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yanderedrabbles · 4 months ago

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Yandere Seasons of the Year

Autumn is the nerdy girl in your book club. Pigtails, pleated skirts, too thick glasses. Whenever she's forced to speak up in class, she almost always stutters. Getting softer with each word until the teacher finally has mercy on her and let's her trail off. She has few friends, mostly other slightly dorky kids who band together because otherwise they'd all be stuck eating alone. You don't really notice her at first.

But then you read Jane Eyre and for once she isn't shy at all. She tells your whole book club all about the symbolism, the themes, how she doesn't fully consider it a gothic novel but that it definitely has gothic elements. Her cheeks are just a little flushed, her hands darting around when she talks. She's pretty, you realise slowly. When she isn't folded over herself or scurrying through the hall like she doesn't want to be caught.

Afterwards, you strike up a conversation with her. She's all shy again, not really meeting your eyes.

"My dad's got a whole collection of classics. Special edition prints, with these hand painted edges," you tell her. "Why don't you stop by and you can borrow some?"

She narrows her eyes at you like she thinks you're making fun of her. "Maybe. If I have time."

She doesn't drop by. When you see her in the halls after that, you always stop to greet her. But she looks so uncomfortable that you never get to have a conversation. Always running off with her head bent so far down that you wonder how she sees anything past the tips of her shoes.

After a few weeks of half finished sentences and always keeping her books clutched to her chest, you're about ready to give up. To take the hint that she doesn't want to be your friend.

But then... she starts seeking you out. Tentative at first. Waiting outside your class and only saying hello if you're alone. Changing her route so that it takes her past your locker. Sitting just a little closer to you at lunch, almost always two tables away so you're in her line of sight.

Maybe she realises you aren't setting up some elaborate prank by talking to her. Your hurried hellos become actual conversations. She starts walking you to class every morning. When you again invite her over to borrow some books, she actually shows up.

Standing on your doorstep with the trees flaring yellow and orange behind her, her hair pushed out of her face with a red Alice band.

"Hi."

You lead her up to your room and she perches on the edge of your bed like she's scared to touch it. Scared to be in your space.

You were in the middle of sorting through your makeup before she showed up and now you look over at her with a twinkle in your eye.

"Will you let me do your makeup? Please?"

Her eyes go all wide behind her glasses. "Uh I don't know...I don't really wear that stuff..."

You sit in front of her, your kit spread on your lap. "Come on! You'll look so good. You've got such a great bone structure, it's practically a crime to not try some bronzer."

"I guess..."

You carefully reach up and take off her glasses. She flinches. "Shh, relax. It doesn't hurt."

You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and tilt her chin up with your finger. When you smooth primer over her skin, she subconsciously tilts her face into your palm.

"That feels nice..."

Her eye makeup is the trickiest part. She flinches every time you bring the eyeliner even close to her. Eventually, you slip your free hand around the nape of her neck. She freezes just long enough for you to add some wings. Her ears turn a bright red and she ducks away from you, stuttering.

"Ah sorry. Were my hands too cold?"

"N-no. No, your hands are...perfect."

You end up so close to her face that when she finally opens her eyes after mascara and lashes, she gasps. You run your thumb across her cheekbone to clear away a little spilled eye shadow.

"All done."

Even after you step away, it's takes her a few seconds to move.

"Do you like it?"

"I look so different."

You stand behind her in front of the mirror and rest your chin on her shoulder. "That's the magic of makeup! It's a good different. And besides, we're matching."

"Oh." She touches her fingers to her lips and looks down at the lipstick smeared on her fingertips. "I didn't notice. I...I really like it."

You pull away and grin at her. "Aren't you glad you let me do it?"

"Yeah," she says, still staring at her fingers. "Really glad."

When your lipstick and then your lip balm go missing, you don't even notice. What was it the kids used to say back in elementary? That if your lips touch where someone else's did, it counts as a kiss?

Autumn walks home through the falling leaves and wonders if you realise you're her first kiss.

Winter is the student council president. Confident, clever, a guy everyone says is going to be a great leader someday.

Oh, but he's cold too. Doesn't have any real friends, only achievements. Everyone knows him. Everyone respects him. But being respected and being liked are not at all the same thing.

You wonder if he ever gets lonely. You walk past the student council office during lunch one day and see him at his computer, a half eaten apple forgotten at his elbow. You shouldn't feel sorry for him. He's on the fast track to an ivy league and a career in finance. In a few years, he's going to be richer than you could ever hope to be. He takes home every performance award in every subject.

You shouldn't feel sorry for him. But you do.

"Hey, you got a minute?" You lightly rap on the doorframe and he turns to face you, not at all ruffled by your sudden appearance.

"Sure. You're y/n, right? I think we had algebra together a few years ago."

"Yep. Before you started taking AP classes and leaving all us peasants in the dust."

You're not surprised he knows you, despite never being introduced or even having a conversation before.

You grin at him. "Is an apple really the only lunch you're having? You've got to keep your energy up if you want to protect your title as smartest guy in school."

He frowns at his apple. The parts he's bitten are already starting to brown.

"I'm not that hungry."

You lean in the door frame and cross your arms. "I'm supposed to let our student present starve? If I let that happen, who's going to be around to defend our debate title? Stand up to the tyranny of the chess club?"

He scoffs and uses the tip of his pen to nudge the apple into the waste paper basket.

"Come eat lunch with me. I've been wanting to join some clubs and you can tell me what looks best on a college application. You can call it community service if you want," you offer.

That gets you a slightly raised brow. The most expressive you've seen him yet.

"What are they even offering today? I don't really stop at the cafeteria."

"Oh, you're in luck," you say. "Mashed potatoes and gravy. And it's only slightly congealed this time."

"Yum." Still, he stands up to follow you. He's much taller than you realised, and when he picks up his backpack his muscles flex in a way that tells you he isn't afraid of hitting the gym. Again, unsurprising. Except for his lunch, he seems the type to have his life in perfect balance.

When you finally sit down in the cafeteria, it isn't long before the other kids notice him. You're scarcely two bites into your lunch when the student magazine editor starts asking him about the budget for next semester. When that's settled, the chess team are next in line to complain about the state of their boards and to ask pretty please for some new pieces. It's only when the bell rings that they finally leave him alone. His lunch sits untouched in front of him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise."

He shrugs and shoots you a half smile. "Thanks anyway. This was...nice."

It's only when he's gone that you start to wonder if anyone else has ever seen him smile.

You start taking him lunch in the office a few days a week. Mostly sandwiches and chocolate milk. Not exactly the pinnacle of good eating, but anything is better than nothing, right?

You always end up on his desk, ankles crossed while he reclines in his computer chair, chin tilted up slightly to meet your eyes. It's casual, easy. He's funny, in a deadpan kind of way. You end up learning a ton about college admissions, about extra credit, about Ivy League rankings.

When applications open, he's the first person you go to when you need help. Eventually, he just sighs and plucks your half finished essay from your backpack.

"Just let me handle it, jeez."

"Really? Oh my god, thank you!" You stand on your toes and pull him into a hug. "You have no idea how stressed I've been."

He freezes. And then slowly wraps his arms around your waist.

" 'Course," he mutters into the crown of your head. "I'd be happy to."

The thing about Winter as a season is that it can be so insidiously misleading. You assume the greatest danger is the ice, the cold. You don't realise that most deaths are from broken gas lines, from excess alcohol, from persistent coughs. You prepare yourself for all the wrong dangers.

You assume that if Winter wants something, he'll pursue it outright. You don't notice that your college applications are only being sent to places he's applied to as well. You don't notice the way he sneaks your name into the records for the debate team, the chess club, volunteering hours - a blatant forgery just so you have a better chance of being accepted at the institutions where he wants you.

You don't notice the way he always comes up to you when other guys are talking to you, dragging you away with a tight smile and an excuse about scheduling issues or needing your help with the budget.

You don't notice him falling for you until it's far, far too late.

Spring is the ultra cool, earthy girl in your art class. Always sporting a full afro or long goddess braids. Effortlessly chic, with gold jewellery in her hair no matter how busy school seems to get.

She moves through everything at her own pace. Not part of a clique but never alone either.

You've always known each other a little. Had a few classes together over the years, shared lunch once or twice. But life is hectic and your paths don't always cross as much as you'd like. So when you end up in art class hoping for extra credits, you're more than a little glad to see her.

She's talented. Her portfolio has art schools all across the country drooling, practically on their knees to offer her a full ride.

It would be easy to get jealous, and you have no doubt that more than a few of your classmates are. But you? You're just glad to see talent being appreciated.

It's a beautiful spring day when she comes up behind you and offers to give you some private lessons. Your hands are covered in charcoal, there's streaks of black on your cheeks and despite your efforts, your canvas is an unartistic mess.

You smile at her like she's heaven sent.

"Would you really? I know art is subjective and all, but I'm afraid everyone thinks I'm objectively bad."

She tilts your head at your canvas, beads in her braids clinking.

"Not as bad you think. I can see what you're trying to do. You just don't have enough technique yet."

When you meet her after school, the classroom is gold and hazy with the late afternoon sun. She makes you sit at her easel and leans on the back of your chair.

"Draw some perspective lines for me."

You try to, but by the third line her hands are already coming up to guide yours.

"No. Always try and stick to your vanishing point. Like this."

Her voice is low in your ear and you can smell her perfume, something sweet and flowery that makes you want to bury your face in her hair.

"See?"

"Mm-hmm. Easier when it's so direct."

"Good."

She stays right by your chair for the rest of the lesson, occasionally leaning down to adjust your grip. When the day is done, your hair smells like her perfume and your fingers ache from work well done.

She doesn't seem like the type to have a boyfriend. Maybe you're being unfair, but you just can't see it. She's so nonchalant, so very much herself, that the antics of teenage boys seem so very beneath her. She must like someone though, because a few weeks after she starts tutoring you, you get a glimpse of her latest piece. A sketch of her leaning down to kiss someone, their face obscured by the fall of her hair.

If it were anyone else, you would tease them relentlessly about it. Who do you got a crush on so bad that you want to draw them?

Not her though. You respect her art too much to make light of it like that. And when her portfolio starts filling up with love poems, with tributes, with re-interpretations of Le Printemps and Le Sommeil... Well, you pretend not to notice.

It's only at the very end of the year that you start to really wonder who it's all about. When you finish your final piece - the best canvas to date, the one you and her poured hours of work into - she leans down and presses her lips against your signature. It leaves behind a lipstick print in a deep, gorgeous red. Somehow brings the whole piece together.

"I love it," you tell her, eyes on your art.

"So do I," she says, eyes on you.

Summer is the tanned, laughing jock who's always filling up the hall with his voice. Friendly, likeable. Just about everyone has a crush on him.

Not a bully, though he has the size and strength for it. Helpful, in his big, well meaning way.

His future is clear for everyone to see. Working in his dad's construction company until its time to take over, marrying a girl just as pretty and golden as him, becoming the kind of father that other kids look at and long for. It's a good life. It suits him. Days filled with sunshine and love and laughter. He deserves it.

So when he asks you to tutor him, you assume he doesn't want anything more than a better grade. Books and calculators spread out on the bleachers after practice, the smell of fresh cut grass in the air, summer sun warm and gold over the football field. If you were more his type, you'd call it romantic.

As it is, you just appreciate the good weather and the good company. When his teammates joke that he's tanking his grades on purpose just to spend time with you, you laugh and say you're sure he's got better things to do with his time that that.

It takes a few months, but his grades do improve. And when you go through the homework together, it's clear that he understands what he's doing.

"Well champ, seems my work here is done. You're ahead of the class, you understand the methods and your papers have all come back with Bs and above."

You shrug, smile at him. "You're free to go. Have your afternoons back."

"What?" He frowns at you, water bottle halfway to his mouth. "No. The year isn't over yet."

You laugh, a little flattered that he seems so upset to see you go. "I know. But you don't need me anymore. Just practice the problems I marked out for you and you'll be just fine."

For once, he seems at a loss for words. You stand, sling your backpack over your shoulder. It's just you and him left on the bleachers, the empty football field a behemoth between you and the school building.

When you're halfway across, he catches up with you. Grabs your backpack and stops you in your tracks.

"What about English? I really need some help with the novel. And my chemistry is a mess. Seriously, we can't stop now. You can't just...leave me like that."

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he sounded almost panicked.

"I think Jackson from homeroom is your best bet with chemistry. Oh, and I'll send you my English notes. I did a whole section on themes and stuff."

He frowns again. "No. No. I don't want any of that. I want you."

The skin at the nape of your neck prickles, despite the late afternoon sun being full on your back. Was he always so much bigger than you? How didn't you notice it before?

"Hey, listen. I know you're worried. But we've put in tons of effort. You know your stuff. When exam season rolls around, you'll be just fine."

You try and walk away but he's still holding onto your bag.

"I can pay you."

"I don't want money," you say, irritated and offended both. "I never wanted to be paid for any of this. You're a great guy. I'm happy to help you out."

"Then stay."

Why is he being so persistent? His hold on your backpack tightens when you don't immediately answer.

"Please."

That decides you. How can you say no when a nice guy is practically begging? You're not a monster.

You sigh. "Fine. But only until after homecoming, 'kay?"

"Sure," he says. "I'll let you go when I'm done. Promise."

In the last light of a long summer day, you make the mistake of believing him.

#yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere scenarios #reader insert #x reader #yandere oc #Oc x reader #tw yandere #male reader #Fem yandere #yanblr

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dead-flight · 1 month ago

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⌖ you'll fix him slowly. / drabble

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist

The Lieutenant stands on the balcony. His face is lit by the orange-red reflection of the lighter, his second cigarette of the night. The lighter clicks, the cigarette catches.

Then you're beside him, your hand tugging delicately at his sleeve. "Simon," you murmur, and he doesn't respond. Stares out the city like he still wears his mask, even though it lies discarded on the bedside table. He wears nothing but a pair of sweatpants here, nothing to mask the stain of blood on his skin--the stains only he can see. The stains you ignore.

"Simon," you say again. He turns his head this time, looks into your eyes. His own are tired. Yours are pleading. "Come to bed, Si."

"I was in bed," he replies stiffly, ignoring the way your hand darts to the crease of his arm, pulling lightly on it as if to coax him to bed. He looks back into your eyes and a part of him shrivels as he stares at the look you give him.

"I know that," you mutter, your eyes drifting over blooming purple marks on his skin, pretty violets only you have ever been allowed to plant. "But stay in bed, with me."

"Mh, I'm thinking. Let me think for a bit," he wrenches his eyes from yours. Turns it to the rush of cars below.

You can feel it again. He lets you close, close enough to touch him, to let him feel something good for once in his life, and then he pushes you away. Just like how it's always been. Like some twisted self-torture. "Smoking isn't good for you," you offer softly.

"I know that."

"Stop, then."

And he does. For now. Gives you a passing glance, snuffs out the butt of the cigarette under his heel, on the concrete floor of the balcony. You'll clean it up later, probably. When he's gone again, off somewhere, fighting for his life.

"Come inside now, please? It's cold here."

He looks back at you. Looks at the robe you've pulled over your bruised skin, where he'd dug his fingers in a little too hard, and he nods.

You're his, after all. The thing he comes home to. He writes letters sometimes, when he's on duty, things like: I miss you, I hope you're okay, I love you.

He never tells you if he's okay. But he doesn't need to. Some part of your brain knew he wasn't, the moment you met him. But every time you pull him back to bed, a small part of him mends.

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mattluvr · 11 months ago

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⋆·˚ ༘ * a pure smut chris sturniolo oneshot !

( dom!college!chris, orgasm denial, teasing, doggystyle, praise, pet names, slight degradation if you squint )

chris is a one night stand type of guy.

he makes it clear to every girl he sleeps with that they get one chance to make him feel good, one night to supply him with endless pleasure, but is always left feeling. . . meh. nobody has taken his dick as well as you.

you’re the exception to his rule about the nights being singular; he just can’t seem to get enough of you.

consider tonight as an example. minutes ago, you’d been caught up in the throng of a crowd at a frat party, red solo cup in your clutches. now, you’re on your knees for none other than chris, the two of you in the confinements of a spare bedroom, the music from the party downstairs pulsing through your bodies.

chris’ dick is twitching in front of your face, his jeans and boxers in a puddle by his ankles as he looks down at you, teasing the waters by slowly dragging your manicured nails across his throbbing member.

“sweetheart…” chris hisses, his hand travelling to the back of your head, forcing you forward. you resist, glaring up at him, your nails raking with more harshness. he grits his teeth, secretly revelling in the pleasure it gives him.

this is what he likes about you; you’re not afraid to challenge him, take things a step too far in the best way possible, push boundaries. with previous girls, chris always felt he was being too rough, too mean. with you, he could easily put you in your place, but receive enough bite back to make things interesting.

“play nice.” you murmur, your tongue darting out, across his enraged tip, the boy above you letting out a guttural moan from the back of his throat.

“jesus, ma. you don’t know what you do to me.”

and you really don’t; chris is completely entranced by everything about you, from your outfits showing a sliver too much skin for his liking, cleavage peaking out over the neckline of your shirt, to your long eyelashes, batting up at him innocently. you turned him on more than you’d ever know.

you smile, kitten licking the head of his cock again, revelling in the response you’re receiving. you don’t know it, but you’re the only person who can make him whine aloud, who can make the air around you thick with moans.

it’s then that chris decides he can’t take the teasing any longer, needing to be in your cunt, which he can only imagine is dripping for him. it often is. with images of your underwear swimming round his head, he grabs you harshly under your arms, hoisting you onto your feet.

“i need to be inside you.” he growls, adjusting the backwards cap perched on his head. “right fucking now.”

“you don’t want to taste me first?” you challenge, and chris smirks. exactly why he likes you; never too afraid to push the boundaries.

he doesn’t verbally reply, simply bending down and removing your jeans with one swift movement. now, you’re left in your thong, mesh and decorated with an orange bow, and your shirt, the latter soon following the jeans. this reveals the matching bra, the orange detailing making chris’ head roll back. you look unbelievably sexy in his favourite colour.

“orange lingerie just for me, huh?” he teases, rough fingers running up the curves of your hips, pulling at your thong. you hiss, the crease of the material hitting your bundle of nerves deliciously, and you rub your thighs together to relieve the tension building up.

“you like it?”

“do i like it?” chris lets out a breathless laugh, hooking his fingers under the thong and rolling it down, revealing your glistening pussy. he needs you so bad it’s borderline embarrassing. “i fucking love it. you look so hot in my colour, baby. keep the bra on.”

your eyes sparkle, and you oblige, your own hands travelling up to rest on chris’ chest, feeling how his heart beats restlessly beneath his flushed skin. you almost miss chris’ fingers circling your clit, and when one of the pads of his index fingers presses down on the holy spot, you moan involuntarily, head flying down to rest in the crook of his shoulder.

“shit, chris. just like that.” you groan, the two of you still stood at the end of the bed as chris gets you off, his movements harsh yet so fucking good. “god, you make feel amazing. yeah, right there. fuuuuuck.”

a few more seconds of chris rubbing your swollen bud, and he decides that you’re wet enough to take him now. sure, he’s denying you a leg shaking orgasm, but his dick is crying out to be confined in your walls. he’s forever grateful that you’re on the pill; sex without a condom always felt better for him.

he pulls his finger away, and you whip your head up, a scowl on your face. “you son of a bitch. i was so close, chris.”

“i don’t give a fuck.” chris replies, his tone equally as condescending as yours. “i need to be inside you, that alright?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer, shoving you roughly onto the bed and picking you up by your hips, flipping you over. chris’ favourite position is and always has been doggystyle; there’s no sight he drools over more than your ass bouncing off his hips.

so he wastes no further time, guiding his tip to your sensitive entrance, both you and him moaning as he pushes himself into you. he feels as good as ever, and as he starts to move in and out at a steady pace, you feel that all too familiar pressure in the pit of your stomach.

“fuck, sweetheart. you look so pretty, your ass bouncing off my hips.” chris says in a hushed voice, his hands resting on your waist as he pulls you into him slowly. you mewl, throwing your hair over your shoulder as you reposition your weight onto your elbows.

this change in your angle gives chris more access to your g spot, buried deep within you, and he starts to thrust with more power, your vision clouding with stars. to chris, you’re the only girl who can take his dick, and to you, chris is the only boy who has ever handed you earth shattering pleasure. it’s a win win situation for both parties.

“oh fuck, i think i’m there already. baby, go faster.” you command, and chris hears you loud and clear, the bed frame squeaking as he pushes in and out at an ungodly pace.

you cry out, the knot in your stomach threatening to snap, the edge looming ever closer. chris is also close, his thighs trembling behind you, the view of your ass vibrating off him only driving his orgasm forward.

“shit, me too ma. you’re gonna make me cum so hard.”

“o-oh! yes, right there.” you lift your ass higher and receive a new wave of pleasure, your orgasm coming down with full force. “shiiiiit, i’m cumming. oh, fuck me.”

you whole body trembles as you hit your peak, pussy convulsing round chris’ dick, which in turn makes him orgasm. he groans, hips stuttering as he shoots his load into you, longer and harder than ever before.

he collapses against your back, breathing heavily as he pulls out of you, your breathing just as heavy as you turn underneath him, a hand coming up to brush the sweat from his forehead away.

“pretty good for a multiple night stand.” he jokes, fingers now soft as they run over your stomach.

you laugh. “glad to be at your service, sturniolo.”

and sure enough, the next week you’re in his bed, the music from the frat party below echoing through your bones. chris wouldn’t change the situation between the two of you for the fucking world.

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo smut #pure smut oneshots

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servicpop · 1 year ago

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NSFW ; BLACK , WHITE & GRAY criminal bottom m!reader x detective oc

warnings; age gap , degradation , hate sex , exhibitionism/infront of people (mentioned slightly) , hand cuffs , dubcon/noncon(?) , no after care

notes __ this idea has been sitting in my inbox for awhile but I've finally gotten around to it !

JUNE 19 1999 / 11:48PM

Red and blue lights colored the night skies; not even a slither of the moonlight slipped past the cover of the clouds. The bright yellow caution tape strapped around the fences of the home squealed when Callahan Marshall pulled them up to duck underneath them.

Officers on the scene scrambled to question him but were quickly shot down with the flash of his badge. They slowly retreated, allowing for the man to walk into the crime scene.

The rain had been unforgiving tonight, covering all traces of footprints that might have been left by the culprit in an attempt to escape. A scowl plastered Callahan's face as the stench of alcohol and smoke insulted his nose. The floorboards creaked underneath each step he took, whining with the burden of his weight.

"Careful, Marshall, we aren't too sure if the culprit even left. There's been no signs of escape." Callahan's eyes slowly met the ones that belonged to one of his co-workers — another detective. The other man visibly shuddered when Callahan's pitch-black eyes met his, deep circles tainted the bags of his eyes. A gruff noise was all he got in response before Callahan made his way through the home.

It wasn't a house belonging to someone particularly made up of money so why would anyone make such a mess out of it?

The rooms were left clean, untouched almost. Only a few drawers or cabinets were opened and a few appliances were out of place but no alarming indicator a robbery had happened. Callahan traced a finger along the countertops of the kitchen, looking at the dust that had been sweeped up. This house had been left like this for awhile, even before the culprit set foot in there.

