#and the only way to make sure they lose the war is to have hope that things can get better and fight to make sure it does

[00valentina-writes00]

I was hoping you could maybe do Ambessa with a reader that is a war prize from a nation she conquered. reader is just one of the most beautiful people Ambessas has seen but readers also vary cunning and Ambessa is vary intrigued by that aspect of them.

✞⛧ Spoils of war ✞⛧

Warnings: captivity, power imbalance, attempted assassination, emotional manipulation, psychological warfare, enemies to lovers, violence, coercion, smut eventually, drinking, mild humiliation, references to war and conquest, slow burn, moral ambiguity

Word count: 20k…

The air is thick with the scent of death.

Smoke curls from the wreckage of your homeland, the charred remains of once-proud buildings standing like skeletal husks against the smothered sky. The streets, once bustling with life, are silent now, save for the distant clang of armor and the murmur of foreign voices—Noxian voices. The banners of your people have been ripped down, trampled underfoot, and in their place, the crimson and black sigil of Noxus looms like a stain against the horizon.

Your wrists ache where the iron shackles bite into your skin. Each step is sluggish, dragged forward by the soldier gripping your arm, his gauntlet pressing too tightly against your flesh. You refuse to stumble, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing you weak. But your pride is a thin shield against the weight of defeat pressing against your chest.

You do not look at the bodies.

You do not search for familiar faces in the ruins.

To do so would break something inside you that you cannot afford to lose.

Instead, you focus on the path ahead, where a towering silhouette waits atop the cracked steps of what was once your people’s council chamber.

Ambessa Medarda.

She is a fortress of a woman, standing with the kind of poise that speaks of complete and utter control. Her rich umber skin gleams under the dull light, the faint sheen of sweat and battle dust only making her presence more commanding. Her short, dark waves frame an angular face lined with the faint traces of past wars—scars that tell stories you do not care to hear. But it is her eyes that unnerve you most. Deep, dark pools of calculation, honed from years of conquest, sharpened by victories carved from blood and bone.

She does not look at the burning remnants of your home.

She does not look at the soldiers behind you, waiting for orders.

She looks at you.

The soldier shoves you forward, and you fall to your knees before her. The stone is still warm beneath you, heat rising from where fire has licked the edges of the once-grand hall. You lift your chin, meeting her gaze with quiet defiance, though you make sure to keep your expression schooled, impassive.

Ambessa watches you, head tilting slightly, as if you are something to be examined rather than someone who has lost everything. Then, without a word, she crouches before you, one knee bending with the ease of someone accustomed to battle.

A leather-clad hand reaches for your chin, fingers rough with calluses and the unmistakable strength of a warrior. You expect her to grip you, to force your face upward, but she doesn’t. Instead, her fingers ghost along your skin, barely touching, the way one might trace the edge of a blade.

“Interesting,” she murmurs.

Her voice is smooth, measured—deep enough to carry the weight of command but deliberate enough that every syllable feels like a choice.

You say nothing, keeping your body still beneath her touch. Inside, rage coils hot in your gut. You want to wrench yourself away, to bare your teeth like a caged animal, to spit at her feet. But that is what she wants. She wants to see you break.

And so you do the only thing left within your power.

You let her touch you.

Ambessa’s thumb brushes over your lower lip, and something in her expression shifts—amusement, perhaps, or maybe curiosity. “Beauty is not uncommon,” she muses, her tone almost idle. “But beauty and cunning? That is rare.”

The compliment feels like an insult.

You keep your head bowed as if in submission, hiding the way your fingers curl into fists behind your back. Let her think you are compliant. Let her believe you have been tamed. It will make it all the sweeter when you find the moment to drive a dagger through her ribs.

Ambessa exhales, straightening to her full height. She looms over you, broad shoulders casting a shadow that seems to swallow you whole. “Rise,” she commands, and the soldiers flanking you tighten their grips, hauling you to your feet before you can obey on your own.

Your knees are unsteady, but you refuse to falter.

She studies you for another long moment, and then, with a simple flick of her wrist, she turns. “Bring her,” she says over her shoulder, already striding toward the waiting caravan. The soldiers do not hesitate, dragging you forward with the efficiency of men who have done this too many times before.

You take one last look at the ruins of your home before the heavy carriage doors shut behind you.

The road to Noxus begins, and with it, your plan for vengeance.

——

Your new prison is gilded.

The Medarda estate sprawls like a monument to wealth and power, its high walls crafted from dark stone, its halls adorned with intricate gold accents that catch the flickering candlelight. It is a stark contrast to the ruins of your homeland—where the architecture was built from the earth, woven with history and care. Here, everything feels cold, impersonal.

Your chambers are absurdly lavish. Silk sheets, a massive bed, intricately carved furniture. A vanity with imported perfumes, garments of the finest fabrics folded neatly in a chest at the foot of your bed. A life of comfort laid out before you, and yet the air is thick with suffocation.

Because no matter how soft the sheets are, you are still a prisoner.

A guard stands outside your door at all times, silent and watchful. You tested his discipline once—stepped too close, feigned interest in idle conversation. He remained unmoved, stoic as stone. It was clear from the beginning: you are not to be trusted, only tolerated.

And so you wait. You smile when necessary, bow your head where expected. But inside, you sharpen your hatred into a blade, biding your time for the moment when the warlord under whose roof you now reside will finally lower her guard.

Tonight, she invites you to dinner.

The dining hall is cavernous, its vaulted ceilings stretching impossibly high, lined with banners bearing the sigil of the Medarda family. The scent of rich, spiced dishes lingers in the air—decadent foods meant to impress, to tempt. A show of generosity, or perhaps dominance.

Ambessa sits at the head of the long table, one hand resting lazily against the carved armrest of her chair. Even in repose, she exudes authority—her broad shoulders squared, her dark gaze weighing you like an asset being appraised.

She watches as the servants set a plate before you. Roast meat, seasoned vegetables, freshly baked bread still warm from the oven.

You do not touch it.

A beat of silence.

Ambessa does not speak at first, merely observing as she cuts into her own meal with slow precision. The faint scrape of her knife against the plate is the only sound in the vast dining hall.

When she finally does break the silence, her voice is as measured as always, but edged with something sharper beneath the surface.

“Is the food not to your liking?”

You keep your posture composed, hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on your untouched plate. “I am not hungry.”

The air shifts.

Ambessa sets down her utensils with deliberate care, leaning forward slightly. The candlelight casts deep shadows across her sharp features, accentuating the angular planes of her face, the silver streaks in her dark waves. She regards you with the kind of patience that feels like restraint, as if she is humoring you—for now.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

You do not respond.

Ambessa exhales through her nose, a slow, measured breath, as if deciding how best to proceed. She picks up her goblet, taking a sip of deep red wine, and then places it back on the table with a deliberate clink.

Then she leans in further, her voice lowering to something smooth, dangerous.

“You will eat,” she murmurs, “or I will feed you myself.”

Her tone is not one of jest.

A flicker of unease coils in your stomach, but you do not let it show. Instead, you reach for your fork, cutting a small piece of meat, bringing it to your lips without breaking eye contact. The first bite is tasteless, swallowed down with the bitterness of submission.

Ambessa watches.

You chew slowly, deliberately, forcing yourself to meet her gaze without wavering.

Satisfied, she reclines back into her chair. “Good girl.”

The words send a spark of rage through you, but you tamp it down, gripping your fork tighter to keep your hand from shaking.

You eat, but only just enough to avoid another confrontation. Your silence remains unwavering, your defiance manifesting in the cool indifference with which you endure her presence.

Ambessa does not press you further. She simply continues eating at her own pace, as if nothing at all has transpired, as if this battle of wills is nothing more than an amusing diversion to her.

When the meal ends, you stand to leave.

Ambessa’s voice stops you before you reach the door.

“Tomorrow,” she says, swirling the remaining wine in her goblet, “you will dine with me again.”

It is not a request.

You do not turn around. You merely nod, then step out of the grand dining hall, the weight of her gaze pressing against your back like an iron collar.

The Medarda estate is a gilded prison.

And Ambessa Medarda is its warden.

——

Your charm is your best weapon.

It is a delicate thing, a blade honed not for brute force but for precision. You wield it carefully, carving at the edges of your captivity, testing the weaknesses in your cage.

Your guard is disciplined—stoic, unshakable. But he is also human.

You spend days planting seeds in his mind. Soft smiles. A careful tilt of your head, eyes cast downward in feigned vulnerability. You let your voice drop to something softer when you speak to him, something hesitant, like you are unused to kindness and grasping at any semblance of connection.

“I only wish to walk the halls,” you murmur one evening, fingers tracing the gilded edge of the vanity in your chambers. “I grow restless, trapped in here.”

He does not respond at first, merely watching with that same unreadable expression. You do not push. You let the words settle, an ember smoldering beneath the surface, waiting to ignite.

The next night, you ask for a book. He hesitates but obliges.

Two nights later, you ask for tea—specifically a blend that can only be fetched from the far end of the estate. A small thing, a simple request. He hesitates longer this time, but then he leaves.

And you move.

You slip from your chambers like a shadow, bare feet silent against the cold stone floors. The corridors are vast, the estate unfamiliar, but you have spent your captivity observing, memorizing. Servants move in patterns, guards patrol in shifts. You know when to wait, when to duck behind heavy curtains or press yourself into an alcove.

Your pulse pounds against your ribs as you reach the outer halls. The scent of open air is close now, the distant clang of the city beyond these walls a siren’s call to freedom.

You are almost there.

And then you feel it.

A presence.

A shift in the air, the sensation of being watched.

You stop.

And when you lift your gaze, she is there.

Ambessa Medarda stands at the threshold, arms crossed over her broad chest, expression unreadable. She is still clad in the remnants of her armor, the dark leather and reinforced metal gleaming in the torchlight. The posture of a warlord, not a noblewoman.

Her dark eyes sweep over you, slow and deliberate. Measuring.

You do not move.

For a long, breathless moment, the hall is silent.

Then—

“Cunning,” Ambessa murmurs. A tilt of her head, a flicker of something like amusement in her gaze. “But not cunning enough.”

You lunge.

It is instinct, desperation—an attempt to slip past her, to run before she can stop you.

But Ambessa is faster.

Her hand clamps around your wrist in an iron grip, yanking you back with effortless strength. You twist, trying to wrench free, but she moves too fluidly, too controlled. Before you can react, she has you turned, pressed against the stone wall, her body a solid force pinning you in place.

You grit your teeth, breathing hard, but Ambessa is maddeningly composed.

Her grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of the disparity between your strength and hers. The heat of her presence is suffocating, her scent—leather, steel, something faintly spiced—invading your senses.

She leans in slightly, voice a quiet rumble.

“Did you truly think I would not anticipate this?”

You do not answer. Your pulse is a wild, frantic thing, your mind racing for another way out.

Ambessa hums, considering. And then, with infuriating ease, she releases you.

Not because you have won. Because she allows it.

She straightens, dusting off an invisible speck from her sleeve. “Come.”

You do not move.

Her gaze sharpens. “I will not repeat myself.”

Jaw clenched, you push away from the wall, fury burning in your chest as you follow her down the corridor.

She does not take you back to your chambers. She takes you to dinner.

The dining hall is as grand as ever, the table adorned with an elaborate feast, but you have no appetite.

Ambessa gestures for you to sit. You do not.

She merely raises a brow, settling into her chair with infuriating ease. She pours herself a goblet of wine, swirling it leisurely before taking a sip.

“You are persistent,” she muses. “I admire that.”

You remain standing, fists clenched. “Is that why I am still alive?”

Ambessa exhales a quiet chuckle, setting her goblet down. “In part.” She gestures to the chair again. “Sit.”

You do, if only to avoid another power play.

The silence stretches between you. She eats at a measured pace, entirely unconcerned by your simmering rage.

Eventually, she speaks again.

“You must understand something,” she says, cutting into her meal with precision. “I do not despise you. I do not seek to break you.”

You say nothing.

Ambessa glances at you then, eyes dark and knowing.

“I will tame you, however.”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your goblet. “I am not a beast to be tamed.”

Ambessa smiles—slow, deliberate. “No.” A beat. “You are something far more interesting.”

You hate her.

You hate the way she speaks, the way she knows—as if she can see straight through you, as if she can reach into the depths of your defiance and shape it to her will.

You do not eat.

Ambessa does not force you this time. She merely watches, as if waiting, as if enjoying the fight you refuse to surrender.

When the meal ends, she stands.

She steps toward you, slow and deliberate, pausing just beside your chair. You remain still, refusing to look up at her.

Then—

A touch.

Faint, barely there—her fingers grazing the underside of your chin, tilting your face upward ever so slightly. Not forceful. Not demanding.

A test.

Your breath stills.

Ambessa’s voice is quieter now, the edge of command laced with something more dangerous.

“Try again, little fox.”

Then she leaves.

You remain seated long after she is gone, seething.

Plotting.

——

Your punishment is swift.

There is no shouting, no outburst of fury—only a simple decree.

Your quarters are revoked.

You are to stay in her chambers now.

It is not phrased as a reprimand but a practical solution. You are a flight risk, a creature too clever for the gilded cage she has set for you. If she cannot keep you contained with guards and locked doors, she will keep you within reach.

You do not argue.

Not because you accept your fate, but because you adapt.

Ambessa finds it amusing at first, how compliant you seem—how you follow without protest when she beckons, how you sit at the hearth while she reads, how you do not flinch at her presence the way so many others do.

But she is not a fool.

She knows the silence is a ruse, the stillness an illusion.

She is merely waiting.

And so are you.

Ambessa Medarda’s chambers are grand in a way that is uniquely hers—opulent yet efficient, reflecting both her noble lineage and her military discipline. The high ceilings bear intricate carvings, the deep red drapes framing the windows are embroidered with the sigil of the Medarda house. The bed is massive, built more like a commander’s resting place than a delicate noblewoman’s retreat. Dark wood, reinforced posts, sheets of the finest silk. It is a room designed for someone who has conquered.

And you loathe being here.

Every night, you sit at the far end of the chamber, watching.

Ambessa is methodical in everything she does. She removes her armor with practiced efficiency, unfastening buckles and leather straps with the ease of someone who has done this countless times. Her arms, bare in the firelight, are a testament to her power—corded muscle beneath smooth umber skin, scars decorating the surface like the marks of a seasoned warrior.

She sleeps without fear, without hesitation.

Like a lioness in her own den.

You wonder if she underestimates you.

If she believes that stripping you of distance, of space, will dull your edge.

It does not.

It only brings you closer to the moment you have been waiting for.

The knife is small, easily hidden.

You do not remember when you took it—perhaps a forgotten utensil from dinner, slipped beneath the folds of your sleeve. You have carried it for days, waiting for the perfect moment.

And now, it is here.

Ambessa sleeps soundly, one arm draped over her midsection, her breath deep and unhurried. She does not stir when you rise from your place by the hearth, moving silently across the floor.

You are careful. Measured.

A predator stalking another predator.

The blade is cool in your grip as you raise it, poised above her throat.

And then—

A hand.

Faster than you can react, her fingers snap around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward with impossible strength.

You barely have time to gasp before she moves.

One shift of her body, one powerful roll, and you are suddenly beneath her, the air forced from your lungs as your back collides with the mattress.

Your wrist is pinned, the knife useless in your grasp.

Ambessa does not strike. She does not snarl or lash out.

She merely smirks.

“Finally,” she murmurs, voice husky from sleep. “I was wondering when you’d try.”

Her grip on your wrist tightens just slightly—not painful, but unyielding. Her weight is a solid, inescapable thing, her body warm where it presses against yours. You struggle, twisting beneath her, but it is pointless.

Ambessa allows you your fight, drinking it in with the same quiet amusement she always wears.

She leans in, her breath ghosting against your cheek.

“You’ve been so patient,” she muses, her voice a purr of satisfaction. “I almost believed you had given up.”

You grit your teeth. “I don’t give up.”

Her smirk widens.

“Good.”

She releases your wrist slowly, letting the knife clatter onto the sheets between you. The test is clear—will you reach for it? Will you try again?

You do not.

Not yet.

Instead, you hold her gaze, your breath unsteady, your body thrumming with the remnants of adrenaline.

Ambessa studies you, eyes dark and knowing.

Then, with infuriating ease, she shifts off of you, reclaiming her side of the bed as if nothing had happened at all.

You remain where you are, staring at the ceiling.

“You’re improving,” she says idly, as though critiquing a sparring match rather than an assassination attempt. “But you’re still too hesitant.”

You want to scream.

Instead, you reach for the knife beside you, turning it in your hands.

Ambessa watches, her expression unreadable.

Then, with a lazy stretch, she settles back into the pillows.

“Try again tomorrow.”

She closes her eyes.

And you, blade in hand, realize the truth of the matter.

You are not hunting Ambessa Medarda.

You are being trained.

——

You have tried everything.

Escape, deception, violence.

And each time, Ambessa Medarda has caught you like a lioness catching a fox—amused, unimpressed, always a step ahead.

So you try a different tactic.

Temptation.

Ambessa’s study is a place of strategy and control. The massive oak desk is littered with maps, war reports, and diplomatic letters, each piece of parchment carrying the weight of nations. The air smells of parchment and ink, mingled with the faint scent of polished leather and the subtle spice of her skin.

She sits at the desk now, posture commanding even in stillness. The firelight catches on the silver streaks in her dark hair, illuminating the sharp angles of her face. Her sleeves are rolled up, revealing the powerful lines of her forearms, the scars that tell stories of past battles.

She does not look up when you enter.

You take your time approaching, letting your movements flow with deliberate ease. There is no defiance in your stride now—no resistance, no sharp edges.

Only silk.

You lean against the edge of her desk, close enough that the space between you becomes intimate, charged. Your fingers drift lightly over the parchment beneath them, tracing idle patterns over war maps and written commands.

“Long day?” you murmur, your voice smooth, honeyed.

Ambessa does not answer immediately. Her quill stills, ink pooling at the tip. Then, finally, she looks at you.

That gaze is sharp as ever, piercing through layers of intent with an ease that makes your pulse stutter. But beneath the scrutiny, there is something else. A flicker of something unreadable in the way her eyes drop—to your mouth, to the slope of your throat.

You smile.

Just slightly.

Baiting.

“It must be exhausting,” you continue, tilting your head. “Carrying the weight of so many battles, so many decisions.” You let your fingers trail closer to hers, a ghost of a touch, deliberate in its near-miss. “You could let someone else ease that burden… just for a while.”

The silence stretches.

Then—

Ambessa exhales a quiet chuckle.

It is not soft. Not kind.

It is the sound of amusement sharpened into a blade, the sound of a predator humoring its prey before the inevitable lunge.

She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, and regards you with an expression that is almost pitying.

“Did you really think that would work?”

The words cut deeper than any sword.

Heat flares beneath your skin, a mix of embarrassment and something dangerously close to fury. Your fingers curl against the desk, nails pressing into the wood.

Ambessa sees it. Of course, she does.

Her smirk deepens.

“Bold,” she muses, eyes flickering over you with the same calculating weight she gives to battle formations and enemy weaknesses. “Clever, even. But predictable.”

She shifts forward suddenly, bracing an arm against the desk beside you. The movement is effortless, precise, forcing you to remain where you are or risk betraying your own intent.

The scent of her—spiced warmth, iron, leather—coils around you, a reminder of the sheer presence she commands.

Her voice drops, low and indulgent.

“You’re not the first to try and seduce me, little fox.”

Your breath catches.

Her fingers brush your jaw, deceptively gentle, as if testing the shape of your resolve.

“Do you know the difference between them and you?” she murmurs.

You refuse to answer.

Her thumb presses, tilting your chin up just slightly. “They meant it.”

The words strike like a slap.

Heat floods your face, your stomach twisting in a way you refuse to name. You force yourself to hold her gaze, to keep your expression carefully neutral, but the weight of her scrutiny makes it difficult to breathe.

Ambessa lingers a second longer, her touch more a display of dominance than tenderness.

Then, just as effortlessly, she releases you and leans back once more.

“Try again, if you like,” she says, already returning to her reports. “But next time, at least believe your own performance.”

You stand there, pulse hammering, frustration burning through you.

And for the first time, you wonder if it was truly her who fell into your trap—

Or if it was you who fell into hers.

——

The air in Noxus is thick—heavy with the scent of iron and industry, of sweat and ambition. The streets are not like the ones you once knew, the ones you once walked barefoot as a child, where the earth was warm beneath your feet and the air carried the scent of blooming flowers instead of forge smoke.

For the first time, Ambessa takes you outside.

Not as a prisoner. Not as a hostage.

As something else.

Perhaps she wishes to parade you through the streets, a demonstration of her victory. Perhaps she means to test you, to watch how you react when confronted with the weight of all that has been taken from you.

Or perhaps, this is another game—one whose rules you have yet to decipher.

Ambessa walks beside you, her presence as unshakable as the towering walls of Noxus itself. Even without her armor, she commands attention. The people who pass by—soldiers, merchants, nobles draped in Noxian red—either avert their gazes or offer stiff nods of respect.

She acknowledges them with little more than a glance, her dark eyes constantly moving, always assessing.

You wonder if she ever truly stops watching.

Your steps falter as you pass through an open plaza, the sound of haggling merchants a distant murmur beneath the steady drum of your own heartbeat.

And there it is.

A stall, tucked between weaponsmiths and armorers, bearing the remnants of your homeland.

Your breath catches.

Fabrics woven with the colors of your people’s past—muted now, dulled with time, but still unmistakable. Small trinkets, charms meant to be worn around the wrist or tucked beneath one’s collar for protection. You recognize the craftsmanship, the delicate carvings that once held meaning.

Once.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

Before you realize what you are doing, you reach out, brushing your fingertips over one of the charms. The stall keeper, an older woman with sharp eyes, watches you with vague interest. She does not recognize you.

Why would she?

Your people are dust beneath Noxian boots.

Ambessa has not spoken, but you feel her watching. You straighten, tearing your hand away from the display. The stall keeper names a price, but you do not respond.

What would be the point?

What is a trinket compared to everything that has been lost?

You turn sharply, moving away from the stall and deeper into the city. You do not know where you are going, only that you need to move.

Ambessa follows.

She does not stop you.

Not yet.

You stop at the edge of a high balcony, overlooking the lower districts of Noxus. The city sprawls before you, a mass of stone and steel, of towering spires and smoke-stained rooftops. The wind carries the distant sound of marching boots, of metal striking metal in training grounds far below.

Your homeland was nothing like this.

You fold your arms over your chest, your nails pressing into your skin as you take a slow breath.

“My people thrived before Noxus came,” you say. Your voice is steady, but there is something beneath it. Something sharp. Something raw.

Ambessa stands beside you, silent.

You do not look at her.

“We were not weak,” you continue. “We were not starving, not desperate for conquest. We did not believe strength was something that had to be taken from others.” You tilt your head slightly, your gaze cutting toward her. “But I suppose that made us easy prey.”

Ambessa exhales, a slow, measured sound. “Conquest is not personal,” she says. “It is inevitable.”

The words are expected, but they still carve through you.

Inevitable.

As if the blood in your streets had been a matter of course. As if the ruin of your home had been nothing more than another step in the ever-forward march of Noxian ambition.

You shake your head. “I suppose you tell yourself that to make it easier.”

Ambessa does not respond immediately. When she does, her voice is lower, quieter.

“I have seen what happens to those who do not fight for their survival.”

You turn to her fully now, your breath hitching at the sight of her face.

There is something unreadable in her expression.

Not indifference. Not amusement.

Something else.

Guilt? Reflection?

You do not know, but you hate the flicker of humanity in her eyes.

Because if there is even a shred of regret buried beneath all that power, all that ruthless pragmatism-

Then she has no excuse.

Then she knew what she was doing.

And she did it anyway.

Your throat tightens. You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the tremble in your fingers.

“You destroyed everything,” you whisper, the words unsteady, but no less sharp. “Everything we were. And now—” You gesture at the city before you, at the unrelenting force of Noxian rule. “Now, you expect me to simply accept that?”

Ambessa’s gaze does not waver. “I expect you to survive.”

It is not an apology.

Of course, it isn’t.

Ambessa Medarda does not deal in apologies.

She does not flinch at the weight of your grief, does not bend beneath the fire in your voice.

But she does not look away.

And for a moment—a brief, flickering moment—you wonder if she sees the ghost of your home in your eyes.

——

You wake to the sound of your own breathing, shallow and uneven in the silence of the chamber. The room is dark, the heavy drapes drawn to keep out the city lights, but the moon still finds its way in, silver streaks pooling over the silk sheets, over your skin—over hers.

Ambessa lies beside you.

For a moment, you forget why you are awake. The air is still, the walls thick enough to smother even the distant sounds of Noxian life. There is no disturbance. No reason for the sharp awareness clawing at the edges of your mind.

Except her.

You shift carefully, turning onto your side to face her. The sheets shift with you, slipping lower over her bare shoulders, revealing the broad plane of her back. Even at rest, she is formidable. The moonlight carves shadows over the defined ridges of muscle, the deep scars that slash across her skin like forgotten battle maps.

You have studied her before. In meetings, in hallways, across war tables laden with strategies and casualties. But never like this.

Never when she was unaware.

Never when she was vulnerable.

The thought sends something sharp through your chest. A reminder.

You could kill her.

The dagger is within reach—tucked beneath your pillow, where you placed it out of habit, out of self-preservation. It would take little effort to slip it between her ribs, to find the heart of the woman who ruined your world.

It is not the first time you have thought of it.

It is not the first time you have had the opportunity.

Yet you do not move.

Instead, you watch.

Her breathing is deep and steady, the slow rise and fall of a body unafraid. Even in sleep, she is controlled, her posture at ease but never slack, never truly defenseless.

Her face is turned slightly toward you, half-hidden in the darkness.

She looks different like this.

The sharp lines of her features are softened in sleep, the tension that usually settles between her brows absent. Her mouth, always curled into something—whether a smirk, a frown, a calculated pause—is relaxed.

Peaceful.

The word unsettles you.

Ambessa Medarda is a warlord. A conqueror. The architect of your ruin.

She should not be capable of peace.

And yet, here she is, lying beside you in the quiet of the night, exhaling slow, even breaths. As if she is simply a woman. As if she does not carry blood on her hands.

Your throat tightens.

You do not know how long you watch her. Minutes stretch into something longer, something heavier.

Your fingers twitch at your side.

If you were braver, you might reach out—trace the scars that mark her back, press your fingertips to the history written in her skin. You have wondered before what battles left them, whether they were hard-won or unexpected. Whether she wears them as reminders or burdens.

If you were braver, you might press your palm to the space over her heart, just to feel it beat.

Just to remind yourself that she is real.

But you are not that brave.

So you stay where you are.

Silent.

Still.

Watching.

And when the first hints of dawn begin to slip through the curtains, bleeding warmth into the cold night, you close your eyes.

And pretend you were never awake.

——

Ambessa stands before you, her posture unyielding as always, her gaze sharp, calculating. In her hands, a velvet-wrapped bundle—soft, luxurious, nearly too soft to belong in this chamber of stone and iron. She places it on the table before you, her movements precise. It is a gift, a gesture that you both know to be more than mere courtesy.

“I trust you’ll find it to your liking.” Her voice is calm, though beneath it hums an undercurrent of something else—something that isn’t quite patience. The gift, wrapped so carefully, is a stark contrast to the way she handles most things in her life: commanding, ruthless, forceful. She’s not accustomed to presenting things so tenderly, but here she is, offering something meant to please.

You stare at the bundle, a slight tremor in your fingertips. It is, in a way, her way of bending—of offering something to you, something fragile, an unspoken hope that perhaps you will let her in. But you do not take it. You cannot. Not yet.

Ambessa’s eyes flicker to your face, studying you with that disconcerting intensity that always makes you feel as though she is dissecting every thought, every emotion behind your words.

“Will you not even look?” she asks, her voice softer now, though still carrying that edge of authority. The words are laced with frustration, a frustration that you’ve grown accustomed to. Ambessa does not deal well with rejection.

You glance at her, meeting her eyes for a brief moment before dropping your gaze to the velvet bundle. It calls to you, in a way, and yet you cannot bring yourself to touch it. To accept it.

“I’ve never asked for your gifts,” you reply, your voice steady, but inside, you can feel the tug of something you cannot name. You know she is trying to buy your favor, to make you see her in a different light. But you will not let her. Not this way.

Ambessa’s jaw tightens, just the slightest hint of irritation flickering across her face. But she does not lash out. She’s too controlled for that, too calculated. Instead, she stands a little straighter, her gaze piercing as she watches you.

“You are stubborn,” she mutters, though there’s a trace of something else—something softer—beneath her words. You would not dare to call it vulnerability, but it is something close. It’s the only time you’ve heard her speak with any kind of crack in her usual unwavering exterior.

Her gaze lingers on you, sharp and penetrating, but there’s a tension in her body that tells you she is on the edge of something—something she doesn’t quite know how to express. Her hand twitches at her side, as if she’s fighting the urge to reach out, to touch you, to force you to take what she’s offering.

The silence between you grows thick, like the air before a storm, heavy with the weight of unsaid things. Finally, Ambessa sighs, though it’s a sound of resignation, not defeat.

“Why do you resist so fiercely?” she asks, her voice lowering, a rawness seeping in that catches you off guard. It is not a question you’ve ever thought to ask yourself. Why do you resist her gifts? Why do you refuse the pieces of her that she offers so freely?

You are not sure.

Perhaps you are afraid that by accepting them, you are accepting her—accepting the power she holds over you, the way she controls everything around her, including you. Perhaps, deep down, you are afraid of what that might mean.

Ambessa steps closer, her boots quiet on the stone floor. She’s a force of nature, an immovable object that looms in your space, both intimidating and intoxicating. Her presence is magnetic, like gravity pulling you toward her whether you wish it or not.

“You think I do this for power,” she says, her voice rough, but her words are not accusatory. “But you are wrong. I do this for you.”

You look up at her, surprise flickering in your chest, and for the first time, you let yourself truly meet her gaze. Her eyes—dark, intense, searching—hold yours with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“For me?” you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper. You cannot fathom it. Ambessa Medarda, the warlord who has torn through lands, who has crushed kingdoms and nations beneath her heel, doing anything for you. It does not make sense.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, her gaze softens, just a fraction, the corners of her mouth pulling into something that might almost be a smile—if you didn’t know better. It’s not kindness, though. It’s something far more complicated than that.

“It is not about power, not entirely,” she murmurs, her voice almost vulnerable in the way she says it. “It is about connection. About something real, something beyond alliances and politics.”

Her words hang in the air, and you find yourself at a loss for how to respond. Ambessa, for all her strength and ruthlessness, is offering you something that she does not know how to give.

She steps back slightly, giving you room to breathe, but you can still feel her presence heavy in the space between you. The air hums with unspoken tension, and you can feel the weight of her eyes on you, waiting, hoping for a sign that you will take what she has given.

You reach out, fingers trembling, and your hand hovers over the velvet-wrapped bundle. It feels like a choice—one you didn’t expect to make, one that you’re not sure you’re ready for. The touch of the fabric beneath your fingertips sends a shiver down your spine.

Ambessa watches you silently, her breath steady, as though she, too, is waiting for your decision.

You close your fingers around the soft velvet, and for a moment, you think you might actually hold it. But then you stop.

Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that drowns out all other thoughts. You want to take it. You want to give her something—anything—something to show her that you see her, that you understand the offering. But the weight of it, of the significance of it, threatens to crush you.

Ambessa is everything. Everything that is powerful, dangerous, untouchable. She is a warlord who has conquered kingdoms, not with an army alone, but with her mind, her force of will. And now she is offering you something.

Something of her.

And you cannot take it. Not yet.

You force yourself to let go of the bundle.

“I cannot accept it,” you say, your voice quiet but firm. “Not yet.”

Her gaze hardens, the warmth fading from her eyes as her walls come back up. It’s the same wall she’s built over the years—guarded, impenetrable. She takes a step back, though her gaze never leaves yours.

“I see,” she says, her voice cold again, though there’s a faint tremor in it, something that she quickly covers with her usual authority. “Perhaps you never will.”

Her words sting more than you expected, and you can feel the weight of them settle deep inside your chest. But you do not flinch.

Instead, you stand your ground, watching as she turns away, the soft rustle of her armor the only sound in the room.

She leaves you with the gift.

And you are left alone with the choice you’ve made.

——

The world spins as you drink, the glass slipping from your fingers and splashing across the table. You feel the burn in your throat, the warmth spreading like wildfire through your chest. There’s something exhilarating about the haze that follows, the way it dulls the sharp edges of everything you hate, everything you cannot escape.

Ambessa is here, as she always is. Always looming, always commanding, never out of reach. She watches you, but you don’t care. The room is warm and dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows that seem to stretch for miles. The air smells of smoke, of alcohol, of defeat. You should leave. You should walk out and take whatever shred of dignity you have left.

But instead, you take another drink.

The glass is almost empty now, the dark liquid swirling in the dim light. You stare at it, and for a moment, it feels like your entire world is contained in that small, fragile vessel. Then, with a reckless laugh, you stand.

“You’re a monster,” you hiss, your words slurring, but the venom is still there, sharp and bitter. “A brute. A tyrant.”

Ambessa doesn’t move. She sits across from you, her back straight, her eyes never leaving you. Her silence is maddening—she doesn’t rise to the bait. She’s used to being insulted, to being hated. You can see it in the way she holds herself, in the quiet certainty with which she waits for you to finish.

You take another step forward, the room tilting dangerously as you approach her. The fury inside you is a fire now, consuming you, driving you to the edge. You hate her. You hate everything she stands for—the blood on her hands, the lives she’s ruined, the way she dismantled everything you held dear.

“Do you even care?” you ask, though the words barely escape your lips. “Do you understand what you’ve done? The destruction you’ve caused?”

Her eyes are cold—always cold—but there’s a flicker of something behind them, something deeper, something you can’t quite reach. You stumble toward her, your hand raised before you even realize it. The slap is loud in the quiet room, a crack that echoes through the air.

Ambessa doesn’t flinch.

You don’t expect her to. You never did.

For a moment, you stand there, chest heaving, breathing heavily, your pulse racing with the aftermath of your own actions. The anger doesn’t subside—it only grows, swelling within you like a storm. You want her to respond, to hit you back, to do something that will justify what you’ve done. But she doesn’t. She simply watches you, her face as unreadable as ever.

You’re waiting for her to speak, for the rage to explode between you both. But instead, she remains still, her gaze fixed on you with that strange intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“You think I don’t understand?” Her voice finally breaks through the silence, smooth but heavy, like the weight of a stone being dropped into water.

You sneer, barely able to hold your composure. “You’ll never understand. You’re too far gone, Ambessa. A monster like you could never understand what it’s like to lose everything.”

She doesn’t rise, doesn’t even move. She remains in her chair, her hands resting on the table, fingers long and strong, the veins visible beneath her dark skin. But there’s something in her gaze now, something that almost makes you hesitate.

“You’re right,” she says, her voice low, and for the first time, it lacks that edge of cold command. It’s not sympathy, not even close. It’s something more dangerous. “I don’t understand what it feels like to lose everything. Because I never had the luxury of losing.”

The words hang between you like a thick fog, and for the first time, you feel a stir of something other than rage. But you quickly suppress it, the fury returning with a vengeance. You can’t let her get to you. Not now.

“You’ve never had to fight for anything!” you shout, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “You just took it. Took everything I had. My people, my home, my family!”

Her lips press together, but she doesn’t interrupt. She listens, her gaze unwavering, sharp like a blade. She’s unyielding, unbothered by the accusations, and it only feeds the fire inside you. You want to hurt her, to make her feel what you’re feeling, to make her understand the cost of her ambition.

But when she speaks again, it isn’t with anger. It isn’t with resentment. It’s matter-of-fact, detached, and it cuts deeper than any insult or slap ever could.

“Because they weren’t strong enough.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

Ambessa rises slowly, the movement effortless, as though she is a predator sizing up its prey. The power in her is palpable, filling the space between you. She is an immovable force, towering over you, a figure carved from stone. Her eyes are intense now, more than they’ve ever been, as she takes a step forward.

“They weren’t strong enough to survive. So I did what I had to do.” Her words are cold, methodical. “I took what I wanted because no one else had the strength to protect it.”

You feel your heart race, but it’s not just anger now. It’s something darker. Something more primal. You want to shout, to scream at her, but her words settle deep inside you, clawing at something you can’t ignore.

“You destroyed everything,” you breathe, your voice shaking, the alcohol no longer enough to drown out the seething emotions. “You destroyed my home, my people… you think you did it for what? Power? Glory? To satisfy some sick craving?”

Ambessa doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t flinch when you yell at her. She doesn’t even blink when your accusations hang heavy in the air. She stares at you, eyes unwavering, as if daring you to push her further.

“You don’t understand the world I live in,” she says quietly. “The world where strength is all that matters. Where compassion is a weakness, and mercy is a luxury you can’t afford.”

Her voice carries the weight of years spent in battle, of watching the lives of others crumble at her feet. There is no remorse in her tone—only the bitter truth of a world that has shaped her into the woman she is.

You stand there, stunned, unsure of how to respond. Her justification—it doesn’t make it right, but for the first time, you can almost see things from her perspective. It doesn’t excuse what she did. It doesn’t make her any less of a monster. But it is the reality she has lived in.

“You don’t get to justify it,” you mutter, but your voice is quieter now, the anger still bubbling beneath the surface, but not as fiercely. “You can’t just take everything and call it survival.”

Ambessa steps closer, and for a moment, you feel the urge to step back. But you don’t. You stand your ground, even though every instinct tells you to flee. Her presence is suffocating, like a storm that’s about to break.

She leans in, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her. You can see the scars that line her jaw, the remnants of battles fought and won. Her lips are parted, and you can hear her breath, steady and controlled.

“I never asked for your approval,” she says, voice soft now, but still carrying the weight of a thousand battles. “I never needed it. What I did, I did because I had to. And when you learn to live in a world like that, you stop caring about what people think.”

She pauses, her eyes locking with yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning.

“And you will understand that someday,” she says, her words laced with a strange finality. “Because survival—true survival—isn’t about mercy. It’s about taking what you need and never looking back.”

Her words land with a heavy thud, and you find yourself at a loss for how to respond. There is nothing left to say. Nothing that could change what she’s done, or what she believes.

And so, you stand there, with nothing left but the aftermath of the fight, the rage simmering beneath your skin, and the cold, empty truth of her words echoing in your mind.

——

The world around you is a blur, a smudged canvas of dull light and muffled sounds. Your head is pounding, the ache spreading behind your eyes like a tightening vise. You can’t remember when you last slept, or when the wine had ceased to be a comfort. The bitterness of yesterday lingers in your mouth, the taste of defeat and fury mixing with the sourness in the pit of your stomach.

