with rain from outside.

He walks in with quiet purpose, holding out a paper cup—your usual coffee order, still warm.

“Long day?” he asks, voice calm and steady, like always.

Your chest tightens.

And then it comes—the burn.

That same, awful heat radiating from your wrist, seeping into your bones.

You clench your jaw, forcing a tired smile as you take the cup from him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, hoping your fingers don’t brush too long against his.

He doesn’t notice the wince you try to hide.

Doesn’t see how tightly you’re holding your sleeve.

Because to him, it’s just kindness.

To you, it’s agony.

You both sit in silence, the kind that would feel companionable if it didn’t ache so much.

The coffee sits warm between your hands, grounding you in the moment—keeping you from unraveling.

Then he speaks.

“I saw you out two nights ago.”

His tone is casual, but there’s something underneath it—curiosity, maybe. Concern, even.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip from his own cup, as if the words don’t mean much.

“Were you drinking again?”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the paper cup.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspoken.

You look down at your wrist, still hidden beneath your sleeve, the phantom sting of the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat.

So many things you could say.

Yes. Because pretending I’m fine all the time is exhausting.

Because I watched you walk away with her again and smiled like it didn’t kill me.

Because my mark won’t stop burning, and I don’t know how to live with this kind of love.

But instead, you offer a small shrug.

“Just needed some air,” you say quietly. “That’s all.”

A lie.

But it’s one he won’t press.

Because he trusts you.

Because he doesn’t know.

He gives you that small, familiar smile—the one that always undoes you more than it should.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he says softly, like it’s second nature to worry about you.

Then he turns, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the smell of coffee, the echo of his voice, and the quiet devastation he’ll never see.

Your fingers curl around the cup.

Tight. Too tight.

As if holding on to something will keep you from breaking.

But your mark burns hotter now, searing through your skin like punishment.

As if it’s angry.

As if it’s jealous.

And for a moment, you wonder why it hasn’t bled.

Why it doesn’t just split open and spill all this hurt onto the floor where everyone can finally see it.

“Stop being so kind to me,” you whisper into the silence, your voice shaking.

But there’s no one left to hear it.

Only the sterile hum of the lights overhead, and the sound of your heart breaking—quiet and familiar—as tears trace down your cheeks, uninvited and unstoppable.

Somehow, without really thinking, you found yourself at his doorstep.

The city was quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, your coat clutched tight around you like it could hold the pieces of you together.

Your wrist still ached beneath your sleeve, raw and restless, but you had long since stopped trying to soothe it.

Sylus had texted you the address after your call—short, clipped, and straightforward, like him.

And now you’re here, standing in front of a door you never expected to seek out, uncertain of what you’re hoping to find on the other side.

Healing?

Distraction?

A place where your mark doesn’t matter?

You raise your hand to knock, hesitating for a moment as your breath fogs in the cold.

Then, before you can lose the nerve, your knuckles meet wood.

One. Two. Three quiet raps.

A pause.

Then the door clicks open.

And there he is—Sylus.

Silver hair a little messier than usual, a glass still in his hand, red eyes sharp but softer than you’ve ever seen them.

No questions. No judgment.

—•

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded once, slow and understanding, and led you inside.

Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of his worn leather couch, a respectful distance apart, the fire crackling gently between you like a heartbeat neither of you wants to claim.

The room is dim, shadows dancing along the walls, the only light coming from the flicker of flames and the occasional glint in Sylus’s eyes when he turns his head slightly to look at you—then away again.

You’re still.

Tired.

The kind of tired that no sleep could ever fix.

The tears have long since dried, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache in your chest, like grief carved a space in your ribs and decided to stay.

And your mark—

Still there.

Still burning beneath your skin.

You stare into the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap, and for the first time in days, you breathe—slow, deep, and unguarded.

Sylus doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t pry.

He just sits there, presence steady, like a wall you can finally lean against without fear of collapsing.

And in that silence, something shifts.

Not healed. Not whole.

But a little less alone.

You turn your head slightly, eyes drifting from the fire to him. His profile is lit in warm gold—sharp, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Sorry,” you say softly, the word catching at the edges of your throat.

For what exactly, you’re not sure.

For showing up. For falling apart.

For being the kind of person who calls a near-stranger because no one else feels safe anymore.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn to look at you.

Just gives a small shrug and takes a slow sip from his glass.

“It’s good company,” he replies, casual, like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t a burden.

Like this—the silence, the ache, the weight of everything you can’t say—is somehow welcome.

You exhale quietly, some small part of your heart unclenching.

Maybe that’s what you needed.

Not comfort. Not words.

Just someone who doesn’t mind the quiet, even when it’s heavy.

“I can understand.”

His voice breaks the stillness, low and quiet—almost like an afterthought, but it sinks deep.

Your eyes dart to him.

Sylus is still facing the fire, his expression unreadable, the flames dancing across the sharp lines of his face.

“I love someone,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “But her name isn’t on my wrist.”

He takes a sip of his drink, his fingers steady around the glass.

“There’s another name on hers.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—soft, but heavy with weight.

And suddenly, you understand why his silence felt so familiar. Why he never asked questions. Why he didn’t flinch at your pain.

Because he knows.

He knows what it’s like to love without being chosen.

To look at someone and see a future they’ll never see with you.

To exist in the quiet spaces between their laughter—wanted, but not meant.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest mirroring his.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Does she know?”

A pause.

“No,” he murmurs. “And I’m not sure I want her to.”

And for a moment, you’re not two strangers on a couch.

You’re two people clinging to the same kind of hurt.

And somehow, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.

“How does it work?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes stay fixed on the fire, but your voice trembles with something deeper—something raw.

“Love. How does it work?”

There’s a pause.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away. He sets his glass down on the table, the faint clink of glass on wood echoing in the quiet.

You finally glance at him.

He’s staring into the flames, brows drawn slightly, as if the question has rooted itself somewhere inside him.

“I don’t think it does,” he says at last, voice low and unfiltered. “Not the way we’re told it should.”

His gaze flicks to you, slow and steady.

“Everyone talks about fate. About destiny. About names on skin and inevitability.”

He leans back, resting an arm on the back of the couch, red eyes glinting.

“But love—it’s messy. It’s inconvenient. It doesn’t follow rules or timing or marks.”

You swallow, something stirring painfully in your chest.

“Then why does it still hurt this much?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, but with understanding so deep it feels like a balm.

“Because you love honestly,” he says. “And honest love never goes unpunished.”

“I just want it to stop burning,” you whisper, the words escaping before you can take them back.

You’re not looking at him—your gaze stays fixed on the fire, on the flicker and hiss of flame. It’s easier than meeting his eyes.

“It’s not the unrequited part,” you continue, voice low and frayed at the edges. “I always knew it would be like this. I never expected anything more from him.”

You inhale shakily, pressing your hands tighter around your knees as if that could steady the tremble in your chest.

“But the mark—it burns every time I think of him. Every time I miss him, want him, remember him.”

The heat isn’t just under your skin. It’s inside your lungs, your throat, your heart.

A fire that reminds you with every spark that your love is a mistake written in red.

“I just want it to stop hurting every time I feel something.”

A quiet hush follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Then, Sylus speaks. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Love shouldn’t feel like a wound,” he says.

You glance at him. And for once, there’s no teasing in his expression. No smirk, no defense. Just something quiet. Something honest.

“And yet,” you murmur, “it always does.”

He doesn’t offer easy comfort. Doesn’t pretend to have answers.

Instead, he leans back, watching the flames for a moment.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “the pain won’t go away completely. But it can dull. If you let someone help carry it.”

Your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not from the burn.

It’s from the way he says it. Like he means it.

Like he would.

He steps toward you—unhurried, deliberate. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his crimson eyes.

“I may not know you,” he says slowly, voice low and steady, “but I know your pain.”

His words settle over you like a weighted blanket—not too heavy, not too light. Just enough to be felt.

Then—

He extends a hand.

Open.

Unassuming.

Offered without expectation.

Not to fix you.

Not to save you.

Just to stand with you in the wreckage.

You stare at it for a moment, your breath caught between resistance and the aching need for something—someone—to anchor you.

And somehow, in the quiet of that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s a stranger.

Because pain recognizes pain.

And for the first time in a long while… you don’t feel alone in it.

You hesitate—just for a breath—then slip your hand into his.

His grip is firm, warm, steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, the motion smooth, careful, as though you might break if he moved too fast.

And then—

The mark flares.

A sharp, scalding pain radiates up your arm, and you flinch, breath hitching as the heat sinks into your bones like fire licking at old wounds.

But before you can pull away, his arms are around you. Solid. Certain. Anchoring.

“Let it burn for a bit,” he murmurs, voice close, low, and rough with something almost tender.

Then he guides your head to his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath your ear.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

And in that quiet, flickering room—with the fire crackling, your heart aching, and his arms holding you like a promise—

you let it burn.

—•

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

The sharp snap of fingers in front of your face jolts you back to the present.

You blink, startled, eyes locking onto Shaiya’s concerned expression across the table. Her brows are slightly furrowed, lips tugged into a gentle frown.

You’d drifted again.

Your thoughts had wandered—slipped away from her words, from the crowded café, from the clatter of cups and the warmth of the sun spilling through the window.

You were thinking about him.

About Sylus.

About how his arms had felt around you.

How steady his heartbeat was.

How you let yourself lean in, even when the mark warmed beneath your skin like a quiet warning.

“Sorry,” you murmur, straightening in your seat. “I was… thinking.”

Shaiya softens, letting out a small sigh as she reaches for her drink.

“You’ve been spacing out a lot lately,” she says gently, not accusing—just noticing.

You force a small smile, fingers curling around your mug to hide the slight tremble.

If only she knew who you were thinking of.

And how much it wasn’t her soulmate.

“Just… soulmate,” you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can catch it.

Your heart stutters in your chest the moment you say it, the regret immediate and sharp.

Shaiya’s face lights up, eyes wide with surprise and sudden excitement.

Her hands nearly drop her fork, and she leans in, voice hushed but eager.

“Did you find him?” she asks, a hopeful smile blooming across her face.

You freeze.

There’s a second—a split, breathless second—where the truth rises in your throat like a wave.

That yes, you found him.

That it’s not a matter of who, but how painful it’s been.

That his name is carved in red into your skin.

And that her name is written on his.

But you don’t say any of that.

You just force a smile, one you hope doesn’t look too broken at the edges.

“Not exactly,” you say softly. “It’s complicated.”

How do you explain being loved—held—by someone who might be more than a stranger… but isn’t quite fate?

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your shoulders—casual, confident—and your breath catches in your throat.

The scent hits you first. That same sharp, clean cologne.

Then the warmth.

Then the voice.

“Why don’t you just tell her you did?” he drawls, low and unbothered, his tone laced with a kind of amused defiance that only he could make sound like an invitation.

Your heart stumbles.

You turn your head slowly and catch the now-familiar glint of white hair falling just over crimson eyes that look too pleased with themselves for someone who walked into your unraveling.

Sylus.

Of course it’s him.

You’re frozen, stunned, as your mark flares beneath your sleeve—burning a little brighter, a little wilder, as if it recognizes the chaos he’s just dropped into.

Shaiya’s eyes widen as she looks between the two of you.

“Oh,” she breathes, lips parting in surprise. “Is this…?”

And still, Sylus doesn’t move his arm.

He just smirks.

And you—

You can’t decide if you want to run, scream, or lean into him and let the world burn.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat.

He gives a small, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth as silk.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I’m Y/N’s soulmate.”

The words land like a strike of lightning.

Shaiya freezes, her eyes wide, mouth parting in shock as she looks at him—then to you—then back again, like her mind is trying to catch up with the reality laid out in front of her.

You feel the burn instantly—sharp, searing, a violent protest beneath your skin.

Your mark is screaming.

But you smile anyway.

You lie through the pain like you’ve always done.

With practiced ease, you reach for Sylus’s arm, pulling him down to sit beside you.

His body is warm beside yours, grounding and steady in a way that only makes the burn worse.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft, your lips curled into a sheepish smile. “We’ve been… keeping it quiet.”

Shaiya blinks, still stunned, still searching your face for some confirmation that she hasn’t stepped into a dream.

You glance at Sylus, who is already watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

And all you can do is smile.

Even as your wrist burns like a brand.

Even as your heart threatens to give out beneath the weight of the lie.

Because in this moment—right here, right now—you just wanted to be chosen, even if it was a lie.

“Oh, that’s great! How did you guys meet?” Shaiya beams, already clutching your hands in excitement.

You glance toward Sylus, your heart a tangled mess of gratitude and quiet devastation.

He smirks faintly, unbothered.

“At a bar,” he says smoothly. “She toasted to unrequited love.”

You laugh softly, a breath too close to breaking.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes on him. “And he didn’t walk away.”

Shaiya claps her hands, practically glowing.

“Oh, I have to tell Zayne!” she exclaims, already pulling out her phone.

Your breath catches.

You stare at her, helpless, your pulse thudding in your ears.

There’s a flicker of panic—of heartbreak—just beneath the surface.

And then you feel it.

Sylus’s hand, warm and steady, closing over yours.

Silent. Certain. There.

You glance at him, and he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze, letting you borrow his strength.

So you smile.

Small. Fragile.

But real.

Even as the pain coils in your chest and your mark burns beneath your sleeve like a wound that won’t heal.

After the café, Shaiya darted off, excitement practically radiating from her as she called over her shoulder about celebrating soon.

You could only wave, sheepishly, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Beside you, Sylus chuckled, that familiar, low sound that always managed to cut through your thoughts.

You turned to him, brows furrowed, voice soft.

“Why?”

He glanced down at you, completely unfazed, and shrugged.

“Would you rather people think you were lonely for the rest of your life?” he asked, smirking. “Because you were giving off tragic energy.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, Sylus was everywhere.

In the hospital lobby, leaning against walls like he belonged there.

In the café line beside you, pretending it was coincidence.

On your lunch break, slipping you your favorite pastry like it was nothing.

You didn’t complain.

Even when your mark burned with every glance, every word, every moment spent too close.

Because his presence—while painful—was constant. Steady. Like a shield between you and everything else you couldn’t bear to face alone.

Now, you were in your office, signing off reports, when the door creaked open.

Zayne.

You looked up, startled, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something frayed at the edges.

Conflicted.

Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, you smiled at him.

Your mark responded immediately, pulsing beneath your sleeve.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice calm, measured. “You finally found him?”

You nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

He opens his mouth—stops. Looks at you.

“That’s… good,” he finishes, but it lands flat. Like he meant something else. Like he almost said it.

You ask, carefully, “Is everything okay?”

He nods. Smiles. Too polite.

“Yes. I’m just… glad.”

And as he turns to leave, your mark pulses—not from yearning this time, but from something worse, realization.

You’re left in the quiet hum of your office, with the sting of your mark flaring and a new ache settling deep in your chest.

Because this time, it wasn’t just unrequited.

It was almost.

Sylus enters not long after, silent as ever.

The room doesn’t announce him—he simply is, like a shadow slipping into light.

His eyes find you instantly.

You expect the usual smirk, the dry remark perched on his lips.

But instead—

He just looks at you.

And something in his expression softens.

Like all the sharp edges of him have momentarily dulled.

Like seeing you—tired, unraveling, still trying to hold it together—matters.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

“Why was he looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

The question isn’t really for Sylus, but he hears it anyway.

It slips out before you can stop it—raw, unguarded, aching.

You’re not sure what hurts more.

The look in Zayne’s eyes, or the fact that it came too late.

Too late, when you’d already chosen to pretend.

Too late, when someone else had stepped in to hold you through the burn.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away.

He just steps closer, his gaze steady—never pitying.

“Because,” he says softly, “he’s starting to see what he never let himself feel.”

And the worst part is… you’re not sure that changes anything.

“That’s worse,” you whisper, the words breaking as they leave you. “That means he knew.”

The realization crashes over you like a wave—sharp, cold, merciless.

All this time.

All those quiet moments.

All the silence between your smiles.

He knew—and still chose someone else.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another, and suddenly you’re unraveling—slow, quiet, but completely.

And without a second’s hesitation, Sylus is beside you.

No questions. No hesitation.

Just arms around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him like he’s done this before—like he knows this pain.

You bury your face in his chest as the sobs come, muffled and broken, and he holds you tighter.

One hand in your hair, the other against your back, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And for once, you believe it.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling.

“That means he had a choice,” you whisper. “That the soulmate mark… meant nothing.”

The words feel heavy in your mouth, bitter and raw.

Because if Zayne knew—if he saw your love and still turned away—then the mark wasn’t fate.

It was just a cruel joke.

Something to cling to while he chose someone else.

Sylus holds your gaze, his own expression unreadable for a moment—quiet, intense.

Then he speaks, voice low and steady.

“It means the mark doesn’t make the choice. We do.”

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle in a way that undoes you.

“And he didn’t choose you,” he adds, soft but honest.

“But I would.”

You choke on a breath, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat.

“But you… you don’t have a mark. Not yet.”

Your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—wry, almost sad.

“I had mine removed,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t once cost him something.

“Years ago.”

You blink, stunned. “Why?”

His gaze lingers on you, softer now.

“Because I didn’t want fate to decide who I could love.”

Then, quieter—just for you:

“I wanted the choice to be mine.”

“Then… the girl,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “The one you loved…”

Your voice falters, unsure if you want to know the rest. But the question hangs there between you, fragile and trembling.

Sylus’s eyes dim slightly, the usual spark giving way to something quieter—something older.

“She never chose me,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Even before the mark showed up, I think I knew.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere distant.

“And when it finally appeared,” he continues, “I already made a choice.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating.

You feel it—the familiar sting of being almost enough.

And as he looks back at you, something in your chest eases.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because he understands.

You wanted to feel happy.

Wanted to let Sylus’s words wrap around you, ease the ache, soften the hollow in your chest.

But the mark burned—sharp and relentless—like it knew you were trying to let go.

Like it refused to be ignored.

A cruel reminder that no matter how gently Sylus held you, no matter how steady his presence or how kind his eyes—

your heart still belonged somewhere else.

To someone who never asked for it.

And never wanted it.

And that was the worst part.

Because for once, someone was choosing you.

And still, some part of you couldn’t stop choosing him.

Sylus watched you quietly, his gaze lingering not on your tears, not on your mark, but on you—the part of you that still hadn’t healed.

He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your eyes dropped to the floor like you were ashamed of your own heart.

And then, softly—gently—he spoke.

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to choose me now.”

No pressure. No expectation.

Just understanding.

Because he knew what it was like to love someone who couldn’t let go of someone else.

And still, he stayed.

Not to replace. Not to compete.

But simply to be there.

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned into him.

And Sylus opened his arms without a word, holding you like he’d been waiting—like he knew you would break again, and he’d already decided he’d be the one to catch you.

You let yourself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind, but the raw, aching sobs that shook your shoulders and spilled everything you’d been trying to bury.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

He just held you.

Steady. Solid. Safe.

And in his arms, for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel it all.

—•

You stared up at the white ceiling, its endless blankness strangely comforting.

Sterile. Still. Silent.

The soft, steady beep of the machine beside you was the only sound in the room, each pulse reminding you that time was still moving forward, even if part of you hadn’t caught up yet.

It had been three months.

Three months since you stood in front of Zayne and smiled through your breaking heart.

Three months since Sylus stepped into your life with his sharp words and soft hands and gave you something you didn’t know you needed—space to fall apart.

Three months since everything changed.

And Sylus never left.

Not once.

He stayed through the confusion, through the aching nights when you couldn’t sleep and the mornings when the mark burned so violently you thought it might consume you.

He was there when you made the decision—tired, trembling—to pack your things and leave it all behind.

Zayne.

The hospital that held too many memories.

The city that never stopped reminding you of what you couldn’t have.

You moved somewhere quieter.

Somewhere you could breathe.

And now you were here—lying on a padded bed in a clean, white room, moments away from erasing the mark that had defined you for far too long.

You weren’t doing it to forget him.

You weren’t doing it out of spite.

You were doing it to reclaim your skin.

To stop punishing yourself for loving too much.

To stop letting fate write a story you never agreed to.

There was fear, yes—lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow.

But there was peace, too.

Because this time, the choice was yours.

And just beyond the clinic door, waiting in the hallway like he always did, was Sylus.

Waiting—not to save you.

Just to be there when you returned. Whole. Scarred. Free.

The procedure wasn’t just to erase ink from your skin.

It was to quiet the fire.

To silence the part of you that still, after everything, ached for Zayne.

The part that stirred when you heard his voice in a memory, that still wondered what if, even when you knew the answer.

At first, you were afraid.

Afraid of what you’d lose.

Afraid that without the burn, without the mark, you might feel nothing—or worse, that the emptiness would linger.

But then you thought of him.

Of Sylus.

Of how he stayed when he had every reason not to.

Of the way he never asked you to love him, only to let him stand beside you.

And somehow, that gave you strength.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow, shaking breath as the doctors moved around you.

The bed shifted beneath you as they began to wheel you away, the lights overhead passing in soft, distant flickers.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t look back.

But just before you crossed into the next room, you whispered it—soft, steady, final.

“Goodbye, Zayne.”

And this time, you meant it.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lads zayne #lnds #zayne love and deepspace #l&ds x reader #lads sylus #sylus x non mc #sylus angst #zayne angst #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x you #zayne x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x reader

2K notes · View notes

mulligansstuff · 8 months ago

Text

Still absolutely CANNOT get over this fic. I’ve got some more art for it down the line to get colored. But I wanted to share this. @starryredpanda

This story is such an incredible masterpiece, 10/10 do recommend. Born From the Same Ink.

#born from the same ink #batdr #bendy #bendy and the dark revival

184 notes · View notes

tiredtrashpandaart · 7 months ago

Text

I laughed a LOT at this part in ch 15 of my sister's fanfic, so I drew it!

read it here!!

Masterpost of my born from the same ink stuff

#batdr sammy #batdr #batdr audrey #sammy lawrence #batdr bendy #bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #born from the same ink

112 notes · View notes

starryredpandawrites · 10 months ago

Text

Guys, I'm not an animator but I am a writer, so picture this:

Audrey is sitting with the Ink Demon wrapped around her like the big cat he is. She is drawing in a sketchbook while he's taking a nap. Her pencil is moving around on the page while his ribcage is moving up and down cuz he's breathing.

Also, his head is resting on his hands. Don't worry about the spikes coming out of them, somehow he makes it work. Maybe he has a pillow? Idk, whatever is cuter.

Optional tail (meaning you can picture him with or without a tail, whichever gives you more serotonin): his tail is resting loosely in front of him and technically around Audrey too. It occasionally moves, tapping against the floor like a cat, possibly making little curls before resuming it's previous loose-looped position.