A sudden clattering caught Callahan's attention and he turned his body to the other detective and police officers searching the house, "Did you knock something over?" "No sir, what did you hear?"

Callahan slowly approached the laundry room, twisting the doorknob with caution. He pushed the knob forward and the door swung open. It was hard to make out with the lack of light but Callahan saw a figure dart out the window. "Here!" He called out, alerting the officers before he walked up to the window, watching as the figure scrambled away. He wasn't worried though, the whole place had been surrounded by police patrolling the area.

You couldn't get far even if you tried.

JUNE 22 / 2:24PM

You got caught. It was about time you did.

You had spent the past few years doing various, sketchy jobs in the desperation for money. You lost your job not even three months into it and it had become harder and harder to find suitable jobs to spend the rest of your life slaving away at. You had no choice, it was either that or living off the streets with the local sewer rats as your only form of entertainment and friendship.

Now, you were stuck in an enclosed, dusty white room, sat cuffed to a metal table right in the middle of it with an annoyingly bright light dangling from the ceiling. It was the interrogation room. And the man you sat infront of you was none other than the 'greatest detective of our time' Callahan Marshall.

He was an older guy, probably pushing his 40s by now. You could tell from the way his brows were locked into a furrowing position and the stubble that graced his chin seemed lazily maintained. He also had quite the bit of hair on his arms, his sleeves loosely rolled above his elbows. You couldn't really tell what color his eyes were from how low he held his head and the light above you casted a deep shadow over his eyes, but through the darkness you concluded that they were a yellow-ish orange. Interesting.

"June 19." You flinched. It was expected that he had a deep voice but actually hearing it was different. His voice was coarse, gravelly like wheels crunching against a rocky trail and you could practically hear the amount of cigarettes he's smoked throughout his years of stress. "You were caught about and hour or two after police had arrived," Callahan sounded bored, mumbling his words.

Growing up, Callahan had always hated criminals. From watching bad guys on TV to coming home and seeing his parents dead on the floor and his house a mess from a robbery, Callahan devoted the past years to serving justice. His world was devoid of color, a black and white film on an old, vintage television.

"Did you steal from Mr Broadwood's home?" He pressed, leaning his forearms along the table. They were meaty, not extremely muscular but definitely built from casual hours at the gym. Could you even lie at this point? He was so sure with his words that even the fact that people were watching you from the two-way mirror comforted you from this man.

"No." And the cheap lie rolled off your tongue like it was sweet candy. He raised his eyebrows, unamused. Yeah he was definitely onto you. "So... these photos aren't you?" A confused look flashed across his face as he slid the printed images of your face in full view; it was painfully obvious that it was you. But your head seemed to shake side to side saying 'that's not me' like it was instinct. Callahan leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face as his head tilted back in annoyance. You could hear the prickly sound of his stubble scraping against the palm of his hand.

"I'll force it out of you if you don't fess up," His hand slammed down onto the metal table, causing it to rattle from the contact. "Fine, is force the only thing you cops know how to do?" It was only natural you acted this way. For all your life you've relied on cops to protect you and your loved ones, but each time you needed them the most, they turned a blind eye to you.

But, oil doesn't mix with water. Your two starkingly different perspectives caused conflict. With balled fists, Callahan stood up, the chair scraping against the floors with how abruptly he stood up. Before you knew it, a hand made its way to your hair. Callahan's thick fingers tangled in the strands and pulled your head back, eliciting a small yelp from you. He leaned in closer, looming over you with hate seeping from his pores.

"Tell me this isn't you," He growled, picking up the photos and shoving it in your face. In all honesty, you were focused on how damn close he was. His breath was fanning against the shell of your ear and if you concentrated enough, you could hear the short breaths he took. Callahan straightened his posture but never loosened his grip on your hair. He pulled your head back even further and peered down at you. "Dirty criminal," he muttered under his breath.

You swore it was just the adrenaline making you hard. There was no way you'd fall for a detective like him. So why did he have your face squished onto the table and your boxers pulled down just under the curve of your ass.

"This is what you wanted isn't it?" Callahan had one hand holding your head down and another on your waist, digging into your flesh. He found out that the more he dug into your waist, the more you'd whine and squirm against him. You couldn't deny his words though, something in you was so intrigued by Callahan. He got straight to the point, and he didn't try and fool you with kindness. But maybe you wished he'd be a little more gentle with you.

Your eyes shot wide open when you felt his tip circle your rim. You didn't even have to see it to know the size of it. Could it even fit? "Wait—" Your words were cut off as he thrust forward with no warning, letting his cock sink into your hole. The burning sensation of the stretch made tears bubble at your eyes, threatening to spill. A groan slipped from his lips as he buried himself to the hilt, "God you're too tight."

Callahan moved his hand from your head to firmly grip at your waist, leaning forward so his body weight would pin you down. His hips grinded against you, digging his cock deeper inside your warm body. "Spit it out, did you do it or not?" He grunted, beads of sweat trickled down his temples as he pounded into you repeatedly, watching your flesh ripple with each thrust. "You're leaking everywhere," He chided, snaking his hand to reach for your neglected dick, holding the tip in his palm.

Your wrists strained against the cuffs binding you to the table, the metal cutting into your flesh as you struggled. "I didn't— do it!" You managed to gasp between moans, your hair spilling out onto the table. "Oh really? You didn't do it huh?" He scoffed and his hand tightened around your weeping tip, stroking you off in time with his relentless thrusts.

"People are watching you through that mirror and through the cameras, your pathetic face is on view for everyone to see," Callahan leaned down to whisper in your ear, grabbing a fistful of hair to yank your head up, allowing your teary face to be on full display for the cameras. Fuck, that turned you on more then you would've wanted it to.

His head slung against your shoulder, an oddly affection gesture for how hard he was fucking you. "I know you're not innocent, but your fuckin' doe eyes pisses me off," Callahan's voice had gotten even rougher, and the anger was clear in his tone. He was just using you for stress relief.

Your thighs trembled and your body started to give out, the stimulation was too much for you. His cock kept abusing your prostate, grinding and rubbing against it so much that black stars seemed to cloud your vision. Your fingertips clawed at the metal table, trying to ground yourself as shameless moans came out of your throat. "You're so loud," He scowled, leaning back so he could admire your back in its full glory.

It got him off with the way you sucked him back in even if you seemed so stubborn to liking him. Watching his fat cock disappear into your hole was enough to make him groan. "You wanna cum? Admit it." It was like his dick was a truth serum, you found yourself blabbering, tears rolling down your pink cheeks as you spewed out the truth, "Fine, I did it, I did it, please— just—" A smirk plastered Callahan's face as he whistled, "Go ahead."

In a split second you found yourself spurting out white all over his hand, your back arched and your body convulsed in his grip. Callahan meant to pull out but you were sucking him in so much that he couldn't. He cursed as his orgasm crashed down on him like a wave, filling you up with his sperm before he could pull out. "Shit," he huffed, pulling up his pants before he stared at his cum dripping from your hole. It was still clenching around nothing, and Callahan couldn't help but feel a pang of responsibility for you, but he shook off those thoughts. His one duty was to protect the civilians, not empathise with criminals.

"I'm done here," He grumbled, picking up his things and leaving you slumped on the floor, still bound by the handcuffs on the metal table. He turned his head over his shoulder to glance at you one more time, feeling a strange uncomfortable sensation in his heart before he scoffed and walked out the doors.

He's never lost control like that with any other criminal.

BONUS ; IN THE OTHER SIDE OF THE INTERROGATION ROOM

"Kid looks like he's about to die," Alastair, a co-worker of Callahan, was assigned to supervise the interrogation, "Marshall sure is brutal," He sighed, standing up once he heard that Callahan was finished.

"At least his tactics work though, props to him," Alastair turned around to face the intern who was meant to learn from this experience. The poor boy had his hands covering his eyes.

"It's fine now, you stay here, I'll clean the guy up."

a/n ; i changed my layout !! Its alot easier now ^^; my previous one had so many symbols I had to copy and paste ,, anyways ! I finally wrote about him ♡♡ the original request(?) was a bit different so this is ooc of him but I will expand more on his story if you guys like him ! Also I introduced Alastair ,, maybe I can write a threesome with them sometime !! I've never done it before so who knows

#servicpop — fics/drabbles #mlm #oc x male reader #sub male reader #male reader #bottom male reader #male x male #male x reader #oc smut

2K notes · View notes

littlefanficprincess · 6 months ago

Text

Wine Red

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Movie! Shadow x gn! Reader

Word count: 3,5K

Synopsis: You find Shadow after he crashed down to earth (again)

(A/n): ‼️Spoilers for Sonic 3 and the first after credits scene‼️

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"The Wheel Of Fortune...The High Priestess...and The Lovers!" A hand flips around three tarot cards, naming each one. "Follow your intuition and you will meet your fated one!".

A (animal) mobian lets out an amused sigh, leaning on their hand. "Rosy, you've been giving me readings since you discovered it and each time I get the same fortune".

Amy smiles, placing her hands on the table. "That means it is definitely true!" She exclaims, excitedly. She gathers her cards back into the pile and picks three from them. "Alright...The Chariot...The Sun and...The Lovers! Yes!".

"So you have to go out and find the one?" (Y/n) guesses, having a bit of knowledge of it because of their friend. They watch the pink Hedgehog do a victory dance.

"What do you think fits me the best" Amy strolls over to her closet. She places a green hairband on her head, turning to (Y/n). "It matches my eyes, but I'm not sure" She tosses it off when she sees her friend shaking their head.

"Black? Not my style. Pink? Blends too much with my quills. Orange? Clashes too much. Blue?" She places a blue hairband on her head, adjusting it to be comfortable.

(Y/n) gets up and walks up to the Hedgehog. They gently remove the hairband from her. "Baby blue is not your color, maybe a brighter blue. But I think red fits you the best" They suggest.

"You're saying that because you love red" Amy takes the band from their hands and placing it on their head. "I think it suits you more".

"Thanks Rosy" (Y/n) smiles, brushing their hands against the headband.

"No problem!" The girl replies, placing a red head on her own head. "Now let's go find them" She turns to the empty pinboard, tapping her bottom lip. "Now to pin down their location" she tapes a drawing of planets in the board and throws a dart at it. It lands on a round blue and green planet.

(Y/n) walks over and looks at the small text underneath the planet. "Eeth? Uth? Ert...Earth Earth, like dirt?" They read outloud. "It looks pretty big, it's possibly gonna take ages when you finally find him".

"I am also prepared for that" Amy removes the drawing and places a map of earth. She throws another dart, almost hitting (Y/n)'s head. It lands on a big piece of land on the left side, in bold letters it says "UNITED STATES".

Immediately, Amy speeds around the room. She stuffs clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, her harmer into a suitcase. She stood on it, trying to make it fit.

"Amy, Amy, hold on" (Y/n) places their hand on her shoulder. "You can't just rush to a planet you don't even know to find the one and how are you supposed to know it's them. Remember last time you went off, I had to go get you and bandage you up"

Amy seemed to deflate at (Y/n)'s argument, her smiles turns to a pout. She turns to her friend, giving them puppy eyes. Her puppy eyes were quite effective, challenging Cream's ones.

Giving in, (Y/n) sighs. "How about this: I go to Earth and see if it is safe for you to travel there" They offer, just wanting the best for their friend.

"Thank you, thank you!" The pink mobian exclaims, hugging the (animal). She was extremely grateful they would do this for her.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

"Already traveling to other planets, They're growing up so fast" Vector wipes his tears with a hankerchief, blowing his nose with it.

"They aren't that much younger than you" Espio calls him out. He turns to (Y/n) "Be careful".

Amy, along with their other friends stand next to eachother. They bid the (animal) goodbye, the mobians know they will be gone for a while, so they want to give a well made goodbye.

"You beter bring me a souvenir back!" Charmy requests, pulling at (Y/n)'s arm. He was pulled off by Vector, who was still crying.

Vanilla approaches the (f/c) (animal), placing a container in their hands. "I made some cake for the journey, I hope you will enjoy it" The two hug, before letting go.

Out of nowhere, (Y/n) feels something clinging to their leg. Looking down, they were met with Cream. She looked like she was about to cry, making (Y/n)'s heart melt. "You're gonna come back, right?"

The teen mobian smiles, patting the small rabbit's head. "Ofcourse, I promise" They nod. They walk to the spaceship as Cream lets go. (Y/n) gives a final wave, before stepping inside.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The ship flies down, crashing in the woods. The door was the ship creaks open. Come out crawling was (Y/n), letting out little grunts of pain. They push themself up, grabbing their bag and putting it onto their bag. "So this is earth, quite tall trees they have here".

They travel through the forrest, trying to find a good place to set up camp. Soon, find a small cave, big enough to sleep and leave her stuff. As they put down their back, they hear a tapping sound. They turn to the entrance, finding water fall from the sky. "Water?" Slowly, they walk over to the edge of the cave, holding out their hand. They feel the droplets fall onto their palm "Woah, so beautiful".

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

After countless journeys, the cave resembled more like a home. In the back sat a bed with a pillow and two blankets. At the side stood a wobbly table with a flower pot on it, a framed picture next to it of them and Amy. And finally hanging around were fairy lights they found in a trashcan.

(Y/n) sat ontop, living their legs back and forth. Their (e/c) eyes latch onto something what they assume is a comet flying across the midnight sky. It crashes down not too far away from the (animal)'s hideout.

They jump down, before rushing over where it landed. Pushing aside leaves of the trees, they gaze as the mysterious object from the sky. Light flickers from a crater, before it dims completely. They peek over to see what it was and...

"A hedgehog?"

A hedgehog with black and red quills, a patch of white fur on his chest. He was wearing white black and red gloves and shoes. Laying next to him were two slightly burned golden bracelets and a big green emerald.

Carefully, (Y/n) wraps the gem from the ground. They tense up as their feel a weird ticklish and prickly feeling go through her veins. "Woah" They mutter. They turns back to look at the hedgehog, finding that he was wounded.

They stuff the emerald and rings in their bag. Putting an arm under his knees and his back, struggling to hold him up. "Is he the one Amy is looking for?" They think outloud, walking back to their cave with the hedgehog in their arms.

Once they arrived, they lay the stranger on their bed pulling first aid kit from under the unstable table. They sit down on the mattress next to the hedgehog, taking a roll of bandage. They lift his head with one hand and wrapping his head with their other one. They continue with his other wounds, being as careful as they could be.

Not having much else to do, they lay the pillow and one of the blankets on the floor next to the bed. They lay down, pulling the blanket over their body. With that, they close their eyes and let their consciousness fade away.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Shadow's eye began to open, finding himself staring at rocks above him. He lets out a grunt of pain, feeling his head stinging. He tries to remember what happened, but his mind was left foggy.

"Oh, you're awake, that's good to see. I am surprised you're bot out longer, by the fact you literally crashed to earth"

A voice chirps, a sweet one. He turns his head, seeing a figure standing next to the bed he was one. They were slightly blurry as his red eyes still try to readjust to the bright light behind them. What he was able to make out was a a light blue headband resting on the person's head. "Maria..?" He groans.

"(Y/n), actually" The person corrects, with a soft smile. "(Y/n) the (animal). Nice to meet you. You got a name, stranger?" Their voice echoes through his mind, like a broken record.

"Maria, what happene–" He sits and gets up from the bed. He stumbles, almost falling over. Luckily, (Y/n) catched him before he could. He gazes down, finding part of arms bandaged up.

Carefully, (Y/n) pushes him back on the bed. "You shouldn't go walking off yet. Just because you're up early doesn't mean you get go dancing around like that. Please, just go rest" They suggest to the hedgehog. His behavior reminded them of Amy, how stubborn she always was after getting injured.

Shadow looks over to a barely stable table on the left. A picture frame, a flower pot and a big green emera– "Ah!" Shadow cries, gripping his head. Images flashes across his mind: Gerald Robotnik, a younger looking version of the doctor, blue, red, yellow and finally an explosion.

The (f/c) mobian frowns, pitying the Stranger. He has probably been through a lot, ofcourse be doesn't own them his story. "If you some quiet, I'll let you be" They propose, letting out a little sigh. They turn around, ready to leave the cave. They were stopped by the hedgehog grabbing their hand.

"I want you just stay, my head feels more at ease when you're near" He mumbles, avoiding their eyes. He feels them sitting down next to him, he had to stop himself from leaning into them. He wondered what the loose ties in his mind meant., trying to follow them made him want to scratch his own skin off.

"Can I finally know your name. I know I don't owe it, but I can't just call you 'hedgehog'" (Y/n) mentions, turning to the other.

"But you already know it, M–" Shadow shakes his head, responding with "My name is Shadow". He looks down at his gloves, finding something missing. "Where are my limiters?" He questions with urgency in his voice.(Y/n) reaches into her bag and takes the two golden rings from. "These one?" They ask, holding them for him to grab.

Snatching the slightly burned bracelets from their hands, Shadow snaps them around his wrists. He lets out a huff of relief as his finger trace the rim of it.

"It's nice to put a name to the face. I must say I quite like your eyes, they remind me of jaspers" (Y/n) compliments, glancing at the emerald and then back at the hedgehog's eyes.

Shadow pauses, before speaking up. "Your eyes are nice aswell, I suppose. They look like..." He trails off, realising he didn't know much gems. "They feel comforting" He mutters under his breath, just loud enough for (Y/n) to hear.

They didn't say anything, just kept staring. They noticed he was a bit cold and hesitant, but they didn't mind. It was the best to wait until he was ready to tell them what happened before he crashed into the woods.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Sigh

Tap tap tap

The sound of footsteps makes (Y/n) stir awake. They sit up, looking over to see Shadow standing the entrance of the cave, holding onto rock for stability. They notice he was just staring up at the sky, muttering something to himself.

Getting up, they quietly walk over to him. They hear him let out a hum, acknowledging their presence. "The stars shine so brightly. Usually not a lot of people see them, by the time they appear, everyone is sound asleep" Shadow mummers, not taking his eyes off of a particular star. "You're not Maria, I see that now. My mind was so fragmented, it merged my old memories with my vision"

"So that is why you called me that" (Y/n) concludes, thinking back to all the times he called her that name. "Are you finally going to tell me what happened to you? now that you got your memories back" They ask.

"My name is Shadow, project shadow. I was found in a meteor and was brought by a company called GUN. The lead researcher was Gerald Robotnik, his granddaughter, Maria, resided there aswell. Robotnik tried finding a cure for her illness through me, I began bonding with her" A barely visible smile appeared on his face as he tells the story, but is quickly fell as he continued.

"GUN wanted to take me away, Robotnik couldn't handle it. He tried escaping with me and Maria, Maria got killed in the crossfire. The doctor was arrested and I was frozen for fifty years. After that he got me out of there, bringing his grandson along. They wanted to blow up the Earth, but a blue hedgehog made me realise that that wasn't what Maria would've wanted. With the power of the master emerald, we steered the weapon away from Earth. The hedgehog was saved by his friends, I wasn't so lucky. I crashed down at that was where you found me"

"That is quite the story, Shadow. I was surprised to see another mobian here, but you tell me there is another one or even more. So are you going to leave now that your wounds were healed and your memories are back?" The (animal) inquires, kicking a rock near them. They wonder what the other hedgehog and his friends are like.

Shadow thinks, giving a quick look at the cave and then back to the sky. "I am grateful for everything you've done for me. It is probably too much to ask for shelter. I have nowhere to stay, I am not expecting Sonic to welcome me with open arms".

"Ofcourse you can stay" (Y/n) answer with hesitation, shuffling a bit closer to the hedgehog. "We should get another bed, cause no way one of us is going to sleep on the ground. Feel free to bring your own stuff in here, I won't mind sharing my cozy cave" They turn around to look at their home, with their hand on their hips. They already imagine the cave being filled more stuff, perhaps they could even find a better place to live.

(Y/n) pulls out their Snappie, unlocking it. "Hey, how about we do a shot for our first official day as cavemates" They suggest, holding up their device.

"A shot? Like alcohol?" Shadow repeats with a raised eyebrow. He eyes the object, confusion in his gaze.

The other mobian shakes their head, answering "No, it is short for a snapshot. Me and my best friend always made by special moments or just when were having fun, to make memories. These things can only make photos and send text, but I'm only able send photos to her"

They pull Shadow close as they raise their Snappie into the air. "Smile!" They grin, closing their eyes. As if magic, Shadow does as they say, having a small smile on face. They might not be Maria, but he doesn't mind. (Y/n) snaps the picture, not realising they weren't very visible on it because of how dark it was.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Hours...Days...weeks passed by.

The cave grew fuller and resembled more like a home. Shadow mostly stayed in the cave, hesitant to leave it. (Y/n) actually caught him sleeping in their bed, which he denies ever happened. (Y/n) once spotted the fast blue hedgehog when looking for for food, but he sped before they could reach him.

One day, Shadow and (Y/n) were walking in the forrest. (Y/n) held the other's hand tightly, Shadow couldn't help but glance at it from time to time. They stop when they hear laughing and talking, it seemed like it was coming not too far away. The (f/c) (animal) leads their friend along with them as they talk closer, making sure not to make a sound.

(Y/n)'s eyes widen as they see Sonic, along with two humans, two mobians and a weird creature that walks on four legs. A red echidna and a yellow fox with two tails, quite a unique pair. "We should go say hi" (Y/n) says, about to walk through a bush infront of them.

But they were stopped by Shadow pulling them back, shaking his head. "We can't just bardge in there, they dont even know you" He argues. He sees how happy the other hedgehog seemed, making him feel envy. He was just getting close to (Y/n), he didn't want to risk losing her aswell.

They went back and forth, (Y/n) trying to pull away and Shadow pulling them back. But (Y/n) accidentally pulls a little too hard and pulls Shadow with them. Their body hit the ground with a small 'oof', they look up to see Shadow's face. His hands on were each side of their head and his knees were caging their legs, trying to not to fall into them

"Um, am I interuppting something?" A voice chimes, making the two freeze. Looking down at them was none other than Sonic, who came to check out the noise. He should've been surprised about Shadow being alive. But his attention was more towards the mentioned hedgehog was hovering above a (animal) he didn't regonise, not to mention close to where he was camping with his family.

Shadow quickly gets up and turns his head, hiding the blush he gotten from embarasment. It was one thing be get so close to his friend, it's another thing to be caught in that position by Sonic.

"You're Sonic, right?" (Y/n) pushes themselves up, brushing the dirt off of them. "I've heared a lot about you, it's great to finally meet you. I hope you don't mind if I and shadow join you guys"

"Ofcourse I don't mind, always great to meet a fan" Sonic scratches the back of his neck, grinning. He turns to the black and red hedgehog "We have a lot to catch up on". He walks back, motioning for the two to follow after him.

(Y/n) was about to go after him, when they notice Shadow didn't move a muscle. They exhale, approaching their friend. Their hands grasps those belonging to Shadow, tracing the back of his hands with their thumbs. "I know you have trouble connecting, but I want to make more friends to connect with and rely on".

Taking in their words, Shadow hesitantly nods. He lets them drag him through the bush and to where the group was. "Hey there" (Y/n) greets, waving.

Their voice takes the attention of the two humans and mobians. The human and fox's Jaws dropped, the latter dropping his marshmallow into the fire. "I win!" The echidna cheers, raising his marsmellow on a stick in the air. He notices that the others were staring at something, so he follows their gaze. After like a month of thinking Shadow died, he stood there infront of them.

