#salaciouscript

I bet on losing dogs I know they're losing, and I'll pay for my place by the ring Where I'll be looking in their eyes when they're down I'll be there on their side I'm losing by their side.

Welcome to my cage, little lover Attempt to rearrange with you, baby Still don’t know your name, Miss Honey Let’s go up in flames, pretty lady

❛ oye,❜ luis' request for ada's attention was soft and undemanding, but his touch was bold. one of his rough hands had pressed its fingertips lightly along the underside of her arm, raised it gently and trailed along its length until their digits linked. he maintained a grip that was devoted, but relaxed and far from stifling. if ada slipped through his fingers like silk tonight, he wouldn't mind. he'd just take the threads to bed and weave up a new plan come next morning. for the time being, she seemed generous enough to humor him and it conjured a smile as he pulled her further among the leafy fronds of red, yellow and green herbs beneath the moonlight.

night rain pattered softly against the glass roofing of the greenhouse, the wet slick structure giving off an almost ethereal silvery, glow against the streams of moonbeams that filtered out from the dark cloud cover. as he brought them to a halt within the curated gardens center, he brought her knuckles to his mouth to press a lingering kiss against the warm of her skin.

❛ you didn't have to come--but you're here. i know, i know, it's late.❜ he muttered it as though she'd expected an apology, but there remained something of mirth in both his quiet words and the look in his eye. ❛ but... you've been working so hard, so i was thinking you deserved..." he didn't dare use the word 'reward', for that certainly wasn't his place. ❛ compensation. so, i brought you something that reminded me of you. ❜

without another word luis reached into the breast pocket of his new leather coat, the material creasing with the movement, and retrieved a cylinder-shaped glass canister. inside fluttered a butterfly, lazy and beautiful. its wings red in colour were luminescent like firefly.

❛ before you say anything--no, no viruses. the butterfly is artificial, and i might have thrown in some lampyridae dna here and there, but! she's yours. and so is this greenhouse. if you want it. ❜ he held out his gift to her before seemingly thinking better of it, and pressed the container into her palm instead. he'd learned his lesson a thousand times over, years ago, the point driven home by a knife in his back.

but he'd play god a thousand times more if it was for her.

One  four-letter  word  can  mark  the  beginning  of  the  end.  It  can  slow  time,  it  can  strain  and  yearn  and  ache  all  at  once  like  an  illness,  and  stop  the  very  organ  responsible  for  such  an  abysmal,  dangerous  chemical.

Ada  never  cared  much  for  love.  She  liked  the  idea  of  it.  She’d  toy  with  it—she’d  bat  a  man’s  open,  bleeding  heart  around  to  get  what  she  wanted,  but  she  never  caught  the  bug  herself.

That  is,  not  until  recently.  She  isn’t  sure  when  the  spark  ignited,  exactly.  Somewhere  between  their  brushes  with  death  and  their  bodies  moving  in  sync  beyond  just silly  flamenco—the  chemical  burst  to  life  and  lodged  itself  into  her  chest,  unwelcome  and  overwhelming. More terrifying than any bioweapon she’s ever faced.

Love.  What  a  cruel  and  unusual  punishment  for  a  seasoned  spy who never needed such a thing to hold her down.

Ada  takes  the  canister  from  his  hand  with  measured  care,  like  it  might  explode  if  she  moves  too  fast.  Her  breath  lifts  and  stills  in  her  chest.  It’s  the  same  disciplined  pause  she  keeps  for  scopes  and  safeties—for  moments  when  the  world  narrows  to  a  single  point  until  she  squeezes  the  trigger,  and  target  blooms  into  gorgeous  spatters  of  red  mist in the air.

It  feels  strange  to  spend  that  precision  on  something  so  delicate,  but  beneath  her  cool  exterior,  there  is  a  human  behind  the  agent.  There  always  has  been.

The  glass  still feels  warm  from  his  touch.  She  turns  it  once,  watching  the  red  glow  inside  shift  and  breathe,  a  quiet  heartbeat  sealed  away.  Trapped  inside  a  glass  cage.

She  leans  closer,  until  her  breath  ghosts  against  the  surface  of  the  glass  and  fogs  it  faintly.  Ada  speaks  softly  then,  instinctive  and  quiet,  her words meant  for  small,  secret  things.

“ Be  free,  my  pretty. ”

The  seal  loosens  with  a  muted  click,  and  she  carefully  tips  the  canister  as  the  butterfly  slips  out  smoothly  and  unafraid,  like  it’s  been  waiting  for  this  exact  cue.  Its  wings  catch  the  greenhouse  light,  red  flaring  like  a  struck  match  before  it  flutters  toward  the  entrance.  It  settles  among  the  dahlias  he  planted  there,  heavy  blooms  and  dark  leaves  cradling  the  glow,  welcoming  its  arrival  with  open  petals,  inviting  the  creature  to  do  what  it  instinctively  knows.  Pollinate.

Only  then  does  she  turn  back  to  him.

Ada  looks  at  Luis  the  same  way  she  studies  body  language  and  faces,  committing  angles  and  intentions  to  memory.  Seven  years  should  have  taught  him  that  this  look  is  trust,  stripped  of  ornament  and  masks  and  any  walls  she  had  up  before.

She  steps  into  his  space,  hands  resting  lightly  against  his  coat,  feeling  the  solid  proof  of  him  there.  Leaning  in,  she  kisses  him,  unhurried  and  certain,  she  savors  his  lips,  his  taste,  his  familiar  smell.  She  tells  him  with  her  eyes  and  her  body  what  her  mouth  cannot  form.

The  four  letter  word  that  has  bound  their  hearts  together,  until  one  of  them  stops  beating.  

“ You’ve  truly  outdone  yourself  this  time,  Luis. ”  She  says,  voice  quiet  as  a  kept  secret. " What would I ever do without you? It's beautiful. "

Her  thumb  brushes  his  knuckles  once,  a  brief,  anchoring  touch,  before  her  gaze  travels  back  to  the  doorway.  The  butterfly  rests  among  the  dahlias,  glowing  softly,  its  wings  folded—content  in  its  freedom.

A  creation  born  of  love  itself.