The groan that escapes your lips is involuntary, a pitiful sound that makes you wish for a quick escape, but there is no respite. You lie there for a moment, cradling your head in your hands, willing the pain to subside, but it only gets worse. The room around you is still dim, the sunlight barely creeping through the thick curtains. You’d almost rather not face it—let the darkness take you back, if only for a few more moments of oblivion.

Then there’s a soft sound—a light tapping at the door.

Before you can protest, the door creaks open, and Ambessa steps into the room. The sight of her makes you want to crawl under the bed and disappear. You’ve spent the night in this lavish suite, the weight of your words and actions still clinging to you. How could you have let it get this far? How could you have let her provoke you like that, let her win?

Her presence in the doorway is immediate and overwhelming. She stands there with all the grace and command she exudes, her posture straight and imposing, her muscles rippling beneath the tailored garments she wears even in the morning. Her armor is nowhere in sight, but the way she carries herself—every inch of her speaks to power, to control. The faint silver streaks in her hair catch the low light as she moves, the sleek waves falling perfectly in place as she steps forward. Her eyes, dark and calculating, seem to pierce you from across the room.

She’s studying you, the sharpness of her gaze making you feel like you’re under some sort of intense scrutiny. It’s unnerving.

“You look like death,” she says, her voice low, but there’s no sympathy in it—only a cold observation, as if the state of your body is an irrelevant detail.

You raise a hand to your forehead, trying to block out the light. “Thanks,” you mutter bitterly, your voice hoarse from the alcohol. You try to push yourself up, but your body protests. The effort is too much. Your stomach churns in warning, and you barely hold back a groan as you collapse back against the pillows.

Ambessa watches you for a moment longer, her eyes gleaming with a knowing amusement. She steps closer, the sound of her boots clicking sharply against the floor. You feel her presence like a weight on your chest, suffocating you, but you resist the urge to flinch.

Without a word, she reaches out, placing a glass of water and a small bottle of pills on the nightstand beside you. The gesture is unexpected, and for a moment, it catches you off guard.

“Painkillers,” she says, her tone as direct as ever. “You’ll need them.”

You hesitate for a moment, staring at the water as if it might bite you. You want to refuse—want to reject anything that feels like a kindness from her. After everything that happened last night, the last thing you want to do is accept anything from her. But the relentless pounding in your head is too much, and the promise of relief is tempting. You reach for the glass, ignoring her as you gulp down the water in one go, the coolness soothing your throat, though the ache in your skull remains.

As you swallow the pills, Ambessa’s gaze never leaves you. She’s standing beside the bed now, her presence undeniable, looming over you like an unspoken threat.

“Don’t mistake this for anything other than what it is,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence. Her words are not harsh, but they hold weight—an unspoken command that makes your stomach tighten.

You turn your head slowly, meeting her eyes. “I wasn’t planning to,” you reply, the bitterness still laced in your tone. You’re too tired to keep up the act of defiance, but you refuse to back down, not even to her.

Ambessa smirks at your response, and something about it makes your chest tighten. The smirk is both mocking and knowing—like she’s seen it all before, like she can predict every word that will come out of your mouth before you say it.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, her weight pressing the mattress down slightly as she leans back, her posture effortlessly commanding. She watches you with those sharp eyes, as if studying you, dissecting your every move. The contrast between her casual demeanor and your vulnerable state only makes you feel smaller.

“You’re proud,” she says softly, almost contemplative. “Stubborn, too. It’s one of the things I admire about you. But it’s also the thing that will get you killed.”

You grit your teeth, pushing yourself up slightly to glare at her, but the action only makes your headache worse. The scowl that twists your face is half-hearted at best, but you can’t help it.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you retort, your words slurring a little.

She raises an eyebrow, as if amused by your defiance. There’s a flicker of something in her gaze—something that almost resembles respect, but it’s fleeting.

“I’m not here to lecture you,” she says, her voice softening ever so slightly. “But you should know that when you fight, you don’t just fight with your fists. You fight with your mind, with your strategy. Last night,” she pauses, her gaze locking onto yours, “you failed. You let your emotions take control.”

The words sting, and despite your best efforts, you feel your chest tighten in frustration. You wanted to believe you could hold your own against her, that you could be something more than just another pawn in her game. But she’s right. The rage, the hurt, it all got the better of you.

“I didn’t fail,” you snap, though you can feel the weakness in your voice. “I fought because I had to.”

Ambessa looks at you for a long moment, her eyes never leaving yours. Her gaze is intense, like she’s reading the very depths of your soul, and the weight of it presses down on you, making it harder to breathe.

“You fought because you’re proud,” she says quietly, almost too quietly for you to hear. “Pride is a dangerous thing, especially when you don’t have the strength to back it up.”

Her words cut through you, sharper than any blade. You want to snap back, to retort, but the truth of what she says gnaws at you. You did let pride control you. You let it cloud your judgment, and now you’re here, weak and vulnerable, in the presence of the woman who’s won.

For a moment, you both sit in silence, the tension thick in the room. You want to say something, anything, to break the quiet. But Ambessa doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. She just watches you, her eyes unwavering.

Finally, you sigh, your frustration morphing into something else—something quieter, something more accepting. You rub your temples, the painkillers starting to kick in.

“Fine,” you mutter, voice hoarse. “Maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t mean I’m warming up to you.”

Ambessa chuckles softly at your words, her smirk widening. “Oh, I didn’t expect you to.” Her voice is a low, amused murmur. “But I don’t need your warmth. Not today.”

She stands up, her height making her presence even more imposing as she towers over you. Her movements are graceful, deliberate, every inch of her seeming to radiate power.

“Rest,” she says, turning toward the door. “We’ll have time to talk later. When you’re less… inconvenient.”

You grit your teeth at her dismissive tone, but as she leaves the room, you can’t help but notice the lingering feeling that, despite everything, you’re not quite as alone as you were before. Ambessa is not done with you—not by a long shot.

——

The room is thick with the remnants of old tensions, the air still charged with the unspoken words that linger between you and Ambessa. But tonight is different. There’s a quietness here, a fragile calm that neither of you seem willing to disturb.

The sounds of the world outside are distant, muffled by the thick stone walls of the room. The evening sun, though fierce in its descent, doesn’t manage to pierce through the heavy curtains, casting the room in a dim, almost serene light. You sit, tense, on the edge of a plush chair, your fingers drumming against the armrest, betraying the restlessness you feel deep inside.

Ambessa, on the other hand, is still. She sits across from you, her posture perfect as always—her back straight, her legs crossed with an ease that suggests comfort in control. She is an image of grace, her commanding presence filling the space in ways you could never escape. Her muscular frame is clad in the soft, simple fabric of a loose tunic, its deep red hue catching the low light of the room. There’s no armor tonight, no metal to shine, just her.

Her eyes flicker toward you, calculating, as they always are. There’s a slight furrow in her brow, a sign of something deeper, though she remains composed. She regards you for a moment, as if trying to measure the atmosphere, or perhaps you—another one of her intricate strategies.

You have learned, over these past few weeks of quiet resistance, that she is a woman of few surprises. Everything she does is a calculated maneuver, every move purposeful, every word laced with hidden meaning. Yet tonight, she seems different. The sharp edge of her usual demeanor is dulled, like a sword worn smooth by years of use.

And then, unexpectedly, she speaks.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

The question is simple, even mundane. It’s not a question one would expect from someone like her. Ambessa Medarda—warlord, tactician, and ruler of Noxus—asking about flowers? It’s a moment of strange vulnerability, as though she’s somehow stepping out of the rigid structure of who she is supposed to be, if only for a moment.

You blink at her, taken aback. There’s no sarcasm in her voice, no edge of mockery. She isn’t toying with you. It’s almost like she’s… curious.

For a moment, you say nothing, your mind racing to comprehend why she would ask such a thing. But there’s no malice in her gaze, no trap waiting to snap shut. She’s simply looking at you—waiting, maybe.

You exhale slowly, leaning back in the chair. “Tulips,” you say without thinking. The answer comes easily, a small part of you surprised by how quickly it emerges. “I don’t know why. They’re… simple. Elegant.”

Ambessa nods once, her lips curving slightly in acknowledgment of your response. She tilts her head slightly, her silver-streaked hair catching the light in a way that seems almost ethereal against her dark skin. Her eyes glint as they meet yours, though this time, the intensity behind them is tempered. The sharpness has softened, just a fraction.

“You’re a contradiction,” she muses, her voice quiet, contemplative. “Strong, yet soft. Resilient, yet…” Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Vulnerable.”

You bristle at the word, the vulnerability you’ve spent so much time hiding from her now laid bare in a single syllable. But you don’t fight it—not tonight. You don’t have the energy for it. The past few weeks have drained you, left you weary of the constant battle between you, left you questioning the walls you’ve built between you both.

And yet, in this moment, there’s a strange sort of peace. No accusations, no insults. Just the weight of the silence, the comfort of being seen, even in such an unexpected way.

“What’s your favorite flower?” you ask, voice low, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters of this delicate truce.

Ambessa seems unfazed by your question, her lips curling upward again as she considers it. “Lilies,” she says simply, her tone thoughtful, almost distant. “I think… they are strong. Pure. They don’t need to shout to be noticed. They simply are.”

You can see it in the way she speaks—how carefully she chooses her words. How every part of her seems to be crafted to give the least away while still saying so much. There’s a quiet strength in her, a quiet understanding that leaves you with more questions than answers.

And there it is—the first crack in the wall between you.

It’s small. It’s subtle. But it’s real.

The brief pause that follows feels heavier than any silence you’ve shared in this room before. The words you haven’t spoken hang between you like an unspoken agreement, neither of you willing to break it first.

But something shifts, just a fraction. The animosity, the tension—it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, but there’s an understanding now. A quiet recognition that this moment, this brief interaction, is something different.

Ambessa leans back in her chair, her body language relaxed, though you know better than to mistake it for vulnerability. She’s still a force to be reckoned with, her mind sharp and calculating, but there’s something in the air tonight that you can’t ignore.

“You’re not like I thought you were,” you say before you can stop yourself. The words leave your mouth without permission, and once they’re out, you can’t take them back. But there’s no turning back now. You can only wait for her reaction.

For a long moment, she says nothing. She just watches you, her dark eyes reflecting a thousand thoughts behind them, her lips twitching at the edges in a way that almost looks like amusement.

“Tell me, then,” she says, her voice soft but firm, as if urging you to continue. “What did you think of me?”

You hesitate. You should have kept your mouth shut. But the question is too real, too raw to dismiss.

“I think you are a monster,” you admit, your voice thick with the honesty of the moment. “A tyrant. Someone who thrives on power, on control. Someone who would crush anyone in her way without hesitation.”

There’s a flicker of something in her gaze—something almost akin to approval, though it disappears as quickly as it came. Ambessa’s eyes are sharp, calculating, but there’s a subtle shift in the air around you, a quiet acknowledgment that you’ve said the truth.

“I am those things,” she agrees, her voice low, almost too soft for you to hear. “But I’m also more than that.”

The words hang in the air, thick and heavy, and you find yourself searching her face for any sign of deception. But there’s nothing. Just the quiet intensity of her gaze, the subtle strength that radiates from her like an invisible force.

You don’t know what to say to that, don’t know how to respond to this softer side of her that you’ve never seen before. You’ve only known her as the warlord, the strategist, the woman who built her empire on the backs of the broken. But tonight, for the first time, she feels more human.

It’s unnerving. It’s confusing. And it makes you question everything you thought you knew about her.

“You’re not what I expected,” you continued finally, your voice quieter this time, the words coming with a mix of uncertainty and realization. “I didn’t think you… cared about anything beyond your family, your power.”

Ambessa chuckles, the sound low and rich with something you can’t quite place. “I’ve built my world on strength,” she says, her tone suddenly firm again, the edge returning. “But don’t mistake that for indifference. I care. Just not in the ways you expect.”

You look at her, at the woman who commands empires with a single glance, and for the first time, you feel a sliver of understanding. It’s fleeting, but it’s there.

In this moment, there’s no conflict, no game, no act of manipulation. Just two people—two forces—sitting in silence, sharing a truth that neither of them was prepared for.

And for the first time since you met her, you feel the cracks forming between you, not in hatred or conflict, but in something… more.

——

The room is silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your breath, the occasional scrape of leather against the stone floor, and the soft clink of Ambessa’s armor as she moves. The space between you and her is thick with anticipation, the tension of unspoken challenges hanging in the air. You stand facing her, heart racing with a mixture of nerves and resolve, sweat already beginning to bead at your brow as you adjust your stance.

Ambessa, as always, exudes a calm that seems impenetrable. She’s already in position, her posture a picture of effortless grace and power. You can feel her gaze as she watches you, her dark, calculating eyes trained on your every movement, reading you like an open book. There is no malice in her gaze, no judgment, just the cold precision of a strategist sizing up her opponent.

You know why she’s doing this—why she’s offering you this chance to spar. It’s not a favor, not an act of kindness, but a test. A measure of strength. She has always regarded you with an almost clinical detachment, seeing you as something to be shaped and molded, a tool in her vast, intricate design. And you’ve played your part in that. But this… this is different.

For the first time, she’s offering you a chance to stand beside her as an equal, as a warrior, not as some piece in her game. You know that this will be a battle of more than just your physical strength. It will be a battle of will, of pride. And though she does not say it aloud, you can feel it—the challenge is clear.

You exhale, steadying yourself. This is your moment.

Ambessa shifts, her movements fluid, the sound of her armor clicking ever so softly as she adjusts her stance. The muscles in her arms and legs flex, her broad shoulders shifting beneath the finely tailored garment she wears, a mixture of function and regality. She stands tall, her umber skin glowing in the dim light, the faint streaks of silver in her dark hair catching the light with every subtle movement.

She’s beautiful, in a way that feels almost dangerous, like a storm that could strike without warning. There is nothing delicate about her, nothing soft. Everything about Ambessa is strength—her body, her demeanor, her very presence. But for the first time since you met her, you feel that perhaps this strength is something you might have a chance to understand, to match.

“Show me what you have,” she says, her voice low but commanding, every word an unspoken promise that you will not be given mercy, not now. Her eyes are still sharp, watching you, waiting for the first move.

You tense, adrenaline spiking. You’ve trained, you’ve fought, but never like this—not against someone like her. Still, you step forward, your movements swift, powered by a mixture of instinct and stubborn pride. You throw a punch, fast, aiming for her ribs, hoping to catch her off guard.

But Ambessa is faster. Her reaction is immediate—her arm shifts with startling precision, catching your punch effortlessly with her forearm. She doesn’t even flinch as she redirects your attack, using the momentum to guide you into an open space.

Before you can even adjust, she’s already moved, her body shifting fluidly in a way that almost defies the sheer mass of muscle that makes up her frame. In an instant, she’s at your side, her hand gripping your wrist, twisting with a strength you hadn’t anticipated. You try to pull away, but it’s like trying to escape the grip of a steel vice.

For a moment, you feel her power as she moves you effortlessly, positioning you in a way that makes your body feel vulnerable and exposed. Every movement she makes is deliberate, controlled, a demonstration of years of combat experience. She’s not simply overpowering you—she’s showing you how she does it, how it’s done.

You wince, frustration bubbling up inside you. But there’s no time to dwell on it. Ambessa lets go of your wrist with a smooth, practiced motion, giving you a moment to reset. You take a step back, trying to gather yourself. She watches, her gaze never leaving you.

“Again,” she says, her voice unwavering, though there’s something in it now, something that wasn’t there before. Respect? Maybe. It’s hard to tell, but you catch the faintest glimmer in her eyes—a challenge, but also something else. A spark of acknowledgment.

This time, you approach with more caution. You throw a series of punches, each one faster than the last, each one designed to test her, to find a weakness, something she’ll leave open. But Ambessa’s reflexes are too sharp. She parries, dodges, deflects every strike with fluid ease. You can feel the sweat running down your spine as you fight, your muscles burning, the exertion building in your chest. Your breath comes in sharp bursts, but you push through it, determined to show her that you’re not just a prize to be won.

The air between you crackles with intensity as you press forward, but then, in one swift move, she shifts. It’s a blur of motion, a sudden shift of her body, and then she’s behind you. You feel the pressure of her hand on your back, and before you can even process it, she has you locked in a hold, her arm across your throat, just tight enough to keep you immobilized, her body pressed against yours with a force that makes your breath catch.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You can feel the heat radiating from her body, the weight of her strength pressing down on you, and you realize that this—this is what true power feels like. It’s not the flash of brilliance in a single moment. It’s the unwavering control, the quiet dominance that you now understand.

She doesn’t choke you, doesn’t break you. Instead, she lets go, lowering her arm with a practiced ease. You stand there for a moment, catching your breath, trying to steady your shaking legs. Her presence looms behind you, not with intimidation, but with something… softer, more measured. There’s a lesson in it, a lesson you can’t ignore.

Ambessa steps away, allowing you to turn and face her. Her eyes are still cold, still calculating, but now there’s a flicker of something else—something you hadn’t expected. A faint nod, a subtle shift in the way she carries herself.

“Better,” she says simply, her voice clipped but not unkind. It’s not praise, but it’s not scorn either. It’s recognition.

You exhale sharply, wiping the sweat from your brow. There’s no shame in losing to her, not when she has so much more experience. But there is something in her—something in the way she trains you, in the way she doesn’t mock you, doesn’t treat you as less than—something that feels like a crack, a crack in the wall between you two.

She’s not treating you like a subordinate tonight. She’s treating you like a warrior.

And that means more than anything.

You straighten yourself, meeting her gaze. “What now?” you ask, your voice rough, but you feel the pride in it, the stubbornness that has always been a part of you.

Ambessa regards you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicker briefly to your stance, to the way you hold yourself despite the exhaustion. Then, with a faint smile—one that’s subtle, but undeniably there—she responds.

“Now,” she says, her voice lower, more measured, “we fight again.”

And you know that this time, when you clash, it won’t just be for her amusement. It won’t just be about proving something to her. It will be about proving something to yourself.

You’re not just a pawn in her game anymore. You’re something more.

The second crack is small, but it’s there, buried deep beneath the surface of your battle-worn pride. And you know, somehow, that the more you fight, the more you’ll find of it.

——

You didn’t mean to stare, but you find yourself unable to look away. She moves across the room with that innate confidence, that inescapable presence that has always left an indelible impression on anyone who crosses her path. Her steps are purposeful, deliberate—each one taken with the kind of authority that only comes from years of commanding armies and navigating the volatile tides of politics.

Ambessa Medarda is no stranger to power, and it’s impossible to ignore the raw energy that ripples through her every motion. The faint gleam of silver in her dark hair catches the light as she turns, the subtle glint of it almost a reflection of the fire that burns within her. You can’t help but watch, feeling the pull of something deeper, more visceral than you’ve ever allowed yourself to admit.

Damn it, you curse inwardly. You’ve caught yourself again.

You look away quickly, feigning disinterest as you turn your gaze to something else in the room, anything to avoid her scrutiny. But even as you attempt to regain some composure, your mind betrays you. The image of her sharp jawline, the way her angular features are framed by the waves of her hair, is burned into your thoughts.

Ambessa doesn’t look like the kind of woman who would want to be admired for her looks. Everything about her screams strength, discipline, control. Her body is a weapon, each muscle defined by years of battle and grueling training. You’ve witnessed it firsthand, how she moves with effortless power, her presence commanding and relentless. She doesn’t need anyone’s attention to hold the room’s focus—she already owns it, and everyone knows it.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’ve always been aware of her strength, her imposing nature. It’s easy to get lost in the ways she commands others, in the way she keeps everyone at arm’s length.

And yet, here you are, caught in something you shouldn’t feel.

She shifts her posture, her back straight, eyes scanning the room with that cold, calculating look you know so well. It’s like she sees everything and everyone in the space without even trying. Her gaze is sharp, piercing, like a blade meant to cut through any illusion. She’s not just the ruler of this room—she’s the master of every interaction, every move, and everyone in it.

But for the first time, it’s different. You’re not some subject to be manipulated, not a player in her game to be moved at will. There’s a shift in the way she regards you lately. A subtle one, but undeniable. And it’s confusing the hell out of you.

A part of you tells yourself to resist. To stay focused. To remind yourself of the ways she’s hurt you. The way she’s kept you bound by your own loyalty, a weapon for her to use as she sees fit.

And yet… you can’t stop looking at her.

Her stance alone—how she stands with a spine as straight as steel, how her broad shoulders fill out her garments, how her chest rises with the calm assurance of someone who’s never had to question their authority—has a magnetic pull. The hint of silver streaks in her hair glimmering against the dark backdrop of her uniform. The sharpness of her jawline that gives her an almost predatory appearance.

She’s not just a woman anymore. She’s something more. Something raw. Something that makes your blood rush a little faster, your pulse quicken with every subtle movement she makes.

You feel yourself falter, wondering what exactly it is that’s been shifting between you two. The physical proximity, the slow realization that she’s not as unreachable as she once seemed.

You notice things now—the way her gaze softens when she looks at you, if only for a moment. The way she steps closer when giving instructions, a brush of her presence against yours that makes the air around you feel heavier, charged with something unspoken.

You look down at your hands, the tight grip you have on your own thoughts. It’s so hard to keep this composure when everything about her seems so damn magnetic.

Her voice slices through the thoughts swirling in your head. “You seem distracted.”

Her words are calm, too calm. There’s no sharp edge to them, nothing that suggests she’s angry or disapproving, but somehow, they carry weight. More weight than they should. It’s like she knows what you’ve been thinking, though you’re sure you’ve hidden it well enough.

You snap your eyes up to meet hers, your heart skipping a beat when you see the quiet amusement in her gaze, the knowing flicker of something there. She doesn’t give you time to respond, instead turning on her heel, her armor shifting slightly with her movements.

“I’d suggest focusing on your surroundings. You never know when an opportunity might arise,” she adds, her tone almost dismissive, but there’s a trace of something else. An invitation? A challenge?

Her steps are purposeful, and she moves away from you without a second glance, her sharp eyes already focused on something ahead. The moment passes, but it leaves a lingering taste in the air—a taste that clings to your senses like something dangerous.

You try to brush it off. You try to ignore the pull that she exerts on you without even trying, but it’s getting harder. Much harder.

It’s been weeks now since that first sparring session, since you saw the first crack in the armor she’d built around herself. The walls she’d erected between you two are still high, still unyielding. But the cracks… the cracks are widening. Slowly, surely, you can feel them, like the faintest tremor in the ground before a storm hits.

You don’t want to admit it to yourself, but it’s undeniable. There’s something more happening here, something that goes beyond your role as her captive, her pawn. You’re not just being trained anymore. You’re not just here to learn the ways of combat or diplomacy.

You’re here because, in some inexplicable way, she’s allowing you to be something more. Something she hadn’t planned for.

The thought gnaws at you as you watch her—standing tall, commanding the room, a symbol of strength that both repels and draws you in. You curse yourself again, frustrated by how little you seem to control this growing reaction inside you.

But as you look at her, something shifts. Her gaze lands on you again, sharp and unyielding, and for a moment, there’s no pretension, no power games between you two. There’s just the quiet understanding that passes between you, one that feels like it’s only the beginning of something that could change everything. Something dangerous.

You shift your stance, trying to hold on to whatever scraps of control you have left. But deep down, you know. You know that the cracks aren’t just in her walls. They’re in yours, too. And no matter how much you want to deny it, the more you fight against it, the stronger it becomes.

You’ve caught yourself watching her far too many times now, noticing everything. And despite your best efforts, there’s no turning back.

She’s kind of hot.

And the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to ignore.

She’s not just a warlord. She’s not just a woman who commands armies and lives by ruthless pragmatism. No.

She’s something else now. Something that’s starting to make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself—and about her.

——

It has been weeks since she gave it to you. Weeks since she handed you that velvet-wrapped gift with a look in her dark eyes that made something twist in your chest. You’d refused it, of course. At first. Your pride wouldn’t allow you to take something so carefully chosen by the very woman who had claimed you, trapped you in a world where your choices didn’t matter. And yet, despite your initial resistance, the gift lingered.

It sat there on the shelf, wrapped in the rich, soft fabric, its very presence a reminder of her power over you. The sting of it sat heavy on your shoulders for days—her authority, her ability to manipulate with the most delicate of gestures, the smallest of favors. But now, tonight, as you stand in the quiet solitude of your room, your gaze drawn to it once more, the temptation is too great.

You reach for it, slowly, as though the weight of the moment might shatter if you make the wrong move.

The velvet is cool against your fingers as you untie the ribbon, the fabric flowing easily as you pull it open. Inside, nestled carefully in a bed of dark cloth, is a finely crafted necklace. The metal is cold to the touch, intricate in its design, the edges sharp and precise as if made for someone of regal standing. There’s a charm attached—an onyx stone, smooth and polished, catching the light in the dim room, its depth nearly absorbing the world around it.

Your pulse quickens, and you swear under your breath. What did she mean by this? Was it a gift of genuine affection? A reminder of your place?

You run your fingers over the necklace, the metal heavy in your palm, feeling its significance pressing down on you. You don’t want to feel anything, but it’s hard to deny the shifting sensation deep within your chest, the pressure mounting inside of you.

She doesn’t make gestures like this. Not unless there’s purpose behind it.

As if on cue, you hear her voice from the doorway.

“You took too long to open it,” she remarks, her voice low, deliberate. There’s no malice in her tone—just a quiet observation, a statement of fact.

You freeze, the necklace still clutched in your hand, your gaze snapping up to meet hers. Ambessa stands in the doorway, the soft glow of the lantern casting shadows over her face, emphasizing the sharp planes of her features. She’s wearing the same calm, composed expression she always wears, though there’s something else in her eyes now—a flicker of something you can’t quite place. Her posture is perfect, the way she stands so still, commanding the space around her without lifting a finger.

Her dark eyes, as always, seem to pierce through you. Her presence in the room suddenly feels more potent, more intimate, than it ever has before.

You swallow hard, the weight of the necklace in your hand now feeling like the world itself. You’ve seen this look in her before—the quiet calculation, the subtle way she sizes you up, always assessing, always reading. You want to say something, to explain yourself, but words feel inadequate.

“I didn’t want to,” you finally manage, your voice hoarse. The excuse feels weak, even to you, but it’s all you can muster.

Ambessa steps into the room, her eyes still fixed on you. There’s no rush in her movements, no urgency—she takes her time as if she knows you’re already caught in whatever web she’s weaving.

“You didn’t want to… or you were afraid?” she asks, her voice dropping lower, like a blade being sharpened. The question hangs in the air between you, laced with something you can’t quite decipher.

You hesitate, looking down at the necklace in your hand again, the sharp edges of the metal digging into your palm, grounding you to the moment.

“I wasn’t afraid,” you say, but even you know how empty the words sound.

She doesn’t respond at first, merely stepping closer to you, her movements deliberate, confident, like she knows exactly how to test your limits. You try to stand your ground, but it’s impossible not to notice how her presence fills the room, how everything about her—her strength, her beauty, her command—overpowers you, makes it harder to breathe.

And then, without a word, Ambessa reaches out, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, a touch so soft it catches you off guard. She’s never touched you like this before—so carefully, so deliberately.

Her touch is like fire, igniting every nerve in your body, and for the first time since meeting her, you realize how badly you’ve been craving that kind of attention from her. How, despite yourself, despite everything she’s done to you, you long for the connection.

Her fingers slide down, trailing over your jawline, the pads of her fingers like ice against your heated skin. You close your eyes involuntarily, unable to stop the reaction.

“You’re not the only one afraid, you know,” she says softly, and her voice is laced with something unspoken, something raw. “It’s alright to feel it. Fear is… natural. It’s what keeps us alive.”

You open your eyes, meeting her gaze once more, and for a fleeting moment, you see it—vulnerability. Brief, but unmistakable. Her eyes are darker now, more intense, and you’re not sure if it’s the shadows in the room or something else entirely.

You can feel the shift happening between you two. It’s like the tension in the air has been building, and now, it’s finally snapping—cracking wide open.

Without thinking, you move. Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing against her dark hair, the strands so smooth beneath your fingertips. You’re not sure why you do it, but it feels like the only thing that makes sense in this moment.

You tuck a stray lock behind her ear, your fingers lingering against the softness of her skin, feeling the heat radiating from her. The intimacy of the gesture surprises you, makes your heart race in your chest.

The room falls silent, the weight of your actions settling heavily between you. You curse yourself instantly, wanting to pull back, wanting to distance yourself, but something in her expression stops you. Her dark eyes hold yours, steady and unyielding.

“You’ve always been good at pushing boundaries,” she says, her voice barely a whisper now, and it sends a shiver down your spine. Her breath is warm against your skin, close enough that you can feel it, but still she doesn’t move closer.

You’re frozen in place, unsure of where to go from here, unsure of what this means. You’ve crossed a line—there’s no doubt about it.

But what happens now?

Ambessa steps back, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before she turns away.

“Come,” she says, her tone shifting back to its usual command. “You’re coming with me. The night is not over yet.”

You nod mutely, still reeling from the moment, still feeling the heat of her touch lingering on your skin, the softness of her fingers against your cheek.

The shift is undeniable now. There’s no going back from this. You’ve stepped into something far more complicated than you ever intended, and the question remains: what will come of it?

——

The next morning, the door slams shut behind her, the sound of it echoing through the stone halls like a punctuation mark. Ambessa Medarda has left for one of her meetings, likely to discuss matters of strategy, alliances, or power. You watch the space she vacates, still holding onto the tension her presence leaves in the air.

She is a force—unyielding, commanding. Her mere presence is enough to make you think twice about every word, every move. But now she’s gone, and for the first time since being captured, you’re left alone in this room—a room that, despite its opulence, feels more like a cage.

You sit on the edge of the lavishly appointed chair in the center of the room. The soft velvet beneath your fingertips doesn’t comfort you. You stare at the ornate, meticulously organized shelves, the gleaming weapons, the polished armor. Everything is in its place, perfect and poised for the next battle. But your mind drifts, the monotony of your captivity pressing against your skull, and you start to move, your hands itching for something to do, anything to escape the suffocating weight of your thoughts.

Your gaze falls on the desk, littered with papers, reports, maps, and more. Weapons, you thought. Battle plans. Something to keep you occupied. But as you sift through the papers, you realize that what you’ve found isn’t what you expected. Not even close.

The first letter is plain—folded neatly, its edges creased as if it has been read and refolded a hundred times. The handwriting is crisp, elegant—Ambessa’s. You recognize the bold strokes, the precision of each letter, as though each word were crafted with deliberate care. It catches you off guard. You weren’t prepared for this.

You feel your pulse quicken as you slowly unfold it, eyes scanning the words. It’s addressed to someone—Mel, you realize as you read the name at the top. Her daughter. The name is familiar, though you’ve never met the woman who holds such importance in Ambessa’s life. And yet, reading these words feels like a breach of trust, an invasion of something deeply personal.

��Mel,

I hope this letter reaches you at a time when the winds of war are less harsh than they are now. I know we’ve never had much in the way of communication, but I feel the weight of my absence more than you may ever understand. I know you need me, even if you don’t know how to ask for it. I wish I could be there for you as a mother should, but my duties, my obligations—they won’t let me be anything more than a soldier.

I miss you in ways that hurt. More than any battlefield wound, more than any loss of allies or land. You were my reason for fighting, and yet, here I am, miles away from you, trying to carve a legacy that may never truly belong to you. I hope you know that none of this was ever your fault, that every decision I’ve made, every sacrifice, has been for you. For your future. I only hope I can protect you from the world I’ve helped create.

I don’t expect you to understand. But one day, when you’re older, I hope you will. And I hope that when you do, you will forgive me for all the times I wasn’t there for you.

Always,

Ambessa.”

The letter drops from your hand, the weight of her words sinking into your chest, tightening your throat. You can feel the tension in the room shift, the air thickening. You weren’t supposed to see this. You weren’t supposed to feel sympathy for her. Ambessa was your captor, a figure of strength and power. The last thing you should be doing is imagining her as someone vulnerable, someone torn between the weight of her family and the bloodstained duties of a warlord.

But there it is—the rawness in her words, the vulnerability that leaks through despite her best efforts to remain stoic. The letter doesn’t tell the whole story, not by a long shot. But it tells enough to make you wonder what kind of woman she really is beneath the steel armor of her command.

You reach for the second letter, the paper crinkling in your hand as you pick it up. This one, too, is addressed to Mel, the same neat, flowing script, but the tone is different—softer, more regretful.

“Mel,

There are moments in my day when I can almost forget the weight of my armor. When I can almost forget the way I have to hold myself up, unyielding and unbroken. But those moments are fleeting, and they never last. You, on the other hand, have always been my constant. I’m sorry for the way I have treated you in the past, for the times I’ve been harsh or distant. You deserve more than that. I know you do.

If you ever feel lost, Mel, know that I am thinking of you. I know I don’t show it, but you are always with me. Every decision I make, I make for you. If I could have a different life, a simpler one, I would. I would choose to be the mother you deserve, the one who stands by you, not the one who commands armies and wears bloodstained hands.

But this is the life I’ve chosen, and I have to live with it.

I hope one day we can sit together, without the weight of this world between us. I hope that, when this is all over, when the battles are done, you will still be there, ready to welcome me home.

With all my heart,

Ambessa.”

This one hits harder. It’s more personal, more open. You feel a tightness form in your chest, a lump of emotion that you have no name for, no way to describe. You weren’t supposed to feel sorry for her, and yet the words in front of you speak to something deeper. Something raw.

You weren’t supposed to care.

You run your hand over your face, trying to process the words, but the heaviness doesn’t lift. The contrast between the woman you know—Ambessa, ruthless, calculating, cold—and the woman who wrote these letters, filled with longing and regret, shakes something loose inside you. It unsettles you, disturbs you, because it forces you to see her in a way you hadn’t before.

You look around the room, at the fine armor, the weapons, the maps detailing battles and war plans, and it all feels like a carefully constructed illusion. The façade that Ambessa has built, the mask she wears to hide the cracks in her soul, begins to feel fragile. And you realize you’ve been seeing only one side of her, the side she shows to everyone, the side that doesn’t let anyone in.

You know you’re not supposed to feel sympathy for her. She is your captor, the one who holds your fate in her hands. But for the first time, you understand something deeper about her—something that makes her just as human as anyone else.

The letters are left forgotten on the desk, their weight still heavy in your mind. But the presence of Ambessa—the real Ambessa, not the iron-willed warlord you’ve come to know—lingers in the air, in the silence, in the space between you.

She’s coming back soon, you know. And when she does, she will expect you to return to your place, to continue playing your role as her captive. But something has changed. Something in you has shifted, and now, when she steps back into the room, you won’t be able to look at her the same way. Not anymore.

You glance at the letters one more time, the weight of their meaning settling deep within you, and wonder just how much longer you can continue pretending that she doesn’t matter to you at all.

——

The evening air is thick with the scent of fresh flowers and rich perfumes, mingling with the unmistakable tension of Noxian politics. The gathering is extravagant—an opulent affair, full of glistening jewels, sharp suits, and hushed conversations behind elegant masks. This is no place for vulnerability, no place for softness. Yet, here you are, standing at the center of it all, and as much as you try to resist it, you feel the weight of every scrutinizing glance aimed your way.

You are nothing more than a trophy in this gilded cage—a beautiful ornament to adorn Ambessa’s arm, a reminder of her power, her dominance, her ability to command attention. The men and women who circle around her seem to forget that you are human, that you have a will of your own. To them, you are an accessory, nothing more than something to be admired from a distance. The cold touch of their stares is enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.

But then there’s Ambessa.

She stands beside you, a constant presence, her hand settled firmly on your waist. Her fingers feel like iron, yet there is an undeniable gentleness in her grip. You can feel the heat of her body radiating against yours, the breadth of her chest and the weight of her presence encircling you like a protective shield. It is a strange contradiction. Her hand, strong and assertive, keeping you close to her, as if daring anyone to come closer. She has always known how to wield power, but tonight it feels like something else—an unspoken promise, an unacknowledged tenderness that’s out of place in the midst of all this grandeur.

Her dark eyes sweep across the room with calculated precision, taking in every face, every whisper. She moves with purpose, her steps measured, her posture perfect. And yet, she is acutely aware of your proximity—of you standing by her side. Her gaze lingers on you, just for a moment, before she returns to the social dance, never acknowledging the subtle shift in the air, the charge between you.

The room hums with conversation, the laughter of Noxian elites dancing through the air. You feel the weight of their eyes on you, feeling their judgment, their assumptions, their expectations. You are supposed to be invisible, to be nothing more than a beautiful ornament. But Ambessa doesn’t treat you that way. She doesn’t give them the satisfaction.

Her hand on your waist tightens, pulling you closer, just enough to remind you of her control, of the space she occupies in this room. There is no fear in her movements, no uncertainty. She is power incarnate, her every action calculated and deliberate. She keeps you close to her, not as a possession, not as a tool, but as something she is unwilling to let slip from her grasp. And as her fingers press lightly into your skin, a wave of warmth floods your body, igniting something inside you that you cannot ignore.

As the night progresses, the crowd begins to thin, the chatter turning into murmurs of goodbyes and polite farewells. But Ambessa remains by your side, her presence never wavering. The weight of the evening seems to lift, and you find yourself finally able to breathe, able to escape the sharp eyes that had once circled you like vultures. But now, with the others gone, you’re left alone with her.

Her hand slides from your waist to your lower back, her fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a slow, deliberate motion. You swallow hard, the action small but intimate, sending shivers down your spine. The touch is light, yet it carries a weight to it, as if she’s marking you—claiming you, without the need for words. You glance up at her, searching for any hint of what this means. But there’s nothing—her face remains as unreadable as always, her expression a careful mask of control and power.

But her gaze—her gaze is different. It lingers, softening, though only just. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, seem to pierce through you as if she can see everything, as if she knows everything. The connection is sudden, and you feel it deep in your bones, that unspoken understanding, that pull between you, magnetic and undeniable.

“You’re tired,” she says, her voice low, almost thoughtful. It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

You nod slowly, the truth of her observation hitting you harder than it should. The evening has been draining, and though you’ve been surrounded by a sea of people, you’ve never felt more isolated. Ambessa’s eyes soften just the slightest bit, but she doesn’t break the connection. She is still, unwavering, her presence filling the space around you, blocking out the rest of the world.

Without another word, she leads you away from the crowd, her hand never leaving your back. You follow her in a trance, the world around you falling into a distant blur. Her steps are sure, confident, as always, but now there’s something more to them—something slower, something deliberate, as if she’s savoring the moment, as if she’s drawing this out for a reason you can’t yet understand.