"How did you survive the explosion o-or even the earth atmosphere, me and Sonic only barely got to safety thanks to Knuckles" Tails stutters, remembering Knuckles using a ring last second to teleport them away.

Shadow crosses his arms. "I am the ultimate life form, I won't be killed that easily" He pauses. "After I crashed, (Y/n) took me in and cared for me" He adds, glancing at the mentioned creature next to him.

Feeling the attention drawn to them, (Y/n) perks. "Oh, right, I should probably introduce myself. I am (Y/n) the (animal), nice to meet you all" They mention, smiling. They reach into their bag and pulls out the big emerald. "I found this near Shadow, do you know wha–"

"THE MASTER EMERALD!"

The echidna stands up (after chomping his marshmallow) and walks up to (Y/n) with his hands out. (Y/n) places the green gem in his grasp, looking up at the tall mobian. He nods at them with gratitude, which (Y/n) does aswell.

"Snappie?" The (f/c) (animal) turns to Shadow. Before he could answer, a voice chimes.

"Snappie? Like snapshot?" Tails asks, tilting his head.

"Yeah!"

After some talking, with (Y/n) pushing Shadow to speak to the others. They gather around as (Y/n) raises her device into the air, taking a photo.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

DING

Amy snatches her Snappie from her bedside table, unlocking it. She taps on (Y/n)'s contact, finding they had send a photo. It was them with four other mobians, her eyes widen when she notices a blue hedgehog.

"It's him!"

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Watching Stonik tiktoks while wiping my tears.

#x reader #fanfic #starligt_galaxy #oneshot #shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #sonic movie 3 #shadow the ultimate lifeform #sega #sonic series #sonic x reader #shadow x reader #maria robotnik

512 notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 11 days ago

Text

A CROWN LEFT BEHIND | IH6

an: i was feeling nostalgic and was missing home again so i wrote an isack aladdin au! i made this exta special because i used arabic darija in this fic (obvs with translation) i hope you guys enjoy this baby i wrote

wc: 13.5k

summary: a street thief with nothing but a dog and a smile. a princess trapped behind gold and glass, longing for freedom. one quiet escape into the night changes both their fates. secrets whispered in alleyways, promises carried on the wind. in the end, the streets remember what the palace chooses to forget.

ALGIERS NEVER TRULY SLEPT.

Even in the dusk between call to prayer and moonrise, when the shadows stretched long like fingers across whitewashed walls, the medina whispered. The breeze carried the scent of cumin and orange blossom, the air warm like honey clinging to the skin.

Somewhere, the sound of a flute curled upward from a rooftop. Laughter, sharp, drunken, echoed in the alleyways below.

And Isack ran.

Barefoot, nimble, heart thudding like a darbuka drum in his chest, he darted through the tight alleys of the Kasbah. His curls stuck to his brow, a sliver of stolen gold tucked into his sash. He had the grin of someone used to running, used to getting away.

“Waqef! Waqef ya l’kleb!” Stop! Stop, you dog!

He didn’t stop.

Instead, he vaulted over a market cart, snatched a fig from a vendor’s stall mid-air, and winked at the shouting man behind him. It was a dance, the only one he knew. The guards were slow. He was fast. And the streets were his.

By the time he climbed the back wall of a half-collapsed riad and collapsed onto the tiled rooftop, the sky had turned gold. He bit into the fig, sweet and overripe, and let the juice run down his chin.

Below, the city pulsed. Blue doors, stray cats, distant call to prayer. A woman’s laughter from an open window. Laundry snapping in the wind.

He loved this place. It was cruel, yes. Hungry. But it was his.

He leaned back, golden-brown eyes flicking upward toward the first stars emerging in the indigo sky. The city’s noise became a hum, and for a moment, he felt almost like a king.

And elsewhere, behind tall palace walls, she watched the city from her window, veiled and silent.

Below her, chaos, life, fire. A city she was not allowed to touch. A city that belonged to her only in name.

They called her princess, l’amira, daughter of the land, of bloodlines older than the red earth itself. She had her mother’s cheekbones, her father’s eyes. But her soul? That was her own.

She pressed a hand to the cold lattice, eyes following a small boy climbing a wall far in the distance. Free. Barefoot. Laughing.

She envied him.

Her maid’s voice broke the silence.

“L’amira, your father, he says there’s a suitor. Another one.”

Another one. Another man with polished words and ancient rings, sent to ask for a piece of her like she was a jewel in the souk.

She didn’t answer. Only watched the horizon, where the rooftops met the sky. Somewhere beyond it, the stars were starting to blink awake.

She wished one would fall.

The palace walls were smooth sandstone, gold-dusted and cruel.

They caught the sun at every hour, gleaming like something divine, but she knew better. Inside them, everything was hushed and heavy. Voices behind curtains, steps softened on marble. Nothing real ever made it past the gates.

She sat now on a silken cushion, spine straight, wrists wrapped in gauze-thin silk, and tried not to scream.

Across from her, the suitor spoke in a voice as smooth as almond oil, his words polished to a shine. He was a noble from Constantine, or maybe Tlemcen, she couldn’t remember, and he wore his robes like armor. Perfect posture. Perfect manners. Perfect boredom.

He was talking about the scent of jasmine in his summer home.

She nodded politely.

Her tea had gone cold.

Behind him, just past the carved archway that opened onto the courtyard, the muezzin’s call rose into the air, haunting, beautiful. The day was sinking into twilight, and the world outside was moving.

She turned her head slightly, not enough to be scolded, and looked past him.

The gates beyond the garden had been opened for the breeze, and through them, beyond the veil of palm leaves, she saw the street.

Children ran barefoot toward the mosque, drawn by the call to prayer. She saw a boy with wild black curls tugging his younger sister along, both of them laughing, racing the call. Their djellabas fluttered behind them like wings. One of the guards smiled as they passed.

A knot tightened in her throat.

That life, so ordinary, so loud, so free, would never be hers. She had never run in the street. She had never laughed outside the palace walls. She had never once stood beside strangers and bowed her head in prayer as an equal. Even her worship was private, sterile, behind curtains and gold incense burners.

She looked back at the prince.

He had stopped speaking.

He was watching her with a soft frown, like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to. “Forgive me,” he said gently, setting his cup down. “I don’t think I interest you.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. There was no real way to explain it.

“You’re not unkind,” she managed, at last. “You’re just not real.”

He blinked. “Not real?”

She offered the smallest of smiles. “Not enough.”

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

She shed her jewels. Let her hair fall unbound down her back. The moonlight caught the copper strands threaded through it, a family trait, they said. Her birthright. Her burden.

The palace was quiet. Too quiet. Like a tomb that smelled of oud and rosewater.

She walked barefoot through the colonnade, cool tile beneath her feet, heart fluttering like a trapped swallow in her chest.

From her window, the city glowed, a thousand flickering oil lamps, rooftops like mosaic pieces laid out for the stars.

She didn’t know exactly where the thought came from. Only that it arrived fully formed.

She was leaving.

Not tomorrow. Not with guards. Not with permission.

Tonight.

She turned from the window and began to move, silent, deliberate, pulling on a plain linen tunic left behind by one of the maids, wrapping her hair in a faded scarf. She looked nothing like a princess now. And maybe for once, that was the point.

Her pulse sang.

Outside, the world waited. Wild, sharp-edged, and beautiful.

And the palace slept.

She moved like a shadow past the guards, heart hammering in her ribs, the scarf around her head slipping ever so slightly in the breeze. No one looked at her twice, not like this. Not dressed in rough linen, no kohl on her eyes, no scent of amber trailing her steps.

For the first time in her life, she was invisible.

And it thrilled her.

Once beyond the palace gates, the city opened up like a book she’d never been allowed to read.

The air at night was cooler, threaded with the scent of charcoal smoke and distant mint tea. Lanterns swung gently from the iron hooks above doorways, casting dappled patterns across cobbled streets. Stray cats watched her from rooftops. Someone played a flute off-key in the dark. The call to Isha’a had passed, but the buzz of night lingered.

She wandered deeper into the medina, past shuttered stalls and old men playing dominoes beneath a flickering bulb. Nobody recognised her. Nobody bowed. No one whispered l’amira like a ghost.

She felt giddy. Lightheaded with it. Free.

She didn’t even notice the man at first.

He’d been sitting on a step, smoking. When she passed, he straightened. Followed.

It wasn’t until the footsteps quickened behind her that her stomach turned.

She kept walking. Turned into a narrower street.

Too narrow.

She should have gone back. She should have kept to the open, where there were people. But her legs moved faster than her thoughts. And then he was there, in front of her now, as if he’d appeared from the shadows themselves.

He was older. Unshaven. Smelt like cheap wine and sweat. A smirk played at his lips as he stepped into her path.

“Labas ‘lik, zine?” What’s a pretty girl like you doing out alone at this hour?

She tried to step aside, but he mirrored her.

“I don’t— I don’t want trouble.”

“Oh, I’m not trouble,” he said, teeth flashing. “Not unless you make me be.”

He reached for her wrist. She pulled back, fast, panic blooming in her throat. Her breath caught.

And then—

A low growl sliced through the quiet.

The man froze.

From the darkness of the alley, a shape emerged, all silhouette and shadow. First the dog: big, bone-coloured, eyes sharp like molten gold. Then the boy. Barefoot. Loose shirt open at the throat, curls wild, a crooked grin stitched across his face like sin.

He took one look at the man and smiled, slow and lazy.

“Khoya,” Brother he said, voice like honey over blades. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to girls who don’t want to talk to you?”

The man sneered. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Isack tilted his head. “Lah ybarek, I think it does.” God Bless

He clicked his tongue once.

The dog lunged.

The man screamed, stumbling back, barely dodging a snap of teeth. “Wah! Get it off—!”

Isack gave a soft whistle. The dog stopped, but only just. Still growling, still close enough to bite.

“Mazal barki,” Too early, Isack said calmly. “He’s just playing. If he were serious, you’d already be on the floor.”

The man spat on the ground. “You’ll regret this.”

Isack took a single step forward. The dog took two.

The man ran.

Silence settled in the alley.

Isack looked at her then, but really looked. His eyes softened slightly, but his smile stayed wicked.

“Bit far from the palace, aren’t you?” he said, almost teasing.

She blinked. “How—?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “You lot smell different. Like roses and gold coins.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

Isack held out a hand.

“Come on, l’amira. You’re not going to last ten minutes out here without someone like me.”

She hesitated. Looked at the dog, then back at him.

Then she took his hand.

And just like that, the world tilted on its axis.

They walked side by side through the sleeping veins of the city, the dog padding ahead of them like a quiet sentinel. The lanterns were dimmer now, the night heavy with spice and dust, and still, the thrill hadn’t left her chest.

She kept glancing sideways at him, the boy who'd appeared from the shadows like a spirit, all cocky swagger and barefoot confidence. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

Eventually, she spoke.

“Where are you taking me?”

Isack gave a half-shrug, as if that question had no weight.

“I’m assuming you wanted to live a real life. Not many other reasons a girl like you leaves a palace in the middle of the night.” He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re sneaking out to see a lover. That would be scandalous.”

She scowled. “No.”

“Shame.” He grinned. “Would’ve made a good story.”

She stopped walking. “You think this is a joke?”

His grin faltered, not completely, just softened at the edges. “No,” he said, more quietly. “I think it’s a risk. And risks are either foolish or brave.”

They walked in silence after that, her arms folded tightly over her chest, his hands buried in his pockets. The city around them seemed to pulse with a life she’d never noticed before, an old women leaning out of windows to gossip, a boy chasing a chicken down a lane, the rustle of music from a distant courtyard.

At last, they turned into a narrow side street, its end lit by a single flickering bulb above a door.

“Come on,” he said, pushing it open. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had this man’s mint tea.”

The teahouse was small and dimly lit, smelling of cardamom, smoke, and dried orange peel. Rugs layered the floor, and the low wooden tables were uneven. There were no other customers, just an old man behind the counter with a wiry beard and thick glasses, hunched over a chessboard.

He looked up when he saw Isack and groaned.

“Ya weledi, not you again. I’m not running a charity.”

He sighed.

Isack held up a hand, grinning. “Sidi Ahmed, Allah ybarek fik w fi shay bik.” Sidi Ahmed, may God bless you and your tea.

“Rahmt Allah fi sabrek, mashi fiya.” God’s mercy is in His patience, not mine.

He eyed Isack’s companion. “At least this time you bring someone polite.”

Isack gave her a look. “Don’t let the scarf fool you.”

She sat carefully on a cushion by the wall, her spine still too straight, her eyes absorbing everything. The chipped glasses, the way the steam curled from the kettle, the way Ahmed measured sugar like it was gold dust.

He poured two small glasses and set them down with a grumble. “Pay this time, Isack. I’m not running a zawiya.”

Isack patted his pocket, dramatically empty. “We’ve talked about this.”

The old man turned away, muttering, “Sh-shabab li mabghawsh ykhadmou.” The youth who don’t want to work.

She looked between them, and without thinking, slipped one of her bangles off her wrist. It was thin gold, etched with delicate Berber script, a gift from her grandmother.

She stood and offered it gently across the counter. “Please,” she said. “Let this cover both.”

Before Ahmed could take it, Isack’s hand came down over hers.

“La,” he said under his breath. No. “Khalih.” Leave it.

She stared at him. “Why not?”

He leaned closer, voice soft. “You don’t trade gold for tea. Not here. Not tonight.”

Then he turned, all charm again, flashing a grin at the old man. “Tell you what, you still need that window patched? I’ll come tomorrow. Ghadwa, inshallah.” Tomorrow, God willing.

Ahmed narrowed his eyes. “You said that three bukras ago.”

“And now I have an audience to impress. I’ll even sweep the floor, if that helps.”

The old man gave a long sigh, more theatre than protest, and waved them off.

“Yallah, sit before I change my mind.” Come on.

Back at the table, Isack slid her glass toward her. The tea was hot, sweet, filled with bruised mint.

She took a sip.

It was rich and strange and entirely perfect.

“You were going to pay,” he said, watching her. “With something real.”

“I was trying to help.”

“You’re not here to help,” he said, without cruelty. “You’re here to learn.”

She set the glass down carefully. “What makes you think you have anything to teach me?”

Isack’s grin didn’t falter. “Oh, l’amira, I’ve got a whole city to teach you.”

And across from him, for the first time since leaving the palace, she smiled without hesitation.

The tea had cooled by the time their conversation found stillness again.

Outside, the street hummed with distant laughter and the thud of footsteps against stone. But inside the teahouse, everything felt quieter, as though the night had folded itself around the two of them and held its breath.

She sat with her knees drawn in, hands wrapped around the chipped glass. Across from her, Isack leaned back against the cushion, head tipped slightly to the side as he watched her. Not in the way men usually did, not with hunger or calculation, but with curiosity, like she was something rare he hadn’t quite made sense of yet.

“So,” he said, gently, “what were you planning to do?”

She blinked at him.

“What?”

“Out there,” he nodded toward the door. “On your own. No guards, no money, just what? Wander through the city until you found a better life?”

She looked down at the rug beneath them, at the intricate threads that felt far more grounded than she did.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

He gave a soft laugh, not mocking, more surprised than anything.

“You really didn’t have a plan?”

She shook her head. “Only that I couldn’t stay there. That I needed out.”

There was a silence then. Not awkward, thoughtful.

He took another sip of tea and set the glass aside, speaking without looking at her.

“I don’t usually do this. Take people in.”

She turned her head, slightly wary. “Take people in?”

“To where I stay,” he said. “It’s not much. But it’s safe.”

She blinked, startled. “You’re offering?”

He nodded. “For tonight. You can leave in the morning if you want. But the streets, they change after midnight. Not even your silk cloak will keep you safe then.”

She hesitated, lips parting, but no protest came. Just a quiet breath of surrender.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I mean it.”

He looked at her then, really looked. No teasing, no smirk, just something careful in his eyes. A flicker of understanding.

“Come on then, l’amira.”

“Still calling me that?”

“Until you tell me different,” he said over his shoulder. “Or until you learn to walk like someone who doesn’t own the world.”

She rose, following him out into the night, her footsteps softer now.

She had no idea where he was taking her. And for the first time in her life she didn’t mind.

They weaved through the medina like shadows, the narrow alleys stitched with silence and stars. The dog trotted ahead confidently, tail swishing, as if it knew the way by heart.

Eventually, Isack stopped beside a faded wooden door nestled between two closed shops. An old fig tree leaned over it, casting broken leaves across the stoop.

“Here?” she asked, surprised.

He didn’t answer straight away, just offered a hand and gestured upwards. “Not quite.”

He led her down a short passage, then up a creaking set of exterior stairs. They climbed to a flat rooftop covered in laundry lines and rusted water drums, then over a low wall onto another roof just below.

The dog leapt across first, landing clumsily with a thump before padding toward a slanted wooden hatch tucked beneath the shade of some old cloth draped like a makeshift canopy.

“Mind your step,” Isack said, and helped her across with an easy grip. His hands were calloused but warm.

She landed lightly beside him, breath caught more by the moment than the leap.

It was a small space, little more than a cove made from old beams and patched fabric. But inside, it was gently lived in. Worn futons lined the edges. There was a low crate filled with books, a chipped mirror hung on the far wall, and a faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.

The dog circled twice before flopping onto a blanket with a sigh.

“This is…” she began, then hesitated. “It’s lovely.”

Isack shrugged, already crouching beside the hatch. “It does the job.”

Before she could respond, he swung himself halfway back down through the opening and called softly, “Hadja kayna waḥda mikhadda?” Hadja, do you have a pillow?

A voice snapped back immediately from the flat below.

“A pillow, Isack? At this hour? Wallah, you treat me like a hotel!”

“Just one,” he laughed. “For a guest.”

There was a short pause. Then the shuffle of slippers, the thud of a cupboard.

A plump hand emerged through the gap, clutching a well-worn cushion. “Here, waldi, take it, and no more surprises tonight, tfaddal.”

“N’barek fik, Hadja.” Bless you, Hadja.

He climbed back in with the pillow in hand, a bit of thread clinging to his hair.

She had been watching the exchange silently, eyes wide in quiet mesmerisation.

“She called you waldi,” she said.

He smiled as he tossed the pillow onto one of the futons. “She’s not my mother. But she pretends she is.”

“She gave it to you anyway.”

“She always does. Even when she’s cross.”

He gestured for her to sit, then settled across from her on the floor, back resting against the far wall.

“She took me in when I was ten. Found me trying to steal her olives.” He smirked. “Didn’t succeed, by the way. She hit me with a broom and then fed me loubia anyway.”

She laughed, properly this time, not the polite laughter of courts and expectations, but something warm and unguarded.

He watched her. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” she said. “Neither are you.”

They talked until the city slept.

Not just quiet, but truly asleep, the kind of stillness that only arrived deep in the night, when even the stray cats gave up their prowling, and the moon hung low like a watchful eye over the rooftops.

Isack had lit a stub of a candle from a jar tucked in the corner. It flickered beside them, casting shifting shapes across the patched fabric walls.

He told her about growing up with his back against the stone, the days when food came from the hands of strangers or not at all, how Hadja would scold him and feed him in the same breath. He spoke of the souks, the rooftops, the ocean he’d only seen twice, and how sometimes, when the wind came in strong from the coast, he could still taste the salt on the air.

She told him little things. That her mother had died young. That she was educated, but not free. That there was always someone watching, waiting, measuring her every word, her every breath. That she didn’t know what to do with freedom now that she’d found it, or something like it.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Leaving the palace tonight?”

He nodded.

She looked out through the fabric flap where the stars peeked in, and shook her head.

“No. I regret waiting this long.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just offered her a second cushion, and a smile that didn’t need explaining.

Eventually, her eyelids began to lower. The weight of the day, the years, pulling gently at her bones.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“I don’t want to take your bed.”

“You’re not.” He motioned to the futon. “That one’s for guests.”

She arched a brow. “How many guests do you usually have?”

He grinned. “None.”

He laid out a folded blanket, then pulled the cushion from the futon before she could object. Dropped it to the floor and settled beside the wall, arms folded behind his head, long legs crossed at the ankles.

“Isack—”

“Let me,” he said simply, eyes closed now.

She hesitated, but something in his tone made it impossible to argue.

So she lay down, curling onto the futon, fingers brushing the edge of the thin mattress. The dog gave a soft snore from the corner. The candle had gone out, leaving only moonlight, the kind that made everything look a little silver, a little softer.

She stared at the ceiling, expecting her mind to race the way it always did, with lists, and rules, and voices, and what-ifs.

But it didn’t.

For the first time in her life, there was no marble floor beneath her. No silk sheets. No guards. No walls.

Just the scent of sandalwood, and mint tea, and something faintly like hope.

And sleep, when it came, came gently, and held her like it meant to keep her.

She woke to the sound of the adhan, the call to fajr, curling through the air like the voice of the city itself.

It came from somewhere distant but clear, high and smooth and mournful in the way only the earliest hours could carry. The dog shifted but didn’t rise, only thumped its tail gently once and settled again.

She blinked, still tucked into the futon, a thin sheet drawn up around her shoulders. The world around her was a shade of soft blue, the sky just beginning to brighten in the east. It cast everything in hush,the worn crates, the fluttering fabric, the half-drunk tea still resting in its glass.

Isack was still asleep, curled slightly on his side on the floor, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely against his chest. In the half-light, he looked younger or perhaps just less guarded. A small furrow sat between his brows even in sleep, like he’d never quite let go of watchfulness.

She sat up slowly, the futon sighing beneath her.

The call continued, echoing from minaret to minaret across the rooftops. As-salatu khayrun minan-nawm… Prayer is better than sleep.

She knew she had to go.

There was no panic. No urgency. Only a quiet knowing. If she stayed longer, if she let herself fall even a step deeper into this stolen freedom, she wouldn’t return at all. And the world, her world, wasn’t ready for that.

She slipped her feet into her shoes, the silence stretching around her like a shawl.

The dog opened one eye but didn’t move, watching her with the calm understanding of someone who knew better than to bark at goodbyes.

She glanced over at Isack once more.

Then, with a breath, she reached for her wrist.

She slid off two of her bangles, the thinner ones, delicate, etched in the filigree of her mother’s people, and set them quietly on the edge of the futon where she’d slept.

Not payment.

A mark. A memory. A thank you.

She didn’t write a note. He would understand.

Then she pulled the scarf tighter around her face and stepped out into the early light, down through the hatch and over the rooftop. The air was cool and clean, the streets below still drowsy, not yet stirring with market cries or children’s footsteps.

The city hadn’t woken, but she had.

And by the time the sun had fully lifted above the rooftops of Algiers, she was already crossing back through the hidden door in the palace wall, the scent of mint and dust and candle smoke still clinging to her clothes.

Isack woke to the faint chill of dawn slipping through the cracks in the wooden hatch. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and mint, the scent she’d left behind.

He blinked, stretched his hand out instinctively and found the futon beside him empty.

His heart sank a little, slow and steady like the weight of knowing.

She was gone.

On the edge of the futon, catching the soft morning light, were two thin bangles, delicate and filigreed, the ones she had worn when she arrived.

He picked them up carefully, rolling them between his fingers, feeling the cool metal and the slight dents that told stories of a life far from his own.

A soft sigh escaped him. “Mashi moshkil.” It’s okay

He understood. She had her world to return to.