Then, there are two options for Audrey to break her "idle animation".

They start the same way. Audrey pauses her drawing, then picks up her pen/pencil and taps it against her face thoughtfully. Then, she reaches out with her free hand and gives the Ink Demon scritches on his head.

This is where the options diverge:

1. Ink Demon raises his head slightly to lean into her scritches and makes a happy rumbling noise. After a few seconds of this, she goes back to drawing and he goes back to napping.

2. He ever-so-slightly jumps/flinches at her touch but relaxes once he remembers it's her (he's still not super used to physical affection).

Audrey notices him jump, pauses her scritches, looks at him. He raises his head to look at her and once they lock gazes (don't worry about his lack of eyes), she gives him a warm smile and an extra-loving rub and/or pat on the head. He leans into the rub and then puts his head back down. She gives him a few more pets/scritches, then goes back to drawing and he goes back to napping.

Audrey can be in her real world form or in her Ink Machine form, whichever gives you more serotonin and/or is easier to imagine.

I have this loop stuck in my head and decided to share it with y'all. You're welcome and thank you for reading 🤍🖤🤍

#batdr #batim #bendy #audrey drew #ink demon #the ink demon #bendy and the dark revival #bendy and the ink machine #batdr audrey #born from the same ink

97 notes · View notes

starryredpanda · 6 months ago

Text

HOLY SHI-

THANK YOU?!? For linking my fic?!? And using my tag?!?🖤🤍🖤🤍🖤

I was just trying to look at all the neat fanart people made of my fic using my "Born From the Same Ink" tag while working on the next chapter and I see this?!

I'm so glad you like my portrayal of Sammy, I never quite understood why people liked him so much until I tried writing him and then BOOM he's one of my fav characters now, lol

Also, you're reaction pic to ch. 16 made me laugh, like a lot XD

I finally read the new chapters of “Born from the same ink” cause I hadn’t read it since January

Having Sammy be shown as a really annoying yet actually caring guy throughout one of the chapters made me so fricken happy. I love his character and how it’s accurately portrayed

Also.. chapter 16 as a whole made me internally cry, oh my god

for anyone who want to read it, here’s chapter one

#I'm trying really hard not to be weird right now but i'm always so excited to see ppl making their own posts about my stuff #batim #batdr #bendy #born from the same ink #the writing is so good #<- THANK YOU!!!!!! ��

34 notes · View notes

starryredpanda · 10 months ago

Note

Have you seen the meme that’s been going around lately? (At least a lot with artists on Twitter)

‘I’m not calling you “good boy” Laios, this meting was shit!’

It’s been going around the last few days a lot… but it also reminds me of the Inklings lmao

🤣 I have, and it definitely applies to the Inklings/Siblinks lol

I think it can go both ways but I mostly think of Baby Benders making the "sparkle eyes" at Audrey and her responding, "I'm not calling you "Good Boy", Bendy, that ritual was shit." And him making the sad face as the Ink Demon.

Although at this point of the story it could definitely be reversed.

Audrey: *making sparkle eyes at the Ink Demon*

Ink Demon: I'M NOT CALLING YOU A "GOOD SIBLING", AUDREY, THAT RESCUE WAS SHIT

Audrey: T-T

#batim #bendy #batdr #ink demon #the ink demon #audrey drew #batdr audrey #born from the same ink #ask #answered ask

28 notes · View notes

kmt123whatsthetea · 10 months ago

Text

The wonders of ink

Fred Weasley x reader x George Weasley

‘Fred and George prank you by getting your clothes dirty, only to take you to the bathrooms to help you clean off’

A/N: I decided to repost (so nobody thought I was dead). I’ve been gone for so long and I feel guilty so I decided to deliver smut upon you all haha. My dear sister helped me to write this (Her Wattpad account is @Darkness_Donut. Feel free to give her a look if you’re in the Wattpad area)

T/W: Unprotected sex, The twins being kinda pervy, Groping, Double penetration

Fred and George put a lot of work into every prank.

Whether it was as simple as a ‘Hex Me’ note on Ron’s back or as sophisticated as creating a new type of chocolate that caused facial warts.

Not only did they put work into their pranks, but they also put pride into them. Each one was like their child, born and sent into the world to cause mischief. The prank they planned for you, however, was less like a prank and more like a plot for something even better than the typical annoyed scowl the pranks were usually met with.

While other students prepared for various classes and homework projects, Fred and George would stay locked in their dorm, perfecting the key catalyst for their interaction with you.

The twins were head over heels in love with you. While most people would approach you with a normal greeting and a proposition for a date, the twins needed to do more. Go big or go home was practically their motto. So when their newest creation was ready, all they had to do was wait for the perfect moment.

____________________________________________

You had been in the courtyard. Your nose stuck in the book that was cradled in your hands. So unsuspecting and sweet. The way the wind blew your hair, how your eyes were glued to the words.

George approached you, not too close that you’d notice but close enough that he could start phase one of the plan. He pulled out a small vial, the liquid inside a dark blue that stained the glass. He took a deep breath before uncorking the bottle and taking a step closer, ‘tripping’ over the tree branch and spilling the liquid over your uniform.

You squealed and moved the book aside, looking between the fresh stain and the redhead who threw it on you.

“George! What in Merlin's beard have you done?!”

George just shrugged his shoulders, putting on an apologetic look. The same look he gave his mum when she scolded him for putting a spell on Percy’s breakfast which caused the sausages to spout legs.

“I didn’t mean too, honest. I just kinda…tripped”

You did not look pleased, understandably so. George almost felt guilty but then he remembered the plan. It was all going smoothly, even if you might disagree.

“I feel awful. How about we go to the Prefects bathroom and get you cleaned up before it dries?”

With a sigh, you followed George.

The walk to the prefect's bathroom was filled with you grumbling about the stain and scolding George for not being careful. The bathroom was empty (all thanks to a little spell that temporarily made the door disappear). The baths were filled to the brim with hot water and bubbles, steam dampening the air.

Fred emerged from around one of the pillars, smirking as he looked you up and down.

“Good job, George. I knew you could get our girl here. You know, love, you should really clean up that stain. Wouldn’t want Snape taking away our hard earned points, now would you?”

George moved closer to you, his chest barely touching your back. Fred leaned against the pillar, staring at the black spot on your shirt. You crossed your arms, letting out a huff. You could practically see the burning desire in Fred’s eyes from across the room, the heat from George sneaking through the back of your shirt and warming your skin.

“You’d both like that, huh? Why don’t I just have a bath while I'm at it?”

George ignored your sarcastic tone and leaned closer, his breath tickling your ear.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea, sweetheart. We’ll get you nice and clean”.

Something about George’s soft tone caused your hands to rise to your top button, both sets of eyes glued to your fingers as they popped open the first button of many. One by one, your shirt slowly opened. The shirt had luckily (or unluckily) caught the liquid and stopped it from seeping through to your bra and skin underneath.

George helped you to slip the fabric from off your body before Fred stepped closer and took it from him. He held it up with a smirk.

“There’s nothing here, love. Maybe you just wanted to get naked for us”.

The white shirt was clean. Not a spot or stain in sight. The sight of your wide eyes and confused look made Fred chuckle. George rubbed your arms.

“Our newest prank, disappearing ink. We heard Harry talking about how his idiot muggle cousin had some so we wanted to make our own. We made it especially for you”.

Your hand darted out to snatch the fabric from Fred, smoothing your fingers over the fabric that was once stained to see if it was really gone. Both boys watched as your expression turned from confusion to shock to a mix of desire and anger. You were angry that the twins had tricked you and pulled you away from your book but you couldn’t help but feel hot at the thought that they made an ink just to get you in your bra. Maybe a reward for all their hard work wouldn’t be so bad.

George tugged on the bra clasp, his lips ghosting down your neck before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling, but you didn't push him away. Fred toyed with the hem of your skirt, watching as your eyes glazed over with desperation.

“I need you both. Please make me feel good”

Fred tugged your skirt up, using his other hand to trace his fingers over the elastic of your underwear. He slowly trails your underwear down your smooth legs and helps you step out of them so your dripping folds are on display to him. As you look upon their faces, both of them lick their bottom lips in unison. George finally pulls your bra off, tossing it with your discarded shirt.

How could you look so innocent in just your skirt with your tits out? To the twins, you were like a graceful doe who wandered into the hunters' den. George practically growled as his hands groped your tits, squeezing the sensitive flesh. Your eyes closed and you let out a whimper that was sweeter than any sugary treat from Honeydukes.

Fred took the opportunity to unzip his trousers, shimmying them down enough to pull his cock out. Every noise that escaped your lips made it jerk in his hand. He stepped closer, his tip pressing snugly against your clit and leaving a splodge of precum. His hand wrapped around your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip while George held you upright. His head speared through your folds, your slick coating his shaft.

“Do you want this, love? You want me inside of you? Maybe we should see if that tight little hole can handle Georgie and I at the same time. I can feel how wet that makes you, Sweetheart. The thought of taking two cocks, we’d break that sweet pussy open”

George tugged at your earlobe with your teeth, only pulling back when a whine bubbled up from your throat.

“I think you want us to ruin you for other men”

Your voice couldn't have been more than a whisper, but it was filled with every dirty promise and beg that would only be privy to the twins’ ears.

“I want you two. I want other guys to look at me and know that I belong to you”

“Sweetheart, you already belong to us”

George moved his hand down to push his trousers down and pull his cock out, pressing it at your entrance before pulling you against him. His cock slid inside of you, your warm cunt hugging his shaft.

Fred brushed his fingertips against your clit, taking in the sight of your hole stretched around his brother's cock. It was gonna be a tight fit. He nudged at your entrance, his tip trying to find a space big enough to squeeze into. With a bit more persistence, he was pushing forward, the desperation to be buried inside of you fueling him.

You tried to stay still, trying not to squirm or clench. The stretch was so intense that you swore you could even feel the blood pumping through the veins decorating their shafts. Every pulse, every nudge felt like it would rip you in two.

When Fred’s tip finally pushed through the small opening, the squealed moan that left your lips was enough for George to press his hand to your lips to muffle any sound. As much as they loved the noises you were making, they couldn’t get suspended so close to graduating. There would always be other occasions to hear your pretty moans.

The sight was one to behold. The twins wished they could photograph your pussy stuffed with both of their cocks and frame it, only to watch the replay over and over.

An obscene squelching filled the room as they repeatedly stuffed their cocks into you. The stretch brings you closer to the edge than ever before. Your walls clenched, trying to both push their cocks out and pull them deeper. It didn't take long before you were cumming, clenching around them in a desperate need to be full of their cum.

George's hand stayed over your mouth, his lips whispering sweet praises in your ear. Fred lips were pressed against your forehead, giving chaste kisses here and there. Their groans echoed throughout the room when they felt you cum around them. You felt too good to be true. It took them 3 months to make that ink.

It was worth every single minute.

A mix of their cum flooded your insides, but there was so much that it started spilling out. But they didn't pull out just yet. With how much effort went into getting you between them, they were gonna make this last for as long as possible. It was only after they came down from their high that they noticed just how much of a mess you all made. Cum spots stained your skirt and their trousers. Fred’s chuckle caught your attention.

“Maybe we should clean you up for real this time”

2K notes · View notes

sumluckr · 5 days ago

Text

Bound by fate

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x female reader (soulmate au)

Summary: You spent your life waiting for a soulmate worth dreaming about—and got Geum Seong-je instead: rude, possessive, and the last person you wanted. Too bad fate doesn’t ask permission.

You always dreamed that meeting your soulmate would be something straight out of a fairy tale. A shy glance across a crowded room, perhaps. Sparks flying, a magical moment where the universe itself seemed to hold its breath. Your soulmate. The one person fate chose for you. You’d imagined it a thousand times, each scenario more romantic than the last, each detail lovingly crafted in your daydreams.

Reality, as it turns out, is a bitch with a cruel sense of humor.

Because when fate finally shows its hand, it doesn’t bring you a charming prince or a gentle poet. No – it brings you Geum Seong-je. And it doesn’t announce his arrival with angelic choirs or whispered promises. It shoves him into your path on a perfectly ordinary afternoon, in the form of a hard, broad chest you slam face-first into in the busy school hallway.

The collision knocks the air from your lungs. Your books go flying, papers scattering across the floor. “Hey, watch it–” you start to say, irritation flaring as you stagger back. But before you can finish, a rough hand closes around your upper arm, steadying you – or maybe just holding you in place.

Then you hear it: the first words your soulmate would ever speak to you, etched into your wrist since childhood like a cosmic joke. Words you’ve stared at countless times, tracing the sharp curves of each letter, puzzling and hoping and secretly dreading the day they’d finally make sense.

“Are you fucking blind, bitch?”

The voice is low and gravelly, edged with annoyance. And the words… you could recite them from memory. They’re the exact words inked on your skin in faint silver script, currently hidden under the cuff of your uniform’s sweater. For a second, all you can do is blink.

It’s as if time slows down. You lift your gaze, heart hammering in your chest, and meet a pair of narrowed, dark eyes glaring down at you. Geum Seong-je. You know him by reputation – everyone at school does. Tall, lean, with a perpetual scowl carved on a face that should be handsome if not for the permanent “fuck off” expression. A faint scar cuts through one of his eyebrows, a souvenir from some fight, if rumors are true, and his dark hair falls in slight disarray across his forehead.

He’s the very definition of trouble, infamous for bruised knuckles and busted lips – usually belonging to other people, courtesy of him. And now this infamous asshole has a firm grip on your arm and is snarling the words you’ve feared for years right into your face.

Your stomach plummets. No. No fucking way. This has to be a mistake. Any moment now, someone will jump out and tell you this is a prank, that the universe isn’t this cruel.

But there’s no denial when fate quite literally grabs you by the arm. The burning heat where his fingers clutch you feels like confirmation – or maybe that’s just your anger igniting.

He called you blind. And a bitch. Some soulmate. The disappointment is like a punch to the gut, tangled up with white-hot fury.

You yank your arm out of his grasp. “Who the hell are you calling a bitch, asshole?” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut. The words fly out before you can think – a reflexive retort born of equal parts anger and heartbreak. You instantly recognize the phrase as it leaves your tongue. A chill runs through you. Fuck. Those very words… you’d seen them too.

Seong-je goes very still, eyes widening a fraction. For a heartbeat, he just stares at you, and you wonder if he felt the same jolt of recognition. Did he always know his soulmate’s first words would be an insult hurled in his face? If so, he must be just as thrilled as you are right now.

The hall has gone uncomfortably quiet around you. A few students pause to watch the brewing confrontation – after all, it’s not every day someone has the guts to talk back to him, the resident delinquent notorious for his explosive temper. You can practically taste the tension, bitter as bile.

He recovers first, of course. He scoffs, lips curling into a disdainful sneer. “Tch. Feisty, aren’t you,” he drawls, voice dripping with contempt. There’s something in his expression – annoyance, yes, but behind it a flicker of something like surprise. Like he wasn’t expecting you to bite back. Or maybe like he’s just piecing together the same puzzle you are.

“You heard me,” you retort, standing your ground even as your heart slams against your ribs. Your palm tingles where you slapped it against his chest during the collision; it’s like the echo of static, an aftershock of adrenaline and… something else. Something warmer that you refuse to acknowledge. “And get a new pair of glasses before you hurt someone, jerk.”

Another collective gasp from the gallery of students loitering nearby. Did you really just double down on insulting him? Some distant part of your brain screams at you that provoking Seong-je is about as smart as juggling lit dynamite. But you’re running on shock and wounded pride and years of romantic fantasies crashing down in flames. Your supposed soulmate just called you a fucking bitch – so to hell with playing nice.

For a second, you’re sure he’s about to explode. His jaw flexes, a muscle feathering in his cheek, and his hand balls into a fist at his side. Those dark eyes – intense and seething – lock onto you as if deciding which part of you to punch first. Instinctively, you tense, bracing for impact. Maybe you miscalculated; you’re not exactly itching to get decked in the middle of the hallway.

But then he does something unexpected. He laughs.

It’s a short, harsh sound, more like a bark. His fist unclenches, and he drags his tongue over his bottom lip as if considering you anew. “You’ve got a mouth on you,” he mutters, almost appreciatively. His gaze flicks over you – from your clenched fists to the defiant set of your jaw. You feel your face heat with a mix of anger and… nervousness? No, you refuse to be nervous in front of this asshole.

“So do you,” you shoot back. “Unfortunately, yours is attached to a total dick.”

His dark eyebrows rise in mock surprise. A few onlookers snicker at your comeback, quickly silenced when Seong-je snaps his glare toward them. The hallway audience suddenly finds their shoes and lockers extremely interesting. No one wants to be the collateral damage of Seong-je’s wrath.

He turns back to you. You force yourself to meet his stare evenly, though a part of you is internally screaming why, why, why on loop. Why him? Out of all the people in the world…

He steps closer, invading your personal space with an infuriating confidence. He has a few good inches of height on you; you have to tilt your chin up to keep eye contact. You catch a whiff of his scent – something sharp like mint and the metallic hint of a recent fight. It’s an oddly intoxicating mix, or maybe that’s just your stupid soulmate-bonded senses betraying you.

He leans in, and instinctively you lean back, though your back is already nearly against the lockers. He’s not quite touching you – except for a finger that suddenly hooks under your chin, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. The gall of this bastard.

“You think this means something?” he asks, voice low enough that only you can hear. The words vibrate between the inch of space separating his lips from yours. “One little mark and suddenly you’re destined to be my pain-in-the-ass princess? That it?”

Your heart stutters. So he did put it together. Of course he did – he might look like a thug, but he’s not stupid. If anything, those sharp eyes seem to miss nothing.

You swat his hand away from your chin and straighten your spine. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m nobody’s princess, least of all yours,” you hiss back. “And you’re delusional if you think I’m happy about this. I don’t want you, soulmate or not.”

It feels strange and heavy to say it out loud: acknowledging the bond even as you reject it. But you need him to know exactly where you stand – which is as far from him as possible.

Something flashes in his eyes at your words – annoyance, maybe, or something darker – but then it’s gone, replaced by cold apathy. He shrugs one shoulder, the motion lazy. “Good. We’re on the same page then,” he says. “I don’t want you either.”

Each word lands like a fresh bruise. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he wants. That this is what you wanted to hear – confirmation he’s not going to pursue this twisted soulmate bullshit. And yet… hearing the dismissal in his voice, the utter lack of interest, it stings. More than it should. You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat.

“Perfect,” you manage to say, voice thick with sarcasm. You force a tight, mocking smile. “Then do me a favor and stay the hell out of my way.”

For a moment, something unreadable flickers across his face. Then he takes a step back, creating a fraction more distance. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Gladly,” he murmurs. His gaze drops pointedly to your scattered books on the floor between you. “Pick up your shit. And next time, try not to go around body-checking people who are minding their own business.”

A surge of anger spikes through you. “Minding your own business? You were standing in the middle of the damn hallway–!” you start, but he’s already turning on his heel, apparently done with the conversation.

Without another glance, he saunters off through the small crowd that immediately parts to let him pass. His posture is relaxed, hands in his pockets as if he didn’t just flip your whole world upside down and then stomp all over the pieces. Asshole.

You stand there trembling in the aftermath, fists clenched so hard your nails bite into your palms. Around you, the buzz of students resumes, gossip already crackling through the air like wildfire. You can practically feel the curious stares on your back.

With a shaky breath, you kneel and start gathering your strewn belongings off the linoleum. Each movement feels disconnected, as if you’re moving underwater. Your mind is racing and blank all at once. Part of you wants to scream, part of you wants to cry. You do neither. Instead, you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek until the sharp pain centers you, focusing on the mundane task of collecting your notebooks.

A pair of hands join yours, helping pick up loose papers – you glance up and see Baku kneeling across from you. His real name is Hu-min, but you’ve only ever called him Baku since you were kids. Right now his usually bright, mischievous eyes are filled with worry.

“You okay?” he asks under his breath, offering you a stack of your notes. His jaw is clenched like he’s holding back a dozen questions. No doubt he witnessed that whole trainwreck or heard enough to piece it together.

Great. The last thing you need is your friends making a fuss.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, shoving the papers into your bag. Which is a blatant lie, and Baku knows it. His brow furrows behind the fringe of sandy-brown hair falling over his forehead. He’s got the kind of face that’s naturally open, easy to read – and right now it’s broadcasting concern loud and clear.

You get to your feet with whatever dignity you have left. He stands too, shifting as if he might chase after Seong-je and throw a punch or two on your behalf. At easily over six feet tall and built like the varsity judo champion he is, he could probably give that asshole a decent fight. But the thought of more confrontation right now makes your stomach churn.

“Don’t,” you say quickly, grabbing his sleeve to stop him from doing anything rash. “Just… don’t, okay? Leave it.”

Baku hesitates, fists flexing at his sides. “That jerk grabbed you,” he says, voice low and simmering. “And I definitely heard him call you—” His teeth grit audibly. He’s always been protective of you, almost brotherly, ever since your families lived next door to each other when you were little. Hearing someone insult you like that… yeah, he’s not taking it well.

You force a shaky laugh. “I’ve been called worse.” Not really, at least not to your face, but you’re trying anything to diffuse the tension. Slinging your backpack over one shoulder, you add with false breeziness, “Besides, I gave as good as I got.”

At that, his lips twitch. “You definitely did,” he acknowledges, a hint of pride in his tone. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

“Desperate times,” you reply dryly, hugging your arms around yourself. The adrenaline from the spat is ebbing, leaving you cold and weirdly hollow. You’re grateful he doesn’t immediately bring up the obvious – the whole soulmate factor – especially not in the middle of the hallway. But you know it’s only a matter of time.

“Come on.” He gently steers you by the shoulder. “Let’s get out of the war zone.”

You let him guide you away, scowling at the curious glances still being thrown your way. People whisper behind hands or nudge their friends, undoubtedly speculating why you and Seong-je were arguing. There’s no way anyone heard the soulmark exchange in detail, right? It all happened pretty fast and quiet. You pray none of the gossips caught on to the actual words said.

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch break, but there’s no way you’re going to class in this state. Baku seems to read your mind. Instead of heading toward your next class, he leads you up a flight of stairs toward the rooftop exit – one of the few places on campus reliably empty during class hours.

The heavy metal door creaks as you push through. The rooftop is quiet save for the distant hum of traffic beyond the school grounds. A breeze hits your face, cool and carrying the smells of the city – exhaust, street food from vendors out front, a hint of rain in the air. You inhale deeply, trying to calm the storm inside you.