You step into a quieter corner of the mansion, the shadows seeming to swallow the space, leaving only the glow of distant candlelight. It’s intimate, this space between you—secluded, away from the prying eyes of the gathering. There’s a strange tension in the air now, a simmering heat that makes the air feel thick, charged. You feel the sudden urge to pull away, to escape, but you can’t move. Not when she stands in front of you, her gaze locking onto yours, her breath steady and controlled.

She steps closer, her chest brushing yours, her presence swallowing up the space between you. Her hand moves to your jaw, cupping it gently, her thumb tracing the line of your cheek with a tenderness that surprises you. It’s the same hand that commands armies, that strikes fear into the hearts of her enemies. Yet now, it feels like a quiet gesture, one that disarms you in a way nothing else has.

Her breath is warm against your face, the faint scent of lavender and leather lingering in the air as she leans in. You close your eyes, the anticipation rising in your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. Her lips hover just inches from yours, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in time. The world fades, leaving only the two of you standing in the quiet, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.

And then, she kisses you.

It’s not a demand, not a conquest. It’s slow, deliberate, as if she’s savoring the moment, tasting the weight of it. Her lips press against yours, warm and firm, not hurried, not insistent, but steady, strong. There’s nothing gentle about it, yet everything in it is intimate. It is a kiss that speaks of control, of power, but also of something else—something far more fragile, something you can’t quite grasp.

You don’t pull away. You can’t.

In that moment, you feel her—Ambessa Medarda—the woman who commands armies, who takes what she wants, who has never been vulnerable before anyone, now pressing her lips to yours in a way that speaks volumes. She is not demanding anything of you, but something in the way she holds you, the way she kisses you, makes it clear that this is hers, and you are hers in this moment.

And you hate yourself for it.

You hate how much you want more.

Her lips linger for just a moment longer before she pulls away, her eyes meeting yours, unreadable once more. The kiss wasn’t a conquest, but the silence that follows it is still heavy with its weight. You are left standing there, breathless, unsure of where you stand with her, of what this means for the both of you.

“You should rest,” she says quietly, her voice cool, almost dismissive now, as if nothing had just happened. As if it was just another thing to check off the list, just another task completed. But you know it was something more than that.

As you turn to leave, you can feel her eyes still on you, burning into your back, and you hate the way your heart races, the way your body betrays you. You can’t even pretend that this moment didn’t affect you. Because it did. In ways you don’t yet understand.

And that’s the worst part of all.

——

The morning arrives too quickly, the first light of dawn cutting through the heavy drapes of your room like a cruel reminder of what you can’t escape. You’ve barely slept, your thoughts spinning in endless circles, tangled in the aftermath of the night before. You knew, deep down, that it would happen—that it had already begun—but it doesn’t make it any easier to face.

There’s a fluttering in your chest, a constant thrumming beneath your ribs, an ache you can’t quite name. You shouldn’t feel this way. You can’t. Ambessa is your captor, your master, the very person who holds your freedom in her hands like a fleeting promise. She’s cold, commanding, unyielding. She doesn’t care for you—not like that. She’s a woman of power and control, not someone who would soften for the likes of you.

And yet, here you are, caught in the web she’s spun for you. The kiss last night—slow, deliberate, full of intent—lingers in your mind like the taste of fire. It wasn’t a conquest. It wasn’t a demand. But it was something else entirely. Something you can’t ignore, no matter how hard you try.

The day stretches out before you like an endless chasm, and the longer you wait, the harder it becomes to push away the thoughts that keep returning to her—the weight of her gaze, the press of her body against yours, the strength in her touch that keeps you tethered to her.

When you hear the familiar sound of boots echoing through the hall, your pulse quickens. Ambessa has returned from her meeting, and you feel it, deep in your bones, like a storm on the horizon. She’s near.

You tell yourself to brace for it, to steel yourself, to remember the boundaries that exist between you. But it’s no use. The moment she steps into the room, the air shifts, thick with her presence. She fills the space in a way no one else does—every movement, every breath, full of purpose and command. You stand frozen, the tension between you palpable. You can feel it pulling you toward her, as if some invisible force is dragging you into her orbit.

Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. You swallow hard, but you can’t look away. The moment stretches between you like a tightrope, poised on the edge of something dangerous.

Without a word, she strides toward you, her boots clicking against the floor with authority, each step deliberate and sure. Her gaze doesn’t waver, her focus razor-sharp. She moves with such ease, such confidence, that it’s almost impossible to remember that she’s a woman, not just a force of nature.

She’s closer now, and you can feel the heat radiating off her, that all-encompassing warmth that seems to bleed into the air, wrapping around you like a vice. You try to inhale, to steady your breath, but it feels like the room is closing in around you.

“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” Her voice is low, almost a growl, laced with something you can’t quite decipher. It’s not a question, not really. It’s a statement—an accusation, perhaps. And yet, the weight of it hits you like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You want to speak, to explain, to deny the way you’ve been unraveling under her gaze, under her touch. But the words stick in your throat, caught on the edge of something you’re too afraid to voice. Instead, you stay silent, your body frozen in place, watching as she closes the gap between you with a predator’s grace.

Her hand comes up to your cheek, the touch light but firm. She’s studying you now, as if trying to discern every secret you’re hiding, every flicker of emotion you can’t control. Her fingers caress the curve of your jaw, her thumb brushing over your lips, and it feels like a promise, like an unspoken challenge.

“You’re not supposed to want me,” she murmurs, her voice so quiet, so full of something darker than you can name. The words shouldn’t sting—they shouldn’t make your chest tighten—but they do.

She leans in, just enough for you to feel the heat of her body against yours, her presence pressing in from all sides, drowning you. And then, without warning, her lips are on yours.

The kiss is hard, demanding, a force of nature like everything else about her. Her mouth claims yours with the ferocity of someone who’s used to taking, used to owning. The intensity of it sweeps you off your feet, pushing you back against the wall with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. Her body follows, pressing against you, trapping you in the warmth and power of her frame.

It’s not gentle. It���s not soft. It’s everything you shouldn’t want, everything you shouldn’t feel, and yet you find yourself kissing her back, your hands trembling as they move to her shoulders, clutching at the fabric of her clothes. The smell of her—lavender, leather, smoke—consumes you, and your heart pounds against your chest, each beat erratic and desperate.

She pulls you closer, if that’s even possible, her grip on your jaw tightening as she deepens the kiss, urging you to respond, to meet her with the same intensity she brings. You can feel her power in every movement, in every shift of her body against yours. She’s a hurricane, a force that’s impossible to resist, and despite yourself, despite everything you tell yourself about your position here, you cannot pull away.

Your body betrays you. It moves against hers, pressing closer, your lips parting just enough for her to taste you fully, to claim you in a way that leaves you breathless, dizzy. It’s not just a kiss—it’s a promise, a challenge, a breaking point.

And you hate how much you need it.

Ambessa’s hand slides down your neck, her fingers wrapping around the back of your head, holding you in place as she continues to kiss you with brutal force. She knows what she’s doing—she knows the effect she has on you, the way her strength makes your body ache for more, for something you can’t name. She’s pushing you to the edge, testing you, and you can feel it, the tension building between you like an electric current, sparking and crackling in the air.

Her mouth moves away from yours, just enough for you to breathe, but her presence doesn’t falter. Her forehead rests against yours, her breath hot and heavy, mingling with your own. Her voice, when it comes, is a soft command.

“Say it.”

You blink, dazed, your mind struggling to catch up with the whirlwind of sensations that have left you breathless. Your heart races, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You know what she’s asking, but you can’t bring yourself to say it, not yet.

“Say you want this,” she presses, her lips brushing against your ear, her words dripping with dark satisfaction.

You close your eyes, fighting the words that threaten to spill from your lips. You want to say no, to deny it, to push her away. But the truth is there, gnawing at the edges of your mind, carving its way into your chest. You want this. You hate that you do, but you want it.

The admission burns in your throat, but you can’t stop it. “I want this,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

Ambessa pulls back slightly, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, and for the first time, you wonder if she’s always known. If she’s always been the one in control, and you’ve only been fooling yourself into thinking you had any say in this at all.

Her hand moves to your waist, her fingers pressing firmly into your flesh, her lips returning to yours with a slow, deliberate passion.

You don’t resist. Not anymore.

Her lips curl into a smirk against your lips, sharp and knowing, as if she can hear the words you can’t bring yourself to say. She pulls back slightly, her breath ghosting over your ear. “You’re mine,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “And you’ve always known it.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, your body betraying you as you lean into her touch. Her hand slides up your side, her fingertips tracing the curve of your ribs, sending sparks of electricity through your skin. You close your eyes, but she doesn’t let you escape. Her other hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze.

Her eyes are dark, intense, and filled with a hunger that makes your stomach clench. She doesn’t need to say it again. You know what she wants. And, God help you, you want it too.

It hadn’t started like this. Not at all. When you first laid eyes on Ambessa Medarda, she was a figure of fear and awe, a warlord whose name was whispered with both reverence and dread. She had taken you as a prize of war, a captive meant to serve as a reminder of her victory. But over time, something shifted.

You caught her watching you, her gaze lingering just a fraction too long. You noticed the way her voice softened when she spoke to you, the way her touch lingered when she handed you a goblet of wine. At first, you told yourself it was your imagination. She was a conqueror, a woman of power and pragmatism, not someone who would look at you with anything other than cold detachment.

But then came the nights. The nights when she would summon you to her chambers, not to demand your service, but to talk. She would sit in the dim light of the fireplace, her armor replaced by simpler garments, and ask you about your life before the war. Her questions were sharp, probing, but there was a curiosity in her eyes that went beyond strategy.

Now, here you are, pinned to the wall, her body pressed against yours, her lips claiming yours with a hunger that leaves you dizzy. Her hands roam your body, possessive and demanding, leaving no inch of you untouched.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs against your lips, her voice a low growl. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them.

She smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips, and pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “Good.” With one swift motion, she lifts you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist as she carries you to the bed.

She lays you down with a gentleness that belies her strength, her hands sliding up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your dress out of the way. Her touch is electric, sending waves of heat through your body as her fingers find the apex of your thighs. You gasp as she strokes you, her touch deliberate and unhurried, her eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re so wet for me,” she murmurs, her voice thick with satisfaction. “You’ve wanted this, haven’t you?”

You nod, unable to form words, your breath coming in shallow gasps as her fingers move in slow, deliberate circles. She leans down, her lips brushing against your ear. “Tell me,” she demands, her voice rough with need. “Tell me how much you want me.”

“I want you,” you breathe, your voice trembling with desperation. “God, Ambessa, I want you so much.”

She smiles, a slow, predatory curve of her lips, and pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “Then you’ll have me.”

With that, she stands, her movements deliberate and unhurried. You watch as she moves to the desk, her hands rummaging through the drawer before she pulls out a strap-on, the leather gleaming in the dim light. Your breath catches in your throat as she secures it around her waist, her eyes never leaving yours.

She returns to the bed, her presence overwhelming as she straddles your hips, her hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. “Look at me,” she commands, and you obey, your eyes locking onto hers as she positions herself at your entrance.

The first thrust is slow, deliberate, and it steals the breath from your lungs. She pauses, her eyes dark with satisfaction as she watches the pleasure play across your face. “You’re so tight,” she murmurs, her voice rough with need. “Taking me so well.”

She begins to move, her thrusts slow and deliberate, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body. You arch your back, a moan escaping your lips as she hits just the right spot. She leans down, her lips brushing against yours as she whispers, “You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, your voice trembling with desperation. “All yours.”

She smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips, and begins to move faster, her thrusts deep and unrelenting. Your moans fill the room, your body writhing beneath her as she takes you to the edge and pushes you over.

When you finally cry out, your body trembling with release, she doesn’t stop. She keeps moving, her thrusts steady and unyielding, until she finds her own release, her body stiffening above yours as a low, guttural moan escapes her lips.

She collapses on top of you, her breathing heavy, her body still pressed against yours. For a moment, there’s silence, the only sound the soft crackling of the fireplace. Then she leans down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers,

“Now, tell me again.”

——

The room is still, the quiet broken only by the sound of your breath and the rhythmic, even exhalations of the woman beside you. The moonlight filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the bed, but it does little to dispel the weight of the night—the weight of everything that’s been building between you and Ambessa.

You are tangled in silk sheets, your body pressed against hers, the warmth of her skin seeping into your own. Her scent lingers in the air, a mix of lavender and leather, the remnants of her presence wrapping around you like a blanket. She’s here, and so are you. Together, in a moment of stillness, of vulnerability.

You didn’t expect it to feel like this. You didn’t expect to feel anything but hatred, but disgust, but a need to break free from her. She was the enemy. The warlord who razed your home, the woman who crushed everything you loved beneath her heel. How could you ever think of her as anything else?

But the truth is undeniable now. The truth is lying beside her, with her hand resting possessively on your hip, the curve of her body curled around yours in a way that feels almost… tender.

You no longer wish to kill her. You can still see her, that fierce, untouchable warrior, the woman who commanded armies, who tore through your life with cold precision. But in this moment, with the soft rise and fall of her chest, with the faintest sigh escaping her lips as she sleeps, you see more. You see the woman who remembers the flowers you love, the ones you mentioned once in passing, who listens when you speak even if your words are laced with venom, who doesn’t just dominate you but sees you—sees who you are beneath all the walls you’ve built, beneath all the anger.

She knows you. And despite everything, she chooses you.

You never wanted this. Never wanted to want her. Never wanted to be caught in the web she’s spun so carefully around you. But here you are, in the quiet of her chambers, with her breath warming your skin, her body surrounding yours, and you realize, with startling clarity, that you are hers now. You belong to her, just as she belongs to you.

And for the first time since she tore your world apart, you don’t resent it.

Her presence, overwhelming as it is, is also grounding. The way her hand moves lazily to rest over your stomach, the weight of it pulling you closer to her, as if she can’t bear the distance between you, even in sleep. The softness of her touch, the unspoken intimacy of it, is enough to make your heart ache. It’s not the kind of softness that comes from weakness. It’s the softness of someone who’s allowed herself to care, even if it’s just a little, even if it’s just for you.

You shift slightly, turning your head to look at her. The moonlight catches the sharp lines of her features, the way her jaw is clenched even in sleep, the way her muscles are still coiled beneath her skin—like a warhorse ready to charge at any moment. She is every bit the warrior you’ve feared and hated for so long. And yet…

And yet, she is also this. The woman who holds you in her sleep, the woman whose body is a fortress of warmth and security. The woman who, despite her power, lets you in.

Your breath hitches in your chest. The realization settles over you like a heavy blanket, one that you can’t quite shed. She is still the warlord. Still the one who destroyed your home. Still the one who knows how to command armies and manipulate people with a single glance.

But she is also this woman—this woman who listens when you speak of your childhood, who touches you gently, who holds you in a way that makes your heart race in a completely different way. You can still feel the remnants of her hands on your skin, the way she touches you like you’re something precious, like you’re someone worth holding. The woman who, despite everything, has learned what it means to make you feel safe, even when you’re lost in the depths of your own mind.

Your chest tightens as you realize that you have let yourself fall for her. In spite of everything, in spite of your hatred, in spite of the hurt she’s caused you and the destruction she’s left in her wake, you have let her in. You’ve allowed her to carve her place in your heart, to shape it into something you can’t deny.

You hate it, and yet, you love it all the same.

Ambessa stirs beside you, her arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer to her. She shifts, the muscles in her body shifting in time with yours, and you inhale sharply at the sudden proximity. Her hair, still tousled from sleep, brushes against your face, and the scent of it—lavender and leather—floods your senses once again.

She doesn’t wake, doesn’t stir, and yet, you can feel the power radiating off her, even in this moment of stillness. The contrast of her strength and her tenderness leaves you breathless. It’s the same way she moves through life: with purpose, with control, but always with a hint of vulnerability that she refuses to show anyone but you.

And here, lying beside her, you understand. You understand what it is to be vulnerable with someone, to let go of the walls you’ve built around yourself, to trust.

You’ve never trusted anyone like this before. Never let anyone this close. But with her… you’ve surrendered in ways you never thought possible.

There’s no going back from this. Not now. Not after everything you’ve shared.

You close your eyes and let yourself settle into the warmth of her embrace, her body wrapping around yours like a shield, like a promise. The silence between you is no longer oppressive. It’s a comfort, a quiet understanding that settles between you like a secret you both share.

You are hers.

And in this moment, in this fragile silence, you realize—she is yours too.

[zablife]

@peakyswritings What an incredible finale, Reb! You should be so proud of every word you've written over the past year bc this is a masterpiece. (And it's only the first act! Squealing with glee that we're getting more after this!)

I can't believe we've come to Tommy x Nina's wedding day already! Tho they're forced to marry under less than ideal circumstances, their union feels deeply satisfying. The way Nina finds reassurance by staring into Tommy's blue eyes made me melt 🫠 I love that he makes her feel safe with him. However, I also appreciated how you explored all her emotions surrounding the marriage. Her fear of losing her dreams is wonderfully realistic.

As for her family's reactions, I can understand the bitterness of their disappointment and I'm hoping their opinion changes over time. (Obv that hinges on how Tommy treats her. Don't fuck this up, Tommy!!) Ngl her father's cold silence stung. I'm trying to remind myself that he's prob still in shock tho, not to mention melancholic over sending away his only daughter. In the end he did give his blessing and will face fall out with his brother which is an enormous sacrifice.

Hooray for Pietro being the voice of reason! His strategy proves he'll make a successful and compassionate leader one day. I'm so happy he was the one to tell her about the decision. I love the fact that he acknowledges her ambitions and encourages her to do everything she's dreamed of. He makes me so hopeful for the future generations of the Ferrante family!

I wasn't sure how Salvatore would react, but I had the biggest grin on my face when I realized he would support her. Gifting her the family knife is such a lovely gesture and def not something I would have expected from him. I think Nina is right, if not for the war, he would have been a v diff person and he's attempting to show that side of himself here. (In many ways I feel he's much like Arthur which makes me curious to see how she'll handle her brother-in-law with his fits of temper.)

I'm anxiously awaiting the next part to learn how Nina acclimates to her new home (and family)! Poor girl has no clue about the chaos she's walking into 😆

Heart, Body and Soul || Tommy Shelby x OC

CHAPTER 14 - EPILOGUE OF PART ONE

Summary: All hell has broken loose in the Ferrante household. There’s a choice to be made, and too little time to hesitate.

Warnings: time-typical misogyny, arranged marriage, mentions of forced marriage, mentions of killing, mentions of violence, mention of beatings, a bit of an age-gap (Tommy’s 30, Nina is in her early 20s). This is set between season 1 and 2. English is not my first language.

A/N: nothing for now, but I left a note at the end of the chapter. I got quite sentimental and rambled a bit, so I decided that it would be best to leave it there.

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“According to tradition, they should get married at dawn, before word spreads,” Pietro paced around his father’s office, arms crossed, brain striving to find a solution to the predicament the family had found itself in. “But it’s too late for that.”

He snorted, wiping his face. The lack of sleep was starting to get to him. He hadn’t gone to bed after talking to Nina, he couldn’t imagine trying to sleep while the household threatened to collapse and implode. Moreover, he knew he would find his father awake as well, and he had been waiting for the chance to speak to him alone all evening. The meeting had been nothing but a mess. Everybody was too angry to think or act clearly, and they had accomplished nothing.

“Your uncle Mario has spoken against it,” his father shook his head. “And I can’t blame him. Shelby humiliated Agnese by…” he paused, grimacing. “Engaging with your sister. He wants him dead.”

“Uncle Mario has no head for business. We can’t afford to act out on revenge, not right now. If we listen to him, we’re fucked, you know it too.” Stopping in front of his father’s desk, Pietro rested with his left palm upon the wooden surface, slightly leaning in. “Imagine what would happen. We kill Shelby, we lose our ally against Sabini. And on top of that, we’ll have that mad brother of his seeking revenge,” he said, punctuating his speech with his finger.

“But if we give Nina to Stefano, we’ll seal our alliance with the Spinietta family.”

Pietro scoffed, raising his eyebrows. “The Spinietta family would betray us without a second thought, if that granted them the chance to rise, family or not. You forget Giuseppe Spinietta killed his own brother to take charge of the business. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stefano and Vito followed his example, someday.”

His father tapped his fingers on the desk, squinting his eyes. “So what do you suggest that we do?”

“We get Nina and Shelby married tomorrow, in secret,” he straightened his back. “During the night, or at dawn. Then we put them on the first boat to England.”

His father got up in an abrupt movement, taking a few steps away from his desk. He rubbed his mouth with his palm, pondering. “You want me to turn my back on my own brother?”

“It’s the only way.”

“He’ll never forgive me.”

“He will, when Shelby’s men help us in our war against Sabini.” Pietro crossed the room with long strides, until he was standing in front of him. “If uncle Antonio was here, he’d tell you the same thing.”

“But he’s not here, is he? And I don’t know how happy he’ll be when he finds out we made a decision without consulting him too.”

“Dad, this isn’t about us getting all along,” he said lowly. “This is about us averting a war we don’t need.”

The silence Pietro got in return told him he was finally getting through to him, and it spurred him to go on. He placed his hands on his father’s shoulders, looking him right in the eyes. “I can tell you’re not just worried about uncle Mario. You’re worried about Nina, about sending her away overnight. I am too. But right now, this is the best thing we can do for her. I don’t trust aunt Rita to stay quiet about what happened. If word spreads, she’s ruined.”

His father’s eyes traveled across his face as he took in his words, his expression indecipherable. At that point, Pietro could only hope they’d have the desired effect. Saying more was hazardous, and he had already pushed his luck by talking to him that way.

Long moments passed before his father nodded, more to himself than to him, a bitter smile making its way on his face. Then he affectionately patted him on the cheek. “One day, it’ll be you taking my place. I guess I should start letting you make decisions.”

Nina watched as the first rays of the sun filtered through the lace curtains, hues of amber and violet lightening the dark room. She hadn’t been able to sleep all night, tormented by thoughts of helplessness and guilt. What up until a few hours before had been nothing but a haze had finally taken shape in her mind, forcing her to face the mess she had made. Yet, there was still a missing piece, a doubt that nagged at her brain, a question she just couldn’t find an answer to.

How did it happen? Was there a turning point that had caused the unfolding of that unrelenting chain of events? Or was it a result of something so gradual she didn’t even notice it until it was too late?

Useless musings, she was aware of it. It had happened, no matter when, no matter how. Somewhere along the way, she grew to care for Tommy, and it made her reckless. It made her careless. So careless that she would leave her home, her family, everything she had ever known for the man who her cousin was supposed to marry. She felt like a terrible person for it. God, she was a terrible person. The vicious things she had said to Agnese that afternoon still haunted her. Agnese, who all her life had shown her nothing but kindness. She had ruined everything. For her cousin, for her family, for herself. And the worst thing was, despite the mess, despite the danger, and the risks, and the pain, - she did not regret it. She did not regret him. Because she had never felt more alive than she did with Tommy. When everything was dull and hopeless, he had lit a spark inside her, and that spark had bursted into a flame, and that flame had set her soul on fire. How could she ever regret something like that?

A soft knock on the door cut through her thoughts. Winston promptly raised his little head from his spot next to her, his yellow eyes snapping toward the source of the noise.

“Come in,” she said faintly, so faintly she suspected whoever had knocked couldn’t even hear her. But the door opened, revealing Pietro’s tall frame in the semi-darkness.

“I have just finished speaking to dad,” he said gravely, taking a few steps inside the room. He was still dressed as the previous night, and from the tired look on his face, Nina could tell he hadn’t closed an eye, just like her.

She anxiously scanned his features in search for a shift, a clue she could read to get her answer. But his expression was cold as stone. “And?” she enquired, fidgeting with her own fingers.

Pietro exhaled deeply through his nostrils, placing his hands on his hips. “He agreed,” he nodded, fixing his gaze on a point straight in front of him. “You’re marrying Shelby.” There was no inflection in his voice, nothing that could betray whatever emotion he might be feeling.

Nina’s breath caught in her throat. She blinked, letting his words hang in the air, afraid that it was only a trick or her own imagination, a counterfeit reflection of her hopes. “Are you serious?”

Her brother shifted his dark eyes on her, giving her a single nod. “Yes.”

Yes. Her father had said yes. A wave of relief washed over her, and she felt like she had been given back the air taken from her a few hours before. Tommy was safe. He’d be fine. They’d both be fine. She rubbed her eyes with her hand, holding back the sudden tears that had gathered. She hated feeling so emotional, so weak, but she couldn’t help it. And as the realisation sank in, something else came to the surface. Fear. Until that moment, marriage had been nothing more than a distant hypothesis, a possibility, a chance. Now it was awfully real, with all its implications, and risks, and consequences. Because it didn’t matter how strong her feelings for Tommy were, she had no certainties. She was jumping into the void not knowing where she’d land.

The mattress sank beside her, and a warm hand rested on her shoulder. “Chi fai, chianci?” Pietro taunted her, his tone softer, but still bearing a hint of reproach. (What are you doing, you’re crying?)

“No,” she sniffled, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Letting his hand fall, he leaned with his back against the wall, his shoulder brushing against hers. For a while, neither of them spoke. There wasn’t much to say. She had brought trouble upon the whole family, she knew that, he knew that. Nothing they could say could undo what she had done, no amount of anger and resentment could make them go back and change it. And Nina had already paid enough. The split lip their father’s heavy hand had left her with was proof of that.

It was Pietro who broke the silence. “If two months ago someone had told me you’d offer to marry a man just to save him I wouldn’t have believed them.”

Nina shook her head, the shadow of a smirk playing on her face. “Me neither.”

“You were supposed to do something more.”

Those words came like a stab. There was no malice in them, just pure, painful truth. A truth everyone around her had forced her to forswear, to lock away in a drawer as yet another hopeless dream. In her heart, she had always known she was meant for something more, that she would never be able to find her happiness in marriage and family, but the reality of things had hit her too hard way too many times.

Nina clenched her jaw, her mouth going dry. “I tried.”

“And you will try again,” Pietro murmured, like a statement of fact. “Because this is who you are.” A shadow of melancholy darkened his eyes. He let out a sigh, dropping his gaze to his hands. “I’m sorry I abandoned you after I came back from the war. I should’ve done more for you, I should’ve forced dad to see what I saw. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe-”

“You did enough,” she interrupted him, but there was no harshness in her voice. “Dad only sees what he wants to see.”

Their father was a stubborn man, and he had his own beliefs, beliefs he had already betrayed by allowing Nina way more than any other father allowed his daughter. Asking him more meant asking him the impossible.

“And…” she pondered her next words, playing with the hem of her nightgown. “This is not a sacrifice. Not completely, at least.”

She didn’t need to look at him to know that Pietro was scrutinising her, waiting for her to go on. For the bomb to drop.

“I care about Tommy,” she revealed. “I might not know what my life would’ve been like had things been different, or what my life will be like a year from now, but I know that I care about him. And that’s enough, for now.”

Her words sounded foreign to her own ears. She had never dared to say it out loud before, and yet there it went, coming out of her mouth as the simplest of truths. She felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Because finally she could admit it to herself. Tommy Shelby had bursted into her life and made her question everything she thought she knew. He had made her feel things she never thought she’d be able to feel for anyone, he had taught her to see him. To love him, without neither of them realising it. And now that she knew how it felt to see and be seen, she wasn’t sure she could just let it go.

When she glanced at Pietro, a small smile tugged at his lips. Her eyebrows knitted in a confused frown. She could swear he was disappointed in her up until a few minutes before. But again, what went through her brother’s mind would always be a mystery to her.

“You’ve always done as you pleased,” he said. “You wanted to finish school, you finished school. You didn’t want to marry Spinietta, you didn’t marry Spinietta. Now you have decided you want to be with Shelby. God knows what you’ll do when we won’t be there to keep an eye on you.”

Despite his attempt at a joke, his voice bore a sadness that pierced right through her, and that she immediately recognised as her own, too.

We won’t be there to keep an eye on you.

That would be the last day she spent at home, with her family. She wouldn’t wake up to her mother’s rants anymore, or to her brothers’ fighting. She wouldn’t sneak into her father’s office to read when she’d need some peace, or cover up Winston’s shenanigans to prevent her mum from throwing him out the house. There was no telling when they’d get to see each other again. She pursed her lips, forcing herself to smile. “I guess you’ll find out.”

“I hope so,” he whispered. He turner to look at her, and when he spoke again, his tone was deadly serious. “You can still do what you want to do. This doesn’t have to be the end.”

She hoped he was right. She desperately wanted to believe he was. But that was the kind of thing only time could tell. She nodded, her eyes travelling to her window. The sun was rising above the horizon.

“Pietro, I need to talk to Tommy.”

She felt him stiffen beside her.

“You’ll have plenty of time to talk after you’re married,” he said dryly.

“Please.“

He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright. But there are men watching, and they don’t know why Shelby’s confined there. They can’t see you. I can distract them, but you’ll have to be quick.”

Nina nodded frantically. “I’ll be quick,” she promised. “I just need a minute with him.”

“Fuck!”

Tommy’s voice resounded in the small room as he angrily kicked the door. He had been locked in there for hours, like a lion in a cage, waiting to be freed or put down. He had been brought to some kind of shack in the middle of the Sicilian fields, and left there to go insane. From the considerable number of pits he had caught a glimpse of before they pushed him inside, he could tell that was the place where the Ferrante family made people disappear.

Chances were, someone was digging a fresh one for him that very moment.

It was quite the exit, killed miles away from home, then thrown in a shallow grave where no one would ever look for him. All because he had fallen for the wrong woman. Again.

He sat on the edge of the small, uncomfortable bed, and dropped his head in his hands. That was not how it was supposed to go. Things had taken such an unpredictable turn in such a short span of time he could hardly believe it. Some part of him expected to wake up in his bed, in his house in Small Heath, and find out that all of that had been nothing more than a strange dream. He wondered when and how his family would receive the news. If they’d receive the news, or they’d be left to come to their own conclusions. If they’d grieve him, or only grieve the things he wouldn’t be get to give them anymore.

How foolish had been of him, to think he could have a chance at happiness. To think he could find someone whose mere presence seemed to heal the most wounded parts of his soul and keep them. Maybe what Campbell had said to him a few months before was true. Men like him weren’t meant to be loved.

The sound of keys hitting the lock startled him from his musings. His head snapped towards the door, heart racing. He was unarmed, but he could still fight. He was a soldier, for fuck’s sake. And a gangster. He had cheated death more times than he could count, what was one more?

He jumped to his feet, waiting. And it took him more than a moment to realise it wasn’t death who had come for him. It was Nina.

“Nina…”

Before he could say anything, she closed the door behind her and threw herself into his arms, holding him with a strength he had never imagined she could possess. He promptly wrapped his arms around her, burying his nose into her hair, her scent soothing his frayed nerves. She was there. She had come for him. He tightened his grip around her, scared that she was only a figment of his imagination, that she would slip away and disappear at any moment.

“Are you alright?” she asked, pulling away just enough to check. She cradled his face in her hands, frowning as she got a glimpse of the cut above his eyebrow.

“I’m fine, love,” he reassured her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, lowering her gaze. “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault.”

Tommy’s heart clenched in his chest. “Hey, look at me,” he said hoarsely, running his fingers through her raven hair away to move it away from her face. He gently took ahold of her chin, his thumb ghosting over her split lip. “Look at me. I don’t regret anything. You hear me? No regrets. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

Nina put her hand on his, then brought it to her lips to place a tender kiss on it. “We need to talk,” she murmured, and sent a quick glance towards the door. “But we need to be quick.”

Tommy swallowed hard, feeling the muscles in his back growing tense. He had to remind himself that yes, Nina was there, but that didn’t mean they were safe, not yet. “Go on.”

“The peace will stand. My father and Pietro are planning to make us get married in secret,” she explained, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “Then they’ll send us away. By the time my uncle finds out, it’ll be too late.”

He nodded, taking in her words. He should’ve felt relieved - and he did, to some extent -, but there was a doubt, a fear that stung at the back of his mind like a thorn by his side. Was it what she wanted? He wanted it, he knew it, and he had told her more than once. But she had never expressed the same wish. Not openly, at least.

She must’ve noticed the way he had wavered, because something changed in her expression. “If…” she paused, uncertainty flashing across her face. “If that’s what you want.”

Tommy quirked an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Well, it’s marriage or death, eh?”

Nina inhaled deeply, averting her gaze.

“Nothing has changed for me, Nina,” he said softly. “I’m just worried that this might not be what you want.”

She jerked her head up, shooting him a disbelieving look. “What part of ‘I’m yours’ did you not get?” she reminded him of what she had said to him the previous morning.

Tommy couldn’t help the grin growing on his face, a warmth he only felt with her spreading in his chest. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss on her lips. God, he had been wanting to do that since she had walked through that door.

“Tommy, wait,” she stuttered, gently pushing him away.

He looked at her in confusion. What, now?

“There’s something I need to tell you before we go through with this,” she said, taking a step back. “I mean, it’s not like we have much choice at this point, but still...” She sighed, searching for the right words. “You… you need to know. I don’t want you to jump into-”

“Nina, just speak,” he said firmly, putting an end to her rant.

“I don’t want children,” she blurted out. “I mean, I don’t want them now. Maybe that will change, maybe it won’t. But there’s a chance it won’t change, and you need to know.”

Tommy blinked, a frown making its way on his face. That was what worried her that much? He already knew. She had never put it in those words, but from the things she had said to him in the past, he had imagined it. And it wasn’t that big of a deal, for him. “It’s alright. We can wait until you’re ready.”

“What if it’s never?”

“Then we won’t have them, we’ll be careful,” he assured her. He let out a sigh, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Nina I want you. Fuck the rest. I love you. You don’t have to say it back, but I want you to know.”

Something unreadable flashed across her eyes, and he wondered whether he had made a mistake, by telling her. But he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore, he had to say it, cause had been eating at him for days. And she needed to know that what they were about to do wasn’t for nothing.

A soft knock on the door interrupted them. Nina glanced behind her. “I need to go,” she whispered, giving him a quick peck on the lips. A bitter disappointment filled his heart. He didn’t want her to go just yet. And a part of him had truly hoped she’d say it back to him.

When Nina walked away from him, she brought with her the warmth that had engulfed him, and he was left feeling almost cold, despite being in the middle of the summer. Before she walked out the door, she turned to face him, as if she had just remembered something. “Winston’s coming with us,” she stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

A throaty chuckle escaped his lips. “Yeah, Winston’s coming with us.”

She smiled in satisfaction, moving to walk out. Then she stopped again, turning to him one last time. “And Tommy?”

“What?”

“I love you too.”

Having placed the last of her bags in the hallway, Nina took one last look around her bedroom. It had been left almost completely untouched, she didn’t have the time nor the space to take all of her stuff with her. Her desk was still scattered with papers and notebooks, her favourite candle was still resting on the bedside table, her dresser was still full of books. Only her diaries had been safely packed in one of her suitcases. Her eyes trailed over all the things her grandmother had hand-painted for her when she was little: the little flowers on the closet, the bluebird on a corner above the door, the ivy on the side of the dresser. She couldn’t believe she was about to leave it all behind. The place that had watched her grow up, play, fight. The place that she had hated, cursed, that she had so desperately wanted to flee from. The place that would always have a part of her soul, despite everything.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to turn the light off and walk out the door. It was past midnight. It was almost time.

The door of Salvatore’s bedroom was open. They hadn’t talked since the previous night. He had been avoiding her on purpose, ignoring her questions, pretending not to see her, changing room whenever she walked in. She didn’t even know if he’d attend the wedding.

Gathering her courage, she peered into his room. He was facing the window, adding cufflinks to his pristine white shirt. From the way his back stiffened, she could tell he knew she was there, but he didn’t turn around, nor did he utter a single word.

After a moment of hesitation, she spoke. “Are you coming to the church?”

No answer.

She cleared her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Is that a no, or…” she trailed off, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

Again, no answer.

“You’re still so angry with me you won’t even say goodbye?”

Salvatore’s movements came to a halt. He slightly turned his head, looking at her from the corner of his eye, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. For a moment, Nina thought her words might’ve gotten through him. But he didn’t face her. Instead, he walked over to a jacket laying on the chair in front of the desk, and started fumbling in one of the pockets. She frowned, watching as he took something she couldn’t see out of it. As he then approached her with slow steps, she couldn’t help but tense.

Salvatore had become unpredictable, over the past couple of years. He had always had a temper, but the war seemed to have taken it to the extreme, turning his anger into a dormant beast, ready to bite and devour at the slightest trigger. A part of her felt guilty for even thinking that he could ever do something to her. But she hadn’t forgotten the way he had tried to hit her the day before, and the spiteful look in his eyes as he dug his fingers in her arm.

However, there was nothing menacing in his demeanour when he stopped in front of her. He stood tall, proud as usual, but there was a hint of sorrow on his scarred face.

“I know you stole a knife from me a few years ago, and I know you always carry it with you,” he revealed, his lips curving in a grin. “But I thought you should have something more…”, he paused, searching for the right word. “…suitable.”

Nina immediately recognised the switchblade. She knew well the intricate design of its bone handle, the roses painted on it. The family knife. All the men of the family had it. Her father, her brothers, her uncles, her cousins. She carefully grabbed it, turning it in her hand. Its lightness was impressive. She flicked it open in one swift motion, pleased by how easy it was to handle. She read the incisions on the blade. Che la mia ferita sia mortale on one side (May my wound be lethal). Ferrante on the other.

“You don’t forget who you are,” he said, his tone grave. “In less than twenty-four hours you’ll have his surname, but you’ll always be a Ferrante.”

Nina closed the knife, raising her gaze on her brother. For a split second, she got a glimpse of the boy he used to be. The loud boy who bothered her, who pushed her around, who found many different ways to make her angry. And she could swear his eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

Suddenly, he pulled her to him in a harsh, tight hug, and at first she had no idea how to respond. Her family, including herself, had never been too physical, and they often felt awkward when it came to displaying affection. Yet, it didn’t take her long to warm up. She wrapped her arms around him, hiding her face in his shirt. They’d never gotten particularly along, they’d had a considerable number of fights and disagreements, but he was still her brother, and she would miss him. She would miss him so much.

He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Si ti tratta mali, iu vegnu e cci rumpu li gammi.” (If he hurts you, I’ll come break his legs.)

The small church smelled of incense, wood and stale beeswax. The pale, timid rays of dawn filtered though the stained glass, eerily falling on the crucifix statue at the rear of the altar. Christ’s tortured face was the only thing Nina could focus on as the priest’s voice reverberated through the stone walls. From where she was kneeling next to Tommy, he seemed to be staring right into her soul.