He slipped on the bangles and let his shirt cover the gold from the sunlight.

Downstairs, the old wooden door creaked open and the smell of strong tea and cooking filled the air.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Hadja.” Good morning, Hadja

“Sbāḥ l-nūr, waldi. Katḥess b’raḥtek lyom?” Good morning, my boy. Feeling alright today?

He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kān bghī nsaʿdek shwiya f’dar.” I wanted to help you around the house a bit.

Hadja smiled, hands busy folding fresh flatbread. “Daima mzyan, waldi. Ma tkhafsh, ghadi nkhdem mʿak.” Always good, my boy. Don’t worry, I’ll work with you.

As he handed her a kettle, she caught sight of the bangles peeking from beneath his sleeve.

“Shno had lḥwayej?” What are these things?

He hesitated, then showed them to her.

“Tqdr tsawb bihom flus bzzaf,” You could make a lot of money with these she murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Isack shook his head, a faint smile tugging his lips.

“Hadi, mashī ghir ljawhra.” They’re more than just jewellery.

He grabbed a length of string from the counter and carefully threaded the bangles onto it, pulling the makeshift necklace over his head.

Hadja watched, then chuckled softly.

“Mashi mzyan, waldi. La tkoun ḥmar w mat'ttīsh rasek.” Not smart, my boy. Don’t be stupid and don’t get caught.

He grinned wider, a spark in his golden-brown eyes.

“Ana mabghītsh nshouf hadchi,” I never get caught, Hadja he said, voice low and certain.

She shook her head, but there was no real scolding in her voice, just the warmth of someone who’d seen too much but still hoped.

He tucked the string beneath his shirt and turned back to the rising sun outside.

His thoughts drifted, to the girl who had left the bangles, to the quiet promise of a night that had felt, somehow, like home.

By mid-morning, the streets were wide awake, sun burning the rooftops, voices rising from alleyways, children darting between market stalls like fish in water.

Isack moved through it all like he belonged there, because he did. The city knew him, and he knew it back. The dog loped along beside him, tongue out, tail wagging every time someone threw them a passing “salam” or scrap of bread.

He reached Sidi Ahmed’s place just as the old man was dragging out a broken wooden cart wheel, grumbling under his breath.

“Sbāḥ l-khīr, Sidi,” Good morning, Sidi. Isack called, crouching beside the wheel.

The old man grunted. “Mzyan jeeti. Rah kayna chghol bzzaf.” Good you came. There’s a lot of work.

Isack smiled and set to it, sleeves rolled, sweat already gathering at the back of his neck. The wheel was splintered, but nothing beyond saving, a couple of new dowels, some sanding, a bit of patience.

Sidi Ahmed’s son, Youssef, lingered nearby, watching with a lazy sort of interest, chewing on a stem of wild mint.

“Chouf,” Isack said after a while, glancing over at him, “tqder tsaʿdni f waḥed lsu2al?” Can you help me with something?

Youssef raised a brow. “Dirti chi musiba khra?” Have you done something stupid again?

“La, la, had mara....” No, no, this time…

Youssef understood the unspoken words and spat out the stem. “Go on.”

Isack wiped his brow with his sleeve and leaned back slightly against the wall, gaze fixed on the wheel but mind clearly elsewhere.

“Say you meet someone,” he began, slow. “Someone who’s not from your world. Proper different. But you get on, like, really get on. And then they vanish.”

Youssef squinted at him. “She run off with your shoes?”

Isack huffed a quiet laugh. “Not quite. Just left. No goodbye. But left something behind.”

Youssef’s face softened slightly, as if he’d caught the edge of what Isack wasn’t saying.

“What did she leave?”

Isack hesitated, then tugged the string out slightly from beneath his shirt, just enough to let the bangles glint in the sunlight.

Youssef whistled under his breath.

“Hadchi mn lkasr?” This from the palace?

“Ma-gult walou.” Isack shrugged. I didn’t say anything

Youssef leaned in slightly. “You want advice?”

He nodded.

“Nsuḥk. Khalli l’aql qbl lqlb.” My advice. Keep your head before your heart.

Isack looked down at the bangles, his thumb tracing the edge.

“W ila ma bghītsh ndīr haka?” And what if I don’t want to do that?

Youssef laughed. “Then may God help you, Isack. Because no one else will.”

They both chuckled, the tension breaking for a moment.

Isack stood, stretching, wiping dust from his palms. “Come on then, help me lift this wheel. Unless you just came to offer useless wisdom.”

Youssef grinned and bent down beside him. “Ana daba fassḥab raḥna f chi hikayat dyal Alf Layla w Layla.” I feel like we’re in some story out of One Thousand and One Nights.

Isack didn’t reply straight away, just smiled faintly, eyes catching the sunlight, the bangles warm against his chest.

The palace was quiet in the way that only vast, marbled halls could be, a kind of elegant, echoing silence that never let you forget how alone you really were.

She sat in the morning sunroom, half-curled on one of the velvet chaise lounges, fingers absently twisting the end of her braid. A tray of untouched figs and almonds lay on the table beside her, along with a fresh pot of tea that had already grown cold.

Her father entered without knocking, as he always did. The sharp scent of musk and cedar preceded him, the trailing end of his white robe brushing softly against the mosaic tiles.

“You’re off,” he said without greeting, eyes narrowing as he took her in, from the slight slump in her shoulders to the vague shadows under her eyes.

She didn’t look up. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Clearly.” He stepped closer. “What kept you up?”

She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “The usual. Thoughts. Expectations. Century-old ceilings.”

“Don’t get clever.”

That earned him a glance. “Don’t ask stupid questions, then.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, brief, but visible. He came to stand beside her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“You never speak to me like that.”

“I suppose I’m tired of speaking like I’m being examined.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You used to confide in me.”

“When I was ten, and thought you ruled the sun,” she muttered.

There was a pause. He let it hang in the air just long enough to shift the mood.

Then, with the same cold precision she knew too well, he dropped a rolled scroll onto the table beside the figs.

“What’s this?” she asked, already knowing.

“A list.”

“Of?”

“Potential suitors. From respectable bloodlines. Royal, military, or diplomatic, no lesser. And no more poets.”

She stared at the scroll. Didn’t touch it.

“You’re serious.”

“Entirely.”

“And if I don’t?” Her voice was tight now, clipped at the edges.

“If you don’t choose one by July,” he said calmly, “then we’ll have an issue.”

She stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with more force than she meant to. “An issue.”

“Yes.”

“Like a diplomatic incident, or just another daughter buried in silk and obedience?”

His jaw tightened. “Watch your tongue.”

She met his gaze, hers unflinching, gold-flecked and defiant. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was a wall, and she’d lived behind it all her life.

He gestured to the scroll.

“Make a decision. You’re not a child anymore.”

Then he turned, and just like that, he was gone, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of a palace built more for power than people.

She sat slowly, eyes still fixed on the scroll. Somewhere far beyond the stone walls and manicured gardens, the city lived and breathed without her.

She reached for a fig. Bit into it absentmindedly.

It tasted like nothing.

She let it roll on her tongue, slowly chewing, but it crumbled like ash. Sweet and hollow. Like the walls of this palace. Like her life.

With a quiet breath, she set the fruit back onto the tray and rose, silk skirts whispering against the marble as she slipped through the archway and into the palace gardens.

The air outside was cooler, fragrant with orange blossom and rosemary, soft earth beneath the soles of her slippers. Here, the palace forgot itself. Here, at least, the stone gave way to soil, and life.

She walked past the cypress trees, fingers grazing their rough trunks, until she reached the familiar little corner where the rose bushes curled like old memories around a simple stone marker.

Her mother’s grave.

The marble was smooth, the engraved words worn by years of wind and rain.

She knelt, brushing away a few stray petals from the base, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Salam, Mama,” Peace (Hello), Mama she murmured softly.

The wind stirred the roses gently, as if in answer.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she whispered, voice barely carrying. “I don’t know what I want or who I am supposed to be.”

Her fingers tightened in the folds of her gown.

“I met someone,” she went on, casting her eyes down. “A boy. A boy with dirt beneath his nails and laughter in his eyes. With his feet on the ground and his heart open. Full. More than he has. More than he can give.”

She closed her eyes.

“Bzaf ʿlih... bzzaf ʿlia.” Too much for him... too much for me

She exhaled, slow and long.

“I wanted to be free, Mama. I wanted to run and see and breathe. But now I’ve tasted it, I don’t know if I can go back. I don’t know if I can fit in this life any longer.”

Footsteps crunched lightly on the gravel behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Lalla,” Little girl, came the familiar soft voice, her mother’s old maid, gentle and lined with age. “You sit here like your mother did. All these years, nothing changes.”

She felt the old woman settle beside her with a quiet sigh.

“What would you do?” she asked softly. “You knew my mother better than she knew herself. What would you tell her, if she stood where I am now?”

The maid smiled faintly, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap.

“Tāmen b’Allah... w tmshi b’qlbek. Huwa li ghadi yurik triq.” Believe in Allah... and follow your heart. He will show you the way

The girl swallowed, throat tight. “And if my heart leads me away from here?”

The old woman touched her hand, warm and steady.

“Then you were never meant to stay, bnti.” my daughter

For a long moment, they sat in the quiet, the scent of roses thick in the air, the world turning softly beyond the palace walls.

Later that night, she sat alone on the terrace, the one on the farthest wing of the palace, furthest from her father’s private quarters and the endless eyes of the guards.

The marble beneath her legs was cool, her bare feet curling against the stone edge as the evening wind lifted strands of her hair. Above her, the sky stretched wide and endless, scattered with stars, silver threads sewn across velvet black. The moon hung low and full, casting the palace rooftops in gentle light.

She breathed in the air, the scent of distant jasmine and city dust, the distant echo of life beyond the walls. It felt like sitting between two worlds. On one side, the endless gardens, the sharp spires, the cold, polished perfection of the palace. On the other, the old city, asleep and breathing, warm and rough-edged, untamed.

Her gaze lingered there, past the battlements, past the dividing walls, past the courtyards where only soldiers and servants tread. She tilted her head, lost in thought, wondering if the boy with the sun-darkened curls and the restless smile was asleep somewhere beneath that same sky.

A soft sound pulled her from her reverie.

She stiffened.

There it was again, a scrape, gentle but clear. A footfall against stone.

Her heart quickened. She glanced back towards the archway, towards the shadowed corridor behind her, empty. Still.

Then from the wall that marked the boundary between palace and city, the high old wall she’d once scaled as a child before she’d been caught and forbidden to try again came a quiet voice, low and teasing.

“L’amira...” Princess

Her breath caught. Familiar. Impossible.

She turned sharply and there he was.

Perched like a cat upon the wall, crouched comfortably as if he belonged there, was Isack. His hair caught the moonlight in soft curls, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief, his grin wide and unrepentant.

She gaped, mouth slightly open. “You—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Do you want half the guard waking up?”

“How—how did you get up here?” she hissed, eyes darting nervously to the shadows behind her. “You’ll be killed if they see you.”

He swung his leg over the wall, now sitting casually, unbothered by the drop beneath him. “I’ve been climbing these streets my whole life, l’amira. Walls don’t frighten me. Neither do guards.” His grin widened. “Nor kings.”

She stood, her silk robe slipping from one shoulder as she stared at him in disbelief, hands curling into the stone balustrade.

“You’re mad,” she breathed. “Completely mad.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, easy as rain. “But you left before I could say goodbye. Before you could say anything at all. That’s rude, you know.”

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. “I had to go.”

“I know.” His gaze softened, the teasing edge fading, something quieter behind his eyes now. “But I couldn’t let it end like that. Not without seeing you again.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the terrace, palace silk against street dust, gold against leather, two pieces of a story that shouldn’t have touched.

She swallowed hard, voice low. “What are you doing here, Isack?”

He grinned again, but this time it was softer. Less bravado. More truth.

“Kan-fakker fik.” I was thinking of you

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering breath, steadying her racing heart.

“And what do you plan to do now that you’re here?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes dancing in the moonlight.

“Depends. Do you want to see the city from the rooftops? Like a real life? Or are you going to stay here, on this cold stone, and dream of it forever?”

For a long moment, the world was silent, save for the wind in the olive trees and the distant call of a night bird.

Then she smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Help me over,” she said softly. “Before someone sees you and you lose that charming head of yours.”

His grin lit up his whole face.

“Mzyana bzaaf,” Very good he murmured.

His hand was rough when she took it, warm and steady, calloused from years of work and climbing and living. Not like the soft, perfumed hands of the princes she’d been paraded before.

“Careful, l’amira,” he murmured with a crooked smile, steadying her as she clambered up onto the wall beside him. “Palace girls aren’t used to balancing this high.”

“I’m not palace born,” she whispered back, grinning despite herself. “My mother birthed me out of the palace, something the Sultan would not want anyone to know.”

Isack chuckled softly. “So you do have secrets.”

She glanced at him sideways. “More than you’d guess.”

“Good.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Hold on.”

And then, like two shadows slipping from their chains, they swung down onto the flat rooftops of the old city, his dog jumping up at the sight of them with a soft whine of excitement. The stones beneath their feet were warm from the day’s heat, glowing faintly under the moon. The air smelled of spice and dust and distant sea wind.

They ran.

Across roof tiles and crumbling plaster, over narrow alleyways and sleeping courtyards. The city stretched wide beneath the sky, full of twisting streets and secrets. She laughed, sudden, wild, unguarded, the sound breaking free from her chest like a bird uncaged.

It startled her.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. Like a girl, not a daughter of kings.

Isack grinned at her, breathless, pulling her forward. “Raki mzyana…” You’re beautiful His voice was low, teasing, but something in it was true and soft.

She ignored the heat in her cheeks and ran faster.

They went down twisting iron staircases into a courtyard where a fountain murmured in the dark. Past shuttered shops and quiet mosques, their tall silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the stars. The old souk lay deserted at this hour, only the scent of cinnamon and leather lingering in the air, and they wove through its maze, her slippers scattering sand and dust behind them.

They paused near a quiet square, where an old fig tree grew beside a shuttered bakery. Isack caught her hand, pulling her into the shadow of the branches.

“Look,” he whispered, nodding upwards.

There, the sky above the rooftops opened wide, and the stars poured down like light on water. The moon hung low and close, so bright it painted silver across his face, across the soft dark curls of his hair.

She leaned against the tree, breathless. Smiling.

“I haven’t seen the city like this since I was a child,” she murmured. “I’d almost forgotten what it smelled like. The dust, the baking bread, the night air...”

“Machi nshan, l’amira,” It’s not forgotten, princess he said softly.

He crouched by the base of the tree, resting a hand on the warm stone. “It’s in you still. The city. Like breath. Like blood.”

His dog sniffed the cobblestones, tail wagging slowly.

She crouched beside him, tucking her silk robe beneath her knees. “And this is your life. Dust and stone and sky.”

“And tea,” he grinned, pulling a tiny wrapped sweet from his pocket. “Never forget tea.” He unwrapped it, split the piece and offered her half. “You eat like the street folk tonight.”

She laughed softly, taking the sweet from his hand, their fingers brushing. “I think I prefer it.”

For a while they sat like that, sharing the sweet, listening to the quiet city breathe.

Then he stood, holding out a hand again. “Come. There’s more to see before the sun comes.”

And she went.

He led her down the back alleys where old women hung strings of chillies to dry; past the little mosque where boys gathered before dawn; over the market square where, tomorrow, the traders would shout for customers. She touched the walls, the stalls, the rough stones worn smooth by centuries of feet. She smelled mint and old wood, old iron and salt from the far-off sea.

When they reached the sea wall, they sat, side by side, legs swinging high above the water. Below them, the waves lapped gently against the old harbour.

“Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me why you live like this. So free. So careless.”

He smiled faintly, gazing at the dark water.

“Because no one expects anything from me, l’amira. No crown. No bloodline. I wake. I eat. I live. That’s enough.”

She watched his profile in the moonlight, the ease in his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice.

“I don’t know what that feels like,” she whispered.

He turned to her, gently.

“Maybe tonight you do.”

For a while they sat in silence, and it was enough.

When the sky began to pale towards dawn, he stood and dusted off his hands.

“Come. One more place.”

He took her up a steep stairway to the rooftops again, to a flat-topped house where the whole city spread beneath them, rooftops and minarets, domes and arches, all touched with silver light.

She turned slowly, breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve never seen it like this.”

“It’s yours,” he murmured beside her. “All this. Yours to hold or let go.”

She looked at him, at the dog sitting quietly at his side, and something old and tight in her chest eased.

“I don’t want to go back.”

He smiled sadly. “But you will.”

She touched his arm gently. “For now let’s stay until the sun rises.”

And they did.

Until the first light touched the city’s edges, soft and golden, and the distant call to Fajr prayer rose into the waking sky.

For one night, she had lived.

For one night, she had been free.

The first light of dawn crept over the sleeping city, turning the edges of the old stone buildings to gentle gold. The minarets stood like watchful sentinels against the softening sky, and far in the distance, the call to Fajr rose, a quiet, melodic thread carried on the morning breeze.

She stood atop the rooftop, her silk robe stirring gently against her ankles, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. The night’s freedom clung to her skin like perfume, warm and giddy. A soft yawn escaped her lips, unwilling, but honest, and when she rubbed her eyes like a child, Isack laughed quietly beside her.

“Let’s get you home, l’amira,” he murmured, gentle and amused, the corners of his mouth lifting.

She turned her gaze to him, eyes still bright with the thrill of the night. “No,” she said softly, firmly. “Not home. Just the palace. These streets...” She let her gaze sweep across the waking rooftops, the winding alleys below, the scent of baked earth and mint and dawn filling her senses. “These streets are home.”

He looked at her, properly looked, as if seeing something new unfold, and smiled. A real smile. Quiet. Fond. As if he understood without needing any more words.

Together they made their way back to the high wall separating her world from his, the wall that divided gold from dust, silk from leather, crown from calloused hand. His dog padded silently behind them, yawning as it trotted.

At the wall, he crouched first, bracing his hands, offering her a boost.

“Up you go, l’amira,” he whispered with mock ceremony.

She grinned and took the step, his strong hands steady at her waist as he lifted her. Her slippers found the old stones with ease, and she pulled herself over, turning back just as she perched atop the crumbling edge.

Isack swung up lightly beside her, half his body leaning over the top, one leg still hooked to the city’s side.

He rested his forearms on the cold stone, his face close to hers in the pale light of dawn. His voice dropped low, gentle as the breeze that stirred her loose hair.

“You know where to find me,” he said softly. “Just call my name, l’amira, and I’ll hear you. It’ll carry through the winds and I’ll come for you.”

Her heart gave a quiet, aching twist.

She reached out, without fear, without hesitation, and brushed the dark curls back from his forehead. Her fingertips lingered a moment longer than they should.

“Thank you,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My Isack.”

And then, daring, bold, the way she had not been for all her carefully caged years, she leaned forward and pressed her lips softly to his cheek.

A kiss, warm and fleeting, left just beneath the edge of his eye.

For a heartbeat, he stilled, surprise flickering in his golden-brown gaze, before the familiar, crooked smile curved his mouth once more.

“Tsbah bel khir, l’amira,” Sleep well, princess he murmured.

She smiled back, heart thudding against her ribs.

And then she dropped silently to the palace side of the wall, back into the world of marble and duty, secrets and silk.

Isack stayed a moment longer, watching, his dog seated patiently at his feet, and then, like a breath on the wind, he was gone.

But her heart stayed wild in her chest, like the streets. Like him.

For the first time in her life, the palace felt far less like home.

Since that night, the months slipped by like sand through his fingers.

First April, when the city blossomed with the scent of oranges and the sea air grew soft and warm. Then May, hot and golden, when the sun lingered late into the evening and the alley cats grew lazy in the shade. June followed, dry and sharp, with the dust rising in thin curls from the streets. And now July was beginning to creep in, slow and heavy with its heat, the sky pale and cloudless as far as the eye could see.

And she had not called his name. Not once.

Hadja had warned him, wagging a crooked finger in his face as she stirred her pot of lentils. “Ma tderhach, waldi. Don’t go waiting for her. Girls like that, palace girls, they fly high and they never look down.” Don’t do this my boy

But his heart, that foolish, disobedient thing, still yearned.

Every evening he’d find himself drifting along the edge of the palace wall, pretending he was walking the dog, pretending he wasn’t hoping to hear her voice on the wind. But nothing came. Only the distant murmurs of the guards. Only the scent of jasmine and stone.

When the morning rose he wandered to Sidi Ahmed’s little shop near the mosque, the dog padding along beside him, tongue lolling. The old man sat outside, grumbling over a chipped tea glass, puffing on his thin roll of tobacco as he squinted at the quiet street.

“Sbah el kheir, Sidi,” Good morning Sidi Isack greeted, swinging down onto the low wall beside him.

“Sbah en-nour,” the old man grunted back, eyeing him sideways. “Mafi shghal? You’ve time to waste this morning?” No work today?

“Waiting on wood delivery for you,” Isack shrugged, scratching the dog behind the ears. “And tea. You promised tea, old man.”

Sidi grunted and waved a hand. “Go make it yourself, I’m too angry for tea.”

Isack smirked. “What now? Someone insult your prices again?”

“La, worse,” Sidi huffed, dragging deeply on his cigarette. “The streets are closing for two days. Two whole days. For that cursed royal wedding.” He spat into the dust. “Two days no trade, no customers, no deliveries, no work. All because of that stupid fuss.”

Isack frowned, stirring the tea leaves lazily in the pot. “Wedding? Which wedding?”

Sidi gave him a look of disbelief, squinting one eye. “Yal himar” You donkey “You live under the sky and you know nothing, boy? The princess. The l’amira. She’s to marry that fool from Tizi Ouzou. Some prince’s son. Their tents are already pitched outside the palace walls. The wedding’s at the week’s end.”

Isack’s hand stilled on the teapot.

“Shkun...” His throat tightened. “Shkun bnat l’malik?” Which princess?

Sidi snorted. “As if there are many. The king’s only daughter, of course. The pretty one with the Berber cheekbones, the one who never smiles. But she will soon, I suppose. Once she’s properly wed, hm?”

Isack felt the breath leave his chest as if someone had punched him. The dog whined softly at his feet, sensing the sudden change in him.

“She never said...” he murmured under his breath, staring blankly at the steam curling from the teapot. “She never said anything.”

Sidi leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “Wach bik? What’s this face, boy? You look like you’ve swallowed a bad date.” What’s wrong with you?

“Nothing,” Isack said quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”

But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Two days the streets would close. Two days of silk and gold and music. Two days and she would belong to another man, some polished stranger from the mountains who smelled of mint and power, who had never run the streets with dust in his hair or tea stolen in the market, who had never touched the old fig tree under the stars.

His hand drifted to the string around his neck, fingers brushing the hidden bracelets tied close to his skin. Cold now. Silent.

Hadja’s words whispered in the back of his mind.

“Palace girls never look down, waldi...”

But she had looked down once. And smiled. And kissed his cheek.

And now she was to be caged again, gilded and perfumed, behind marble walls.

“La tkoon hmaq,” Sidi muttered, grumbling as he refilled his glass. “Don’t be stupid, boy. This is their world. Not ours.”

But Isack said nothing.

He only sat in silence, the tea cooling between his hands, staring at the city that no longer felt like home.