Baku closes the door gently behind you both. The moment you’re alone, he turns to you, crossing his arms. His expression is somewhere between angry and concerned. “So,” he says carefully, “are you going to tell me what the hell that was about?”

You walk to the low concrete wall at the edge of the roof and lean against it, looking out over the sports field below without meeting his eyes. “It’s nothing,” you lie, your voice unconvincing even to yourself.

“Bullshit.” His response is immediate, his tone uncharacteristically harsh. He steps closer, trying to catch your gaze. “That was not nothing, and you know it. Why did Seong-je grab you like that? He looked ready to start a fight until… you both suddenly froze up. And then you started cussing each other out like—” He stops, inhaling slowly. “Like you knew something.”

Damn it. There’s no escape now. He’s too perceptive when it comes to you. Probably because he’s been there through every up and down of your life – including the countless times you’ve agonized over the damned soulmark on your wrist.

You swallow, throat dry. “He’s my… you already know, don’t you?”

His eyes search yours, and you realize he’s already guessed. He just needs to hear you confirm it.

With a shaky breath, you tug up the sleeve of your sweater and hold out your forearm. The silver script of your soulmark glints in the overcast light: Are you fucking blind, bitch? It’s always looked absurd on your skin, an ugly phrase etched in such delicate lettering. A cruel joke from the universe.

His face falls as he reads it again, even though he’s seen it before. He once joked he’d be there to punch the idiot who’d say those words to you. It had been an attempt to make you laugh at a time when you were despairing over having such a mark. You’d appreciated the gesture, but deep down you still held onto a foolish hope that maybe the words would come from some misunderstanding, or that they wouldn’t be as bad as they sounded.

Now there’s no sugarcoating it. The worst-case scenario is real, standing in front of you in the form of a violent delinquent with a potty mouth.

“It was him,” you say quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “ Seong-je. He said it, Baku. Word for word.”

His eyes blaze with anger even as he pulls you into a side hug, tucking your head against his chest. “That son of a—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. You feel his heart thudding under his uniform jacket. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, voice gentler. “I know you… you always hoped it would be different.”

That does it. The tears you’ve been holding back sting your eyes. You squeeze them shut, refusing to let them fall. Crying over this jerk would just be the bitter cherry on top of this shit sundae of a day. But it hurts. You allow yourself to sag against Baku for just a second, taking comfort in the solid warmth of your best friend.

One hand rubs soothing circles on your back. “What an absolute dick,” he growls quietly, probably imagining all the ways he’d like to rearrange Seong-je’s face. “Of all people, it had to be him, huh? Just our luck.”

You let out a wet, strangled laugh. “Right? Lucky me.” You swipe at your eyes quickly before any actual tears fall, then step back, straightening your shoulders. Falling apart isn’t an option – not here, not now. You’ve survived plenty of disappointments in life; you’ll survive this too.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks. He keeps a hand on your shoulder, solid and reassuring.

You shake your head. “Nothing. There’s nothing to do. We agreed to ignore it. He doesn’t want me, I sure as hell don’t want him. End of story.”

Baku frowns. “You really think it’ll be that easy? Just pretending you’re not soulmates?”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Soulmates. The word feels like a joke at this point. “People reject their soulmates all the time,” you say, though you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince. “It’s not like legally binding or anything. It’s just… a suggestion, right? A cosmic suggestion. We can ignore it. We will ignore it.”

He studies you for a long moment. “If he gives you any trouble—”

“He won’t,” you cut in, forcing confidence. “He doesn’t care. He practically said so himself.”

Which is true. He’d looked right at you and said “I don’t want you.” The memory is like acid in your chest. If there was any tiny part of you that wondered if maybe there could be something redeeming in this bond – some hidden romantic spark amidst all the swear words – Seong-je’s complete dismissal snuffed it out.

Maybe it’s for the best. You wouldn’t want to be tied to someone like him anyway, someone with fists of iron and a heart of stone.

“Still,” he mutters, “I don’t trust that bastard. If he ever tries to pull something or hurts you—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” you assure him, attempting a smile. “I promise, Baku. Now can we please talk about anything else?”

He opens his mouth to argue, but then closes it and sighs. “Fine. But I’m keeping my eyes open. Gotak and Jun-tae too. We’ve got your back, okay?”

You nod, affection welling up for your friends. They might be overbearing sometimes, but they mean well. And right now, having their support feels like a lifeline. “I know. Thank you.”

For a minute, the two of you stand there in silence, leaning against the ledge and looking out at the grey sky. Your heartbeat gradually returns to a normal rhythm. Below, gym class has started on the field – a group of students jog laps, their distant shouts carrying on the wind. Life going on, utterly oblivious to the personal catastrophe that just struck you.

Eventually, Baku bumps your shoulder gently. “We should get back before a teacher notices we skipped class.”

You grimace. The last thing you need today is detention on top of everything. “Yeah, okay.”

As you both head to the door, you take one last steadying breath. Time to plaster on a semblance of normalcy and get through the rest of the day. You can meltdown later, in the privacy of your room maybe.

For now, you’ll do what you do best: grit your teeth, square your shoulders, and face forward. Soulmate be damned.

⸻

By some miracle, you manage to drag yourself through the remainder of classes without falling apart. You avoid further run-ins with Seong-je, though you hear his name whispered in corridors and classrooms – the rumor mill already churning out exaggerated tales of your confrontation. Each wild story (apparently you kneed him in the balls, according to one excited sophomore; another version insists he threatened to throw you out a window) just makes you want to crawl under a rock. Thankfully, your friends are having none of it.

When the final bell rings, you’re promptly flanked by Hyun-tak and Jun-tae in the hallway. Hyun-tak – or Gotak, as everyone calls him – stands like a brick wall on your right, shooting warning glances at anyone who even looks like they might approach you with nosy intentions. His broad shoulders and perpetual scowl do the trick; most people scurry off. Meanwhile on your left, Jun-tae offers you a timid smile. He fiddles with the black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose – a nervous habit – and asks softly, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time today. At least now it’s only a half-lie; the shock has worn off, leaving mostly exhaustion and a simmering resentment. You’re so drained that you barely protest when Hyun-tak takes your backpack off your shoulder and carries it for you, despite your usual independence.

Baku joins your little entourage at the front gate, having jogged over from wherever he’d been. “Coast is clear,” he reports, then eyes you critically. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

He has the decency to look sheepish. “You know what I mean.”

Jun-tae pipes up hesitantly, “We were thinking of heading to our usual place for an early dinner. To, um, decompress. You should come.”

The last thing you feel like is being in public right now, but the hopeful look on Jun-tae’s face stops you from declining outright. You know they’re worried and just want to cheer you up. And maybe being around your friends will keep you from spiraling into your own head.

“Sure,” you sigh. “Food sounds good.”

Hyun-tak grins and slings an arm around Jun-tae’s neck, dragging him in for a playful noogie. “See, Jun-tae? Told you she wouldn’t say no to food. Especially not free food.”

“Free?” You raise a brow as Jun-tae sputters and wriggles out of Gotak’s headlock, smoothing his rumpled uniform.

Hyun-tak puffs out his chest. “I got some extra money today. My treat. Eat all you want, shorty.”

He’s called you “shorty” since middle school – even though you’re of average height, he towers enough to justify it. Normally you’d give a snappy comeback, but you’re too emotionally spent to muster one. So you just nod in gratitude.

A few minutes later, you’re crammed into a plastic booth at your usual diner, a hole-in-the-wall joint just outside campus that your friend group frequents. The familiar smell of frying oil and spices is comforting in its own way. Hyun-tak orders two whole chickens’ worth of fried goodness and a round of sodas for the table, swearing that if anyone tries to sneak soju he’ll slap them. He eyes Baku specifically, who raises his hands innocently,

As you wait for the food, conversation stays blessedly away from the day’s drama at first. The boys chatter about an upcoming video game release, some new zombie shooter that has Hyun-tak hyped. Baku teases Jun-tae about a girl from another class who’s been texting him, which makes Jun-tae turn tomato-red and stammer that “it’s just homework help, nothing else!” For a little while, you almost feel normal, laughing along as Gotak does an exaggerated impression of Jun-tae trying to talk to girls, complete with cracking voice and terrified expression.

But inevitably, the elephant in the room – or rather, the jerk not in the room – comes up once the food arrives and the first hunger pangs are sated.

“So,” Hyun-tak begins, casually cracking a chicken bone between his teeth and sucking out the marrow. An intimidating sight if you didn’t know he was a softie at heart. “Are we going to talk about what happened with Seong-je, or are we all just pretending it didn’t happen?”

Jun-tae gives him a pointed look. “Subtle, Gotak.”

“What?” He shrugs, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “I’m concerned. We’re all concerned. Right, Si-eun?”

At the mention of Si-eun, you glance to the quiet corner of the booth. He, who had been uncharacteristically silent the whole time, looks up from his phone where he’d been scrolling idly. He meets your eyes with his usual calm, unreadable expression. He is a man of few words, but when he does speak, it’s often blunt.

“We are,” he says simply, confirming Hyun-tak’s statement.

You sigh, setting down the piece of chicken you’d been picking at. There’s no avoiding it. “What do you guys want to know?”

Baku snorts. “How about: what the hell are you going to do? Because if you’re gonna date that piece of shit, I need to know so I can schedule a daily ass-kicking to keep him in line.”

“I’m not dating him!” You recoil, horrified. “Did you miss the part where we basically told each other to fuck off?”

Baku raises his hands again, face calm but voice steely. “Soulmates can be… complicated. Just covering my bases. I had to watch one asshole hurt our friend before.” You know he’s referring to Oh Beom-seok – a former friend of theirs who turned out to be bad news last year. Baku and the others have been extra protective since then, especially of Jun-tae and Si-eun, but also of you, the lone girl of the group.

“Seong-je isn’t my friend, and he sure as hell isn’t going to get a chance to hurt me,” you assure them firmly. “Soulmate or not, I want nothing to do with him.”

Hyun-tak nods approvingly. “Good. Guy’s a ticking time bomb. I still can’t believe fate was messed up enough to pair you with him.”

“It’s not fate,” you mutter. “It’s some stupid cosmic mistake. One I plan to ignore.”

Jun-tae, who has been unusually quiet, speaks up in a tentative voice. “Can you really just… ignore it?” He pushes his glasses up nervously. “I mean, I’ve read stories where people who reject their soulmates have a hard time. Emotionally.”

You know what he’s referring to. There are plenty of accounts of soulmates who tried to stay apart – some say it felt like a constant itch under the skin, or like something important was missing. In extreme cases, people got physically ill from prolonged separation. You don’t know how much of that is scientific fact versus romantic folklore, though.

“I’ll manage,” you say, with more confidence than you feel. “We’ll keep our distance, and everything will be fine. Maybe the bond will just… fade.” You have to believe that, or you might break down.

Si-eun finally chimes in quietly, “What about him?”

You frown. “What about him?”

He tilts his head, mop of dark hair shifting away from his eyes. “Seong-je. If he doesn’t keep his distance.”

“He said he would,” you reply, recalling his dismissive “gladly” when you told him to stay away. The memory for some reason makes your chest tight again, and you cover it by taking a gulp of cola. “The asshole acted like I’d given him a gift by saying I didn’t want him. So trust me, he’s not going to chase me or anything. He’s probably thrilled he got a free pass.”

Your friends exchange looks that range from skeptical to relieved. Hyun-tak looks like he wants to say more, but decides against it and instead reaches for another chicken piece. Baku claps you on the back gently. “Alright then. If he’s smart, he’ll keep his ugly mug far from us. If not…” He cracks his knuckles again, a dark grin spreading. “Well, we’ll handle it.”

You manage a small smile. As much as you hope Baku won’t need to “handle” anything, it’s nice to know these idiots have your back.

“I appreciate it, guys. Really,” you say softly, earnestness cutting through your usual sarcasm. They all smile or nod – even Si-eun offers a tiny upturn of his lips.

The conversation shifts after that, steering mercifully away from soulmates and Seong-je. The boys fall into an argument over which action movie to see this weekend, and you mostly just listen, chiming in with a sarcastic comment here or there. The knot of anxiety in your stomach slowly loosens with each laugh.

By the time you all part ways after dinner, dusk is falling. Baku insists on walking you home, despite it being completely out of his way. “Don’t even try to argue,” he says as you open your mouth. “If I leave you alone and that dickhead shows up, I’ll never forgive myself.”

You roll your eyes but let him, too tired to protest. The walk is peaceful, he chatting about a new martial arts move he’s trying to master while you nod along, occasionally teasing that he just likes showing off.

There’s no sign of Seong-je, as expected. He’s likely off doing whatever delinquents do in the evening – smoking on a street corner, getting into fights, or hopefully far, far away from your neighborhood. You silently thank the universe for small mercies.

When you finally collapse into bed that night, you stare at the ceiling for a long time, replaying the day’s events. It still feels surreal, like a messed-up dream. A part of you keeps asking why – why you, why him, why like this? But there’s no answer.

Eventually, exhaustion claims you. Your last thought before sleep drags you under is a stubborn one: I’ll make this work. I’ll live my life as if Geum Seong-je doesn’t exist. Soulmate bond be damned.

⸻

It turns out “ignoring your soulmate” is easier said than done.

To Seong-je’s credit, he does seem to avoid you for the first couple of days. You don’t spot him at all on Wednesday; by Thursday you catch only glimpses of his leather jacket disappearing around corners, or the back of his head in the cafeteria as he exits with his tray. Each near-sighting sends your pulse skittering – partly from residual anger, partly from something more complicated that you refuse to name.

You tell yourself it’s relief you feel when he’s not around, and frustration when he appears in your peripheral vision. That it’s normal to be hyper-aware of someone who poses a potential threat to your peace of mind. And it’s definitely normal that whenever you inadvertently hear his name or his rough laugh in the halls, your ears prick up like a damn bloodhound. That’s just… caution. Not curiosity. Definitely not.

By Friday, you’ve settled into a routine of pretending he’s invisible. And aside from a few tense moments where you accidentally locked eyes across a crowded cafeteria (you looked away first, scowling; he just gave an unreadable stare before turning back to his friends), things are uneventful.

Which is why you’re completely caught off guard when Ms. Lim, your homeroom teacher, corners you after last period and cheerfully announces you’ve been assigned to after-school cleanup duty.

“What? Why?” you splutter, clutching your books to your chest.

Ms. Lim adjusts her prim glasses and gives you a disapproving tsk. “You and Park Hu-min were absent for an entire class period on Tuesday, weren’t you? Did you think that went unnoticed?”

Your stomach drops. Crap. You’d hoped that slipping back into class before the bell on Tuesday might cover your absence, but clearly someone ratted or the teacher noticed. Baku had an excuse via a club activity, but you were out of luck.

“I… I wasn’t feeling well,” you lie weakly.

She arches an eyebrow. “You seemed fine in your other classes. Regardless, cutting class is against school rules. The penalty is cleaning duty. Report to the gym supply room in ten minutes. And if you skip that,” her voice hardens, “I’ll make it a week’s worth of detention.”

Great. Just great. You mutter a grudging assent and watch her walk away. Digging your phone out, you shoot a quick text to Baku and the guys on your group chat: Got nabbed for skipping class Tues. Stuck with cleaning duty now. FML. Almost immediately, three sympathetic crying emojis pop up from Jun-tae, alongside Hyun-tak’s helpful message of ha ha sucks to be you. Baku sends a knife emoji followed by Want me to come help?

You quickly type back No, I got this. Don’t need you getting in trouble too. The last thing you need is any of them in the crosshairs with teachers on your account. Besides, it’s just cleaning. Boring, but not difficult. Maybe some quiet time is exactly what you need to round out this hellish week.

You head to the gym equipment room as instructed, still in your school uniform. It’s a dusty space adjacent to the gymnasium, filled with racks of dodgeballs, folded mats, and piles of old sports equipment. The air smells faintly of rubber and sweat. Ms. Lim’s note said to sweep and mop the place.

You roll up your sleeves, determined to make quick work of this and go home. But as you flick on the single fluorescent light, you realize the universe isn’t done screwing with you yet.

Because leaning against the back wall, lazily spinning a mop in one hand, is Seong-je.

He’s changed out of his uniform jacket, now in just the white dress shirt with sleeves messily rolled to his elbows, tie loosened. At the sound of your footsteps, he looks up. For a moment, he appears as displeased to see you as you are to see him. His eyes narrow, that familiar scowl deepening.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt out, stopping in your tracks. “What are you doing here?”

He scoffs. “What’s it look like? Cleaning duty.”

Your heart sinks. Of course. Ms. Lim did mention cleaning duty as a penalty – presumably, other offenders get lumped together. Just your shitty luck you’d be paired with him.

He twirls the mop once more and then sets it down with a sharp clack. “If you’re here to slack off, think again. I’m not doing your share.”

“As if I’d trust you to do a decent job,” you snap reflexively, marching forward. If he wants to pretend Tuesday never happened, fine by you. Two can play indifferent. “Just stay out of my way.”

“Gladly,” he echoes your words from earlier in the week, dripping with sarcasm.

With pointed avoidance of looking directly at him, you grab an old broom and start sweeping furiously at a dusty corner. For a few minutes, the only sounds are the swish of bristles on concrete and the occasional thud as one of you moves equipment to clean under it.

Despite your best efforts to ignore him, you’re hyper-aware of his presence on the other side of the small room. The space suddenly feels a lot smaller with just the two of you in it. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch glimpses of him pushing the mop around, his long strides making short work of the floor. The silence between you is tense, charged with unspoken things.

It’s almost a relief when he breaks it, even if it’s in typical Seong-je fashion.

“So,” he drawls, “How’s the little fanclub?”

You glance up, brow furrowed. “What?”

He smirks, still focused on mopping. “Your trio of guard dogs. I’m surprised they let you come here alone. Thought one of them might be hiding in your skirt pocket or something.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking about your friends – no doubt he’s seen Hyun-tak, Baku and Jun-tae hovering around you all week, running interference. You bristle at his mocking tone. “They’re my friends. And they don’t ‘let’ me do anything. I make my own decisions.”

“Sure you do,” he says lightly, sarcastically. “Because skipping class to cry on the rooftop was such a brilliant independent decision.”

You grip the broom handle so hard your knuckles ache. “For your information, I didn’t cry.” A half-truth; you didn’t actually shed tears in front of Baku, at least. “And screw you for spying, asshole.”

He actually rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t spying. I went up there for a smoke. You two were yapping so loudly I couldn’t help overhearing the sob story.”

Your face flushes hot – a mix of anger and embarrassment. How much did he hear? Given he’s calling it a sob story, probably enough. “Eavesdropping creep,” you mutter.

“Again, not my fault you broadcast your business.” He stops mopping for a moment, leaning on the handle. “But let me make one thing clear, since you and your boyfriends seem to be planning some grand avoidance strategy.”

You grit your teeth at his characterization of your friends. “What?”

He meets your gaze full on, and there’s that intensity again, like he’s stripping you down to the soul. “I meant what I said. I’m not interested in this soulmate bullshit. So you and your pals can relax. I’m not gonna woo you with flowers and love notes, princess.”

The sheer absurdity of the idea wrings a harsh laugh out of you before you can stop it. “Trust me, that was the last thing on my mind. I’d probably punch you myself if you showed up with flowers.”

He flashes a wolfish grin. “Oh? Not a fan of romance?”

“Not with you,” you retort, going back to sweeping. A cloud of dust makes you cough, and you use it as an excuse to look away from him. That grin did something weird to your insides – something annoyingly close to a flutter.

“Good,” he says after a beat. “That saves me the trouble.”

You focus on corralling dust bunnies, pretending they’re his face. “Trouble of what? Having to google how to spell ‘soulmate’?”

He snorts. “Trouble of dealing with your whining if you got some delusional hope.”

You whirl on him. “I’m not delusional!”

He’s closer now than you realized – only a few feet away, having abandoned the mop in a bucket. He must have crossed the room while you were preoccupied. He stares down at you with that infuriatingly calm expression. “No? Then why are you so worked up? I’m agreeing with you.”

“I’m not worked up,” you lie, voice indeed a pitch too high. “Just stick to your side and shut up. We’ll be done faster.”

For a moment he doesn’t move. Then he takes one step closer. The hair on the back of your neck rises.

“What now?” you snap, gripping the broom as if it could double as a weapon.

He tilts his head, examining you like you’re a puzzle. “You really hate this, don’t you?”

You blink. “Hate what? Cleaning duty? Obviously, genius.”

He shakes his head, a strand of black hair falling into his eyes. “No. This.” He gestures a finger back and forth between you. “Us.”

“There is no ‘us’,” you say immediately.

He continues like you didn’t speak, voice oddly serious. “It’s eating you alive. I can see it.”

Your throat tightens, because damn him, he’s not wrong. It is eating you alive – the dissonance between what you thought a soulmate should be and what you got, the anxiety of what it means for your future. But you’ll be damned if you let him know the extent of it. You mask your unease with venom. “Don’t act like you know anything about me.”

“I know that you’re so pissed at fate that you can’t even sweep a floor without looking like you want to murder someone.” He sounds almost bored, but his eyes… they’re drilling into you.

“Maybe I do want to murder someone right now,” you say pointedly, matching his stare with a glare.

His lips twitch – not quite a smirk, something smaller. “By all means, baby, take your best shot.”

The casual taunt, the pet name said with such mockery – it pushes you over the edge. Before thinking, you swing the broom at him, aiming for that smug face. It’s a clumsy, telegraphed move, and he easily catches the broomstick mid-swing.

In a flash, he yanks it forward, pulling you with it. You yelp as you stumble straight into him. He drops the broom and grabs your wrists, spinning you around in one swift motion. Suddenly your back is against his chest, one of his arms around your waist, the other banding across your arms, caging you against him. The speed and strength he displays is dizzying; you’re caught like a snared rabbit.

“Let— let go!” you struggle, but his hold is ironclad. He’s not hurting you, but he’s got you secured effectively, like he’s done this a hundred times in sparring sessions or street fights. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath annoyingly steady while yours is ragged.

“Calm down,” he growls near your ear. “Jesus, you have two modes: bitchy or berserk.”

His arm is a solid bar across your front, and for a wild moment you’re acutely aware of how easily he could really hurt you if he wanted. The fact that he’s restraining you without actually hurting is almost… considerate? The thought makes you angrier somehow.

“You provoked me!” you hiss, still squirming.

He chuckles, and you feel the rumble of it through his chest. “A little temper on my soulmate, huh? Kinda hot.”

“Screw you,” you bite out. Your face is burning – from exertion, from fury, from the unwanted flush that creeps up at how tightly his body is pressed to yours.