Her family was standing on the side, and by the looks on their faces, the function looked more like a funeral rather than a marriage. Her father’s expression was a mixture of pain and shame, her brothers were stoic, and as for her mother, she didn’t have the slightest intention to make an effort to hide her discontent. Maria had always wished for her daughter a beautiful wedding gown, a church full of flowers and candles, solemn music. Instead, she got nothing but a short, hurried ceremony. No readings, no elaborate vows. Just a quick ‘yes’, the bare minimum to fix her situation. Then she’d be gone.

Vincenzo Ferrante had taken care of everything. He had instructed the priest on what was to be done, and made sure the language barrier wouldn’t be a problem. Tommy would just have to express his consent. Then, after the ceremony, a car would bring them to the dock.

Nothing had gone as expected. And the Ferrante family could’ve never imagined that after Tommy Shelby’s arrival, they would never be the same.

As the priest spoke, Nina couldn’t make herself listen to him. The crushing weight of an unknown future was slowly descending on her shoulders, growing heavier with each second that passed, trapping her in its dark, icy grip. Fear had taken root inside her, and it was gradually draining her of every ounce of courage she had left, turning it into a poisonous lymph than ran through her veins, to her heart.

In all that darkness, she found herself praying. Praying that things would turn out fine. Praying that she hadn’t been a fool, by following her heart. Praying that she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Never before had she so strongly hoped that there was a God listening. Lacking the blind faith of the believer, she didn’t often pray. Yet, right now it was the only thing she could do. But it wasn’t a Father she was turning to. No. She had always thought that if there was a God, it must’ve been a woman. No Father could love so unconditionally, no Father would ever die for his ungrateful children’s sins. It was the kind of sacrifice only a Mother would make. And the act of creation had never belonged to men. So she prayed that good, nurturing Goddess she desperately wanted to believe in to welcome her plea and protect her like a loving mother.

As if sensing her agitation, Tommy subtly brushed his pinky finger against hers. It’ll be alright, he seemed to say. That fleeting contact was enough to bring her back to her senses, but it hardly calmed her rising panic.

When the priest started to ask the questions, her heart began to race. Tommy shifted his gaze on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do the same. She was afraid that one look in her eyes would be enough for him to know what thoughts were poisoning her mind.

“Thomas Michael Shelby, vuoi accogliere Anna Ferrante come tua sposa nel Signore, promettendo di esserle fedele sempre, nella gioia e nel dolore…” (“Thomas Michael Shelby, do you take Anna Ferrante to be your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and in bad…”)

She took a deep breath, trying to escape the fog gathering inside her head.

“Nella salute e nella malattia…” (“In sickness and in health…”)

Marriage. An unbreakable vow. An arrow that, once shot, could never be retreated.

“Di amarla e onorarla tutti i giorni della tua vita?” (“To love her and to honor her all the days of your life?”)

“Sì,” Tommy’s deep voice resounded through the high walls.

She froze, her fears finally gaining the upper hand. Was it what she truly wanted, or just what she thought she wanted? Was she doing the right thing? Would she regret her choice? Was she betraying herself?

“Nina,” Pietro hissed, snapping her out of that whirlwind of thoughts.

Without her even noticing, the priest had asked her the question, and was now waiting for her answer. Everybody was. She gulped, turning to look at Tommy, whose features were now full of apprehension. But she didn’t find the unknown that had scared her so much, in his blue eyes. She found the safety he had made her feel, the love he had shown her through every glance, every word, every touch. Slowly, she let her doubts drift away. She wasn’t scared because she didn’t trust him. She was scared because she had never thought of herself like someone who could be loved, and it felt foreign, and hard to believe.

The words her brother had said to her echoed in her mind. This doesn’t have to be the end.

She bit the inside of her cheek, gathering her courage. It was Tommy, just Tommy. He loved her. She loved him. She could still do the things she wanted to do.

So she said yes.

The land slowly faded into a dark silhouette as the ship sailed farther and farther away. Nina’s eyes strove to hold on to it, refusing to move until it became a black dot, and then disappeared into the distance.

Her heart felt astoundingly lighter.

She leaned against the railing, watching as the light reflected off the crystal water, sparks dancing across the blue expanse of the sea. She had ripped off her roots, mercilessly severing them one by one, and found herself surprised to acknowledge how easy leaving was once she had eradicated herself.

There was just one thing weighing her down. She would never forget the look in her father’s eyes when they said goodbye, or his silence when she asked him if would ever forgive her. In her heart, she knew he’d never be able to look at her the same. Although kept secret, the stain of shame had dried all over her name, and it could never be washed away.

Shame. That word had been following her like a shadow ever since she was a child. She became scared of it before she even knew what it meant. It hung over her head, carrying the terrifying promise of a wretched fate. A four-headed monster whose dreadful eyes watched her every step, waiting for her to fall.

It would have to wait a while longer. Because there were lots of things to be ashamed of, but love was not one of them.

She glanced at Tommy, standing next to her against the railing. Smartly dressed, with his peaky cap on and his gun poking out of his jacket, he looked just like the first time she saw him. She couldn’t notice it in the church, too overwhelmed by her own thoughts. He rubbed a cigarette between his lips, then placed it in his mouth, his gaze lost in thought. Like her, he was probably just processing everything that happened. She wished she could enter inside his mind, only for a moment, to know what was going through it. If, now that they had taken that step, there was any kind of regret taking shape inside it. But when he shifted his blue eyes on her and gave her a playful wink, her worries started to fade. His look was still as full of love as it was in the church.

“You’ve survived my family,” she said, lightly nudging him with her elbow. “Now it’s my turn.”

A wide grin grew on his face, which he concealed by lighting the cigarette. “I think you’ll fit in just fine,” he murmured.

Nina shook her head, her own lips curving in a smile. She wasn’t that scared anymore. The unknown opening in front of her felt more like a chance, rather than a threat, and she was ready to step into it. But there was still a needle digging into her brain, one it would take time for her to get rid of.

“Tommy,” she grabbed his attention, her tone dead serious.

He turned to look at her, his eyebrows twitching slightly as he waited for her to go on.

“I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it.”

A/N: We’ve come to the Epilogue of Part 1, and I still can’t believe that over the course of almost one year and a half it became what it became. I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you who have followed Nina’s journey up until now, and those who will continue to follow it in the next parts. To those who have left comments, and asks, and engaged constantly with it. I may often be late with my replies, but I can assure you I remember each one of you. The loved you have showed to this story has been so important for me. A special thanks also goes to my wonderful mutuals, who have joined this mess and shown endless support. And for those of you who will continue to read this, be ready, cause this is far from the ending. I’m so excited to move forward, and I hope you will be, too🤍

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Tommy Shelby tag list

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[centaurself]

holy mother of christ doomerism is exhausting

[devotedlystrangewizard]

gnawing on corrin fire emblem

[brokenmenswhore]

release | jacaerys velaryon

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

summary: jace is on the brink of snapping and lashing out toward his mother and her council for their lack of action against the greens, so you give him another outlet for his frustration

warnings: smut (MDNI 18+), rough sex, jace is a lil rough & feral in this one, threats (reader consents but may appear as noncon/dubcon)

────── ☾ ──────

“And what of those who sent him?” Jacaerys snapped, questioning his mother as they buried yet another body.

He was angry. He couldn’t help but lose people. Everyone around him kept fleeing or dying, and he tried desperately to hold his tongue, but his patience was slipping. War was inevitable, and he was frustrated at his mother’s lack of action toward the opposing force. He wanted revenge, retaliation, and most of all, he wanted to be the one to give it.

As the eldest son, however, he tried not to cause a scene, knowing he played an important role in this war, and hoping that his silence and unwavering support of his mother’s decisions would breed the proper trust that was needed to allow him more involvement and access in the war.

He was evidently tense at council meetings. His tongue was becoming sharper with each sentence related to the war. He couldn’t help it. He pushed through the doors to your chambers, angry and frustrated from the events of the day.

He stopped short when he saw you turn in your chair to face him. Taking a deep breath, the tension in his body dropped. “I need a hug.”

You smiled, standing and approaching him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You remained a step lower than him in the entrance. He rested his chin on the top of your head.

“I just don’t understand why she won’t do anything,” he began, “I know she doesn’t want this war. I don’t want this war, but it’s happening. We have all lost so much, and it will not stop. Why won’t she do something?”

“Perhaps she believes it can still be avoided,” you responded.

“How much blood from my family must be split before she realizes it can’t?”

Your heart ached for him. You wanted to hold him in the hug forever, curing all his pain and never letting him out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Jacaerys.”

“It is not a fault of yours,” he replied, “it is just exhausting. I wish for a break from all of this, even if just momentary. I feel as if any moment, I may break, and I do not wish to take these frustrations out on my mother or her council. It would only cause the situation to worsen.”

You looked up at him, “then take it out on me.”

“What?”

“Take your frustrations out on me, Jace.”

“You do not deserve such treatment.”

You sighed, “but I am asking for it. Allow yourself to have an outlet. Why else am I here?”

Jacaerys was bewildered, “you are not here for me to take my anger out on. I would not do such a thing.”

“I wish for you to relax. I would not speak the offer if I did not mean it. Please, Jace.”

Jace leaned down to kiss you, initiating a sweet, intimate kiss before his frustrations took over and he deepened the kiss, gripping your thighs, causing you to jump and wrap your legs around his waist. He continued to kiss you as you clung to his shoulders, his steps towards the bed shaking you and causing you to nearly fall.

The Velaryon prince was usually quite nice to you, making sure to take things slow and constantly checking in on your comfort and pleasure. He would typically slowly drop your back onto the mattress, but tonight, he quite literally pushed you down, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed you into the mattress.

You moaned at the eagerness of it all, Jace’s hands running up and down your side, gripping your waist and pushing your hips down, until your legs were no longer wrapped around his body. Never breaking the kiss, he lifted up your nightdress, his fingers finding their way under your small clothes, not giving you time to ease into it as he began roughly rubbing circles on your clit.

You squealed into the kiss. Jace moved to begin sucking bruises into your neck, his hair falling in front of his face, as he continued to rub you. You couldn’t help but moan, trying your hardest to remain as quiet as possible, since his little brother’s chambers were just a wall away.

“He’s not here,” Jace groaned.

You could barely speak. “What?”

“He’s not in his chambers. He’s out with Arrax. Stop holding back,” Jace demanded, “wanna hear what I’m doing to you.”

This controlling nature was a change, but you didn’t mind it at all. You stopped trying to quiet yourself, a moan of his name leaving your lips as he pushed a finger into you.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “you sound so pretty.”

“T-thank you,” you responded.

Jacaerys didn’t stop curling his finger inside of you, but giggled, “did you just thank me?”

“Mhm,” you moaned.

“You’re too cute,” he said, breaking his frustrated and controlling demeanor for a second, the compliment making your heart swell as he continued to fuck you with his fingers.

He felt you start to squeeze, and he immediately pulled his hand away from you. You sighed in disappointment.

He lifted you from under your arms, shifting you so you were sitting up, as he began to undo his breeches.

“I just wish I could go to King’s Landing,” he started, pushing his small clothes down and allowing his cock to be free, “I’d kill every last one of them.”

He gripped your hair, pushing your face down until it was level with his cock. “Open.”

You did as he told you, opening your mouth as he pushed his cock into your mouth, immediately hitting the back of your throat. He was big, too big to fit completely in your mouth, but you were getting better and better at breathing through your nose to avoid gagging around his cock.

“Not today,” he sighed, “stop holding back or I’ll fuck it out of your throat.”

You listened to him, forgetting everything you know about avoiding gagging, and allowing him to direct your head up and down, his cock hitting the back of your throat with every single thrust. You gagged and choked around him, but he didn’t let up.

“They think they’re so big and bad,” he said, breathy from the pleasure of your mouth around him, “if only they were around me. I could take all of them. I could end their whole fucking line.”

He began to thrust his hips at a vicious pace. You had no choice but to take it, trying your best to continue sucking and swirling your tongue around the head of his cock as he fucked your mouth mercilessly.

“I’d end their whole. fucking. line,” he said again, speaking through each thrust and throwing his head back in pleasure.

“Fuck, get up, I’m not done with you yet,” he commanded, pulling you off of him to stop himself from coming before he wanted to.

You didn’t dare adjust your position without his say so. You sat there waiting for him to put you where he wanted you. He flipped your body over, pressing your face into the pillow as he pulled your hips up to meet his. He took both of your wrists in one hand, locking them behind your back as his other hand guided his cock into your entrance and then moved to your waist as he started rocking into you, pushing you further and further into the mattress.

Your body folded and became weak, as much of you falling into the bed as was possible, the only thing keeping your hips upward was the rough grip Jacaerys had on them. You whined and moaned, your entire body rocking forward with each snap of his hips.

“Seven hells,” he breathed out, his pace never relenting, “are you still okay?”

“Mhm,” you moaned out, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Shit, I hate not being able to hear you,” he said, pulling out of you and flipping your body so you were flat on the mattress, facing him. “That’s better,” he smiled, immediately fucking back into you with no warning.

You cried out, grabbing his face and kissing him through the intensity. He grunted into the kiss, having never fucked you, or anyone for that matter, this hard before. All of his pent up rage and frustration was being taken out on your cunt.

Your back arched off the mattress, Jace taking the opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist, holding you even closer to him.

He spoke with every thrust, “I. Want. Revenge.”

“I k-know,” you moaned out.

“I. Want. Fucking. Revenge.”

It was overwhelming, and the intensity with which he was fucking you started to make your head cloudy. “J- Jace, it’s too m-“

Jacaerys cut you off by kissing you, doing everything he can to stop your words. “You can take it, baby.”

“I c-“ the pressure was so intense. You could feel your walls start to squeeze around his cock, and his pace was relentless.

“You can,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “and you will.”

You nodded and let him continue splitting you open on his cock, dropping your waist down to the mattress again as he fucked into you, hands rough on your waist as they pushed you down.

Your eyes filled with tears. Jacaerys had never seen you like this, crying from the intensity, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead as you writhed under him. He didn’t know he was capable of making you feel like this, and he didn’t know you would look so fucking pretty as a result.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, “I’m close.”

You couldn’t even respond, you just continued to whine and moan under him, watching his face contort as he released inside of you. The final few thrusts of his hips were cruel, his large length hitting that spongy spot inside of you that made you see stars. Through his high, he could feel you close, and he forced himself to continue pushing in and out of you until you met your climax.

Your legs shook as a wave of pleasure washed over you, your entire body eventually melting into the bed with weakness. Jace waited a moment before pulling out of you, kissing you as he did so.

You tried hard to catch your breath, but it took you longer than you anticipated. Jace, ever so attentive, looked down at you and asked, “you okay?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I should start making you mad.”

[catherinnn]

This kinda inspired by one of your enemies to lovers stories where eddie says “you wouldn’t be able to handle me” but reader instead says “oh yeah i couldn’t handle the two-centimeter-pussy-defeater bc id because i would be too busy laughing my ass off at your angry half inch.”

Sorry i have been holding that one in for quite some time 😤

Beg for it

enemies to lovers - one bed trope - eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: SMUT +18, piv, oral ( f & m), choking, degradation, unprotected sex (don't do this, this is fiction), porn with plot, fluffy at the end.

a/n: thank you for requesting babe, hope you love it!

5.7k words

“Game night at my place, the whole group will be there” Steve announces after greeting you. You went to visit him and Robin since you were already near the place. Also, maybe you could find a movie to watch tonight.

“Ugh, really? They all said yes already?” you ask.

“If you’re expecting me to say that Munson hasn’t, then I have bad news” he confirms.

“Fuck”

“You’re not even trying to be friends at this point” he complains.

“It’s impossible with him being so mean all the time” you tried to defend yourself but Robin was quick to refute your statement.

“You sure are mean to him as well, don’t act so innocent”

“Well, he started it! I didn’t even know him and he started with the jokes and asshole comments” you weren’t lying.

You were new in town, and new at the summer job your dad had found for you. He wanted you to already have some experience at working so you could make a better curriculum later. There was were you met Nancy and instantly became good friends. So much so that she had introduced you to her friend group she has had for years already. Steve, Nance, Jonathan, Robin and Eddie. The former four had been sweethearts to you since you first met them, easily becoming good friends as well. The problem was with the latter. The night Nancy had introduced you to everyone, he started being a little distant and cold towards you. You tried not to feel offended since he could just be shy or introverted, but then he started throwing snide comments and sarcastic mocking your way. You were not going to sit there and take that, so you equally threw cutting remarks at him.

That’s how the current war with him started. And that’s why your friends keep insisting with this forced proximity, so we could all be a happy family.

But it was useless, you and Eddie do agree on that.

The game night arrived that Friday. You were at the Harrington household with several board games awaiting on the table. Battleship, Clue, Guess Who, Monopoly, Scrabble, you name it.

“We wanted to make different groups and play all of these, then see which team is the best” Robin explains. “Steve and me will be team one” she says as she writes that in the whiteboard. They really went all out, since we could all be pretty competitive.

“Group two!” Jonathan exclaims quickly grabbing Nancy’s hand.

“Wait… no, definitely not” You start complaining after realizing that would mean you’re stuck with Eddie.

 “No way! I’m not teaming up with her, she’ll make us lose at everything” he complains as well.

“I will? I think the actual loser here it’s you”

“Oh, am I now-?” The metal-head starts responding when Steve steps in, cutting him off.

“Okay! Stop yelling, we’re not even playing yet! The teams have been chosen, try and be faster next time”

“We’ll start with Guess Who” Robin announces.

As the game progressed, the bickering continued.

"Does your person have brown hair?" Eddie asks Nancy and Jonathan, who nod.

You reach over to flip down the characters with blond or red hair "See, this is why we should’ve picked someone with a hat, it's less obvious"

Eddie rolled his eyes "Oh, please. Like your guess was any better. We’re losing here!” Eddie complains.

"Only if you keep making terrible guesses" you shoot back.

"Does your person have a hat?" you ask the other team.

"No"

"Still think the hat was a good idea?" Eddie raised an eyebrow at you.

"It was strategic" you huff, flipping down the characters with hats.

After playing most of the board games you had, you were tied with the second group, Steve and Robin had already lost.

“Last but not least, to decide the winner of this evening, I present… battleship” Robin announces once more.

"You sure you can keep up with this game? It requires more than just a pretty face" Eddie asks you.

"Don’t worry, I have enough brains to make up for your lack of them" you respond.

“Quit it, start playing” Steve orders.

"Let's just get this over with" you roll your eyes.

They set up the Battleship boards, each team carefully arranging their ships. Eddie and you hunched over the board, whispering fiercely.

"Put the battleship here" he insist, pointing to the top left corner.

"No, it’s too obvious. Let’s hide it in the middle"

"Fine, but when they hit it right away don’t blame me" he groans.

As the game progressed, your bickering intensified.

"B6" Jonathan called out.

You glance at the board and softly nod your head "Hit"

Eddie leans closer, his voice a teasing whisper, "I told you the corner was better"

"Just focus"

When it was your turn, Eddie called out "G4"

Nancy checks their board, "Miss"

You smirk "Looks like your guess wasn’t so great either"

Eddie rolls his eyes "Just wait"

A few rounds later, it was your turn again.

"E5" Eddie calls out.

"Miss" Nancy announces.

"I told you they wouldn’t put it there" you huff.

"Like you’ve done any better"

"How about C3?" you roll your eyes.

"Fine, C3" Eddie sighs.

"Hit" Jonathan says between his teeth.

"See? I told you" you smirk.

"Don’t get cocky, princess"

The tension built as the game neared its end, each team with only one ship left.

"Last shot, let's go with G3" Eddie says

You nod.

"You sunk our battleship" Jonathan confirms after a long sigh.

“YES!”

“COME ONN” both you and Eddie shout in excitement and before even thinking about it you hug tightly.

Robin and Steve watch the scene with wide eyes and smirks on their faces.

And the second your bodies touch each other you realize what you’re actually doing. The hug only lasts few seconds before you both back away awkwardly.

“See? You actually do make a pretty good team” Robin comments.

“Only because I took the last shot” Eddie says.

“Oh please, if it were up to you we’d still be guessing corners” you reply.

"And if it were up to you, we'd be stuck in the middle forever”

Your friends roll their eyes as the bickering continued. And as you act indifferent, you try not think about how you had to stand on the tip of your toes to wrap your arms around his neck, or how soft his hair had felt touching your skin.

His frizzy and chaotic hair. But so curly and soft.

--

Couple of weeks after that night had passed, you hung out with the guys almost every weekend. You favorite nights were the ones Eddie was busy and couldn’t make it. Like tonight.

“Pass the salt, please” Nancy asks Robin. You all went out to have dinner together. Not all actually, Jonathan was too busy as well, him you did miss.

“It’s like we’re having a girl’s night!” you say excitedly and both girls laugh as well.

“No, you’re not about to count me in as a girl” He complains.

“Oh please, you have better hair than me!” Robin comments and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m just teasing, jeez! Someone has their panties in a twist!” you joke.

“Are you on your period or something?” Nancy joins in sarcastically.

“Alright, not even funny” Steve interrupts. “Let's focus. I think we should keep planning the trip, even though we’re not all here tonight”

“Don’t even mention it. I miss Jonathan so much, he’s been so busy lately. I think he really needs a break” Nancy complains and Robin agrees with her.

“I know, it’s really noticeable when Eddie’s not here either”

“Oh yeah, he’s the one I miss. His irritating voice and loud comments. His annoying essence it’s what’s missing here!” you joke but they don’t find it funny.

“We’ve been through this, you’re gonna have to learn to like each other”

“Sure sure, so… the trip?” you change the topic acting foolish.

“Yeah, I liked the hiking option. We always go to the lake every summer, we should change it up” Nancy votes. You’ve never went to any lake with them since this is the first year you’re joining them. But they had told some stories about this hidden lake they usually go to in summer.

“I think so too, plus we should do something different since we have a new integrant” Steve comments smiling at you. Robin and you also agree to go with that option.

The guys make sure of telling the rest everything you have agreed on that night. You’ve settled on where to go hiking and the cabin that would be waiting for you at night.

A few weeks later you're all set to go.

The trip to get there was...

Steve and Jonathan took turns driving. "You must be a really shitty driver if no one here trusts you behind the wheel" you notice and tell Eddie.

"I'm not a bad driver, princess. Maybe we could go for a drive sometime and you could judge for yourself! We'll call it a date" Eddie teases you the way he knows will shut you up, it always worked. As soon as he started flirting with you, it was like you got shy all of the sudden. Replying with some nonsense that would make Eddie laugh harder because he knew he had won.

"I'd rather get eaten by a shark" you respond ignoring the nervousness that ran through your body.

"Alright, we still have a few hours ahead of us, and I'm not gonna make them with you two bickering the whole way there. So calm down" Steve —or actually, mom Steve— told you off.

Once you got to the cabin, you parked the car, settled everything down, ate something and got ready for today's hiking exercise.

Eddie was never a big fan of sports, so he knew that after an hour or so of hiking —no matter how slow they were walking or how much water he was drinking— he would just start to stay a little behind. Not a lot, but definitely the last on the row.

Also, he started to get bored. Eddie was chatting with Jonathan, but he started to take pictures of every little plant or flower he saw, and the higher you got, the more pictures of the view he wanted to take.

So Eddie started to walk in silence, taking notice of other little things, like the fact that you and Steve look pretty close and pretty giggly with each other since you started hiking. But not only that, obviously, it's not like he's jealous or anything. For him to be jealous he would have to like you in the first place, and there was no way Eddie wants you.

You're the obvious person to like; everyone in Hawkins is already smitten with you. Every guy has a crush on you because you're undeniably beautiful. He knew from the first moment he saw you that you'd never go for a guy like him. So, to keep himself from showing any sign that he wanted you, he did the opposite —he started to hate you.

So he is definitely not jealous. He was only noticing that like he noticed the colourful rocks that he walked by, or the clouds in the sky, or the way those shorts hug your body so nicely.

But he keeps hearing your laughter every ten seconds. Was Steve really being that funny, or you were acting all giggly for him? Did you like Steve? It certainly seems like you do.

You, however, were having so much fun. In the middle of a funny story Steve was telling you about some guy who tried to flirt with Robin at work and the look on her face not knowing how to tell him she didn’t like him —or well, any men for that matter.

The forest path was rugged, but you welcomed the challenge at first, feeling the cool morning air on your skin. However, after a while, your legs began to protest, your breath came in shorter gasps. It was hard to keep up with Steve. Swimmer and football player Steve. So you had to slow down a little, now walking alongside Eddie.

“What’s the matter, princess? Can’t keep up?” he teases with a mocking tone.

“You literally got behind sooner than me” you answer, shaking your head. “If anyone’s slow here, it’s you”

“But it looks like we're both walking together now, so who's really winning?” Eddie chuckles, unfazed by your sharp reply as his eyes twinkle with amusement.

You decide to ignore him. How foolish of you to think that he would accept that silence.

“So what’s the deal between you and Steve? You looked pretty cozy back there. You’re not very subtle, you know”

“There’s no deal with Steve, we were just talking” you roll your eyes, irritation flaring up.

"Right, just talking" he says, his tone dripping with scepticism. "You’re so obvious, it's almost painful to watch"

“Why don’t you stop jumping to conclusions and mind your own business” 

“Ohh, is the princess mad at me now? I’m so scared!” he grins, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re impossible” you say almost to yourself.

You kept walking for a few more hours, taking occasional breaks to catch your breath and sip some water. The trail seemed endless, but the beauty of the forest made it worth the effort.

As you trudged along, you noticed the sky darkening. Grey clouds, rolling in with alarming speed. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves more aggressively.

A man in uniform hurrying down the trail called you out. "Hey, you guys need to find shelter! A big storm is coming in fast. There's no way you'll make it back down in time"

Panic start to appear in all of your eyes.

“Wait? Seriously?” Nancy asks.

“Yes! There’s a motel that’s a few minutes away, to your left” the guy informs you. “I don’t know how much room they have left, cause I’ve been sending some people there already. But you should go now”

Finally after quickening your pace, you spot the outline of a motel nestled among the trees. You hurry towards it. As you approach, you see the motel was old but resistant.

You reach the door and push it open, stumbling inside just as the storm unleashed its full fury. Inside, it was dim and musty, but at least it was dry.

“Hello, uh, we need room for six, please” Nancy is the first one to get to the register and talk to the old woman who was reading a newspaper as if she hadn’t heard you coming in.

“$70 the night” she answers without even looking up at you.

“Uhh… okay, we’ll take it” Nancy says and as you all reach for you wallets, the woman gives you three keys.

“There’s only three rooms left, two with queen beds and one with two separate single beds” she speaks again, as slowly as she can apparently.

“SEPARATE BED” Robin shouts fast.

“ME TOO” Steve is quickly to join her on calling dibs for that room. Not wanting to share a bed.

“Wait! No!” you complain. “Why would you get it just cause you screamed?”

“We called dibs, sorry sweetie” Robin explains.

“But that’s not fair, we should have discussed it!” Eddie joins in.

“Too late” Steve says handing the money to the woman and taking the key of their room.

“Come on guys, maybe they have a couch” Jonathan tries to make you feel better as he also pays and picks a key to their room.

“Are you actually making us share a bed?!” you ask them offended.

“Maybe it’ll help you become friends!” Robin tells you.

After paying and grabbing that stupid key, you all go to your rooms. As you walk in you notice that, in fact, there is no couch.

“Fuck” Eddie complains once again. “I’ll take the floor, let’s just find some blankets that I can sleep on”

And you turn that room upside down trying to find some. But the only blanket in the room is the –only– one on the bed.

“There’s nothing here!” you sit on the bed admitting defeat. “We’re both gonna have to sleep on the bed. I’m gonna freeze without a blanket and you can’t sleep on the bare floor, you’d freeze too”

“If you wanted to sleep with me, you could’ve just said so” Eddie jokes.

“Not now, Munson! Really not in the mood!”

After each getting ready for bed, you start building a wall of pillows in the middle. Separating his part of the bed from yours.

“I bet you wouldn’t make Steve have a wall of pillows” he mumbles, but you’re able to hear him nonetheless.

“Did you not listen when I said not now?!”

“See, that’s the problem with you. You think you can just walk in here acting like you own the fucking place. Newsflash, princess, not everyone is going to fall at your feet following your little orders!” Eddie gets mad for real this time, but so are you.

“I’m so sorry for trying to make this less uncomfortable! Actually, if you want I’ll even cuddle you while we sleep!”

“Shut up” Eddie rolls his eyes.

“No really, we should even make out before sleeping while we’re at it! Maybe that’ll prove to you that I don’t fucking like Steve”

“Yeah, you wish” Eddie comments.

“Actually, I think you wish. Giving that you’re always trying to flirt with me when we argue and giving how jealous you seem to be about Steve” you notice.

“I’m not fucking jealous. And you’re the one suggesting to fucking make out!”

“See, I think you do want to. You’re just too much of a pussy to even admit it” you whisper close to his face.

“Oh my God, princess!” Eddie starts laughing arrogantly. “You wouldn’t even be able to handle me”

“Oh yeah, you’re right! I could not handle your two centimetres because I would be too busy laughing my ass off at your angry half inch” you respond at his face.

But he doesn’t say anything back. He just looks at you. His jaw clenching, eyes darkening, breath heaving.

Before you can react, he closes the distance in one swift, aggressive movement. Gripping your arms tightly, he kissed you fiercely and angrily, his lips bruising against yours, as if trying to channel all the pent-up emotions into that kiss.

To say that you're shocked would be an understatement. But you did kiss him back. How could you not? With all the ardor and sentiment that he was putting into that kiss?

That fucking kiss.

After he felt your lips moving along with his in a dance, he let all the anger go. The kiss became passionate and intense instead of angry. Like you were finally letting go. Stopped overthinking and finally giving in.

You didn't need to talk. You didn't want to. Instead, you put one hand on his haw and the other on his hair, feeling it in between your fingers, bringing him even closer.

He sighs, holding a grunt as he feels you play with his hair. His hands move lower to your hips, feeling the upper part of your body in the process.

A fight for dominance is held up between you two. He bites your lip harshly, and you let out a little gasp that allows him to win. He's playing dirty. You're not surprised.

He starts to push you down slowly, so you're lying on the bed with him on top of you.

Your hands travel lower as well as you feel his back. You wonder if he has any tattoos there as well.

He dares to leave your lips alone as he lowers his kisses to your jaw and then your neck. He kisses and bites and licks all over your neck. You can bet that he is leaving marks as purple as a grape.

It turns you both on even more.

Eddie feels like he's flying. He's even touching the clouds. Marking you all up is only an image that haunts him in his fantasies. Like when he can't sleep, or is in the shower, or after fighting with you all evening and you're looking so beautiful and you're being such a brat. That's when he imagines leaving you all bruised out. But he's actually doing it right now, and he's going feral.

You start to feel like you're too dressed. His hands go under your shirt, and he starts to pull it up. You pull your arms up as well so he can take it off. His kisses keep traveling lower on your body. Your chest, your shoulders, the top of your breasts. He stops there. Making out with one of your nipples over the lace of your bra while pinching the other. You start moaning, your hips move searching friction on your core, and he lowers his hips so you can start dry humping him.

You feel his smirk against your sensitive skin as well as his hard on against your centre. Mocking your desperation. You're not surprised.

He moves up, meeting face to face once again. "So desperate for me, aren't you princess?" he whispers so closely to you face you can feel his lips moving and his evil smile too.

He watches you breath hard and your legs trying to close searching for that friction in between once more.

"Ask me nicely and I'll take care of you" he proposes and you roll your eyes.

You can't. You won't.

"Beg for it, princess" he tries again. "Let me hear you"

You shake your head. You're playing difficult, but Eddie likes a challenge.

"No? You're not gonna beg for me? Alright princess, you know what I'm gonna do?" he pauses to think. "I'm gonna make you cum so fast on my tongue you'll be embarrassed, and then you'll know how much of a desperate slut you can be for me"

You want to laugh and tell him off, but you are so intrigued by his confidence at the same time. You settle for a defiant look thrown at him, he catches it and smirks again. Something tells you you'll be seeing that smirk quite a lot tonight.

He unhooks your bra and throws it somewhere in the room, he squeezes your tits and caresses your nipples making a mental note to keep playing with them later. His hands travel down to your pants which are the next item being thrown away inside the room.

He takes a second to admire the view of you only on those white panties and he feels his cock jump. He proceeds to take your underwear off too, but this item is put inside his back pocket.

He puts your legs over his shoulders and lowers to be closer to your pussy. He bites his lip admiring how fucking pretty and perfect it looks. He wastes no more time and dives in.

He licks it and kisses it and sucks on it drunk on your taste. He fucking makes out with your clit and has you meowing and arching back like a damn cat.

His hands grab your thighs so hard he's probably leaving marks there too. He sighs and hums and laughs against your pussy hearing your pretty moans.

He looks up at you as you look down at him and you both feel like you could just cum at the sight alone. Your cheeks blushed, eyes watery, hair a mess, lips swollen and little moans are still coming out of them. He looks up at you while still sucking on your clit so fucking good. His eyes are covered by his bangs so you reach to move them to the side. His puppy eyes look straight at you, his hair is also a mess, and his hands are gripping you with so much force his skin as well as yours becomes whiter. And his rings feel cold and addictive against you.

You try to fight your orgasm but looking at him makes it impossible. It hits all throughout your body so good that you cry out his name as you pull on his hair.

As you catch your breath, he sits up and washes all your wetness off his face with the back of his hand, all that with a big smirk on so proud of himself.

"Still doubting me?"

You grunt, annoyed, and bring him closer. You pull his shirt over his head and take a second to admire his bare chest and arms covered in tattoos. You unbutton and unzip his pants. He's just watching you act so desperate for him to undress, enjoying every second of it like the cocky motherfucker he can be.

"Need help?" he whispers on your ear, and you nod with a pout. He stands up and takes his pants of slowly.

"These too?" he asks, signalling his boxers. You nod as you feel even hotter paying attention to the big tent he has on them.

He puts them down too, standing up proudly as you look at his big cock. "Half inch you said?" he teases you, and you look up at him as if telling him to shut the fuck up.

You sit up facing his dick. You grab it gently as you keep looking at it. How is it so... pretty? How the fuck does Eddie manages to be pretty everywhere. Even what you thought could not be pretty. He manages to make it look beautiful.

A mischievous thought crosses your mind. And you start leaving some kisses on the tip. Even a lick here and there.

He gasps unexpectedly. You put the tip in your mouth, moving your tongue around it. He lets out a little moan. You look up at him, he's already looking at you. And you proceed to slowly put all of it in your mouth while maintaining eye contact. His tip touches your throat, and you have to fight a gag. You still have a full fist grabbing the rest that didn't fit your mouth. He moans again at your little show. You close your eyes and start moving your head up and down. Eddie moans louder this time, and hands stop your movements.

"As much as I enjoy this, princess, and I really fucking am" he lets you know. "I want to cum once I'm inside of your perfect little pussy, can I?"

You take him out of your mouth with a 'pop' at the end and look at him defiantly once again. "Beg for it" you challenge him feeling proud of yourself.

He laughs. "Are you seriously telling me to beg for it while you're still practically on your knees for me?"

You won't let him win this one, so you lay back again resting on your elbows. "Beg for it"

He takes a big breath in ogling over all of your body on display for him and only him. He'll let you win this one because his dick is throbbing at the sight before him.

His hands travel up your legs and your hips to your waist. "Please, princess" he says once his face is closer to yours.

"Please, let me fuck you so good" he starts humping his dick against your pussy which makes you both gasp.

"Please, please, please" he kisses your cheek to sugar-coat you.

"Eddieee" you move your pelvis up and down against him. "Do it, put it in"

And he wastes no time to do so. Pushing his tip inside and you both gasp. He bites his lip and thrusts to enter you completely.

"Oh, fuck" your head is thrown back and you lay back down. He feels so big and so fucking good in you.

"Mhh, fuck princess" he lowers his body to be chest to chest with you. "You feel so good baby, so tight around me"

You have to bite your tongue to stop you from moaning his name, you can't keep inflating his ego.

"Don't get all quiet now. You're always talking and the one time I wanna hear you..." he teases you.

"Earn it" you manage to get out. It's ironic how your lips are almost bleeding from how hard you're biting on them to stop you from moaning as hard as you want to, but you still tell him to fuck you better.

Eddie knows what you're doing, but he likes playing with you too. So he accepts the challenge.

He gets up on his knees against the bed and takes your legs to pull you closer to him. You instantly wrap them around his hips. He wraps a hand around your throat and he looks like he's about to say something, but instead, he enters you again. A moan escapes from your mouth instantly, and you see his big smirk back.

He starts a hard and fast pace with his thrusts as you hear his sighs against your ear. You can't help the whines and moans that escape you now. Your hands go to his back scratching him, and pulling at his hair, but it only makes him moan harder.

He lowers his head to your breasts once again and keeps kissing them as he fucks you. You arch back again, because you can feel him everywhere. And he feels so so good.

He feels you clench around his dick and he thinks he could just cum right now. So he starts playing with your clit with his fingers.

"Eddiee... 'm so closee" you whine pulling him somehow even closer.

"Yeah? You are?" you nod desperately. "Beg for it" he whispers and smirks right after saying it.

You roll your eyes but it doesn't take much to convince you this time.

"Please, Eddie," he was about to tell you that you can do better, but beat him to it. "Please baby, you feel so good inside of me, so big. Eddie, please"

Eddie has to stop himself from cuming -which he almost does. "Cum for me, baby"

And you do. Your orgasm hits even harder than the first one. You gasp and whine without even thinking about it.

Few seconds after that, Eddie can't take it anymore. He feels you clench even harder while you cum and it becomes too much. So he lets go too while moaning your name against your skin.

You take a few seconds to catch your breaths when you feel Eddie pull out —and after admiring how his cum drips out of your pussy— he gets up, puts on his boxers and goes to the bathroom, only to come back with a wet towel to clean you up. To say he surprised you again was an understatement. Who would have thought he would be so careful?

After you go to the bathroom as well —with wobbly legs Eddie smirks about— and change into some comfy clothes, you both lay down. No wall pillow this time. And are quick to fall asleep after all the exercise you did today.

The next morning wasn’t so sweet. Loud knocking on your bedroom’s door accompanied a loud Robin telling you to get up already.  

Waking up all curled up with him was bound to happen. But if someone would have told you yesterday morning that today you would be waking up with Eddie Munson spooning you, you would have laughed at their face.

But here you are, and to be honest, it had been a while since you slept so peacefully.

You feel him groaning against the skin of your shoulder, holding you tighter.

You slowly opened your eyes to accustom to the light.

“Did you end up killing each other last night?! Answer me!” Robin shouts again from the other side of the door.