She was to be wed.

To another man.

In three days.

And then she would vanish behind those marble walls forever, a shadow behind silken curtains, a memory pressed flat like petals between the pages of an old book.

Unless...

He set the glass down with a quiet clink.

There was no time to waste.

That night he paced the narrow cove above Hadja’s house, the bracelets heavy against his chest, as the old woman snored softly below. The dog lay awake by the door, tail thumping once when Isack knelt beside him.

“N’har el Khmis,” Thursday Isack whispered, running a hand through the thick fur. “You and me, boy. One last foolish thing.”

He sketched the plan in his mind as clearly as a carpenter laying out his wood. Simple. Sharp. No room for mistakes.

Early in the morning on the wedding day, the streets lay quiet, stripped of their usual noise. Banners of white and crimson fluttered from the palace walls. The gates stood heavy and closed, but not for him.

He slipped along the shadowed alleys, the dog at his heel. When they reached the outer court, he knelt low, cupping the hound’s face in his hands.

“Sma’ni, a sahbi.” Listen to me, my friend

He tugged gently at the dog’s ear. “Run to the court. Bark. Chase. Bite the silk if you must. Make every guard chase you. And don’t stop until you hear my whistle.”

The dog wagged its tail, tongue lolling, clever dark eyes bright.

“Go.”

He bounded away, streaking through the open side gate just as the servants brought out wedding garlands. With a sudden wild barking and a flurry of paws, chaos broke like a summer storm. Men shouted, cloth ripped, baskets fell; the dog danced circles round them all, scattering petals and kicking over vases.

And while the front court swarmed in shouting confusion, Isack slipped silent as breath to the side wall.

He pulled himself up, grunting softly, legs swinging over the stone as he dropped to the inner courtyard where the date palms whispered. His heart thudded loud in his ears, not with fear. With something far more dangerous.

Hope.

Up the servant stairs, fast and quiet, barefoot. Past the scent of rose oil and incense. He knew the way; he’d listened to Hadja’s stories of the palace, of secret paths and quiet doors. Now they led him straight to her chambers.

He heard her voice from within, soft, distracted.

“You aren’t allowed to see me until after the wedding,” she called, assuming it was her betrothed, come foolishly to break the old tradition.

A grin touched Isack’s mouth as he leaned on the doorframe, careless and sure.

“Well, l’amira, lucky for you, I never cared much for rules.”

The room fell silent.

The curtain stirred, and she stepped out.

And for the first time in his life, Isack forgot every clever word he had ever known.

She stood there in her wedding kaftan, ivory silk, embroidered with gold threads that caught the light like dawn’s first glow. Her hair was plaited with fine jewels, little silver charms from the old mountains woven between the strands. Kohl lined her eyes, making them deep and dark and filled with too many feelings at once.

“Isack...?” Her voice was a whisper, barely breathing.

He swallowed hard, staring, utterly and beautifully lost.

“Ya lahbibti,” he managed, a soft smile curling at the edge of his lips. “You’re something the poets forgot to write about.”

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the chaos far below, then back to him, wild and bright, like the girl who had run laughing through the streets with him under the stars.

And in that quiet moment, caught between the palace and the world beyond, the air hummed with something ancient and fierce.

A promise.

A choice.

A beginning.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The soft scent of jasmine oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the crisp tang of fresh silk. Somewhere below, the shouting and chaos of the courtyard still stirred, muffled by distance, but here, in this quiet chamber high above the world, time itself seemed to have stopped.

Isack swallowed, his gaze steady on her, his chest tight with something raw and reckless.

“Come with me,” he said softly. His voice was not a command, nor a plea, but something gentle, a thread stretched between hope and fear.

Her hand gripped the carved edge of the dressing table; her knuckles pale against the dark wood.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, eyes dark and steady. “Can’t or won’t?”

She said nothing.

The silence between them grew thick, not of anger or doubt, but fear. Old fear. Palace fear. The kind spun into your bones from birth, as heavy and clinging as the scent of burning myrrh in the halls.

Isack smiled sadly, tilting his head as if listening to the wind through the date palms.

“It’s fear, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Not the walls, not your father, not even this ridiculous silk cage they’ve put you in. Just fear. Like a thread round your throat. It’s the oldest prison of all, l’amira.” His voice dropped low, rough as dusk on old stone. “Fear of wanting more than they told you you deserved. Of flying too far from the cage door. Of hearing your own name echo back from the wind and realising you were always meant for the sky.”

She closed her eyes, a shiver racing down her spine.

He stepped close enough to reach her wrist where it rested by her side, the silk of her kaftan soft beneath his fingers. Gently, reverently, he touched the thin golden bracelet there, the one she always wore, with its old engraving worn soft by time.

His thumb brushed across the script, his mouth quietly shaping the words in Arabic:

"Ul-iwazzan ur ttur, ul-iwazzan ur ikkes; ul-iwazzan ur ifus, zriɣ deg ul-iwazzan." The heart that is given is never lost; the hand that offers is never empty; the soul that dares is never broken.

Berber words. Mountain words. Old as the wind.

He smiled faintly.

“Your mother’s?” he asked softly.

She gave the smallest nod, her throat tight.

He traced the bracelet once more, his fingers lingering on the warmth of her skin. Then he raised his gaze to hers, dark eyes bright with something fierce and unspoken.

“Give me a chance,” he murmured. “I’ve nothing but a cove above Hadja’s roof and a dog that’s tearing up the palace court as we speak but if you’ll have me—” he breathed, the smile touching the edge of his mouth, soft and sure, “—I’ll make every breath of this life worth it. Every step. Every dawn. Until you forget what fear ever tasted like.”

The silence quivered between them.

And for the first time in her life, she wondered what it would feel like to be free.

To fly.

To fall.

And never break.

She stood frozen. A breath caught at the edge of her lips, the weight of centuries resting on her shoulders.

For a heartbeat Isack feared she would say no, that the palace would win, that the fear woven into the very stones of this place would tighten its grip and pull her back to the life she hated. Her eyes dropped to the floor; her hand trembled faintly against the silk folds of her wedding kaftan.

Then, a sound.

Her father’s voice, low and steady, carried down the corridor with the heavy certainty of all things expected.

“Binti” My daughter “It’s time. Come. We must go to the mosque.”

The words hung like iron in the air.

Her gaze flickered to the door, to the weight of her father’s voice, and then back to Isack, standing there in his worn shirt, dust on his skin, light in his eyes.

She lifted her chin, something fierce sparking in the dark pools of her eyes. Her fingers reached for the bracelet he had touched, her mother’s words warm against her wrist.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice suddenly clear and strong, like water breaking stone. “Take me from here. Take me to the mosque, but only if you promise one thing, ya Isack.”

He stilled, breath caught.

“Promise me that you will wed me yourself. With no lords, no gold, no court. No lies. In the mosque, in the sight of Allah, with nothing but the truth between us. And let me be free of this life. Forever.”

His heart clenched. He reached out, gently cupping her face as he smiled, a slow, soft smile that held the sky itself.

“I swear on my life,” he said. “On my breath, on my dog, on the roof that shelters me and the streets that made me, I swear, l’amira. I’ll take you to the mosque with my own hand and you will be free. No walls. No cages. No fear.”

For the first time, she smiled, real and unguarded, bright as the morning sun cracking over the sea.

“Then let’s go.”

Without another word, he took her hand rough against the silk, and led her to the window. Below, the court was still in chaos, guards chasing the barking hound who darted between their legs like a spirit from the stories.

With a quiet laugh, Isack helped her swing over the terrace ledge, steadying her as her golden slippers met the stone. She glanced once over her shoulder, at the life she’d lived, the father who called for her, the walls that had held her since birth.

And then she leapt.

Into the dawn.

Into the world.

Into freedom.

Isack grinned, pulling her close as they dashed for the stairs, the wind rushing warm and alive against their faces.

“Come, l’amira,” he breathed as they ran, hearts pounding like drums. “Let’s get you wed, properly.”

And hand in hand, they fled into the waking streets of Algiers, where the call to prayer rose soft and silver into the sky, and the city opened before them, endless and wild as the sea.

They ran through the streets like the children she’d once watched with longing eyes, but now she was part of that world, part of the dawn, part of life.

Her slippers barely touched the cobbles, her golden bangles chiming softly with each hurried step, her silken wedding kaftan billowing like a cloud behind her. Jewels still clung to her neck and wrists, shimmering under the dim light of the waking city. Beside her, Isack ran barefoot in his worn scraps and dust-stained linen, his laughter breathless, his grin as bright as the sun rising behind them.

And together, like foolish lovers from some old street tale, they dashed towards the mosque.

The great white walls rose before them, calm and still against the blue-tinged sky, the call to prayer fading softly into the air. The old wooden doors stood half open, light from within spilling golden onto the stone.

Isack pushed through first, his dog waiting outside, tail wagging fiercely at the steps.

Inside, the familiar scent of oud and old prayer rugs filled the air. And there, bending to arrange the worn books of scripture, stood the imam, a stout man with a silver beard and thick brows, muttering to himself as he worked.

“Ya khoya!” Brother Isack called, grinning as he hurried forward. “Remember when I caught your runaway rooster last winter and you promised me a favour?”

The imam straightened slowly, squinting at him.

“Ya waldi, I’ve no dinar to pay you for that rooster,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I told you already, that bird brought me nothing but bad luck.”

Isack only laughed, glancing at her, breathless, radiant in her silks and gold.

“I’m not here for money, imam Saïdi,” he said softly, the grin fading into something almost shy, almost sacred. “I’ve come for my payment. Please, wed me to the woman who holds my heart. Now. Quickly. We’re in a rush.”

The imam stared, from Isack’s rough clothes to her shining wedding jewels, then back again.

“Are you sure, boy?” the old man asked, voice low with the weight of tradition. “This is no small thing, not a game to win and laugh over. Marriage is binding before Allah, here, and in the next life.”

Isack turned to her, his hand reaching for hers, fingers twining tight. She met his gaze, her heart thudding hard and wild.

“Yes,” she whispered, voice steady. “We are sure.”

The imam sighed, but the faintest smile curved his lips beneath his beard.

“Very well, waladi. Come here. Both of you.”

And so, beneath the carved wooden beams of the mosque, before the worn prayer rugs and the quiet dawn, the old man began the nikah.

Isack spoke first, his voice clear: his ijab, his offer to take her as his wife. Her heart jumped as she gave her quiet qabul, accepting him, her breath soft and warm in the hushed air.

Witnessed by Allah. No gold. No courts. No walls.

Only truth.

Only choice.

Only freedom.

The imam prayed over them, his hands lifted gently, invoking peace, blessing, mercy. The words of the Qur’an wrapped around them like light, weaving them into something whole and sacred.

“Baraka Allahu lakuma,” May Allah bless you both he said softly at last.

But before the final words could fall, the heavy crash of iron-shod boots broke the quiet, and the wide doors of the mosque burst open.

Palace guards.

Dozens of them.

Their dark leather armour gleamed, swords glinting under the oil lamps. The captain stepped forward, gaze sharp and cruel.

“There they are!” he barked. “Seize them, by order of the Sultan himself!”

The peace of the mosque shattered, but Isack only smiled, fingers tightening around his new wife’s hand.

“Ya Allah...” the imam muttered, clutching his beads.

Steel-clad hands grabbed Isack roughly by the arms, wrenching him backwards with such force his shoulder jarred painfully. The dog growled low and deep from outside but dared not move as three more guards kept their blades close.

At the far end of the prayer hall, she stood, now alone, radiant in her wedding silk, defiant as the sunrise behind her. Her dark eyes flashed as the heavy tread of boots approached.

The Sultan himself entered the mosque, flanked by advisors and more guards, the weight of his presence sinking into the air like stone into water. His robe of deep emerald trailed behind him.

He halted in the centre of the prayer hall, eyes flicking from the bound street boy to his daughter, who was supposed to be waiting at the palace gates for her grand procession.

His face darkened.

“What is the meaning of this?” His voice cut sharp through the silence, hard as steel drawn from its sheath. “What foolishness is this? Binti, explain yourself. Now.”

She lifted her chin, her heart pounding against her ribs. “I have nothing to explain to you, Father,” she said, her voice low, steady. “I have done what you never let me do, I chose.”

His gaze narrowed, dark with warning. “Chose?” he spat. “Chose what? This—” he flung a hand towards the struggling Isack, “this gutter rat? This thief from the streets? You throw away a kingdom for him?”

He strode towards her, his robe whispering against the tiles. His hand shot out, catching her chin hard, lifting her face so her eyes were forced to meet his.

“You shame me,” he hissed. “You shame your mother’s name. Your country. What have you done?”

Before she could speak, Isack's voice cracked the air, hoarse but fierce, his whole body straining against the guards’ grip.

“Don’t touch my wife!”

The words hung like thunder in the mosque.

The Sultan froze.

So did every guard.

Even the imam, who stood quietly by the prayer books, bowed his head and folded his hands before him.

“She speaks the truth, sidi,” the old imam said softly, his voice carrying clear and unafraid through the vast chamber. “By Allah’s law and witness, they are wed. Just now. With her qabul and his ijab. With me as their witness. The nikah is done.”

The Sultan’s hand dropped slowly from her face.

His breath hissed between his teeth as he stared at his daughter, who stood unflinching, her chin high, her eyes clear and bright.

“You married him,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “You married this... street boy. Without my blessing. Without the court. Without—” His hand trembled. “You dare defy me, your father, the Sultan?”

“I dared, Father,” she said softly, “because you left me no choice. You caged me all my life. This is my freedom. My will. My faith.” Her voice hardened. “And he is my husband.”

Silence fell like a heavy cloth over the mosque, save for the dog’s soft, warning growl and the faint creak of armour.

The Sultan stared at them, the gilded princess and the dusty street boy, joined in defiance and faith.

His jaw tightened.

And the air held still, waiting for his judgement.

The Sultan’s face darkened, rage twisting the lines of his mouth as the weight of his shame settled upon him. In front of his men. In the house of God. His pride, his own blood, choosing a street rat over the throne.

His hand shot out.

A sharp crack split the air as his palm struck her cheek, sending her head whipping to the side.

A breathless hush swept the mosque.

Isack roared.

With a violent wrench, he tore free from the guards' grip, their surprise too slow, their hands grasping at empty air as the boy, lean and lithe from a lifetime of running and scrapping, lunged across the space between them.

He grabbed the Sultan by the front of his robes, strong, hands knotting into the silken lapels and hauled him forward until their faces were but inches apart. His chest heaved; his golden-brown eyes burned bright as fire.

“The only thing holding me back from sending you to your death for laying a hand on my wife,” he growled, voice low and shaking with fury, “is that we stand in the house of Allah. But God is my witness, Sultan, if I see you again, and you dare try one more thing against her, against us, you shan’t live to say the word ‘La’.” No

A gasp rippled through the guards.

Even the dog bared its teeth, hackles raised, a low rumble thrumming in its throat.

The Sultan’s eyes, wide with shock, stared into Isack’s face, the breath stolen from his chest. No man, no beggar, no prince had ever dared grip him so. His guards hovered, hesitating, unsure whether to drag Isack down and risk defiling the mosque further.

Isack shook him once, hard, before shoving him back, hard enough that the Sultan staggered on his feet, his robes twisting about him like wounded pride.

She gasped softly, her fingers brushing her stinging cheek, but her heart swelled with something wild and bright. Isack, this boy from the streets, stood tall before a king without fear.

The Imam stepped forward quietly, his old hands raised.

“Enough. Baraka min hadshi.” Enough of this

His voice cut the tension like a blade, heavy with the quiet authority of one who spoke for God.

“All of you, this is sacred ground. No more violence beneath Allah’s roof. Leave your wrath outside.”

Isack stood firm, breathing hard, the fire still in his eyes.

The Sultan straightened his robe, hand trembling slightly as he brushed the silk smooth, his gaze burning into the boy before him.

“You have shamed me,” the Sultan hissed. “Both of you. This is not over.”

Isack smiled, slow, dangerous, wolfish.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s only just begun.”

Her hand slipped into his, fingers tightening around his as the guards shifted uneasily, no man daring to break the Imam’s peace, no sword daring to fall where Allah’s name was spoken.

And in that quiet moment, beneath the great dome of the mosque and the morning light streaming in, they stood, husband and wife, defiant and unbroken.

And free.

The weight of the morning’s confrontation still clung to them as she and Isack made their way through the narrow, twisting streets, fingers intertwined. They arrived at Hadja’s humble home.

Hadja greeted them with a knowing smile, her eyes sharp beneath heavy brows that had witnessed decades of stories. “Ah, waldi,” she said softly, her voice thick with affection. “And l’amira, the princess with the heart of a rebel.” She welcomed them inside, where the scent of mint tea and spices wove through the air like a familiar song.

Once seated, tea poured and steam swirling upwards, they looked to her for guidance. Hadja’s gaze softened as she began, her voice falling into a quiet rhythm, the past and present folding together.

“Love,” she murmured, she smiled faintly, “is a wild flame. I was once foolishly in love, too.”

Her eyes drifted to a faraway place, as though seeing a younger version of herself beneath a fading lantern’s light.

“There was a boy from a far village, kan zwin, he was handsome, kind, but life had other plans. Tqadit I was deceived. I thought love alone would be enough, but it was not.”

“Knt bghit nhss b huriya I wanted to feel free. But freedom, l’amira, isn’t given; it’s taken. And love is the courage to take it.”

When she finished, silence settled, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

Hadja’s hand reached out, worn and steady, resting on Isack’s.

“My son Isack, listen carefully. Take passage from here to Ghazaouet. It’s not safe for you here anymore.”

Isack’s brow furrowed, surprise flickering across his face.

Hadja turned to l’amira, eyes shimmering with a secret long kept.

“l’amira, your mother was from Ghazaouet. I took passage with her to Algiers long ago. She was brave, she’d be proud of you.”

Her breath caught, fingers tightening around Isack’s hand.

“My sister works in the palace, she was your mother’s maid. You were closer than you ever knew.”

A tear traced a line down Hadja’s cheek, touched by both sorrow and hope.

“You’ll find fertile land there, and people who will welcome you. Seek out the trader named Rashid, he will guide you.”

The room felt alive with possibility, the past and future intertwining in Hadja’s words.

Isack nodded, determination hardening in his gaze.

She felt a quiet hope bloom inside her, fragile but fierce.

Together, they would chase the horizon.

Together, they would find freedom.

That night, they found passage to Ghazaouet, with nothing but a dog, a cloth bundling their meagre belongings, and their hearts. The road was long and winding, carving through desert and coast, dust clinging to their clothes and salt from the sea staining their hair. But they carried no burden heavier than the lives they had shed behind them.

It took five days. Five days of quiet prayers, whispered plans, shared bread, and watching the dog run wild through the hills as though he had always known freedom. On the evening of the fifth day, with the sun resting low like a gold coin on the edge of the horizon, they arrived.

They found Rashid just as Hadja had said. A man with lines on his face from years of salt and sand, eyes that knew the weight of secrets, and a heart that softened the moment he saw her face.

“Bint Laila” he whispered, as if he were seeing a ghost. “Your mother would be at peace now.”

He led them to the land her mother had left behind, acres upon acres of olive trees and wild thyme, crowned by a single stone house, worn by time but strong, built upon a rise that overlooked the endless sea. It had a stah, a courtyard with faded tiles and jasmine climbing along the old walls. Her mother had kept it all untouched, in case she too bore a restless heart, as she once had.

They did not return to Algiers. The city forgot them, as all cities forget their rebels and dreamers.

Isack worked with Rashid, hands calloused by honest labour, skin browned by the coastal sun. He returned home each day to a house alive with laughter and the scent of mint and coriander. His wife was no longer a princess. She was something far freer, a woman of her own making. She walked barefoot in the morning dew, learned the names of herbs, stitched cushions for the stah, and left her hair uncovered to dance with the wind.

They lived slowly. They lived wholly. And in quiet moments beneath the olive trees, Isack would take her hand and kiss her wrist where the bangle once sat and say, “You, l’amira, are the only kingdom I’ll ever kneel for.”

Years passed like the tide, soft but certain. No one remembered the boy from the streets of Algiers who stole the heart of a princess. No one spoke of the princess at all. The crown she once wore died with her old name, and she never mourned it.

In the spring of their third year by the sea, they welcomed a son. Isack held him with trembling arms and named him Nur el-Din, the light of faith, for he came into their lives as proof that their love had been blessed.

Years later, a daughter followed, born beneath a full moon. She named her Amal Layali, the hope of nights, for she had once looked to the stars and prayed for freedom, and the stars had listened.

They raised their children on stories and soil, on faith and fire, and on the unshakable truth that love, when pure, needs no crown to be sacred.

And in time, no one remembered the palace or the boy who walked its shadows.

But on the cliffs of Ghazaouet, where jasmine grows wild and the sea sings to the shore, you can still find the house with the stah, where a dog once slept in the sun, and where two hearts, once lost, found their way home.

And if you listen closely to the wind, you might still hear her whisper his name.

the end.

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cercandodiscrivere · 5 months ago

Text

Damnatio memoriae | emperor caracalla x reader.

word count | 2k

warnings | 18+, NSFW, concubines, blood, dark themes (implied murder), mental health, porn with too much plot, unbeta'd.

synopsis | “Nothing was ever mine". He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. It’s almost like he’s sing-songing now, words rolling off his tongue. "Until now".

gifs by @fredhechingerdaily

Run. Run.

You are running, but the ground shifts beneath you. Screams tear through the air—familiar voices, distorted, distant.

The road is a river of bodies, writhing, pushing. Those who once praised now promised venegance – praetorians’ swords nothing to the rage.

Smoke curls in the sky, dark and thick. The air is burning with it. You stumble, slipping on something wet—hot, sticky, the scent of iron flooding your senses.

A fire blazes ahead, the orange glow painting the world in shades of red and black.

Blood. So much blood.

It fills your lungs, the sharp and suffocating smell.

Closer. Closer. The crowd surges. You push forward, but something pulls you back.

A hand touches your shoulder. Cold. Wet.

You are jolted awake, your eyes snapping open as you sit up in bed, heart racing. The dim light from outside filters in through the window, sending scattered rays of light across the room.

No one from the raging crowd outside has followed you into this room: the hands gripping you belong to someone you know.

Someone familiar.

Caracalla's fingers remain clasped around your shoulder — and even though you know you are awake now, the unsettling feeling remains, a sense of danger that lingers in the air.

The voices in your mind continue chanting: murder, murder, murder.

It takes a moment for you to quiet them down enough to find your voice.

“What happened?”.

His eyes are wide open, bloodshot and vacant: he stares at you and yet he is not seeing you at all. When he answers, his words are a nothing but a jumbled mix of accusations directed at the air behind your back: liar and traitor and ours.

“Are we under attack?”. Traitor, he’s saying. Maybe your dream was not at all a figment of your scared imagination; perhaps, just above your heads, angry individuals are truly storming through the halls.

If that's what's going on, Caracalla does not feel the need to confirm it. He remains as motionless as a statue — his face just as pale as one — muttering under his breath, lost.

You reach out and grasp his arm, gently shaking him in an attempt to snap him out of his daze. “Are you injuerd?” but even as you are asking, you know he must be: his richly decorated tunic is soaked with blood, sticky and warm against your touch. In the dim light, you can't see the full extent of it, but you can smell the sharp metallic tang. You attempt to shift him closer to the light, feeling a surge of fear rising in your throat.