He leans down slightly, and you feel his nose skim light as air against the side of your neck, just below your ear. It sends an involuntary jolt through you. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he whispers crudely.

Your brain short-circuits. Did he really just—? “E-excuse me?!”

“You heard me.” His voice drips smug wickedness. “You know, you talk a big game about not wanting me, but your body’s telling a different story right now.” His grip shifts infinitesimally, just enough that you become aware of how your back arches against him and— oh. Your face flames as you realize what he’s likely feeling from you squirming in his hold. The traitorous pounding of your heart, the shallow bursts of breath.

Mortified rage wells up. “You’re out of your damn mind,” you manage to spit, trying to stomp on his foot with your heel.

He sidesteps slightly, foiling that attempt. Finally, he loosens his hold enough to spin you back around. Before you can react, he pushes you up against the wall, pinning you there. Not hard enough to hurt, but you’re effectively trapped between concrete and Seong-je.

The mop and broom lie forgotten on the floor. The fluorescent light flickers, casting erratic shadows over his sharp cheekbones. He braces one hand on the wall by your head, the other loosely gripping your shoulder. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

Your pulse is a drumroll in your ears. There’s anger, yes, but also a dangerous thrill at the closeness. God, you hate him. You hate that he can do this to you – provoke you, confuse you. Maybe Jun-tae was right; ignoring a soulmate is hard, especially when he’s practically on top of you.

Seong-je’s eyes flick down to your heaving chest for a second, then back up. A slow, infuriating grin spreads on his face. “Bet you’ve been thinking about it,” he purrs. “About us. Late at night, maybe? Wondering what it’d be like?”

You want to slap the look off his face, but he’s got your shoulder pinned. Instead, you unleash your tongue. “The only thing I wonder is how satisfying it’d be to kick you in the balls.”

He laughs – an actual genuine laugh that catches you off guard. “Liar,” he taunts. “I’m a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking.”

You blink, thrown off. How do you look at him? You weren’t aware you even did, beyond shooting glares. If anything, when he’s not looking, you’ve been trying to pretend he’s invisible. Unless… those times your gaze drifted over to him despite yourself – in the cafeteria or across the yard – was he catching that? Shit.

He leans in closer, face inches from yours. His voice drops to a provocative whisper. “I’m your soulmate. Sooner or later, we’re gonna fuck. You know it, and I know it.”

Your brain implodes. The sheer blunt vulgarity of the declaration stuns you speechless for a moment. Then words rush back like a tidal wave. “The hell we are! Over my dead body, you psychotic jackass!”

He clucks his tongue, mock pity on his face. “Keep telling yourself that. But we both felt that spark just now.” He presses in, and your breath hitches. “Felt it the other day too, didn’t you? That little jolt when you ran into me.” His lips curve. “Fate’s pushing us together, princess. It’s just a matter of time.”

Your mind screams to deny it, to throw it back in his face. But a treacherous part of you knows exactly what he’s talking about. That inexplicable heat when he first grabbed your arm in the hall, the electric jolt when you slapped your hand on his chest. Even just now, your skin burned everywhere he touched, your heart racing not just from fear or anger. As much as you loathe him, there’s something there – chemistry, raw and crackling. And damn him, he’s exploiting it.

He must see the conflict in your eyes, because he smiles like the devil he is. His hand slides from your shoulder up to cup your chin roughly. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, “I’m not looking to cash that in just yet. I’m not that desperate.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not a gentle, sweet meeting of lips like you once dreamed a soulmate’s kiss might be. No, Seong-je crashes into you with a bruising force, his mouth slanting over yours hotly, demandingly. It’s a claiming, a power play, a challenge rolled into one. For a split second, your brain blanks out, stunned by the sensation – the taste of spearmint and trouble on his lips, the faint copper hint, a split lip from a fight earlier, maybe.

Then you regain your senses and react. Hard.

Your teeth clamp down on his lower lip, not enough to maim, but definitely enough to hurt. He jerks back with a sharp hiss, one hand flying to his mouth. You seize the moment and swing your palm with every ounce of fury you have left.

SMACK.

The slap echoes in the small room, your hand stinging from the impact across his cheek. Seong-je’s head actually turned with the force of it. A red imprint of your fingers blooms on his pale skin.

For a few charged seconds, neither of you moves. Your breathing comes ragged; his shoulders rise and fall as he slowly lowers the hand from his mouth. There’s a cut on his lip now where you bit him – a bead of blood wells and he licks it away casually. His cheek, where you slapped, darkens angrily.

You expect an explosion – for him to yell or shove you or worse. But he just… looks at you. One corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk, even as his lip bleeds. “That all you got?” he taunts softly.

You stare in disbelief. This bastard. This is what he finds amusing? You’ve never felt more humiliated or enraged. Tears of frustration prick at your eyes, which only infuriates you further. You refuse to let him see you cry.

Without another word, you duck under his arm and bolt for the door. He doesn’t stop you. As you wrench it open, he calls after you, voice echoing with dark amusement, “See you around, soulmate.”

You slam the door behind you so hard the glass panel rattles.

Your face burns with a mix of fury and shame as you half-run down the empty corridor. How dare he? How dare he kiss you like that, say those things? To treat this whole soulmate business like it’s some game where he can just toy with you?

You storm out of the school and into the cool evening air. It’s only when you’re a block away that you realize you left your bag – and everything in it – back in the supply room. With him.

“Son of a–!” You kick a lamppost in impotent rage, immediately regretting it as pain zings up your toe. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

There’s no way you’re going back for it now. You’d rather die than face him again tonight. You’ll retrieve it later, maybe ask a janitor in the morning. For now, you just need to get home and scream into a pillow.

The worst part, the very worst part, is that beneath all the anger, a small treacherous part of you can’t stop replaying the kiss. Your first kiss – if that mess even counts – and it had to be with him. And what’s worse… for a split second, you’d almost kissed him back. A tiny voice in your head whispers that he’s right. That some sick piece of you is drawn to him.

You shut that voice down with extreme prejudice. Maybe you can’t change the bond, but you sure as hell can fight it every step of the way.

Let Seong-je be as possessive and cocky as he wants. You refuse to fall for it. If he wants a war, you’ll give him the bloody, foul-mouthed war of his life.

⸻

True to your word, you spend the next week doing everything possible to avoid and ignore Seong-je. After the disastrous cleaning duty encounter – which you pointedly did not divulge in detail to your friends – you’ve doubled down on keeping your distance. You change your routes to class if you know he usually loiters in a certain hallway. You eat lunch in the library one day to dodge the cafeteria because you heard his laugh echoing before you entered. When you do catch a glimpse of him, you pretend you haven’t, even as your pulse inevitably spikes.

For his part, he doesn’t exactly chase you down. But he’s there – oh, he’s there – at just the wrong moments. Like Wednesday, when you were chatting with a boy from your math class by the vending machines; Seong-je had strolled by and given the poor kid such a deadly glare that he practically threw your can of Coke at you and scurried off. Or Thursday, when you stayed late to help Jun-tae with a project, and walking out you found Seong-je leaning against the school gate as if waiting. You’d frozen, heart thudding, but he merely locked eyes with you, lit a cigarette, and then walked off into the dusk without a word. The tension is maddening, like an itch you can’t scratch.

By Friday night, you’re at your wit’s end. So when one of Jun-tae’s classmates asks if you’d like to catch a movie over the weekend – clearly flirting – you impulsively say yes. Daehyun is nice enough: soft-spoken, studious, the kind of guy you might have been interested in if your life weren’t such a soap opera. Plus, he has no ties to the whole soulmate mess. A normal outing with a normal guy sounds like exactly what you need to remind yourself that you have choices. That your life isn’t defined by a foul-mouthed delinquent and a stupid predestined bond.

You keep the plan secret from the guys. Baku would blow a fuse if he knew you were going on a “date” given the current circumstances, and Hyun-tak or Si-eun would likely also object or at least worry. You just want one evening of normalcy without your three watchdogs or a certain someone looming over it.

So on Saturday, you tell your mom you’re out with friends, and meet the boy at a cafe near the movie theater. The evening starts off… fine. Nice, even. He is polite and a little shy; he compliments your outfit and holds the cafe door open for you. You get coffee and chat about school. It’s all very proper and pleasant, if a bit awkward – first meetings usually are. But you roll with it, determined to enjoy yourself.

Halfway through listening to Daehyun explain his theory on why the latest Marvel movie flopped, you notice him falter, eyes darting to something over your shoulder. His face loses a shade of color.

Before you can turn to see what spooked him, a familiar voice speaks up from behind you, dripping with faux surprise. “Well, look at this. Didn’t expect to find you here, princess.”

Your stomach plummets. No. No, no, not now.

You turn around slowly in your seat. Geum Seong-je stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, an unreadable expression on his face. He’s not in uniform – instead wearing ripped black jeans and a fitted dark t-shirt under his open leather jacket. He looks annoyingly good, which just makes this worse.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. Your heart is already hammering against your ribs.

He tilts his head, eyes flicking to Daehyun for a second before returning to you. “Public sidewalk. Free country. I was just grabbing a coffee.” He lifts his other hand, and only now do you notice the takeout cup he’s holding. “Didn’t know I’d run into you… on a date.”

The way he says it – laced with contempt – sends heat to your cheeks. You feel a spark of anger, which is good because it pushes back the panic. “That’s none of your business,” you snap quietly. “Weren’t you the one who told me to stay out of your way? Maybe you should return the favor.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Believe me, running into you is the last thing I wanted tonight,” he lies. You suspect from the gleam in his eye that he might have been looking for you, though how he knew where you’d be is a mystery. Did he… overhear at school? Did Jun-tae mention something to a friend who mentioned to someone? Or has Seong-je actually been going out of his way to shadow you? The thought is both unnerving and oddly thrilling in a twisted way.

Daehyun clears his throat nervously. “Uh, is this… a friend of yours?”

Before you can say “hell no,” Seong-je steps forward, leaning down so one hand braces on the back of your chair, the other flat on the table next to your coffee cup. It’s an unnecessarily intimidating posture, effectively caging you in your seat. Daehyun’s eyes widen and he leans back.

“Her friend? Sure,” he answers, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Seong-je. And you are… done here.”

Daehyun blinks. “E-excuse me?”

You shoot up out of your chair, forcing him to step back a half-step. “What the fuck, Seong-je?” you hiss, mortified and furious. “You need to leave. Now.”

He doesn’t budge. Instead, he picks up your half-finished latte from the table, takes a sip – the audacity – and grimaces. “Too sweet,” he mutters, then pointedly pours the rest into a nearby potted plant.

Oh, that’s it.

You shove at his chest, making him finally step back fully from the table. “Are you insane?!”

Daehyun also stands, though he looks like he’d rather sink into the floor. “Hey, man,” he says weakly, “I think you should calm down—”

Seong-je turns his glare on the poor guy. “And I think you should shut the fuck up and walk away.” His voice is deadly soft.

Your stomach lurches. This is spiraling out of control. People at neighboring tables are starting to stare. The last thing you need is a scene. You put a hand on his arm instinctively, trying to yank him toward the cafe entrance away from Daehyun. “Stop it! You’re causing a scene.”

He barely budges under your tug, eyes still locked on the other boy. Daehyun, to his credit, puffs himself up in an attempt to hold his ground. “Is this guy bothering you?” he asks you, trying to sound brave but his voice trembles.

Before you can answer, Seong-je lets out a low laugh. “That’s adorable. You playing the hero?” He moves so fast you barely have time to gasp – he grabs Daehyun by the collar of his shirt with one hand and jerks him forward, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Listen, man. She’s taken. So fuck off before you really piss me off.”

“Hey!” You grab his wrist with both hands, nails digging into his skin. “Let him go, you bastard!”

Daehyun’s face has gone sheet-white. He holds up his hands. “O-okay, okay! I don’t want any trouble.”

He releases him with a small shove. Daehyun stumbles back, breathing hard. His eyes flick from Seong-je, who looks like the embodiment of menace, to you, and shame washes over you. This was supposed to be a nice, normal night for him too, and now it’s ruined.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt to Daehyun, heart heavy with mortification. “He’s… he’s just a crazy ex.” It’s easier than explaining the truth, and maybe it’ll salvage a scrap of your dignity.

Daehyun manages a strained nod. “It’s… fine. I’ll just go.” He looks at Seong-je with equal parts fear and disgust. “Maybe call me when… um, yeah. Bye.”

He all but flees the cafe. You watch him jog down the street through the front window, wanting to scream or cry or both.

Seong-je has the nerve to brush off his hands like he just took out the trash and is proud of it. Your blood boils.

You whirl on him. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He gives you an incredulous look. “Me? I just did you a favor. That guy was a limp dick, I could tell from a mile away.”

You stare at him, mouth agape. “A favor? Are you out of your fucking mind?!” You’re so angry you’re practically vibrating. “That was my date, you lunatic! I chose to be here with him! You had no right—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off, eyes flashing. “I’m not letting some loser put his hands on what’s mine.”

His entitlement is like gasoline on fire. “You don’t own me! Soulmate or not, I am not your property!”

He breathes harshly, and for a second you think he might lash out or yell. But instead, he does something that truly catches you off guard – he softens his tone, just a notch. “No, you’re not property. But you’re… tied to me. Whether you like it or not. I didn’t ask for it either.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking away briefly as if searching for words. “Do you think I enjoy this? Having some cosmic chain linking me to a mouthy little pain in the ass?”

Your eyes widen. It’s the first time he’s ever even remotely acknowledged the bond as affecting him, beyond ego and lust.

He presses on, words clipped. “I tried to stay out of your way like you wanted. But every time I turn around, there you are, with your stupid face and your stupid friends, and it pisses me off that I can’t just… forget it.” He scowls as if the admission physically pains him. “It’s like you’re under my skin, and no matter what I do, I can’t get you out. So yeah, maybe I’m an asshole for ruining your date. But you shouldn’t be going out with some other guy when—when—”

He stops himself, breathing hard. There’s a wild, conflicted look in his eyes that steals the retort from your tongue. Could it be that he’s actually feeling something real here?

“When what?” you ask quietly, heart thudding.

His face contorts into a glare. “Nothing. Forget it.”

And just like that, he shuts down. You can almost see the walls going back up, his expression icing over. It’s infuriating – he can’t just spew all that and then clam up.

“God, you are impossible,” you say, voice thick with frustration. “Fine. Run away from it. I don’t even care anymore.” You’re lying – you do care, way more than you should, but pride keeps your voice hard. “Next time, don’t bother interfering. I’ll live my life, you live yours. Stay out of my way, for real.”

Something flashes in his eyes – hurt, anger? – but he masks it with a derisive snort. “Whatever you say, princess.”

He turns on his heel and stalks off into the night without a backward glance. You stand there trembling for a long minute after he’s gone, trying to process what just happened.

He almost opened up. Almost. But of course, he slammed that door shut. And what would you have even done if he hadn’t? Hugged him? Thanked him? The thought is laughable. He’s created a mess then left you to clean it up – literally, in the cafe case, and figuratively for your emotional state.

The date is a bust, you doubt Daehyun will ever want to see you again, and now you’re left with more confusing feelings towards Seong-je swirling in your chest.

You feel like screaming. Instead, you drag yourself home and spend half the night angrily crushing the pillow to your face to muffle frustrated sobs that you’d never let anyone hear.

After the weekend, you resign yourself to an uneasy status quo. You avoid Seong-je where you can, and when you can’t, you do your best to ignore his existence. He, apparently, decides to adopt the same tactic; aside from a few intense stares from across the schoolyard and one or two derisive smirks in passing, he doesn’t approach you directly all week.

Your friends sense something’s off – you’re more tight-lipped than usual, and Jun-tae asked if you were okay twice after noticing your bloodshot eyes Monday morning, you blamed allergies, not going into detail about crying half the night. But you haven’t told them about the ruined date or the confrontation. Partly out of embarrassment, partly because you’re still trying to sort out what it meant yourself.

By Thursday, you think maybe things will eventually settle. Maybe you and him can fall into being nothing more than two people who share a weird bond but otherwise live separate lives. It’s a depressing thought in some ways – like a part of you will always be unresolved – but better that than constant chaos.

Unfortunately, peace is a fickle thing. And jealousy, it seems, is something Geum Seong-je cannot handle in any dose.

It happens after school. You and Baku stay late in the gym – he’s helping you practice some self-defense moves because, as he said, “If you’re gonna keep pissing off raging psychos, might as well know how to throw a punch without breaking your thumb.”

You appreciate it. Hitting the pads he holds actually feels good; imagining it’s Seong-je’s face probably helps add power. After an hour, you’re both sweaty and laughing as Baku teases that your roundhouse kick is more of a floppy circle.

“You’re getting better, though,” he concedes, ruffling your hair affectionately as you exit the gym into the late afternoon sun. Most students have gone home by now, campus fairly empty.

“Thanks, coach,” you joke, swiping at your damp forehead. “Same time next week? Maybe I’ll manage to actually knock you over.”

“In your dreams,” he grins.

Your foot must still have some dust or chalk from the gym floor because you slip slightly on the smooth outdoor tiles. Baku grabs your elbow to steady you. “Whoa there.”

“I’m fine.” You laugh, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he tugs you a little closer, squinting at your face.

“You got a bruise coming in,” he notes, thumb brushing just under your right eye.

“Oh.” You’d nearly forgotten – an elbow from one of the drills accidentally caught your cheek earlier. “It’s nothing.”

Baku scowls. “Nothing? Looks like I punched you. That asshole’s gonna think I actually hurt you.”

You roll your eyes. “Who cares what he thinks?” Honestly, you hadn’t even thought about how it might appear to anyone else.

He sighs, the hand on your elbow sliding down to your wrist and squeezing in a comforting way. “Maybe put some ice on it when you get home, okay? And if anyone asks—”

Suddenly, someone yanks Baku away from you with brute force. You gasp as Baku is torn from your side and shoved back.

Seong-je is there, seemingly out of nowhere, eyes wild with rage. “Get your fucking hands off her!” he roars, and swings a fist at Baku’s face.

It happens too fast to shout a warning. But Baku has reflexes of his own – he narrowly ducks the punch, and on the recovery, throws one of his own. His fist connects solidly with Seong-je’s jaw in a sickening crack.

Seong-je drops like a stone.

For one horrified second, you think he might be dead. He’s flat on his back on the ground, limbs sprawled, completely out cold. Baku stands over him, chest heaving, fists still clenched.

“What the fuck—?!” you finally find your voice, stepping forward. “Baku, oh my god!”

“He came at me,” Baku says quickly, defensive, eyes wide as if surprised himself at how quickly that escalated. “I didn’t even think, I just—” He gestures vaguely with his fist.

You kneel down next to Seong-je, heart in your throat. He’s breathing – you can see the rise and fall of his chest. There’s already a bruise purpling along his jaw from Baku’s punch. “You knocked him out,” you say, half in disbelief.

Hyun-tak and Jun-tae come sprinting from the corner of the building, drawn by the commotion. “Holy crap!” Jun-tae exclaims, nearly tripping over his feet when he sees the scene. “Is that—?”

“Seong-je,” Hyun-tak finishes grimly, grabbing Baku’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Baku runs a hand through his hair, looking equal parts pissed and sheepish. “He fucking attacked me! All I did was hold her arm and he went berserk.”

Jun-tae’s eyes ping-pong between you and the unconscious boy. “Why would he— oh.” He blinks. “He thought… you two…?”

You flush, suddenly piecing it together. Seong-je saw Baku holding you close, touching your face, maybe got the wrong idea. “For fuck’s sake,” you mutter. This idiot really thought— what, that Baku was moving in on you?

Baku shakes his head, almost laughing in disbelief. “He actually thought I’d— with her? Seriously?” He looks at Seong-je’s prone form like he’s grown two heads.

“Guy’s crazy,” Hyun-tak mutters, though he looks more curious than angry now. He exchanges a look with Jun-tae that you can’t quite decipher.

Meanwhile, you’re still crouched beside Seong-je. Now that the shock is fading, you realize you’re worried. He’s completely unresponsive. “We need to do something. I mean, we can’t just leave him here.”

Baku folds his arms, scowling. “Why the hell not? It’d be what he deserves.”

You glare up at him. “Really? And when he wakes up and comes looking for round two, what then?”

That makes Baku pause. Jun-tae chimes in softly, “We might get in trouble if someone else finds him like this. They’ll ask questions.”

Hyun-tak nods. “Better to move him.”

Baku sighs heavily. “Fine. But if he swings at me again when he wakes up, I’m not holding back next time.”

The boys approach to lift Seong-je. Baku takes his shoulders, Hyun-tak his legs. Together they carry his limp form across the courtyard. You grab his fallen leather jacket and school bag.

“Where to?” Hyun-tak asks.

“The nurse’s office is closed,” Jun-tae says, pushing his glasses up with one finger as he hurries alongside. “Maybe the old music room? Nobody uses it after hours.”

You lead the way, opening the door for them. The old music classroom in the adjacent building is mostly storage now, rarely locked. Inside, dust motes dance in the slanting sunlight. The boys deposit Seong-je on a long wooden bench against the wall.

He groans faintly as Baku adjusts his position. You all step back, watching. He doesn’t wake, but at least he made a noise, which is reassuring.

“Alright, he’s your soulmate,” Baku says, rubbing the back of his neck. “How do you want to handle this?”

You bite your lip. Part of you wants to walk away and let him wake up alone, but a bigger part feels responsible for… well, for him being here. And if he wakes alone, who knows what he’ll do or think. This whole mess happened because of a misunderstanding; maybe if you’re here, you can straighten it out without more punches thrown.

“I’ll stay with him,” you say finally. “The rest of you should go. If a teacher finds all of us here, it’ll be hard to explain.”

Baku looks like he wants to argue, but Jun-tae gently tugs his sleeve. “She’s right. We shouldn’t all be here if someone comes by.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with that psycho,” he says, frowning.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist. “He’ll be disoriented when he wakes. And I can handle him.” You say it with more confidence than you feel, but after all the drama, you’re fairly certain Seong-je won’t actually hurt you. He’s had chances and hasn’t.

“I’ll wait outside the door, just in case,” Baku concedes reluctantly.

That’s as good as you’ll get. You nod. “Deal.”

Hyun-tak pats your shoulder with a small smile. “Holler if you need us to deck him again.”

You smirk lightly. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

With some grumbling, the boys file out. Baku gives you a last concerned look. “Yell if you need me. I’ll be right outside,” he reiterates.

“I will,” you promise, shooing them. “Go, before we all get detention.”

They leave, shutting the door behind them. The quiet that settles is heavy. You turn to look at Seong-je.