“Certainly feels like it” Eddie murmurs and laughs at his own joke.

“We’re awake! Calm down!” you let her know.

“We have to leave so then we can breakfast, so hurry up!” she lets you know.

You get up and start tiding up. Eddie is slower, he sits on the bed barely opening one eye to look at you and smiles. “Good morning, princess”

You look at him and a little smirk escapes from your lips. “Hey” you greet him shyly.

You both start changing to get down and tidy everything down. After you both brush your teeth, you go to pick up your backpack but he stops you to pull you in close to him.

“Good morning” he says again with his face close to yours while he pulls a strand of your hair behind your ear. Then he proceeds to kiss you, sweetly this time. Which warms your heart. You kiss him back playing with his hair once again.

“Hi, Munson” you say sweetly against his lips.

“You look beautiful in the morning” he admits but before you can even react, the knocking on your door is back.

“Okay! Okay! We’re coming!” Eddie stops them. “Jesus”

After getting down, you were waiting for them to explain where you would be having breakfast but as soon as they see you they start looking at you funny.

“What?” Eddie asks being as confused as you but they all start laughing.

“What is going on?” you ask again.

“Are we just gonna pretend like nothing happened?” Jonathan asks now.

“Yeah, were you gonna act like you still hate each other today?” Steve teases.

And you understand all the laughter. You and Eddie look at each other surprised and apparently this is also very funny because they start laughing again.

“Oh fuuuck” Jonathan starts mocking the way Eddie sounded last night also acting like moaning your name.

“Oh Eddie, so close!” Steve joins him acting like you.

Your face is as red as a tomato right now and you feel like you could just die, it would be better than taking whatever this is. You hide your face in Eddie’s shoulder after he just rolls his eyes fighting another smirk.

He laughs at you, put stills hugs you.

“You wanted us to like each other…” He defends you two.

“Yeah, apparently you took that very literal” Robin teases after catching her breath.

[mv1simp]

Into You ♥️

Max Verstappen x Redbull Engineer! Reader

Oh baby, look what you've started, the temperature's rising and is this gonna happen? (Been waitin' and waitin' for you to make a move)

At 27, you've just been promoted to the role of Redbull's race engineer - a very impressive feat in motorsport for a young woman. There's just one issue though - you secretly had a massive crush on the driver you're meant to be guiding, Max Verstappen. Will you make it through the season before he catches on? (You hope so because goddamn, the HR team were a nightmare to deal with.)

Content includes: fluff, humour, Max and reader are simps for each other, sexual tension, pining, drunk confessions, 3.2k WC

Recently, you'd started having some issues at work. Okay, gun to your head, you'll admit it was more like a single issue - in the shape of a very attractive, 6 foot Dutch racing driver who occasionally had problems with anger management. Sure, it didn’t sound that bad, in fact, someone else would just sit back and enjoy the eye candy the F1 paddock provided! But to truly appreciate the full depth of your embarrassing problem, one needed to unpack all the lore behind it.

After graduating from a prestigious mechanical engineering master's program, you'd been ecstatic about getting to intern at Redbull's F1 racing team, department of aerodynamic design. You'd started working at the company at a very good time, because later that year, their top driver Max Verstappen claims his first WDC at age 24 - only 6 months your junior. A very impressive feat for such a young age - as you admire him from a distance in the garage workshop. And, super hot too, you thought cheekily, whoever wifed him up was sure to be a lucky woman.

Your own hard work hadn't gone unnoticed, and many higher-ups and sponsors alike were curious to see the team who had been behind the championship winning changes to the Redbull car. You'd risen very quickly in the ranks, from intern to permanent technical engineer and then last year to to the innovative research & development department, now involved directly with calling the big shots for what each version of the car would look like and coming face to face with Max for the first time in your career with Redbull.

Unlike the other drivers, Max was genuinely curious about your design process. The way he asked questions, thoughtfully listened to your long explanations and then would give you direct feedback about the exact issues he would have in the trial runs had made you flustered, especially from the full intensity of his blue eyes. No, seriously though, Shakespeare himself would have written poetry if he'd gazed into them. The TikTok creators certainly seem to agree, with all their ocean eyes edits. Not that you had any saved. Anyways, moving on-

You were on the quieter side but Max seemed to know just how to get through to you. It meant that your team had been able to design the most dominating car in F1 history - the RB23, and paired with Max Verstappen it was an unstoppable force, almost like you made it just for me, Max had said, smiling gorgeously at you like some GQ Sports model. You stared back at him incredulously, banana choc chip muffin halfway to your mouth, cause who the hell woke up looking like that, you two were wearing identical Redbull shirts but his looked like it had been personally tailored to fit that broad muscular chest and yours was giving oversized trash bag??

Honestly, you'd hoped that working in closer proximity would humanise him more and you'd lose this silly crush of yours the moment you saw him do some icky rich white boy move. Like maybe he’d donate to Donald Trump's anti vaccine campaign or say guys 🥺 Can’t go to Ibiza this weekend the yacht staff had an emergency, got caught in some Gulf war zone or something? Idk

But when he had knocked on your apartment door when you hadn't shown up to work in two days, and found you crying because your childhood dog had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer across the other side of the world and saying I’m sorry, I know it’s not that big of a deal, I’ll come back tomorrow I promise-

And instead of laughing like you’d expected, he’d cut you off, told you to pack a bag and then driven you all the way to his personal jet. You looked into his beautiful blue eyes while he earnestly begged you to use it so you could make it in time to say goodbye to your Arlo before your parents put him down tonight. And that’s when you realised you were doomed to be hopelessly in love with the younger man. (But also, you had a serious discussion with him about the extreme greenhouse gas emissions from private jet fuel use, we only had one planet, you would be happy to just fly first class instead-)

But when your mentor Newey announced his plans to leave Redbull this year, you had planned on following him - making the exec panic at the thought of losing two of their crucial engineers. They frantically thrown random promotions at you, praying one would stick - and Redbull twitter fans breathed a sigh of relief when you took interest in the role of race engineer and stayed in the company.

You'd been excited about becoming one of Checo's engineers, having trained under the current one for the last few months. But to your horror, one day you arrived on the paddock only to be promptly sat down at a meeting along with the two drivers and be informed that they'd had to switch some things around, GP had an emergency to attend and could you pretty please fill in for the role of Max's race engineer this weekend-

NOPE. You'd announced, standing up and slamming your hands on the table, then realising that might be a touch overdramatic as everyone questioningly looked at you. Why not? Christian Horner demanded suspiciously.

Um, because he's super hot, you fool?! How is a girl meant to focus with him whispering track feels really wet today in her headphones? Were the years of self control to just admire from a distance like a loser and not jeopardise your career just a joke to him?? You don’t blink as your boss stared you down, hoping he could pick up on the thoughts that you’re trying to telepathically communicate. The table remained silent, only interrupted by the noisy slurping of Checo's boba tea. You quickly changed tactics - well, Verstappen is the winning champion, he needs an engineer who has experience working alongside him during the race-

Alas, the object of your affections threw a well intended wrench in your escape plans by adding that you were the perfect person, then, since you'd worked together for years and understood his communication style. Unless - he paused, flashing those deadly baby blues at you - unless the issue is you don't want to work with me?

You'd lasted all of three seconds under his hurt gaze before admitting defeat and accepting the role, slumping down next to him and desperately praying you'd wake up a lesbian tomorrow morning. Max continued to sneak long glances at you through the meeting, leaning around you to grab a pen and then his phone and making you jump each time his strong arm wrapped around your small frame. Across the table, Checo thoughtfully chewed on his boba as he watched you two curiously. Ah, young love.

And to no one's surprise the pair of you had made a flawless team, you expertly guiding Max as your engineer instincts took over and him actually listening to your helpful instructions without his usual aggression over the radio. And so when GP announced that his 1 week emergency was now going to be a 6 month break, sorry! - it had been all too easy for Christian Horner to bestow the honour of being Max's primary engineer onto you.

So now, here you sat, before your 4th race with Max, grimly looking on with your chin propped onto interlaced fingers, preparing yourself for his deep, sexy voice that was going to be purring in your ears very soon. The very voice that had become a recurring theme in the dreams you'd been having lately, that and also how he would bite those thick lips of his when he'd stare at you, with his cute little freckle on his top lip-

Why do you look like you're about to go to war, your intern asks bluntly, putting an end to your illicit thoughts and delivering you your triple chocolate caramel frap. Because I am, you hissed, sculling the whole thing in one go. She smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. Was this to do with how categorically down bad you are for your precious Maxie?

You proceeded to inform her that if she ever brought up how you'd drunkedly referred to him that one time, you'd have no problem abusing your authority to shaft her on tire service duty for a week. She wisely chose to leave you be in peace, taking your empty cup as she went.

Taking some meditative breaths, you focus on thinking about unsexy things. Like the hydraulics system of the current car needing to be redesigned to better incorporate-

Your thoughts are cut off a second time as another cup is deposited in front of you, this time by none other than Max himself, who's thoughtfully brought you a triple chocolate caramel frap. You stutter out your thanks, not daring to touch more caffeine currently as you already had sweaty palpitations at the sight of him looking so big and muscled in his slutty tight fireproofs. Dear God, had he no shame? They needed to bring back the Victorian era and cover him up, he was going to distract everyone (mainly you.) He frowns slightly, leaning down to your height, and informs you that you didn't have to call him Verstappen, you know, Max is fine-

Wow. And then what would come next? Maxie? And then you asking him for his hand in marriage? No, no, absolutely not - you needed to maintain strict professional boundaries or risk him catching onto your massive crush and promptly be fired. You politely informed him that for the sake of public decorum and the rabid fangirls that were watching your every move as a young female engineer in proximity to their favourite drivers, that you would refer to him as Verstappen, or Mr. Verstappen if he preferred a more formal title?

He'd pouted those lush lips of his and reluctantly agreed that just Verstappen was okay, he supposed. But he much preferred hearing you call him Max, at least when there were no cameras around? What you had done in your past life to now be forced to resist such temptation, you would never know.

So the season went on, you two continuing to be a smashing success and a very popular internet pairing. Not that you'd been paying that much attention! Just a saved TikTok edit here and there of the time Max had called you schatje over the radio after blowing up about a tire malfunction. He’d then sweetly apologised the next lap when you remained unfazed and told him to sort his shit out, babes, Leclerc was right up his ass with a tire and DRS malfunction, yeah? (Twitter had gone crazy. Who knew Max Verstappen responded so well to a 5 foot, slightly older woman giving him orders over the team radio?! You’d instantly been accepted as a replacement for the beloved GP, original gentle domTM to the Dutch driver.)

And perhaps another saved edit of the time he had protectively held you in those big, strong arms of his, guiding your tiny figure through a massive media-frenzied crowd and whispered reassurances in your ear when you couldn’t breathe properly. Or the time he’d bitten a reporter’s head off with the ferocity of a lion after he suggested that as the first female race engineer, you’d acquired your new job through your…feminine wiles.

And maybe just one of when the PR team had made you do one of those ridiculous hot lap videos with him after seeing the online response, and he'd laughed as you screamed out of fear for your life when he cruised at a cool 200km/hr. The aftermath had been brutal, as you weakly stumble out and almost fall flat on your face, only for him to easily pick you up, carrying you bridal style back towards the garage (Truly, this right here was proof God sent his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers.)

Nearing the end of the 6 month stint, when GP was due back in to resume his role as Max's race engineer, the Redbull team had decided to take a well deserved weekend trip to Verona, Italy. You’d suspiciously looked at your intern, asking why she’d selected the romantic setting of Romeo & Juliet of all places, to which she replied that just cause you’d chosen to cockblock yourself for eternity with a crush on your coworker the millionaire F1 driver, didn’t mean the rest of them couldn’t get some. Valid point, so you shut up.

So now, here you are, sitting in a romantically lit corner of a cute Italian vineyard with a small group from the engineering division, sloshed after a bottle of red wine and asking them be real, be real, you're telling me none of you have been checked out Max's ass in his fireproofs? Lies.

Across the courtyard, Lando is currently extremely unimpressed with his good friend, 3 time Championship winning, and general terror on the track Max Verstappen. That is because said friend has decided, rather pathetically, to lie on the cobblestone and drunkedly ask the stars why fate was so cruel. Seriously mate, Lando sighs, all this over a silly insta post?

Excuse you, it’s not just any insta post! Max had protested, baby tears in his eyes and face flushed from the four G&Ts he’d drunk. Pulling out his phone, he shows Lando the damning evidence of the pictures you'd uploaded from the group trip with your engineering friends. Look. LOOK. His arm is around her and she used a Lana Del Ray lyric in the caption. Do you have any idea what this means?

The Brit has to resist rolling his eyes at the melodrama unfolding in front of him. The Dutchman continues, never one to miss a chance to maxplain - as he details how it had taken him a a whole 2 months to get him to call you by his first name, and then another 2 months before you'd told him your favourite song was Summertime Sadness, and that even now if he hugged you to celebrate a win you would look like you were about to throw up and furiously speed walk away.

Lando is seriously regretting tagging along to the Redbull trip instead of Carlos's invitation to Mallorca. It was bad enough that the whole train ride Max had been on the phone begging GP to take another 6 month break so that you'd continue to be his engineer, but Lando has had his limit with this simpy pining. Taking his phone out as the maxplaining continued in the background, he shoots a text to your intern, who immediately replies, and within minutes the pair of them have hatched a conniving plan to dump you lovesick fools together while the rest of them make their way into town.

And that’s how you and Max find yourself locked inside the upstairs wine cellar, having been separately tricked with various promises from your scheming friends - only to hear the door click behind you and turn to find each other. It's very romantic and all, soft candlelight and bottles of luxurious Italian wine and a shining full moon visible from the terracotta balcony. Someone had even generously left a speaker in the courtyard, with Lana Del Ray's melodic voice rising upto the second floor. Basically, the worst nightmare for your self control as you prayed for inner strength and avoid looking into Max's dreamy blue eyes. This was definitely some twisted beyond the grave revenge from Shakespeare for you saying he'd write poetry about a F1 driver’s eyes.

Max, though, is all too happy to come right over to you with another freshly opened bottle of wine, drunk and flushed and having zero inhibitions about pulling you into his warm side with a strong arm. You're too buzzed to resist, letting yourself fall against his chest to hear his soothing heartbeat and rest a palm against his hard abs, just this once (The real thing was even better than what you'd imagined.)

You're both laughing and giggling then, hearts full, reminiscing about the season together, the inside jokes on the radio, the side eyes to each other when Horner got too wound up at a meeting, and oh did you hear that the McLaren tireboy was hooking up with the Mercedes oilchecker?

And then your eyes meet his and your homegirl Lana starts singing dear lord when I get to heaven, please let me bring my man (real) and Max is softly brushing your cheek, leaning down as your heated gazes flit to each other's lips-

NOPE! you force yourself to declare, dramatically leaving his arms and contemplating if you could land the jump from the 2nd floor balcony. The Italian wine has made Max demanding though, as he doesn't let you go, grabbing your hand to pull you back like he was Anthony goddamn Bridgerton and wanting to know Why not, was he just imagining the chemistry, did you not find him hot or?

You'd gaped at him. Not hot? Apparently the Italian wine had gotten to you too because you didn't hold back, launching into a tirade of how no, Max, the issue was actually that he was too hot for his own good and did he even know how unfair it had been to be his engineer, pure torture really, you were sure the American military would be adding it to their interrogation tactics. As if it hadn't been bad enough to crush on him from a distance for years but then have to resist falling for him every time you saw him? So, no, you couldn't just give him a casual drunk kiss because you were in love with him!

Max stares at you, initially smug that you apparently found him so irresistibly good looking, but now completely bewildered when you finished ranting. You think - he swallowed. You think that this is just casual? Cause I- cause I'm drunk?

At your nod, he launches into his own maxplaination, brows furrowed, demanding to know how on earth you could think it was just casual, what about when he diligently showed up to every meeting with a banana choc muffin and caramel frappe and his hoodie for you to wear on the chilly mornings, or when he brought two Lana Del Ray VIP tickets the very same day you'd told him you liked her, or when he'd literally called you darling in Dutch over the team radio for the whole world to hear, or how he even sold his private jet and only jetpooled with the others since you told him off?! Seriously, even that old crone Helmut had asked him when you two were going to hard launch!

Your doe eyes go wider and wider at each statement, a pretty flush taking over your own face as your mind boggles at the realisation that apparently, the love of your life felt just as deeply about you. Stuttering, you try to formulate a reply - only to come up with Oh, well, I, uh - you sold your jet? For me?

Max rolls his eyes, but there's nothing except pure adoration on his face as he pulls you back into his warm chest, grinning down at you when you eagerly wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Yes, schat, he murmurs gently, the cutest blush painting his cheeks. Because I love you, too. And this time you don't pull away when he finally, finally leans down and meets your lips in a passionate kiss, enjoying the sweet moans he draws out of you as he showcases his numerous talents off the track.

Somewhere, in the middle of a Verona nightclub, your intern gives Lando Norris a firm handshake. Pleasure doing business with you.

_____________________________________________

A/N: A lil sweet fluff for me, this is actually my first fluff piece i think ahaha i've only written like 8 smut pieces in a row!! Hope you enjoyed 💖 and PS thank you ALL for the requests you’ve been sending, been getting them and will work thru them just have a few projects I’m cookin up for u guys hehe xx

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 01. IN DREAMS WE REST

a/n: i've been stressed about this fic probably more than any other i've ever written. not because it's logan per se, but because wade wilson makes me want to rip my hair out. i love that bastard, but writing him feels like pulling teeth. i'm in love with this concept solely for the angst, so if you see more throughout and wonder if they will ever get a happy ending, please know i'm dead inside. enjoy!

summary: stuck in another universe and unsure of where he stands, logan expects things to even out as they always did. but when you cross his path and you have no idea who he is, he's in for a rude awakening.

word count: 5.9k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, angst, cussing so much cussing, alcohol consumption, grief, pain, a broken man pretending he's not broken, chance encounters, awkward conversations, hope.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

He can hear it when he sleeps.

Their screams.

The constant ring of agony that chimes out like a bell, an alarm he never set for himself. A joke once told to him in the midst of World War II, as bullets flew by him and soldiers lost their lives each second of each day. There's no escape from hell. No running from the devil that nipped at his heels the faster he went, the longer he tried to navigate a way free.

There's no escape from the memories that ate away in his mind. Multitudes of them, of the faces he once called family, the people he used to love. They were his punishment. The boulder he continued to roll up the hill, day after day after day. Until eventually...he was crushed by his own self-hatred.

"Logan." The voice whispered long enough for him to grasp who it might be, yet never louder than a mere breath of air.

He clung to it some days. Sunk his claws into what little of his past remained good and allowed it to fill him with some amount of peace. At least then he'd be able to bear this weight, this grief he could never quite name.

Something light brushed across his cheek. Tickling the skin enough to send a flare of irritation down his spine, but the dreams held him in their grasp. What came next never surprised him. He expected it at this point—longed for it. The distant pain of losing what once made him whole; the entirety of his life now defined by one single moment he could never change.

"He sleeps so sweetly. I just want to curl up in his arms and have him read me bedtime stories."

"He's not gonna like that when he wakes up."

"Zip it Al. If I wanted an opinion, I'd go see a Hollywood therapist."

A scoff echoed in the background. "No therapist wants you on their couch."

"Not true. I hear Ryan Reynolds has a great one."

"Who?"

"Not the point." The feather dusted across Logan's face again, soft enough to keep him asleep yet annoying enough to bring a smile to Wade's face. "I wonder if he's dreaming about killing bad guys. They say it's good for the soul."

"Who the fuck is they?"

Wade laughed. "Oh you know. Them. The readers. And boy howdy do they love their blood."

Every day he was forced to listen to Wade's voice became another day Logan dragged his claw through a tally mark of his sanity. "Do you ever shut the fuck up," he growled, gripping Wade's wrist until he heard the satisfying crack of bones.

"Only when I swallow."

"I'll tear your fuckin' arm off."

The smile on Wade’s face only added another tally. "Nice kitty. No need for the claws."

Anger washed across his skin in a familiar wave as he released Wade's arm, watching it go limp. Trying to kill the unkillable walking irritation was like trying to swat a fly that never quite died. It still buzzed incessantly. Until eventually madness was the only viable option of dealing with it. In his case, he seemed to be driving head on with no brakes.

Logan wasn't sure he possessed enough sanity left within him to keep dealing with this. Sleeping on the couch didn't help the way his body never rested; always stuck in that permanent fighting mode. He'd give anything to find some peace. A small sliver of it carved off the past that continued to call him—that begged him to come back and try again.

Swinging his legs off the couch, he planted a swift kick to Wade's chest that sent him across the floor. The lack of caffeine in his system left everything hazy and half coherent. If he focused he might have caught the keys thrown at him, but being exhausted and sober didn't make for a good combination with him. An empty whiskey bottle lay discarded on the floor from last night; the memories of how he passed out barely tinged on the edge of his mind.

He could recall stabbing Wade in the leg.

Nothing beyond that.

Dried blood—now an ugly brown—stained his white shirt. He nearly stripped himself of it, prepared to throw it in with whoever was washing next, but his flannel being chucked at his head caught him off guard.

"Fuck off," he snapped, stumbling to the kitchen.

Wade sighed, following him. "Get dressed, peanut. We have to go do human things today."

"Human–”

"Food," Al retorted. "We're out."

Even in a new universe, he couldn't see himself acting normal. For so long he did what had to in order to survive. Yet now...he wasn't so sure. Accompanying Wade Wilson in order to complete household chores left a bad taste in his mouth. But the thought of fresh coffee and an unopened bottle of whiskey sounded like sweet silver bells in his head.

With reluctance, he buttoned up half of the flannel before he became annoyed with the small size of the holes punched into the fabric. There was only so much he could do with the life he had now. And sometimes shit really sucked.

"Don't scratch my fucking car," Al pointed her words towards Wade, thankfully ignoring Logan's existence for a brief moment.

"Is it safe for her to own a car?"

The door shut behind him with a bang, echoing down the vacant hallway. He was surprised people actually lived here given Wade's antics. They could hear the loud mouthed fucker across the street—if the angry notes in the mail were anything to go by. He didn't bother asking if he should be concerned with any of it. Not when he had no say in how the house was run. And choosing to insert himself where he wasn’t needed, rarely went well for him.

"God no. But I give her the benefit of the doubt. She hasn't killed anyone. Yet."

He yanked the keys out of Wade's hand. "Yeah well I don't trust you either Bub."

The car didn't leave room for his legs as he squeezed into the driver's side. His body practically folded in half as he turned it over—the rumble of the engine rattling against metal. How Blind Al managed to pay for this vehicle went beyond even Wade's knowledge, and in all honesty…he was too fucking scared to ask.

Too much seemed to be happening for him to ever catch up. While this Earth felt similar to his, small things were different. And when they began to add up...he began to wonder if he was drowning.

"Turn left to merge onto the asscrack of traffic."

He barely heard the directions as he drove, his mind drifting the further they went. Part of him sensed the grief from earlier begin to claw up the back of his throat. It begged him to fall, to be swallowed whole by the darkness he'd been stuck in before. And he nearly gave in; could feel his body shift into its constant mode of fight or flight.

The steering wheel cracked under his white knuckled grip as Wade's voice became an afterthought to the war he fought in his mind. Terror trapped itself in his throat and he slammed his foot on the brakes a foot away from a parking spot in retaliation. The car lurched forward, his claws descended. A snarl rumbled in his chest the longer he sat there thinking.

"Woah..." For the first time in days, Wade fell silent. "You alright?"

Logan ripped himself free, shoving his body out of the car before he even threw it in park. He gulped in breath after breath and did his best to wait for this fucking feeling to leave his system. The nightmares only came as he slept. A constant familiar horror show after two centuries.

Yet now he was left like this. Leaned up against a car, his eyes closed shut, and heart racing.

All because he couldn't do his fucking job.

"Logan–"

He snapped, shoving past Wade and his pity that choked him with a vengeance. He didn't deserve anyone's pity. He didn't want it. But people couldn't help but hand it over unconsciously. As if they could see the layers of broken pieces beneath his false expression of strength. Logan never pretended to be okay. Why bother with something people could see right through?

He merely wanted others to ignore he was there. Walk past him, look through him, do whatever it took to pretend that him and all his tragedies weren't standing before them. Because one day he would die and fuck how he couldn't wait for that time to come.

A small hole in the wall dive bar sat in the corner of the shopping center. He barely caught sight of it. But the unmistakable scent of alcohol poured out the door as someone stumbled out—their eyes squeezed shut against the harsh brightness of the sun. He could understand them in a way.

His world didn't have sunlight this bright. Or perhaps he never noticed it ‘til now.

Maybe his body wasn't acclimated yet; unsure of what the fuck was still happening. Everything seemed to be turned up to eleven for him, yet no off switch existed.

The dark hazy glow of the interior sent a wave of calm through him as the door swung shut with a soft thud. Four people sat scattered around the place and a bartender with white and graying hair stood cleaning a glass so foggy it was probably better to throw it out. He found himself letting out a breath that'd been trapped in his chest since that morning. Finally some peace before he had to listen to Wade yap about bullshit he didn't in fact give a shit about.

"What'll you have?" the old man asked, his face screwing up in a wince as he limped towards Logan's spot at the end of the bar.

A quick glance down let him see the brace wrapped around the man's knee. "Whiskey on the rocks."

He nodded, slowly heading towards the center of the wall—a lonesome half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. Logan shifted, taking the center seat directly behind the man.

"I can't say I've seen you around before son."

He grinned, his finger tracing a random carving that'd been placed in the wood. "I just moved here. Living with a coworker."

"Coworker huh?"

The word didn't sound right to Logan, but he couldn't exactly call Wade his friend. Although they were more than people who fought together, more than men who shared blood during the same battle. That was the thing about Logan though. He'd never be able to put a label on something like that. To him...things weren't one or the other as much as he wanted to pretend they were. There was nuance to his life.

Complications which made living that much harder.

The man turned, surprised to see Logan so close, but didn't make note of it. Logan could see the gratitude in the way his drink was slid carefully to him. The small silent thank you in the bowl of pretzels placed beside it.

"You look lost."

Logan grunted, biting into the salty and dry snack. "Do I?"

"More than some of the others that come around here."

"And who comes around here?"

The man laughed. "No one as of late. You're the first young man I've seen in a while walk through those doors."

He bit back his laugh at the word young. The stories he could tell would leave the man baffled. About wars that no living person had witnessed. About when the world was far different than today—when mutants were freaks of nature and humans were far less forgiving. He could list it all and then some.

But whether or not someone would listen was another thing entirely.

"This place that old?" he inquired, sipping on the amber liquid with a contented sigh.

"Oh you bet." A weary laugh filled the space. "I bought this place in the sixties. When my wife was still my girlfriend. She almost left me because of it."

Logan huffed, his lips curling slightly. "She wasn't a fan?"

The man shook his head, tossing a cloth over his shoulder. "Still isn't. Well she...wasn't." He pressed his thumb to the worn gold band on his left hand. "When she was alive she used to host a book night. Helped bring in the men's wives. Kept them outta trouble."

"Book night huh?"

"She loved to read."

Before he could down the final sips of his drink it was topped off. Logan nodded his head in thanks, his thumb digging into the thumbprint shape of the glass. If he thought about it hard enough, he could almost see himself coming here every night. He pictured a life far different than his own, a past where he might have been happy. With someone who might have even made him smile.

"I'm not much of a reader," he replied, his voice hoarse and eyes fixed on the ice that floated to the surface.

"Ah me too," the man laughed. "I just liked seeing her smile."

A soft remark was on the tip of his tongue before an entirely new image began to take shape. The face of someone lost. Of a smile he'd known better than his own. Hands that once held his face with the tenderness of a lover—a voice that sent the hair rising on the back of his neck. He could see it as clear as he did the man.

You in all your beauty. Lost to a past he could no longer rectify.

He swallowed thickly, beating back every emotion that crawled under his skin. "What's your name?"

"Travis."

Raising his glass, he tipped it towards the man with a tight grin. "Logan." The alcohol went down with a quick and biting burn. A feeling he'd grown familiar with. One he counted on.

"Nice to meet you Logan."

"Yeah you too."

He dug out some cash and tossed it on the bar as he stood with a slight grunt. He may heal quickly but the ache in his bones still existed. As if something resisted against how his body moved with each slow shift.

Fighting meant he could ignore it.

Existing is what made it worse.

The sun practically burned his eyes when he stepped out, the heat of the day encompassing his whole body quicker than he would have liked. For some unknown fucking reason, summer here felt worse than on his Earth. Then again the alcohol didn't help. He stood in the shade of the building next to the bar, searching the parking lot for any sign of Wade.

Going into the store wasn't an option and as much as he wanted to leave the annoyance behind, he didn't want to feel like a piece of shit. That is...even more than he already did.

"Fuck," he hissed, leaning against the brick wall. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

One option would be taking a walk to work off the energy that ran through his veins. At least then he'd be able to sleep at night. And the temptation almost worked. If it weren't for the shop doors that opened to his left, effectively distracting him from the chance of leaving. He could have ignored the person, probably should have given everything he'd been through.

But then his heart dropped to his stomach as you walked out. He'd never seen you in such a soft sundress before, the off white fabric draped off your curves in a way that floored him. As if you were an angel floating by without a care in the world. You were busy shoving a small piece of paper in your purse, your face furrowed in frustration, and Logan smiled. Because he'd traced each line of that face before, he'd kissed those cheeks, your eyelids as you slept.

He'd loved you in ways that would scare a normal human.

And there you were.

"Honey?" he called, unconsciously following you quicker than he intended to. "Honey."

You glanced to the side, completely unaware of the giant lumbering man trailing after you with a soft look on his face and hope in his hands.

That alone tore him in two more than the memories from before.

"Baby, it's me."

The breeze finally went through the air, pushing the skirt of your dress a bit higher on your thighs. Except that's not what he latched onto. Your scent was different. Unlike any he'd encountered before. Honey still sweetly caressed his senses, but flowers overlayed that—peonies if he guessed. Delicious enough to have his mouth watering; his body already aching for you to be closer. To look at him in the way you used to.

He wanted to call out to you—gain your attention properly—but your name wouldn't leave his tongue. Because you were there and you finally caught sight of him and you were looking at him as if nothing bad ever happened between the two of you.

You saw him as a man.

Not a disappointment.

He willed himself to stop and breathe. Take in his surroundings; realize that you weren't who he once knew. You weren't even the same fucking person.

But before he could think straight, he'd already followed you halfway to your car. His eyes were dazed, heart nearly throttling him alive as he stood there dumbly. Waiting for you to finally speak.

"Oh..." Your heart rate spiked quicker than he expected. He couldn't find it in himself to feel bad though. "Hello?"

"Honey," he sighed, the weight on his shoulders lifting ever so slightly.

He caught the way your fingers tightened around your keys, the defense mechanism an instinct by now. And Logan realized what he looked like. A strange man standing too close for your liking. So he took a step back and gave you some space. In the hopes that you wouldn't see him as a threat. That maybe...you'd listen to what he had to say.

"Can I help you?" you asked, eyes darting around the parking lot in case you needed help.

What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to reassure you. To explain that he wasn't here to hurt you. That he'd kill himself before even laying a hand on you. Yet the correct words were lost and all he seemed to get out was an incoherent babble that had him wanting to dig his own claws into his chest.

"You smell different."

You straightened your spine, eyes narrowed into a glare he felt burn across his skin. "Look, I don't know who you are. But fuck off."

Something akin to pride flared in his chest at your tone, your words. But he couldn't show it externally. How would he explain that your fight—your fire—is what drew him to you in the first place? How could he tell you about a version of yourself you'd never know? A person he thought would be with him until his last breath exhaled into the world.

"I'm not here to hurt you." He raised his hands in an attempt to prove his point, but like your variant counterpart you were willing to bite first and ask questions later.

"Yeah. Sure asshole." The shopping bag in your other hand was lifted up, until you had a tighter grip on it in case something happened. You didn't know him. You probably never would.

But Logan had to try. He owed it to you to give it all he had this time around.

Otherwise...what was the point of living?

"My name's–" He made the wrong move stepping forward and knew it the second his boot hit the gravel. With a wince, he watched you stumble back against your car, your arm coming up to protect yourself. "No. Look I'm not gonna do anything–"

"Get the fuck away from me," you spit.

He moved back as if approaching a wounded animal—his body finally on edge in a new way. The fact that you didn't know him wasn't what broke off another chunk of his heart. He could handle that. He'd been through that.

You were afraid of him.

That realization dug in too deep for his body to heal.

That...he couldn't live with.

"WOAH hey!" He'd never appreciated Wade's irritating ass more than in this moment. He jumped between the two of you, the cart of groceries forgotten as he blocked Logan from your sight. "Step away from the nice lady wolf boy." Wade regarded you with a smile. "Hi! Sorry. This is my uncle and well as you can probably tell he's lost eight of his lives. So we're going on little old nine. And well the mind just goes to shit first."

Seconds passed by like minutes and Logan watched you visibly deflate. "Wade," you greeted him, visibly calmer than before. Logan felt his stomach twist violently at the thought. "It's good to see you. How's the job?"

"Oh yup you know. Left that. But I'm really pushing through. I've got an Etsy store where I sell miniature paintings of Michael Angelo's David's penis. So there's that."

Your laughter sent a hole through his chest and Logan bit back the growl that rose up the back of his throat. What the fuck was Wade doing making friends with you? Why were you laughing at his humor?

He couldn't count how many days he'd spent longing to hear your laugh again, the shine in your eyes that always came around when joy flooded your bloodstream. He could smell the honey off your skin, the warmth of what no doubt lay beneath your thin dress. And he wanted to rip Wade to pieces knowing that he was the one making it happen. That you were comfortable with a man who's mouth ran at a mile a minute.

"Did your sister have the baby yet?"

You brightened and Logan felt his heart stutter. "She did! A boy."

"Named Wade I hope."

Another peal of laughter had Logan's claws itching to descend as you ignored he was there. "Theo actually. A cutie."

"Aww." Wade moved closer, head bent to see the small polaroid you pulled out of your wallet. "Wow, he looks like you'd find him in a Gerber's advertisement."

Your eyes drifted up, past Wade's shoulder, until you finally caught Logan's gaze. And he felt like he could breathe. Every ounce of fear was wiped from your face; interest now creeping in as you dragged your eyes down his form. Past the slight peek of chest hair and down to how his jeans hugged his hips. Logan stood taller for your benefit, as if he needed to make a good impression.

He wanted to linger in your mind for days. Until the curiosity ate you alive.

"We're gonna go," Wade announced, after grabbing your bag and placing it in your trunk for you. "Someone has to feed the blind woman in my apartment. She tends to root through everything looking for food." He gripped Logan's arm, shoving him back a good few feet. Even as your eyes still remained glued to his face. "Glad to see the Hyundai is still working. You know you could take the fattest fucking nap in the back of that puppy. Makes you feel like an Egyptian mummy."

"Bye," you said, a dazed look in your eyes as Logan smiled in your direction. At ease with the knowledge that even in a different universe, he could still fluster you with a look.

Dragging himself away from you was hell, but Wade's grip remained unbreakable as they clambered to the car. The groceries stacked in the small backseat.

He could glimpse you driving off and suddenly the nightmare from earlier was the last thing on his mind.

Wade's back hit the wall with a crack before the door could shut properly. The groceries in their hands toppled to the floor. He barely had time to duck before Logan's claws were aiming for his head—a snarl ripping from his throat.

"What the fuck?" Wade shouted, grabbing the paper bag and gently setting it on the table. "Next time just say you need to stay home and find some joy in an empty room and your hand."

"How do you know her?"

Wade smiled, assessing the furious state of chaos Logan was now left in. The tatters of his stability falling to the floor around him. For as much as he held himself together, it certainly remained easy enough to tear him a part.

"Got an eye on someone, do we honey badger?"

Logan grimaced, running a hand down his face. "Would you just fucking tell me?"

"Let me bask in this Logan. I'm about to watch a romcom come to life and need some popcorn." He rummaged through the bag, yanking out some chips. "Salty and sweet. That'll do."

"Wade," he bit out.

"Stick with us girls, we're about to get to the good stuff."

"WADE!"

He tossed the bag to the table, eyeing the way Logan never quite settled. "I'm gonna take a guess and say we know her more than just friendly hellos."

Logan couldn't answer because his grief did it for him. He did what he could to catch his breath, to stop seeing his version of you. The disappointment on your face, the pain in your voice. You'd been so angry with him. To watch the person he loved be reduced to a screaming crying mess wasn't something he wanted to relive, but Wade's question seemed to send an avalanche toppling to the ground.

"She's..." He sucked in a breath. "On my world. I...knew her."

"Knew her? Or knew her."

He reached for the bottle of whiskey Wade threw in with the rest of the groceries and popped it open before he spoke again. "It didn't end well between us. None of it did."

Wade fell silent and Logan found himself loathing the quiet more than the sound of his voice. If he was joking Logan could ignore it. He could pretend nothing happened. That you weren't here, you couldn't be hurt by him again.

You were safe from his destructive tendencies as long as you were in another universe.

"She lives across the street." Logan's head rose and whipped to see the window that faced the building across from them. "The old uncultured shit whistles that keep complaining about WHAM! the greatest thing to happen to music. They're her neighbors. Live right next door."

"Neighbors."

Wade nodded, offering him a chip. "She found their note and angel that she is, she very sweetly threatened to get them evicted. I offered to let her borrow my katanas but was rejected like younger me on prom night. You've really got yourself a catch there buddy."

Logan didn't need Wade to tell him how fucking lucky he was. He knew that the second you walked out of that store. You were everything good in his life at one point, everything he couldn't save. There wasn't much keeping him going on his old Earth, but having you made all the suffering he went through—all the pain he endured—worth it.

If you were waiting for him at the end, he'd do it all over again.

"So you want to take a dip in that honey huh? Taste that rainbow?"

His claws would have sunk into Wade's throat if a knock hadn't sounded at the door. With a huff, he stepped into the kitchen, the bottle clutched tightly in his hand. Whoever decided to give Wade some luck was of no concern to him.

Or so he believed.

"I didn't mean to accidentally take your groceries," you laughed, handing over a overpacked paper bag.

Stuffing the bottle under the sink, he met you halfway to the living room, his eyes drinking in the sight of you still in that dress. Still delicate enough for him to rip if he tugged it right. Heat curled along the base of his spine when your eyes met his, wide and glimmering with your laughter. He felt himself crumple at the sight of your lips parting, the surprise at his size still enough to make you speechless.

"Good to see you again," he greeted you, voice low and soft.