“Carus?”.

The endearing name falls on deaf ears. It’s just a repetition of traitor and liar and alwayshimhimhim.

He only comes to his senses when you attempt to rise and call a servant for help; then he he grabs your shoulder again, this time with more force, and pushes you back onto the bed.

“I am fine”. He’s… chuckling.

For a brief moment, you question if this is all just another nightmare. Is Caracalla really in his own bed, sound asleep? Have the ongoing revolts taken such a toll on your sanity that you are now hallucinating him bleeding into your room?

Because there is no way for a man to lose that much blood and laugh as if nothing is wrong.

“Are you… hurt?”.

“Hurt?” he seems taken aback. “No, of course not”.

You take a deep breath as you finally have his attention. "Is it Geta?" you whisper, still concerned. "Is he injured?”.

Caracalla takes a moment to respond, his eyes darting around as if he's trying to gather his thoughts. His lips move, but the words come out in fragments. “He tried to strangle me”.

You stare at him, trying to discern if this is just another one of his warped jests — but there is no hint of humor in his expression. His brows are furrowed, a deep sorrow that animates his eyes again.

And yet, what he says could not be possible; their love for each other is too strong. There is no place where one can exist without the other. A wolf with two heads.

You nod to humor him, in an attempt to keep him focused on your face. “Geta tried to strangle you tonight?”.

“Tonight? No. No!” Caracalla now laughs, his usual mirth returning.

His face is stained in red, too: smalls pecks of blood that dot his cheeks. “Inside the womb”.

He’s rambling,you realize. He most likely fell and hurt himself, and he’s having another one of his episodes.

As you exhale, you feel a sense of calm wash over you.

The world around you is quiet; the concubine’s quarters are too distant from the entrance to hear the clamor of the crowds, but if the threat reached inside the palace halls, you would be able to hear it.

Things are under control. The praetorians have quelled the insurrection — Caracalla’s mind is rebelling on its own.

“I think you need a healer” you finally conclude.

Once again, he shakes his head — frantic now. “You don’t understand. I made it right”.

His hand jerks, digging his fingers into the skin of your shoulder. "Nothing is ever mine" he mumbles, almost as if talking to himself again. “Everything is ours, always”.

You wish you had a sweet and clever comeback; something that would snap him out of his delusions and bring him back to the real world – but you can't make sense of the words coming out of his mouth. His brother is better with this: he knows how to placate his mind, how to soothe the spirits that inhabit it.

“I’ll have a servant call Geta” you suggest — and yet this time it’s not his strength that holds you in place, but the look on his pale face. He’s livid, his usually kind features distorted with pure rage.

His gaze is no longer aimlessly wandering around the small room; his eyes are now dark and focused on you. Just the sight of him causes the hairs on your arms to stand upright.

"No". His voice becomes more insistent as he continues. "No need. There is no Geta left to call. Don’t you get it?".

His features contort into a strange, almost anguished look as he gazes at you. "He can’t lie now”.

Confusion tightens your chest. "What do you mean? If Geta isn’t here, where is he? Is he—".

"He is fine" Caracalla interjects. The smile that follows is not a reassuring one. "He’s fine. You don’t need him. It’s just you and me now".

A sudden chill runs down your spine. In all the months you have spent as a concubine for the emperors, you have never seen him act so possessive.

While Caracalla is bashful and joyous, Geta often is the assertive one:

the brother who would have you down to your knees for entire nights just to show how superior he was.

Yet – Geta is not here, and his absence now feels unsettling.

"You don’t need him" Caracalla says again, as if he is the one trying to convince the other to see things with reason. "Nothing was ever mine". He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. It’s almost like he’s sing-songing now, words rolling off his tongue. "Until now".

His kiss, fierce and unexpected, feels more like a punch than a passionate gesture. The taste of blood—you are less and less certain this is his blood—lingers on his skin as he holds you tighter, pulling you onto his lap.

“You don't belong to him,” he whispers, pulling away briefly before his mouth crashes back onto yours. His teeth graze your lips, blood spilling in your mouth, mixing with his saliva. It's disturbing and disorienting, but you find yourself enjoying it even more.

“I decide now” he declares, now moving to your neck. He bites down like a dog — a wolf — would do with his prey, leaving bruises where his teeth dig in. You feel the thin fabric of your nightgown rip apart, and the chill of the night air hits your bare skin.

Caracalla's whispers fill the room.

His other hand, the one that is tightly holding onto your shoulder as if you might try to run away at any given moment, starts to palm your chest – and you prefer not to think about the thick, wet substance he’s coating your skin with.

The scent of blood fills your nostrils once more. “Mine”.

His soft whines fill your, an almost pathetic pleading sound. He's pressing himself against your leg, torn between the craving to have you and the need for something else first.

His tongue laps your neck once more before he finally speaks in a low whisper. “Say it” he pants. “Say you are only mine”.

You do. Whether it's true or not, in this moment, you are helpless under his control. “I am yours. Only yours.”

Caracalla is not one for foreplay, but when his cocks enters you, you are ready for it. You always are.

He eagerly begins to push and glances down at you, as if he wants to say something else; however, his gaze remains focused on something lower than your face.

Your breasts – now adorned with dark red lines where his hand had touched you before. The view holds him captive, stealing all of his attention.

His hips don't slow down as he traces patterns on your bare skin with his finger. If anything, the added stimulation only encourages him to move faster.

“You are gorgeous” he purrs. He pulls out and thrusts back in, a hard snap of his hips against yours that has you moaing.

Gods help you, you want to tell him how breathtakingly beautiful he is. How, to you, he has always been as bright as the sun. Radiant.

Yet — he’s consuming you entirely, rendering you speechless: so instead you hold onto his back with all your might and squeeze your thighs around his hips, urging him on. Yours yours only yours.

“No lies” he pants, his breath hot. He pounds into your harder, rougher, as if he has something to prove. His grunts are interrupted by small fits of laugh, delighted and unhinged.

Caracalla is ravenous. It's unusual, and you can't help but feel a bit unnerved – but at the same time you can’t stop the heat rising in your lower stomach. It's as if you're melting under his burning touches.

His mouth opens wide with a loud groan, and his eyelids flutter in ecstasy for a brief moment. You cling to him as you ride the sensation together — hands gripping each other, legs trembling and muscles straining as you hold on to him with all your strength. He keeps calling you mine as he he shakes and shudders in pleasure, his cock emptying inside you.

The world holds its breath, just for a moment, as Caracalla pants heavily against your neck. “You are so good for us” he murmurs, pulling out of you.

You can feel his warm seed dripping down the inside of your thigh, mingling with the blood: the thought sobers you, right before Caracalla leans in to share one last kiss and moves.

You let him drag your body down next to him on the ground. It’s cold, but you don’t want to move: the man hasn't looked this peaceful in a while.

Caracalla absentmindedly starts playing with your hair, just like he used to do when you first arrived at the palace.

He strokes your skin with tenderness; his gaze returning to its usual soft demeanor.

It’s him who breakes the silence.

“Tomorrow is going to be a great day”. His voice is calm now, eager.

You can sense that in his mind, he is already living out the grandiose moment that awaits him in the morning.

The blood on his skin has dried in a multitude of dark brown freckles. Some of them splash into his neck and torso; the right side of his body almost entirely stained by it, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

It’s no matter. Nothing happened, that’s what he told you.

“Geta will be so happy for me”.

#emperor caracalla #emperor caracalla x reader #caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla x you #caracalla x you #gladiator 2 fanfiction #gladiator ii fanfiction

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uniquexusposts · 5 months ago

Text

First place. Personal best. World Champion. | C. Leclerc

Summary: Charles' girlfriend Y/n is about to win her first world championship title in speed skating. While Charles is preparing for his first race of the season at the other side of the world, the supportive boyfriend he is, he will be watching Y/n's race. And who knows what happens...

It was raining in The Netherlands, the weather was grey and depressing. Inside the speed skating arena, however, the air crackled with a different kind of energy.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, their cheers echoing off the cavernous walls, creating a symphony of excitement and nerves. Y/n took a deep breath as she glided onto the ice, the smooth surface reflecting the bright arena lights. This wasn’t just another race; this was the race. The culmination of years of blood, sweat, and tears. Her last chance to claim the coveted all-around title of this year, the year before the Olympics - a prize she never got before by just a few points.

She skated around the oval stadium, each warm-up lap a battle to quell the butterflies in her stomach. Her breath came in controlled bursts, visible in the cool air, as she moved with practiced grace. Her mind cycled through every strategy, every training session, every ounce of advice her coaches had given her. Stopping near the start line, she shrugged off her jacket, exposing the sleek Norwegian team suit beneath. The red and blue colours clung to her like a second skin, a symbol of the weight she carried; not just her own dreams but the hopes of her country.

Her teammates, already finished with their events, were doing an out lap. A couple of Norwegian flags waved fervently in the sea of spectators, a visual reminder of the expectations she had to meet. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her suit, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her focus.

Meanwhile, thousands of kilometres away in Bahrain, the roar of engines filled the Ferrari garage. Mechanics darted around, checking tire pressures, tweaking wing angles, and adjusting suspension settings. The first Formula 1 race of the season was hours away, but for Charles Leclerc, time felt like it was standing still. Amid the organised chaos, his attention was locked on a tablet screen perched precariously on a counter. The live stream of Y/n’s race played on the monitor, an unusual sight among the telemetry data and glossy feeds of the Bahrain International Circuit.

Charles tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes flicking between the screen and the bustling garage. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, as though the force of his will could carry her across the finish line.

“Charles,” Andrea called, nudging his shoulder with a knowing smirk. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor at this rate. Should we tell the team to set up a fan zone for you?”

Charles let out a soft chuckle, though his eyes didn’t leave the screen. “She’s got a real shot at this,” he said, his voice tinged with both pride and anxiety. “I’m not missing this for anything. Not even qualifying.”

Andrea shook his head, his grin widening. “Just don’t let Fred catch you slacking. He’ll have you polishing the car with a toothbrush.”

Charles waved him off dismissively, his focus unshakable. On the screen, Y/n moved toward the start line, her every movement purposeful and elegant. Seeing her in that moment, framed by a couple of Norwegian flags waving in the background - but mostly the orange colour by the Dutch, who once again dominated a sport, sent a rush of adrenaline through him. She was breathtaking, not just in her beauty but in the sheer determination radiating from her.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, signalling the imminent start of the race. Y/n crouched low at the line, her muscles coiled like a spring ready to release. Charles leaned forward, his hand gripping the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. The gunshot rang out, and she launched forward, her blades cutting into the ice with surgical precision.

Lap after lap, Y/n found her rhythm, her movements a harmonious blend of power and grace. The crowd’s cheers grew louder with each stride, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch. One thing that was so different between speed skating and F1 was that during speed skating, everybody cheered for anyone - no matter the country. Y/n received almost as much cheers as the Dutch at this point. Charles’s heart raced in tandem with her, his pulse quickening as the live splits appeared on the screen. The numbers were good - very good - but the competition was fierce.

“Come on, Y/n,” Charles whispered, his voice barely audible above the ambient noise of the garage. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the counter as he watched her push herself to the limit.

By the halfway mark, the strain began to show. Her form wavered ever so slightly, the tiniest falter in her otherwise flawless stride. The 5.000 meters wasn’t just a test of speed; it was a brutal battle of endurance, a gruelling test of both mental and physical fortitude. Charles’s jaw clenched as he saw her dig deep, her determination etched into every muscle of her body.

“She’s improving her laps,” Charles muttered, running his hands through his hair. His voice grew louder, filled with a mixture of disbelief and awe. “She’s above her schedule. 32,3 per lap. What the hell?”

Andrea glanced at the screen, his eyebrows raising in mild surprise. “She’s flying. She has the green times.”

“She is literally pushing out every bit of strength she has left.”

The crowd in the arena roared louder with every passing lap, their energy palpable even through the screen. Charles’s fingers drummed faster, mirroring the rising tension. As Y/n crossed the finish line, the scoreboard lit up with her time: the fastest so far. Charles leapt to his feet, a triumphant shout escaping his lips.

“Yes! That’s my girl!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing through the garage.

The Ferrari crew paused their work, momentarily caught up in the infectious excitement. Laughter and scattered applause broke out, a rare lighthearted moment in the high-stakes world of Formula 1.

Andrea clapped him on the back, a teasing grin on his face. “She’s not done yet, mate. Two more pairs to go.”

“I know,” Charles said, his grin unwavering. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But she’s incredible. No matter what happens, I’m proud of her.” He shook his head in disbelief. “6.50,81. Wow.”

Just over seven minutes later, the final pair took to the ice, their presence a reminder that the battle wasn’t over. The Dutch were strong and a favourite. Charles’s chest tightened as he watched them glide effortlessly through their opening laps. They were fast, too fast. The live splits showed them ahead of Y/n’s time, and for a moment, doubt crept in.

“Come on,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hold on.”

The skaters rounded the halfway mark, their initial burst of speed beginning to wane. Fatigue crept into their movements, their strides losing the precision that had carried them so far. Charles leaned forward, his breath hitching as he willed the seconds to slow.

The arena fell into a tense hush as the final skaters approached the finish line. The crowd’s collective gasp was audible as the scoreboard flashed their time: third place. Y/n had done it. She was the all-around champion.

Charles let out a triumphant yell, throwing his arms into the air. “She did it! She won!”

The garage erupted into cheers, the crew swept up in his infectious joy. Charles’s face was alight with pride and happiness, his grin so wide it hurt.

“That’s my girl,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

His colleagues congratulated and hugged him like he won the race.

Andrea smirked, shaking his head. “You’re going to be impossible to deal with for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Charles replied, laughing. His heart felt full to bursting as he imagined the look on Y/n’s face, the moment she realised what she had accomplished.

Back in the Netherlands, Y/n sat in the middle of the oval track, still in disbelief. Tears blurred her vision, but they couldn’t hide the overwhelming sight of the scoreboard. Her name flashed boldly at the top, accompanied by the words she had dreamed of seeing her entire career: World Champion.

Her coaches rushed to her side, their voices a mix of congratulations and excitement, but their words were lost beneath the deafening roar of the crowd. The arena was alive with celebration.

Y/n pressed her hands to her face, laughing and crying at the same time. She reached out instinctively, pulling her head coach into an embrace, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably.

“I did it,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “I actually did it.”

Her assistant coach joined in; the three people were jumping around, turning it into an euphoric moment.

“You’ve done it, Y/n!” her head coach shouted over the roar of the crowd. “The all-around title is yours!”

Still clutching onto her coaches, Y/n’s gaze drifted upward to the scoreboard once more, as if she needed to see it again to believe it. First place. Personal best. World Champion. A new World Champion.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she began to fully grasp the magnitude of her achievement.

As she stood there, absorbing the cheers of the crowd and the joy of her team, one of her assistant coaches jogged up to her with a phone in hand.

“Y/n! Charles is calling!”

The sound of his name made her heart leap. She whipped her head around, taking the phone with trembling hands. When the screen lit up, Charles’s face appeared, his grin so wide it practically stretched off the screen.

“Y/n!” Charles cheered, his voice carrying a joy that matched her own.

“Charles!” Y/n screamed, laughing as her emotions spilled over. She couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down her cheeks, her voice cracking with excitement. “I did it!”

“I saw!” he exclaimed, his voice loud enough to make the team around him chuckle. “You were incredible! I can’t believe it - no, wait, I can believe it because you’re amazing!”

Y/n’s cheeks burned as she laughed, her joy mirrored in his expression. Around her, the arena seemed to fade away, the roaring crowd becoming a distant hum. In that moment, it was just her and Charles, their connection bridging the thousands of kilometres between them.

“You were watching?” she asked, her voice soft but tinged with disbelief.

“Of course I was!” Charles replied, his tone almost offended at the notion he wouldn’t be. “I had the entire Ferrari garage watching. They’re all clapping for you, by the way.”

Y/n’s hand flew to her mouth, and she let out a breathless laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” Charles said, leaning closer to the screen. “Y/n, everyone here is in awe of you. I’m so proud I could burst. You deserve every second of this moment.”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time, they weren’t just tears of victory. They were tears of gratitude, of love. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve someone who believed in her this deeply, but she was endlessly thankful.

“I wish you were here,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly.

“I do too,” he said, his tone softening, a hint of longing slipping through. “But I’ll see you soon. We’ll celebrate properly, I promise.”

“You would better keep that promise, Leclerc,” she teased, a smile breaking through her tears. “And you better win today!”

“I wouldn’t dare break it,” he replied with a laugh, his eyes warm. “I will do my best.”

She dried her eyes and laughed. “I have to go to the ceremony, Charles. I love you.”

“I love you, too. I will be watching.”

Y/n nodded, but she didn’t end the call right away. She held the phone a moment longer, committing the sight of his proud smile to memory.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @blodwyn4u @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

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marikosfragrance · 6 months ago

Text

BLUE LOCK X READER

"Can he pass the "Orange peel" test?"

Characters : Isagi Yoichi, Itoshi Sae, Karasu Tabito, Bachira Meguru

Content : A scenario in which you ask them for an orange and ask them to peel it for you— seeing how willing they are to do acts of services.

Disclaimer : Some of you readers may be sensitive, so prepare yourself for things you might not expect like harshness in some characters

SET : I set the scenario where you and the (character) have dated for 2 years, but kaiser is not healed. Sae might come off as cold, rin might seem detached or some other traits that you might deem as a red flag. So read at your own accord, taking this warning into consideration. I won't add a description of what type of personality reader is for everyone to feel welcome.

Note : I am glad ya'll enjoyed the previous scenarios, now let us explore more. Take it into consideration that when you guys send me requests or asks, you can freely set the setting to however you'd like, if you'd like it if it is set into a time where kaiser is healed, or sae and rin have opened up, which might take ages if done slowly. Or when isagi haven't met you so he isn't in love with you, and so on and so forth with other characters. Now enjoy.

Isagi Yoichi - he would

I am sure it doesn't come off as much of a surprise if someone like Isagi would do this act of affection. For him, it might even be natural— his way of showcasing how much he cares for you. If this was set at a time where you just started dating, he would feel flustered and might even mess up a bit, but for Isagi, this act would be a symbolism of how he is willing to do anything to minimize your workload as well as please you.

Yoy two are spending some time on the couch, intitially planning to watch tv, and not let any interruptions occur. However, you had a different plan in mind. Isagi was invested in the movie and glances at you from time to time to check your reactions. Until you asked for an orange, which draws his eyes to you— away from the tv now. You repeated your request as it sinks into his mind. He chuckles lightly— an apology exiting his mouth, from how he didnt hear you the first time.

You asked for an orange and he wouldn't even question it, just thinking you might be tired as he makes his way to the kitchen. After grabbing an orange, he walks towards you then stretches his hand out to give it to you, you didn't reach out for it and instead asked him to peel it. Isagi might feel confused at first but would happily do it, seeing this as a sign of affection rather than a workload.

(Isagi's part is short, because he does it no hesitation and no complaints)

Itoshi Sae - he would begrudgingly do it

The fact that you were able to handle him for 2 years, much less get into a relationship means he can see you in his future, or you managed to really convince him that you won't get in the way of his plans and goals. Which is amazing in its own way— since it might've took you years to get him convinced. So you might already be aware that he won't give in to such pointless acts of affection. But you tried it anyway, since he isn't really always present, so why not make the most of it?

You two were just sitting on his couch. Yes— his couch. You never brought up the idea of living together since Sae seems to really like his space. And even if he secretly wanted to, you can't see him telling you about it or bringing up the idea. You are watching TV, eyes darting to whatever he is working on— eyes meeting some soccer data stuff on his laptop which is rested on his lap. You waited for a while, and there he goes. Sae places his laptop on the center table as his body relaxes, leaning more on the back of the couch— looking at whatever you were watching.

You called out his name, followed by your requests— an orange. You can see him squinting his eyes a little at your odd request, since normally you would get it yourself, but with a sigh, he stands up and heads to the kitchen. He grabs an orange and goes back to you sitting on the couch, looking at him with anticipating eyes— the upcoming second request reluctantly but successfully leaving your mouth. "Can you peel it for me?" You ask.

"Why can't you peel it yourself?" Sae questions you. Despite him intentionally trying to not sound mean, he genuinely wants to know why— his question coming from a place of pure confusion rather than a harsh reply. You might just sigh to yourself, feeling upset and grab the orange to peel it yourself till he raises his hand— keeping you from taking the orange away. And with a big sigh, he decides to sit down and peel it. But the situation is confusing for him; why couldn't you peel it yourself? He questions himself. In the end, he peels it but instead of it coming from a place of care, his decision to peel it comes from a place of "obligation". He felt the need to peel it, since he sees it as something he "needs" to do rather than "want" to do.

(It would be a surprise that he would peel his orange for you. If he never was your boyfriend, he wouldn't see the need to do it, nor the care)

Karasu Tabito - he would

For Karasu, doing something as peeling an orange might be a natural thing for him, he sees it both as something he needs and also wants to do. How he would do stuff for his partner is a sign of genuine care and affection, rather than pure obligation.

The room was quite dark. The curtains closed— the only source of light is emitted from the tv. Both you and Karasu are having a movie night, and the atmosphere was peaceful and quiet. You didn't want bother him with this, but you wanted to try it out on him; though you have a rough idea of how he might respond.

You asked for an orange, and he looks at you with his eyebrows raised, and no question— he stands up and goes to the kitchen to grab one for you. You looked at him with a smile, perhaps already knowing this is how he'd respond. And he sits back on the couch, handing it to you. He notices your silence, and has an idea on what would come next. And thus, he pulled back his outstretched hand, already peeling the orange before you could open your mouth and ask which surprised you. After he peeled it, he gave it to you as if it was the most normal thing to do, and at that moment you are reminded of why you chose to be with him— eating the orange with a small smile.

(I feel like if you really mattered to him so much, he would literally read your mind. He is smart after all, he can read body languages)

Bachira Meguru - he would be more than happy to

For Bachira, this act of peeling an orange for someone is a natural act of love. He would see it as a natural thing to do and he'd do it, no complaints. If he hands you the orange, he might even ask you if you want him to peel it, wanting to please you with acts of services.

You could be spending some time together in the living room, watching a movie. Bachira would feel more excited about spending time with you rather than the Movie. Might even let you pick the movie, and if you want him to watch something in particular, he would watch and comment on each scenes, would gladly let you talk too and explain to him about stuff regarding the movie. He would switch from looking at the movie, then to you, then the movie then to you, having fun with the feeling of watching something with another person, which is quite different to what he is usually used to.

Now if you asked him for an orange, he would no doubt say "okay!" And immediately do your request. He wouldn't see it as something to complain about, but rather it is something that he wants to do for you since to him, you are special. It wouldn't take long for the orange to arrive, and he gives it to you, and to your surprise, he would even ask to peel it for you.

It makes you smile how you don't need to voice out your needs since he already does the things you want him to do without needing you to voice it out.

( I see Bachira as one of those types that will feel the need to make themselves feel needed by their partner in some way, especially if he views his partner as someone he doesn't deserve, or a person that cures him of his loneliness)

__________________________________

Hope everyone enjoys this scenario! Had fun making it, but had a hard time a little bit from portraying their characters while still staying true to their personalities.

#bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #isagi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #isagi yoichi #bachira meguru x reader #bachira meguru #bachira x reader #karasu tabito x reader #karasu x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader

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rainrot4me · 19 days ago

Note

hey I saw your Jeff headcannons about reader wearing red-- I was wondering. if reader was wearing something revealing that is of a specific color, what specific color would get the creeps/proxies hot and bothered? and would they hit on reader? if so, what would they say?

Hoping to see Hoodie and Eyeless Jack on here.

YEAHHAHAHAH okay let’s hit it.

✦ . jeff the killer

Deep Red or Jet Black.

Revealing + red is a double hit—blood and sex, all in one look. Black? Even worse. It’s sleek, dangerous, makes him stare. Heaven forbid it be a mesh material.

“Damn, you tryna kill me lookin’ like that?”

Leans close, cocky grin spreading,

“Or are you just begging for trouble, sweetheart?”

He will hit on you, zero shame, 100% wolfish energy. You might catch him staring with his tongue against his teeth, like he’s deciding whether to flirt or take a bite.

✦ . ticci toby

Dusty Rose or Muted Lavender.

Soft, gentle colors against revealing fabric? He doesn’t know what to do with himself. It makes him short-circuit. The contrast between innocence and skin is too much.

Half-stammering, eyes darting away,

“Y-You… uh… did you mean to wear that?”

A beat,

“…not that I’m complaining or anything—! I mean. Shit.”

He might not flirt directly, but the flushed cheeks, nervous glances, and restless hands say everything. Catch him staring? He’ll deny it. Loudly.

✦ . eyeless jack

Ivory or Cream.

Something clean, soft, pure, on a body that’s definitely not innocent. The juxtaposition ruins him. It’s the one time he’ll lose composure.

“You know what that kinda thing does to me… and you wore it anyway.”

Voice low, fingers twitching like he’s restraining himself,

“You’re cruel.”

He’s usually composed. But this? This makes him lean in closer, his tone turns low, slow, dangerous. He’s practically drooling by the time he’s on you.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Dark Navy or Charcoal Gray.

He’s turned on by control and authority, so when the reader wears something revealing in his colors, it hits a nerve. Those tones scream tension, power, intimacy in all the right ways.

A growl low in his throat,

“You look like sin.”

Lets his hand ghost just above your skin,

“You wanna get punished wearing shit like that in front of me?”

He’s direct and dirty, the kind to pull you aside and whisper filth in your ear, just to watch you squirm.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Burnt Orange or Warm Brown.

Earthy tones do something to him. Especially if it’s something soft and draping off your body just enough to reveal skin. Makes him stare like he’s thinking about devouring you and writing an analysis of the experience afterward.

Leans in like he’s studying a rare artifact,

“You’re very… distracting today.”

Smirks,

“Is that intentional? Or are you just that good at making me lose focus?”

He’ll flirt subtly, but intensely. The kind of heat that creeps up on you slowly… and then doesn’t let it go.

✦ . laughing jack

Bright Pink or Soft Blue.

If it’s fun and flirty and a little outrageous? He’s obsessed. Especially if it’s paired with something skimpy and lacy that makes his twisted little heart race. A big fan of ruffles.

Wolf-whistles,

“Now that’s a sight! You got a treat for me, sugarplum?”

Leans way too close, winks,

“Or do I have to earn it?”

He’s over-the-top, dramatic, and hungry. His flirting is loud, inappropriate, and oddly charming if you like chaotic energy.

✦ . clockwork

Gunmetal Gray or Deep Violet.

Strong, commanding, with just the right hint of elegance, it makes her stop mid-step and watch. Add some skin to the equation? She’s on the verge of dragging you away.

Low chuckle,

“Dressed to kill, huh?”

Steps closer, eyes raking down,

“Good. So am I.”

She flirts like she’s holding back a darker hunger. You’ll feel it in the way her gaze lingers and her voice drops. She doesn’t play games, she hunts them.

✦ . ben drowned

Rich Green or Deep Blue.

Anything that screams “digital vixen” makes him glitch. Cropped hoodie? Techwear? Glowing accessories? He’s malfunctioning.

Tongue flicking across his teeth, smirking,

“Is this for me? Or were you just hoping I’d make a fool out of myself?”

Leans in,

“Bet you know just what you’re doing, too.”

He’s playful, smug, and way too smooth. The second you show skin in colors that match his corrupted aesthetic? It’s game over, literally.

✦ . slenderman

White.

Pure. Stark. Clean. It hits him on a level most wouldn’t understand. A creature of shadows drawn to the one color that reflects everything. Revealing white on someone he desires? It tempts him like a challenge.

A psychic pulse you feel in your bones,

“Interesting…”

It’s barely even words, just static echoing in your mind.

He doesn’t flirt, he looms. But if he notices? He’ll make sure you know he noticed. Every breath you take feels like it’s being monitored, and maybe even admired.

꩜ .ᐟ

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keraawrites · 2 months ago

Text

Still us?

Summary: It was platonic; it had to be. You guys were the best co-parents there were, but that didn't mean you didn't still love him, that didn't mean you still got wet thinking about him every night. ۶ৎ Bakugo x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Contex: Co-parents, dirty talk, use of the word daddy, mama, ma, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, soft but rough sex, kitchen sex

word count — 3.2k

Your house was buzzing with the kind of chaotic joy only a three-year-old’s birthday party could bring. Colourful streamers dangled from the ceiling, a banner with “BOOM! Happy Birthday, Baby Blast!” stretched across the wall, and the scent of pizza, frosting, and too many lit birthday candles filled the air. Laughter bounced off the walls, kids darted around like little gremlins hopped up on sugar, and the grown-ups—some friends, some family—did their best to keep up.

Your son—your wild, beautiful little firecracker—was at the heart of it all. In his blue birthday shirt with a cartoon explosion on the front and a bright red cape flowing behind him, he looked like a tiny hero-in-training. Curls bouncing with every step, cheeks smeared with chocolate, his energy was contagious. He zipped between groups of kids like he had somewhere to be, pausing only to grab another juice box or show off the “power pose” Uncle Deku taught him, which was, in his words, “soooo cool it made the table shake.”

He didn’t want to be too far from either of you—every five minutes, he was running up to tug on your shorts or Kaysuki’s pant leg, needing a hug, or to show off his newest toy, or to just rest his head for a second before launching back into the madness. At one point, when you knelt to fix the strap on his sneaker, he hugged your neck and whispered, “Best party ever, Mama.”

Yeah. That made everything—your aching feet, your cluttered kitchen, the cake stain on your carpet—so damn worth it.

Bakugo stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying to play it cool like he wasn’t lowkey melting. But you caught him. Eyes soft, mouth twitching like he wanted to grin but didn’t want anybody to see. He looked so damn good—black tee snug around his arms, loose joggers hanging low on his hips, a little frosting smudged on his jaw like even the cupcakes wanted a taste. You weren't the only one who noticed, either.

But it was more than that. He wasn’t just your baby daddy. He was him. Top pro hero. Good ass dad. And whether you liked to admit it or not—still fine as hell.

You’d wanted to make the day perfect. It was your son’s third birthday, and he had demands. As much as he loved his dad, his obsession with both Deku and Dynamight meant this party was green and orange chaos. Much to Katsuki’s dismay, he still made it happen. Because he always showed up for his son. No matter what.

And that’s the thing about him—he’s good at everything. Always has been. Including being annoyingly, disgustingly good in bed. Which, honestly, was a blessing and a curse.

You two broke up two years ago. It was hard, but it was necessary. He was rising through the hero ranks, your job was demanding, and you had a one-year-old who needed everything. You didn’t want to grow resentful. Didn’t want to hate each other. So you ended it with love. Quiet, aching love. The kind that never really goes away.

Most people didn’t get it. But it worked for you.

When it was time for the cake, everyone gathered around the kitchen island. You lit the candles while Bakugo held your son up on the counter like he was the most important person in the world (which, to you both, he was). He grinned so wide you thought his little face might split, eyes glued to the flames, bouncing in Katsuki’s arms.

“Okay, ready?” you called out, raising your phone to record.

And the crowd erupted into song.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Your son was absolutely eating it up. Giggling, wiggling, soaking in the love like sunshine. He clapped along with the beat, even sang his own name extra loud at the end. When they finished, he shouted, “Blow ‘em out with me, Daddy!” and Bakugo leaned in so they could do it together.

One puff, two sets of cheeks, and the candles went out in a small puff of smoke and cheers.

“Best. Day. Ever!” your son yelled, pumping his fist in the air like a tiny pro hero.

Bakugo smirked, still holding him close, whispering something in his ear that made your baby snort so hard he hiccupped. The sight of them together like that—your son beaming, Katsuki so soft around him—it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t have words for. A good ache. A deep one.

Eventually, the sugar crash hit hard. After goodie bags were passed out and the last guest was escorted out with a slice of cake and a juice box, the house quieted. Your son was curled up on the couch, cape wrapped around him like a blanket, his little fingers still clutching the Dynamight action figure his dad gave him. Out cold, tiny snores escaping his frosting-sticky mouth.

Golden hour slipped through your windows like honey, the kitchen glowing with syrupy light. You’d snuck upstairs to change—into one of Katsuki’s old Dynamight tees and a pair of shorts you didn’t realise were that short until you saw yourself in the mirror. Bonnet on, lip gloss faded, and cheeks still glittery from the “makeover” your niece insisted on giving you, you padded barefoot back downstairs and started tidying, humming to yourself a little.

"You always hum when you’re about to cry or cuss somebody out," his voice rumbled low from behind you, that familiar smirk threading through it like a dare.

You snorted, not turning around just yet. "Or when I’m tryna not cuss somebody out."

"You always hummed around me."

"Yeah because I always wanted to cuss you out."

His chuckle was soft, almost quiet—completely not Bakugo nature, but it was nice. You hated how much you still loved that sound.

"You did good, Ma," he said, voice closer now.

And that. That little “Ma” he always hit you with when he was being sentimental, or trying to get under your skin, or both? Yeah, that wasn’t fair. At all.

You finally turned to face him, leaning your hip against the counter. “You helped,” you said casually, keeping it cool. “Birthday boy would’ve lost it if both his favourites weren’t here.”

You could feel the way his gaze was on you, your hands shaking slightly from the little alcohol you had managed to sneak into your punch but also because you could feel the intensity of his stare.

You turned back around, busying yourself once again in order to ignore what was going on between your legs. "He needs to go to bed before he morphs into that sofa."

"Already done it, brat was mumbling about his favourite uncle in his sleep." You giggled at the gruffness in his voice, you didn't even need to face him to know his face was set in his permanent scowl but there was no malice behind his words.

You smiled to yourself, back still half-turned as you rinsed a cup out in the sink. “Mhm. You jealous?”

He scoffed. “Hell yeah, I’m jealous,” he grumbled, stepping up behind you, crowding your space. “Ain’t no way that nerd gets more love than me in this house.”

You turned your head, arching a brow. “You’re literally his dad. You already got the top spot.”

“Tch. Still don’t like sharin’,” he muttered.

And there it was—that little sliver of possessiveness that always made your spine straighten and your thighs press together. The way he said it, all low and annoyed like your son idolising Deku was a personal betrayal. You had to bite your cheek to stop the smile that threatened to stretch across your lips.

You looked up at him fully now. His eyes were darker than before, settled on you with that old familiar heat. The one that used to make your knees weak and your back arch.

“Didn’t realise you still wore my shirts,” he said, eyes running over you, voice dropping, thick with something that made your stomach flip.

You gave a shrug, casual but cocky. “Comfy.”

His tongue swiped over his bottom lip. “Looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

“Katsuki—”

“Been thinkin’ about you,” he cut in. Just said it, all reckless and raw, like he hadn’t just been in your house around your family all day. Like y’all hadn’t been broken up for two years.

You blinked. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” he said, stepping in close. One hand braced on the counter behind you, caging you in. “You don’t still think about me?”

You turned your head, as much as you could, trying to ignore the way he smelled. That damn cologne he always wore, the same one he wore the first time you guys got together all the way back in UA.

You felt his finger ghost over your hand, pulling you back into reality. “You gon’ tell me you didn’t do this shit on purpose?” he asked, eyes flicking down to the hem of your shorts, the edge of your bonnet slipping just a little.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, the weight of his words settling heavy in your stomach.

“I didn’t do it for you,” you don’t even know if it was a lie, but your voice was too soft and too shaky to be believable.

“Yeah?” he smirked, eyes narrowing. “Then why you shakin’?”

You turned back to the dishes again, heart thumping like it wanted out. But you already knew—resistance was temporary. You’d been down this road before. And Katsuki always knew how to get you to walk it again.

He was your first everything. Your only real everything. From high school halls to a hospital room where you both cried meeting your son, to this house filled with all the in-betweens. You could play coy all you wanted. But your body remembered.

Your breathing shook when you felt your back hit his chest. His hands didn’t touch you—yet—but his presence was wrapped around you like smoke, thick and inescapable. You could feel the heat rolling off of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you, the way he exhaled like he was holding back something heavy.

Your nails scraped against the sink as you held it like it was anchoring you down to Earth as you felt the way his fingers skimmed over your arms.

Katsuki,” you said carefully, voice a whisper. “We’re not…”

“Not together. Yeah. I know.” His eyes flicked over you, he turned you to face him, fingers still skimming over your skin. “Doesn’t change how I feel.”

You felt your heart stutter. You’d had so many nights alone where you wondered if he still felt it too. If all the love you tucked away, folded up neatly under co-parenting and polite distance, was still sitting under his skin the same way.

“I miss you,” he said, voice thick. “I miss coming home to this. Miss seeing you like this. Soft. Tired. Still takin’ care of everything even when it’s just you.”

Your eyes burned.

“I never wanted to stop being a family,” he said, stepping closer until his chest brushed yours. “Even when I fucked up. Even when I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You swallowed hard. “You can’t just say stuff like that, ‘Suki.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe you.”

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you in slow, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Then believe me.”

Your body moved before your brain could catch up. His lips were already on yours, hands gripping your waist like he was holding on for dear life—and you melted. Melted like butter in the pan, like it hadn’t been two whole years since the last time he kissed you like that.

Like not a single thing had changed.

“Suki…”

“Shh, mama. I got you. Just… please. Let us have this.”

His voice was barely a whisper, but it hit like a wrecking ball. Knocked straight into the walls you’d built—every brick, every stubborn layer of distance and pride crumbling under the weight of his voice and the way he held you like home.

God, you missed him.

Your lips moved against his like muscle memory, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the back of his neck. He backed you into the counter with ease, the same place y’all had just passed out cake slices and goodie bags now transformed into the center of the damn universe.

His hands slipped under the hem of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt—and dragged up your skin slow, like he needed to re-learn every inch of you.

“You really gon’ stand there and lie to me?” he murmured against your jaw, mouth trailing kisses down your neck. “Like I don’t know this body better than my own?”

You shivered, breath hitching. “We shouldn’t…”

“But you want to.” He pressed his hips against yours, letting you feel exactly how much he did too.

Your answer came out as a soft, needy whimper.

“You wearin’ panties under this?” he asked, voice low, teasing as he nosed along your throat. “Or you just lettin’ it drip down your thighs like the good girl I know you are?”

Your knees damn near gave out.

“I—fuck, Katsuki.”

He laughed, breath hot on your skin, and in one smooth motion, lifted you up onto the counter. Your legs fell open easy as breathing, and he slotted himself between them, hands already tugging your shorts down like his body remembered the choreography.

“Still this fuckin’ wet for me,” he muttered, fingers gliding through your folds. His groan was deep, guttural. “Shit, mama.”

You bit your lip, one hand tangling in his hair as the other braced on the counter behind you.

The blonde dropped to his knees without hesitation. He grabbed the back of your thighs, dragging you closer until your ass was hanging off the edge. You remembered how he used to sweet talk you before eating your pussy but not today.

A choked moan left you as his tongue licked a broad stripe up your centre, moaning into it like the taste alone had him losing his mind. “Missed this fucking pussy mama, missed you” he growled, burying his face between your legs like he needed you to breathe.

Your head fell back, the moan that ripped from your throat embarrassingly loud in the quiet kitchen.

His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you wide open as he licked and sucked, tongue curling just right over your clit before sliding back down to your entrance. He didn't forget what you liked, after years of knowing your body the man still knew how to suck on you clit with enough pressure to have your eyes rolling.

“You’re--fuck such a mess, baby,” you gasped, voice shaking. “Katsuki--oh my God—”

“Say my name again,” he growled against your cunt. “Let me hear it.”

“Katsuki!”

He latched onto your clit at that, sucking hard and fast until your legs trembled around his shoulders, your body rocking against the countertop like you were trying to escape the overwhelming pleasure—but he wasn’t having that.

“Don’t run,” he grunted. “Take it. You know how I eat. That pretty pussy still remembers, huh?”

Your orgasm slammed into you without warning, your hips jerking, mouth falling open in a silent cry as the waves of it crashed through you.

And Katsuki didn’t stop.

Not until your thighs were twitching, not until your hands fisted in his hair and you were whimpering his name like a prayer. Only then did he pull back, licking his lips like he had just finished your famous Sunday dinners.

"Fuckin' missed you so much ma, please, please tell me you've missed me too?" He practically whined as he pulled down his joggers just enough to free himself.

You couldn’t stop staring. He was hard, thick, already leaking, and somehow even bigger than you remembered.

Or maybe it just felt that way because it had been too long.

His hand gripped your chin, your eyes meeting each other as you tucked your lip between your teeth.

"Come on baby..." He ran his length between your folds, tapping the tip against your clit a couple of times causing you to whine.

"Missed you so much 'Suki please."

He slid in, slow but deep—too deep. You choked on a gasp as he filled you to the brim, head dropping to his shoulder.

“Fuck—so tight,” he groaned, gripping your hips. “You really ain’t let nobody touch this since me, huh?”

You shook your head, panting. “Only you.”

And damn if that didn’t break something in him.

He pulled out slow, almost all the way, then slammed back in, hard enough to jolt the dishes on the counter. Your body arched into his, hands scrabbling for something to hold on to as he started to fuck you in earnest.

He was trying to make up for lost time, every deep stroke had him whispering praises in your ear.

You're whining and moaning like an absolute slut and it makes his dick throb and his balls tighten, pussy clenching around him like a vice.

"Fuck, I miss hearing those sounds." His hands pull your thighs further apart, thumb strumming at your clit while he fucked you into a trance. Your eyes had taken up residence in the back of your head as the sheer force of every thrust had your bonnet slipping halfway done your head, little by little your braids started falling into your face making you look like a fucking Goddess.

He could feel you tightening around him, letting go of your thighs his hand clamped around your throat as he pulled you into a searing kiss tongues and teeth lashing together as your legs wrapped around him, pulling him in like you were trying to become one.

He continued to pound you into oblivion, fucking you like it might be the last time, but you hoped to God that it wasn't.

Mine,” he growled against your lips, slamming into you again and again. “You're mine, this family is mine, say it."

“Yours,” you gasped, nails digging into his back. “Always been yours, daddy—fuck!”

He feels the way you go rigid in his arms, the first syllable of his name stuck in your throat and he knew your cumming for him again.

He felt it—the way you locked up around him, the way your cunt milked him like it never wanted to let go. You came again, loud and messy, coating his cock in a creamy white slick, and he followed you soon after, hips jerking, breath catching as he emptied inside you with a deep, guttural groan.

The kitchen was silent except for your breathing. Heavy, shaky. The kind that came with everything—sex, love, grief.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Just held you.

You curled into him instinctively, lips pressed to his neck, and you stayed like that for a moment. Wrapped up in each other. The ache was still there. But it didn’t hurt as much now.

“You think he heard us?” Katsuki muttered after a beat.

You snorted, voice muffled by his shirt. “He sleeps like a rock.”

Katsuki leaned back, brushing your cheek with his thumb. "I meant what I said, can we talk, properly?"

You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

#black fem reader #black female smut #katsuki bakugo mha #my hero academia #bakugo smut #katsuki smut #fanfic #katsuki x black reader #bakugou smut #katsuki bakugou smut #bakugo x black!reader #bakugo x black female

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Seven: to you, Aelin

tw: minor violence and gore, miscarriage, abortion mention, infidelity

“You see that girl right there? You stay away from her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

It’s the first thing John’s father says about Aelin Gilroy. Using one long, crooked finger, he points her out in the thick crowd of parents and students attending their Year 8 science fair. Projects and standing boards obscure her as they tower overhead on rickety folding tables, but that blinding smile and incandescent teal eyes shine through the crowd like a lighthouse leading a ship safe to shore.

Trouble. He often disagrees with his father, and this instance is no different. He does not think Aelin Gilroy is trouble. She’s never disruptive in class, and he once saw her give another student her cardigan two years ago when she couldn’t stop shivering in class. It isn’t until her father steps into view that he realizes the meaning of this warning—crisp police uniform, hat held in front of his stomach, giving a firm handshake to the science teacher. An officer. An inspector. An adversary to his father in the most wretched of ways.

Police officers always make the family business difficult.

For many years, John heeds his father’s warning—if not for his own sake, then at least for hers—until Year 11. By some terrible twist of fate, his maths teacher sat Aelin Gilroy next to him in that small, two seater desk. She smells like roses freshly woken by morning dew after a spring shower. He learns she likes to doodle in the corner of her notebook during lectures, and she can’t stop tapping her foot against the floor while taking an exam. John finds that he likes the way her pale brows knit together in concentration, scrunching her forehead, and how soft her voice is when whispering answers to the table on her left.

But he doesn’t have time to think about her. Not that he should. John Price is unfortunate enough to come from a long line of brutal patriarchs who often condition equally as cruel heirs. Once he turns sixteen, his father’s petulance only grows as he forces him to join him on escapades in the night after lectures have concluded. Bodies crumble. His fists split on begging faces pleading for the mercy that has long been snuffed out of his father’s chest. Each night his cheek grows tender with the force of his father’s hand, and his eyes droop with the weight of the secret life of a killer—of a true son born into the family business.

“Red color corrector will hide the bruise on your eye.”

It takes John several moments to realise Aelin Gilroy is talking to him, but even then he doesn’t fully believe it until he turns to see her already staring at him. She’s lazily leaning forward on the desk, hand propping her head up beneath her chin as her tongue darts out to wet her rosy lips. John’s pencil ceases its dance across his worksheet.

“Color corrector?” he repeats.

“Yeah, you know. Makeup. Green hides red marks from acne, orange hides dark circles, red for… very dark circles.” Her brows raise as she silently motions to his eye, bringing his own hand to touch the tender spot on his face. “I’ve got some in my bag, if you’d like. Though, you’ll have to find your own shade of foundation. I think you’re a bit too warm toned compared to me.”

Her bluntness and unabashed reference to the shiner on his eye leaves him chuckling, transforming her coy smile into a small smirk. “You sound like an expert.”

“I am,” she quips before grinning. After a quick glance around the room, Aelin carefully pulls the collar of her shirt to the side, exposing the side of her neck. At first, John finds nothing of any importance until she points out a line of covered hickies just above her collar bone, fingers tracing it as if lovingly. They grey beneath the concealer and foundation, blurring them to the point they’ve almost vanished. “A girl’s gotta have her fun.”