He’s still out cold, but color is returning to his face. You notice something you hadn’t before: a small bandage on his left cheekbone – probably from some scuffle earlier in the week. It’s slightly dislodged now. Carefully, you peel it off; the cut beneath isn’t too bad, already scabbed. You wonder absently how he got it.

Then you catch yourself and frown. Why do you care? You shouldn’t, right? He’s an asshole. A violent, crazy asshole who just attacked your best friend in a fit of misplaced jealousy.

But… he was jealous. He thought Baku was moving in on you and he lost his shit. On one hand, it’s infuriating – his possessiveness is toxic and problematic. On the other, a tiny, irrational part of you feels almost vindicated. Like proof that he really does feel something for you beyond anger and lust, even if it’s twisted.

You sigh, taking a seat on the bench a couple feet away from his feet. What a mess.

After a few more minutes, Seong-je stirs. You straighten, heart rate picking up. His eyelids flutter, then those dark eyes open, squinting at the ceiling. He groans, bringing a hand up to his jaw.

“That son of a bitch,” he mutters hoarsely.

“Which one?” you say dryly, unable to help yourself.

His head turns sharply toward you, eyes widening in surprise. He tries to sit up too fast and winces, sagging back on his elbows.

“Easy,” you mumble, reaching out on instinct to steady his shoulder. He tenses under your touch and you pull back quickly.

He blinks at you, disoriented. “The fuck… where are we?”

“Old music room,” you say. “School.”

He touches his jaw again and lets out a pained hiss. His gaze hardens. “That gorilla friend of yours packs a punch.”

Anger flares in you again at the memory of what triggered this. “You deserved it,” you snap. “What were you thinking, attacking Baku like that?”

His expression sours. “Saw him with his hands all over you… I thought—” He breaks off, scowling. “Doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“Jesus, Seong-je,” you run a hand through your hair in frustration. “He’s like a brother to me. There is nothing between us. Everyone knows that. Why do you think he calls me kid and teases me like I’m twelve? We grew up together.”

He doesn’t respond, jaw clenched. You realize he’s avoiding your eyes now, staring off toward the dusty piano in the corner. Embarrassed? Maybe.

“Even if it wasn’t him,” you continue, softer this time, “what gives you the right? You can’t just swing at any guy near me.”

His gaze snaps back, bristling. “The hell I can’t.”

You throw up your hands. “You’re unbelievable.”

He struggles to sit up fully, and this time you don’t help. He manages, swinging his legs over the side of the bench to face you. He looks a little pale under the bruising jaw, but otherwise steady. The silence stretches awkwardly.

Finally, he speaks, voice low. “I saw him touching your face… and I lost it. I thought you lied. About not wanting anyone.”

You look at him in disbelief. “I never said I didn’t want anyone. I said I didn’t want you messing up my life.”

He flinches at the “you” part. “Right.”

Regret pricks at you. That came out harsher than you intended. But you don’t know how to say what you mean. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Look, this entire situation is so fucked up. I was upset, Baku was comforting me. That’s it. I didn’t… I haven’t been sneaking around with someone, if that’s what you thought.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that. “Okay.”

Okay? That’s it? You sigh. At least he seems calmer now. His eyes rake over you briefly, like he’s checking you’re okay.

“Are you hurt?” he asks gruffly, nodding toward your cheek.

You touch the bruise. “It’s nothing. Just from training.”

Something like guilt flickers in his expression. “Heh. Thought he gave you that. Which is why I…” He trails off.

“Went full Hulk-smash,” you finish dryly.

He grimaces, then surprises you by bowing his head slightly. “I fucked up.”

Well. That’s probably as close to an apology as you’re going to get from him. And it sounded sincere, albeit grudging. You stare, caught off guard.

Seong-je rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable under your scrutiny. “I… I’m not good at this shit. The—” he waves a hand vaguely, “soulmate shit. Feelings. Whatever.”

You can’t suppress a soft snort. “No kidding.”

He shoots you a mild glare but doesn’t bite back. Instead he inhales, then looks up at the ceiling. “I acted like an idiot. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” you say, voice laced with sarcasm. But truthfully, hearing him acknowledge wrongdoing does something fluttery to your insides. It’s a start.

He glances at the door. “Your friends… they carted me in here?”

“Yeah. They were worried a teacher might find you out cold and connect it to us.” You hesitate, then add, “They’re outside, probably freaking out that I’m alone with you. I should let them know you’re awake.”

You stand, but he grabs your wrist – gently, this time. “Wait.”

You pause, heart skipping at the light grasp of his fingers around your wrist. “What?”

He releases you as soon as you turn back to him, almost as if he hadn’t realized he reached out. His eyes search your face. There’s something raw in them that unmoors you.

“I’m… not going after that guy from the cafe,” he says lowly. “If you… if you wanted to see him again, I won’t interfere.”

The last words sound dragged out of him. You blink in surprise. That’s… surprisingly considerate? More than that – it’s like he’s saying he’ll step back for your sake.

Your chest tightens. For some reason, that offer doesn’t fill you with the relief you’d have expected a week ago. Instead, it leaves a hollowness.

“I don’t think he’ll want to see me,” you admit quietly. “Not after… everything.”

Seong-je nods, not looking remotely sorry about that outcome. There’s a flicker of smugness, quickly masked.

You shake your head, exasperated. “Unbelievable. You’re still happy he ran off.”

He meets your eyes evenly. “Yes.”

The audacity of his honesty… you almost admire it. You let out a mirthless chuckle. “You’re a jerk.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” He stands now too, though a bit unsteadily. He towers over you, the closeness bringing back memories of other heated moments. But this time is different. His posture is tense, but not with anger. More like uncertainty.

He raises a hand, and you flinch slightly, but he’s only reaching toward your hair. Gently, he picks out a small clump of dust or foam that clung there from training earlier. You hold your breath as his fingers brush your hair, then slide down briefly to tuck a strand behind your ear – a surprisingly tender gesture that sends your heart aflutter.

“There’s still a lot I don’t get,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the piece of your hair he’s winding unconsciously around his finger. “About this… about you.”

You swallow hard. “Seong-je—”

He interrupts, looking at you with a strange mix of frustration and longing. “But I know I’m not letting you go. I tried. It’s not happening.”

Your heart skips. His tone reminds you of someone admitting defeat – like he tried to fight the bond and lost. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not the worst thing in the world for him.

In spite of yourself, you feel your walls slightly lower. If he’s going to be half-honest, you can be a little honest too. “I… I don’t know what I want right now,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “This is all so… messed up. You drive me crazy. In every way.”

A corner of his mouth lifts – not a cocky smirk, but something almost hopeful. “You’re not exactly a walk in the park either, princess.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat of anger isn’t there. Exhaustion and a weird relief take its place. At least you’re… talking, sort of, without screaming.

He shifts a step closer, and your breath catches. “So what now?” he asks, low and quiet.

It’s a good question. Where do you two go from here? The slow path from loathing to something tolerable, maybe. Perhaps even something more, one day, if you don’t kill each other first.

“One step at a time,” you say finally. “Don’t assume this means I forgive you or that I’m okay with— with everything. But… I’m tired of fighting every second.”

He nods slowly. “Truce?”

“For now,” you allow.

He sucks in a breath as if steeling himself, then reaches out with his pinky finger extended – a small, hesitant gesture. It’s such a ridiculous contrast to his usual bravado that you actually smile a little, bewildered. Nonetheless, you hook your pinky with his, sealing the quiet truce.

Neither of you says anything for a moment, standing there with linked pinkies like children making up after a squabble. When you finally pull away, he lets out a breath, as if he’d been holding it.

“Guess we should get out of here,” you say, remembering the world outside this room.

He nods. “Yeah.” Then he adds with a grimace, touching his jaw, “Tell lover boy outside not to sucker punch me this time.”

You snort. “Don’t give him a reason and he won’t.” But you open the door and poke your head out.

Baku nearly trips from where he was clearly leaning against it. Hyun-tak and Jun-tae appear around the corner too, looking concerned.

“All good?” He asks warily, eyes flicking to Seong-je standing behind you.

“Define ‘good’,” you say, then sigh. “We talked. No one’s murdering anyone.”

Baku cracks his knuckles unconsciously, but nods. Hyun-tak arches a brow at you, as if asking if you’re really okay. You nod subtly.

“Let’s just go,” you say. “Before a teacher catches us.”

Amazingly, you all manage to exit the building and slip off campus without incident. Seong-je walks a few paces behind with Hyun-tak and Jun-tae, who seem to be casually flanking him in case he tries any funny business. Baku stays glued to your side, throwing distrustful glances back.

But nothing happens. The boys part ways in front of the subway station, uneasy goodbyes exchanged. Baku glares at Seong-je, making a silent “I’m watching you” gesture. Seong-je responds with a middle finger. Progress, you suppose.

To your surprise, Seong-je ends up following the same route as you – turns out he lives in the same general direction. So you find yourself alone with him for the last few blocks to your home.

It’s quiet, a little awkward, but not entirely unpleasant. He’s walking close but not touching you, hands in his pockets. At one point he clears his throat, as if wanting to say something, but doesn’t.

When you reach your street, you pause. “This is me,” you say, nodding toward your house up ahead.

He nods. An awkward beat passes. You both stand there, not quite looking at each other.

“So… see you Monday, I guess,” you mumble.

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Try not to trip into any new guys till then, alright?”

The nerve of him – then you see the teasing glint in his eye, and realize he’s actually joking. You huff. “Try not to punch anyone else who breathes near me, and we have a deal.”

He smirks. “Can’t make promises.” But then, quieter, “See you, princess.”

Your heart does a dumb flip at the low timbre of those words. Rolling your eyes to cover it, you turn and head towards your house. After a few steps, you glance back.

He’s still standing there, watching you go with an unreadable expression. When he sees you looking, he quickly turns and walks off, trying to play it cool.

You bite back a smile as you head inside.

Maybe – just maybe – you and your foul-mouthed soulmate can figure out this chaos together after all.

⸻

A couple of months later…

Life with Seong-je doesn’t exactly transform into domestic bliss. He’s still an abrasive asshole at least 80% of the time. And you’re still a mouthy firecracker who won’t take his shit. But there are… changes.

For one, you’ve gradually gone from avoiding each other to, well, not avoiding. In fact, he’s inserted himself firmly into your daily routine. He waits for you at the school gates most mornings, never saying that’s what he’s doing, of course – he’ll claim he just happened to time his arrival the same, or that he needed to talk about something “important” like the new cafeteria menu. If you call him out on it, he just smirks and lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke away from you in a rare show of courtesy.

He sits with you at lunch now, too. The first time he did, plopping his tray down next to yours at your friend group’s table, the others went silent as a grave. Hyun-tak looked ready to fling a chicken wing at his head. But you sighed and introduced the elephant in the room. “He’s eating with us. Deal with it.”

After an awkward start, the dynamic found a shaky equilibrium. Jun-tae is still terrified of him, though he mostly ignores Jun-tae rather than picking on him, much to your relief. Si-eun occasionally exchanges dry one-liners with him – their combined deadpan snark can actually be funny. Hyun-tak warms up a bit after Seong-je compliments his fighting form, “Not terrible,” which had Hyun-tak grinning like he’d won a trophy. Baku remains wary, but they have a tacit understanding now; you suspect Seong-je privately apologized for the sucker punch incident, or at least acknowledged it. Baku hasn’t tried to knock him out again, so that’s progress.

As for you and him… things are slow, as they probably should be. The tension is still there, under the surface, but it’s less hostile now. More… charged with something else. Something that shows itself in moments like:

• The time he saw you napping in class and flicked a paper ball at you to wake you before the teacher caught on – only to mutter “idiot” fondly when you glared sleepily at him.

• Or when he “accidentally” left a bottle of your favorite iced tea on your desk, claiming someone gave it to him and he didn’t want it (you both knew it was a lie, but you took it without comment except a small “thanks,” which made him flush and grumble under his breath).

• The afternoon he discovered you’re ticklish and mercilessly poked your side until you were shrieking with laughter, only stopping when you threatened to bite his finger off – and then the way you both were strangely breathless, faces close, until Jun-tae walked in and you sprang apart.

• And countless bickering sessions that somehow ended with the two of you grinning like idiots, your friends exchanging bewildered glances.

It’s messy and complicated, but it’s yours.

One late afternoon, you find yourselves alone on the rooftop of your apartment building. He had walked you home – something he does more often now, usually under the pretense of “I was bored” or “it’s on my way” – and you invited him up, shocking both of you. He only raised an eyebrow and said “Got beer?”, to which you rolled your eyes and said you could check.

So here you are, two beers pilfered from your dad’s stash in hand, watching the sunset over the city. The sky is painted in oranges and purples.

“Not bad,” he admits, sipping. “For cheap beer.”

You snort. “Shut up and enjoy the free booze.”

He chuckles and lightly clinks his can against yours in a mock toast. There’s a comfortable silence for a while.

As twilight deepens, you feel a contemplative mood settle. You steal a glance at Seong-je. In the dimming light, his features are softened, almost peaceful. It’s rare to see him like this – not scowling or smirking, just… quiet.

On an impulse, you ask, “Do you ever think about the future?”

He gives you a sideways look. “What, like flying cars and shit?”

“No, dumbass,” you laugh. “I mean your future.”

He shrugs. “Not really. Live in the moment.”

You frown. That’s not surprising from him, but still. “Nothing at all? Not even where you want to be in five or ten years?”

He scrunches his nose like the thought of planning that far is distasteful. “Five years… I’ll be, what, 23? Shit, that’s old.”

“Hey!” You elbow him. “23 is not old.”

He smirks. “Whatever you say, grandma.”

You roll your eyes, but press on. “I think about it sometimes. I mean, about… us.”

The words slip out and your face warms. You haven’t explicitly defined anything about this weird relationship. It’s been one day at a time.

Seong-je tenses slightly, his grip on the can tightening. “Us,” he repeats carefully.

You forge ahead, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. I mean, lots of soulmate couples… eventually get married, you know.”

There. You said it. You feel a flutter in your chest even bringing it up – an image of a white dress and a path you’re not even sure you want, but it lurks in the back of your mind because that’s what society drills in when it comes to soulmates: happily ever after.

Seong-je’s eyes widen almost comically. “Are you fucking serious?” he blurts.

You bristle, embarrassment quickly turning to defensiveness. “It’s just a thought! Geez, you don’t have to react like I proposed or something.”

He makes a face like you just gave him food poisoning. “Marriage? Fuck no.”

Before you realize it, your palm smacks his arm.

He recoils, more from surprise than pain. “Ow, what the hell?!”

You shoot him a death glare. “You could’ve just said ‘I’m not interested’ like a normal person,” you huff. “No need to act like I suggested murder.”

He rubs his arm with a scowl. “Might as well be murder. Getting tied down, playing house – that’s not me.”

Ouch. You knew he’d likely scoff, but hearing the vehemence still stings a bit. You cover it with anger. “Fine, message received,” you snap. “You don’t need to rant.”

He sees your expression and has the decency to look slightly apologetic. “Hey, I’m just being honest. You really see me as the husband type? Because I sure as shit don’t. And you, in an apron greeting me at the door? Ha!”

You flush, partly from anger, partly because that domestic image is so absurd it’s almost funny. Almost. “Of course not,” you mutter. “It was hypothetical, dumbass. Forget I said anything.”

You turn away, gulping the last of your beer with a scowl. Great, now you feel stupid for bringing it up. Way to ruin a nice moment.

Before you can stew too much, he nudges your shoulder lightly with his. “Quit pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You so are.” He chuckles. “Look, marriage is just… it’s not on my radar, alright? Doesn’t mean—I mean, it’s not like I plan on bailing or something.”

You glance at him, surprised. He’s staring straight ahead, tapping a finger on his can.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “don’t get hung up on that fairytale crap. We’re not exactly the prince and princess type.” He smirks. “You’d probably throw the glass slipper at my face.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. “Only if you deserved it.”

“I usually do,” he agrees lightly. Then he shifts, tilting his head down to catch your eyes. “Besides, piece of paper or not… you’re stuck with me. You know that, right?”

Your breath catches. The way he says it – almost gentle, in his own rough-edged way – feels more meaningful than any grand romantic promise.

You manage a half smile. “Is that your version of reassurance? ‘You’re stuck with me’?”

He grins, bold and a little cocky. “It’s the truth. No one else is crazy enough to handle you.”

“Oh, screw you,” you laugh, shoving him.

He grabs your hand as you push and holds it. “Later, maybe,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

You groan at the innuendo, cheeks heating. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

“Debatable,” you say, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him draw you into his side. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, not unlike how Baku does – but where that felt brotherly, this feels… entirely different. Thrilling in a slow-burning way.

You sit like that as the last light fades, bickering softly about who would kill whom if you lived together (he insists you’d kill him with nagging; you insist he’d die by leaving socks everywhere and invoking your wrath).

At some point, you rest your head against him, and he presses a chaste kiss to your hair. It’s an oddly sweet gesture that makes your chest ache.

“Don’t think this means I’m wearing a damn tux ever,” he mutters into your hair.

You smirk in the darkness. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’d probably combust.”

He snorts. “True.”

You turn your face up towards him, and even though it’s dark, you know he’s looking at you. You stick your tongue out. “Guess we’ll just have to keep things interesting without the fairy tale ending.”

He catches your chin, eyes glinting. “We’re plenty interesting.”

Before you can reply, he closes the gap, kissing you properly. It’s not the searing, bruising kiss of that first time in the supply room, nor the hesitant half-kisses you’ve shared since. This one is slow, teasing, as if he has all the time in the world to coax reactions out of you. And damn it, he does – your toes curl as you lean into him, sighing against his mouth.

He tastes like cheap beer and confidence. And something distinctively him that you’ve come to crave.

When you part, you’re both smiling. “Still a fucker,” you whisper affectionately.

He chuckles. “And you’re still a bitch.”

His tone makes it sound almost like a pet name. You roll your eyes, resting your forehead against his.

A toxic, foul-mouthed fairytale, indeed. But it’s yours. Twisted and dysfunctional, full of fights and slaps and screaming matches… and now, chaotic affection and rough-edged devotion.

It may not be the romance you dreamed of, but as Seong-je pulls you into another hungry kiss, you realize something:

Sometimes, the best happily ever after is just surviving each other – and finding the messed-up kind of love that only soulmates like you could ever understand.

#weak hero class fanfic #weak hero class imagines #weak hero x reader #weak hero fanfic #geum seong je x reader #geum seong je #Geum seong je fanfic

485 notes · View notes

anyarose011 · 5 months ago

Text

Agape

Pairing: Lucius x Reader

Summary: After the Roman Empire had fallen, birthing the Republic, you and Lucius had finally found a moment to breathe in each other's presence. Over a few years' journey of healing, you find that is both exhausting, yet all the more fulfilling at the same time.

Part 2 of 2 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Past SA, Depictions of Grief, Violence, Angst, Miscommunication, Historical Inaccuracies [I tried my best to make it kind of accurate], Nudity (sexual and non-sexual), Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex (f receiving), P in V Sex

Paul Mescal's facial hair in All of Us Strangers, if you can hear us, please save us. Nobody ask me how I went from "’Oh, I’m just gonna write some scenes about healing from trauma, and the rest is smut! Easy!" to then making it just a little longer than the first part. I'm a yapper, but holy shit XD. Anyway, this is just shameless pRopAgAnDa at what I personally view a husband to act like (even in modern times). So, without further ado, thousands of words of hurt/comfort and smut.

Word Count: 16.4k

youtube

You were a lucky child. When you were twelve and your friend was married off to a man who was forty-two, you asked your father when you would be married.

He tucked you in that night, saying that he wasn’t certain, and that you had nothing to fear; for he wouldn’t promise you to a man who was in a war the same year you were born. He would have to know him personally as well, saying.

“It’s easier to like a man than have to plan his assassination if he dared lay a hand on you.”

You like to think he would have approved of Lucius; he was the once heir to the Roman Empire.

You don’t think he would have approved of your…informal marriage.

“A year.” Lucius stated as the two of you sat together in one of the piazzas. “As long as we are not separated from each other for more than three days, Rome will view us as married if we live in the same household for a year.”

You hummed. “And why should we care what Rome views?”

“Men won’t stop their advances on you if they saw you as my sister.” he explained. “Even as a wife, that doesn’t stir them.”

“It’s a very Christian belief of you to have.”

“But it makes them think thoroughly on if they want to risk tainting you.” Lucius finally looked at you. “Knowing that I would break every finger they touched you with.”

Even with his proclamation, you merely shrugged. “Being the emperor’s favorite whore, I doubt they would care.”

He sighed. “Do you want to know what my mother wrote? Her final words that will forever be with me because they are in ink? ‘Take her as your wife.’”

It had only been one day since Lucilla’s death, since Rome had become a Republic, and no one knew exactly what to do.

Yet…even at the mention of her presence, you felt tears spring to your eyes.

How you hated crying; and crying and crying.

“It is wise.” You finally settled on. “The people here too must see me as a traitor.”

“You would be dead if they did.”

“It’s still early.” You smiled sadly. “I desired to be free of the emperors, but all they must have saw was lust for power.”

Lucius sighed. “If it is a concern, then I believe it is best to leave Rome.”

Suddenly, you were no longer afraid for your life. You scowled. “Leave the city you risked your life to liberate?”

“It is not just my own life I need to think of now, is it?”

“Then think of mine.” you began. “I don’t wish to leave. Where would we even go? I know nothing outside of Rome.”

This would have been solved if you somehow still had the house you grew up in. The moment Geta claimed you, it was gone. Even with the fall of the Empire, and the birth of the Republic, you could not take it back.

Among many other things, you could not take it back.

“We’ll live just outside the walls.” Lucius suggested. “A farm perhaps a few miles from here-.”

“-A farm?” You questioned. “You know how to farm? Because I sure don’t.”

“I’ve lived longer on a farm than I have in a palace.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you, but it did. You also weren’t in the position to bargain. Even though it wasn’t going to be what most would deem an ‘official’ marriage, he still owned you. That was how it always was, whether living outside of the Roman walls or not. Still, you had to try.

“I will learn as much as I need to,” You shook your head. “but I will find a job in the city. You cannot believe I will be shut out-.”

“-Do you want to share a room, or would you like your own?”

You furrowed your brow. “What?”

Lucius restated. “We don’t have any money to buy a farm, so I’ll build us one. Do you want your own room?”

You had only known him for a grand total of a day and a half (if you were to add up all the previous times you had spoken to him before Macrinus’ death), so needless to say, his offer shocked you; more so, it impressed you.