You didn't mean to grow flustered in his presence, but something about the way his gaze devoured you within seconds left you breathless. The swooping sensation in your stomach became too much to handle. Desire and attraction weren't unknown concepts to you. But this felt like more. You could sense him right down to your bones and it scared the shit out of you.

"Oh right!" Wade scooched past you to swing an arm around Logan's shoulders. He did what he could to not stab him in the stomach. "This is Logan. My hunky new roommate."

Logan groaned. "Alright–"

"No, no it's good. You remember when I was declared basically the savior of the universe?"

Your face screwed up in confusion. Logan had never wanted to kiss someone more.

"Marvel...Jesus right?"

"I prefer MJ. Since I've got a Peter." Wade's head whipped to the side. "Suck it Tom Holland." His grip on Logan tightened. "This walking People's Sexiest Magazine helped. We're talking big claws, abs you just want to lick whipped cream off of–"

Logan's elbow slammed into Wade's stomach—crimson slowly tinting the tips of his ears. "That's enough."

"AND the Wolverine."

Surprised etched itself onto your face even further. Until you finally regarded Logan with a look he'd seen once before. Awe. When you first met one another in the halls of the mansion, you stared at him that exact way. As if you couldn't quite believe that iconic figure the X-Men made him out to be actually existed.

He couldn't tell if he liked it. Or if he'd rather you view him as a stranger.

"Logan," he said, offering his hand to you politely. Your skin remained as soft as he remembered.

Warmth bloomed in your body at the feeling of his calloused palm overwhelming yours, the scars across his knuckles old and ancient. Yet you found yourself wanting to trace them over and over, until the sight of them seared in your mind. You fought the urge to press your lips to them, etch your own mark into his skin. Something told you he wouldn’t mind.

Logan could see the intrigue on your face—the distracted gaze he wanted to keep in place. You were still curious. Still willing to learn about him. To pick him a part with soft words and even softer touches.

"Logan," you murmured under your breath, your eyes catching his. He felt his stomach leap at the sound of your voice whispering his name. Memories flooding his mind quicker than he expected. Of mornings spent in bed, your skin pressed against his. Of nights alone in his cabin—your stories lulling him to sleep.

Everything he willed himself to forget, yet could never truly let go of.

"I've got to head back." Disappointment filled your heart at the thought of not getting a chance to talk to him more. He had yet to let go of your hand and you found you liked his touch on your skin. "I'll see you soon Wade."

"Logan will be more than happy to walk you back," Wade replied, waving drastically behind your back. "Can't have you getting hurt now can we? Right peanut?"

You smiled. "I'm just across the street."

"I don't mind," Logan cut in, glaring at Wade to shut the fuck up.

"Okay," your voice was soft. Happy.

Logan would have done anything to keep it that way.

The walk back wasn't long enough for him to explain his actions from earlier, but you seemed to be just as smart as your variant self. Shutting the building's door, you turned to him—your dress fluttering in the breeze. Logan choked on his spit at the slight peek of your ass before you pushed the skirt back down around you.

"Did you know me?" You lead him to the corner, waiting for the traffic to die down. "On your Earth."

He paused, his eyebrows pulling together, and for a moment you wondered if you asked the wrong question. Wade told you bits and pieces of what happened since you last saw him, but Logan's background wasn't a discussion you tried to seek out. All you knew was that Wade acquired a new roommate. Not even a name.

Certainly not that he was Wolverine.

"Yes," Logan muttered, glancing at the change in lights.

You started to walk. "In what way?"

His hands curled into fists—echoes of his past rising to the surface. "We were...friends. You're a professor."

"A professor?" you exclaimed, a smile tugging on your lips. "Am I a mutant?"

He nodded. "You're able to bend time. Or control it." He snorted, following your lead towards your building. "I could never understand it. But Charles did."

The walk up to your apartment was silent, your thoughts filled with the new information he'd given you. And no matter how hard you tried to picture it, you couldn't see yourself as a mutant. A powerful being that held the ability to manipulate time who just so happened to be a professor. Somehow even thinking about it made you wonder why Logan was bothering to entertain this version of you. When the better one existed on his Earth.

"You said were."

Stopping at your door, he nearly knocked into you. "Hm?"

"Were friends. What happened?"

The answer he couldn't give you. The words he wouldn't even admit out loud to himself.

He felt his heart twist as if a knife slowly carved through his spleen. "We uh..." He coughed. "You..."

"I don't have to know." Grasping gently onto his arm, you offered a warm smile he felt down to his toes. A look he hadn't seen in quite some time. Logan could picture the last day you were happy in his head. Laughing with Charles in his office as you shared dinner, working on theories of your powers late into the night.

A week before they came.

"It's good to see you like this," he breathed, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek before stopping midair. "Happy."

Your eyebrows knit together. "I wasn't happy?"

"No." What he wouldn't give to take that information back, but it was out in the open, and as always—he remained too late.

"Why?" you asked, your hand sliding down to his much to his delight.

"I made you a promise." He sucked in a breath, his body begging him to start running. You'd be better off if you never knew. If you never remembered him in the first place. "I couldn't keep it."

I'll always keep you safe.

Words he refused to say again.

How could he promise this version of you that? How could he look you in the eyes and lie again? Breaking his Earth's you would haunt him for the rest of his life. He couldn't fathom doing it all over. It would kill him.

Except you weren't the person in his mind. You weren't the mutant who hated him with every fiber of your being. You were you. A continuous surprise that left his heart stuttering in his chest each time you looked his way. An enigma he found himself wanting to unravel.

"Maybe this time around you can," you said softly, letting him go with a smile as you entered your apartment, effectively opening the wound in his heart so wide there was no saving him.

Although he now knew something he didn’t know before.

He didn’t want to be saved.

[zerocoded]

summary: headcannons of what caleb is like in bed.

authors note: help me i need him chronically. this is my opinion babes! i can't shut my brain off when it comes to him anymore. waiting for the 22nd to come is like waiting for my husband get back from war. everything here is what i read about his character so far, i hope you enjoy!

warnings: nsfw content • minors dni • SMUT • talks about size kink, teasing, fingering with his prosthetic bla bla, idk what else. A LOT. • this is basically word vomit, i'm sorry.

word count: 1.2k

caleb might be more conscious of his touch, especially with his bionic arm, carefully adjusting his strength to ensure comfort and gentleness.

i KNOW bro can’t keep his grunts down, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

he wants to consume you entirely, like occupy your every thought and feeling when getting intimate with you.

he’s a sucker for your reactions, so attentive to the point it makes you shy.

ALSO he’s so big—like everything about him is just massive. we know that already, right? sometimes HE forgets.

i just got a feeling that caleb's bed is enormous, like king-size for real, made for someone his size. like BIG BIG. because he's a big boy.

he kind of doesn’t fully grasp how strong he is or how big he is compared to you, like the first time he closed his hands around your throat, he gave you whiplash.

everything in his apartment is set high to accommodate him, and you struggle with it constantly.

his frame completely consumes you, overwhelming but in a way that feels safe.

one time, tara walked in on the two of you mid-moment, she was sleeping on your apartment for some reason and caleb came from the farspace fleet really missing you. she asked caleb where you were, and he just casually said "here," while tara bolted out, flustered beyond belief when she realized what was going on.

you were literally UNDER him and to anyone passing, it looked like he was alone lol.

you two have little banter all the time, thanks to growing up together as childhood friends.

tell me i'm not getting too ahead of time, but i gotta say this. when you’re pregnant, caleb has this habit of saying “shush, i’m talking to the baby” every time he rests his head on your belly.

THAT'S SO CUTE, RIGHT? URGH.

he loves being in control – not in a domineering way, but because he wants to make sure you feel completely taken care of. he’s meticulous, learning what you like and pushing those boundaries just enough to drive you wild.

his size is an obsession for him – he’s hyperaware of how much bigger he is compared to you, and he uses it to his advantage. holding your wrists in one hand, pinning you beneath him, or just the way his body completely overshadows yours—it gets him going every time.

he’s vocal, but only for you – low grunts, whispered praise, and occasionally losing control with a deep growl when you hit just the right spot. but he’s also hyperaware of how you react, loving every gasp and whimper that escapes your lips.

a possessive streak – he doesn’t say it outright, but the way his hands grip your hips or how he marks your skin with kisses is all about claiming you. his touch lingers, even when you’re just walking around afterward.

obsessed with eye contact – he insists you look at him, especially in your most vulnerable moments. “keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs, his gaze locking you in place as if the world outside the two of you doesn’t exist.

an absolute tease – he loves winding you up, taking his time until you’re begging him to stop playing around. slow kisses down your neck, feather-light touches that leave you trembling—he knows exactly what he’s doing.

his hands – they’re huge and rough, but his touch is incredibly gentle when he wants it to be. he loves how your body reacts to the contrast, and he uses it to his full advantage, whether he’s tracing your spine or gripping your thighs.

THE BIONIC ARM? OH MY GAWD.

he really hates the fact that he can't feel you - at all. but his prosthetic can come in handy sometimes 😏

he could use his arm’s advanced capabilities, like adjustable pressure or vibration, to focus on your pleasure, experimenting with new sensations. GUYS I HAD TO SAY IT.

i just know he teases you gliding the cool metal over warm, flushed skin and eliciting shivers of delight.

not him using it like your own personal vibrator. turning on subtle vibrations during a kiss or when he's fingering you.

he LOVES to explore areas like the neck, back, or thighs, using varying pressures to heighten your sensitivity.

aftercare king – he’s all about making sure you feel safe and comfortable afterward.

he’s a little shy about certain things – despite his confidence, there are moments when he feels self-conscious, like when you run your fingers along the scars on his body. but your touch soothes him, and he grows to crave the intimacy of being vulnerable with you. again, his prothetic can become a insecurity of him on these times.

unexpectedly playful – he likes to keep things fun, especially when the mood is light. sneaky touches, biting your ear just to hear you squeak, or pulling you onto his lap when you least expect it.

easily undone by you taking control – as much as he loves being in charge, when you take the lead, he absolutely melts. seeing you confident and assertive makes him lose every ounce of his composure. I JUST KNOW HE LOVES IT.

praise kink on both sides – he loves telling you how good you’re being, how beautiful you are, and how perfect you feel. but he’s also weak for your praise—if you tell him how much you want him or how amazing he’s making you feel, it’s game over.

a sucker for your scent – burying his face in your neck or your hair is his favorite thing. he associates your scent with safety and home, and it’s an instant comfort for him, even when things heat up. i just know he missed you so much while he was gone.

light experimentation – he’s always willing to try new things if it means making you happy. he might be cautious at first, but your enthusiasm has a way of bringing out his adventurous side.

he’s an absolute wreck for soft moments – when you’re tender and loving, gently tracing his features or whispering sweet things, it undoes him completely. he’s all about intensity, but those quiet, intimate moments leave him weak in the knees.

he’s competitive – if you ever tease him or play hard to get, he rises to the challenge, determined to win you over every single time. and when he does, he’ll make sure you know it.

obsessed with your reactions – he watches your every move, cataloging the way your body arches, the sounds you make, and the way your breath catches. nothing escapes his attention, and he uses that knowledge to drive you to the brink.

neck kisses – his favorite spot to tease and mark. he loves the way you shiver when his lips brush over that sensitive spot just below your ear.

secretly loves when you’re a little rough – tugging on his hair, biting his shoulder, or leaving marks on his skin? he thrives on the proof of how much you want him. it’s like a badge of honor for him.

he’s insanely attentive to detail – he remembers everything you like, from the way you gasp when he kisses your collarbone to how your breathing changes when you’re close. he uses that knowledge to make sure you’re always completely satisfied.

i need to write about him loving us ASAP, bye.

author's note: i came up with these while trying to write for caleb's love language (the thrid chapter) and i thought i could use it as a solo post hehe. see you guys next! send me a request • my masterpost

[mojogojocasahouse]

unexpected visitor

jiyan x f!reader

Jiyan sneaks home to your bed in desperate need of a soft touch and sleep

c: NSFW 18+ only, smut, oral f-receiving, creampie, tacet marks are sensitive I don't make the rules, not beta'd

He slips in like a whisper, an unexpected secret cradled by the black of night. At first, you mistake him for the rustling of a rabbit outside the window and a burst of wind swirling beneath the clear moon, but then there was the clanking of metal buckles and the rustling of heavy robes falling to the floor. There was only one source of those sounds.

Jiyan.

Two weeks had passed since he’d left, and according to him, he was supposed to have been gone for much longer. Now, the mattress is dipping as he falls into bed behind you, a strong, warm arm circling your middle and pulling you flush against a broad, muscled chest, lips pressing to the curve of your neck.

“You’re home early,” you whisper, reaching back and threading your fingers through long, teal hair.

“Only for tonight,” he sighs, nuzzling his nose to the hollow behind your ear, “No one knows I’m away. I’ll have to leave before first light.”

“And what will you tell them?” you ask with a mischievous lilt.

“That I needed to sleep.”

Those words have you turning, his piercing gold eyes meeting yours and pleading for what only you can give him. He’s always said he can only sleep here, in the sanctuary of your bed. He doesn’t even have a home of his own anymore, it’s a tent on the front lines or this small cottage in the village. He has little in the way of belongings, but he leaves hints of himself around that you find and smile fondly at. Though nothing compares to the sight of him basking in white light, gazing at you as if you hung those very stars in the sky.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you soothe, brushing his bangs from his eyes. You already know the answer, but still, you ask every time in case he changes his mind.

“No.” It’s a polite but curt response, “You need not hear of the troubles of war.”

“But you’re troubles–”

“Are mine to bear.”

That will be the end of that discussion, as it always is. With a sigh, you cup the back of his head and pull him in, his lips so gentle and cautious as you welcome him home even if it is only for a moment. It’s your tongue that asks for entrance first, sliding along his bottom lip slowly, and he opens with a sigh. Large hands pull you in closer, your leg winding around his waist and you can feel his erection pressing against your thinly clothed slit. He’s opted to sleep with nothing on, as usual, and you curse the thin shorts you’d decided to wear. The grip he has on your side is hard enough to bruise, and you hope he has every intention of making sure you feel him tomorrow when you wake up in the bed alone almost as if he’d never come. Like this was all a fever dream. You’re still not sure if it is.

The tips of your fingers gently trace the Tacet Mark on his upper spine, his breath hitching as he flips you to your back. He kisses you like a man starved, nipping and licking into your mouth with greed and gluttony, his hips pulsing into your damp center as he slowly begins to lose that steadfast composure he holds so dear. You want him to lose it, too. He deserves to take for once, and you’ll let him bleed you dry.

As your teeth bite down onto his lower lip, he groans, taking one last parting peck before sliding down your body. The shirt you’re wearing is torn down the middle, and he latches onto one of your stiffened buds, his hands moving to cradle your other breast as if he hasn’t touched anything soft in weeks. His touch is so reverent and desperate that you’re whimpering as his tongue swirls and lips purse, your hands tangled in his locks as he descends lower, pecking a trail down your stomach until he’s pulling your shorts and panties off in one quick tug. 

Mingling moans echo off the walls as he locks onto your clit, your back arching off the bed as he suckles hard, worrying it between his lips before lapping at your soaked slit. You know you’re soaked, your inner thighs wet with what has already leaked free, and he takes it upon himself to not miss a single drop. As he’s tasting the sweetness sticking to your legs, you spread them further, inviting him back to bury his tongue in your cunt. And he does, happily, pulling you so tightly down onto his face you’re not sure he can breathe.

Muffled grunts and hums of bliss rumble deep in his throat, the vibration enough to have you keening in his hold. His talented mouth alternates between teasing your swollen bundle of nerves and enjoying the nectars of his labor, his face smeared and glistening every time he comes up for air. You want more, but you don’t dare stop him. If this is what he needs, this is what he can have, all you can do is scrape your nails soothingly against his scalp and try to quiet the roiling storm building in your belly. 

He’s waiting for you to come, you know that, but still, you try and stop the balloon threatening to burst. The sooner this is the over the sooner he’s gone again. And while you feign bravery and understanding of his long, frequent absences, deep down it breaks you every day to walk around town and see the couples together doing mundane tasks. They’re shopping, enjoying a meal, laughing and walking, and you’re…alone. You sacrifice the one you love so they can have this life, and while you’ve come to peace with this, no part of you has convinced you that you have to like it.

When he adds a finger, then two, you’re pulling his mouth back to your core by his hair, his smile stretched across your skin as the tip of his tongue prods so skillfully.

“That’s it,” he praises, “That’s what I want. Let me have it, baby.”

All he ever has to do is ask. Your orgasm washes over you gently like the waves on the shore, nowhere near as explosive as you’d been expecting, but you assume that was his intention. He knew you well enough to have discovered which of his ministrations caused which reaction and now he was almost tactile. It’s a little unfair.

No time is wasted, you’ve barely registered the end of your descent into the clouds and you can feel the soft head of his cock pushing into your cunt, your slippery walls giving no resistance as he bottoms out. He gives you a moment to adjust, taking advantage of your parted, panting lips to drag you into a messy kiss you can taste yourself on. You’ve missed the way he feels stuffed inside of you, bullying its way into a space too tight to accommodate his length and girth, but the burn subsides quickly and you let him know with a quick roll of your hips to urge him on.

The course hairs at his base are already soaked with your arousal as he begins to snap his hips into yours, the sound of skin slapping and breathy moans like a forbidden song drifting off into the night. His forehead is pressed to yours, the only air you can breathe is each other’s, and he entwines his fingers with yours and pins your hands to either side of your head, opening you up to his new, brutal pace. He can’t help himself, he’s long gone, drowning in the way your pussy clamps down around him every time he lets a whine slip out. You’d think he’d have learned by now and let his blissed sounds free, but he hasn’t. Maybe he never will.

“Jiyan,” you mewl, gripping him so tightly your knuckles turn white, “harder.”

It’s like something snaps, with a groan, he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, his hands claiming your waist as his hips begin to piston so hard his hold is the only thing keeping you in place. Your tits bouncing wildly hold his gaze as you cry out loud enough for anyone in the surrounding area to hear.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, regret in his voice because he can’t do it himself, “Come on my cock.”

Your two middle fingers dive to rub frantic circles on your clit, but you’re unable to focus as you dip your touch down to feel where he’s mercilessly thrusting into your hole. You can feel how stretched you are, how swollen, you’re moments away from release.

“Come with me,” you beg, your nails scraping down the firm dips and swells of his stomach, “Come with me, please.”

He looks wrecked as he lets himself lose control. His head falls back, his hair splaying across his shoulders, long enough to have the ends dancing over your skin. The way he glistens with sweat makes him look damn near ethereal, with green markings accentuating his clenched jaw as he tries to draw out what he knows is coming to an end. 

The molten pleasure boiling in your belly finally spills over, running through your veins until every muscle is tensed in anticipation and then released with a shrieking cry, his feral snarl joining you as he spurts hot, thick ropes of cum into your cunt. 

It’s a moment of stillness as you both catch your breath, his grip loosening as he fucks his seed deeper, enjoying how easily his softening cock slips through your channel. You’re so sensitive it almost hurts, but you’re not ready to lose the weight and stretch of him inside of you just yet.

“You need to sleep, my love,” you coo as he pulls out, immediately walking off to get a warm cloth to clean you with.

“Mm,” he hums, wiping what’s leaking from your fucked out hole, “In a moment.”

When he curls up behind you, there’s no stopping how you turn and bury yourself in his chest. It’ll be harder this way when he has to leave, but you haven’t heard the steady beating of his heart in too long. He chuckles as he wraps you up tightly, tucking your head beneath his chin, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your bruised hip. 

It’ll be just a few hours, and as much as you want to stay awake and relish in this rare time, you can’t. Sleep finds you easily swaddled in his arms, the faint arid, earthy smell of him the most comforting scent. When you wake, you’re alone, not that you expected anything different. However, one thing that wasn’t there the night before catches your eye–a single Pecok flower in a vase.

A promise to return home.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Dragon Age Veilguard: Love, Wisdom and Pride

A very long Dragon Age post!

Warnings for: Veilguard Spoilers, Solavellan spoilers.

Okay, so I will preface this by saying that this ‘analysis’ primarily focuses on Solas’ arc; both romanced and unromanced. It isn’t intended to be a romanticised analysis, though it is very much enamoured with how a romanced Solas and his relationship with Lavellan foils (and informs my reading/reception of) that of Solas and Mythal’s relationship in Veilguard. There is a relationship I will address that I feel does parallel Solas and Mythal! Scroll down to “Reading Between the Lines” if you wanna skip my little intro below. Spoilers follow.

Truth be told, I wasn’t ever expecting much in terms of actually getting a sequel to Inquisition. The game dev market went through a tumultuous reshuffle before the remake madness breathed life back into many studios. Bioware game sequels (Mass Effect Andromeda) were underwhelming and not as fleshed out since the EA acquisition. I absolutely believe Bioware would have been shunted had Mass Effect Legendary Edition not been so successful. EA’s reputation was always lacklustre and underhanded, but laying off or losing several head writers attached to Bioware with almost two decades of work under their belts was the biggest red flag. Trevor Morris not being asked to return in exchange for a ‘bigger name’ was also a grave warning that returning to the atmosphere, ambience and world of Thedas that we knew was getting further and further away from a plausible reality. And on top of that, there’s the fact Solas was never intended as a romance interest during early development of Inquisition.

Solavellan seemed doomed!

Despite this, I still held out hope for a sequel, but I feared we’d always be in permanent Solavellan/developmental hell. Heck, I’m still waiting for a Beyond Good and Evil sequel—the game released in 2003! So, actually witnessing people play Veilguard, seeing reactions to it, seeing memes and gifs and essay pieces (like this one), it’s like my community has awoken again, and I never thought I’d see the day. Yet I am not blind to the fact we were robbed of so much potential. I knew thing’s wouldn’t live up to re-emerging expectations when Dragon Age: Dreadwolf was rebranded to Veilguard—the shift seemed to imply less of a primary focus on Solas (and apparently, according to the artbook, the early concept art proves this implication correct).

Things seemed even more dire when the devs revealed there was no tapestry mechanic. I had only one hope: that with the Inquisitor’s confirmed return, we’d get at least some form of catharsis for our Inquisitors (Lavellans and otherwise), if we couldn’t get the conclusions to so many storylines present in each of our worldstates. My main fear was that they’d go the clichéd Ultimate Sacrifice route (which happens anyway, but in a way that makes thematic sense given the stakes and heavily blighted worldstate).

Suffice it to say, there was a lot of evidence that Veilguard would disappoint me in the end. But it hasn’t. It hasn’t lived up to the many expectations and marks of excellence that the Dragon Age world built itself into with the first three entries, that’s for sure, but I am also just so deprived of conclusions, of endings (whether it be because TV doesn’t exist in a sustainable format anymore or that comicbook movies are made with a sequel in mind, never letting anything just “Exit Stage Left” gracefully; or the fact we live in a regurgitating content cycle with late-stage-capitalism where anything remotely profitable gets turned into a caricature of itself: Squid Game, Star Wars, etc.). The cycle is so exhaustive that I am actually at a point where I can say I am content with the ending we were given (on a Solas/Solavellan front), Veilguard gave me relief, and beautiful, achy pain to boot. Though I would absolutely be disappointed by both the "non-romanced Solas" endings, given that Solas winds up either "dying alone, forever" or turns to Tyranny.

Now onto the actual review of that Solavellan ending, Mythal and themes of Love!

Note: I have only gotten the ‘best’ ending in my first playthrough, but I also thought the consequences of not maxing factions would be more… dire? Another note, pls, if your romanced Inky swore to stop Solas, how does that ending differ, if at all? Let me know, I’m dying here!

Sidenote: I’m working on writing another review about my views on the ‘sanitised’ worldstate, the new companions (and why I think Varric was the wrong choice to have as an advisor in the game, given that the Inquisitor or Morrigan would have been more impactful; and not to mention that Cole or Briala should have been companions), removal of the tapestry and what it means for the future of stories in Thedas (The Story We Lost is such a poignant compilation of the sheer volumes of lost lore and depth that I honestly think I won’t go as in-depth on that review as this one), and why I think Veilguard is my final entry into Dragon Age.

Reading Between the Lines: What Pride Hath Wrought

One thing is for sure, Trick Weekes flourishes when writing within the ambiguities and complexities of meaning. This makes every word uttered by Solas so great to dissect, he's a god of lies not because he 'lies' but because he's so careful with how he phrases things, what he holds back, and what he reveals.

For instance, the famous Trespasser exchange where Solas mocks his own follies with sarcasm by saying:

“What is the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf Take you.”

Then a softer, more saddened and beaten-down Lavellan replies:

“And so he did.”

This irks him. Because he then realises in that moment that he absolutely did take advantage, but for some reason he frames it around sex rather than power because that’s easier to address than the latter. And he rejects the notion, even though he brought up the expression he knows to mean nothing close to a sexual inuendo for being ‘taken’, and yet he has the gall to try and derail the conversation by pivoting and saying:

“I would not lay with you under false pretences.”

When I first had this dialogue exchange, I was baffled, because did this mean that there was another meaning to ‘Dread Wolf take you’ that Dalish clans lost through the years, or was it more of a self-deprecating joke Solas had with himself because he, the Dread Wolf, romanced (took) a Dalish Inquisitor (away from her people’s beliefs, histories, past), and he found irony in the saying?

On the surface, “wouldn’t lay with you under false pretences” could simply mean “we didn’t sleep together” or “we did sleep together, but I wasn’t taking advantage as the Dread Wolf, I was simply Solas in your presence”. But I have recently thought of a more… ambiguous reading.  Lay could have been used in a milder, more vulnerable way; to mean to be at peace, to be completely vulnerable, as if to sleep. In that sense, the phrasing becomes: “I could not be at peace with you because I was living a half-truth”.

I absolutely think the moment he feels he is truly beyond hope is when we see his expression of abject horror as Lavellan shouts: “I would have had you trust me!”. He realises then that he did fuck up, he did take the choice away from her because he thought he knew better, him and his pride led to a decision that hurt someone close to him, and he could finally see how wrong he was, how alike the entire situation became to Mythal’s treatment of him. Especially if Lavellan asks to go with him. Because he can see that despite the hurt, the lies and the betrayal on his part, Lavellan still wishing to join him draws too close to his first regret: following Mythal.

Whether he likes it or not, Solas’ love which could burn like a bonfire was directed at a powerful woman—a Herald, an Inquisitor—and inspite of her greatness of character, it still shaped her into someone willing to follow him on his dinanshiral out of love, much like he left the Fade and took physical form for Mythal. So now whenever I hear Lavellan shout “Var lath vir suledin”, Solas replying with “I wish it could, Vhenan,” changes drastically with the Mythal reveal, knowing he always walks away from the Inquisitor in Trespasser.

“I wish it could, Vhenan” sounds heavily like: “You would regret me, as I regret Mythal, and I cannot bear for that to happen us.” More poetically, it could read as: “I wish our love could overcome a duty that has lasted an incomprehensible amount of time, I wish I could change my nature, but then I’d be twisted into a demon, like the spirit of Wisdom in the Dales; and yet again, I would become your regret.” These two readings are very, very romantic. Realistically, given what we know of his kinship with Felassan, and how they were comrades and friends for centuries (“A story unfinished. His back turned!”), and given what we know of the complexity of Mythal’s will that presides over the creation of his very being, and yet he was still able to muster the strength to kill a fragment of her to fulfil his mission,  “I wish it could” was most probably a lament: “Do not ask me to hurt one of the two women I’ve loved on this journey, because if it ever came to it…” he would.

Knowing what I know of Solas, of how he was able to convince himself that Varric’s death (avoidable as it was) was just another necessary step, that it was just another sacrifice, another loss that would be worth something only if he completed his ritual, I have no doubt that Solas would also be able to rationalise hurting Lavellan (which is why in his mind, turning away from her, breaking her heart, leaving with no explanation and aiding her in Trespasser so she could live whatever few years remained in “relative peace” is actually an act of preserving that love). I partially think the reason he reveals the truth in Trespasser (especially for a romanced Lavellan) is in the hopes his ‘truths’ will push her away. But on a deeper note, I think he also thinks of it as some twisted form of repaying her for loving him to the point that he could have almost forgotten what it was to be the Dread Wolf, to just be with her as Solas, that night at Crestwood. Maybe his harsh truths would push her to the point where she’d give up her love for Solas, now that she knew he was the Dread Wolf, freeing her from the shackles of their love. He’s very self-flagellating, all about self-sacrifice for the ultimate goal, the ends always justify the means, he will endure any pain and punishment as long as Arlathan returns in the end.

What is his love of a mortal compared to the despair and loss of an entire empire? Solas views himself as selfish for falling for her, and that nearly broke him, if he was selfish enough to leave the dream of Arlathan behind for her, what would that do to his spirit then?

In his way of thinking, perhaps telling the Inquisitor the truth is a way out, a rationale they can use to justify stopping him or to make it easier to hate him as the Dread Wolf rather than love him as Solas (someone he hasn’t been in so long).

‘Masking’ as the Dread Wolf

During Trespasser, the Inquisitor has every right to despise Solas after all they’ve learned, and I think he half reveals the truth as a tactic so the Inquisitor can have an excuse to hate him, to be driven to anger and have less pull over his choices, once they learn the truth. Solas is particularly skilled at making other’s play the role that makes his own choices seem inevitable, he orchestrates a lot of events to play out in a manner where it's easier for him to talk himself into bringing down the veil.

He goads Elgar’nan to anger easily. He inspires the spirits to fight for him to the death as a necessary distraction during the war. He absolutely allows the Inquisitor to speak to him one last time so he can offer insight, yes, but also so he can easily frame his actions as just and inevitable. But, Oh boy does he get in for a shock if the Inquisitor shows empathy towards him, it scares him because he’s become accustomed to being seen only as the Dread Wolf. To be understood? That gives way to remorse. And remorse gives way to doubt. And he cannot doubt his purpose, twisted as it is, it is all he has left of his former self. Without it he would most likely change into something different. Someone he doesn’t recognise.

This fear intensifies more so if a romanced Lavellan asks to go with him, and in that case, he takes command and distances himself away (rejecting the help of someone close to him; the chance for a possible betrayal; the chance at another Felassan or Mythal [x]; the chance to twist Lavellan outside of her purpose, in this case, the purpose would be love/empathy) but not without showing remorse at having sacrificed yet another relationship for his crusade.

“Ir abelas.”

Sorrow for what cannot be is at the heart of why the Solavellan romance is so powerful, especially because even though both Solas and Lavellan love each other passionately, love alone cannot be enough when faced with regrets. Love would ultimately be stifled. Corrupted into something else over time. And so, for Solas, having loved and lost tragically is better than having loved and corrupted.

He will not do to Lavellan what was done to him, even if it is her choice, because she knows so little, her naivete cannot close the distance of a millenia’s old sea, and it would hurt him immensely to take advantage of her kind heart [x].

By leaving, he keeps her heart pure. And the yearning! Knowing the love is there, but on its own it cannot be invulnerable to corruption, so it is better to lose it than twist it. Ugh! Him leaving Lavellan is the ultimate show of love! IT IS A WISE DECISION. A rare glimpse into pure wisdom. Which is why he kneels beside Lavellan in Trespasser, he does not “Stand Tall” in the face of Wisdom’s heart. He kneels beside her. And when he stands tall again, he is Solas once more, filled with regret, and once through the eluvian, he returns to masking as the Dread Wolf.

Sidenote: It’s especially confounding that Veilguard allows Rook to push the Inquisitor to save or stop him after you’ve reached act 2 despite your world state choice (I think this was done in case they feared the Inquisitor wouldn’t stand by Solas after everything he was revealed to be responsible for in Veilguard, however it doesn’t work because the Inquisitor wasn’t an advisor, Rook never told them what they learned from the wolf statues, so having a stranger hold the ability to make Lavellan keep her promise or not rings hollow). Personally, I wish the Inquisitor’s presence had more weight in the non-Solavellan endings, too. I wish the Inquisitor could end up being the last friend/former love that Solas destroys (if you don’t collect the wolf statues) which then prompts Rook to fight him because Solas’ last tie to empathy failed to redeem him, that the Inquisitor falling is the last straw and Solas snaps, choosing to be a villain in the hopes of being stopped because he can’t stop himself, and not the ‘I am a God’ ending they gave us. Same for if your Inquisitor vows to stop him. I also wish the Inquisitor was the one to do the wolf statue missions. Would have been a nice secondary protagonist mission like the switching perspectives between Kratos and Atreus in GOW: Ragnarök (the old guard and the new; Inquisitor and Rook). I would have loved if they dedicated more dialogue to Inquisition days too, which is why I think Cole should have been a companion (if he wasn’t recruited, he could simply be a compassion spirit that ‘follows’ the greatest pain in the Fade that yearns to be healed, giving a compassionate viewpoint to Solas’ folly; recruited Spirit Cole could have a greater connection to Solas than even Varric, seeing as Cole was most likely a literal representation of Solas rewriting his own history by preventing a spirit from becoming too ‘real’; Human Cole would have a deeper connection to the world of Thedas, and could have been a great tool to prove how change was inevitable, not always a bad thing, and inevitably out of even Solas’ control. But alas, we live with what we are given! Even Imshael could have served in this role! Spirit/Demon of choice and it wasn’t incorporated into the game that supposedly asks you to make the greatest world-changing choice ever; redeem the Dread Wolf or end the age of the Evanuris entirely?!

Now onto the next segment: I want to talk about Solas’ regrets and how I read the ‘love story’ between Solas and Mythal, and why Lavellan (and what she represented) wasn’t enough to get through to him (and that’s a very believable thing, that’s what makes their love both tragic and epic!).

The High Price of Redemption

A romanced Lavellan has the most agency to see through his guises, if she resolves to save him, but even she cannot undo the shackles that still bind him to Mythal—the binds that twisted Wisdom so far from its purpose it became Pride, even when he burned (Mythal) from his face. (Likewise, A close friend Inquisitor who promises to save him is most likely a parallel to Felassan, again, they cannot undo the shackles of regret either.) I fully believe the vallaslin had a deeper magic than simply marking one as being committed/devoted to an Evanuris, I think it linked them magically, and since Solas was the first to burn the vallaslin away, he probably wasn’t as good at severing the link on himself as he was for other elvhen, so maybe a part of Mythal’s will still lingers in him, twisting him to Pride still.

In Veilguard’s final confrontation, I love the intention of showing how Lavellan approaches Solas slowly, as she doesn’t know who she’ll be faced with up those steps, Dread Wolf or Solas. But when she speaks to him, trying to get him to change his mind yet again, forgiving him for his wrongs, we are reassured that Wisdom hasn’t been completely consumed by Pride despite everything we’ve witnessed in the game because he bows his head at her in reverence as he apologises.

He shows humility towards her. He elevates her and her enduring love as worthy of his respect, but he does not consider himself worthy of hers. Thus, Lavellan pries open the door to acceptance but his heart is still not enough. Which is why love alone cannot turn the tide. He’s too broken to accept it. He doesn’t think he deserves it, so the only way out is through; to continue the ritual, to prove he was right. The shackles persist. Varric’s death weighs on his conscience now more than ever. Possibly members of Rook’s team too if they died on his crusade. But he is vulnerable enough for Morrigan to approach, and now Rook can use Mythal’s essence to make the final push. The only way he could be with Lavellan, the only way he could atone for the past and shed the weight of his armour (his crushing duty to the Elvhenan) is as Wisdom, fully restored, unbound by mistakes.

“Ar lasa mala revas.” He could only find absolution once Mythal (the angered and more brash essence of Mythal, the one unchanged by Flemeth and all the human women’s lives she’s been shaped by, but the closest iteration to that of Mythal in Arlathan, the version that he perceives as having every right to be angry at him for turning his back on her, for not going that last final stretch with her and subsequently, not being by her side when she died) severed the final connection: facing his regrets, showing humility and apologizing, while not taking away the blame but sharing it.

What is Benevolence without Wisdom if not Hubris?

We know Elgar’nan was twisted to Tyranny during the war, and I saw a post somewhere where someone wondered what led to his corruption, and what he was before (leadership/command). Likewise, Mythal was not above corruption.

So far, I’ve seen a lot of takes on Solas’ ties to Mythal, the power dynamic of being a student/disciple enamoured (could be romantic) with the benevolence of Mythal, but not how Mythal’s purpose was possibly also twisted towards hubris the moment she asked Wisdom to turn physical and build weapons from its knowledge, twisting it to Pride. Without Elgar’nan’s tyranny to rally against after the war with the Titans, Mythal would most likely turn a similar route, seeing her ruling as “necessary” for the people: “If not me then who?”. And that is a very short stop and quick drop to “I am your all-powerful ruler, I liberated you, and only I can guide the way”. Benevolence twisted by hubris can easily turn to Tyranny too, only one more subtle, a kind of cultish indoctrination compared to violent subjugation. If Solas had not turned his back on Mythal when she chose to be Evanuris (a god over her people) then they most likely would have made the worst (best) pair in the Evanuris. Pride is the Seventh Deadliest Sin. But imagine Pride next to Godhood?! That is frightening. So, when Solas burns the vallaslin, walks away and works against the Evanuris, I believe that he also inadvertently stops Mythal from becoming a corrupted version of herself. The sorrow at having lost her closest confidant and “love” grounds her, keeps her saintly in Solas’ mind, and in some ways, perhaps saves the Elvhen empire from a worse fate than him erecting the veil to begin with. But neither of them ever consider this. And I think that sort of self-blindness perfectly encapsulates how flawed both Mythal and Solas are. Now onto love.

Solas and Mythal – a Love too complex to simply classify as mortal ‘Love’.

There’s no doubt Mythal and Solas shared a deep bond, one that definitely had love in it, when we hear Mythal calling him ‘love’, without the possessive ‘my’ in front of it, it’s easy to misconstrue what type of love they share. A small nitpick, but like a thorn, it applies sometimes just enough pressure to change a perspective. Not calling Solas “My love” but instead choosing to simply use “love” works within those wonderful ambiguities/complexities that Weekes thrives in.

If one started out as a spirit, it’s safe to say concepts like familial bonds, romantic bonds, and blood ties mean little to nothing. There is no one type of love and there is every kind of love all at once. It is only once physical bodies are introduced, that physical touch, the ability to stab someone in the back, to kiss out of affection, to hug out of empathy, to strike out of anger, that love now becomes this twisted thing too. There are no spirits of love because spirits always possessed love, but there are demons of Desire (Gluttony) and of Rage (love denied).

I believe, from GDL’s acting skills, his soft whisper, his almost submissive smallness in the breadth of Mythal’s already soft voice, that Solas was in love with Mythal, devoted as a student, beguiled by her benevolence, content even in her shadow, and possibly star-struck. He was in love with someone who doesn’t have the possibility to love him back the same, it is not in her nature to love those beneath her in the same intensity that those who look up to her do. It’s like a priest being in love with God. The priest can devote themselves, sacrifice everything, but a God will always love their flock equally, but they can still play favourites.