John likes her humor. Appreciates it, anyway. Maybe there’s something comforting about knowing a girl like her gets in trouble; albeit, much less violent trouble than himself. A small flicker of hope ignites in his chest at the idea that perhaps there’s something in common between him and Aelin—that he has the possibility of even resembling something that’s normal. Something not drenched in blood.

It’s a short lived fantasy. When the end of term comes around, and they no longer share classes together, they drift. Aelin keeps her smiles polished while John continues to do the only thing his father ever bothered to teach him. By the end, Aelin’s A-Levels are enough to earn her a trip to anywhere in the country. Opportunities are thrown at her feet and offered up on dainty silver platters that glisten bright enough to reflect the future ahead of her. As for him, his father dies when he’s twenty. Murdered, and in a way that’s eerily similar to the way his mother had been. Cold, calculated, ruthless—his father’s existence is snuffed out by a single bullet, leaving behind nothing but a bloodstain coating the pillow that covers his face.

The torch is passed down—the handle is still bloody.

Over the years, he grows rigid and battle-hardened thanks to the business of violence that was bequeathed to him by his late father. He builds upon a decrepit empire until it’s thriving with sharp teeth and hired guns. It’s the only thing his father taught him; how to be dangerous. How to collect teeth and grind them to dust beneath the sole of his shoes. The Price family rises to power. The name forces people to tremble. John Price has nothing to lose but his own life, and even that pathetic amount he can scarcely get himself to care about.

The only thing he holds close to him is the ghosts of his past. They always lurk in uncomfortable places, whispering into the shell of his ear, biting at the nape of his neck. It finds him at all hours of the day—it torments him. Slithers beneath his skin. Even now as he stands in line at the florist’s shop his skin itches, eyes flickering to the exit, fingers twitching for the knife stowed in his pocket.

The only emollient he can find in this place is the voice of the woman in line before him. Demulcent and fleeting, he notes the way his heart slows. How the pathetic muscle quivers in his chest as she sweetly thanks the shopkeeper. When the redolence of roses reaches him, he tells himself he’s hallucinating, but when she turns to leave—small bouquet of flowers in her hand—he realizes who it is.

Aelin Gilroy.

Even after all these years he can still recognize her. The soft slope of her nose, the faint, bouncing curls in her flaxen hair, and her grace. How her chin is held high. How confidence exudes from every pore in her body as she floats toward the exit. Somehow, she’s even more perfect now than she was when they were children. He steps out of line, forcing the shopkeeper to stare at him with narrowed brows as he follows after her on uncertain feet.

“Aelin?”

All the air leaves his lungs when she turns to face him. She’s grown into her features now. Rosy cheeks and full lips, but her eyes are still the same. Crystalline like a low tide, filtering golden sunlight into fractals. Those eyes stare at him blankly, hands uncomfortably adjusting the bouquet as she traces him without a shred of familiarity.

“Yes?” she asks tensely.

Chuckling, he slaps his hand on the nape of his neck, rubbing out the tension there. “It’s John. John Price.”

There’s something about the light igniting in her eyes that has him feeling warmer than he has in a long while. A precious grin breaks out on her lips as she steps closer, now comfortable with his presence. “Oh my god, I didn’t recognize you! It’s been years… staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Getting in just enough to keep things interesting,” John counters.

It’s as if no time has passed at all. She’s still that star pupil. Still that girl that had every boy tripping over their own two feet. Even now he can still hear her feet tapping against the floor as her pencil fills in test answers.

“What’s the occasion?” he then asks, gesturing to her bouquet.

“Oh,” she says. Her voice trips. Fractures. “Well, it’s—erm—the anniversary of my dad’s passing.”

John blinks. He can vaguely recall the news. Rolling clips of the police station and the accident that stole his life away. Somehow he never put two and two together.

“I’m sorry to hear that, I hadn’t heard,” he quickly apologizes.

Despite the terrible awkwardness of the conversation, she still smiles. Always graceful. Always poised. “It’s alright. I’m… making my peace with it.” She pauses, throat clearing with a tense cough. “What about you?”

“Oh, just some flowers for mum.”

His response makes Aelin smile something small and bittersweet. “How lovely. I bet she’ll love them.”

“They’ll make for good decoration.”

Something settles between the two of them—something that had never been there before. Not while they were children, growing up with one another in different corners of the world. It’s unfamiliar. Suffocating. It leaves John floundering, but the warmth it brings is intoxicating.

“Well, I ought to get going,” Aelin excuses politely. “Got a few more errands to run. But really, it was good seeing you again, John.”

This is the part where he should say goodbye. Wish her farewell just for her to vanish into a life of fortune where he’d never see her again. If he was a smart man, John would have done just that, but instead he finds his hand diving into his pocket where he retrieves a pen before quickly stealing one of the shop’s business cards to scribble down his number in the negative space.

“Here,” he says, holding it out for Aelin to take. “I’m certain you get this a lot, but if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be there.”

To his surprise, she takes the card without hesitation, aqua eyes scanning his rushed handwriting while quietly thanking him. As she holds the card in front of her, something catches John’s attention. There’s a glint on her finger, one that reflects the light so brightly it nearly blinds him. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s a large, gaudy ring. Something given in poor taste. Something that attempts to steal the spotlight of Aelin’s beauty rather than compliment it.

“Did you get married?” John asks in what he tells himself is mere curiosity.

“Oh. No, not yet. Just engaged,” she says with an odd tone. Aelin glances at the ring—at the small band and large diamond that looks heavy enough to weigh her down. As if she can’t stand to look at it any longer, she shoves the card into her pocket before smiling at him. “Thank you again, John.”

As Aelin exits the store, she tries not to think about how this interaction with a long lost classmate of hers has her feeling lighter than she has in years. That’s all she feels these days. Heavy. Weighed down by a stony gaze that used to look at her with adoration as the looming nature of her own failure hangs over her head as if each step she takes brings her closer to the gallows.

There is little reprieve to be found in the cemetery where her father lays. Knees digging into the fresh grass, trembling fingers propping the flowers against his headstone, she does not pay attention to the tears streaming down her face. She’s learned to ignore them, if not welcome them. The wind picks up, cooling her feverish face as she traces the engraving of her father’s name letter by letter with her index finger.

“I miss you so much,” she whispers. “Everything’s gone to shit since you left. I dunno what to do without you.”

Her days have been foggy. Each waking moment leaves her stumbling through the dark all while she pretends she’s still the radiant girl she’s always been. It’s difficult to keep up the facade when her bed is cold in the mornings, and her fingers itch for the card John Price gave her. Ghosts follow behind her in the bedroom, her rearview mirror—the toilet.

So then, it should not come as a surprise when she returns home from her mother’s to see the lamp on in the living room. The television drones but no one is listening. A hand on a thigh. Unfamiliar lips pressed against ones she should have memorized but hasn’t felt the touch of in months. The woman looks nothing like Aelin. Inky locks cut into a short bob that her fiance weaves his fingers through as his nose kisses her cheek.

“Adam?”

Aelin’s stomach drops when they jump, heavy eyes now on her as she stands in the entryway. When Adam’s chest heaves with a sigh, she’s suddenly in the bathroom again. Hands clutching her stomach as she waddles out. Eyes full with tears as she sees him sitting on the couch, focused on the football match. It’s the same thing all over again.

She doesn’t wait around long enough to hear his excuses. The front door slams shut behind her but the sound is muffled on her ears as she slips into her car and speeds away.

Night has long since fallen by the time she reaches the park. When she was a child, her parents used to own a home in this neighborhood and she often came here with her dad. The swingset is painted blue now instead of red, but she makes no effort to approach it as she seats herself on an algid, metal bench.

During times like these, Aelin would often go to her dad for comfort. His office smelled like leather and Earl Grey, and he always kept a recliner in the corner of the room for her to curl up in to do homework, or cry about boys at school. He always knew what to say. What to do. Guiding her with a soft hand and sweet heart—she always wished she was more like him.

Now—without the luxury of paternal comfort—she does something stupid.

Fingers haphazardly digging through her bag, clutching the florist’s card, shakily punching in the numbers into her phone; Aelin knows she’s insane. Insane for thinking John Price is the person to call for something like this. Insane for thinking he’d even do anything at this time of night. Still, he answers. His voice bleeds through the speaker next to her ear like lukewarm wine. Intoxicating. Comforting.

The only greeting she can choke out is a sob.

By the time John finds Aelin, all of her tears have run dry, having been replaced with a brutal fury instead. A thick numbra clouds the park as the halogen lights hardly hold a torch bright enough to fight off the darkness. Still, he approaches her, noting how her knees bounce just like they used to all those years ago during exam season. Her bottom lip is bright red—irritated and cracked, abused by her teeth.

For as much effort as he puts into looking calm on the outside, there is nothing in the world that can settle the nerves fraying within him. Hearing her cry, hearing her beg for him to come and get her scared him more than he cares to admit. The tear stains on her cheeks make his fists curl. If only she knew the dangerous power she holds. The power to say bite and for John Price to respond where.

It doesn’t take long for him to coax out the truth. The rage swirling within Aelin nearly erupts as she spews every brutal detail. How Adam had been acting strange the last few months, how he used to show her off but has been keeping her locked away like a dirty secret, or something he’s ashamed of.

“Two fucking years, John,” Aelin seethes, teeth gritting so hard that they nearly crack. “Two years of being with him just for him to do… to do that? He moved me into his home, wanted me to quit my job because he said he wanted to take care of me, to take care of… of…”

Terrified that you’ll disintegrate before him, John reaches a careful hand out and brushes it against her shoulder. The tension melts beneath his touch, and if he wasn’t so concerned, pride would swell in his chest. “Easy, love.”

“I could’ve been great,” she continues, voice cracking as she leans into him. “I was able to go to any school in this country. I got my degree. I could’ve kept at work and been… something. And I didn’t need to. Not really. There was never anything I was trying to prove to anyone. I could’ve had a few kids with that white picket fence and stayed home to care for them, and I would’ve been completely happy living that trophy wife life if it meant I was loved. But I’m not, and it fucking hurts because I know I’m worth so much more than this.”

She crumbles like dust. The kind that’s so thin and fine you can only see it in the air when sunlight hits it. John’s arms wrap around her, pulling her close, palm cradling her head as she shakes in his grasp.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid,” she babbles.

“You’re not stupid,” he attempts to persuade.

“Adam only proposed when we found out I was pregnant,” she says. Her voice shatters. Fractures. Each syllable catches in her throat, slices the tender flesh. “T-Then my dad died and… It was stupid to think he’d want to stay after I lost it.”

John’s blood runs cold. His vision clouds with ichor—vermillion and thick. It’s so close he can nearly taste it. A violent man to a violent end, he craves it now more than ever. Instead, he holds her closer and gathers enough bravery to kiss the top of her head.

“None of that was your fault, love,” he assures. “You’re brilliant. Downright brilliant, and he’s a sorry sod for not seeing it.”

It takes a little convincing to get her to agree to stay at his place for the night. Really, there’s something comforting about being somewhere else. Away from her mother and that house that’s still haunted with her father’s ghost. John gives her an old t-shirt and a pair of joggers he’s been meaning to throw out for some time before ensuring she’s comfortable enough in his guest bedroom.

When he’s certain Aelin’s asleep, John sits in his office, hand over his mouth, teeth grinding as he stares at his phone. It takes only five minutes of deliberation before he’s dialing up the only man he knows he can trust.

“Yeah?” Simon Riley. His blunt greeting cuts over the line over the sound of thrumming club music and a cacophony of chatter.

“Riley, I need a favor. I’m sending you an address and I need you there as soon as possible,” John says, voice rumbling low and dark as he taps his desk with the tips of his fingers.

“What for?”

“A friend,” John excuses. “I need any items that seem like they belong to a girl. Clothes, toiletries, things of that sort.”

There’s a pause, and John can already see the expression on Riley’s face. A raised brow, tight lips, and a small huff. “Somethin’ ya can’t get yourself?”

“If I go myself, I’m breaking the jaw of the bastard who lives there,” he growls.

Inhale. Exhale. “This have somthin’ to do with the girl earlier? The one cryin’ on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

A hum. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Much to John’s surprise, Aelin doesn’t ask too many questions when morning comes. She doesn’t push when he gives a vague answer about how he got her items, and she doesn’t question where her engagement ring vanished to, or why Adam hasn’t bothered to call or text her since she stormed out of the house. He tells her to stay as long as she likes—as long as she needs.

But she doesn’t leave.

Aelin Gilroy lingers in his home—not as a ghost, but as a dream. Something drifting between his fingers, just out of reach, that he wants so desperately to hold. He finds residuals of her in the shower with her golden hair stuck to the wall and the silage of rose toying with his nose. She’s there in the kitchen when he comes home, cooking up a late dinner, asking him to join her for a movie.

There is no effort on her end in leaving, just as there is no effort from him in getting her to leave. He would keep her forever if he could. Hold her in his arms like he did that night in the park, cradling her head against his chest. All she would have to do is ask him.

But as the weeks meander on, John finds himself sitting next to her on the couch. There’s too much wine in their bodies, ichor red and brimming full in his stomach, diffusing the light of the television as it illuminates her skin, her smile, everything. He decides that he likes this. Her. Enjoys the warmth of another human in this too-large house, always a void greeting him when he gets home, a black hole waiting to crush him. He doesn’t know how his father could have ever treated his mother so cold when the touch of a woman seems to make this home flourish.

She feels his gaze. Heavy lidded and murky with alcohol. She stares back, aqua hue bleeding into something darker, like the depths of the ocean instead of the mere tide lapping at the shore—unknowingly profound. He has yet to scratch the surface of Aelin Gilroy.

Yet he gets close to it when she places her glass on the coffee table and swings her leg over his lap. Bum resting on his knees, her hands steady her swaying body as she grips his shoulders, curls cascading down her back like a waterfall of sunlight. John stares up at her with awe blurring his vision. She smiles like she knows the mess she’s making of him.

“Kiss me.” She does not ask. She demands it. Requires it.

He leans back until his skull hits the cushion, then shakes his head. “You don’t want me to do that.”

Her eyebrow quirks. “Why not?”

“I’m not a good man.”

“I know.”

Those words are a baton to his diaphragm, forcefully expelling a chuckle from his throat before he can stop it. She tilts her head and he nearly grabs the nape of her neck to devour her whole. “How do you know?”

“I’ve always known,” Aelin insists. “I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Besides, if you were a good man, you’d be dead by now. The good ones are always quick to go in your line of work, aren’t they?”

John wants to pretend that he’s surprised she knows, but of course she knows. Aelin Gilroy, daughter of Sean Gilroy, Chief Inspector, top of her class, the looks to kill and a brain to go with it. It does not take a genius to sniff out the blood that stains his hands. Dirty hands. Soiled hands. Ones he can’t help but place on her waist.

“If you know that much, then you know that you don’t want me to kiss you,” he insists.

“Why?” Her turn with the questions.

“Becuase I’m not dragging you into a life like this. I’m not letting you get hurt because of me.” His admission comes with plaguing visions that are so noisome they sting his eyes. Rose pink brains soaking into a mattress. Fingers plucked free of the palms they used to call home. His mother, dead and left to rot like a warning. “You don’t want this.”

“No. I just want you,” she hums. Aelin’s hands begin to wander, fingertips brushing against his hairline as she tilts her head, curiously inspecting him, spinning eyes hardly able to focus on one part of him before moving to the next. “You’re not your father, John. You share his name but not his mistakes. You are not a bad man.” Palm to cheek, warmth swelling together against his feverish skin—she presses her thumb to his lips. Drags down over them until they’re parted. “You might not be a good man, but you’re too kind to be a bad man.”

It isn’t until her lips meet his that John Price realizes that he’s been caught in Aelin’s trap for quite some time—she’s just now decided to rein him in. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been. Even as her teeth sink into his flesh, even as her nails rake across his back, even as she drowns him—nothing but a corse floating among stilly water—he knows he cannot starve himself of this one desire.

After so many years, he finally has something to live for besides the circle of life and death. Besides being a slave to his family name simply because paternal law decrees it. Now, he has something to build. Someone to love. A future that holds more than decrepit bones. A ring covers the old scar on Aelin’s finger. His bed is always warm in the night when he returns home and in the morning when he can’t bring himself to wake with the rest of the world.

The room she slept in during her first night with him now holds a crib.

It’s made of wood and engraved with pumpkins and rabbits, a project Aelin took upon herself and has been whittling away at with a small carving tool. Hunched over, stomach swelling quietly but still enough to be noticeable in her sundress. The image has been burned into his mind all night while he’s been away at work, hunched over his desk, listening to pathetic excuse after excuse.

He leaves early tonight, hands buzzing too much to quiet, fingers screaming for his wife. To hold her face and smooth over her stomach. She’s gotten more emotional these days; crying at any kind gesture, or any time she looks at the crib for too long. John hates to see the tears that stream down her cheeks but doesn’t mind the excuse to hold her close, to chuckle into her ear, to toy with the ends of her hair.

When John steps inside, there’s nothing but blood to greet him.

Watery. Bright red. It stains the couch in the very spot Aelin curls up in at the end of the day with a warm cup of tea and something quiet to put on the television. John stares at it. It spreads, ichor floating through the veins of the couch similar to the way it spreads on a mattress, soaking deep—too deep to get out. Deep enough to scar.

He panics. Her name rings through the house as he trips down the hallway, following the sparse trickle of blood like breadcrumbs. There is no answer, but he hears her quiet, muffled sobs. Hand clasped over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut as if that could ever stop the tears; she’s on the toilet. He doesn’t even knock before entering, but she doesn’t have the energy to chastise him for it as she sits curled over herself, sundress bunched around her waist, arms cradling herself as if she can hold the remaining bits of her child within her shattering womb.

“Love,” John breathes. Within an instant he’s on his knees before her, but she won’t look at him. He reaches forward, cups her face in his palms, wipes his thumb at the never-ending flood of tears. She’s feverish to the touch.

“I-I’m sorry,” Aelin sobs. Her arms press further into her stomach as she leans forward, head attempting to bow, but John keeps her head above water—keeps her from drowning. “I really thought it would be different this time, I just… ah… John, it hurts so bad.”

Her sobs come unheeded now, and each rattling reverberation that cuts through her shatters his newly mended heart. John holds her with trembling hands. His own eyes squeeze shut, faint tears wetting his eyelashes as he rests his chin on her head. Even against his neck he can feel how warm her forehead is—how it nearly blisters his skin.

After fifteen minutes of his world ending, he takes her to the hospital. Ultrasound visits turn sour now that there is no baby to look at. The bleeding stops. Their child is gone. When they arrive home, all they do is lay in bed with nothing but the sound of their hearts shattering to break the silence.

It is the first time, but it is not the last.

It happens again.

And again.

Eventually, after the years, they give up. Their hope flickers and wanes, but the desire still lurks in their eyes every time they pass a stroller during date night or they look at that empty nursery-converted-to-guest-room. John puts that love into the men who work for him instead, and Aelin gives it to her adopted sister. But at the end of the night, no matter how long they were out laughing or chuckling, they come home to a warm bed, desperately searching for the grubby hands of what could have been.

But it comes back. It barrels like a bullet into their lives, embedding into deep tissue, nestling too far to rip it out without doing more damage. It arrives as a phone call. A sob. A begging to be free of this torture. John finds it in the bathroom with Aelin, curled forward, ripped boxes strewn across the floor, along with three positive pregnancy tests.

She looks up at him as he enters the bathroom, eyes red and irritated, her usually neat hair now frizzy. “John, I can’t do this again,” she chokes.

Wordlessly, he joins her on the floor with an arm snaking around her back. Aelin collapses into his chest, legs slung over his lap, head resting against his collarbone as he cradles her. For a long time, he is silent. Neither of them speak as the weight of the situation begins to crush them under impending pressure. It squishes the blood clean from their bodies, suffocating their brains of all helpful thought.

The world is ending all over again.

“I’ll support whatever you want to do, love,” John murmurs against the crown of her head.

Brows furrowing, she stiffens. “What do you mean?”

His words get caught in his throat for a long, aching moment before he’s able to choke them out. “If you… want to terminate, then we can do that. Or if you want to keep it then we’ll do that, too.”

Aelin is quiet for a long time. There is nothing but soft sniffles and the occasional pule that slips from her lips, but John doesn’t rush her. Instead, he holds her until her muscles relax, and she’s nothing but a limp mess against him.

“One more time,” she decides, malice slipping into her tone as she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. “One more time, and if it doesn’t work, I’m getting a hysterectomy. I can’t keep doing this b-but… I just… want to pretend to hope for a little while.”

Nodding, John places one more kiss on her head. “Okay, love.”

For the first few weeks, Aelin is near unconsolable. Nesting on the couch, blankets obscuring her body, hugging a pillow to her chest as her glassy eyes watch flashing images on the television. She attempts to distract herself with the company of her adopted sister, but the connection feels severed. Smiling and pretending to be happy when she’s harboring a secret that will surely demand blood before she has the chance to sing its praise.

But that secret keeps growing. And growing.

Each passing day that Aelin wakes and there’s no blood to follow her throughout the day, a glimmer of hope roots in her chest. It burrows and whispers. It promises love and fulfillment. It promises something she’s never been fortunate enough to achieve previously. It’s enough to make her skin glow, rosy and golden like the sun kissing the horizon before bed. It’s enough to make her cheeks swell as shiny, opalesque teeth peek between glistening lips. It’s enough for now, and then—

“Oh my god.” Hands on her stomach, smiling through the tears, bottom lip trembling. “John, it’s twenty-four weeks. It’s viability week.”

—and then it’s everything.

Time rolls backwards as the guest room is once more turned into a nursery. Bunnies and pumpkins, soft oranges and fluffy whites, and a perfect hint of peach. A changing table with ribbons along the side. A rocking chair for the long nights when none of them will get rest, and it will be worth it to have a sleepless night due to love rather than turmoil.

But joy is a meal that tastes better when it’s shared.

So, Aelin stands in the kitchen. Film refracts the light above her through the sonogram in her hand, thumb holding the picture so firmly as if she’s afraid it will slip through her fingers. Heavy feet rattle the floor behind her before she feels warm palms smooth over her stomach and a chin on top of her head.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs.

Smiling in agreement, Aelin scans every little feature. The curve of the baby’s nose, how her lips part as if already babbling, hands squished up to her face like she’s trying to chew on her fingers. “Just over halfway there.”

Just as she lowers the sonogram, the baby kicks against John’s palms. His chuckle hits her, warm and dripping with adoration. He squeezes back, pulling Aelin against him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he questions.

“Yeah, I think it would be better this way,” Aelin nods. “I feel… a little bad. Having been sort of ignoring her these last few weeks. I know Simon is taking good care of her but… well, it’ll be nice to have dinner with just the two of us.”

She turns her attention to the card before her. The outside is plain. A simple white background with frilly lettering asking Guess what? On the inside, there’s that same lettering with the triumphant announcement of It’s a girl! followed by enough space to put a sonogram. Then, there’s a mini calendar of August, with a circled due date. She shoves everything inside of a light peach envelope before sealing it shut with the tip of her tongue, but as she stares at it, she feels it doesn’t quite look right.

Inspiration strikes her, and she quickly retrieves a pen from the junk drawer before scrawling Auntie Chip on the envelope. Smiling, she sticks it in her purse.

And with that, she is ready for dinner.

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