“Isn’t it odd for a man and wife to not share a bed?” You asked.

“So, you want to share a room?”

“No.” was your immediate response. “I just…”

Am not used to compromising with men without them threatening my life.

“Won’t it cost money to build a house?” You asked instead. “None the less, more for another room?”

“I only want you to be happy, if we’re to be married.”

There you were, asking every question and not being satisfied with his answers, yet he was remaining patient.

“Thank you.” You bowed your head in thanks for just a second before questioning. “I am still allowed to have a job in the city? It will help with the cost, of course.”

“Where exactly do you intend to work?”

He said your name; not ‘Julia’, the name you had whispered to him in his cell. Lucius was the only one who had said it to you, for you did not even tell Lucilla or Marcus. It still felt strange hearing it on your lips, nonetheless, his.

Still, shaking your discomfort away, you hummed humorlessly. “I know two women who run their own businesses; hairdressing and tailoring. I’m better at hair than clothes, but not so much. And you?”

He sighed. “I’ll see if there’s any other farmers needing a hand.”

“You’re going to work for a farmer to build a farm?”

“It sounded more bizarre in your head than when you said it aloud, did it not?”

That was the first thing you found out about Lucius after all the bloodshed and heartbreak of the last week:

He spoke with such a straight tone, you did not know he was joking until he would smile just a hint; you couldn’t really call it a true smile.

You managed to grin. “I suppose it makes sense. You should find one that will let us sleep there.”

And he did. A farm just a few miles outside of Rome took both you and Lucius in. It was substantial, housing five chickens, two cows, three pigs, four horses, and seven human children. Albeit the children helped with the chores, but the eldest was only ten and could not manage any of the heavy lifting whatsoever, which was where Lucius came in.

From sun up to sun down, he’d work on the farm. The farmers, Atticus and Diana, let you sleep in the barn of all places. The hayloft was nice for the both of you; enough space to spread out but not be right next to each other. There was also somewhat of a wall between the two of you, giving the illusion of separate rooms.

It was certainly an adjustment for you; had been sleeping on the softest of beds for months, but even so, you just missed the bed from your old house.

Lucius fell asleep the second he laid on the hay.

Dreams and nightmares were always a peculiar thing. Some days, you would dream of your mother and father, some days, they would be of Lucilla and Marcus.

You had nightmares of what befell you before coming to the farm; Macrinus and his manipulation, Caracalla’s temper, Geta…

Yet, the worst that would happen would be you waking up more tired than the night prior. You knew Lucius was having nightmares too, but every time you approached him, he would lie and say he was fine, or simply not want to speak of it.

You stopped asking.

For the first few days on the farm, you were put to work by watching over the younger children when their mother was busy. Somehow, it was the older ones you didn’t mind, it was the youngest baby who was a handful.

It’s morbid to say, but you always wondered how any of them survived infancy.

Luckily, you managed to get back to Rome after perhaps a week of being stranded on the farm. It was almost an hour walk, and you had gotten up even before Lucius had, but it was worth it.

It wasn’t that you felt dead as you were on the farm per say, but walking through the streets brought a certain kind of life back into your steps.

You spent a good portion of the day trying to find the hairdressers you talk to Lucius about. Just as you were about to give up and try again tomorrow, something caught your ear.

Hebrew.

You turned over your shoulder and saw a man speaking in Latin to another man and a pregnant woman. The father had spoken in broken Latin before turning to his wife, speaking quickly in Hebrew as if to ask her what to say.

The Roman man began to yell, and you rushed over, speaking to the patriarch of the family.

“What’s going on?” You asked quickly.

His eyes grew as if you were the first person in Rome to understand him (you probably were). “I paid for a bag of peaches fairly; two bronze, yet they’re saying it wasn’t enough.”

You turned to the man behind you. “He says he gave you two bronze for the peaches.”

“It was three.” The Roman man gritted his teeth.

Tilting your head, you tried. “Show me your stand so we may see.”

It was perhaps stupid of you to challenge him; yet, he controlled his tempter and led you to his fruit stand. The sign by the peaches indeed said ‘2’, but there was also a good amount of peaches blocking the bottom half of the sign.

When you moved a few, it read ‘3’.

You smiled, looking at the man who spoke Hebrew. “It is three, but it’s not your fault this brute didn’t notice either.”

He nodded, returning your grin before handing the men another copper. With an few mumbled exchanges, the man and his wife were on their way.

“You have Judeans in your family?” The man crudely asked.

Still, you decided to reciprocate his crassness with kindness. “I actually speak five languages.”

He rose his brows. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes, yes it is.”

He hummed, holding his hand out. “Isidorus.”

“Julia.” Was your immediate response as he took your hand and kissed your knuckles. It wasn’t even your own choice to say that name; it was what you lived by. Retracting your hand, you shake your head and said your own name. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-.”

“-All of Rome knows who you are.” He interrupted. “Do not be afraid of your own people. Most of them were there simply a week ago when you tried to slay Macrinus but was there to comfort lady Lucilla in her final moments.”

You only nodded, not wanting to be praised. “I thank you for your kindness.”

“With certain.” He nodded. “You are with child; only a monster would harm a woman carrying.”

The events of the past weeks had made you forgotten about the false babe. Luckily, the fear upon your face could be used to your advantage.

“Are you not well?” Isidorus questioned.

You dropped your gaze, stammering your tone. “The…I lost the child.”

He looked down as well. “Oh…I’m so sorry.”

“No,” you shook your head. “it’s…it feels odd. His father was terrible but…”

“Why are you perusing Rome unchaperoned?” He changed the subject.

“My betrothed is being put to work,” you immediately answered. “and I am scouring the streets to find my own.”

“What has your luck been?”

“Nothing.”

Isidorus hummed. “I could change that.”

Even at the thought of what he was alluding to, you smiled. “Good sir, I am not in the position to sell my body-.”

“-None of that.” he waved his hand. “My brother works down at the entrance of the city gates. They’re always in need of translators.”

You nodded, considering. “When may I meet with him?”

“Tomorrow?” He asked. “Midday at the gates with many people watching so you do not feel threatened?”

The two of you laughed, and you agreed. “I shall be there. Thank you.”

“Anything to help a woman of the people.”

You walked all the way back to the farm with a skip in your step. Even at dinner, you were more talkative with the rest of the family. Lucius certainly took notice as the two of you were settling down for the night.

“You seemed better today.” He complimented, laying onto his bed of hay.

“So, I’ve been absolutely horrible the rest?” You teased, peeking around the wall of the hayloft.

“No, just what I think you were like before everything; more yourself.” He explained. “Did the hairdressers go well?”

Leaning against the wall, you crossed your arms. “I’m actually working as a translator down by the city entrance.”

He gave you a look. “How’d this come about?”

“Well,” you began. “I overheard two men arguing, one was speaking Hebrew, and I asked him what was wrong. There was a misunderstanding over peaches of all things, I helped them talk it out, and it was solved with no bloodshed. The vendor said his brother works at the gates and is always in need of translators and offered to meet with him tomorrow. It will be midday and so many people around; do not worry.”

Lucius nodded. “I’ll accompany you.”

“Did you not hear what I just said? I shall be fine.”

“I have no doubt you would.” You knew that was a lie. “One of the scythes broke today, I’ll need to buy another one in the city.”

You didn’t know if that was a lie or not, but it wouldn’t surprise you if Lucius would sneak out in the night and break equipment simply to go with you.

Sighing, you went behind the wall to your side of the hayloft. “Fine.”

To no one but Lucius’ surprise, Isidorus had not lied about his brother, nor the job offer. Of course, the brother had been off put at a woman being the translator (because everyone knows that they are the lesser sex). Still, after some convincing (you talked to a Greek family, a man from Anatolia, and two brothers from Persia), he said you could be put to work.

Lucius stood there the whole hour you had proved yourself.

“You couldn’t have gotten the scythe while I worked?” You questioned him while walking home.

He kept his gaze on the road before him, carrying the farm equipment. “It was engaging to watch.”

You hummed. “I could see how engaged you were while you stood like this.” You crossed your arms and scowled.

“I did not look like that.” He scoffed.

“You did so!” You refuted, lowering your voice. “My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius, the Last Gladiator, son of Lucilla and Maximus, grandson of Marcus Aurelius.”

He looked down, mouth upturning a little. “I do not sound like that.”

“Is that a smile?!” you gasped. “Gods above, I never thought you could unless you were attempting humor!

“Away with you, woman.”

You only laughed as the sun was starting to set.

There was something called a “Fullmoon” period in a marriage. Most now would say it’s “Honeymoon”, but the period in time where a man and woman were in a complete state of euphoria together was called “Fullmoon” because it only lasted for a month.

You and Lucius (even with your strange circumstance) were not immune to this.

A month later, when you had fully settled into a mundane life of working in different areas for hours upon hours, the only times you saw Lucius was when you ate dinner with the farmer’s family, and before going to bed.

It didn’t’ effect you that much for the first three months, as you both were still on good terms and were fine simply cohabitating without affection. This marriage was purely for protection and to honor Lucilla’s wishes.

Then…Lucius came to you one day, saying that together, you both had enough money to build a farm. He already had a patch of land picked out from the help of the famer who employed him. It was five miles away from the farm you stayed at. Five miles more of a journey to the city.

You would move in once the walls were built, which he said would only take a week or two.

It was too fast for you.

Still, you had to go along with it, because you were to be his wife; nothing more. Even so, nothing out of the ordinary besides your hidden, simmering annoyance happened between you two.

The first day construction was to be done was when light was shed upon it.

“Lucius!” You called his name as you approached him and a few other men hauling the wood and stone that would be used. It was mid-twilight when you ran to them.

He furrowed his brow, walking towards you. “Aren’t you meant to be in the city?”

Grinning from ear to ear, you shook your head. “I asked for the day off because of the house. He said I-.”

“-You need to go back and tell him you’ll work.”

Your smile fell from his usual, monotone demeanor. “He doesn’t expect me to come in today-.”

“-Then he’ll be happy to see you.”

“May I just talk for a moment?!” You yelled.

His said nothing.

Sighing, you began. “I will be useful in any capacity. If you need me to help dig for water, measure supports, lift anything-.”

“-Your shoulder cannot carry-.”

You retorted. “-It might be the shoulder you shot, but it’s the shoulder I have to live with, and I will tell you if something is too heavy to carry.”

It hadn’t been the first time you brought up your shoulder after Rome was free. Yet, in the past, it was always out of good fun; something to say to him when you didn’t want to carry as little as an egg from the chicken coop. You told the children the story too why you had to set one of them down after carrying her for so long.

You expected them to cower away from Lucius when he returned for supper, but instead, they all tackled him to the ground to defend your honor.

They didn’t hurt him of course, and you laughed until you couldn’t breathe.

Yet, at that moment, you said it with nothing but disdain; and he heard it in every word. You thought it would have been enough to guilt him into letting you help, you made sure of it.

Lucius titled his head back toward the main road. “Go on, now. The sun will be up soon, it’ll be better to walk without daylight beating down on you.”

The audacity he had. Usually, on the times you’d have disagreements of sorts, you’d try to leave with dignity; perhaps a word of sarcasm or two.

No, you simply turned on your heel and marched away in a huff.

You were harsher that day when translating, and you were still angry by the time the day ended. You ate dinner outside by yourself (until three of the seven children came outside to eat with you), and did not utter a ‘goodnight’ to Lucius before laying down to sleep.

Neither of you spoke to the other for days after that.

It was one morning, not even when the sun was out, as you tried to tiptoe around him, did he ask from his makeshift bed.

“Do you remember where the house is?”

You nearly fell off the ledge of the hayloft. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Do you remember?”

“Yes!” you whispered, afraid to wake the whole farm. “Why?”

“We made the water pump, and the walls and floors are finished. We’ll be able to sleep there now.”

“I don’t see the appeal in sleeping in a house with no roof.”

“I’ll put half of it on today. Tell your foreman too that you won’t be able to work for the next week.”

You furrowed your brow. “Why?”

“I’m teaching you how to tend to a farm.” He wrapped his blankets tighter around him and turned his back to you.

And you continued on your way; making the long trek to the city, which would only be longer when you moved to the house.

When your work was over, you walked and walked. You took a short break at the farmer’s house, making your final goodbyes to the children, and gathering what little belongings you owned.

As you tried to leave, Diana stopped you. She was leading one of the horses, a berber, behind her.

“Take her,” she handed you the reins. “you shouldn’t have to walk so far.”

You shook your head. “I simply cannot-.”

“-I insist.” She smiled. “She’s yours now. Think of it as payment for helping me with the little beasts that are my children.”

Smiling politely, it soon faded. She took notice. “What is it?”

“…I’ve only ever ridden once, and I was a child.”

She sighed yet was still kind. “Come on, my husband’s horse is at your farm. I’ll ride back with him.”

Despite your inexperience, it was actually nice riding a horse. It was perhaps the closest you could ever come to flying in your lifetime; maybe that’s why you enjoyed it. As you were nearing your soon-to-be home, you saw a familiar silhouette along with some others.

Atop the house, against the setting sun, you watched as Lucius continued to add tiles to the unfinished roof. His shirt was off, and even with night beginning to set in with the cold air, he was still breaking a sweat from the rigorous work. You would be a liar if you say that you didn’t catch yourself staring, and it was Diana who had to take the reins.

“What a fine home!” She broke you out of your trance, and when Lucius looked in your direction, you snapped your gaze away.

Lucius nodded. “All that needs to be done is the roof.” He jumped onto the ground just as you were sliding off the horse. He gave you his hand as you were, and you took it.

“Thank you.”

Atticus and the other workers went to a lone tree where their horses were tied. Atticus then approached both you and Lucius.

“Well,” he smiled. “it was lovely hosting the both of you. Please come back as often as you can; I’m sure the children will miss you.”

You all exchanged your final goodbyes, and it when everyone rode off away from you, did you realize something. This was the first time in a while you were alone with Lucius that wasn’t when going to sleep or waking up.

“Do you have a name for the horse?” Lucius asked.

Turning over your shoulder, you led the steed to the tree, petting her as you began to tie her up. “Not at the moment. She’s yours too, do you have any?”

“You’ll be with her more; you should name her.”

Humming you looked at him when you finished securing the horse. “You asked them to give her to me, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “They asked how they could repay you for taking care of their children, I mentioned how it would be a longer journey to the city once we moved here. That’s all I did.”

…He was better at asking for forgiveness than for permission; that was another thing you learned about him. Still, you nodded your appreciation, inspecting the area around you. It was quite beautiful even with its plainness. The fields stretched on for miles, and there were no tall buildings to cover the night sky. Even the unfinished house brought a sense of happiness to you.

Something that was, at least partially, your own.

“Where will the barn and chicken coop go?” You questioned.

A hint of a smile played on his mouth, but in Lucius fashion, did his best to hide it. “You were complaining about not having a roof, and now you wonder about things for the animals?”

“Perhaps I’m more interested in farming than you are.”

“I’ll teach you.” he led you into the house. “Come on.”

The front living space was large, and in the corner of it had an oven, so that was where the kitchen would be. Lucius showed you the two rooms as well; each having a single pillow and a blanket.

“We’ll begin planting tomorrow.” he announced. “I don’t think I’ll have to wake you up.”

“You won’t.” You nodded. “Goodnight, Lucius.”

“Goodnight.” He said your name.

You didn’t think you’d ever get over the sound of your own name from his lips.

You named the horse after your mother. Well…not the exact same name, but a similar one. It was quite a scene too when confessing to Lucius you couldn't exactly remember how to ride a horse by yourself.

He didn’t laugh at you, that was what greatly surprised you. He spent an hour teaching you, and you were able to ride her on your own.

Farming was more difficult than you thought it would be, but not so horrible either. Yes, where Lucius was patient with you for the first few days, he made a few snide comments as time passed. Nothing outright mean, but still enough to get under your skin.

Still, you managed to pick it up within the few weeks after that.

He had even let you help him finish the roof of the house; something you didn’t expect him to do. After living in the house for a month, both of you managed to buy actual beds for your rooms, among other luxuries like a few tables and chairs for the main living area, and utensils both for cooking and for eating.

The bathroom was completely bare. Having spent all the money on everything else, it would take time for the both of you to buy a bathtub. Bathing wasn’t a problem back on Atticus and Diana’s farm, but now being away from them, you would be forced to rely on the public baths in the city…

Even with some bathhouses having baths only for women, that did not stop men from forcing their way into them.

You didn’t mind being dirty for weeks on end.

The two of you fell into another pattern of life; you going into the city and spending hours translating foreign dialogue, and Lucius working on the farm for most days, sometimes accompanying you.

There was…something else strange as well.

It was always a coin toss on what weeks Lucius would speak to you or not.

Yes, he was always a man of few words, but this was different. There were some days when you asked him about his day, he would tell you what boring tasks he did. Than, on others, it was just one word: “Good.”

Never “Bad”, never “Just okay”; only “Good”. Even when you knew it wasn’t, that’s all he would say.

And you could endure it.

It had already been a little over half a year since the two of you started living together. In the eyes of Rome (as mere Plebians), you would be married once a year passed.

This was perhaps the best marriage you could ask for as a Roman woman. Still…every day that Lucius would not speak to you only brought more dread upon your shoulders.

When he stopped even looking at you, that was when you went to Diana one day.

“It’s so lovely to see you.” She smiled, setting down two cups of wine and sitting. “It’s felt like ages!”

With her youngest baby on your lap, you chuckled, taking a sip of your drink. “You honestly didn’t need to get the wine out.”

“Nonsense!” She waved her hand. “It’s a celebration just to be in your presence. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you as well.”

“How’s the farm? Lucius?”

“Well,” you took another sip, setting your cup down. “the farm has been alright. I know at least how to properly water crops and know when they’re ready to harvest or not. I help Lucius sometimes, but…he likes things his own way. He was a farmer too, I understand.”

She hummed. “And as a betrothed? I hope having your own home would help; to me, you two treated each other more like acquaintances than anything else.”

All you could do was avoid eye contact and bounce the giggling baby on your knee.

“Ah.” She sighed. “So not much has changed?”

“We both talk more than we had at your farm, but somehow, less at the same time.” You explained.

Diana reached over and held your hand, asking softly. “When was the last time you were intimate?”

As if she were a man, you tore your hand from hers. “What?”

“I do not wish anything to be forced upon you,” she stated first. “especially with what has happened to you. But…it is still important, especially to your future marriage.”

“We…we haven’t done anything in…months.” You were not going to tell her you hadn’t even seen him naked. You were not going to tell her you hadn’t done you “duty” as a woman.

She nodded. “There must be something plaguing his mind terribly.”

“I know that!” You cried. “He just won’t tell me.”

“Men do not like talking,” Diana sighed. “I have been married to Atticus for fifteen years, and even after seven children, there are parts of his past I still do not know of. What Lucius frets over is important though. You must dig your heels into the ground and let him know you are not doing anything until he tells you what he has issue with.”

The baby on your lap cooed as you held her, reaching for parts of your clothing. Diana took her from you once the baby started fussing, and you offered her a grateful smile.

“I’ll try my best with him.”

She squeezed your shoulder. “He will come to his senses. If not, then he truly hit his head too hard in the Colosseum.”

Except, you couldn’t confront him when you got home. Even though the sun was only beginning to set, when you arrived, the house was silent. You peeked into his bedroom and saw that he was already fast asleep.

With a sigh, you finished your nightly activities, and when the sun went down, you were in your own bed.

The nightmare was unlike any you had before.

Hands from all around you reached out to you. Some grabbed clumps of your hair, stuck their fingers into your mouth, caressed the most intimate parts of your body, or even tear your skin off.

You blinked and then you were in the palace, surrounded by cloaked figures. Someone forced you onto your back, and you looked up and saw Geta, raising a knife high above his head before diving it into your stomach. He carved it out before digging his hands into the opening he made and pulled out your womb.

After sitting up in bed, you had thought you awoken. When you opened your bedroom door, you were welcomed to a field of reeds, seeing nothing for miles. All but a silhouette in the distance. You could not make out it to be a man or a woman; all you knew was that you needed to run to them.

Yet, even as you dashed through the fields, calling out a name you do not even remember, your feet sank into the ground with each step.

The earth swallowed you whole before you could even reach them.

You didn’t awake with a scream; you didn’t even awake with a cry. You did awake in a sweat. Sitting up, you slowly pulled the blanket away from your body. Your stomach was unwounded, and nothing had happened.

Without knowing why, you rose from your bed and slipped on your sandals. Not even putting on a robe, you walked out of the house into the cold, night air. Numbly, you treaded through the tall grass away from the house and stopped.

The stars above you watched as you fell to your knees, and the past finally had the last laugh.

You wept for your mother (whose touch you never felt).

You wept for your father (who you had to take care of the same way he took care of you).

You wept for Marcus (the first man outside of your father to ever see you as a person).

You wept for Lucilla (the woman who saved you in more ways than one).

You wept for the innocence you lost to the twin emperors (and how you mercilessly killed them).

You wept and wept, until you felt bile claw its way up your throat and out of your mouth.

The tears did not stop even after you were finished.

Two hands grabbed your shoulders from behind, and you tried to tear yourself away with a sharp cry. You were turned around, and even though your tears blinded you, you could see that it was Lucius.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, his eyes grown.

You couldn’t speak clearly, only shaking your head and saying ‘No’ over and over. Lucius led you to the water pump and sat you down by it. Cranking the handle until the water flowed freely, he cupped his hand to catch some of it before gently washing your face.

The cool water grounded you, and your sobs began to slow. Once you were only left with shallow breathing and a stuffed nose, Lucius finally sat beside you.

“What happened?” He asked again, although, returning to his normal, straight-toned self.

“Bad dream.” Was all you said.

He said nothing at first. Then, looking down at the grass beneath him, he said. “Would talking about it help you?”

It was meant to be a helpful question, but it only angered you. “You ask that now? After I run out into the night screaming?”

Lucius squinted his eyes. “Why does that bother you?”

“I know you have nightmares too.” You scoffed. “I have asked you dozens of times if you wish to talk to me about them, and you have always said no. You’ve never once asked me about mine, so how dare you expect me to tell you about it now when you cannot even share yours with me!”

“That’s not fair.” He shook his head.

You stood up, walking back to the house. “You’re right, it isn’t fair.”

He jumped to his feet. “You can’t walk away without telling me why this is troubling you.”

“You first.”

“What?”

You turned to face him. “We are to be married in less than a year, at least ‘In the eyes of Rome’ as you say, yet you do not even look at me anymore!”

His shoulders fell, and he shook his head. “I am looking at you-.”