Benevolence cannot be enamoured with Wisdom because to be truly benevolent they must possess Wisdom but there is also Pride to be had in walking beside benevolence, but they can never be on equal footing. Likewise, Solas’ love is not reciprocated entirely by Mythal, but she does love him back in her own way. While Mythal is definetly Solas’ first love, layered and complex, it is also strangled by regrets and twisted by uneven scales of power. It would never be a nurturing love, only a consuming kind.

When he speaks of Mythal during the Solavellan ending, he calls her his “oldest friend”, much like what Mythal says, (paraphrasing) “would you have me be angry at my oldest companion whose experienced so much with me”. Because friendship is perhaps the easiest way to describe their companionship. They went through many iterations, one certainly holding romantic tensions (specifically from younger Solas), but ultimately, with that much time shared, kinship/friendship becomes the easiest to surmise. You can love your friends, fall in love with them, fall out of love with them, only to love them again, be disappointed in them, etc.

Media today is flushed with romance as a linchpin for driving a hero to make dire choices, and that has warped our perception of how a platonic/non-romance-based relationship can be all-consuming, and sometimes more impassioned than strict romance. But, to make it easier for people to understand Solas’ motivations, it's easier to see their love in the light Taash sees it (an unreliable, somewhat “still juvenile” narrator, in that they are still growing into themselves and their culture and the world): “They were doing it”.

However, Bellara, a companion whose entire companion story is linked to her strong, deeply character-driving relationship with her brother (platonic love) refutes that reading by saying (paraphrasing here): “We don’t know if their ‘love’ is the same type of love we tend to think of in a masculine and feminine relationship.”

Felassan’s letter after the Mythal Dragon fight alludes to Solas having been in love with Mythal, but nothing about how she felt. This is why I consider the Solas/Mythal relationship to be more of a one-sided romantic love, but a requited ‘love’ relationship for them both.  

A parallel I find so compelling: Solas and Mythal vs Briala and Celene. Solas and Briala both hold deep emotions for people in great power with the ability to end a tyrannical cycle of subjugation, enslavement and classism, yet for both of these ruler’s charisma and well-meaning intent, they often are swayed to side with tyranny. For Mythal, that was Elgarnan, the Evanuris who made all the other’s worse tyrants; as well as her own hubris for believing her presence alone could dampen the ravenous hunger for power that the rest of the Evanuris held at the small prospect of leading the Elvhen in a time of confusion (being a North Star is hard when all the other lights around you aim to blind the flock into submission). For Celene, this is more about the nuances of retaining favour, pull and power over other noble families, their backing (be it financial, political or simply cut-throat), and their support so she can be the ‘lesser of two evils’ compared to Gaspard’s warmongering personality and Florianne simply being a puppet with no backbone. Both Briala and Solas are turned to pawns despite their immense strength and compassion for their respective elven plights; Briala is rendered a fangless lion (for lack of a better metaphor) if she is reunited with Celene, whereas if she is chosen to puppet Gaspard, there’s every likelihood her story could parallel a ‘power-mad’ Solas if he’d been tethered to Rage (at betrayal) and not Regret (at having not rejected Mythal when she asked him to take a physical body) throughout his tenure as the Dread Wolf.

Solas and Lavellan – a Heart that was never intended to be Given/Taken

Now I will compare the lack of possessives in front of Mythal’s “love” to Solas declaring Lavellan as ‘Vhenan’ and then ‘Ar lath, ma Vhenan’ vs ‘Ar lath ma vhenan'; again, the coma is the thorn, the pause that shapes the quiet unsaid things we can deduce. In the Trespasser cutscene DGL puts the pause after “Ar lath”, even though the subtitles construct the sentence with Vhenan as a proper noun since it’s a nickname often used by Solas: “Ar lath ma, Vhenan”. But I believe Solas actually says “Ar lath, ma Vhenan”.

With “Ar lath, ma Vhenan” the stressor is after the pause, so the line reads: “I love [you], my heart.” And with “Ar lath ma, Vhenan” it makes even less structural sense but can be inferred to mean: “I love you, Heart”.  

The possessiveness of “My” is what definitively differentiates the love Solas feels for Lavellan as one more of the romantic side, it is a love of yearning and desire and a wish to have one last good thing that is pure and incorruptible. The one thing he had left to give. His heart. But that does not mean his heart is enough! The rest of him is still bound to the love of Mythal that was twisted through the ages. That changed him. And given how Pride often comes before a fall, I absolutely understand why Solas is actually very brash and ill-considering when he’s romancing Lavellan (“The kiss was ill-considered”/”It would be kinder in the long run”/”I wanted to show you what you mean to me”). He's on a precarious cliff during Inquisition. His first plan failed. He's allowed ancient elvhen magic to fall into a blighted Tevinter magister's hands. Literally everything the Inquisition did could have been for nought if the Mark had fallen to the wrong person. Things could have easily fallen apart for Solas too, so why not indulge in something trifling and fleeting? Execpt it wasn't trifling. Nor was it fleeting. And when he saw that the fall could potentially not happen, that the Inquisitor could do it, save Thedas and retrieve the orb, he was struck by the gravity of his brashness, of letting impulses control him instead of acting according to a plan. But it was too late. They'd both fallen for each other.

Solas didn’t expect to form entanglements within the Inquisition. He was committed. He was angry at the world, “walking through a sea of tranquil”, called flat-ear by the Dalish that later chased him from their village when he proved he was the Dread Wolf. He was despised by people who looked like him. Spirits were constantly being abused and turned into demons. People erected monuments to heroes who slew demons. Mages were caged. Elves were subjugated. The empire fell. Humans razed the lands with their wars and petty squabbles of succession. The darkspawn tainted the land. The dwarves would never dream. Solas awoke to the worst possible fate; in his eyes, it was all his fault.

So when he kisses Lavellan in the Fade, impulsively, he isn’t kissing her there because it is less ‘real’ than if they kissed while she was awake, it makes it so much more real. He’s kissing her in the space where he is most himself. Where he can shed the body he was forced to build and trap himself within, the body of Pride. He is acting on the impulses of an enlivened Wisdom spirit that does not consider tomorrow, for the first time in a long time. It isn’t a long game with Lavellan, like so much of his life has been about always thinking to the future, always considering the outcome, machinating, scheming, the wiles and woes of every trickster god in mythology. It’s being in the moment with her that is all-consuming. It lowers his guard, leaves him vulnerable, and when she enquires about the Fade or spirits or histories, he gets to be useful as pure Wisdom again.

Lavellan challenging him when he first shows animosity or irritation towards the Dalish (a prideful act), and then him being taken aback when she explains that maybe the Dalish could be shown another way (making him consider her words, being given a morsel of wisdom back, reminding him of his old self), these are all small moments where Solas can begin to see springs of hope in the broken world. And that’s terrifying. It means he’s destroying not just himself, but the memory of Mythal and Arlathan too, all for the love of a woman who fell for an apostate.

The best, most genuine unmasking of Solas for me is during Wicked Hearts, when he’s tipsy on wine, has no inhibitions, and revels in the intrigue, the gossip, the dancing, the music (something we now know is important enough to have an entire music room in the Lighthouse), the sex! He is at his most relaxed, and then he asks Lavellan to dance, not caring about how it would look for the “Inquisitor’s serving man, Solas” to be intimate in a fucking Orlesian palace with the Herald of Andraste, right after stopping an assassination attempt! He finds comfort in the world of Thedas at that moment. Something he rarely shows so outright.

When he takes Lavellan to Crestwood to confess, I believe removing her vallaslin wasn’t entirely just for her, it wasn’t just to free her from slave markings or to simply reveal a form of a truth he wanted to tell her, it was to resolve himself of what his first purpose was supposed to be, what she distracted him from. Removing the vallaslin had been something he’d done for the slaves of Arlathan, it was what earned him the mantle of Dread Wolf. When he removes Lavellan’s vallaslin, he resets.

Thedas cannot allow Wisdom to truly exist without fear of corruption to Pride, Thedas the world he was responsible for shaping, literally the Maker of the Veil, and he falls for a woman Heralded as Andraste’s Chosen One, Mythal’s incarnation in the South. The irony. The cruel, cruel irony. The Inquisition is tied to his past, every Andrastian he meets, every Dalish person with vallaslin on their face, every slave or city elf. Tevinter worshiping the dragons that still have the essences of the Old Gods. His heart alone cannot withstand all of the punishing, gruelling, oppressive weight that is Thedas. Even for Lavellan. So he frames their romance as this tragic, short-lived tale that was beautiful but ultimately destined to end. He expects it to pass for her, she’s mortal after all. But he also leaves his heart with her, literally giving her power over the last uncorrupted part of himself. Think Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann at the end of World’s End, but metaphorically. He gives her his heart to safe keep as he goes on a journey that could corrupt a heart, turn it cold and bitter, destroy it.   

Ar lasa mala revas. You are free.

He frees his heart.

Lets it go.

Twice!

So only once he is relinquished of his regrets, once Mythal does the same for him, only then is there “Nothing left except their love”. Because Lavellan still held his heart there was still something left after. Something beyond despair and regret and loss. He had given his heart to her to safekeep. And she did. Lavellan returns his heart to him when he is freed. What Mythal had to break so Solas could heal right again (like a bone), Lavellan casts a splint around so it can be set and heal properly. This is the difference between Mythal’s love and Lavellan’s. Both Mythal’s love and forgiveness broke him, but Lavellan’s love gives him the strength to Stand Tall one last time.

Solas, before Pride alone, as Wisdom (perhaps Solas always meant both Standing Tall and Wisdom, for Wisdom can grant one pride to stand tall for what they believe in), finds contentment with the rare and marvellous spirit that endured (his Vhenan). Wisdom endured because of humanity, something benevolence is beyond.

Bellanaris

When Lavellan offers to go with him, to continue on the dinanshiral that she already considers herself a part of, Solas is legitimately taken aback. His expression is soft yet full of disbelief and awe. He actually stops walking a few frames before Lavellan says this, as if hoping Lavellan would say something to him!

And then she basically proposes to him! “Bellanaris!” I absolutely adore the fact that Lavellan promises them eternity. A vow as sacred as a death right, as protected as an ancient, elvhen, undisturbed burial ground in the face of Orlesian colonialisation. They endured and now they will have an eternity. For once, we have an elvish tale that is not a curse, it is a love story with reunion at its core, where both elves reclaim something precious that was denied them.

Lastly, i am absolutely frothing at the mouth that Solas and Lavellan primarily speak in elvish! And even more feral at the fact Solas does not try to talk her out of joining him (because this sweet talker very well could!). He simply tells her where he is going is terrible. And she shuts that shit down immediately. No repeat of Trespasser. She's standing beside him, the South has all but fallen, whatever ties yet survive are strained, and she has fought the good fight for 8 years. I think the Inquisitor was about ready to leave Thedas behind.

The last decisions Solas makes are of his own volition. Entering the Fade for atonement. Stepping into the Fade with Lavellan (It was confirmed by Weekes that Lavellan’s presence in the Fade prison would fundamentally change it in a way we haven’t seen!). Thanking Rook for giving him one last shot at getting happiness. All his own!

This is the look of a man finally reunited with his wife! So much emotion in ONE frame. God! There’s never been a character like him. A love story like theirs! I’m so happy I got to see this ending. Full circle!

P.S. If you read this far, woah nelly! That’s crayyzeee, so here are some more great pieces: Why it was important for Lavellan to kneel for Solas as he knelt for her in Trespasser in the Solavellan ending [x], and here’s a great deep-dive on Solas as a spirit of Wisdom [x].

[winterarmyy]

Welcome home... Soldat? | Part I

That time when Bucky accidentally relapsed into the Winter Soldier.

Summary: Y/N had make a habit of greeting Bucky a warm 'welcome home' everytime he came back from his missions, but there was one particular day when she unknowingly greeted someone else.

Navigation: Part I || Part II* || Part III (end) || Extra

Words: 2.9k++

Pairing: winter soldier!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: implied 18+ content, implied smut, dubious con on groping reader's body, dark(?) possessive behaviour, google translated russian, our soldat is kinda cute(?) in his own twisted way, and well, basically fluffy times with the soldat.

P/S: Guys, I never planned this at all. I mean, who am I kidding? All of my fics are not planned and I clearly write things out of impulse. Therefore, this one don't have much of a story building/plot because it was born out of one scene that flashed in my head and has been replayed way to many times that I need to let it out. Anyway, I still hope you enjoy it, somehow.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Y/N didn't know when exactly she started this habit but she swore to herself to never grow out of it.

It's been nearly 2 years since the fall of Hydra and the avenger has accepted the winter soldier under their wing. Begrudgingly by Tony, but the rest of them seemed like they're not against it.

Y/N used to be an agent from SHIELD but since the fall, she had been recruited under the avenger's programme and had been living in the tower since.

She remembered the day when Bucky first came in, he was quiet and weary all the time. Like an abandoned cat, picked up by a stranger to come to their home. And it took the whole team months before he slowly adapted.

Who knew he would morphed into a sassy, grumpy little shit, right?

Since the first day, Y/N had been making an effort to make him feel welcomed. Helped him to adjust to modern times. Though it was not regular but she's glad he came to her from time to time to ask about things.

Y/N only meant it to be casual when she greeted him back from his missions. Usually, it'll be something like,

"Oh you're back?"

"How's the team?"

"Good to see you well put together from such horrendous mission."

"God, you look like you fell from 5 flight of stairs."

"Are you even trying to fight back, Bucky?"

But one time, Bucky came back in the morning around breakfast, she wasn't feeling sassy or clever. So, instead of greeting him with playful remarks, in the glory of her messy bed hair and iron man pyjamas, she greeted him with a sleepy smile, "Welcome home, Bucky."

And that surely made the 6 foot, bulky hunk of a soldier paralysed in his spot. His ocean blues slightly widen, and his cheeks deepen in blush.

For a moment, he wondered if this is how he would feel if he had a wife waiting for him to come back from war back in the 40's. But, then again nothing can be compared to the sight he was seeing as he is now.

And Y/N didn't want to ever lose that memory of him.

Cute and flustered Bucky is a very rare sight to see. Perhaps, this was the only time she could witness it and she want to cherish it for the rest of her life.

Though Bucky never replied to Y/N's greeting, it didn't stop them from starting a whole new routine.

Y/N always knew that she had a thing for the sargent, but about 2 months from that moment, Y/N realized she was in love.

And she waited for him, every single chance she had for arrival of the team to come back. Just like she is now, at 03:45 in the morning, while scavenging for something sweet she can eat as she waits for Bucky's return.

When, she turned around she was not expecting to have her face into clashed into something, "Oww!" Y/N shuts her eyes close as she rubbed her aching nose to ease the sharp strike of pain.

For a moment there, she seriously thought she might have just bumped into some kind of a solid air that appeared out of nowhere, but when she opened her eyes, it was just Bucky who was standing rather ominously still.

"My god, you scared the shit out of me. I know you used to be an assassin but, you gotta announce yourself sometimes, man." She joked. Although she did find it impressive that he managed to silently sneak up on her with those thick, heavy combat boots he was wearing.

"Woah, someone's been having a field day kicking your ass, huh?" Y/N's eyes lingered a little longer on the wounds at the side of his temple that she didn't notice the void in his eyes.

"Anyway..." she continued as she shook of the thoughts of caressing the cut on the corner of Bucky's lip, before greeting him with a gentle smile, "Welcome home."

Bucky's unresponsiveness was nothing new to her. With the amount of silent glares and gruff eye-rolls that he had shot at her these past few months, she's used to it by now.

But, when she finally had the guts to look him in the eye, only then she noticed the underlying shift. Albeit, his signature frown was still as present as ever but, those eyes had made her questioned of the slight difference from what she recognized.

Bucky wordlessly step forward and cornered her until her back meets the side of the kitchen isle. He took his time assessing her, almost admiring the way her iris wavered in confusion.

Something is wrong.

Her guts were screaming at her to notice it but her body wasn't reacting accordingly. That's when the voice of the AI, Jarvis echoed through the walls.

"Emergency alert: Code Winter. Initiated by Captain Steve Rogers. All agent is advised..." The announcement went on based on protocol while the cogs in Y/N's brain finally moved, "Code Winter? That means..."

 "...to be cautious of Sargent James Barnes; reprimand on sight however try not to engage alone. Agents is..." Jarvis voice in the background interwoven with Y/N's internal deduction, "...This is not Bucky?"

As she tried to put her own mind into perspective, trying to make herself believe that this man in front of her is not Bucky Barnes who she had been adoring over for these past few months, the soldat's hands reached the side of her neck, squeezing the softness of her flesh while his thumbs grazed the shape of her jawline.

His heavy gaze remained on hers, willing her to stay as still possible.

"Bucky...?" She called his name in hopes of triggering something, anything for within his controlled mind.

At end of the corridor leading towards the kitchen, Steve could see how the soldat had already gotten his hands on Y/N and panic strike him like lightning, he sprinted towards her as he despretely shouted, "Y/N! Stay away from--"

But Y/N was not able to render anything she heard from Steve, especially after a long silence, the soldat finally spoke, "Yes, I'm home..."

He carefully pulled her face closer to his as his lips planted on her soft cheek, "...мое cолнышко (my sunshine)" he lifted for a second just to kiss her again on her temple as he whispered lowly, "...мое Родная (my darling)"

Y/N's heart was beating madly for several different reasons. Parts of her was terrified that the soldat might break her neck within an instance, but it gradually changes into something much more confusing, a conflicted joy, when he keep on trailing his lips all over her face.

What is happening?

Both her and Steve was practically frozen in pure confusion.

Steve's mouth hanged open as words failed to form, while Y/N was unable to comprehend any sort of thoughts, let alone counter movements; when the soldat continue to whisper Russian endearments against her skin, littering sweet kisses on every part of her face, except for her lips as if he wanted to tease her.

His hands slowly travel down her back and stopped on the side of her waist, pulling her body closer until there was no space in between them anymore, before he wrapped his arms around her.

The drag of his stubble on her skin burned but it felt so good when he kissed it after.

Seconds later, Sam managed to catch up with Steve and his cautious approach fell as he witnessed the soldat's rather domestic actions towards Y/N.

Sam foolishly let his guard down as he approached with a question directed to Steve, "Is the tin man back?" That was when a bullet barely grazed the tip of his ear that then buried through the wall behind him.

Both Steve and Sam forced to stop any sort of movement as the soldat's aim was still locked towards their direction; his cold blue eyes pierced with a menacing warning, all the while posessively holding Y/N in his arms as his kisses trailed the side of her neck.

"Nope, not yet." Sam answered his own question as he waited for Steve's order.

Y/N felt like she have to do something to de-escalate the situation. After a quick deduction, and based on the soldat attitude towards her, she took the risk of believing that he would not do anything to hurt her, so she decided to play along.

Will it work though?

Well, she got to have to try for it work.

She gulped nervously before softly calls for him, "Soldat?" she looked up towards him.

When the soldat gave her his attention, she watched the loose strand of his hair fall down to his face. Her hand went up and reached for it, "How about we go back to your room and let me tend these wounds, hmm?" She cooed while tucking his behind his ear and briefly caressing his cheek with the back of her fingers.

The soldat didn't reply but instead silently process her proposition.

However, the hesitation only worried her more, so she continued to persuade, as she cautiously slide her hand, following his arm that was holding her teammates at gun point, "It'll be just the two of us. How's that sound?" She smiled warmly at him as she managed to lower it enough to grab the gun away from his grasp.

There was a glint of indecipherable emotion in his eyes when she mentioned that, which then he nodded in agreement.

"Okay then, let's go." She put the gun on the kitchen isle behind her and replaced her hand in his, pulling him towards his bedroom. The soldat did not protest to her lead, in fact her followed her obediently.

But before Y/N makes an exit, she looked back towards Steve and mouthed a reassuring message, "I got this."

The captain had all the rights to be weary but at this point, he just had to believe in Y/N's action plan. He nodded and replied, "Be safe. We'll be outside."

Along the walk towards Bucky's room, all she could think was that she can handle it and she got this under control.

But, does she?

Well, Y/N did have it under control, in terms of keeping the soldat from going on a berserk rampage but what she didn't think through was how the fuck she should handle his behaviour towards her.

After they arrived to Bucky's room, she had instructed him to strip off his tactical suit and leave him sitting at the edge of the bed, only in his short to avoid him reaching for any hidden weapons he had, all the while she went to grab the first aid from his bathroom.

Now that she almost done tending the small injuries on his face, it finally dawned to her that the soldat had her immobilized in between his legs as his hands rubbed the back of her thighs, occasionally squeezing the softness of her body in his tender grip.

His intent gaze waited patiently for her to finish and as soon as she did, he pulled her on his lap, making her to straddle on top him as he smushed his face on her chest, "Oh, Родная (darling)... I have missed you."

Her hands found her balance on his shoulders while the soldat roaming hands held her body still by the back of her waist.

It will be a lie if she said her heart didn't skipped when he confessed; even if it was still the soldat's thoughts and words but it was Bucky's voice.

The soldat pulled his other hand to play with the buttons of her pyjamas shirt, specifically around her chest area.

Part of him wanted to just rip her clothes off from her body but another part of him didn't want to. He didn't want scare her; and his precious little darling deserved to be pampered.

He had her buttons popped off; one by one, slow and almost sensual while Y/N was still in a heated debate with herself on what she should to next. She wanted the soldat to stop but god the temptation of wanting more was beyond her will power.

This is not Bucky.

She knew that. But, she had been bewitched by the look in those familiar blue eyes. So enthralled and so keen to unwrap her.

Y/N let out a low yet sharp gasp as her chest was finally revealed, "Soldat, what..." The soldat take a quick glance into her eyes, "...are you doing?" before trailing back down to the curve of her breasts, cupped so beautifully with a simple black bra.

His hands went back to grabbed her thighs as he replied, "Just wanna hold you." He leaned closer and left a lingering kiss in between her breasts, mumbling deep, " Wanna feel you, мое Родная (my darling)"

Fuck, it feels so good.

"Wanna feel you..." Y/N's grip on his bare shoulder tightened as he lips warmed the top of her right breast, "...here." An unexpected moan slipped out of her lips as the soldat latched his wet mouth on her skin, bruising it with his mark.

He groaned to the taste of her, so sweet and soft, he wanted to pull the bra off her and suckle on her nipple. He bet that they're perky and so sensitive. Bet he could make her cum just by playing with them.

He wanted to leave his bite mark around them, make them look much more prettier. But, he needed to be patient.

He brought his left hand up to hold the other side of her chest; pulling another pretty noise as the cold metal of his thumb gently stroked the exposed skin of her breast.

"Wanna feel you..." His flesh hand made its way lower and cupped her clothed sex, unexpectedly making her grind down to his hold, "...here."

She couldn't help to find shelter in the crook of his neck when he began to stroke her sensually.

This is getting out of hand.

Y/N doesn't mind to entertain him if the soldat only asked for him to hold her but it was clear that he wanted so much more than just innocent touches. Especially when he languidly rubbed his middle finger in between the slit of her pussy.

She hates how easy it was for Bucky's touch turned her on, his hands and his lips; regardless if his actions was someone else's.

This is wrong.

This has to stop.

"No... soldat." She whimpered in his ears as his finger drew slow circles on her clit, his mouth latched on her shoulder.

"I can't touch you here?" He murmured softly as he pressed harder. Even with the barrier of the cotton panties, she was so sensitive to his touch; he loves that about her.

"N-no. You can't." She choked back a moan as she replied.

God, what if he doesn't care?

What if he'll get mad and force it on her?

She can't imagine the guilt Bucky had to experience if the soldat take her right now. And all because her stupid little brain cannot comprehend a plan to stop him, all because she let the soldat touch her as freely, as willingly.

Salty tears started to blur her vision when she sniffled them back.

Much to his deperateness, the soldat pulled her away and watched as her tears spilled out, "Oh darling, don't cry." He leaned in and kiss the corners of her eyes, murmuring his words of comfort, "I hate to see you cry, мое cолнышко (my sunshine)." His metal hand slithered to her back and his palm stroked her lovingly.

"Okay, okay. I won't touch your sweet princess part, okay?" He patted her pussy one last time before reaching to swipe her tears away. "I promise." He whispered.

As much as he wanted to fuck her stupid, fill her hole full with his load; however the soldat does hold her very dear to his heart and hates to see her sad.

"Just let me hold you close, darling?" He cooed as he kissed the edge of her lips.

Y/N didn't know why but she trusted his words. Maybe it was because he was so gentle with her, that she was tricked into believing him.

She watched the soldat waited patiently for her response and when she nodded softly, he swiftly lifted her in his arms and lay her down on the bed.

He tucked himself in under the sheets with her and naturally rested his face on her chest. His fleshed arms wrapped securely around her waist and his metal one around her thighs, as he pulled her closer; almost suffocating himself in between her warm breasts.

It was like an instinct for Y/N to encircle her arms around his neck while her hands run through the thick of his hair, absentmindedly playing with the softness of it.

She almost giggle when the soldat let out a deep-throated sound of relieved sighs as she continued to massage his scalp.

As the soldat started to sail deeper into dreamland, Y/N thought that maybe this will be the only and the last time she had the chance to hold Bucky like this and she knew it was wrong to feel grateful to the soldat because had done nothing but terrible, despicable things in the past.

But when she thought about it, none of those sins was his choice to make. He was created to kill and nothing else.

But what if he had something to hold on to?

A hope to look forward to?

A person to protect?

Or a home to go back to?

Would he still be the same monster he had been before?

She have not a slightest clue.

But, what she does know that this soldat who's clinging in her arms, deserves something kind.

And she hoped that she managed to give him a sense of peace for once in his life.

Y/N nuzzled to the side of his tired-looking face and placed a sweet kiss on his temple as she whispered ever-so-softly, "Welcome home, soldat."

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: This is possibly part 1? I'm not sure either. Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments! And reblogs is much appreciated!

[livelaughloveluffy]

imagine luffy confessing his admiration and love for you after seeing each other after 2 years, before being separated the two of you were becoming more intimate with each other and seeking one another out during downtimes cuddling, holding hands, or just wanting the comfort of one another

confession - monkey d. luffy

a/n: thank you for the ask!!! it literally came at the perfect time!! i was planning on writing a confession series with the boys and i love your addition to the prompt!! since you specifically said two years, i think you know exactly where i'm going with this, so luffy's confession will take place post-time skip!! these will definitely be longer fics, but know that there will definitely be similar fics in the future!

a/n: i did proof-read, however it was more like proof-skimmed if im being honest

enies lobby // paramount war spoilers under the cut!!!

ngl, there's a little bit hurt here... but there is also plenty of comfort and fluff to make up for it 😭💀

---------------------------------------------------------------------

the first thing you learned about your captain was that he has zero concept of personal space. this wasn't something that particularly bothered you.. however it was definitely an adjustment from what you were used to.

as one of first few members to join the straw hat pirates, you and luffy had lots of time with just the two of you, giving you more than your fair share of opportunities to get to know each other. the captain really enjoyed your presence, as you seemed to just get him. it was one of the many reasons he asked you to join his crew in the first place. but in actuality, he was always drawn to you from the second he first saw you.

something about the way you carried yourself, so elegantly but so sure of yourself, even in combat you were a wonder to his eyes. when he finally got a chance to talk to you, he suddenly just had this overwhelming feeling that he couldn't imagine a life without you in it.

many days and night on the going merry were spent making sharing jokes and obnoxiously laughing at them, sneaking way too many snacks from the kitchen until sanji caught you both, and tons of crazy and fun adventures were shared together.

the countless times luffy would run up to you with a huge smile on his face, grabbing your hand in his, exclaiming "you have to see this!! come on!!" before he would whisk you away to some small silly shenanigan of his was a frequent occurrence, but one that you had become to enjoy dearly.

the second his fingers interlocked around yours, everything just felt better, even for just a second. and you could've sworn he felt it too. he'd smile just a bit wider, laugh a bit louder, and pull you a little bit closer.

•♡•

it wasn't until the shock of losing robin and breaking into enies lobby to rescue her that had finally bonded you two even closer than you already were. watching luffy being unable to move after defeating rob lucci had to be one to the scariest moments of your life.

it wasn't until the whole crew was back together on a new ship ready to conquer your next adventure, that you finally got some alone time with luffy. you and chopper had to beg him to rest and recover from his injuries. but he only agreed to do so if you kept him company.

"lu, are you awake?" you whispered, walking into the dark shared boys room, finding luffy laying down on his cot. "chopper said it's time to take your meds, so i brought them for you."

a tired and groggy luffy rolled over to greet you, taking a seat at the edge of his cot, you smoothed down his crazy bed-head before handing him is meds. "do i have to take them?" he pleaded, eyes wide in hopes he could make you pity him enough to say no. "i'll get sanji to make you an extra dessert if you do" with that being said, he took his meds without any more hesitation or fussing.

you began standing up from his cot, ready to sweet-talk your way to a special dessert made my sanji (he didn't need to know who it was really for anyways), when luffy grabbed your hand stopping you in your tracks. "where are you going? i thought you'd stay here with me?"

"i was just going to get sanji to start on-" but before you could finish your sentence, your captain pulled you into his arms and cot. "i don't want you to leave yet.." he said, whining with his face buried in the crook of your neck "stay for a little bit longer.."

who were you to disobey the captain's orders?

•♡•

cuddling with your captain was truly a special event. it wasn't nearly as common as you had hoped, since luffy often refuses to sit still long enough for it to happen.

warm rubber limbs wrapped two times too many around your body, his soft dark brown hair tickling your cheek as he buried his face in your neck and shoulder. luffy smelled like the ocean breeze, sweat, and sunshine (which sounds crazy, but if sunshine had a smell, it would smell like luffy), a scent that you had grown so extremely comforted by, it felt like a warm hug, or just getting home after a long day.

"lu, don't you want me to get your dessert?" you whispered. his soft tired voice only had enough energy to mumble out a soft "later.." before he drifted off to sleep.

and just for tonight, you would stay. soaking up this opportunity and holding onto it for dear life.

•♡•

when your crew had initially stopped at sabaody, you truly thought you were in for a fun time. yes, you always expected a little hitch in the plans, that's just natural considering your captain, but nothing could prepare you for what was to come.

•♡•

as per usual, you're running for your lives from government officials, and countless other enemies, this time the stakes higher than they had ever been before, with crew members disappearing right in front of your eyes. before you knew it, it was just you and luffy left. tears welling in your eyes as luffy lets out an ear-shattering scream for you to just run.

you swear you didn't even see bartholomew kuma in front of you, but the next thing you knew you were shooting through the sky, heading god knows where, separated from your crew and your beloved captain.

•♡•

the island you ended up at was less than ideal. between fighting for your life daily, attempting to find some sort of civilization, and being separated from the people you loved the most in the world, you really couldn't imagine anything worse.

that wasn't until the day you finally found a town, hordes of people were crowding a newspaper stand, after making your way through the crowd, and grabbing a paper to see what all the fuss was about, did your heart finally break into two.

the headline read: portgas d. ace - died in action during paramount war

your eyes began to overflow with tears, just imagining the amount of pain luffy was in, and you could do absolutely nothing to help. you momentarily lost yourself in the grief of it all, the man you loved, separated from the people he loved and trusted the most, witnessing the death of his brother right in front of his eyes, all alone.

and the shock didn't end there. when a couple days later, a pit of dread inside your stomach when you heard the same crowds out again huddled around the newspaper stand, only to find your captain on the cover.

at first, knowing he was safe and somewhat okay made you drop to your knees with relief that you almost overlooked the drawing on his arm: 3D2Y

•♡•

the only thing that got you through those 2 years always from luffy and the crew was keeping extremely busy. if you weren't constantly training in combat, practicing new techniques with your devil fruit, reading anything and everything under the sun from history to medicine to stupid trashy romance novels, learning new languages, and a thousand other skills. you hardly had time for sleep, let alone time to think, because if for a second you stopped, you would fall apart.

•♡•

it was by sheer luck you managed to avoid the hassle that caribou and his crew had caused, turns out you made the right call to just stay aboard the sunny.

the second your eyes met luffy and his feet touched the deck, his arms were already wrapped around you so tight that you forgot how to breathe for a second. after 2 years of holding back your tears, this one hug is what finally made you come undone. you buried your face into the crook of your captain's neck, and he placed his hand on top of your head, stroking your hair as you sobbed. "i missed you too, so much more than you know." he whispered as he held you, this time he'd never let you go again.

•♡•

the voyage to fishman island proved to be the best time for the crew to finally relax and get to enjoy in each other's presence for the first time in years, truly a great reason for an over-the-top banquet on its own. and boy, what a banquet it was.

•♡•

you had deeply missed girl talk with robin and nami, all three of you sharing stories from your time apart, when a hand suddenly slipped into yours. you turn your head to the bright wide hazel eyes of your captain "um.. there's something i want to tell you...in private.." he said, with this adorable little lopsided smile with a hint of blush spreading across his cheeks that you had never seen before, but committed to memory the second you did. the girls smiled at you, gesturing it was okay to step away and you could catch up later.

he whisked you away to his favorite spot, the top of the hull, in a painful amount of silence. your mind suddenly overwhelmed conjuring up the millions of things he could possible say to you. after helping you get atop the lion's head of the thousand sunny, with luffy standing in front of you, he placed his hands hips lifting you up and letting you wrap your legs around his waist before he gently sat down, and then your mind just stopped.

the familiar warmth of luffy's chest pressed against yours, arms around your back, and cheek pressed up against yours with his chin resting on your shoulder. oh, how you had missed this.

turning your face ever so slightly to look at his, did you finally meet his eyes. with a small smile, he looked at you and with a small giggle and a tiny voice he said "hi". you couldn't help but let your heart melt right there as you shyly smiled back and returned the greeting.

with your eyes still on his, you couldn't help but ask "lu, what did you want to talk to me about?" the curiosity and suspense was starting to make you want to crawl out of your skin.

"oh! right!! i wanted to tell you that i love you!" he cheerly replied, so casual that you questioned if you had misheard him.

you couldn't help yourself but to ask for clarification "wait, what did you just say luffy?"

and with his usual luffy smile, he loudly and proudly repeated the words you thought you misheard "i said i love you!!"

for a second, your heart stopped. "you love me? lu, are you su-"

but before you could begin to question him, he put a hand on the side of your face and pulled you in for a small kiss. once his lips finally left yours, you looked at him with wide eyes and bright red cheeks, searching for an explanation.

he softly began to explain "i couldn't wait to tell you any longer... after these past two years.. i just... i want you to know that i love you."

your eyes turned glassy, and with your captain's wide waiting eyes, you couldn't stop yourself as the words "i love you too, lu." poured out of your mouth. pulling your captain as close as you could to you, you held him knowing this time you'd never have to let him go.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: ahhhhhhhhh, i live and die for calling luffy "lu", its truly my favorite pet name in the world for him 😭😭😭 hopefully i was able to do your ask some justice!!

a/n: i just checked my activity center on tumblr and !!!! omg thank you so much for 100 followers!! the amount of love and support i've been receiving on my fics genuinely means the world to me!! so if you're new, or just now finding my blog, thank you for being here!!!

a/n: enjoyed this fic? you can find my masterlist here!!

[yougavemeyourheartyouknow]

Childs play (Miguel O’Hara x fem! Reader [ex-Childhood best friend turned Fwb AU]) Part 1

Hiiiii! I’m so freaking excited for y’all to read this I’m literally shaking! This will only be 1 part. (Edit: I’ve changed my mind it will get a second part but it won’t be put right away) Shout out to @chickenshit03 for beta reading the one shot. Absolute sweetheart 🫶🏼. Not proofread, enjoy!!

(Y/N)-Your name.

NSFW!! SMUT!! MDNI!! Cursing, light choking during the deed , protecting PinV, Miguel being a big meanie near the end, Comfort/Hurt, lmk if I can’t think of anymore

Word count: 4.6k

Part 2

Masterlist

—

Knock knock…

“Hello, I’m sorry if I’m intruding but I wanted to introduce myself, me and my family just moved in next door and I wanted to introduce ourselves.” Your mother said as she stood at her neighbors door, you hid timidly behind her leg as she spoke to a Hispanic woman with curly dark hair. Your eyes wandered around her living room, or at least as much as you could catch from your spot. Not paying any mind to the conversation they were having when your eyes spotted a young boy around your age, about five or so walking past with a few legos in hand.

Your shyness was quickly overtaken with curiosity as you went to pull on your mother’s hand, she must have been watching you stare at the brunette, because before you could even turn up to ask her if you could go play, she was already shooing you in the direction of him as her and the other lady went to go talk over coffee in the kitchen.

He didn’t glance up at you as you sat down in front of his spot on the living room floor, being too preoccupied on the Star Wars set he was working on.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“My name’s (Y/N).”

“Cool.”

“What’s your name?”

“Miguel.”

You paused, shifting to sit down better before speaking again.

“Can I help? I love legos.”

He stayed quiet, and for a second you think he’ll say no, until he shrugged and moved the instruction book so you both could read it, making your lips come up in a smile.

“Sure.”

—

“You can teach me to play street fighter a million times and I will never understand it.” You huffed as you dropped the controller on your lap and leaned back on the couch, the tv in his living room sounded out a “finish her” as Miguel’s character killed yours, you couldn’t even be bothered to remember the names, peeved off that’d he beat you for the upteenth time, him not even having the courtesy to let you win one round.

“I’m not gonna be sorry for you being bad.” He retorted in a teasing tone, sticking out his tongue at you, and blew a raspberry. Your arms quickly crossover your chest as you puff your cheeks out with a pout.

“You’re so mean to me Miguel, I hate you.” You mumbled the half-lie to the other ten year old, looking away as you felt your cheeks heat with embarrassment, you didn’t even notice his movements until you felt him grab for your hand, turning your head to realize he was now standing in front of your spot on the couch.

“You don’t hate me, I’m your best friend.” He states, making you nod your head in confirmation after a beat, “Good. Because you’re my best friend too.” You smiled.

“Can we play something else then?”

“Nope.”

“Ughhh.”

—

“(Y/N), it’s your turn to spin the bottle.” Mj’s voice snapped you out of your head, suddenly aware of all the other fourteen years olds turning to stare at you. Was it a bit embarrassing you were about to lose your first kiss in a game of spin the bottle?