“-I ask you how you are these days, and you lie to me every time.” You interrupted. “The few instances you allow me to work beside you, you criticize every little thing I do. I understand that I am the farthest thing you wanted for as a wife-.”

It was that word that struck a chord. Despite saying it every so often those past few months…it was only then it occurred to you that where Lucius was your first husband…you were not his first wife.

He tore his gaze away from yours, as if he knew you had figured it out. You sighed. “Gods above…I’m sorry for what has happened to her, and I will never know the loss of a love like that…but I cannot be viewed as her replacement-.”

“-Who told you that you were?” He sharpened his tone.

You swallowed, knowing that this would all end in tears no matter what you said. “You do not tell me anything. I will never ask you to care for me the way you cared for her, but she is gone-.”

“-I couldn’t do anything after she died but weep and watch her body float into the ocean.” He hissed. “I vowed to kill the man that slaughtered her, and I didn’t. It had been perhaps just a month since her death, did I promise myself to another woman. I have dishonored her memory three times.”

“I do not know how long you need me to apologize for something I could not control, but I will if that means you will stop hating me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You hate that I will be your wife!” Your voice was growing hoarse. “I don’t understand it at all. I will be whatever it is you wish me to be in few months’ time, because you will own me. Even if you wish me to be dead, it shall be done because what I want will not matter-.”

“-Must you make everything about yourself?!” He finally yelled. “Would it soothe you if I said I despised every part of you? That if Jupiter himself came down and offered me my old life in exchange for you, I would give you up to him?! Would it give you any peace of mind if I told you I would have rather died in the arena than live a thousand years with you?”

You had expected him to at least pause after he made his confession. To at least have the courage to look you in the eye and watch as the words sunk into your being. Yet, as soon as he finished, he stomped back to the house; and you were alone outside again.

The tears upon your face glimmered from the light in the sky above you, for all you could do was stare at the little farmhouse Lucius had built for you.

How strange that something you once saw as a sign of devotion, was now revealed to be one of complicity.

He had admitted his disdain for your future marriage. You knew that it would be loveless (you would never escape that), but you wished at least for respect. Seeing as how you were not even going to have that, you dragged your feet over to the tree where your horse was tied up. Mounting her with nothing but the clothes on your back, you raced down the pathway.

For the first day, you had stayed at Diana and Atticus’ farm. You said nothing about Lucius, and tried to spend the most time with the children to avoid any questions.

On the second day, you finally went back to the city. Even though the man in charge of you yelled louder than Lucius had at you, it did not phase you. You merely nodded and returned to work. With what money they paid you for the day, you spent it on a room at the safest inn you could find. You had another nightmare that night. Not as horrible as the one two days prior, but awful enough for you to lay awake until the sun rose.

The third day seemed to be ordinary, until you finished your job, and you were promenading along the market. As you eyed the fruit at Isidorus’ stand, a man came to stand beside you.

“Good sir,” you heard Lucius’ voice. “do you have a wife?”

Isidorus nodded. “I do.”

“What from your stand would you give her if she was angry at you?”

He eyed you before smiling at Lucius. “My ears to listen.”

You turned, promptly walking away. Of course, Lucius followed.

“I didn’t know you confided into strangers about our qualms.”

“He’s not a stranger.” you kept trying to lose him. “And gifts will not suffice for an apology this time.”

He got in front of you, uttering your name. You stopped, sighing. “What else have you come to say to me?”

“That I am a fool.”

Although you weren’t necessarily expecting him to admit it, you only nodded. “You very much are.”

He began. “For my entire life, I was not allowed to be entirely truthful with others. Whether it was how I felt in the moment, or even my own name. I’m not used to the freedom of being candid with one another. And I have been mistreating you; I have provided a home, but I haven’t provided your wellbeing. Ari-.” Lucius paused, breathing through his nose. “Arishat and I lived on a farm, that was all I knew while being a husband. I will love her until the end of my days, but that does not give me the right to neglect you. I will…I will try with all my being to share my thoughts with you.”

You stared at him, feeling as if you would blink, and you would awaken from another dream. Yet once you did and saw that he was still in front of you, you said.

“I didn’t mean to insult your memory of her.”

He shook his head. “I believe she would hit me if she were here and saw how I treated you.”

“Thank you.” You nodded. “Truly, for everything. I…it’s not only you, I don’t know if I will ever feel like myself after…everything.”

Lucius already knew. Still, looking around himself, he then said. “Where is your horse?”

“The inn I’ve been staying at has a stable. You walked the whole way here?”

“It’s what I deserved.”

“You smell horrible.” You mustered a shy grin.

He mirrored you, looking away. “I have for a while.”

“I do as well. I was…I was going to brave the baths; would you like to join me?”

Your offer took him by surprise. Usually, a question like that would be an invitation to more salacious activities to take place. Still, what took him aback more was how you were initially so afraid of the public baths, yet there you were.

“I shall.” He agreed.

Thus, the two of you walked beside one another. There were many baths in Rome, yet it would be challenging to find one that had a separate bath for women and one for men. By the time you reached the third bathhouse, you sighed.

“This will do.”

Lucius shook his head. “I’ll ask the workers at this one if they know-.”

“-No.” You stopped him. “It’s fine. I wish to speak more with you.”

He was still hesitant, but gave in. The two of you entered and drifted off to the separate changing rooms. It was strange that the bathhouse had rooms for the different sex to disrobe, but not baths itself.

After locking your clothes away, you ventured out into the main pool. You were welcomed to an array of naked bodies. You weren’t entirely innocent of course, even before everything. You were never to see any of these people again; it was Lucius you would live with.

Quickly, you disappeared half of your body under the surface of the water and clung to the wall of the large bath. Other people around you laughed and socialized, only putting you more in the eyes of men who only came to the baths for one thing.

Yet, before you could take a moment to worry, your eyes fell to Lucius who entered. You soon averted them and felt the water shift beside you as he entered. You turned to look at him, leveling yourself with the side of the pool, essentially shoulder to shoulder with him. The hear radiating off of his body onto yours reminded you too much of that night months ago; the one where you whispered your name into his ear.

“What were you like as a boy?” You questioned in an attempt to hide how flustered you were.

He hummed. “Why do you ask?”

“If you wish to be more honest with me, than I think it should be best to stary with something minor.”

“I understand. I was spoiled growing up in the palace. Still, I wished nothing more than for adventure. All my life, the mere thought of war and battles were taught as a way to bring glory to the empire; pride for one’s family. I had gotten my foolish wish when Maximus died, and my mother sent me away from Rome.” He paused momentarily, before continuing. “I ran all across the land until I was thirteen, where I finally settled in Numidia. I had changed my named too many times to count and settled upon Hanno.”

Your attention did not waver for a moment. When he was finished you asked. “How old were you when you left?”

“Eight…” There was a sad silence between the two of you. A silence held in almost reverence for all the troubles he had been through. “What about you?”

Even with your uneasiness to answer your starkly different childhood, you did so; also have been promising to be honest with him. You spoke of your father, your past friends, the house you grew up in. He never once looked upon you with envy or hatred.

“Your father sounded like a good man.” He said.

“He was.” You nodded, feeling a weight settle in your chest. "I think he would have liked you.”

“I can only hope.”

The conversation halted after that, unknown if you should wait for him to ask a question, or for you to ask another. Both of your eyes drifted around the bath house as people filtered in and out. When your gaze fell back onto Lucius’ you watched his eyes flicker to something behind you. Before you could utter a word, he placed his hand upon your bare back, bringing his lips to the space between your ear and your jaw.

It all happened so fast you had no time to react, and your body shivered upon the feel of him being so close to you.

“There’s a man eyeing you from behind.” He whispered into your skin. “Don’t look at him, just keep looking at me. I’m sorry.”

You pulled away slightly, doing as he told. He traced circles on your back with his thumb, staring intently at you. Even as you shrunk under his eyes, they did not frighten you.

Deciding to play along, you trailed your hand up his bare arm until resting on his shoulder. You felt his skin erupt into goosebumps and he took a sharp intake of breath.

“Okay?” You asked.

He nodded. “Yes, it’s just…it’s been a while.”

Anyone with any sense knew that meant more than one thing. It had been a while since he felt anyone’s touch; nonetheless, a naked woman’s.

From behind him, you saw a small group of girls all looking at you. They all looked a little younger than you, and acted like so, giggling loudly and talking without a care in the world. It was only then that you noticed they were looking at Lucius.

“Is there someone eyeing me now?” He attempted to tease you when he noticed your gaze.

You nodded, no hint of humor behind your voice. “A good few of them.”

“Is that so?”

You removed your hand. “I wouldn’t mind, you know.”

“Wouldn’t mind what?” He pinched his eyebrows together.

“…Getting your release from a woman that isn’t me.” You were puzzled by his seeming ignorance. “You’re a man, I understand-.”

He said your name with somewhat of gasp. You didn’t listen one bit.

“No, I mean it. I will not be more selfish than I already have been, expecting you to remain celibate because I don’t think I will-.”

Lucius said your name again and you stopped. Even when you did, he said it a third time as if to know he had your attention. He continued to run his fingers up and down your back.

“I will not dishonor you-.”

“-I have been dishonored several times before, it does not matter-.”

“-Listen to me.” He said softly yet firmly. “Even if I desired someone carnally, it is not selfish of you to want my loyalty. I’m not a boy who wishes to bed anything that breathes. I don’t think I can do so with someone I do not have any deep feelings for. You are my wife, and I will not treat you less.”

He didn’t call you his ‘betrothed’. As if, the moment you accepted his apology, you were already his other half. To hear him speak with so much certainty after neither of you knowing what any day would bring…it brought an astonishing comfort you never knew you needed.

“Thank you.” You felt like your heart could beat again.

“You don’t-.”

“-No but I do. I don’t…I don’t think I could give you anything of myself if you wanted it. It’s still…I remember a lot of what Geta did to me, and I forgot it at the same time. It doesn’t happen a lot in my nightmares, but it still does. That one night you found me he…he cut out my womb and held it in his hands. I thought I woke up, but I didn’t, and I think I was in Elysian Fields, but I only saw a shadow. I don’t know what any of that means.”

Lucius let you finish all of the anxiety you had thrown onto him. Still, releasing a shallow breath, he said.

“You die in most of my dreams.” He clarified. “The bad ones, I mean. A lot of people do, but you’ve been in them the most. There are times I see both you and Arishat, or my mother, or all three of you and…those are the worst. The night I found you outside, I couldn’t…I had a horrible dream that I couldn’t even see your face, but I knew it was you when I found you hanging in the Colosseum.”

If the both of you weren’t naked and, in the bathhouse, you would have embraced him. Yet, with the most understanding look in your eyes, you brought your hand to the base of his neck, his loose curls between your fingers. You swore you felt him relax into your touch for just a moment.

“I’ve known everyone to have their own beliefs of dreams.” You whispered. “They’re meant to predict the future, they reflect the past, they are punishments, they are blessings, and they mean nothing. I wonder if it’s possible they are all of them.”

He nodded. “I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

“I do.” Lucius unknowingly leaned into you just ever so slightly. You grinned from ear to ear, pulling your hand away from him. “I believe you need to cut your hair.”

He chortled. “I’m not spending anything on cutting it. It’s fine.”

“I’ll cut it then.”

“I would rather be stabbed.”

“Oh, quit being dramatic.” you playfully swatted him. “There’s a reason I would’ve been a better hairdresser than tailor.”

The two of you teased one another for a minute longer after that. Than, even though the conversation died, it was not in vain. There was a quiet gentleness and protectiveness as you both shared a short distance between each other while bathing. Lucius kept his eye on you more than you did him, knowing that it was always possible a man could try to take advantage of you.

When all was said and done, you got your horse from the stable at the inn, and the two of you rode back to the farm with a newfound understanding of each other.

More than a year and a half have passed since the fall of the Roman Empire and its subsequent birth of the Republic. Your strange marriage with Lucius grew into a friendship of respect and understanding. You both talked more than you had when you were first betrothed, even if your busy schedules remained the same.

The farm had improved after its first harvest, even raising enough money to build a chicken coop and house a few chickens. The house itself was more furnished, and the two of you managed to purchase a bathtub, no longer needing to use the public ones in the city.

Both of you had changed as well. Even with what minimal farm work you did, it built both your strength and stamina. Lucius had begun to grow out his facial hair; not much for it to be an actual beard, but more so just under his nose. You’d joke about it looking like a caterpillar, to which he would lightly shove you away.

After the intimate discussion the two of you shared, it was only then you both realized you still didn’t know much about each other. Most importantly, the little things that made each of you a person.

So, you’d take time to get to know one another.

You were helping Lucius pull weeds around the crops when you found out he had ripped a monkey’s throat out with his teeth during his very first gladiator fight.

You were reading a collection of poetry one night when Lucius told you that you mouth the words of whatever you’re reading if you find it most interesting.

During supper one night, Lucius ate the entirety of the plate only to then eat whatever else you hadn’t. That was when your theory was proven right; he does forget to eat sometimes.

Both of you had tried to keep the housework to an equal amount; if he cooked one night, you’d clean the kitchen and vice versa. Yet, some remained stagnant; you always cut his hair, yet he always changed the horses’ shoes.

Cutting his hair was perhaps your favorite way to speak with him.

“Remember to clean your sandals before coming in next time.” He reminded you as he sat on a tree trunk outside. “You tracked in mud.”

Standing behind him while trimming small hairs, you shook your head. “My apologies, master of the house; it was downpouring and I was freezing.”

“Serves you right, I’d say.”

You placed the tip of the shears against his neck. “What else do you have to say?”

He snickered. “That you’re an astonishing woman who I am blessed to be with."

“Wrong answer, all lies.” You pretended to stab him, only to bring the shears back to his hair.

“I’m not lying!” Lucius laughed.

You only gave him a ‘tsk’ before continuing. “Are you sleeping any better?”

He said nothing at first. Your eyes drifted down to his hands and saw him pull on his tunic; another telltale sign of his nervousness.

“I keep seeing my mother’s face.” He admitted. “Only her face, nothing else.”

“It was the third night last night, right?”

“Yes.”

You sighed. “Would you want to hear a dream I had a few days ago to make you feel better?”

“Better because it was happy, or because you think I’ll feel happy I wasn’t you?”

“The latter.”

“Tell me.”

You turned his head to the side gently, continuing your work. “I stood in front of the entire senate of Rome, and they were all laughing at me. I don’t even know what I said, they only laughed and laughed.”

“Is that not what happened to you in the waking day?”

“No, they listened…I think.” You shook our head. “It more so angers me that, in the waking life, I presented logic to them, and they still chose Macrinus who showed nothing of the sort.”

“Some men like to speak of only desiring logic yet run away with their emotions once it is presented.” Lucius stated. “What had you told them?”

“That all of Rome would continue to riot if they killed Lucilla.” You said grimly. “I still don’t understand; they had their proof of the rage Rome’s children could feel when their general was killed, the only reason the city did not fall was because Macrinus was slain. I’m done.”

You set your shears down and Lucius stood, shaking the fallen hair off his clothes. He turned to you.

“If it matters at all, I think the only reason this house hasn’t fallen is because of you.”

Grinning from ear to ear, you shoved him playfully. “Away with you, you’re just as much of the reason as I am.”

“I do all that I can.”

There were moments like this where you would not speak of childhood memories or events of your day. These moments were reserved for the days where it felt like time slowed down just to give you two the grace to speak about them in more detail.

With only a single candle between the two of you one quiet night, you told him how you have to walk a different path in the city sometimes simply to avoid brothels; hating the sounds you would hear from inside, the stench of cheap perfume and sweating bodies burning your nose, the men who would brag to their friends about the women they had.

At breakfast one day, before the sun had even rose, Lucius told you about a time when he was ten, still on the run. He had gone into a man’s house with the promise of food, only to then be hit the head with something so heavy, he was knocked out. He had awoken in a dark room, but managed to find a curtained window, and escaped. He never knew what would have happened to him if he had woken up just a minute later.

There was tenderness you shared with him that you had never shared with anyone in your life.You sht

That was only more apparent on one fateful day.

The first bad omen for the day that morning was when you had run out of sugar for breakfast. The second was when your horse was extra stubborn as you rode her into the city; it was so out of the ordinary, you wondered if you did something to make her hate you.

Still, everything was fine once you went to work. At least it was for the first half of the day.

There were aggressive people from across the land coming into the city you certainly had to deal with, but the worst was when a man twice your size bluffed you with a slap. Even so, the other men you worked with had yelled and sent him away.

That day though…there was a woman with a look in her eyes.

You thought you had seen pure rage when you had been with Geta. Yet, that day was a lesson to you; wrath had many faces.

She mumbled in Greek, but you did not know what she said at first. Then, she attempted to speak Latin. You politely told her you could speak Greek, and so with exhaustion, she told you that she was going to visit her mother.

When asked for her mother’s name, she didn’t say it. After asking again, she became enraged, yelling at you that she should just be able to be let in. When you resisted, she grabbed your bad arm, yanking it to pull you closer to her.

The pain shot through your shoulder like a bolt of lightning, and you cried out. She tugged on your hair as the men beside you tried to pry her away from you. Luckily, she didn’t manage to yank any of it out once the men forced her away from you. Tears fell freely over your face as you cradled yourself, unable to stop the sobs from leaving your lips.

They let you leave early yet paid you as if you were there the whole day.

The ride back to the farm wasn’t any better, but at least your steed took notice of your heartache and was more merciful to you. When you made it home, you slowed her down when you saw Lucius limping towards the house.

You both stopped where you were, staring at one another as if you weren’t supposed to be seeing the other.

“Why are you back so early?” He asked first.

“Why are you dragging your foot?” You asked second.

Lucius took a deep breath, and you saw tears in his eyes. “I fell.”

The only time you had seen him cry was when burying Lucilla; it wouldn’t be from simply falling. You slowly pulled yourself off your horse but did so quick enough before he could rush to help you. You wished nothing more than to pull him into the warmth of the house, to sit him down and tend to his wound to distract you from your own.

Yet, the moment you took his hand, he began to weep.

“Oh Lucius.” You whispered, bringing your hand up to cradle his face. He wrapped both of his arms around you, bringing you onto the ground with him. You yelped a little when he squeezed your bad shoulder too tight, and he pulled away.

“What happened?” He asked.

You shook your head. “You need-.”

“-What happened?!”

Knowing he wouldn’t stop asking, you told him. “Someone at the gate attacked me. Pulled on my bad arm, my hair…it wasn’t as bad as you’d think-.”

“-Where is he?” He lowered his tone and his demeanor.

Your jaw dropped into a surprised huff. “She is long gone by now, and even if she wasn’t then as my husband, you should stay with me instead of wandering the streets of Rome hoping to find someone to be your anger’s victim!”

Though he still wore that rage upon his face, it soon fell once he saw your own tears fall from your eyes like dewdrops on flowers. Lucius laid himself flat on the dirt, and you sat above him.

“I have been married to you longer than I had been to Arishat.” He confessed. “I knew her for longer, but-but not as deeply; no, I-I knew her more than…I don’t…It’s been long since her death, yet there are moments I think of her, and I cannot stop crying.”

You never knew this was in his heart. You knew to never speak of Arishat, only listen whenever he would bring her up (even so, it was once in a blue moon).

“I’m sorry.” He sniffled, trying to pull himself together. “I know she is gone, and I shouldn’t be-.”

“-You shouldn’t what?” You interrupted. “Remember her? You think I wish for you to forget the woman you so loved?”

He shook his head. “No, but it’s selfish of me to-.”

You were the one to make him lose his words this time. With both hesitation certainty, you placed his head into your lap. It was too late for you to stop once you did, and you felt your own body tense. Then, upon taking a look at his body battered from rigorous work, and another at his face, which relaxed with his eyes fully shut, you ran your fingers through his hair.

“Lucius,” you sighed. “never will I think you are a horrible man for mourning her. You missing her shows just how much you adored her, and how she was a treasure to you. In another life, above all, I wish I could have met her. You are not in the wrong for wanting to see her again. I know you do not love me-.”

“-I do love you.” He opened his eyes upon saying it.

Your heart felt as if it was going to beat itself out of your chest and run away when he said those four words. To preserve your sanity, you took it a different way and smiled sadly.

“Not in the way you loved her.” You said softly. “But what else more can I ask for in a husband than one who treats me with a gentleness I did not know was possible? One who has been there to protect me even before we were married?”

Lucius took a deep breath, rubbing his face to clear away his tears. “You’re too good to me.”

“Gods above,” you groaned tiredly. “we can go back and forth on who deserves each other. Let us just go back into the house, have supper, and sleep.”

“I would like that.” He hissed as he went to stand.

Helping him, once he was on his best foot, you said. “You never told me what you did to your leg.”

He looked behind him at the field. “There was a snake and a rock.”

You gave him a look. “And what happened with them?”

“I don’t wish to speak of it.” He said grimly.

In any other instance, you would have laughed. Yet, as his eyes were still heavy from crying, you just nodded. The both of you helped each other into the house, and you sat him down on one of the several cushions in the living area.

“Your arm,” he asked. “how bad is it?”

You shook your head. “Just really sore. I think she might have left a nasty bruise or two somewhere, but I won’t know yet.”

“Put one of the cloths in the pot with water and put it over the fire.” He told. “Take it out after a few minutes, let it rest for another, then put it on your shoulder. It should help.”

“Thank you.” You stood, doing so, saying. “I swore we had bandages somewhere. I’ll make something for you to drink too; I bought some herbs just last week.”

He nodded, not taking his eyes off of you as you worked. If it were any other man, you would have felt unsafe; yet, it was only Lucius.

Little by little that night, both of you helped heal one another.

Half a year passed since that night, and you and Lucius had only grown closer. Perhaps as close as you could be with a man who was not your husband by choice.

Not much on the farm had changed; you two were living comfortably, and happily, almost making all the turmoil from the first year worth it. The both of you decided to make more visits to Atticus and Diana’s home, realizing just how much you both missed having someone to talk to outside of each other; but that did not mean you had to keep things hidden of course.

If anything, you shared everything with each other.

So much so, that when Lucius asked you why you held onto him longer when he embraced you on your birthday, you told him the truth.

“I don’t want every time we touch to be when it is in turmoil.” You explained, growing meeker. “And I…I’ve missed the feeling of it when it has not been forced upon me.”

Lucius stared at you with a look you had never seen from him. He had been gentle with you many a times, but they way his eyes fell into yours…

He took a step closer to you, and when you showed no sign of discomfort, he took your face into his hands. Your eyes shut at the feeling of him, and he pressed his head against yours. Never in your life had someone’s breath upon your skin feel so immaculate.