Half-dried nail-polished fingers gently grabbed the base of the empty Coke bottle, praying to god no one saw the way your hand trembled slightly, as you gave it a good twist. As your eyes tracked the blur of clear glass, you got your lower lip, silently hoping it was someone who you wouldn’t fluster up in embarrassment when you had to tell them who was your first kiss in the four walls of the lunch room. Like Kyle, or Ben or-

“Oooo- you got Miguel!” One of the other girls giggled as your eyes shot up to where the tip was pointing and surely, there he sat in front of you. Miguel was good…yeah, great even! You trusted him, he was your best friend since you were practically in dippers…So with a fine silent look of confirmation, you crossed the circle, closing your eyes as your lips connected for the first time.

Is it normal for your heart to skip a beat during a kiss? God how red is my face right now? Have I been holding it for too long? I wonder if he’s enjoying it, he hasn’t pulled away so that’s a good sign right? I should probably stop now. It's been like four seconds.

You finally pull away, sitting down on your knees as you bring a hand up to wipe some excess saliva away from the cover of your mouth. The sound of the next person going to spin the bottle muffles out around you as you focus on the weird flutter in your stomach.

—

“SLOW DOWN MIG-YOU’RE DRIVING LIKE A MANIAC!” You yelled as your left hand flew to grab at your seat belt, right hand gripping the overhead handle so hard your knuckles were turning white, pushing yourself as much as you could into the passenger seat at you could while he just let out an eye roll and chuckle as you were being dramatic (you weren’t).

“I’m not taking driving advice from someone who doesn’t have their license yet.”

“You got your license yesterday! I don’t turn sixteen for another four months!”

“Don’t care, you could ever shut up or take the bus.”

You couldn’t respond right away because another scream came from your throat as he turned a corner.

“If I die in this stupid car, I’m going to haunt the shit out of you O’Hara!”

“I’m not gonna let you die, stop being dramatic.” He scoffed, finally pulling up to the school parking lot, finally slowing down as he looked for a place to park. His arm comes around the back of your car seat as he goes to backwards park in an empty spot. “See I didn’t let you die.”

“I’m actually traumatized…” You muttered, eyes still wide as you kept still in your seat. Miguel let out a huff and he goes to take your seatbelt off once the car was shut off.

“If I buy you some subway during lunch will you stop complaining?”

“…yes.”

—

“Maybe I could just take a gap year-or-or go to the community college nearby, just until I can transfer, then I can try for Columbia again?” You kept fumbling your words, looking at the rejection letter in your hands. If you tried to focus on it enough, you’d be able to hear the paper shaking lightly in your hands. Glossy eyes trying to rapidly blink away tears before they fell on the paper. Miguel quickly shook his head as he placed his coffee cup down on the table of the cafe you two would frequent.

“No. Not happening, I’ll just reject my application and we can go to Stanford together in California.” He told you, making you copy his actions as you placed the paper down next to your other University letters.

“Are you crazy? That’s your dream school! I am not letting you do that for me. I’d never forgive myself for that.” You admitted, looking at him in those familiar brown eyes, praying to god yours weren’t growing bloodshot from the emotional moment between you both. Miguel letting out a heavy sigh, his hand going to run through his pushed back brown locks as he looked down at his letters again. The silence that grew over you two was almost suffocating, a thing it never felt like around him. It made your heart ache, trying to keep back a whine and some tears as you closed your eyes and took in a shaky breath before opening them again and finally breaking the silence between you both. “I mean…FaceTime is a thing right?” Miguel raised a brow at your sentence, before it clicked in his mind what you were implying. Quickly shaking his head, his hand coming up to stop you.

“No. No. I can’t even go a week without seeing you, I’ve lived next door to you for thirteen years and you expect me to be okay with us being two thousand miles away from each other!?” You glanced around you when Miguel raised his voice slightly, luckily other than you and the owner the place was practically barren.

“Mig, we’ll figure it out! We’ll call and text, FaceTime, and I’ll come back for breaks! And besides, you don’t strike me as a type to enjoy California.” You attempted to lighten the mood, thankfully being met with an amused grunt and his lip twitching up slightly.

“Fine… just, promise we aren’t going to end up like all those friends who stop talking because we’re going to separate college’s alright?”

Your smile grew. “I promise.”

—

Ring…

Ring…

Rin- “Hey it’s Miguel,” your ears perked up, quickly scrambling up from your position on your bunk bed, where you were laying on your stomach, “I can’t come to the phone right now, leave me a message.” Beep.

“Hey Miguel… just wanted to see how you were, I finished my exams for the semester, and I’m going back to Neuva York tomorrow. I wanted to see if you’d want to hang out during the break, let me know… bye…” You mumbled before you hung up the call, tossing your phone on the other side of your bed. Running your hands through your head, letting out a heavy sigh. Closing your eyes to keep any forming tears of frustration from spilling out.

You and Miguel weren’t as close as you’d like to be anymore. How did a few months apart completely unwind the tight knit threat that had kept you both close for years? It had started out well, you did good at keeping your side of the promise and he did as well. Texting every hour, FaceTiming him every weekend, calling every night while you both studied, it almost felt like nothing had changed.

Then, classes became harder, you’d both start to develop new friends, new routines. The text became less frequent, now lagging to every few days, FaceTime sessions were now non-existent and your daily calls now became monthly, never lasting more than half an hour. You hated how you two were growing apart, and it hurt to see that Miguel didn’t seem to care. You didn’t have to see him in person to notice his new friend group was starting to change his personality. He was starting to seem more stoic, dry, it almost seemed like he was constantly agitated or something of the sort when you finally would get a hold of him. Still… despite the gradual change he seemed to be going through you still had hope that deep down he was still the same old Miguel you had grown to love and cherish. And that spark of hope only grew when you heard the faint buzz of your phone from the foot of your bed, quickly grabbing it to read a new message.

Text me when you get in tomorrow.

—

This was not what you had in mind.

Somehow Miguel had convinced you to go to some random bar that didn’t ID with him and his college buddies. “I’ll be fun” he said, “you’ll love them” he said. Now here you were forced to listen to some snobby trust fund kid bitch and moan about how he had to inherit his father’s company and blah blah blah. You weren’t even paying attention anyways, his words were going into one ear and flying out the other, opting to sip on your mixed drink to help keep you from banging your head into the bar counter. Tonight had simply e been the worst. Not to mention Miguel had been acting… different.

Maybe he just wasn’t good with distance, but it still struck you as odd how the second you were both finally in close proximity it was almost as if nothing had happened, like your friendship with each other wasnt badly strained for weeks on end. It didn’t stop there though, no no no. Because now that you were with him in front of his new friends and all dolled up he had been more… touchy, and not in a way he had been before.

A hand on your thigh, an arm around your waist, a finger idly twisting and twirling your hair. It was so… intimate… like he wanted them to think there was something there that was more than just a childhood friend. You couldn’t say that you hated it, it was just unexpected.

“Hey… let’s get out of here?” Miguel’s whisper snapped you out from your thoughts. The way his voice murmured lowly against your shoulder as he all but rubbed against it like a cat making your cheeks flare up and a shiver ran down your back. Quickly ignoring the feeling of the spike in your heart rate and the wetness growing in your panties, nodding as you go to stand up, not wanting to be in the over cramped bar any longer and just waiting to head back to Miguel’s place since you were staying there for a week. Feeling like your knees were going to give out from underneath you when he slid his large hand from between your shoulder blades and upwards to squeeze your right shoulder.

Not sure if your hazy mind was from the alcohol or from his actions anymore. Not sure if things would go back to how they were before you’d left when he went to leave sloppy wet kisses on your neck as soon as his apartment door was closed and locked. Not sure if you could look at him the same way after he made you see stars from the comfort of his sheets. Still you couldn’t stop. It felt too good, he felt too good.

“Fuck- felt so fucking good…” He hissed as he pulled out from between your legs, taking a moment to let himself to catch his breath before rolling the condom off and tossing it in the trash can. You didn’t respond, still out of it from the aftermath of experiencing nirvana in the form of drunk sex. Letting out a sigh as you turned to your side and closed your eyes as drowsiness starts to seep into your bones. Feeling the other side of the bed dip before a strong arm came around to hug your waist.

“…Miguel?”

“Yeah?”

“This… was a one time thing right?”

A pause, a heavy sigh before you felt his soft lips kiss the nape of your neck.

“… of course.”

—

A flash of light shined through the darkness of your studio apartment. You didn’t even need to check the notification screen in order to know who it was. Only one person would text you at two in the morning.

Come over?

If you told your high school self that the only time you ever saw Miguel was in the deeps of night while you were tangled in his sheets, she would have thought you were lying. The most fucked up part was that it was starting to affect you mentally, how your best friend had turned into a booty call because of one night from a drunk fuck seven years ago, it was painfully obvious you’d never get to the point where you’d be able to go back to the way you both once were. You couldn’t help but cling to the last broken bits he was willing to give you though. So every time he calls or texts you at random hours of the night since you’ve moved back to Nueva York, you’d show up at his doorstep like you are now.

“I know it’s late, I'm sorry, these Master exams are kicking my ass.” He apologized while letting you in after a few seconds. Closing and locking the front door before gently pushing you against it, his lips already finding their usual spot against the crook of your neck. Calloused hands began to slip underneath the baggy material of your hoodie, his large fingers gently grazing the exposed skin, you’ve learned to stop wearing shirts to these sessions a long time ago. “Need to blow off some steam…”

“Miguel…”The way you’d breathe out his name always made him feel like he had died and gone to heaven, your hands wandering upwards against the black fabric of his tank top. His lips separated from the blossoming red and purple mark they left in their wake so he can pull your jacket off before stripping off his own shirt. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck, any guilt that had been lingering in your mind quickly melted away when his hands ran down to your hips underneath your waistband, thumb fidgeting with the thin fabric of your panties. “Need you-“

“Need you too Cariño.” He muttered before going to place a gentle peck against the edge of your lips, you couldn’t help but let out a small whimper at the movement. You’ve noticed he never kisses you directly on your lips, always on the edge, on your neck or cheek. You would have felt your heart ache if the feeling of your core throbbing when his hand dragged your bottoms down to squeeze your ass wasn’t more overwhelming, lifting you up to wrap your legs around his waist.

Half of the time you two didn’t even make it to the bedroom, finding a spot on the hallway wall or against the kitchen counter. This was one of those times, he stumbled over to the couch, too distracted on leaving hickies all over your chest and dipping his fingers into your wet cunt. You let out a gasp when you landed on the brown leather rather harshly, making the couch move a few inches from its original spot due to the weight of both of your bodies hastily climbing on top of it. He made quick work to strip the rest of your clothes from both of your bodies once he made sure you hadn’t accidentally hit your head. Quickly slipping a condom before lining himself up.

“Fuuuuck-fuck…” He groaned, as he pushed the tip of his cock between your folds. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream from the deliciously painful stretch that he always provides. Giving you a second to adjust to his length and girth before pulling out and slamming his hips against yours, each thrust making your silent whimpers and whines turn into pornographic moans and incoherent babblings. “Love filling you up. You love this cock don’t you?” He taunts, it was so cruel the way the words fell from his mouth but you loved it nonetheless. Nodding rapidly as you gushed around him for the first time tonight.

“Nah uh… need to heard you say it. Use your words.” He smirks, enjoying the plop plop sound that started to quietly reverberate off the walls of his living room. Glancing down momentarily to watch a thin layer of cum that was forming a ring around the base of his cock. “Tell me how much you love it.” He urged.

“Fuck-fuck… love it so much.” You moaned, overstimulated from your orgasm, squirming underneath him just the way he liked. He couldn’t help the way his ego swells at the way you feel apart for him.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He cooed as he propped your leg over his shoulder to get a better angle, his sweet words always messed with your foggy mind. “Such a sweet little thing, all for me.”

“Don’t-don’t say that Mig.” You whined, head turning to the side, as your hand dropped from his chest to drop off the couch. His right hand quickly leaves your hip and runs up to your neck, keeping his grip light as he props your head back to face him with his index finger.

“Aww poor baby, can’t handle when I talk all sweet to her, huh?” He let out an airy half chuckle. Despite the honey-like toned he’d use, the underlying taunt was always present. “Let me make it up to you baby.”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he thrust deeper into your core, making your hips subconsciously jump up to meet his.

“Mig-Miguel, I’m so-so close.” You whimpered and whined, clenching around his length, his hips stuttering slightly as you felt the heat building in your lower belly start to grow with each thrust.

“Cum with me baby… Cum all over this cock.” He groaned.

“Fuck-Fuck.” With one final thrust, you finally came undone around him, his name falling from your lips over and over like a mantra. Miguel followed suit, stopping his thrust while fully inside your cunt, letting out a deep groan as he came.

“Shit… You okay?” He asked once he was able to collect himself enough, climbing off top of you before rolling the used condom off his softing member, picking up his forgotten boxers and placing them back on.

“Mhm…” You nodded, trying to stabilize yourself on shaky arms and legs. Miguel seemed to have noticed, picking up your clothes from the floor and making his way over to hand them to you.

“Let me get you some water.” He said before retreating to his kitchen. The only sound in the air now was the faint noises of him rustling around his cabinets, and the quiet shuffling of clothes. Hating the feeling of putting your legging and hoodie back on due to the thin layer of sweat still on your skin. Once you were decent enough Miguel came back with a glass of water and handed it to you. Mumbling a “thank you” before taking a sip. Miguel cleared his throat as he sat down on the other edge of the couch, eyes cast down, hands rubbing anxiously together, finally deciding to break the steadily growing awkward silence. “Look, (Y/N), I wanted to talk to you about something… something kinda important.”

You raised a brow, noticing the sudden change in his behavior, taking another quick sip before placing the half empty glass on his coffee table. “What’s up?”

He released a heavy sigh as he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, still not making eye contact as he continued. “I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just put it out there…” He finally brought his gaze up to meet yours, “We need to stop seeing each other.”

Huh?

“I’m sorry what?” The words came out of your mouth before you could stop, your face quickly filling up with confusion and a bit of disbelief as you stood up. Miguel follows your actions as he puts his hands up in defense, but you continue before he could try explaining. “You can’t just fuck me on your couch then tell me afterwards we need to stop. You know how much of an asshole you sound?”

“I know, I know it makes me sound like an asshole.” He tried to reason with you, going to finally put on his shorts and tank top that were still on the floor. Not feeling like being half-naked during this conversation. “Look, there’s this girl I’ve been seeing and it’s getting pretty serious-“

“A girl you’ve been seeing?” You repeated in disbelief. “You can’t be for real.”

“Well, we never agreed to be exclusive. It’s not like we were going to start dating or anything.”

Ouch.

You had to turn away so they didn’t see the tears building in the corner of your eyes, but even with your face hidden your body language gave you away.

“I know we weren’t exclusive but fuck Miguel.” You shake your head, going to make your way to the door. “I’ve known you since we were five and you’re just gonna throw me away like some old toy?!”

“Hey-no. That’s not-that’s not what I mean, you know that.” He takes a step forward, grabbing your arm before you could get too far. “We can’t sleep together anymore, but we can still be friends.” You couldn’t help the scoff that left your lips, finally gathering yourself enough to pull your arm away and face him again, not caring if he saw the tears cascading down your cheeks. He’s made you cry one too many times, it’s about time he saw what he did to you. “We can still be friends! You’re still my best friend (Y/N)!” He couldn’t help but let his voice come out in more of a panic, a bit more rushed. You quickly shook your head.

“No. No, we aren’t best friends anymore Miguel, we haven’t been in a long, long time. I know that, you know that. So don’t pretend like we are just because your afraid of losing your emotional support fuck buddy.” You finally head toward the door and towards your car in the driveway, not turning to face him as you hear him call your name. “Don’t call me, don’t text me. If you're as serious about this girl as you say you are, you’d do the right thing and block me. Because I’m so tired of waiting around and pretending like one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m in love with you.”

You froze once the words came out, hand still on the car door handle as you came to the realization you finally admitted the secret you’ve been holding for the past ten years. Your free hand going to cover your mouth as you finally turn to look at Miguel, the look of shock from the confession was evident. You shook your head as you attempted to back track.

“Wait, Miguel I didn’t mean to tell you that-it just happened-“

“… You should leave.” His voice suddenly became stoic, his face hardening so it was hard to read his emotions. “This is just helping my case. Leave.” The tears flowed harder down your face as he slammed the front door shut. Leaving you to sob into the emptiness of the night as you finally let all the pain from the last seven years catch up to you.

You weren’t surprised to see your text bubbles turn green the next morning.

—

“I really think this one is it.”

“Me too!”

“He’ll love you in that dress.”

“Aww I can already see the waterworks.”

All you could do was smile, your hands repeatedly smooth non-existent wrinkles as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you looked like a real life princess. After what felt like hours you finally found the wedding dress. You couldn’t be happier.

“Alright Miss future Osborn.” Your maid of honor squealed, finally getting your attention, “You need to get out of that dress, you need to meet up Harry to look over the venue.”

You sighed, as you turned back to admire the white wedding dress one more time. “You’re right, I don’t wanna keep him waiting just cause I can’t stop staring at myself.” You giggled, before heaving to the back.

You and Harry have been dating for four years now, and he had proposed last month during your anniversary. You couldn’t be happier, he treats you like a queen, better than any other Man you’ve ever been in romantic contact with.

Once you had finally finished changing out of your regular clothes, you grabbed your phone out of your purse. Sending a quick text telling him that you found a dress, before doing a quick check on insta, wanting to look at the engagement pictures you posted on your page last week. But the soft smile on your face quickly dropped, like your heart did to your stomach when you checked your activity page.

Miguel.Ohara.99 and 4 others liked your post.

Miguel.Ohara.99 started following you.

1 message request from Miguel.Ohara.99

Fuck.

—

Taglist: @famouscattale @strawberryjuice9 @loser-alert @maomaimao @franceseca-the-1st @scaryplanetdestroyer @miguels-aranita @beezusvreeland @raginghomo62 @miguelbaby @thedevax @vera4luv @alialucille

[godjo]

✮ — warrior’s executioner. 

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm. 

tags — zoro x afab!reader. 1.3k wc. soft -> rough, like really, dappled with a lot of prose (i hope they make sense tbh). huge cock!zoro. creampie. a LOT of cum, sue me. cervix fucking. very explicit smut. minors, blank, and ageless blogs dni.

from hunter — i… don’t know. i felt so, so, soft for zoro in this fine afternoon. this fic made me vulnerable lmao. this is hardly proofread btw. ✮

imbued with an ache for glory since the sprout of his childhood, the way of the warrior lives in zoro’s skin and bones like a malignant disease of no existing palliative. he inhales the roughened edges of a samurai’s principle like air his lungs need to survive. these beliefs are claws of death that have grazed him one too many times, yet he wears the thousand cuts with pride. 

they whisper about him across the four seas: the devil wearing a human’s flesh, they say, siphoning his unyielding strength from the depths of hell. enemies see his swords like the embodiment of death, the extended hands of sharp torment, while allies revere his strength. 

his hands are tainted with blood from hard won victories. and zoro has never even thought of cleaning the proof of endless wars snaking along the lines of his palms until he’s met you. 

“are you sure you want this?” zoro asks for what seems like the third time, and for each you answer him with a feathery chuckle. “i don’t want to hurt you.” 

“you won’t hurt me, zoro.” there’s a spark of assurance in your eyes, fueled by conviction that it would take more than his tenacity to inflict pain upon you. 

zoro admires you for it; he desires you for that inelastic poise. and so he moistens his lips, guiding the raw end of his cock through your supple pussy lips. he’s been leaking like crazy, transparent lines of precum smeared all over your bare stomach where his rigid cock had been resting.

he palms his girth as if to soothe the stiffness; he’s unimaginably hard, pulsing with fierce vivacity. tremors rack zoro’s body, not on the account of anxiety, such is a distant feeling, but because of how much he wants to shove his thick cock right into your pussy, fuck you until your insides crumble.

“spread your legs wider for me,” he whispers, breath catching up in his throat when he feels the wet caress of your slabbering cunt around his flushed cocktip. 

you share a shuddering breath when he sheathes himself to the hilt, closing his good eye in concentration, in savoring the gummy embrace of your pussy around his twitching shaft. all the might and the brawn he’s built for years now melts into a thick puddle underneath his wavering feet. 

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm. 

hovering above you, cautious as to not crush your ribcage with the weight of his immeasurable desire and wanton lust, zoro moves with calculated tempo. he pitches his head right below your chin, staggering breath fanning the crater between your collarbones. seconds— a dribble of a moment within which he loses his composure— that’s all it has taken for his gruff hand to cage the tender flesh of your waist and pull you with snapping vitality, therefore burying his hungry cock further in your insides. 

with an obscene yelp, you toss your head back. your weakened frame finds its leverage on zoro’s broad shoulders, leaving wild stripes of crimson on his golden skin with your nails. you can feel the ridges of his girth, the angry veins scraping your cunt repeatedly, making the little wet hole swell. 

“i’m sorry,” zoro confesses softly against your heated cheeks. “did i hurt you?”

you wish you can pour your heart out and say no, he’s not hurting you and he never will. tears grace the corner of your eyes, from the fluttering emotions hugging your belly, and you can only shake your head. at last, your hands find the curve of his flushed cheeks. he looks feverish, pushed into perpetual agony and terror of breaking you. like you’ve never done before, you tug him by the face and seal his lips with a kiss that quickly forms a whorl of saliva inside your mouths. you never let him go. 

zoro’s heart will burst, he swears it will. the unspoken consent triggers his primal need, the animalistic urge of wanting to prove how you drive him to the edge of insanity.

he pounds your pussy like a mad man freed from restraints. he folds your knees to fuck you properly while watching your cunt swallow his needy cock to the base. there are strings of transparent liquid connecting your pussy to his shaft, augmenting the smacking sound whenever he brings his weight down your soiled cervix. hungrily, repeatedly, mercilessly. 

“z… zoro!” your unabating and quivered chant injected with pleasure. “more… i need you— want you.”

need. 

his eye dilates as the word flows inside his system. he slides his upper body down to meet yours, a breathless yet fervent chuckle rising from his throat. zoro has been maiming your cervix with his insatiable cock for what seems like forever now. he’s been fucking you so maniacally that his bladder shudders and your pussy has turned a damped mess under his vigorous thrusts. all this is accompanied with brutal strength. 

instead of cowering away, you tell him to sink in you deeper. 

you, who emit the air of lavender blossoms and speak with honey in your mouth. you, whose featherlight touch whispers life into every withered thing. you, who keep a universe of all things soft and kind and gentle locked inside your velvet chest. 

“you’re perfect,” zoro murmurs against your mouth, pinning his cock one more time to your slabbering cunt. “and you’re mine.”

your belly heats up from the fervid claim. rapture, its pleasurable hand reaching for you, as zoro’s movements become deliberately slow. his spine moves like waves, the roll of his hips jittery yet deep. you feel it all at once when he pops your hardened nipple in his mouth. zoro suckles, salivating around the areola while maintaining his slow pace.

the heat picks up its intensity, along with the furiously lewd moan gaining strength and fleeing your lips. caged in a bubble of sensitivity that will burst at the seams with an airy touch, you clamp a hand over your mouth but zoro takes your wrist to pin beside your head. his final savage thrust sends rolling waves of euphoria squeezing your chest until the only way you can breathe again is to shout his name with a piece of your soul attached in it. 

zoro tattoos your expression in a huge part of his memory; the narrow of your brows, how your pretty lips shape his name, and the tears of release like silver satin adorning your eyes. with that image he buries his cock between your velvety walls, down and down until his cocktip meets your cervix again, and there— bouts of thick cum burst in your uterus. 

he screams your name, placing his life and his love between its syllables. you touch his face, soothing his shivers, but he just won’t stop filling your womb with fresh and viscid cum like he’s not busted a fat nut in a hundred years. zoro’s eye teared up at the sensation. 

“i… i can’t stop. fuck— it’s seeping. fuck, fuck—”

you lock your legs around his hips. “let it all out.”

zoro admits defeat and collapses on top of you. his cock continues to plug your pussy with blobs of cum. he withers beside you, then, and finally pulls out achingly. even without the grip of your cunt his swollen tip lazily oozes all over the sheets. 

“how are you feeling?” he tucks you in, securing your body with the warmth of his. 

“definitely sore,” you breathe, tracing the mark of stitches on his chest with a delicate finger. “but happy. how about you?”

he ponders at the question. how does he feel, truly? once, he wondered if his tenacity is just another word for wickedness and if shedding blood is the only purpose his unmatched strength serves. he pondered about the hunger he’s shackled in his core and whether it could only be satiated as he felled each enemy with a sword. 

zoro fears that he’ll never learn how to hold you close to his heart without tarnishing the perpetual twinkle of light in your luminescent eyes. but then he kisses you, and you do not flinch from its violence. 

zoro has found the answer, then. 

how could he ever hurt you when you make him tender?

how could he ever hurt you when you turn him to pieces?

[bakugoushotwife]

blessing and curse

summary: yuuji is a wonderful boyfriend...you just wish he was able to fuck you... warnings: post shibuya, aged up duh, yuuji struggles with ptsd, night terrors, as well as anxiety, you both see therapists, oral (fem receiving), penetrative sex, fem!reader, pet names, (pretty girl, baby, cutie, etc), rough sex. wc: 3k a/n: this is my first yuuji piece nom nom nom i'm actually obsessed and soaking wet tbh i'm thinking thoughts for yuuji.........anyway to my lovely requester i hope you enjoy this <;3 jjk masterlist here

yuuji feels things very intensely. it’s a blessing and a curse, though the latter is more often experienced than the former. guilt, loss, regret–all things that nearly swallowed him whole while he fought for his friends and the people of japan–for the whole world. it’s so hard to be him, to live with what he carries on his shoulders–on his soul. he’s unloveable. he’s the one who caused all of the pain—things would have been easier if he died. there’s a number of people whose lives ended because of and for him. he was only just adjacent to a murderer. months after the fighting ceased and the war was won, he would wake up numerous times through the night with night terrors. he couldn’t even call them nightmares because they weren’t fabrications of his imagination. they were all too real memories that kept making their rounds–reminding him that he would be forever burdened with a layer of hell no one else could claim to know about. 

he met you in the waiting room of his therapist’s office. he remembers seeing you and wondering what you could be talking to his specialist about. it meant you also had to be a sorcerer—clearly he couldn’t see a normal one about his specific traumas and baggage, and apparently neither could you. he remembers not even knowing you and his heart still hurting for the pretty young girl that must be hurting like him. he remembers hoping that you hadn’t been through anything like what he had—the anxious voice in the back of his mind wondering if somehow he caused your pain via sukuna’s rampages or the destruction and death that followed him. he remembers you meeting his eyes on a seemingly unremarkable thursday afternoon, catching him in the middle of one of his staring way too long episodes. you narrowed your eyes and tilted your head at him in amusement. 

the rest was easy. you were easy to talk to, to admire, to hold, to love. you made him feel intense things in a good way–in a way he had nearly given up on. his world had slowly become a mixed palette of blacks and whites and muted grays–but your smile brought color back. your touch made vivid purples and yellows; your laughter the brightest of pinks and the most warm oranges. you became the blessing where he was the curse, the savior of a damned man bound to paint on smiles and pretend that sacrificing his soul and everyone he’s ever loved was worth it. now he felt unimaginable comfort and love by getting to know you. his smiles weren’t so fake anymore—and the only things that woke him in the night was losing you. truly the only fear that yuuji itadori has left: cursing his blessing. 

you thought he was the best boyfriend around and an even better man. you’ve slowly but surely unraveled the reason he was visiting the therapist through his eventual opening up to you and telling you just a fraction of what he’s experienced in his life and you can understand his intimacy issues. see…yuuji is easy to love. he’s wonderful, attentive, sweet, careful, strong and chivalrous. but he won’t fuck you. you’re too nervous to push him any further—all too aware of his fears of letting anyone in, of loving and showing that in ways that make you vulnerable. he’s all too conscious of what it would mean—of the danger he would be putting you in.

there’s been many times here lately that you’ve thought that line will finally be crossed—heavy petting and make-outs that get you squirming in his lap and soaking through your panties. it always goes this way, no matter how innocent the two of you try to keep your dates. move night, game night, even cooking together ends up with yuuji’s tongue down your throat and his hands under your shirt. tonight is no different, some youtube video plays in the background—a forgotten video game walkthrough that yuuji had been paying careful attention to until you leaned in to rip it away with those teasing kisses to his jaw. you know exactly what buttons to press after four months of nothing past second base driving you to a point of restlessness. 

you just wanted him to see your perseverance. you would do this for as long as it takes, anything to prove that you’re here to stay. you want to make him comfortable enough to tear those walls down—the ones that make his eyes flutter shut and his hands fist at his pants in order to keep them to himself. his eyes close to will himself to concentrate on something–anything—other than the feeling of your warm lips tracing his pulse, smooth fingers sliding under his shirt to outline the dips and muscles of his torso. it’s not that he doesn’t want to this, he craves you like nothing ever before. your touch is the medicine bringing him back to life, but he can’t allow himself to ruin you—taint you. but as you move into his lap and change your kisses to more intense nips and sucks at his skin, his body betrays his mind. he can feel the blood rush to his cock as your thighs trap him beneath you, and he moans out at the same time you do. the pressure of your clothed cunt sitting against his needy dick has his hands moving before he can tell himself to stop. he grabs your waist, accidentally and automatically rutting up against the friction you offer with a hiss. 

“fuck, cutie.” he groans, your lips covering his parted and pouty ones to keep him from protesting further. his fingers only dig into your side as the two sides of his mind argue with each other. he wants you badly, your body slotted against his perfectly and the way you kiss him like you’re trying to touch his soul drives him crazy. anyone with a girlfriend as hot as you would be a fucking idiot to keep denying himself of her. his hands knead the warm flesh of your body as an instinct, his body knowingly responding to your advances. his tongue slides over yours in a frenzy, his head becoming fuzzy as saliva trails down his chin—something in him telling him to stop when his hands slide upwards to palm your chest. you cry out at the feeling—so starved for his affection that you know you’re soaking wet already. just his rough hands scraping over your sensitive nipples sends you into rutting rhythmic circles of your hips over the tent in his pants, breaking your sloppy kiss in order to remove your shirt fully in a silent show of what you wanted to happen next. 

“aw baby—you know i can’t,” he whines, his lips swollen and even pinker than usual. he drops his hold to your hips, making comforting circles over the bone beneath his grasp. your face drops to instant heartbreak and he can feel his own heart try to rip itself apart for making you so sad. he never thought about how this must affect you, a woman with needs and desires for her boyfriend. he knows this can’t last much longer or he’ll lose you anyway. the room is just a mixture of your heavy breathing and the monotone droning of the tv for a few moments, and then you whine in retaliation, picking up his hand and moving it back to your breast. you search his eyes, seeing the fear flickering in those brown embers of his. you just need to show him there’s nothing to be scared of, that you need him worse than you need the oxygen in this room and would do anything for him today and forever. 

“yuuji,” you gasp out in such a voice that he knows he won’t be able to hold back this time. four months of seeing your body in your cute date outfits and in his shirt after you’ve spent the night; the feeling of your curves under his fingers as he guides you to the safe side of the sidewalk or the swell of your hip as he guides you through the door he’s just opened—four months of draining his balls after he’s sent you home with nothing more than a few wet kisses and tit-squeezes. the way your eyes shine like you’re about to cry if he denies you one last time…it’s too much. “please—i need you,” you breathe out, reaching those gorgeously soft hands out to sweep against his cheeks, to plead with him to be a good boyfriend. he can’t make you suffer any longer—”i need you so bad yuuji, please don’t push me away…i’m your forever girl!” 

oh fuck. he might cum in his pants from hearing that alone. suddenly, silence falls upon his mind. he can only hear the echoes of your cries for him–no more voices in his head arguing about the best way to continue, only you. a guttural groan rips from his throat and he stands with your legs wrapped around his body, a broad hand snaking up your back to keep you pressed against him. you squeal a little at the sudden shift and the deep growl that he let out, his face now devoid of that playful man you’ve come to love. he looks so focused, so serious, his brow furrowed as he looks over your face. 

“i’m sorry i made you wait so long, pretty girl.” he nods, letting your body bounce on the bed as he’s set on immediately removing the remainder of your clothes. he pulls you to the edge, legs dangling over the sides. you almost think it must be too good to be true, sitting up on your elbows to catch a glimpse of that ravenous fire consuming his previously kind eyes. he’s leaned back to peel his own clothes off, but his eyes never leave your body. he looks over your lip pinched between your teeth to your pebbled nipples to the glistening slick coating your inner thighs. he doesn’t even know where to start, but he’s going to ensure that you’re finally taken care of. “i’m a dumbass—thought i was keeping you safer like that.” he mutters, leaning over to kiss the space between your ribcage. he makes his way to your jaw, licking a hungry stripe between your breasts and claiming your neck with bruising nips at the delicate flesh that greeted him. 

you’re set to mewling immediately, the flip switched in your boyfriend making you rub your legs together in anticipation. he chuckles and you can feel him smile against your skin as his hand snakes down to keep you from squirming. he quickly pecks your lips. “m gonna make it up to you now, baby girl.” his eyes are wide, but glazed over with affection. you nod, feeling his strong fingers dig into the supple flesh of your thigh to keep you from closing them, his abs raking over your sensitive clit as he lowers himself to his knees at the foot of the bed. your face burns as you realize what he’s going to do, but he doesn’t give you time to think about it before turning your mind to mush from the feeling of his fat tongue splitting your lips apart and breaching your tiny hole. he seems pleased by the way you react—back arching off the bed and hands gripping at the sheets from the surprising burn. it’s a good burn, the kind you’ve been craving for the months you’ve been with a man who loves you like he does, your wanton moans just cementing that his choice was the right one. he’s growing addicted to this already; your flavor on his tongue, your moans echoing in his ears and your thighs pressing in to the sides of his face. he feels your silky walls clamp down on his tongue, making his eyes roll back at the thought of putting his dick in something so tight. he slurps at the arousal slipping out, sliding his tongue to the hardened bud waiting at the top of your cunt. he wraps his tongue around your clit, making you jolt at the sudden increase in sensation. it’s amazing—goosebumps prickle out over your skin and you reach down to tug at the silky pink locks woven between your fingers. you can feel every nerve running through your body and how it builds with a fiery pleasure that you know only yuuji can give you. “oh my god—yuuji!” you cry out as that pleasure mounts to a tipping point. his teeth scrape against your hood to encourage you to fall over that line so he can see what he’s been denying you of for four achingly long months. 

you make the sweetest face when you cum, it has him closing a fist around his own dick to calm himself—the promise of having your pussy making him jerk at his own touch. you even sound so pretty as you shatter, legs jerking and your grip on his hair yanking almost painfully hard. it only makes yuuji smile wider, feeling a bubbly sense of satisfaction ripple in his own gut from making you feel so good. 

“nngh, yuuji–” you whine, your vision returning to normal after a few seconds of respite. he’s already pushing you back to the pillows, manhandling you into the bent position he wanted. you’re on your back, knees by your ears and a boyfriend giving you no time to be anxious about the angry and leaky horsecock sliding through your folds. you thought he was a sweet man, and maybe he still is–but his own excitement to have you has him forgetting his normal chivalrous behavior. “fuck–yuuji!” you claw at his biceps, fighting against that true splitting burn. his tongue was nothing compared to the girth he pierces you with—and he’s smiling so tenderly at your wiggling and struggling. 

“s’okay, cutie. you can take it, you’re already taking it!! didn’t you ask me to?” he raises a brow, face flashing with mock-confusion as your hands shove at his chest, all in an effort to get used to the feeling of him inside you. his thumb brushes your cheek, his other hand keeping the back of your thigh shoved back. “nyeh—you begged me! come on pretty girl–you gotta loosen up!” he laughs airily, moving the hand from your face back down to pinch and roll your aching clit. you jump at first, the touch sending another jolt of pleasure circulating to your brain–and then you relax enough for him to move. he’s got you folded in such a way that you can hardly breathe–or maybe that’s from how he slams into you recklessly, tip catching on your poor, innocent, cervix each time. it hurts, it burns everywhere—but it’s the best feeling in the world. his breathing grows ragged once he settled into a pace, brutally slamming into you in a way that led you to believe he wasn’t doing this on accident. 

soon, your hands around his biceps slip to your sides, eyes lulling into a pleasure-induced haze. you watch him, the twitch of his nose and the way his hair gets curly once it sticks to his forehead from his sweat. he’s perfect, and he’s finally giving you all of himself, really devoting himself to you, conquering any fear. you don’t mind if you’ll be bedridden for the next week—feeling his heavy cock in your chest from how hard he ruts into you—it would be well worth it to hear his grunts and whimpers of satisfaction, to feel the bruising grip he has on your body like he’s afraid you might disappear. it’s all so good, and exactly like you craved. “there she goes—takin’ it like a champ now!” he cheers you on, panting a little as he leans over your body and grabs the headboard, deepening his angle as if he wasn’t already fucking you brainless. 

the new angle makes your jaw drop in absolute earth-shattering bliss. you two could be the only people left on earth and you would never know—to consumed in yuuji itadori to notice anything else. you’re back to pawing at his chest, the coil in your gut building rapidly as he fucks into you like his life depends on it. you wanted everything, he’ll make sure he gives you everything. the headboard creaks, the bed moans with you and you truly do worry he might break it for a split second–but his broken moan of your name swallows up any wandering thoughts. a bead of sweat slides down the slope of his nose before it drops onto your cheek, the evidence of his hardwork. he moans your name again, warning you that the end was approaching. you nod as he moves your legs to his shoulders, leaning as close as possible to wrap you in his arms and kiss you in short, desperate bursts. he treasures you more than he thought possible, that look you give him right before your eyes roll back into your head from your orgasm makes his own dick jump within your vice-grip of a cunt. you make that sweet face again, a face he knows he’s hooked on—your pussy spasming around him to welcome his fat load gets him to make his own kind of special and beautiful face, lip between his teeth and adam’s apple bobbing at the same pace his balls slap into your backside. you swear you can feel his heart beating, his lungs filling and emptying as he flattens his chest to yours and fills your guts with his loving cum. he keeps thrusting even after he’s done, just watching your face contort and shift, your body bouncing in his arms. he likes the ache of overstimluation, and loves the way you mewl and hug him, eyes all sleepy and far away. 

“that’s it, you did it, so so good.” he praises in a soft tone, kissing your lips and then your nose and then your forehead with equal adoration. “can’t believe i kept us from feeling like that!” he shakes his head, kissing your cheeks to continue showering you in his love if not to keep you awake. he sits back up and slides out of you, quickly snatching his t-shirt up to catch the spillage. it’s hot, watching his seed trickle from your abused pussy—he whines a little at the sight, puppy dog eyes flickering over your body as if to wonder if you could take another round…

now that you’ve gotten him to start, you may never get him to stop.