From there on out, it always seemed like you had to have a hand on each other one way or another.

It started with holding hands whenever walking through the city together. He used to ‘lead’ you through the crowds in the past, but more so with a hand hovering over your back. No, him holding your hand meant he would have to go where you would go if anything were to happen.

Alongside this, he’d reach over and hold it at Atticus and Diana’s house; whether it was during dinner, or simply just talking. The eldest child had said what the rest of the household had been thinking.

“They’re finally acting like they’re married!”

Because even when there were no other eyes besides yours, he would still hold your hand. You wonder if it ever became a way for Lucius to ground himself; because it certainly did for you.

You hugged him more often as well. Those used to be for ‘substantial’ occasions; those being celebrations or heartbreaks. Now, they were incorporated into greetings and goodbyes. Of course, it only took a few weeks before they were than made into simple desires.

He would be cooking dinner, and you would come beside him to embrace him. You would be gathering eggs from the chickens, and he would wait for you to set the basket down before tossing his arms around you.

At night, it was normal for you both to trade spots as one of you would read a story, and the other would have their head in the other’s lap.

This happened on so many occasions, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise for what Lucius proposed next, but it did.

“If you don’t favor the question I’m about to ask you, then you are allowed to never speak to me again.” He said, his feet hanging off the arm of the lecti couch you both bought that year.

“Well,” you scoffed, sitting on the end of it. “I will have to speak to you again because we live together.”

“Would you want to sleep in my room tonight?” Never in your life had you thought that would have been his question. When you didn’t speak right away, he backtracked. “I don’t expect you to. I understand if-.”

“-The nights are growing colder.” You stated, no visible uneasiness. “I’ve noticed it, and I don’t think any number of blankets could warm me.”

He swallowed thickly, and this was perhaps one of the first times you’d ever seen him like this. “Yes…it’s cold.”

You nodded, and another beat of silence fell between you two. Standing up, you tugged at the seams of your dress. “I-I’ll go change.”

“Yes,” he sat up. “I shall as well.”

Disappearing into your room, you tossed your day clothes off then slipped on a nightdress. After pacing around the floor for a few moments, you gathered the courage to go out into the hall and knock on Lucius’ door.

It was opened as if he was standing right behind it.

He wore just a plain, tattered tunic, and said nothing; yet, you caught his eyes run down you before immediately bringing them back to your face. You were not even in his room yet, and already your body grew warmer.

“May I come in?” You asked.

“Yes, of course.” He stepped aside and you entered.

Somehow, you were no longer man and wife; you were two people who had just discovered a strange, yet burning, feeling that you both held for one another. A feeling that you were both afraid to say aloud…because then it would be real.

The only light in his room was from the moon just peeking through the curtain of his one window. Looking around, you saw that it was still just the bare minimum; a bed, a small table beside it with a lamp, and a dresser. The only others things of note were his sword leaning against the wall, and just a few dirty clothes on the floor.

“I-I tried to clean before you came.” He mentioned.

“Is the rest under the bed?” You asked.

He chuckled. “Yes.”

Before you could change your mind, you pulled the covers off one side of the bed and slid under them. Glancing behind at Lucius, you saw him wear a look where you knew he wanted to say something.

“What is it?” You asked.

“That’s usually the side I sleep on but-.”

You rolled over to the other side. “Are you content now?”

He wheezed, moving to his designated side, slipping under the covers. “Very.”

“Good.” You smiled up at him.

His own mouth lowered as you could see him thinking. He then said. “I don’t expect us to do anything.”

You watched as his eyes dropped from you, as if it was too invasive just to merely look. Thinking from only your heart, you scooted closer, resting your hand on his arm. You ran your fingers up and down his muscles, but then guided his arm to wrap around your waist.

“Okay?”

He hummed, pulling you just a little closer. “Yes.”

“And we’ll just lay together?” You whispered. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

And that’s what you did. The compete truth was that you would caress him only to remind yourself that it was Lucius and not Geta. His arms, his back, his face…he was nothing like him.

After a few more nights, you told him that as you both lay awake, unable to sleep. He had pulled you on top of him that night, saying that you could see his face better in the moonlight. You only giggled, hiding your face in his chest; even that was too much for you.

It was easier to tell each other things in the darkness. You always knew that, but with being in the same bed (you had not gone back to your room for a week), the words flowed out of both your mouths.

“After my father died,” you said one night as you laid on your side facing him. “I would stroke my own hair or even my arms and pretend they were someone else’s. Even when I was with Geta.”

Lucius stared at you, then immediately began to caress your cheek. You shut your eyes, sighing at the feeling.

“I never thought I’d be able to sleep next to another woman again.” He whispered.

“And now?” You looked into his eyes.

He stopped his movements, but did not remove his hand. You watched every part of him. How his chest heaved shallowly, his arms tensing ever so slightly, but his eyes…gods his eyes. They were heavy as they looked at you; a look that made your heart flutter and not shutter.

Swallowing your fear, you sat up and inched closer to him. Your face hovered above his, and your breath heated his skin. His hand continued to trace shapes about your cheek, and shutting your eyes, you placed your lips upon his.

It was the gentlest kiss you ever shared with a man.

You had pulled away, dreading to see how he felt. When your eyes befell his gentle smile, and his other hand came up to cup your face, you kissed him again.

And again, and again, and again.

You climbed upon his lap without pulling your lips away from him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He sat up, his own arm encircling your waist and drawing you impossibly closer.

Lucius parted from you, and as you whined at the loss of his lips, they soon settled upon your cheek, and then your jaw, and then your chin. Your heavy pants turned to soft grunts as he kissed down your neck, his mustache scratching your skin in just the right way.

Your hands settled into his hair the lower he traveled, moving your night gown off your shoulder to kiss your collarbone. You felt yourself becoming intoxicated from him, and only then noticed you had been for a while.

Oh, how you wished you could bottle up his laugh, his strength, his stubbornness, and get drunk every night. His kisses only added fuel to the fire that was your desire for him.

He sunk his teeth into your skin, and your body, once enflamed, ran cold.

“No!” You tore yourself from his lap, nearly falling off the bed.

Lucius said your name, leaning forward on instinct but soon stopped once he saw you crawl away. “I’m sorry.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. All you knew was that you needed to go, so you did. Cradling yourself in your arms, you got up from his bed, rushing out of his room and into yours.

You half expected him to knock on the door, then, when you wouldn’t answer, him yell and curse you before breaking it down. Yet nothing of the sort happened. You heard his own door open, and you saw his shadow on the other side, but he did not touch your door. He left after a moment of waiting.

When his own door shut, did you finally cry.

You told yourself that night, you would wake up far earlier than Lucius would so you simply wouldn’t have to see him.

When you awoke, you did the exact opposite. You laid in your bed, trying to return to sleep, only to be forced to lie in the dark. The sun rose into your room, and you heard Lucius’ door open. Still, you did not get up.

It was quite comedic, actually. With your door still shut, he knew you were still home. How he tried his best to keep quiet for you, yet his footsteps had always been heavy, the front door had always creaked, and you could always hear him cursing under his breath every time.

When you knew he had left the house, that was when you stood from your bed, slipping on your sandals. You didn’t bother changing out of your nightdress, leaving your room, and then the house.

Lucius was amongst the chickens when he saw you. He didn’t bother hiding the surprise upon his face at the sight of you. You walked to him until there was little space between you.

“Last night-.”

You took his hand from his side, placing it upon your face. He rubbed your cheek with his thumb as if it was natural. Kissing the palm of his hand, you trailed it down to your clothed breast. He breathed your name with hesitance, but you shushed him. You held his hand there, not taking your eyes off him.

“I will show you, one day.” You told him. “I will show you the mark Geta had made. The one where I myself can scarcely see it, yet I know that it haunts me. But now…” You brought your other hand up to his face, tracing your thumb over his lip. “I just want you to understand.”

He kissed the pad of your thumb, nodding. You embraced him, and he held you with both gentleness and ferocity. The rest of the day carried on as normal, yet you aided him with the chores on the farm.

You went to bed with him that night, but it was the first time he did not entrap you in his arms. You knew he was still afraid of hurting you, but you would be a liar if you said you weren’t thankful for the space.

Still, he would feel your touch every day; whether it was something as small as brushing his hand, or as substantial as kissing his cheek.

As the both of you lay awake one night, you played with the sleeve of his tunic.

“Could I lie on top of you?” You asked.

Lucius looked over at you, nodding. “You never need to ask.”

“I want to.” You climbed on top of him, straddling his lap. “I never want to force you to do anything.”

His eyes fell to your hips before returning them to your face. “I’ll tell you if I wish to not do something. I hope you know you can as well.”

“I do. Would you like to touch me?”

“Where do you want me to touch you?”

You moved his hands to your hips, which he held firmly, yet not enough to hurt you. You leaned down so your lips touched his.

“No teeth.” You said.

“No teeth.” He repeated.

Lucius sighed into your mouth as you kissed. Despite how you were on top of him, the kiss was sweet, shy even. When you pulled away, you trailed your lips from his cheek to his ear.

“Do you dream about me?” You rasped.

He said nothing, and you continued to kiss every part of his face besides his lips.

“It’s okay.” You kissed his Adam’s Apple. “I want you too.”

“Yes.” His breath hitched.

“What was I doing in your favorite one?” You kissed his pulse point.

“You,” he breathed sharply through his nose. “you’re touching yourself.”

“Would that please you?” You sat up in somewhat surprise, resting your hands on his chest. “To watch me do so?”

He shook his head. “I want to do what pleases you.”

It felt foreign to hear someone say they want you to feel good. Instead of cowering from it, you faced it head on. You kneeled for a moment, hiking your gown up to your hips before sitting back on your ankles, exposing yourself to him. Lucius’ jaw clenched at the sight of your naked center, and he drew his hands away from your hips, falling them into fists upon the mattress.

“I wish to watch you as you watch me.”

Without looking away from you, he drew his hand down to his cock, pulling it out from under his tunic. Your eyes grew just a hint. There was no doubt upon him being more well-endowed than others, but it was still different from how you imagined.

Shutting your eyes, you trailed your fingers over your cunt, your thumb playing with your clit. The sounds of Lucius’ smothered grunts, and the skin of his cock on his fingers only added to your pleasure. Digging deeper and moving faster, you felt a coil within your stomach tighten when you opened your eyes and saw as Lucius’ gaze bore into yours.

Light moans escaped your lips as your hips moved with a mind of their own, watching the man beneath you take pleasure from his own hand. It was him chanting your name like a prayer that sent you over the edge. With your eyes shut, the coil within you snapped, and pleasure filled your veins.

Not long after, you felt a warmth coat your nightdress. Opening your eyes, you looked down and saw the white-hot residue of Lucius’ release. Your gaze drew to his cock, still clutched in his hand, yet red with droplets of white running over his knuckles.

You don’t know what possessed you to, but you lowered your mouth down to clean him with your tongue.

“Gods be good!” He huffed, laughing your name.

“What?” You wiped your mouth.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

Grinning like the devil, you slid off the bed, walking towards the door. “I hope it’s a pleasant one then.”

He sat up. “Where are you going?”

“To change. You dirtied me as well.” You teased.

“Take one of my tunics from the dresser.”

It almost made you laugh that he didn’t want you to leave for even a second. You opened the top drawer, grabbing the longest tunic you could find before facing him. “Close your eyes.”

He laid on his side, putting a pillow over his head. Many would find it strange how the both of you would see the most intimate parts of yourself while doing one of the most intimate acts together, yet you didn’t want him to see you naked.

But Lucius never thought of it as strange. He knew what you had been through, and never once judged you.

When you were clothed, you slid into bed, wrapping your arms around his body and pressing a quick kiss to the back of his neck.

“You’re a good man, Lucius Verus Aurelius.” You whispered. “I will tell you that until the day you die, or when you finally believe me.”

He squeezed your hand, relaxing into your touch. You never slept so peacefully until that night.

You always had to see him whenever he would touch you so intimately. There would be nights where there was only a single candle in the room either while he caressed the swell of your breasts, or the inside of your thigh as you sat on his lap.

His fingers were too much for you at first, but he never ridiculed you. When you whimpered at the feeling, he retracted them, kissing your eyes. You asked him again to try, and he whispered praises into your hair as the pain from a dry spell soon turned into pleasure.

It was usually at night did these moments of exploration occurred. In the day, the most you would ever do was kiss. That is, until the first time you cut his hair since the discovery of feelings.

“I don’t want to get hair on your floor.” Lucius said as he sat on the floor, leaning his back against the foot of your bed. It was hotter than sin that day. He wore nothing but a loincloth, but that barely did anything to help him from the heat. You wore essentially a thin shift that would usually be under your dress; yet again, because of the heat, that was all you wore.

You sat on the bed, legs draped over his shoulders as you cut his hair. “It’s your floor too. You built the house.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I haven’t slept here for a while now. Besides, I will clean up.”

“I had no idea you favored doing domestic work now.” He turned and pressed a kiss to your knee.

You slapped the back of his head. “Don’t move! I’ll give you a bald spot if you do so again.”

“Yes, my mistress of the house.” He joked.

“You’re horrible.”

“You just told me I was a good man not so long ago.”

“And I can just as easily revoke that title.”

He stayed silent the rest of the time, but not from any underlining anger. Simply from his at ease posture, you knew he was smiling.

He smiled more those days.

When you were finished, you tossed your scissors aside, but Lucius’ hands settled upon your thighs, not allowing you to get up. You scoffed.

“What is it?”

He turned to face you, kneeling up to meet you. “I wish to try something, but only if you wish it as well.”

You rose your brow, but smiled, kissing his nose. “It will be difficult if I do not know what it is.”

Without drawing his eyes away from yours, he slid his hands up your thighs, bringing the bottom of your shift with it. It seemed normal at first, but once he lowered his mouth, your chest tightened.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“I want to kiss you there.” His breath caressed your cunt and you mewled at the feeling. “I think you’ll enjoy it, but we don’t have to.”

Your heart changed from beating in fear, to then in anticipation. You loved how he kissed your lips, and every inch of your skin that was not covered, what would it feel like to have his lips there?

Kissing the top of his head, you laid on your elbows, nodding.

“Let me hear you say it.” He nosed the inside of your thigh.

“Yes.” You sighed. “Please.”

He lowered his mouth back down, pressing the lightest of kissed onto your center. You groaned through shut lips, only for them to part open as the hairs of his mustache tickled you whilst he began to lap at your wetness.

Tossing your head back, you sat up, running your hands through his hair, unconsciously rolling your hips to meet his mouth. His groan reverberated through your body, only adding to the pleasure you were feeling.

“Lucius, Lucius,” you babbled his name until it didn’t sound like a word.

His nose bumped against your aching clit the same time his tongue penetrated your cunt. You yelped as that familiar, tightening feeling swept over you. His half-lidded eyes would stare up at you every once in a while, as he would continue to drink from you as if he had been stranded in the desert. Just as you were on the brink of release, you drew him away from you.

“What-what is it?” He huffed. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, pressing your lips to his before scooting further up the bed. With one last breath, you pulled your shift over your head, revealing your bare body to him. His gaze ran over your figure unashamedly.

“Come here.” You beckoned.

He crawled onto the bed and over your body, yet still looked at your face. You took his hand and laid it over your breast. His body ran cold at what was on the side of it. A bite mark.

“He branded me all those years ago.” You confessed. “And it has not left since.”

Geta…

You ran your hand up his chest. “I love you, and I trust you with every part of my body. I need you to know that.”

“I love you.” He echoed, pressing the tenderest of kisses to the mark and you gasped lightly. “I have for so long now; I…I need you.”

“Then have me.”

He sat back on his knees, unwrapping his loin cloth and tossing it to the floor. Precum leaked from his sweltering cock as it stood upright like a pillar. You crawled over, kissing every inch of his face and climbing into his lap. He drew his arms around your waist, his finger tracing circles into the small of your back.

“I don’t know how long I will last.” He puffed heavily. “It’s been so long.”

“I just want you inside of me.” You kissed his jaw, taking his cock into your hand and sinking down onto it. It had been a while for you too, and while you were soaked, it was not enough to completely subside the tightness. “Just…wait.”

“I could die happy if all you wanted was for me to remain still as you’re above me.” He said into your ear.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, sinking your nails into his skin because that was the only way to remind you that he was still there. The further you sunk down on him, the easier and more pleasureful you felt.

“I’m going to move now.” You said into his shoulder, and you did.

Slowly, at first you relished in the quiet slapping of skin and the breath moans leaving both you and Lucius’ lips. He trailed a syrupy line of kisses down your throat until he bowed his head to place them upon your chest.

“Your name,” Lucius said into your skin. “tell me your name.”

You gave him a look as you rolled your hips into his, yet sighed your name.

“Again.” He breathed, latching his lips around the tip of your breast.

You did.

“Again.” He kissed the hollow of your throat.

You leaned into his touch, saying your name a third time.

He repeated your given name, than following it with ‘Aurelias’. Your movements stilled, yet he did not care.

“You are the most cunning woman I have met, and you are my wife.” He stated, never looking away from you. Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw the same for him, and you gave him a messy kiss before resuming faster this time.

After months of being called a name that did not belong to you, especially whenever in the bedroom, Lucius was doing everything to remind you that you were yourself again as you felt pleasure.

It felt as if, after two years, ‘Julia’ was finally gone.

You chanted his name as if it was your favorite prayer, burying your hands in his hair and kissing his lips.

“Lucius, Lucius, Lucius…”

Because, just like you, how long had it been since his true name was uttered whilst in the throes of pleasure?

He moaned into your mouth, holding onto you tighter. You squealed when he rose up onto his knees, latching your legs around his waist and only crying out sharply when your throbbing clit ran across his pubic hair.

“Come on, come on,” he urged into your ear. “I know you can give it to me.”

“Lu-Lu-!” You moaned, running your nails over the thick field of muscles that was his back.

He said your name over and over again, until it was one word that was the end of you.

“Please.”

You came with your vision blinded from the state of euphoria you had reached. Lucius still held you above him even as his legs began to quake, bouncing you on his cock. You felt as though you were suspended in air when his groans stammered, and you felt strings of his cum paint the walls of your cunt.

Slowly, he lowered the two of you onto the mattress, laying you on your back like you were the most precious treasure in the world. You kept your legs around his waist, breathing with him with your chests glued together from your sweat.

“Lucius-.” You began, trying to shift under him.

“-Just,” he grunted. “just another moment. Please.”

How could you deny him? Every kiss he gave was loving as he laid upon you. His cock had grown soft, and even you were aware that you could’ve fallen asleep if you weren’t careful.

When he pulled away from you, you let out an involuntary whine.

“I thought you wanted me to get off you?” He kissed your stomach when he stood up.

You shoved him playfully. “Just clean me up and come back.”

“So controlling.”

Still, he did what you asked, bringing a soaked washcloth from the bathroom and cleaning you. You groaned out of both the cold water hitting your hot skin, and the heat from the air itself.

“We should’ve waited until night.” You whined.

“Why?”

“I’m suffocating from the air outside!”

Lucius hummed, tossing the washcloth aside and looming over you. “Then that forces us to wear nothing today, so that we might cool down.”

You nodded. “Perhaps you aren’t as feeble minded as I thought.”

He settled behind you, tossing an arm over your waist and pulling your back to his chest. Even though his cock pressed against you, the two of you were completely exhausted from the heat of the day’s work, and the heat of what took place only moments before.

The only sound was that of the cicadas singing in the summertime. Sometimes, a breeze or two of wind would bounce the curtain off the window, but for the most part, just the even breathing you shared with Lucius was all you could hear.

Lucius’ mustache rubbed your skin when he placed a kiss to your neck. “What’s going on inside of your mind right now?”

You grinned. “A proper wife would say that I was thinking of you.”

“But that’s not what it is.”

“It’s something that has nothing to do with anything of note.”

He squeezed you. “Spit it out, woman.”

Sighing, you felt a sense of dread in your heart; both for your thoughts, and also how your husband would react. So, you tried your best to explain it.

“Do you even wonder how you will be remembered?” You began. “Spoken from mouths? Written in books? Painted on walls? They’ll remember Lucius, the Lost Son, the Last Gladiator…What will they remember of me, if anything? Rome’s Cleopatra? Her Delight? A whore to the twin emperors? I like to fantasize that they will name me the first woman who sat upon the emperor’s throne, even if it was as the last of its consul. Yet, even if they name me…I will be Julia. The name of a slave, the name I only accepted when he would press me into the bed so roughly. I only survived because I would need to tell myself that he was doing all of it to Julia, not to me.”

It felt quieter in that room, even though the sounds outside did not cease. Lucius gently turned your body towards him, and he stroked your face with the back of his hand.

“You’re crying,” he uttered your name, frowning.

You wiped your eyes, wanting to hide from him. Yet, he did not allow it, pulling your hands away from you and wrapping them around his shoulders.

“Would you wish I remain silent, or share with you what is in my head?” He asked.

“Talk to me.” You answered.

“I never cared of what history would see of me.” He stated. “Even as a boy. I know that we are different in most aspects of life, but I believe it serves no one to wonder away how we will be viewed long after we are dead. I do not care if or what a stranger thinks of me in a lifetime later. I care how Atticus and Diana see me. I care what their children think. Above all, I care of what you see me to be.”

You pressed your head against his. “You’re pigheaded and quite foolish sometimes.”

“And it matters you say that.” He pulled you closer. “Because that is what you will tell others when I pass on.”

“You know I don’t think that is all you are.” You remined him.

“I do.” He nodded. “I will know you for your wit, and your protective nature, and your kindness.”

“I never truly thought of myself as kind.” You gave a pained smile.

“That is how I see you.” He kissed your brow. “And what I will say with my last dying breath.”

You wondered how such a man as himself could exist at the same time you did. A man who hated you prior to everything yet laid with you in bed. A man who treated you with a tenderness you never thought possible.

A man who could be the last person on earth with you, and you would only feel at peace.

You did not need to say anything to him. Simply by the innocent smile that spread across your lips, did he know. You fell into the most comfortable of silences together as you laid naked in the summer heat.

The both of you were lost to time as we all shall be one day.

Perhaps you lived on that farm for the rest of your days, or perhaps you moved to a different land.

Perhaps you had ten children, perhaps you had only one, or perhaps you had none and were content with each other’s company.

Perhaps you died before him, perhaps he died before you, or perhaps you both passed onto the Elysian fields together.

All that truly matters, at the end of all things, is the life the two of you led together, and what you and loved ones remembered the most of it.

#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #hanno x reader #lucius x reader #lucius verus x reader #lucius versus x reader #gladiator 2 spoilers #Youtube

810 notes · View notes